The grete Theseus, that of his sleep awaked

With minstralcye and noyse that was maked,

Held yet the chambre of his paleys riche,

Til that the Thebane knightes, bothe y-liche

Honoured, were into the paleys fet.

Duk Theseus was at a window set,

Arrayed right as he were a god in trone.

The peple preesseth thider-ward ful sone

Him for to seen, and doon heigh reverence,

And eek to herkne his hest and his sentence.

An heraud on a scaffold made an ho,

Til al the noyse of the peple was y-do;

And whan he saugh the peple of noyse al stille,

Tho showed he the mighty dukes wille.

‘The lord hath of his heigh discrecioun

Considered, that it were destruccioun

To gentil blood, to fighten in the gyse

Of mortal bataille now in this empryse;

Wherfore, to shapen that they shul not dye,

He wol his firste purpos modifye.

No man therfor, up peyne of los of lyf,

No maner shot, ne pollax, ne short knyf

Into the listes sende, or thider bringe;

Ne short swerd for to stoke, with poynt bytinge,

No man ne drawe, ne bere it by his syde.

Ne no man shal un-to his felawe ryde

But o cours, with a sharp y-grounde spere;

Foyne, if him list, on fote, him-self to were.

And he that is at meschief, shal be take,

And noght slayn, but be broght un-to the stake

That shal ben ordeyned on either syde;

But thider he shal by force, and ther abyde.

And if so falle, the chieftayn be take

On either syde, or elles slee his make,

No lenger shal the turneyinge laste.

God spede yow; goth forth, and ley on faste.

With long swerd and with maces fight your fille.

Goth now your wey; this is the lordes wille.’

The voys of peple touchede the hevene,

So loude cryden they with mery stevene:

‘God save swich a lord, that is so good,

He wilneth no destruccioun of blood!’

Up goon the trompes and the melodye.

And to the listes rit the companye

By ordinaunce, thurgh-out the citee large,

Hanged with cloth of gold, and nat with sarge.

Ful lyk a lord this noble duk gan ryde,

Thise two Thebanes up-on either syde;

And after rood the quene, and Emelye,

And after that another companye

Of oon and other, after hir degree.

And thus they passen thurgh-out the citee,

And to the listes come they by tyme.

It nas not of the day yet fully pryme,

Whan set was Theseus ful riche and hye,

Ipolita the quene and Emelye,

And other ladies in degrees aboute.

Un-to the seetes preesseth al the route.

And west-ward, thurgh the gates under Marte,

Arcite, and eek the hundred of his parte,

With baner reed is entred right anon;

And in that selve moment Palamon

Is under Venus, est-ward in the place,

With baner whyt, and hardy chere and face.

In al the world, to seken up and doun,

So even with-outen variacioun,

Ther nere swiche companyes tweye.

For ther nas noon so wys that coude seye,

That any hadde of other avauntage

Of worthinesse, ne of estaat, ne age,

So even were they chosen, for to gesse.

And in two renges faire they hem dresse.

Whan that hir names rad were everichoon,

That in hir nombre gyle were ther noon,

Tho were the gates shet, and cryed was loude:

‘Do now your devoir, yonge knightes proude!’

The heraudes lefte hir priking up and doun;

Now ringen trompes loude and clarioun;

Ther is namore to seyn, but west and est

In goon the speres ful sadly in arest;

In goth the sharpe spore in-to the syde.

Ther seen men who can Iuste, and who can ryde;

Ther shiveren shaftes up-on sheeldes thikke;

He feleth thurgh the herte-spoon the prikke.

Up springen speres twenty foot on highte;

Out goon the swerdes as the silver brighte.

The helmes they to-hewen and to-shrede;

Out brest the blood, with sterne stremes rede.

With mighty maces the bones they to-breste.

He thurgh the thikkeste of the throng gan threste.

Ther stomblen stedes stronge, and doun goth al.

He rolleth under foot as dooth a bal.

He foyneth on his feet with his tronchoun,

And he him hurtleth with his hors adoun.

He thurgh the body is hurt, and sithen y-take,

Maugree his heed, and broght un-to the stake,

As forward was, right ther he moste abyde;

Another lad is on that other syde.

And som tyme dooth hem Theseus to reste,

Hem to refresshe, and drinken if hem leste.

Ful ofte a-day han thise Thebanes two

Togidre y-met, and wroght his felawe wo;

Unhorsed hath ech other of hem tweye.

