And that was in a strange lond, 60
Which marcheth upon Chymerie:
For ther, as seith the Poesie,
The God of Slep hath mad his hous,
Which of entaille is merveilous.
Under an hell ther is a cave, 65
Which of the sonne mai noght have,
So that noman mai knowe ariht
The point betwen the dai and nyht:
Ther is no fyr, ther is no sparke,