Good morrow

"A good morrow to you," returned the butcher, civilly enough.

"Good morrow young jintlemin, div yeez perchance require any condiments with yon cheeps?" "Oh gosh, em, OK, ya, that'll be most, erm , geet lush, erm."

Diddorol iawn oedd darllen sylwadau'r gramadegydd a'r dyneiddiwr, Gruffydd Roberts, am agwedd ffroenuchel rhai Cymry at eu hiaith eu hunain, unwaith yr oedd y Tuduriaid ar orsedd Lloegr: "Canys chi a gewch rai yn gyttrym (cyn gynted) ag y gwelant afon Hafren, neu glochdai Amwythig, a chlywed Sais yn dweud unwaith 'Good morrow', a ddechreuant ollwng y Gymraeg dros gof, a siarad llediaith...

On the wall of the pilots' offices in the Woodside Business Park in Birkenhead, among the sea charts and historic photographs, is a framed programme from a service of thanksgiving held in 1988, which includes the self-explanatory motto: "Liverpool Pilot Service - The First To Say Good Morrow. The Last To Say Goodbye."

And with Britton in the driver's seat (as he speaks it, a potentially banal utterance like "oh, good morrow" sounds inimitably droll), the play brooks little debate: love's ardor -- and its attendant risks -- have rarely been so enchanting.

"Good morrow, young sir," she offered, after giving my eyes a chance to drink a great deal more than their fill.

The dramatic impact of the title is great: it suspends readers until they come to a full understanding at the beginning of the second stanza, |And now good morrow to our waking soules', which concludes the preceding metaphorical remark about their former state, |Or snorted we i'the seaven sleepers den?'

Now I've a sheep and a cow, every body bids me good morrow. God helps them that help themselves.

The best thing I ever received was a handwritten copy of John Donne's heavenly love-poem The Good Morrow: "...And now good-morrow to our waking souls/ Which watch not one another out of fear/ For love all love of other sights controls/ And makes one little room an everywhere...".