To thinke tis mumsnette myddle englande medieval tyme for the nonce

[northernrefugee39]

Thou canst speeke for the nonce in medieval mumsnette heyre as was donne thrice years hence on maides of the nette

Verilee tis shame to strum ones owne lute....
bee sure to packe sommee Fruite Shootes in your victuals for suche thirst to quench yor baybes who mewle, or perchance to pukee

daft- sometymes I finde to change moniker - I havve but other nayme.
Tis sore true, but in yon Gnome School in education i have strucke my fayme, tis well known both far and wide the contempt I holde for gnomes.

Laydies, I beseech thee, quite thy mirth making else my bodice-lace may splyt and myne ample bosom shallt spill forth, verily causing me to swoon most violently!

nannyneg you have stired something in me..i must make haste

nannyegg, to spill forth such knorkes dost seem unseemly. Prithee strum your lyre I beseech you, unti suche tyme as the swoon has pass-ed

I lyeth here in woe, for my husbounde is away acrosse the sea and mine offsrping hath the pox and itcheth sore.

Verily I musten take anouther daye off ye worke in order to visit the leech and haveth mine doughter bled. Her straw pallet be fair soiled and we are wretched and cast downe.

Miggsie, Allackaday! how dost myne hearte bleede for thou! Calle up yon merrie troupe of jesters for such amusemente they afforde.

My fayre lordes ox is roasting and I needs must turn his spitte. I bid adieu, although the threaddee is buried I do perchance believe.

Aye Northerne, thy nonsence is well-tunede. I see thou bitest thy thumbe at Isenhart, verily but thy several graces, set thee aboute with manye gaping faces, thy witte is faire.
Nay daftpunk: thou art not a tosspot. I have notte seen thy phyysiognomy (!) shiver the beauty of thy unstained glasse. Yette.

Faire Miggsie! Ist thy lorde on the crusadese? Do notte be caste downe. Withe speedy diligence thou shouldst partake of meade and the severale portions of chocolate sweete meates I finde it is welle met.

Art there any faire maidens this eve?

Fucking hell what a pile o' shite

Alas.
Only thine self.

Nay, fear not, sweet wench, for I think that severally other such ladies of the net of mum will join thee anon.

Or not, earthpixie.......

I bettest many of us here at ye Nette of Mothers will be suffering ye local May Fayres soon. Verily I insist uponne pronouncing it "Fay-ree" so much doth it winde me up to see thatte extra "y" in ye attempt to looke Olde Worlde.

Forsoothe myne eyes deciveth mee. This threadde hadde died a swooning deathe.

Katisha- doest thou "dance around a pole" at yon fayre?

Brilliant!

All garbed inn fyne ragedee wimples fromme Perrre Una or funne spotte flippe gowns from Bodenne

different, they that are mothers of the nette this longe yere must needs have forsaken their maidenhoods, or: no longer maid when laid.

Relationshippess,
myne lorde doth play his lute oft tymes too faste. His "tune" it has notte rythm of myne liking.
Shoulde I pluck myne neighbouirs chordes?

hey nonny no my fair maidens thou art verily merry tonighte

vinatage- no loger maides whatte canste thou meane by such lewd and cunningue phrase?

Verrilee, myne slowe cooker doest not fitte two oxen and a swanne. Fromme wherenst can be bought a finer one?

Taike refuge from the northern plaines; and heare mie counsell - pluck not thy neighbour's chordes but tend pluckingly to thyne owne laydie's garden and thy lorde may strum a differing tune more in keeping with thyne own rhythms. The meaninge of my cunningue tongue will then be cleare.