Judge me not upon your terms my love. I am paganborn and not of the white cloth’s staid and quiet fold.
That which I desire, I freely praise and raise and whistle to admire.
Your shapely hip, high bourne breast, the white of your skin and all the rest. This be but the truth, why would I lie? I admire these things even as I love your merry voice starry eyes.
I will not bring you flowers dear, I shall bring you honeyed mead, I’ll make no empty promises love but I shall hunt and fill the pantry your every need to feed.
No palace can I offer you, merely my own-built home there among the stones and stands of yew. Tis no grand thing my love but beauteous in the morning dew. There for all my life would I wake to you.
I have no riches but that which my hands may make. I am a simple man, I wish merely to care for you and goddess willing sons and daughters upon your whim to wake.
Judge me not my dear, for seeming strange and crood. For my love be honest before all the gods and the land. Upon my knee I ask my love, pledge me now your heart and troth and hand?