The Canterbury Tales quotes

And evermore he had a sovereign price. And though that he was worthy he was wise, And of his port as meek as is a maid. He never yet no villainy ne said In all his life, unto no manner wight.

He was a very perfect gentle knight.

But for to tellë you of his array, His horse was good, but yet he was not gay. Of fustian he weared a gipon, Allë besmotter’d with his habergeon, For he was late y-come from his voyáge, And wentë for to do his pilgrimage.

Embroider’d was he, as it were a mead All full of freshë flowers, white and red.

Singing he was, or fluting all the day; He was as fresh as is the month of May.

Short was his gown, with sleevës long and wide. Well could he sit on horse, and fairë ride. He couldë songës make, and well indite, Joust, and eke dance, and well pourtray and write.

Of smallë houndës had she, that she fed With roasted flesh, and milk, and wastel bread. But sore she wept if one of them were dead, Or if men smote it with a yardë smart:

And all was conscience and tender heart.

Full seemly her wimple y-pinched was; Her nose tretis; her eyen gray as glass; Her mouth full small, and thereto soft and red; But sickerly she had a fair forehéad. It was almost a spannë broad I trow; For hardily she was not undergrow.

But for to speaken of her consciénce, She was so charitable and so pitous,

She wouldë weep if that she saw a mouse Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled.

Of smallë houndës had she, that she fed With roasted flesh, and milk, and wastel bread. But sore she wept if one of them were dead, Or if men smote it with a yardë smart: And all was conscience and tender heart.

His eyen steep, and rolling in his head, That steamed as a furnace of a lead. His bootës supple, his horse in great estate, Now certainly he was a fair preláte; He was not pale as a forpined ghost;

A fat swan lov’d he best of any roast.

His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.

For he had power of confessión, As said himselfë, more than a curáte, For of his order he was licentiate. Full sweetëly heard he confession, And pleasant was his absolution.

He was an easy man to give penánce, There as he wist to have a good pittánce:

For unto a poor order for to give Is signë that a man is well y-shrive. For if he gave, he durstë make avant, He wistë that the man was repentant.

For if he gave, he durstë make avant, He wistë that the man was repentant. For many a man so hard is of his heart, He may not weep although him sorë smart.

Therefore instead of weeping and prayéres, Men must give silver to the poorë freres.

His tippet was aye farsed full of knives, And pinnës, for to give to fairë wives; And certainly he had a merry note: Well could he sing and playen on a rote; Of yeddings he bare utterly the prize.

Of double worsted was his semicope, That rounded was as a bell out of press. Somewhat he lisped for his wantonness, To make his English sweet upon his tongue; And in his harping, when that he had sung,

His eyen twinkled in his head aright, As do the starrës in a frosty night.

This worthy limitour was call’d Hubérd.

Of study took he mostë care and heed. Not one word spake he morë than was need; And that was said in form and reverence, And short and quick, and full of high senténce. Sounding in moral virtue was his speech,

And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach.

A Sergeant of the Law, wary and wise, That often had y-been at the Parvis, There was also, full rich of excellence. Discreet he was, and of great reverence:

For his sciénce, and for his high renown, Of fees and robës had he many one. So great a purchaser was nowhere none. All was fee simple to him, in effect His purchasing might not be in suspect.

Nowhere so busy a man as he there was, And yet he seemed busier than he was.

In termës had he case’ and doomës all, That from the time of King Will. werë fall. Thereto he could indite, and make a thing, There couldë no wight pinch at his writing. And every statute coud he plain by rote.

An householder, and that a great, was he; Saint Julian he was in his countrý. His bread, his ale, was alway after one; A better envined man was nowhere none; Withouten bake-meat never was his house, Of fish and flesh, and that so plentëous,

It snowed in his house of meat and drink, Of allë dainties that men couldë think.

After the sundry seasons of the year, So changed he his meat and his soupére. Full many a fat partridge had he in mew, And many a bream, and many a luce in stew.

This noble ensample to his sheep he gaf, That first he wrought, and afterward he taught. Out of the gospel he the wordës caught, And this figúre he added yet thereto,

That if gold rustë, what should iron do?

For if a priest be foul, on whom we trust, No wonder is a lewëd man to rust: And shame it is, if that a priest take keep, To see a shitten shepherd and clean sheep:

But dwelt at home, and keptë well his fold, So that the wolf ne made it not miscarry.

He was a shepherd, and no mercenary.

