To Kalamazoo, wyth Love

O, swete ys the lusti moneth of May, swete aren yts floures and yts gentil zephyrs eke. Euen sweetre ys the facte that ich am aboute to gette a realli goode deale on some lande in Kente. Peraventure, eftsoon ich and myn householde shal be far from stinkye olde Londoun wyth yts large advertisementz and yts almost constante factionale violence. (Ich so do nat care whethir aldermannic elecioun goth by craftes or wardes – the whole mattir ys euen more borynge than the disputez in parliament concerynge the grete yarmouth herrynge monopolye. Haue not thes politicians eny lyves of ther owen?)

Ther is oon othir enchesoun for the swoteness of Maye: yn this moneth ther ys the gatherynge of Kalamazoo. From alle laundes and regiones of the globe of the erthe, folke do come to talke of tymes of yore, to share akademik werke, and to get rioutouslye dronke on free wine. Yt is, ywis, a jolie paradise ful of pleasaunte and lernede peple and muchel joye. Ther is also a daunce at the ende. Ich wolde haue visited thys yeere, but they rejectede myn papere proposal, the whiche ys a thynge of much ridiculousnesse, for the papere was on myn selfe! Thou woldst thynke that ich was somedeel of an experte on that subiecte.

Enyway, so as ich walkede yn a modest but fayre Kentish gardene, the whiche shall soon be myne owen, and thynkede on May the loueres moneth and on the feeste of Kalamazoo, ich happed vpon the counsel of endityng wordes of loue for the vistores to Kalamazoo. Ich shall yive vnto them sum lynes of pick-vppe, with which thei kan earne the affecioun of that especialle homme or femme stayinge at Valley II.

Peraventure yow gentils do wondre at myn givynge of aduice in loue, for ich am a rolli-polli manne -- nat exactlie Colin de Pharelle -- and ich haue nat yflirted wyth eny soule for mony longe yeeres. But thinke on thys, that a whetstone is no kervyng instrument, yet it maketh sherpe kervynge toolis. Al thogh I knowe nat Love in dede thes dayes, ich knowe muche of bookes and muche of myn owen past yeeres and amours.

And thus, lyk vnto a pale shadwe of Ovid that grete writere of loue, lyk ann verye magisterulus amoris, ich gyve unto yow fayre folke thes lynes of picke vppe – sum shorte, sum longe, sum of noble caste and otheres churlishe, sum onlye vseful at kalamazoo and otheres of applicacioun more generale. May the archere Cupide hitte the merke for yow!

GALFRIDUS CHAUCERES LYNES OF PICKE-VPPE:

-Do sheriffs administere thee to those who breke the kinges peace? Bycause thou lookst “fyne.”

-Yf thou were a latyn tretise ich wolde putte thee in the vernacular.

-Ich do deuote myn diligence to studye of the anatomie of engendrure. Ich haue happed vpon an abstruse passage in the werke of Constantyne the Affrikan De Coitu, the which I kan nat construe. For lernynges sake and the goode of wisdom, woldstow performe the acte of venus withe me so that ich may interpret thys clause in propre wise?

-Ich loved thy papere, but yt wolde looke much better yscattred across the floore of myn rentede dorme roome at dawne.

-Art thou a disastrous poll tax? Bycause I feele a risynge comynge on.

-Nyce bootes. Wanna swyve?

-Thou lookst so mvch lyk an aungel that the friares haue lefte the roome yn terror!

-Shulle we maken the cindreblokke to synge?

-Woldstow haue me shyfte thyne voweles?

-Were thou yn my seisin, ich wolde nevir escheat on thee.

-Thy beaute ys more intoxicatyng than the OVP openne bar.

-Yf thy beautee were an poeme, yt wolde make Dante looke lyk Marcabru.

-The preeste telleth me that we aren more than VII degrees of consanguinitee. Game on!

-Ich notyce that myn demense and thyn do abutte. Wolde yt plese thee to consolidate ovre powere-base in the midlands?

-Makstow a pilgrymage heere often?

-Let vs breake oure mornyng faste togedir tomorrowe. Shal ich sende a page wyth a message for thee, or shal ich wake thee wyth an aubade composid ex tempore?

-Ich coude drynke a yearlye tun of thee.

-Ys thy father a makere of walles? For how else dide he gyve thee svch a tall and fayre forheed?

-Ich haue the tale of Lancelot yn myn roome. Woldstow rede of yt wyth me?

--By my soule, thou art a verye mappe of helle. For thy face lyk the rivere Styx wil make me swere oothes neuer to be fforsworn, and thy embrace lyk the Lethe shal make me foryet al else, and lyk vnto the Flegeton thyn arse ys ON FYRE!

-Woldstow be myn Gaveston?

-Howe abovte a blancmange and the acte of Venus? Whatte, blancmange pleseth thee nat?

-If ich sayde that thou hadde a bele chose, woldstow holde it ayeinst me?