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Updated: August 19, 2024
I wish he were returned, my Eleonora, for both our sakes. Ele. The same wish I, sir. Hen. That then our Joys, which now like flowers nippd With frost, hang downe the head as if the stalkes Could not sustaine the toppes, they droope to much; At his returne th'art mine. Ele. I am yours now In holyest Contract. Hen.
And wit ye well, gentle cousin, Sir Bors, that ye and I will never depart in sunder whilst our lives may last. Sir, said he, I will as ye will. Thus endeth thistory of the Sancgreal, that was breuely drawen oute of Frensshe in to Englysshe, the whiche is a story cronycled for one of the truest and the holyest that is in thys world, the which is the xvii. book.
In that lond men worschipen the ox, for his symplenesse and for his mekenesse, and for the profite that comethe of him. And thei seyn, that he is the holyest best in erthe. For hem semethe, that whoso evere be meke and paycyent, he is holy and profitable: for thanne thei seyn, he hathe alle vertues in him. Thei maken the ox to laboure 6 zeer or 7, and than thei ete him.
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