And though he holy were, and virtuous, He was to sinful men not dispitous Nor of his speechë dangerous nor dign, But in his teaching díscreet and benign. To drawen folk to heaven, with fairness, By good ensample, was his business:

But it were any person obstinate, What so he were of high or low estate, Him would he snibbë sharply for the nonës. A better priest I trow that nowhere none is. He waited after no pomp nor reverence, Nor maked him a spiced consciénce,

But Christë’s lore, and his apostles’ twelve, He taught, and first he follow’d it himselve.

With him there was a Ploughman, was his brother, That had y-laid of dung full many a fother. A true swinker and a good was he, Living in peace and perfect charity.

And if he found owhere a good felláw, He wouldë teachë him to have none awe In such a case of the archdeacon’s curse; But if a mannë’s soul were in his purse; For in his purse he should y-punished be.

“Purse is the archëdeacon’s hell,” said he.

But well I wot, he lied right indeed: Of cursing ought each guilty man to dread, For curse will slay right as assoiling saveth; And also ’ware him of a significavit.

He may not spare, although he were his brother; He must as well say one word as another. Christ spake Himself full broad in Holy Writ, And well ye wot no villainy is it.

Eke Plato saith, whoso that can him read, The wordës must be cousin to the deed.

Also I pray you to forgive it me, All have I not set folk in their degree, Here in this tale, as that they shoulden stand: My wit is short, ye may well understand.

To do you ease, and it shall costë nought. Ye go to Canterbury; God you speed, The blissful Martyr quitë you your meed; And well I wot, as ye go by the way, Ye shapen you to talken and to play:

For truëly comfórt nor mirth is none To ridë by the way as dumb as stone:

And therefore would I makë you disport, As I said erst, and do you some comfórt.

I n’ot which was the finer of them two), Ere it was day, as she was wont to do, She was arisen, and all ready dight,

For May will have no sluggardy a-night; The season pricketh every gentle heart,

And maketh him out of his sleep to start, And saith, “Arise, and do thine óbservance.”

And eke it is not likely all thy life To standen in her grace, no more than I: For well thou wost thyselfë verily, That thou and I be damned to prisón Perpetual, us gaineth no ranson.

We strive, as did the houndës for the bone; They fought all day, and yet their part was none.

There came a kite, while that they were so wroth, And bare away the bone betwixt them both. And therefore at the kingë’s court, my brother, Each man for himselfë, there is no other. Love if thee list; for I love and aye shall:

Some man desireth for to have richess, That cause is of his murder or great sickness. And some man would out of his prison fain, That in his house is of his meinie slain. Infinite harmës be in this mattére.

We wot never what thing we pray for here.

We fare as he that drunk is as a mouse. A drunken man wot well he hath an house, But he wot not which is the right way thither, And to a drunken man the way is slither.

Nothing ne knew he that it was Arcite; God wot he would have trowed it full lite. But sooth is said, gone since full many years,

The field hath eyen, and the wood hath ears.

It is full fair a man to bear him even, For all day meeten men at unset steven. Full little wot Arcite of his felláw, That was so nigh to hearken of his saw, For in the bush he sitteth now full still.

Right as the Friday, soothly for to tell, Now shineth it, and now it raineth fast, Right so can geary Venus overcast The heartës of her folk, right as her day Is gearful, right so changeth she array.

Seldom is Friday all the weekë like.

When Arcite had y-sung, he gan to sike, And sat him down withouten any more: “Alas!” quoth he, “the day that I was bore! How longë, Juno, through thy cruelty Wilt thou warrayen Thebes the city? Alas!

Save only me, and wretched Palamon, That Theseus martýreth in prisón. And over all this, to slay me utterly, Love hath his fiery dart so brenningly Y-sticked through my truë careful heart, That shapen was my death erst than my shert.

Ye slay me with your eyen, Emily; Ye be the causë wherefore that I die.

Of all the remnant of mine other care Ne set I not the mountance of a tare, So that I could do aught to your pleasance.”

And on their barë knees adown they fall, And would have kiss’d his feet there as he stood, Till at the last aslaked was his mood

(For pity runneth soon in gentle heart);

And though at first for ire he quoke and start, He hath consider’d shortly in a clause The trespass of them both, and eke the cause: And although that his ire their guilt accused, Yet in his reason he them both excused; As thus;

Now look ye, is not this an high folly?

Who may not be a fool, if but he love?

Behold, for Goddë’s sake that sits above, See how they bleed! be they not well array’d? Thus hath their lord, the god of love, them paid Their wages and their fees for their servíce;

And shewed him example and likeness. “Right as there diëd never man,” quoth he, “That he ne liv’d in earth in some degree, Right so there lived never man,” he said, “In all this world, that sometime be not died.

