‘Tis difficult to be a young lass and to fancy someone – mostly because the next day they might be stricken dead by the plague, the ravages of the war, a wandering cockatrice, or a naturale disaster. But the heart beateth on! Taketh this quiz to see if he fancies thee or if he’s just dying from the plague and thy body is a convenience upon which to lie to nurse his all-consuming fever and chills and imminent death.
When he asketh to sit next to thee, what doth he say?
A. “Goodday lass! Thou art about marriageable age. Shall we sit together and talk of how lucky we are to be ruled by The King?”
B. “I think mayhaps I be dying from the plague because I bleedeth from the mouth and all I see is dancing sheep – can I sit on you, I mean next to you, I mean near you, I mean what’s my name?”
It’s thy first date and thou art eating the loveliest of gruels. Thou offers to feedeth him because he be a man and must have more important things to think about. He:
A. Obliges willingly and says, “A fair lass such as thee could probably have five wee ones within the next fortnight. What a quality in a maiden!”
B. Passes out.
It beeth the day of the towne dance whence all peasants can engage in festivities before they go back to work for the next four years. Doth he ask ye?
A. Yea! He gives thee a rose and says, “Thou art as rare as a rose.” Swooneth!
B. Nay, but thou finds him laying on the ground of the town square and thou dost have a dance with him although he was foaming at the mouth a bit and kept saying, “Be thou my mother?”
Mostly A’s: Oh glory be! He fancies thee! Marry him soon since life expectancies are so short and thou will probably dyeth in a few years!
Mostly B’s: Oh no! I’m sorry dearest lady, but this man shall be dead soon from the plague and has just used thee as a warm body to rest his head. Never speaketh to him again and get the local witch to put a pox on his home and crops. What a fyck boy!
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