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Updated: June 2, 2025
And than his frendes presenten his body to the ydole: and than thei seyn, syngynge, Holy God, behold what thi trewe servant hath don for the; he hathe forsaken his wif and his children and his ricchesse and alle the godes of the worlde and his owne lyf, for the love of the, and to make the sacrifise of his flesche and of his blode.
After that event Ella, otherwise 'John Ivy, had watched with much attention the appearance anywhere in print of verse bearing the signature of Robert Trewe, who, with a man's unsusceptibility on the question of sex, had never once thought of passing himself off as a woman. To be sure, Mrs.
'No; that was somebody inquiring for lodgings who came to the wrong house. I forgot to tell you that Mr. Trewe sent a note just before lunch to say I needn't get any tea for him, as he should not require the books, and wouldn't come to select them.
But his sympathy reached no less the life of the lowly; the poor widow in her narrow cottage, and that "trewe swynkere and a good," the plowman whom Langland had made the hero of his vision.
And it is his rooms we have taken, and him we have turned out of his home? Ella Marchmill, sitting down alone a few minutes later, thought with interested surprise of Robert Trewe. Her own latter history will best explain that interest.
Her visitor entered the drawing-room. She looked towards his rear; nobody else came through the door. Where, in the name of the God of Love, was Robert Trewe? 'O, I'm sorry, said the painter, after their introductory words had been spoken. 'Trewe is a curious fellow, you know, Mrs. Marchmill. He said he'd come; then he said he couldn't. He's rather dusty.
Her correspondent and his friend Trewe would have much satisfaction in accepting her invitation on their way southward, which would be on such and such a day in the following week. Ella was blithe and buoyant. Her scheme had succeeded; her beloved though as yet unseen one was coming.
He is a poet yes, really a poet and he has a little income of his own, which is enough to write verses on, but not enough for cutting a figure, even if he cared to. 'A poet! O, I did not know that. Mrs. Marchmill opened one of the books, and saw the owner's name written on the title-page. 'Dear me! she continued; 'I know his name very well Robert Trewe of course I do; and his writings!
At the last moment, unexpectedly enough, her husband said that he should have no objection to letting her and the children stay on till the end of the week, since she wished to do so, if she felt herself able to get home without him. She concealed the pleasure this extension of time gave her; and Marchmill went off the next morning alone. But the week passed, and Trewe did not call.
This song, when he thus songin had, ful Bone He fil agen into his sighis olde And every night, as was his wonte to done; He stode the bright moone to beholde And all his sorowe to the moone he tolde, And said: I wis, whan thou art hornid newe, I shall be glad, if al the world be trewe!"
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