This world is but a throughfare full of woe, And we be pilgrims, passing to and fro:

Death is an end of every worldly sore.” And over all this said he yet much more To this effect, full wisely to exhort The people, that they should them recomfórt.

What maketh this but Jupiter the king? The which is prince, and cause of allë thing, Converting all unto his proper will, From which it is derived, sooth to tell And hereagainst no creature alive, Of no degree, availeth for to strive.

Then is it wisdom, as it thinketh me, To make a virtue of necessity,

And take it well, that we may not eschew, And namëly what to us all is due. And whoso grudgeth ought, he doth folly, And rebel is to him that all may gie.

It is a sin, and eke a great folly To apeiren any man, or him defame, And eke to bringë wives in evil name. Thou may’st enough of other thingës sayn.” This drunken Miller spake full soon again, And saidë, “Levë brother Osëwold,

Who hath no wifë, he is no cuckóld.

But I say not therefore that thou art one; There be full goodë wivës many one. Why art thou angry with my talë now?

I have a wife, pardie, as well as thou, Yet n’old I, for the oxen in my plough, Taken upon me morë than enough, To deemen of myself that I am one; I will believë well that I am none.

An husband should not be inquisitive Of Goddë’s privity, nor of his wife.

So he may findë Goddë’s foison there, Of the remnant needeth not to enquére.”

This ordinance is said: go, God thee speed. To-morrow night, when men be all asleep, Into our kneading tubbës will we creep, And sittë there, abiding Goddë’s grace. Go now thy way, I have no longer space To make of this no longer sermoníng:

Men say thus: Send the wise, and say nothing:

Thou art so wise, it needeth thee nought teach. Go, save our lives, and that I thee beseech.”

But natheless she fear’d as she would dey, And said: “Alas! go forth thy way anon. Help us to scape, or we be dead each one. I am thy true and very wedded wife; Go, dearë spouse, and help to save our life.”

Lo, what a great thing is affectión! Men may die of imaginatión,

So deeply may impressión be take. This silly carpenter begins to quake: He thinketh verily that he may see This newë flood come weltering as the sea To drenchen Alison, his honey dear. He weepeth, waileth, maketh sorry cheer;

This whitë top writeth mine oldë years; Mine heart is also moulded as mine hairs; And I do fare as doth an open-erse; That ilkë fruit is ever longer werse, Till it be rotten in mullok or in stre.

We oldë men, I dread, so farë we; Till we be rotten, can we not be ripe;

We hop away, while that the world will pipe; For in our will there sticketh aye a nail, To have an hoary head and a green tail, As hath a leek; for though our might be gone, Our will desireth folly ever-in-one:

The more quaintë knackës that they make, The morë will I steal when that I take. Instead of flour yet will I give them bren.

The greatest clerks are not the wisest men,

As whilom to the wolf thus spake the mare: Of all their art ne count I not a tare.” Out at the door he went full privily, When that he saw his timë, softëly.

That they have eaten in thy stubble goose: For in thy shop doth many a fly go loose. Now tell on, gentle Roger, by thy name, But yet I pray thee be not wroth for game;

A man may say full sooth in game and play.

” “Thou sayst full sooth,” quoth Roger, “by my fay; But sooth play quad play, as the Fleming saith, And therefore, Harry Bailly, by thy faith, Be thou not wroth, else we departë here, Though that my tale be of an hostelére.

For loss of chattels may recover’d be, But loss of timë shendeth us, quoth he. It will not come again, withoutë dread, No morë than will Malkin’s maidenhead, When she hath lost it in her wantonness.

Let us not mouldë thus in idleness.

Sir Man of Law,” quoth he, “so have ye bliss, Tell us a tale anon, as forword is. Ye be submitted through your free assent To stand in this case at my judgëment. Acquit you now, and holdë your behest;

Thy neighëbour thou witest sinfully, And sayst, thou hast too little, and he hath all: “Parfay (sayst thou) sometime he reckon shall, When that his tail shall brennen in the glede, For he not help’d the needful in their need.”

Hearken what is the sentence of the wise: Better to die than to have indigence.

Thy selvë neighëbour will thee despise, If thou be poor, farewell thy reverence. Yet of the wisë man take this senténce, Allë the days of poorë men be wick’, Beware therefore ere thou come to that prick.

