Oh, a Knyghte
Here a goode piece
Of meat hadde.
A wyf,
In liquor pickled,
With lickerish tayle
Her pink needing tikled,
Was prey to the cunnig,
Ripe for the taking,
For plucking,
And raping.

And seeing,
And pouncing,
The cunnig Knyghte
Went to seizing
And by the queynte led
The her to the bedde,
And on this goode wyf
He leith on soore
So myrie a fit she ne hadde
ful yoore;
Thrice, no lack,
Flat on her back
Dainty feet
To the ceiling,
Kicking and screaming,
Moaning and writhing,
Begging and pleading,
(For she hadde a liking)
“Harder!" and "Deeper!”
And the Knyghte obliging,
Dight her agayne and agayne,
Sowing and seeding,
The wyf with delite,
Her appetite sating,
A Queynte healing.