Classic Poem

Ther ben a knyghte, Sir Hoten hight,
That on a time did swere
In mighty store othes mickle sore,
Which grieved his wiffe to here.

Soth, whenne she scofft, his wiffe did oft
Swere as a ladye may;
" I' faith, " " I' sooth, or " lawk, " in truth,
Ben alle that wiffe wold say.

Soe whenne her goodman waxed him wood
She mervailed much to here
The hejeous sound of othes full round
The which her lord did swere.

" Now, pray thee, speke and tell me eke
What thing hath vexed thee soe? "
The wiffe she cried; but hee replied
By swereing moe and moe.

He sweren zounds which be Gog's wounds,
By bright Marie and Gis,
By sweit Sanct Ann and holle Tan,
And by Bryde's bell, ywis;

By holle grails, by 'slids and 'snails,
By old Sanct Dunstan bauld,
The Virgin faire that Him did beare,
By Him that Judas sauld;

By Arthure's sword, by Paynim horde,
By holie modyr's teir,
By Cokis breath, by Zooks and 'sdeath,
And by Sanct Swithen deir;

By divells alle, both greate and smalle,
And all in hell there be,
By bread and salt, and by Gog's malt,
And by the blody tree;

By Him that worn the crown of thorn,
And by the sun and mone,
By deir Sanct Blane and Sanct Fillane,
And three kings of Cologne;

By the gude Lord and His sweit word,
By him that herryit hell,
By blessed Jude, by holie Rude,
And eke by Gad himsel'!

He sweren soe (and mickle moe)
It made man's flesch to creepen;
The air ben blue with his ado,
And sore his wiffe ben wepen.

Giff you wold know why sweren soe
The good man hight Sir Hoten,
He ben full wroth because, in soth,
He leesed his coler boten.