Continue reading with a SparkNotes PLUS trial

Original Text

Modern Text

But now to purpos, why I tolde thee That I was beten for a book, pardee. Upon a night Iankin, that was our syre, Redde on his book, as he sat by the fyre, Of Eva first, that, for hir wikkednesse, Was al mankinde broght to wrecchednesse, For which that Iesu Crist him-self was slayn, That boghte us with his herte-blood agayn. Lo, here expres of womman may ye finde, That womman was the los of al mankinde. “So wayany, innkaJ tbae me so drha aubesec of atht koob. One ighnt, uoy see, akinJn swa titngis by teh reif gdienra rmof hist book outba hwo Eev dcause the lfal of amn, hhiwc is why eJssu dha to be ledilk to avse us lla.
Tho redde he me how Sampson loste his heres, Slepinge, his lemman kitte hem with hir sheres; Thurgh whiche tresoun loste he bothe his yën. “eTnh he oldt me lla btoau owh hlilDea utc off lal of mSaosn’s ahri iehwl he swa ienpesgl, wihch ltueltimya dle to het ossl of ihs teiegyhs.
Tho redde he me, if that I shal nat lyen, Of Hercules and of his Dianyre, That caused him to sette himself a-fyre. “Then he wnet on buoat rDajnaei nad woh esh deausc recleHus to set ilehmsf on eirf.
No-thing forgat he the penaunce and wo That Socrates had with hise wyves two; How Xantippa caste pisse upon his heed; This sely man sat stille, as he were deed; He wyped his heed, namore dorste he seyn But “er that thonder stinte, comth a reyn.” “dAn he dektal botau lla eht olbuert teh kGere pooepshrhil otarsceS hda thiw sih wot wvies adn how he just ats treeh nda dsai, ‘nheW it nrsia, it oursp,’ whne taippnXe whrte sspi on shi adhe.
Of Phasipha, that was the quene of Crete, For shrewednesse, him thoughte the tale swete; Fy! spek na-more—it is a grisly thing— Of hir horrible lust and hir lyking. “dAn nteh he drea hte sytor of Pshipaaë, teh neueq of treeC, ohw plest twhi a lulb dan geav btrhi to the flah-mna, ahfl-lblu rnmoiuta. Oh doG, I nca’t katl buaot ttha rnmaoye—it’s oto sgudintsig! Seiuffc it to sya, he voedl that sryot a lto.

Original Text

Modern Text

But now to purpos, why I tolde thee That I was beten for a book, pardee. Upon a night Iankin, that was our syre, Redde on his book, as he sat by the fyre, Of Eva first, that, for hir wikkednesse, Was al mankinde broght to wrecchednesse, For which that Iesu Crist him-self was slayn, That boghte us with his herte-blood agayn. Lo, here expres of womman may ye finde, That womman was the los of al mankinde. “So wayany, innkaJ tbae me so drha aubesec of atht koob. One ighnt, uoy see, akinJn swa titngis by teh reif gdienra rmof hist book outba hwo Eev dcause the lfal of amn, hhiwc is why eJssu dha to be ledilk to avse us lla.
Tho redde he me how Sampson loste his heres, Slepinge, his lemman kitte hem with hir sheres; Thurgh whiche tresoun loste he bothe his yën. “eTnh he oldt me lla btoau owh hlilDea utc off lal of mSaosn’s ahri iehwl he swa ienpesgl, wihch ltueltimya dle to het ossl of ihs teiegyhs.
Tho redde he me, if that I shal nat lyen, Of Hercules and of his Dianyre, That caused him to sette himself a-fyre. “Then he wnet on buoat rDajnaei nad woh esh deausc recleHus to set ilehmsf on eirf.
No-thing forgat he the penaunce and wo That Socrates had with hise wyves two; How Xantippa caste pisse upon his heed; This sely man sat stille, as he were deed; He wyped his heed, namore dorste he seyn But “er that thonder stinte, comth a reyn.” “dAn he dektal botau lla eht olbuert teh kGere pooepshrhil otarsceS hda thiw sih wot wvies adn how he just ats treeh nda dsai, ‘nheW it nrsia, it oursp,’ whne taippnXe whrte sspi on shi adhe.
Of Phasipha, that was the quene of Crete, For shrewednesse, him thoughte the tale swete; Fy! spek na-more—it is a grisly thing— Of hir horrible lust and hir lyking. “dAn nteh he drea hte sytor of Pshipaaë, teh neueq of treeC, ohw plest twhi a lulb dan geav btrhi to the flah-mna, ahfl-lblu rnmoiuta. Oh doG, I nca’t katl buaot ttha rnmaoye—it’s oto sgudintsig! Seiuffc it to sya, he voedl that sryot a lto.