Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind ,
But as for me, alas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.
—Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)
Ich am of Ireland
And of the holy londe
Gode sire, preye ich thee,
For of saynte charite
Come and dance with me
This Middle English lyric is by one of my very favorite poets, Anonymous. She's quite prolific, and exceedingly long-lived. "Ich am of Ireland," or "I am of Ireland" is from c. 1400, and is preserved in a single manuscript, Bodleian Library MS Rawlinson D.913.
Here's the same thing in Modern English:
Western wind, when will thou blow?
The small rain down can rain.
Christ, if my love were in my arms,
And I in my bed again!
Anonymous; British Library Royal Appendix 58 c. Early Sixteenth Century