Wolleward and weetshoed wente I forþ after As a recchelees renk þat [reccheþ of no wo], And yede forþ lik a lorel al my lif tyme, Til I weex wery of þe world and wilned eft to slepe, And lened me to a lenten, and longe tyme I slepte; | Reste me þere and rutte faste til Ramis palmarum. Of gerlis and of Gloria laus gretly me dremed, And how Osanna by Organye olde folk songen,
In a somer seson, whan softe was þe sonne, I shoop me into [a] shrou[d] as I a sheep weere, In habite as an heremite, vnholy of werkes, Wente wide in þis world wondres to here. Ac on a May morwenynge on Maluerne hilles Me bifel a ferly, of Fairye me þoȝte. I was wery forwandred and wente me to reste Under a brood bank by a bourn[e] syde;
‘þis were a wikkede wey but whoso hadde a gyde þat [myȝte] folwen us ech foot’: þus þis folk hem mened. Quod Perkyn þe Plowman, ‘By Seint Peter of Rome! I haue an half acre to erie by þe heiȝe weye; Hadde I eryed þis half acre and sowen it after I wolde wende wiþ yow and þe wey teche.’ ‘þis were a long lettyng,’ quod a lady in a Scleyre. ‘What sholde we wommen werche þe while?’
From there he sailed farther on, and sadder. Standing at the stern he looked out darkly till the Cyclopes’ land turned slowly into view. He saw the island’s unfarmed peak that rose up sharp and high as if to mark itself apart, and watched a fire’s smoke unfold from where a shepherd lulled it. But those who bent to pull the oars
You may talk o’ gin and beer When you’re quartered safe out ’ere, An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it; But when it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it. Now in Injia’s sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time
Fame’s pillar here at last we set, Out-during marble, brass or jet; Charmed and enchanted so As to withstand the blow O fo v e r t h r o w ; Norshalltheseas, Or o u t r a g e s Ofstorms,o’erbear What we uprear; Tho’kingdomsfall, Thispillarnevershall Declineor waste atall; Butstandfor everbyhisown Firmand well-fixed foundation.
Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaäy? Proputty, proputty, proputty—that's what I 'ears 'em saäy. Proputty, proputty, proputty—Sam, thou's an ass for thy paaïns: Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs, nor in all thy braaïns.
Woä—theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam; yon 's parson's 'ouse— Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eäther a man or a mouse? Time to think on it then; for thou'll be twenty to weeäk.
From Book V The morwen com, and gostly for to speke, This Diomede is come un-to Criseyde; And shortly, lest that ye my tale breke, So wel he for hym-selven spak and seyde,
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