(no subject)

Uhhh... les pommes, les POMMES!!

J'ay nausee. I may withstonde namoore appelles! Au nuict, nous avions pommes au four, et au jour, appelmuse.

I would have flesshe ower some swych thinge, but hit all nede be kept for Michaelmasse. Come, come, Michaelmasse!
  • Current Mood
    discontent discontent

Appelles

Ay me. In Septembre, the strewen-berries be nere al goon, and eke the cerries, and eke the other fruttes. By there be appelles. So manye appelles, by Godde! We drinke milde cyderes, and ete appelles at alle times. My stomack is sore and acheful with appelles and hir keelnesse. No cannelle ne clawes ne any spice may tempre the keele natur of the appelle, ne the faire ressolved sauce of sugre yburnt and wine with calamus to maken hit swoote. Even the pasties of mete be ful with appelles. I said to my Johne, "Johne! Get for me some item that be ne ful nat with applles, ne whych be its selfe an appelle!"
So he sente for some eyroun. I ful gladde was Ich, and toke me a fingre-ful. But then, by Saint Symphorose and hir sevene sonnes, hit was a swiving Rique-Manger!
"Get me salt-herringe! GET ME SALT-HERRINGE!" cried me, for that alone could no man put an appelle in.
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    sick sick

(no subject)

Ay me! After the Garter feste, muchel werkes nede be doon sin othrewise the pesauntes shal be madde. Swoote Henry, my Johnes son, doth moost of the dede, though Johne hath given moost of the gold for the werke.

There be an history that on the night, Kinge Richard pusshed to the drit his owne cowes as he was so dronke he knew nat where he were. I doe nat myself reminde -- I was ful dronke eke, and made no note of fallen cowes here atte castle as I passed by with Johne and Henri.
  • Current Mood
    weird weird

The Gareter Feste

“Friye, kissen Friydey! Freye, kissen Friydey, Friye!”

Mercy, mercy, I have hadde that songe in my brain al the day.

So, the fest of the Ordre of the Garter went ful wele. There was but the usvale misfortune of dronkenness.

Eke, er we wente, Johne lost his garter, so I moste to sewen a newe “Honi soit qui mal y pense” ful faste for him. Gesse whose garter was employen, and who was to go with but oon sock to the fest? Ich, certes. But noone knewe, for my skirtes be longe.
Then came hit the feste, an we ate of Char de Crabbe-Appelles, Appellemuse, Appelles Ybake, and all mannir of thynges with appelles, the mene and the riche. Eke we had syder of appelles, and gode and stronge was hit. So stronge, that soon the duke of Norfolk was upon the tables dauncynge. We sange songes to helpen him; for we founde hit plesaunt.

“Cognoistez,” said my Johne to me, “Il est a baisser Friye au nuict d’huy.” (Friye is his love, ne hys wife.)

Then, neightest thou knowest, the lyzarden crieth and then the menn crien: “Friye! Friye! Friye! Friye!”

And so came in Friye, in a goun of reede.

By now, The Duke was in a bouquet on the ceilinge, and he sang to Friye:

“Come to me Friye,
My moost darlinge.
Yow said you should
On Friyeday,
Give me a kiss,
Hit is Friyeday.
Now ye mote com,
And maken gode word.
Ne maken yow me wayt,
For I am here ynow,
Now yow comen shal,
Forto given a kiss
On Friyeday!
So comen! Comen!”

(Thyse was nat a grete song, but he was singyng by his wittes so I shal say hit was nat so badde for that.)

And so we sange for Friye to kissen the Duke, and we all daunced moost dronkenlich.

Aft Friye had given a kiss unto the Duke, Richard the Kinge cried, “Let us alle goon out for a walk!”
This happeneth eche yere, and the pesauntes are alle afered of hit.

So we gathered uppe cuppes of syder and wine and meede and putten on ower capes. Then about we wente, hither and thither. Pesaunte families hid in house, and wepte “Ay, The Ordre of the Gareter is out! Waylaway!”

Came to us Johnes son Henri and we prowled togetheres. Alle as a familie, we toorned a privy up-side-ydoun. Hit was ful joly. Some Erles and Countesses wente and were pusshyng cowes on her sydes, eke. And we kept to drinkynge. All of Windsor stanke of vomit by the morrow, and The Duke and Friye found hemselves trappen in a tree, I heer. We who coulde, went bakke to the castele and to bedde whan the sonne up ycam. We were all so cooled, and ful of filth.

And so to day we woke, full of heed-ache and filthy. I spent al the mornynge trying to clene drit from my cape. The pesauntes, I heer, aren clening up the messe. Shal hem haven vengance upon us come Cristmassetide, forsooth. (And that is why Johne doth nat like to be in Windsor for Cristmasse.) Bute, now ye, my gentil rederes, knowe why we say “Honi soit qui mal y pense” – for that we are a herde of fierce noobles who goon with undre-weare on ower armes and drunke
  • Current Mood
    sick sick

HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE

My Johne and I are goon on a smal journee to Windsor Castele, for a fest of the Ordre of the Gartere to whych we bothen belonge. Newes happeneth eche time we see thyse thinges, and my nere-nephewe (My Johnes nephewe) King Richard shal be there eke. So certes there shal be tales aftward.

