Snylrem stnemilpmoc ot enutpen dna lliw eh yldnik tpecca siht yob sa a hsif? - T. H. White

The miracle was that he had been allowed to do a miracle. And ever, says Mallory, Sir Lancelot wept, as he had been a child that had been beaten.

"This was one of their love poems:

Mo Rog
Glonog,
Quinba,
Hlin varr.

It meant: "Give me a kiss, please, Miss. I like your nose."

From
Mistress Masham's Repose
"

Wart draggled off to the tower room, where Merlyn was busy knitting himself a woollen night-cap for the winter. “I cast off two together at every other line,” said the magician, “but for some reason it seems to end too sharply. Like an onion. It is the turning of the heel that does one, every time.