In olde dayes of the kyng Arthour

In olde dayes of the kyng Arthour, Of which that Britouns speken gret honour, Al was this lond fulfilled of fayrie; The elf-queen, with hir joly compaignye, Daunced ful oft in many a grene mede. This was the old oppynyoun, as I rede I speke of many hundrid yer ago; But now can no man see noon elves mo. For now the grete charité and prayeres Of lymytours and other holy freres, That sechen every lond and every streem, As thik as motis in the sonne-beem, Blesynge halles, chambres, kichenes, and boures, Citees and burghes, castels hihe, and toures, Thropes and bernes, shepnes and dayeries, This makith that ther ben no fayeries: For ther as wont was to walken an elf, Ther walkith noon but the lymytour himself, In undermeles and in morwenynges, And saith his matyns and his holy thinges, As he goth in his lymytacioun.