Better to die than to have indigence. Thy selvë neighëbour will thee despise, If thou be poor, farewell thy reverence. Yet of the wisë man take this senténce, Allë the days of poorë men be wick’, Beware therefore ere thou come to that prick.

If thou be poor, thy brother hateth thee,

And all thy friendës flee from thee, alas! O richë merchants, full of wealth be ye, O noble, prudent folk, as in this case, Your baggës be not fill’d with ambës ace, But with six-cinque, that runneth for your chance;

“Alas! unto the barbarous natión I must anon, since that it is your will: But Christ, that starf for our redemptión, So give me grace his hestës to fulfil. I, wretched woman, no force though I spill!

Women are born to thraldom and penánce, And to be under mannë’s governance.

”

The kingë’s heart for pity gan agrise, When he saw so benign a creature Fall in disease and in misáventure.

For as the lamb toward his death is brought, So stood this innocent before the king:

This falsë knight, that had this treason wrought, Bore her in hand that she had done this thing: But natheless there was great murmuring Among the people, that say they cannot guess That she had done so great a wickedness.

I say but for this endë this senténce, That little while in joy or in pleasance Lasted the bliss of Alla with Constance.

For death, that takes of high and low his rent,

When passed was a year, even as I guess, Out of this world this King Alla he hent, For whom Constance had full great heaviness. Now let us pray that God his soulë bless:

art thou so amoroús? What rown’st thou with our maid? ben’dicite, Sir oldë lechour, let thy japës be. And if I have a gossip, or a friend (Withoutë guilt), thou chidest as a fiend, If that I walk or play unto his house.

Thou comest home as drunken as a mouse,

And preachest on thy bench, with evil prefe: Thou say’st to me, it is a great mischief To wed a poorë woman, for costáge:

I would no longer in the bed abide, If that I felt his arm over my side, Till he had made his ransom unto me, Then would I suffer him do his nicetý. And therefore every man this tale I tell,

Win whoso may, for all is for to sell;

With empty hand men may no hawkës lure; For winning would I all his will endure, And makë me a feigned appetite— And yet in bacon had I never delight: That made me that I ever would them chide.

And therefore every man this tale I tell, Win whoso may, for all is for to sell;

With empty hand men may no hawkës lure;

For winning would I all his will endure, And makë me a feigned appetite— And yet in bacon had I never delight: That made me that I ever would them chide.

I made for him of the same wood a cross; Not of my body in no foul mannére, But certainly I madë folk such cheer, That in his owen grease I made him fry For anger, and for very jealousý.

By God, in earth I was his purgatory,

For which I hope his soul may be in glory. For, God it wot, he sat full oft and sung, When that his shoe full bitterly him wrung.

For certainly, I say for no bobance, Yet was I never without purveyance Of marriage, nor of other thingës eke:

I hold a mouse’s wit not worth a leek,

That hath but one hole for to startë to, And if that failë, then is all y-do. [I bare him on hand he had enchanted me (My damë taughtë me that subtilty);

For certes I am all venerian In feeling, and my heart is martian; Venus me gave my lust and liquorishness, And Mars gave me my sturdy hardiness.] Mine ascendant was Taure, and Mars therein:

Alas, alas, that ever love was sin!

I follow’d aye mine inclinatión By virtue of my constellatión: That made me that I couldë not withdraw My chamber of Venus from a good felláw. [Yet have I Martë’s mark upon my face, And also in another privy place.

We women have, if that I shall not lie, In this mattér a quaintë fantasy. Whatever thing we may not lightly have, Thereafter will we cry all day and crave.

Forbid us thing, and that desirë we;

Press on us fast, and thennë will we flee. With danger utter we all our chaffare; Great press at market maketh dearë ware, And too great cheap is held at little price; This knoweth every woman that is wise.

But all for nought; I settë not a haw Of his provérbs, nor of his oldë saw; Nor would I not of him corrected be.

I hate them that my vices tellë me,

And so do more of us (God wot) than I. This made him wood with me all utterly; I wouldë not forbear him in no case.

For, trust me well, it is an impossíble That any clerk will speakë good of wives, (But if it be of holy saintës’ lives) Nor of none other woman never the mo’.

Who painted the lión, tell it me, who?

By God, if women haddë written stories, As clerkës have within their oratóries, They would have writ of men more wickedness Than all the mark of Adam may redress. The children of Mercury and of Venus, Be in their working full contrarious.

… will have price of his gent’ry, For he was boren of a gentle house, And had his elders noble and virtuoús, And will himselfë do no gentle deedës, Nor follow his gentle ancestry, that dead is, He is not gentle, be he duke or earl;

For villain sinful deedës make a churl.

