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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  • 11 comments

  • (no subject)

    Sayen hem Jean Wyclef be selling steroydes. Sayth me: Hwat?…

  • Wordes be nat fit

    Thyse be the moost beschitte Seint Katherines dey evere. The yere past, I was given grete presentes from my chere Johnne, who is mine namoore. Eala,…

  • Boke II

    O mightye dung!!! Whan laste wrote me of the tale on how thynges fell witte nobles atte Tower, soddenly I discerned, that betwixt Constaunze and me…