Plus ça change ...

[rfmcdonald]

"Whilon ther was dwellyne at Oxenford
A riche gnof, that gestes heeld to bord,
And of his craft he was a carpenter.
With hym there was dwellynge a poure scoler,
Hadde lerned art, but al his fantasye
Was turned for to lerne astrologye
And koude a certeyn of conclusiouns,
To demen by interrogaciouns
If that men asked hym, in certein houres
Whan that men sholde have droghte or elles
shoures
Or if men asked hum what sholde bifalle
Of everything; I may nat rekene hym alle.
[...]
A chambre hadde he in that hostelrye
Allone, withouten any compaignye
Ful fetisly ydight with herbes swoote
And he hymself as sweete as is the roote
Of lycorys or any cetewale.
His Almageste, and bookes grete and smale,
His astrelabie, longyne for his art,
His augrym stones layen faire apart
On shelves couched at his beddes heed;
His presse ycovered with a faldyng reed;
And al above ther lay a gay sdautrie,
On which he made a-nyghtes melodie
So swetely that all the chambre rong;
And Angelus ad virginem he song;
And after that he song the Kynges Noote.
Ful often blessed was his myrie throte.
And thus this sweete clerk his tyme spente
After his freendes fyndyng and his rente."

- from Chaucer, "The Miller's Tale," line 3187-3199,3203-3220.