Taking a dashboard confessional with Chaucer

Mine eyes seeth thou charging toward me. Upon thy steed a raging torrent erupts forth. The sun be unkind, she shines her consent over thy shining armour, reflecting upon mine rusted metal. Mine donkey neighs in discontent, as if to mock his master, the equilibrium imbalance much distresses him. Thy sword clothes himself with the sharpest edge, and mine be blunt.

does thou, mine princess, believeth in things so impossible?

The things we'll never know.
Rapid Hope Loss.