Selected quad for the lemma: blood_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
blood_n	bold_a	young_a	youth_n	21	3	7.8151	4	false

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A18528	The workes of Geffray Chaucer newlye printed, wyth dyuers workes whych were neuer in print before: as in the table more playnly doth appere. Cum priuilegio ad imprimendum solum.; Works	Chaucer, Geoffrey, d. 1400.; Thynne, William, d. 1546.	1542 (1542)	STC 5069; ESTC S107198	1,080,588	770

ieopardye In paryll and in moche wo And made hem oft amysse to do And sewen euyll companye Ryot and auoutryce BVt elde can agayne restrayne From suche folly and refrayne And set men by her ordynaunce In good rule and in gouernaunce But euyll she spendeth her seruyse For noman woll her loue neyther preyse She is hated this wote I wele Her acquayntaunce wolde no man fele Ne han of elde company Men hate to be of her alye For no man wolde become olde Ne dye whan he is yonge and bolde And elde maruayleth ryght greatly whan they remembre hem inwardly Of many a peryllous empryse which that they wrought in sondry wyse How euer they myght without blame Escape awaye without shame In youth without domage Or reprefe of her lynage Losse of membre shedyng of bloude Parell of deth or losse of good wost thou not where youth abyt That men so preysen in her wyt with delyte she halte soiour For both they dwellen in o tour As longe as youth is in season They dwell in one mansyon Delyte of youth woll haue seruyce To do what so he woll deuyse And youth is redy euermore For to obeye for smerte of sore Vnto delyte and hym to yeue Her seruyce whyle that she maye lyue WHere elde habytte I wol the tell Shortly and no whyle dwel For thither behoueth y t to go Yf deth in youth the not slo Of this iourneye thou mayst not fayle with her labour and trauayle Lodged ben with sorowe and wo That neuer out of her courte go Payne and distresse syknesse and yre And melancoly that angry syre Bene of her paleys senatours Gronyng and grutchynge her harbegeours The daye and nyght her to tourment with cruell deth they her present And tellen her erlyche and late That deth standeth armed at her gate Than brynge they to her remembraunce The folly dedes of her enfaunce which causen her to mourne in wo That youth hath her begyled so which sodaynly away is hasted She wepeth the tyme that she hath wasted Complaynyng of the preterytte And the present that nat abytte And of her olde vanitie That but aforne her she maye se In the future some socour To leggen her of her dolour To graunt her tyme of repentaunce For her synnes to do penaunce And at the last so her gouerne To wynne the ioye that is eterne Fro which go bakwarde youth he made In vanitie to drowne and wade For present tyme abydeth nought It is more swyft than any thought So lytle whyle it doth endure That there nys compt ne measure But how that euer the game go who lyst to loue ioy and myrth also Of loue be it he or she Hye or lowe who it be In frute they shulde hem delyte Her parte they may not els quyte To saue hem selfe in honestie And yet full many one I se Of women sothly for to sayne That desyre and wolde fayne The playe of loue they be so wylde And not coueyte to go with chylde And yf with chylde they be perchaunce They wol it holde a great mischaunce But what so euer wo they fele They woll not playne but concele But yf it be any foole or nyce In whome that shame hath no iustyce For to delyte echone they drawe That haunt this worke both hye and lawe Saue suche that arne worth right nought That for moneye woll be bought Suche loue I prayse in no wyse whan it is gyuen for couetyse I preyse no woman though so be woode That yeueth her selfe for any good For lytle shulde a man tell Of her that wyl her body sell Be she mayde be she wyfe That quycke wyll sell her by her lyfe How fayre chere that euer she make He is a wretche I vndertake That loued suche one for swete or soure Though she hym called her paramoure And laugheth on him and maketh him feest For certaynly no suche beest To be loued is not worthy Or beare the name of drury Non shulde her please but he were woode That woll dispoyle hym of his good Yet nathelesse I woll not saye That she for solace and for playe Maye a iewell or other thyng Take of her louers