Classic Poem

Burgeis, thou haste so blowen atte the cole,
That alle thy rode is from thine face agoon,
And haste do so many shotte and istoole,
That fleesh upon thy carkeis is there noon:
There is nought lefte but empty skinne and bone.
Thou were a trewe swinkere, atte the fulle,
But nowe thy chaumbre toukes been, echon,
Peesed and fleedde, and of her laboure dulle.

Thy warderer, that was wonte for to be
Mighty and sadde and grene in his laboure,
So wery is of superfluite
He wolle no more be none ratoure.
Himselfe he is thy verrey accusoure,
For so sayne they that knowe his impotence
As welle as ye, my maister reveloure.
Nowe been ye apte to lye in continence!

Thy pilers of thine body in apparence
Been sufficiaunt to utwarde juggement,
But they been feint and weike in existence,
For that her stuffe iwastede is and spente.
And yette thou haste a desirous talente
For to fullefille that that wol not be
For love of God, be nat impaciente,
But what that I shalle say, nowe herken me.