mere_de_vii (mere_de_vii) wrote,
mere_de_vii
mere_de_vii

Thankes to the appelles horribles, my teth haven torned to rot. Hit is the keeleness of appelles whych doth rotten tethe, aft ale, and make hem yful with wormes. And I doe nat care yf Hildegarde was a seint, hir remedye maketh no fete. I dide abide ful long as I might, in hoope that the stabberye in my muth might goon wey, but no. So I hadde to go to the blake-smith to haven mi tethe ycuren.

I sat, and he quode: "Noble leedye, yow wist that yow may deyen from thyse?" and I sayde "Swiven hit, I would deye before lessynge my tethe to felen so!" So I satte ydoun and he gan to bete me wyth a poker on the hede until I became sleepye. Whan I woke, my toth was gone, and sin hit was so grevelees, I gave to the smith a gode coyne for his werke.

So here I be, abedde so I maye gaine my might ayain.
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