free yeuyng But that she aske it in no wyse For drede of shame or couetyse And she of hers may hym certayne without slaunder yeuen agayne And ioyne her hertes togyther so In loue and take and yeue also Trowe not that I woll hem twynne whan in her loue there is no synne I woll that they togyther go And don all that they han ado As curteys shulde and debonayre And in her loue beren hem fayre without vyce both he and she So that alwaye in honestie Fro folly loue to kepe hem clere That brenneth hertes with his fere And that her loue in any wyse Be deuoyde of couetyse Good loue shulde engendred be Of true hert iust and secree And not of suche as set her thought To haue her lust or els nought So are they caught in loues lace Truly for bodily solace Fleshly delyte is so present with the that set all thyne entent without more what shuld I glose For to get and haue the rose which maketh the so mate and wood That thou desyrest none other good But thou art not an yuche the nerere But euer abydest in sorowe and werre As in thy face it is to sene It maketh the both pale and lene Thy myght thy vertue goth awaye A sory gest in good faye Thou harborest in thyne Inne The god of loue whan thou let in wherfore I rede thou shet hym out Or he shall greue the out of dout For to thy profyt it wyll turne Yf he nomore with the soiourne In great myschefe and sorowe sonken Ben hertes that of loue arne dronken As thou peraduenture knowen shall whan thou hast lost the tyme all And spent by thought in ydlenesse In waste and wofull lustynesse Yf thou mayst lyue the tyme to se Of loue for to delyuered be Thy tyme thou shalt bewepe sore The which neuer thou mayest restore For tyme lost as men may se For nothyng may recouered be And yf thou scape yet at last Fro loue that hath the so fast Knytte and bounden in his lace Certayne I holde it but a grace For many one as it is seyne Haue lost and spent also in veyne In his seruyce without socour Body and soule good and treasour wytte and strength and eke rychesse Of which they had neuer redresse ¶ Lamant THus taught and preached hath Reason But loue spylte her sermon That was so imped in my thought That her doctryne I set at nought And yet ne sayd she neuer a dele That I ne vnderstode it wele worde by worde the mater all But vnto loue I was so thral which calleth ouer all his praye He chaseth so my thought aye And holdeth myne hert vnder his seale As trusty and true as any stele So that no deuocion Ne had I in the sermon Of dame Reason ne of her rede

a wycked iape Nowe may I say I is but an ape Yet hath my felowe somwhat for his harme He hath the myllers doughter in hys arme He auntreth hym and hath hys nede yspedde And I lye as a draffe sacke in my bedde And whan this iape is tolde a nother dey I shal be holde a daffe or a cokeney I wol aryse and auntre me it by my fay Vnhardy is vnsely thus men say And vp he cose and softely he wente Vnto the cradel and in his arme it hent And bare it softely to his beddes fete Sone after the wyfe her routyng lete And gan awake and went her out to pysse And came agayn gan the cradell mysse And groped here there but she foūde none Alas ꝙ she I had almoste mysgone I had almost gone to the clerkes bedde Eye benedycite than had I foule yspedde And forthe she gothe tyl she the cradel fonde She gropeth alway further with her honde And founde y e bedde thought nat but good Bycause that the cradel by it stode And nyste where she was for it was derke But fayre wel she crepte in by the clerke And lyeth ful stil wold haue caught a slepe within a while this Iohn the clerke vp lepe And on this good wyfe he layde ful sore So mery a fyt had she nought ful yore And pricked harde depe as he were madde This ioly lyfe haue these two clerkes ladde Tyl that the thyrde cocke began to syng ¶ Aleyn waxe wery in the dawnyng For he had swonken al the longe nyght And sayd farwel Malyn swete wyght The day is comen I may no lenger byde But euermo where so I go or ryde I am thyn owne clerke so haue I hele Nowe dere lemman ꝙ she go farwele But or thou go one thyng I wol the tell Whā thou wendest homwarde by the Mell Ryght at the entre of the dore behynde Thou shalt a cake of halfe a busshel fynde That was ymaked of thyn owne mele Whiche that I helpe my syre to stele And good lemman