For onys, hit shal be Constaunze who waiten my childeren whiles I am goon. She is swych a bitch! Peravanture Joanes tethe shal have growen in by the time I gette bakke.
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    thoughtful thoughtful

(no subject)

What a sore dey estupide hadde me! II houres were awasten, whiles I made werke forto bringen a bouquet of watter to myn chaumbre. I bileved that I mighte clene a spote from a tapestre, sans nede to taken hit to the lavanderie. I goe to the fontaine, take the watter, and start up the staires. What should hap but that Kateline and hir frendes come the staires ydoun, in some merrie game, and renne so fastlich by me that I droppe the bouquet. Methinketh: No use to creyen over spilled watter, so I goe bakke and take mower. Then, as I goe up the staires, I slippe on the watter erste spillen over, and droppe the bouquet.
So I strake to bringe mower watter, and I doe, and as I get to the staires toppe my foote cometh doun upon my skrit and I falle, and hence gooth the watter eke.
I then thinke: with staires so wet, I may as wele wasshe hem, so I toke a cloth and dede. Ones that were doone, I went for mower watter.
I get up the staires and thinke hit gode, but then I see a flame hath caughtten a cloth on a table, for some man estupide hath left the lampe thereon with no dissh. I cast the watter thereto.
Then, as I goe to get mower watter ayain, Kateline and hir frendes knokke me er I may get in the castelle. I take mower watter. I journee the staires and as I passe through the chaumbres to my bower, and as I stop forto open a doore -- yis, I dropped the watter ayaine.

So then I sayd "Swive this! Do way!" and forced my maide Elizabeth to fetch the watter instede.

(no subject)

On thyse day, chirche was so lakkyng in intresse that I was ful gladd whan Joan gan to creyen and I mote toke her out for that she noysed so muche that no thinge could be herde. I thinke hit was a plesauntrie to alle, that, but nonethelees. I swore I should doe the dede and not my maide, sin I wisshed so to gete out from there. There were two other wommen with babes who could nat be still, so I talked to hem and we tryed a lite to heren the sermoun, but hit was no thing of intresse. Then we toke tornes to wayte eche otheres childeren whiles one of us would take the hostye. Bothen of hem were cleped Margaret, lyk my doughter.
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    good good

Zimus Edit Oblatas

(Foryif me should the Latine be nat gode. I doe nat speke hit, parfay.)

My childeren be fond of manye thinges, but wo! They be nat in no tongue whych the may undrestonden. So, for hir gode, I have toyled much to make thyse werke. Eke, I have made an icon especial for thyse. A thankes be to www.thescarymonkeyshow.com, sin hit be from thence I toke the base. Yf ye nist nat the beginning of the tale, hit gooth so that Zim is a straunger from India ower someplace lyk that, and he thinketh that he is to take over Cristendom wyth hethenness -- but in troth he was just so troblynge that the kinges of hys londe just wanted him wey. There is a childe heighted Dib who ever tryeth to stop Zimes yvele, but no man beleveth him. And there be eke a machine clept GIR who may talke and gooth about in habit of an hound.
Now that ye woten all, here gooth...

Zim Eteth WaffresCollapse )
  • Current Mood
    geeky geeky

(no subject)

My Johne hath for me gotten a moost faire boke. A Dictionarie Fraunces! Now, I shal have menes forto oftener written in Frensche.

My fingres are sore beten. I have been sewing a newe item in use by manye courtlie ladies cleped "stayes" ower a "corsette." Hit is made from leder, and stitchynge the hooles for the rubban is nat no taske of ese. But I shal loke ful mower better in my cotehardie wyth hit: I have borne VII childeren, and so I nede al aide that I mighte getten.
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    content content

(no subject)

Howe I love my Johne! Hys face is faire and hys breeth is swoote and hys hair is longe. Wele, a litel longe.

Yet, no thinge kepeth me from my swink as doth my Johne. I have toringe-up the castelle been in werkes to maken don my taskes. Scarece have I even yet began my wintere wardrobe: may nede calle a taylor forto fin all thyse.

On thyse dey, as I renne aboute to doe my werkes, I set my selfe aflame. My hair had from the wimpele fallen, and as I renne hit tangeled about a torche. Straungely I did nat know, until I thoughte "Hit sure doth smelle lyk burned hair herein." Then I founde the cause, wele thou wote! I bete the flame to deeth, and so the mattir passed.

Hmm. That was a tale muchel mowere of interest whan hit happed. Hit loketh sort of... borynge here.
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    confused confused