human
Ther is no lif that me loveth Lastynge any while; For tales that I telle, No man trusteth to me. And whan I may noght have the maistrie, Swich malencolie I take, That I cacche the crampe, And the cardiacle som tyme, Or an ague in swich an angre, And som tyme a fevere 8700 That taketh me al a twelve monthe, Til that I despise Lechecraft of oure Lord, And leve on a wicche, And seye that no clerc ne kan, Ne Crist, as I leve, To the soutere of Southwerk, Or of Shordyche dame Emme; And seye that no Goddes word Gaf me nevere boote, 8710 But thorugh a charme hadde I chaunce And my chief heele.