For gentleness is but the renomée Of thine ancéstors, for their high bounté, Which is a strangë thing to thy persón: Thy gentleness cometh from God alone. Then comes our very gentleness of grace; It was no thing bequeath’d us with our place.

For villain sinful deedës make a churl. For gentleness is but the renomée Of thine ancéstors, for their high bounté, Which is a strangë thing to thy persón:

Thy gentleness cometh from God alone.

Then comes our very gentleness of grace; It was no thing bequeath’d us with our place. Think how noble, as saith Valerius, Was thilkë Tullius Hostilius, That out of povert’ rose to high nobless.

I you beseech, that of your courtesy, Since ye have heard this falsë Friar lie, As suffer me I may my talë tell. This Friar boasteth that he knoweth hell, And, God it wot, that is but little wonder,

Friars and fiends be but little asunder.

For, pardie, ye have often time heard tell, How that a friar ravish’d was to hell In spirit onës by a visioún, And, as an angel led him up and down, To shew him all the painës that there were, In all the place saw …

And thus he did do slay them allë three. Irous Cambyses was eke dronkelew, And aye delighted him to be a shrew. And so befell, a lord of his meinie, That loved virtuous moralitý, Said on a day betwixt them two right thus: ‘

A lord is lost, if he be vicious.

[An irous man is like a frantic beast, In which there is of wisdom none arrest;] And drunkenness is eke a foul record Of any man, and namely of a lord.

“Bowë your neck under the blissful yoke Of sovereignty, and not of servíce, Which that men call espousal or wedlóck: And thinkë, Lord, among your thoughtës wise, How that our dayës pass in sundry wise; For though we sleep, or wake, or roam, or ride,

Aye fleeth time, it will no man abide.

“And though your greenë youthë flow’r as yet, In creepeth age always as still as stone, And death menaceth every age, and smit In each estate, for there escapeth none:

“But sooth is said—algate I find it true, For in effect it proved is on me—

Love is not old as when that it is new.

But certes, Lord, for no adversity, To dien in this case, it shall not be That e’er in word or work I shall repent That I you gave mine heart in whole intent.

“

Griseld’ is dead, and eke her patience,

And both at once are buried in Itále: For which I cry in open audience, No wedded man so hardy be t’ assail His wifë’s patience, in trust to find Griselda’s, for in certain he shall fail.

This sentence, and a hundred timës worse, Writeth this man, there God his bonës curse. But take no keep of all such vanity, Defy Theóphrast, and hearken to me.

A wife is Goddë’s giftë verily;

All other manner giftës hardily, As landës, rentës, pasture, or commúne, Or mebles, all be giftës of fortúne, That passen as a shadow on the wall:

And eke these oldë widows (God it wot) They connë so much craft on Wadë’s boat, So muchë brookë harm when that them lest, That with them should I never live in rest. For sundry schoolës makë subtle clerkës;

Woman of many schoolës half a clerk is.

But certainly a young thing men may guy, Right as men may warm wax with handës ply. Wherefore I say you plainly in a clause, I will none old wife have, right for this cause.

But one thing warn I you, my friendës dear, I will none old wife have in no mannére: She shall not passë sixteen year certáin.

Old fish and youngë flesh would I have fain.

Better,” quoth he, “a pike than a pickerel, And better than old beef is tender veal. I will no woman thirty year of age, It is but beanëstraw and great foráge.

And some were rich and had a baddë name. But natheless, betwixt earnest and game, He at the last appointed him on one, And let all others from his heartë gon, And chose her of his own authority;

For love is blind all day, and may not see.

And when that he was into bed y-brought, He pourtray’d in his heart and in his thought Her freshë beauty, and her agë tender, Her middle small, her armës long and slender, Her wisë governance, her gentleness, Her womanly bearíng, and her sadnéss.

And to his bed he went him hastily; No more of him as at this time speak I; But there I let him weep enough and plain, Till freshë May will rue upon his pain.

O perilous fire, that in the bedstraw breedeth!

O foe familiar, that his service bedeth! O servant traitor, O false homely hewe, Like to the adder in bosom shy untrue, God shield us allë from your acquaintánce!

“Certain,” thought she, “whom that this thing displease I reckë not, for here I him assure, To love him best of any creature, Though he no morë haddë than his shirt.”

Lo, pity runneth soon in gentle heart.

Here may ye see, how excellent franchise In women is when they them narrow advise.

