A Baker of London Towne

In fifteene hundred and fortie and nine
T’was the eve of the day of Saint Valentyne
Nowe as every man muft, when younge I had learn’d
If neglectfull in luvve one will surely be spurn’d
But my hedde it had wander’d and harte had forgotte
For my true luvve I had not prepar’d but one jotte
So on bended knee to my Lord I beseech’d
Maye I tooken the daye for to fynd her a gyft

My Lord he shewed mercie and lift’d my thrall
For he knew of my true luvve and feared for my balles
Sed he: “Mayke itte a gyft that is differ’nt and newe
If ye wish that she wyden her legges for yew.”
Thanne as I was leeving I sharpen’d my mynd
For devysing a gyfte both novel and kynde
It struke me like litening hurled from above
I woulde build a devyce for the wynninge of luvve

Nexte I gan to my frend named Thomas the Smyth
And I asked him to wright me from coppre and griste
Ten idols of cupid affiring his bow
That woulde represent movement whan pleyced in a row
He forg’d them and quench’d them and set them with zeal
Thanne he hung them from hookes from upon a small wheel
On toppe of the wheel a small wind mille bestow’d
That woulde turn all the cupids whan blown from below

After the mettal I need’d some glasse
So I gan to a physic with skills unsurpass’d
I gived him wun crown and he mak me a lense
A magik devyce that caus’d strait light to bende
In middle of cherubs I set me a tallow
With lense out in front for to focuss the shadew
Thanne I thanked him most gladly any went on my waye
To see ye dark master of straynge alchymie

The alchymiste asked me what potion I wysht
To turn men into frogges or wymmin to fish?
Nay! Nay! I implored, it is luvve that I need
The one that I woo muft have eyes but for me
So he groonde up his chymicals into a duste
Transfigured their humors to mak them cause luste
He plac’d all this pooder in smale wooden box
With attar of roses to ward off the pox

My luvve she did visit the next eventyde
My machine was prepar’d with a candel inside
The pooder was burning above of the flame
The aroma so heady to drive us insayne
The heat from the flame it did rise thro the mille
Turning the wheel and the cupids until
The shadwe now focussed before her and I
Seem’d to draw back his bow and his arrow let fly
My luvve was o’ercomme and was lusty beside
Betwixt the linen were we both satisfied

We now have a shoppe in which is present’d
All maner of thyngs that we have invent’d
Spheric-on orreries, trousers for bats
Brickes made of bredde and mechanikle hattes
Automaton clockes which are driv’n by mices
Sneezing machines and other devices
The moral of this must be easy to see
Happiness finds us through gadgeteree