I have made a grete and continuel misdede in my lyf, and I aske nat for forgifnesse, but only to speken myn hertes sorwe. That which we founde in the wode was unpurveyed, and oure dede was bare and ungoverned; noon of us wiste how we sholde bere us ne what we sholde feele.
I sholde never have taken that path, ne falle so foule into hethen maneres. I sholde have leyd doun my pride, stynted my folie, and turned fro the hethen weye. Many bettre choices stood bifore me, yet I ches the worse; therfore, from þe bottom of myn herte, I am sori.
I make myn apology to alle that behelde my errour, and to alle that were greved therby. But most of al, I offre myn sorwe to them I have wronged, and to hir kin.
And ye that wolde defenden me,pray, do it nat. My gilt is myn owene, and I am nat worthy of defence.
Ever was my purpos to yeven mirthe, to be bold, to enbrace alle folk. Yet in shewing so muchel of myn owene lif, I wente stray, not of malice, but of unwitte. I made a grete misdede. I aske no pardoun. I speke only the trouth of my shame.
I am ashamed. I am cast doun. And, by my trouthe, I shal walke a bettre path. I shal be bettre.
Thanke yow.
>>726951You think there might not be any people on this board, who can write like Chaucer?