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-- wagster, Feb 12 2006 Geoffrey Chaucer - Nun's Priest's Tale http://www.readprin...70/Geoffrey-Chaucer [Dub, Feb 12 2006] Nice. A bun for your effort.-- MikeOxbig, Feb 12 2006 twite-- po, Feb 12 2006 I say, jolly good show, eh wot! muche pastrie fore yon efort!-- neutrinos_shadow, Feb 12 2006 coilons * [link]-- Dub, Feb 12 2006 ::::Applause::::
Bravo, bravo! I was amazed to be able to read it easily whilst still admiring the tasteful and funny 'old english' - a sure testament to your skills as a writer. And the story was good too!-- dbmag9, Feb 12 2006 Much fanfare of crumpets! <-- Hee hee!-- DesertFox, Feb 12 2006 (+) She's a very very lucky woman [wagster]!-- ConsulFlaminicus, Feb 13 2006 A bun in the shape of a bow.-- baconbrain, Feb 13 2006 Just remember: a decendant of this 'Baker of London Towne' was responsible for burning the place down. He must have been writing splendid poetry, and not watching the buns. Oops, there goes another one: +-- Ling, Feb 13 2006 Bunne for yew.-- Galbinus_Caeli, Feb 13 2006 Ay bun in the shape of an arrow. To go with the bow!-- blissmiss, Feb 13 2006 Yeah verily.-- 2 fries shy of a happy meal, Feb 13 2006 Basically, yes.-- wagster, Feb 13 2006 Didn't I read this on a Hallmark card last year?
<aside> And still no rhyme for peach melba <aside>
Your bun was kneaded, shaped, and just Afore into yon oven 'twas thrust A word unto mine ear rang out So vulgar and harsh, causing me doubt It brought momentary hesitation To consider morality's trepidation Over rewarding your motive Tho' powered by a votive To engender love and trust But resulted in mere lust Alas, I feel justice need be done So in good conscience I keep the bun And in its stead, seemingly I alone Proffer an ugly fish bone So let the moral of this tale be True "luvve" cannot be had thru chemistry!-- Canuck, Feb 13 2006 Touché!-- wagster, Feb 13 2006 For shame, good [Canuck], 'fore ye spurn our heroe, To speculate on what an alchemyste knowe Mite seeme to our eyes, so moderne and wyse, To be rubbish, but it may yet be where the truth lyes. The Inventor's Tale, which is herein writ, Should not be dismissed as a whole lode of shitte. True luvve may not cumme (oops, sorry) from yon alchemyste's bench, But a bottle may surely bring lust to a wench. True luvve has the power to make great menne weepe, So most goe for lust - mutch lesse tricky, and cheepe. And when put to the question, as alle menne must, Eiytte oute of tenne menne sayd they preferred lust. And it may yette seeme crude to distinguish so fine, But that's surelie the pointe of our Fest Valentyne! For this tale, good [wags], of gadgeteree, I humbly do now proffer this paystrie.-- moomintroll, Feb 13 2006 This poem seems to have sprung up responses almost as good as the original. Keep 'em coming!-- dbmag9, Feb 13 2006 //This poem seems to have sprung up responses almost as good as the original. Keep 'em coming!//
no, this is a work of art that Chaucer would be proud of!-- po, Feb 13 2006 Who the heck is Art Chaucer?
This tale entertained me, I read it through gladly But something about it did trouble me, sadly The cherubs, the lense, they caught my attention And I've a fondness for candles, now that you mention The alchemist's prowess I found delightful But behind was a motive quite frightful Here was our hero, his love unrequited His heart sought to be with his love, reunited So he set a series of events into motion And created a gift that expressed this emotion But when his true love reacted in kindness Lust and libido did cause him blindness Instead of plying the wench with strong liquours He used his guile to get into her knickers For the tale itself a croissant is deserved But for the message it sends a fishbone is served.
Sorry, wags.-- Canuck, Feb 15 2006 Sillie queynte. Consider thyself bunneth'd.-- zen_tom, Feb 15 2006 [zentom] sp. queint-- Dub, Feb 15 2006 I too, a poor wench with neglectful swain Know well the source of your maid's pain I still wait in vain for my sweetheart's token And yearn for sweet nothings as yet unspoken So pouting my lip and being thoroughly miffed I read through my sulk of your goodly gift Such a trinket, a bauble that true luvvve shewd Would verily greatly improve my mood Although in my case, it must be conceded, The lust-making powders would not be needed Alchemy of that kind have I in great profusion Which makes tumbling the linen a foregone conclusion
Oh, and bun+-- squeak, Feb 15 2006 [zentom] Sorry, you're probably right. May I offer my sincerest contrafibularities.-- Dub, Feb 16 2006 random, halfbakery