What is "fynde"

Usage examples of "fynde".

But for that he coude nat fynde certayne ende of goodnes and hyest felicite in naturall thinges: nor induce men to the same, he gaue the hye contemplacions of his mynde to moral vertues.

Here with xxvii schyppes and the moare partt of my peopell I sayling upp ynto the Frith Micklefrith did fynde x or xi Daemouns schyppes asayling whereof had Vol the commaundemente withowt the herborough of Lookingehaven, and by and by did mak syncke all schyppes of the sayd Voll withowt excepcioun and did sleay the maist paart of them that were with hym and hys ashipboard.

Grisilde is deed, and eek hir pacience, And bothe atones buryed in Ytaille, For which I crie in open audience No wedded man so hardy be tassaille His wyves pacience, in hope to fynde Grisildis, for in certein he shal faille.

But o word, lordynges, herkneth er I go, It were ful hard to fynde nowadayes In al a toun Grisildis thre or two, For it that they were put to swiche assayes, The gold of hem hath now so badde alayes With bras, that thogh the coyne be fair at eye, It wolde rather breste atwo than plye.

And evere-mo, unto that day I dye, Eterne fir I wol biforn thee fynde.

But first, I yow biseeke in this mateere, Though I by ordre telle nat this thynges, Be it of popes, emperours, or kynges, After hir ages, as men writen fynde, But tellen hem, som bifore and som bihynde, As it now comth unto my remembraunce.

And in oure yeerd tho herbes shal I fynde, The whiche han of hir propretee by kynde To purge yow bynethe and eek above.

She nevere cessed, as I writen fynde, Of hir preyere, and God to love and drede, Bisekynge hym to kepe hir maydenhede.

With Arcita, in stories as men fynde, The grete Emetreus, the kyng of Inde, Upon a steede bay, trapped in steel, Covered in clooth of gold dyapred weel, Cam ridynge lyk the god of armes, Mars.

But he ne koude arryven in no coost Wher as he myghte fynde in this mateere Two creatures accordynge in feere.

For though I hadde hem in myne handes two, The savour myghte in me no depper go, The sweete smel that in myn herte I fynde Hath chaunged me al in another kynde.

I nam no divinistre, Of soules fynde I nat in this registre, Ne me ne list thilke opinions to telle Of hem, though that they writen wher they dwelle.

He seith, he kan no difference fynde Bitwix a man that is out of his mynde, And a man which that is dronkelewe, But that woodnesse fallen in a shrewe Persevereth lenger than dooth dronkenesse.

Who euer is the mother of one chylde,Which hauing thought long dead, she fyndes aliue,Let her by proofe of that, which she hath fyldeIn her owne breast, this mothers ioy descriue:For other none such passion can contriueIn perfect forme, as this good Lady felt,When she so faire a daughter saw suruiue,As Pastorella was, that nigh she sweltFor passing ioy, which did all into pitty melt.