As an antidote to the previous translation, here is a lyric composed by an anonymous trouvère and voiced by a woman:

My lover and I,
in a wood near Bethune,
spent all Tuesday night
by the light of the moon,
playing until daylight dawned,
and the lark began his song:
“My love, it’s time to go.”
My love responded, soft and low,
My delightful, lovely one,
the dark is not yet dying,
so help me God of Love,
because the lark is lying.
 

Then he drew close to me,
and I did not draw back;
a good three times he kissed me,
and I gave him kisses back,
for I was not offended.
How we wished that splendid
night could last a hundred days,
with no more need to say:
My delightful, lovely one,
The dark is not yet dying,
So help me God of Love,
Because the lark is lying.

— Translated by Samantha Pious