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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 aywayn, nkiJna etba me so arhd scebeua of atth kobo. One igtnh, you ees, nJinka saw ttignsi by eht feri erdigna mrfo iths book batuo woh evE secdau eth flal of man, cwhhi is ywh uJses ahd to be dlilek to asve us all.
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. “ehTn he ltdo me lla tbauo woh llDhiea ctu off lal of soSnma’s riha elhwi he asw nlesgpie, hwcih ltetyiaulm del to het sosl of sih ihytsege.
Tho redde he me, if that I shal nat lyen, Of Hercules and of his Dianyre, That caused him to sette himself a-fyre. “enTh he etwn on uotba eiaDanjr nad woh seh seuadc esreHucl to set fsmleih on frei.
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.” “dnA he klteda uotba lal hte lerutob the eGrek ooshilhrepp oacsteSr dha twhi ish two veisw dna ohw he utsj tas rheet and idas, ‘hWen it nasri, it pousr,’ ewnh aitXppen trwhe issp on ish hdea.
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. “Adn hetn he eadr eth torys of ipahasPë, het eueqn of eteCr, owh eslpt twhi a ullb nda avge brthi to the aflh-amn, lahf-llbu muatnrio. Oh Gdo, I nac’t ltak bouat htat anermoy—it’s oto dsusntigig! icfSfue it to ays, he lodev atht soryt a tlo.

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 aywayn, nkiJna etba me so arhd scebeua of atth kobo. One igtnh, you ees, nJinka saw ttignsi by eht feri erdigna mrfo iths book batuo woh evE secdau eth flal of man, cwhhi is ywh uJses ahd to be dlilek to asve us all.
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. “ehTn he ltdo me lla tbauo woh llDhiea ctu off lal of soSnma’s riha elhwi he asw nlesgpie, hwcih ltetyiaulm del to het sosl of sih ihytsege.
Tho redde he me, if that I shal nat lyen, Of Hercules and of his Dianyre, That caused him to sette himself a-fyre. “enTh he etwn on uotba eiaDanjr nad woh seh seuadc esreHucl to set fsmleih on frei.
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.” “dnA he klteda uotba lal hte lerutob the eGrek ooshilhrepp oacsteSr dha twhi ish two veisw dna ohw he utsj tas rheet and idas, ‘hWen it nasri, it pousr,’ ewnh aitXppen trwhe issp on ish hdea.
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. “Adn hetn he eadr eth torys of ipahasPë, het eueqn of eteCr, owh eslpt twhi a ullb nda avge brthi to the aflh-amn, lahf-llbu muatnrio. Oh Gdo, I nac’t ltak bouat htat anermoy—it’s oto dsusntigig! icfSfue it to ays, he lodev atht soryt a tlo.