Thise olde gentil Britouns in hir dayes Of diverse aventures maden layes, Rymeyed in hir firste Briton tonge; Whiche layes with hir instrumentz they songe, Or elles redden hem for hir plesaunce, And oon of hem have I in remembraunce, Which I shal seyn with good wyl as I kan. But, sires, by cause I am a burel man, At my bigynnyng first I yow biseche, Have me excused of my rude speche. I lerned nevere rethorik, certeyn; Thyng that I speke, it moot be bare and pleyn. I sleep nevere on the Mount of Pernaso, Ne lerned Marcus Tullius Scithero. Colours ne knowe I none, withouten drede, But swiche colours as growen in the mede, Or elles swiche as men dye or peynte. Colours of rethoryk been to me queynte; My spirit feeleth noght of swich mateere. But if yow list, my tale shul ye heere. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A DEATH IN THE DESERT by ROBERT BROWNING PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES by FRANCIS BRET HARTE THREE MOMENTS IN PARIS: 1. ONE O'CLOCK AT NIGHT by MINA LOY THE PRINCESS: [BUGLE] SONG by ALFRED TENNYSON |