I try my hand at Old English.

When put I quill to paper, my words all do scarce redeem mine conceit. Wherefore dost bane of writers close stop up, charged with worries that cross beyond mortal burdens plague mine mind? An I could bring proper words to the front ‘twould be still shrewd and nice, I doubt. Alack! Mayhap ‘tis far the better they remain mewed away, lest a natural I should be deemed.