mere_de_vii (mere_de_vii) wrote,

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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