Moby Dick but it is in Middel Engelish

Clepeth me Ishmael. Somme yeres passed—ne rekke I nat how longe—havynge litel or no moneye in my purs, and no-thyng propre to delite me on londe, I thoghte I wolde saile aboute a litel and seen the watry part of the world. It is a manere I have to dryve awey the splene, and reule the blood. Whan-so-evere I fynde my-self wexynge grym aboute the mouth; whan-so-evere it is a moiste and drisly Novembre in my soule; whan-so-evere I fynde my-self unavisedly styntynge bifore the shoppes of coffyns, and folwynge the tail of everich buriynge I mete; and nameliche whan-so-evere my malencolye hath swich an over-hond of me, that it nedeth a strong moral vertu to lette me fro goynge into the strete and smytynge of mennes hattes—thanne, I gesse it is hye tyme to go to the see as soone as I may. This is my stede for pistel and bullet. With a philosophre’s manere Cato casteth hym-self upon his swerd; I pesibly take me to the shipe. Ther is no-thyng to wondre on in this. If they it wisten, wel nygh alle men in hir degree, som tyme or other, han the same felynges toward the see as have I.