Mine belov'd, Lisbeth, hath been stolen from me. Mine liege lord, who art a knave and scoundrel, decid'd that mine love and heart shall be his own wife.

I detest him.

'Tis a troubl'd time int' nation. Mine own leige lord hath doubl'd crop tithe. Many speak of thine new lord waging war int' West.

Mine own mind is troubl'd. Busy'd mine hands with tasks 'round farm. Yet, no rest comes.

Thou art in her parchments, I'm in her flowers, we are not the same.

Good morrow wenches and knaves who allowed thine wretched lord int' Western Kingdom again.

I wish thee reap all sorrow and misery that ye sowed.

Merry eve t' ye. Iseult, a beloved herbalist int' town, read mine palm this morrow. She says I hath mix'd tidings ahead. Change wilt happ'n, but mine time shant be easy.

God knows, I hath trouble already.

Good morrow neighbours of this strange realm. I hope thy soil is fertile and thy crops are numerous.