AH for pittie, wil ranke Winters rage,
These bitter blasts neuer ginne tasswage?
The kene cold blowes through my beaten hyde,
All as I were through the body gryde.
My ragged rontes all shiver and shake,
As doen high Towers in an earthquake:
They wont in the wind wagge their wrigle tailes,
Perke as Peacock: but nowe it auales.

Kene) sharpe. 
Gride) perced: an olde word much vsed of Lidgate, but not found (that I know of) in Chaucer.
 Ronts) young bullockes

No comments:

Post a Comment

What do you think?