human
How, trolly lolly.
gpt
Now, by the peril of my soule! quod Piers, 4030 All in pure tene,
human
But ye arise the rather And rape yow to werche, Shal no greyn that groweth Glade yow at nede, And though ye deye for doel, The devel have that reccheth.
gpt
For we have no lymes to laboure with, Lord, y-graced be the; Ac we preie for yow, Piers, And for youre plowgh bothe, That God of his grace Youre greyn multiplie, And yelde yow for youre almesse 4050 That ye gyve us here; For we may noght swynke ne swete, Swich siknesse us eyleth.