god the saue and kepe And with y t worde she gan almoste to wepe ¶ Aleyn vprist and thought er it dawe He wolde go crepen in by his felawe And founde the cradel with his honde anon By god thought he al wronge haue I gon My heed is totty of my swynke to nyght That maketh me that I go not aryght I wot wel that by y e cradel I haue mysse go Here lyeth the Myller and hys wyfe also And forthe he gothe on twenty dyuel way Vnto the bedde there as the myller lay He wende haue cropen by his felowe Iohn And by the Myller he crepte in anon And caught hym by the necke soft he spake And sayd Iohan thou swynesheed awake For Christes soule and here a noble game For by that lorde that called is saynt Iame As I haue thrise in this shorte nyght Swyued the myllers doughter bolt vpright whyles thou haste as a cowarde ben agaste Ye false harlot quod the myller haste A false traytour false clerke quod he Thou shalte be deed by goddes dignyte who durste be so bolde to disparage My doughter that is come of suche lynage And by the throte bolle he caught Alayn And he him hent dispytously agayne And on the nose he smote him with his fest Downe ran the blode streme vpon his brest And in the flore wyth mouthe nose ybroke They walowen as dothe pygges in a poke And vp they gon and downe ayen anone Tyl that the myller spurnde on a stone And downe he fyl backwarde vpon his wyfe That wyste nothyng of this nyce stryfe For she was fal a slepe a lytel wyght with Iohn the clerke y t waked had alnyght And with the fal out of her slepe she brayde Helpe holy crosse of Bromholme she sayde In manus tuas lorde to the I cal Awake Symonde the fende is on me fal My herte is broken helpe I am but deed There lieth one on my wombe on my heed Helpe Symkyn for these false clerkes fyght This iohn stert vp as fast as euer he might And graspeth by the walles to and fro To fynde a staffe and she stert vp also And knewe the e●tres bet thā dyd this Iohn And by the wal she founde a staffe anon And sawe a lytel shemeryng of a light For at an hole in shone the moone bright And by that lyght she sawe hem bothe two But sykerly she nyste who was who But as she sey a whyte thyng in her eye And whan she gan this whyte thyng aspye She wende the clerke had weared a voluper And w t the staffe she drowe alway ner ner And wende haue hyt this Aleyn at ful And smote the myller on the pylled skul That down he gothe cryed harowe I dye These clerkes bete hym wel and let hym lye And arayeth hem and toke her horse anon And eke her meale and on her way they gon And at the mylle dore they toke her cake Of halfe a bushel floure wel ybake Thus is the proude myller wel ybete And hath ylost the gryndyng of the whete And payde for the supper euery dele Of Aleyn and of Iohan that bete hym wele Hys wyfe is swyued and his doughter al 's Lo suche it is a Myller to be fals And therfore this prouerbe is ful sothe Hym dare not wel wene that yuel dothe A gylour shal hym selfe begyled be And god that sytte hye in maieste Saue al this company great and smale Thus haue I quyt the myller in his tale ¶ Here endeth the Reues tale and here foloweth the Cokes prologue THe Coke of London whyle that the Reue spake For ioye hym thought he claude hym on the bake A ha ꝙ he for Christes passyon This myller hath a sharpe conclusyon Vpon his argument of herby gage Wel sayd Salomon in hys langage Ne bryng not euery man in to thyn hous For herbrowyng by nyght is perelous Wel ought a man auysed for to be Whom that he brought in to hys pryuete I pray to god so yeue me sorowe and care If euer sythen I hyght Hodge of ware Herde I myller bette ysette awerke He had a iape of malyce in the derke But god forbyd that we stynten here And therfore yf ye vouche safe to here A tale of me that am a poore man I wol you tel as wel as I can A lytel iape that fel in our cyte ¶ Our host sayd syr a graunte it the Nowe tel on Rodger loke that it be good For many a pasty haste thou letten blood And many a Iacke of Douer hast thou solde That hath be twyse hotte and twyse colde Of many a pilgrym hast thou Christes curse For of thy parsse yet fare they the worse That they haue eaten wyth thy stobel goos For in thy shoppe is manye a slye loos Nowe tel on gentle Rogere by thy name But yet I pray the be not wrothe for game A man may say