O sudden hap! O thou fortúne unstable! Like to the scorpión so deceiváble, That fhatt’rest with thy head when thou wilt sting; Thy tail is death, through thine envenoming.

O brittle joy! O sweetë poison quaint!

O monster, that so subtilly canst paint Thy giftës, under hue of steadfastness, That thou deceivest bothë more and less! Why hast thou January thus deceiv’d, That haddest him for thy full friend receiv’d?

And if that God had not (as saith the book) Spared him for his father’s sake, he should Have lost his regnë rather than he would. I settë not, of all the villainy That he of women wrote, a butterfly.

I am a woman, needës must I speak,

Or ellës swell until mine heartë break. For since he said that we be jangleresses, As ever may I brookë whole my tresses, I shall not spare for no courtesy To speak him harm, that said us villainy.”

But evermore their mostë wonder was How that it couldë go, and was of brass; It was of Faerie, as the people seem’d. Diverse folk diversëly they deem’d;

As many heads, as many wittës been.

They murmured, as doth a swarm of been, And madë skills after their fantasies, Rehearsing of the oldë poetries, And said that it was like the Pegasé, The horse that haddë wingës for to flee;

All were he full of treason and falsenéss, It was so wrapped under humble cheer, And under hue of truth, in such mannére, Under pleasánce, and under busy pain, That no wight weened that he couldë feign, So deep in grain he dyed his coloúrs.

Right as a serpent hides him under flow’rs, Till he may see his timë for to bite,

Right so this god of lovë’s hypocrite Did so his ceremonies and obeisánces, And kept in semblance all his óbservánces, That sounden unto gentleness of love.

Right as a serpent hides him under flow’rs, Till he may see his timë for to bite, Right so this god of lovë’s hypocrite Did so his ceremonies and obeisánces, And kept in semblance all his óbservánces, That sounden unto gentleness of love.

As on a tomb is all the fair above, And under is the corpse, which that ye wot,

Such was this hypocrite, both cold and hot; And in this wise he served his intent, That, save the fiend, none wistë what he meant:

But natheless, I thought he was so true, And eke that he repairë should again Within a little whilë, sooth to sayn, And reason would eke that he mustë go For his honoúr, as often happ’neth so,

That I made virtue of necessitý, And took it well, since that it mustë be.

As I best might, I hid from him my sorrow, And took him by the hand, Saint John to borrow, And said him thus; ‘Lo, I am yourës all; Be such as I have been to you, and shall.’

For one thing, Sirës, safely dare I say, That friends ever each other must obey, If they will longë hold in company. Love will not be constrain’d by mastery. When mast’ry comes, the god of love anon Beateth his wings, and, farewell, he is gone.

Love is a thing as any spirit free.

Women of kind desirë liberty, And not to be constrained as a thrall; And so do men, if soothly I say shall. Look who that is most patiént in love, He is at his advantage all above.

Ye shall your trothë holdë, by my fay. For, God so wisly have mercý on me, I had well lever sticked for to be, For very lovë which I to you have, But if ye should your trothë keep and save.

Truth is the highest thing that man may keep.

” But with that word he burst anon to weep, And said; “I you forbid, on pain of death, That never, while you lasteth life or breath, To no wight tell ye this misáventúre;

Beware, that by example of your livíng, Or by your negligence in chastisíng, That they not perish for I dare well say, If that they do, ye shall it dear abeye.

Under a shepherd soft and negligent The wolf hath many a sheep and lamb to-rent.

Sufficë this example now as here, For I must turn again to my mattére.

For be he lewëd man or ellës lear’d, He knows not how soon he shall be afear’d; Therefore I redë you this counsel take,

Forsakë sin, ere sinnë you forsake.

For, though I tellë not his proper name, Men shall well knowë that it is the same By signës, and by other circumstánces. Thus quite I folk that do us displeasánces:

Thus spit I out my venom, under hue Of holiness, to seem holy and true.

But, shortly mine intent I will devise, I preach of nothing but of covetise. Therefore my theme is yet, and ever was— Radix malorum est cupiditas. Thus can I preach against the samë vice Which that I use, and that is avarice.

Thus spit I out my venom, under hue Of holiness, to seem holy and true. But, shortly mine intent I will devise, I preach of nothing but of covetise. Therefore my theme is yet, and ever was— Radix malorum est cupiditas.

Thus can I preach against the samë vice Which that I use, and that is avarice.

But though myself be guilty in that sin, Yet can I maken other folk to twin From avarice, and sorë them repent. But that is not my principal intent; I preachë nothing but for covetise. Of this mattére it ought enough suffice.

