A Lover’s Letter
‘My dearyst Waldo,
As I sit here in the dyrty, narrow streets offe Hel, I looke up, above the looming wals, the colde unrycheable towers reminde me offe the terrybel stygmer thatte keeps oure lov so secrat and I weepe in dyspare fore our clandestyne taboo.
Yette, onder the starres and olde mistar moone, my minde dryftes backe to secrat corrydoors ande stolon glances in the ancent catercooms offe youre mastar’s hous. Oh, howe the wyne did flow and entyce oure moste prymall urges and rought us to brakke canon so saycred, and in the facce offe faytes unnown, atope thate mountin purche we did seeke comfurt and safetie in eache the other’s embrace. I, the attyndante offe the fyddler, and thee offe the falkon greene. And howwe we cood onlee share longe stares in public, yet ‘er so did they fule the pasiones offe oure lovve.
I remembyr fondly thatte daye, wenn we hadde attynded oure lord’s a’fyshing, and we tusseled amongste the feelds offe heathar and the fyne wintyr tulyps. Oh, howwe oure pasiones werre engorjed, atte the thoughte offe oure mastar’s beeing so neare. The tenson made it alle the moor sweete. And we sat, and mayde merrie withe oure mastars as we hadde cooked and eaton the trowt we hadde cort in the layke de Guize. Too this daye I do notte thynke myself too have smyled morre than thatte ospishous nyghte.
Nowwe I muste ende mye lettyr quicklee forre I havve a jobbe too do. Butte thynke offe me, and ryte back soone,
Yoors, evver and faithfulie,