In May it was, in May,
when the days are hot,
when the wheat ripens
and the fields are in flower;
when the lark sings
and the nightingale replies,
when lovers
serve the god of Love.
Except for me, poor wretch,
who live in this prison,
unaware of daybreak
and unaware of nightfall,
save when a little bird
sang to me at dawn –
An archer shot it;
May he earn God's curse thereby!

Circa 15th century, anonymous.