Ther nas no tygre in the vale of Galgopheye,

Whan that hir whelp is stole, whan it is lyte,

So cruel on the hunte, as is Arcite

For Ielous herte upon this Palamoun:

Ne in Belmarye ther nis so fel leoun,

That hunted is, or for his hunger wood,

Ne of his praye desireth so the blood,

As Palamon to sleen his fo Arcite.

The Ielous strokes on hir helmes byte;

Out renneth blood on bothe hir sydes rede.

Som tyme an ende ther is of every dede;

For er the sonne un-to the reste wente,

The stronge king Emetreus gan hente

This Palamon, as he faught with Arcite,

And made his swerd depe in his flesh to byte;

And by the force of twenty is he take

Unyolden, and y-drawe unto the stake.

And in the rescous of this Palamoun

The stronge king Ligurge is born adoun;

And king Emetreus, for al his strengthe,

Is born out of his sadel a swerdes lengthe,

So hitte him Palamon er he were take;

But al for noght, he was broght to the stake.

His hardy herte mighte him helpe naught;

He moste abyde, whan that he was caught

By force, and eek by composicioun.

Who sorweth now but woful Palamoun,

That moot namore goon agayn to fighte?

And whan that Theseus had seyn this sighte,

Un-to the folk that foghten thus echoon

He cryde, ‘Ho! namore, for it is doon!

I wol be trewe Iuge, and no partye.

Arcite of Thebes shal have Emelye,

That by his fortune hath hir faire y-wonne.’

Anon ther is a noyse of peple bigonne

For Ioye of this, so loude and heigh with-alle,

It semed that the listes sholde falle.

What can now faire Venus doon above?

What seith she now? what dooth this quene of love?

But wepeth so, for wanting of hir wille,

Til that hir teres in the listes fille;

She seyde: ‘I am ashamed, doutelees.’

Saturnus seyde: ‘Doghter, hold thy pees.

Mars hath his wille, his knight hath al his bone,

And, by myn heed, thou shalt ben esed sone.’

The trompes, with the loude minstralcye,

The heraudes, that ful loude yolle and crye,

Been in hir wele for Ioye of daun Arcite.

But herkneth me, and stinteth now a lyte,

Which a miracle ther bifel anon.

This fierse Arcite hath of his helm y-don,

And on a courser, for to shewe his face,

He priketh endelong the large place,

Loking upward up-on this Emelye;

And she agayn him caste a freendlich yë,

(For wommen, as to speken in comune,

They folwen al the favour of fortune),

And she was al his chere, as in his herte.

Out of the ground a furie infernal sterte,

From Pluto sent, at requeste of Saturne,

For which his hors for fere gan to turne,

And leep asyde, and foundred as he leep;

And, er that Arcite may taken keep,

He pighte him on the pomel of his heed,

That in the place he lay as he were deed,

His brest to-brosten with his sadel-bowe.

As blak he lay as any cole or crowe,

So was the blood y-ronnen in his face.

Anon he was y-born out of the place

With herte soor, to Theseus paleys.

Tho was he corven out of his harneys,

And in a bed y-brought ful faire and blyve,

For he was yet in memorie and alyve,

And alway crying after Emelye.

Duk Theseus, with al his companye,

Is comen hoom to Athenes his citee,

With alle blisse and greet solempnitee.

Al be it that this aventure was falle,

He nolde noght disconforten hem alle.

Men seyde eek, that Arcite shal nat dye;

He shal ben heled of his maladye.

And of another thing they were as fayn,

That of hem alle was ther noon y-slayn,

Al were they sore y-hurt, and namely oon,

That with a spere was thirled his brest-boon.

To othere woundes, and to broken armes,

Some hadden salves, and some hadden charmes;

Fermacies of herbes, and eek save

They dronken, for they wolde hir limes have.

For which this noble duk, as he wel can,

Conforteth and honoureth every man,

And made revel al the longe night,

Un-to the straunge lordes, as was right.

Ne ther was holden no disconfitinge,

But as a Iustes or a tourneyinge;

For soothly ther was no disconfiture,

For falling nis nat but an aventure;

Ne to be lad with fors un-to the stake

Unyolden, and with twenty knightes take,

O persone allone, with-outen mo,

And haried forth by arme, foot, and to,

And eek his stede driven forth with staves,

With footmen, bothe yemen and eek knaves,

It nas aretted him no vileinye,

Ther may no man clepen it cowardye.

For which anon duk Theseus leet crye,

To stinten alle rancour and envye,

The gree as wel of o syde as of other,

And either syde y-lyk, as otheres brother;

And yaf hem yiftes after hir degree,

And fully heeld a feste dayes three;

And conveyed the kinges worthily

Out of his toun a Iournee largely.

