Isn't that true, Bertha? asked the smith. Yes, every word of it, my lad, said Mother Bertha, who was sitting near the hearth carding.
Isn't that true, Bertha?
Yes, every word of it, my lad,
[T]he fair star / That gems the glittering coronet of morn, / Sheds not a light so mild, so powerful, / As that which, bursting from the Fairy's form, / Spread a purpureal halo round the scene, / Yet with an undulating motion, / Swayed to her outline gracefully.
Grr, life is not fair.
Ac fourti winter Madan mid mansipe held his riche.
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