My handës and my tonguë go so yern, That it is joy to see my business. Of avarice and of such cursedness Is all my preaching, for to make them free To give their pence, and namely unto me.

For mine intent is not but for to win, And nothing for correctión of sin.

I reckë never, when that they be buried, Though that their soulës go a blackburied. For certes many a predicatión Cometh oft-time of evil intentión; Some for pleasánce of folk, and flattery, To be advanced by hypocrisy; And some for vainglory, and some for hate.

I will none of the apostles counterfeit; I will have money, wool, and cheese, and wheat, All were it given of the poorest page, Or of the poorest widow in a villáge: All should her children stervë for famíne.

Nay, I will drink the liquor of the vine, And have a jolly wench in every town.

But hearken, lordings, in conclusioún; Your liking is, that I shall tell a tale Now I have drunk a draught of corny ale, By God, I hope I shall you tell a thing That shall by reason be to your likíng;

But hearken, lordings, in conclusioún; Your liking is, that I shall tell a tale Now I have drunk a draught of corny ale, By God, I hope I shall you tell a thing That shall by reason be to your likíng;

For though myself be a full vicious man, A moral tale yet I you tellë can,

Which I am wont to preachë, for to win. Now hold your peace, my tale I will begin.

And through thy drunken nose sowneth the soun’, As though thous saidest aye, Samsoún! Samsoún! And yet, God wot, Samson drank never wine. Thou fallest as it were a sticked swine; Thy tongue is lost, and all thine honest cure;

For drunkenness is very sepultúre Of mannë’s wit and his discretión.

In whom that drink hath dominatión, He can no counsel keep, it is no dread. Now keep you from the white and from the red, And namely from the whitë wine of Lepe, That is to sell in Fish Street and in Cheap.

“Brethren,” quoth he, “take keep what I shall say; My wit is great, though that I bourde and play. This treasure hath Fortúne unto us given In mirth and jollity our life to liven;

And lightly as it comes, so will we spend.

Hey! Goddë’s precious dignity! who wend To-day that we should have so fair a grace?

But since I see I stand in such disjoint, I will answér you shortly to the point. Ye have more slackë debtors than am I; For I will pay you well and readily, From day to day, and if so be I fail,

I am your wife, score it upon my tail, And I shall pay as soon as ever I may.

For, by my troth, I have on mine array, And not in waste, bestow’d it every deal. And, for I have bestowed it so well, For your honoúr, for Goddë’s sake I say, As be not wroth, but let us laugh and play.

And, for I have bestowed it so well, For your honoúr, for Goddë’s sake I say, As be not wroth, but let us laugh and play. Ye shall my jolly body have to wed;

By God, I will not pay you but in bed;

Forgive it me, mine owen spousë dear; Turn hitherward, and makë better cheer.”

I say that in a wardrobe they him threw, Where as the Jewës purged their entrail. O cursed folk! O Herodës all new! What may your evil intentë you avail?

Murder will out, certáin it will not fail,

And namely where th’ honoúr of God shall spread; The blood out crieth on your cursed deed.

I will bewail, in manner of tragédy, The harm of them that stood in high degree, And fellë so, that there was no remédy To bring them out of their adversitý. For, certain, when that Fortune list to flee,

There may no man the course of her wheel hold: Let no man trust in blind prosperity;

Beware by these examples true and old.

Thus starf this worthy mighty Hercules. Lo, who may trust on Fortune any throw? For him that followeth all this world of pres, Ere he be ware, is often laid full low;

Full wise is he that can himselfë know.

Beware, for when that Fortune list to glose Then waiteth she her man to overthrow, By such a way as he would least suppose.

In kingës’ habit went her sonës two, As heirës of their father’s regnës all; And Herëmanno and Timolaó Their namës were, as Persians them call

But aye Fortúne hath in her honey gall;

This mighty queenë may no while endure; Fortune out of her regnë made her fall To wretchedness and to misádventúre.

but he said, a fair woman was she. Great wonder is, how that he could or might Be doomësman of her deadë beautý: The wine to bringë him commanded he, And drank anon; none other woe he made,

When might is joined unto cruelty, Alas! too deepë will the venom wade.

In youth a master had this emperoúr, To teachë him lettrure and courtesy; For of morality he was the flow’r, As in his timë, but if bookës lie.

How durstë ye for shame say to your love That anything might makë you afear’d?

Have ye no mannë’s heart, and have a beard?

