A Grotesque Love-Letter

Unto you, most froward, this letter I write
Which hath caused me so longe in despaire.
The goodlinesse of your persone is esye to endite,
For he leveth nat that can youre persone appaire,
So comly best shapen, of feture most faire,
Most fresh of contenaunce, even as an owle
Is best and most favored of ony oder fowle.

Youre manly visage, shortly to declare,
Your forehed, mouth and nose so flatte,
In short conclusion best likened to an hare,
Of alle living thinges, save only a catte.
More wold I sey if I wist what.
That swete visage full ofte is beshrewed
Whan I remember of som bawd so lewd.

The proporcion of your body comende welle me aught,
Fro the shuldre down, behinde and beforn.
If alle the peintours in a land togeder were soght
A worse coude they not portrey, thogh alle they had it sworn.
Kepe welle your pacience, thogh I sende you a scorne!
Your garmentes upon you full gayly they hinge,
As it were an olde gose had a broke winge.

Your thighes misgrowen, youre shankes mich worse,
Whoso beholde youre knees so croked,
As ich of hem bad oder Christes curse,
So go they outward; youre hammes ben hoked;
Such a peire chaumbes I never on loked;
So ungoodly youre heles ye lifte,
And youre feet ben croked, with evil thrifte.

Who might have the love of so swete a wight
She might be right glad that ever was she born.
She that onis wold in a dark night
Renne for your love, till she had caught a thorn,
I wolde her no more harme but hanged on the morn,
That hath two good eyen and ichese here suche a make
Or onis wold lift up here hole for youre sake!

Youre swete love with blody nailes,
Whiche fedeth mo lice than quailes.
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