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In fifteene hundred and fortie and nine
Twas the eve of the day of Saint Valentyne
Nowe as every man muft, when younge I had learnd
If neglectfull in luvve one will surely be spurnd
But my hedde it had wanderd and harte had forgotte
For my true luvve I had not prepard but
So on bended knee to my Lord I beseechd
Maye I tooken the daye for to fynd her a gyft
My Lord he shewed mercie and liftd my thrall
For he knew of my true luvve and feared for my balles
Sed he: Mayke itte a gyft that is differnt and newe
If ye wish that she wyden her legges for yew.
Thanne as I was leeving I sharpend 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 forgd them and quenchd 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 bestowd
That woulde turn all the cupids whan blown from below
After the mettal I needd some glasse
So I gan to a physic with skills unsurpassd
I gived him wun crown and he mak me a lense
A magik devyce that causd 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 placd 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 prepard 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
Seemd to draw back his bow and his arrow let fly
My luvve was oercomme and was lusty beside
Betwixt the linen were we both satisfied
We now have a shoppe in which is presentd
All maner of thyngs that we have inventd
Spheric-on orreries, trousers for bats
Brickes made of bredde and mechanikle hattes
Automaton clockes which are drivn by mices
Sneezing machines and other devices
The moral of this must be easy to see
Happiness finds us through gadgeteree
Geoffrey Chaucer - Nun's Priest's Tale
[Dub, Feb 12 2006]
||Nice. A bun for your effort.
||I say, jolly good show, eh wot!
muche pastrie fore yon efort!
||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!
||Much fanfare of crumpets! <-- Hee hee!
||(+) She's a very very lucky woman [wagster]!
||A bun in the shape of a bow.
||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: +
||Ay bun in the shape of an arrow. To go with the bow!
||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!
||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.
||This poem seems to have sprung up responses almost as good as the original. Keep 'em coming!
||//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!
||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.
||Sillie queynte. Consider thyself bunneth'd.
||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
||[zentom] Sorry, you're probably right. May I offer my sincerest contrafibularities.