Alas! and can ye be aghast of swevenës? Nothing but vanity, God wot, in sweven is, Swevens engender of repletións, And oft of fume, and of complexións, When humours be too abundant in a wight.

The people out start, and cast the cart to ground And in the middle of the dung they found The deadë man, that murder’d was all new. O blissful God! that art so good and true, Lo, how that thou bewray’st murder alway.

Murder will out, that see we day by day.

Murder is so wlatsom and abominable To God, that is so just and reasonable, That he will not suffer it heled be;

And with a chuck he gan them for to call, For he had found a corn, lay in the yard. Royal he was, he was no more afear’d; He feather’d Partelotë twenty time, And as oft trode her, ere that it was prime.

He looked as it were a grim lioún, And on his toes he roamed up and down;

He deigned not to set his feet to ground; He chucked, when he had a corn y-found, And to him rannë then his wivës all. Thus royal, as a prince is in his hall, Leave I this Chanticleer in his pastúre;

Madamë Partelote, my worldë’s bliss, Hearken these blissful birdës how they sing, And see the freshë flowers how they spring; Full is mine heart of revel and solace.” But suddenly him fell a sorrowful case;

For ever the latter end of joy is woe: God wot that worldly joy is soon y-go:

And, if a rhetor couldë fair indite, He in a chronicle might it safely write, As for a sov’reign notability. Now every wise man, let him hearken me;

For he that winketh when he shouldë see, All wilfully, God let him never thé.” “Nay,” quoth the fox; “but God give him mischance That is so indiscreet of governánce, That jangleth when that he should hold his peace.”

Lo, what it is for to be reckëless And negligent, and trust on flattery.

But ye that holdë this tale a follý, As of a fox, or of a cock or hen, Take the morality thereof, good men. For Saint Paul saith, That all that written is, To our doctríne it written is y-wis.

Another said, the fire was over hot. But be it hot or cold, I dare say this, That we concluden evermore amiss; We fail alway of that which we would have; And in our madness evermore we rave.

And when we be together every one, Every man seemeth a Solomon.

But all thing, which that shineth as the gold, It is not gold, as I have heard it told; Nor every apple that is fair at eye, It is not good, what so men clap or cry. Right so, lo, fareth it amongës us.

But be it hot or cold, I dare say this, That we concluden evermore amiss; We fail alway of that which we would have; And in our madness evermore we rave. And when we be together every one, Every man seemeth a Solomon.

But all thing, which that shineth as the gold, It is not gold, as I have heard it told;

Nor every apple that is fair at eye, It is not good, what so men clap or cry. Right so, lo, fareth it amongës us. He that the wisest seemeth, by Jesús, Is most fool, when it cometh to the prefe;

He will you hatë mortally certáin. Dan Solomon, as wisë clerkës sayn, Teacheth a man to keep his tonguë well; But, as I said, I am not textuel. But natheless thus taughtë me my dame; “My son, think on the crow, in Goddë’s name.

My son, keep well thy tongue, and keep thy friend; A wicked tongue is worse than is a fiend:

My sonë, from a fiend men may them bless. My son, God of his endëless goodnéss Wallëd a tongue with teeth, and lippës eke, For man should him advisë, what he speak.

The second is, when a man getteth him too delicate meat or drink. The third is, when men take too much over measure. The fourth is curiosity with great intent to make and apparel his meat. The fifth is, for to eat too greedily.

These be the five fingers of the devil’s hand, by which he draweth folk to the sin.

Against gluttony the remedy is abstinence, as saith Galen; but that I hold not meritorious, if he do it only for the health of his body. Saint Augustine will that abstinence be done for virtue, and with patience.

Thou must also shew thy sin by thine own proper mouth, but thou be dumb, and not by letter; for thou that hast done the sin, thou shalt have the shame of the confession.

Thou shalt not paint thy confession with fair and subtle words, to cover the more thy sin; for then beguilest thou thyself, and not the priest;

thou must tell it plainly, be it never so foul nor so horrible. Thou shalt eke shrive thee to a priest that is discreet to counsel thee;

the other is, that they think they might not long persevere in goodness. The first wanhope cometh of that he deemeth that he sinned so highly and so oft, and so long hath lain in sin, that he shall not be saved.

Certes against that cursed wanhope should he think, that the passion of Jesus Christ is more strong for to unbind, than sin is strong for to bind.

Against the second wanhope he shall think, that as oft as he falleth, he may arise again by penitence; and though he never so long hath lain in sin, the mercy of Christ is always ready to receive him to mercy.