Tinye gifte for Valentynes Daye: Amour Ys Lyke a Potel of Wyne

O gentil rederes of my blog, how grete the peynes smerte that come to me whanne Ich thinken upon my lakke of updatinge. Swich grete busynesse hath fallen upon me that oft Ich do thynke myself nat worthy of the titel of 'blogger.' And yet twittre hath been of sum comfort, for ther Ich do tweete of litel jestes and japes at @LeVostreGC.

But to the poynte, todaye ys the daye of Saynt Valentyne, the which ys a daye that ys right speciale to me. And for a gifte, a litel, tinye gifte, unto yow, Ich have ytranslatid the grete balade of The Feeldes of Adamantyne Force from their langage ynto myn owene.

May love quite yow yower meede, goode folk.

Happye Valentynes Daye, or woful, or funne, as yt maye suite yow,

-Le Vostre GC

HEERE BEGINNETH GALFRIDUS CHAUCERES TRANSLACIOUN OF THE BALADE OF EXTREMELYE FITTINGE COMPARAISONS MADE BITWENE LOVE AND AN INTOXICATINGE BEVERAGE, MAAD FIRST BY THE FEELDES OF ADAMANTYNE FORCE

Yt astonyeth thee, yt doth thee ynne,

Yt maketh thee overthinke thine hardinesse,

Yt tourneth thee to trespass and to synne,

Yt maketh thee speake sans feare of redresse.

‘Tis ful wel smal, of glas and pearle,

And overlye treatid yn verse romaunce

Yt transformeth gentil unto a churl

And maketh fooles clayme grete sapiaunce.

Yt maye make thee cryen welawey,

Or dasshe and daunce yn thy fyne hose,

‘Tis pryced higher than folk sholde paye,

Yet no equal kan man propose.

Thei keepe yt yn a strengere tour

The oldere and moore pure yt groweth,

Yt hath of yts owene a dull colour,

Yet rich-dyede tapestries yt to thee showeth.

Thou mayst fynde yt solde upon Fisshe-strete,

Or ye maye fynde yt at Guildhall,

Yt maketh langage on thy tonge swete,

Maketh sonne to shyne and tempestes falle.

Thou mayst nat drynke, by no engyne,

Moore than thei ynto that space pour.

Amour ys lyke a potele of wyne

Yet a potele of wyne nys nat lyke Amour.