And hoom wente every man the righte way.

Ther was namore, but ‘far wel, have good day!’

Of this bataille I wol namore endyte,

But speke of Palamon and of Arcite.

Swelleth the brest of Arcite, and the sore

Encreesseth at his herte more and more.

The clothered blood, for any lechecraft,

Corrupteth, and is in his bouk y-laft,

That neither veyne-blood, ne ventusinge,

Ne drinke of herbes may ben his helpinge.

The vertu expulsif, or animal,

Fro thilke vertu cleped natural

Ne may the venim voyden, ne expelle.

The pypes of his longes gonne to swelle,

And every lacerte in his brest adoun

Is shent with venim and corrupcioun.

Him gayneth neither, for to gete his lyf,

Vomyt upward, ne dounward laxatif;

Al is to-brosten thilke regioun,

Nature hath now no dominacioun.

And certeinly, ther nature wol nat wirche,

Far-wel, phisyk! go ber the man to chirche!

This al and som, that Arcita mot dye,

For which he sendeth after Emelye,

And Palamon, that was his cosin dere;

Than seyde he thus, as ye shul after here.

‘Naught may the woful spirit in myn herte

Declare o poynt of alle my sorwes smerte

To yow, my lady, that I love most;

But I biquethe the service of my gost

To yow aboven every creature,

Sin that my lyf may no lenger dure.

Allas, the wo! allas, the peynes stronge,

That I for yow have suffred, and so longe!

Allas, the deeth! allas, myn Emelye!

Allas, departing of our companye!

Allas, myn hertes quene! allas, my wyf!

Myn hertes lady, endere of my lyf!

What is this world? what asketh men to have?

Now with his love, now in his colde grave

Allone, with-outen any companye.

Far-wel, my swete fo! myn Emelye!

And softe tak me in your armes tweye,

For love of God, and herkneth what I seye.

I have heer with my cosin Palamon

Had stryf and rancour, many a day a-gon,

For love of yow, and for my Ielousye.

And Iupiter so wis my soule gye,

To speken of a servant proprely,

With alle circumstaunces trewely,

That is to seyn, trouthe, honour, and knighthede,

Wisdom, humblesse, estaat, and heigh kinrede,

Fredom, and al that longeth to that art,

So Iupiter have of my soule part,

As in this world right now ne knowe I non

So worthy to ben loved as Palamon,

That serveth yow, and wol don al his lyf.

And if that ever ye shul been a wyf,

Foryet nat Palamon, the gentil man.’

And with that word his speche faille gan,

For from his feet up to his brest was come

The cold of deeth, that hadde him overcome.

And yet more-over, in his armes two

The vital strengthe is lost, and al ago.

Only the intellect, with-outen more,

That dwelled in his herte syk and sore,

Gan faillen, when the herte felte deeth,

Dusked his eyen two, and failled breeth.

But on his lady yet caste he his yë;

His laste word was, ‘mercy, Emelye!’

His spirit chaunged hous, and wente ther,

As I cam never, I can nat tellen wher.

Therfor I stinte, I nam no divinistre;

Of soules finde I nat in this registre,

Ne me ne list thilke opiniouns to telle

Of hem, though that they wryten wher they dwelle.

Arcite is cold, ther Mars his soule gye;

Now wol I speken forth of Emelye.

Shrighte Emelye, and howleth Palamon,

And Theseus his suster took anon

Swowninge, and bar hir fro the corps away.

What helpeth it to tarien forth the day,

To tellen how she weep, bothe eve and morwe?

For in swich cas wommen have swich sorwe,

Whan that hir housbonds been from hem ago,

That for the more part they sorwen so,

Or elles fallen in swich maladye,

That at the laste certeinly they dye.

Infinite been the sorwes and the teres

Of olde folk, and folk of tendre yeres,

In al the toun, for deeth of this Theban;

For him ther wepeth bothe child and man;

So greet a weping was ther noon, certayn,

Whan Ector was y-broght, al fresh y-slayn,

To Troye; allas! the pitee that was ther,

Cracching of chekes, rending eek of heer.

‘Why woldestow be deed,’ thise wommen crye,

‘And haddest gold y-nough, and Emelye?’

No man mighte gladen Theseus,

Savinge his olde fader Egeus,

That knew this worldes transmutacioun,

As he had seyn it chaungen up and doun,

Ioye after wo, and wo after gladnesse:

And shewed hem ensamples and lyknesse.

‘Right as ther deyed never man,’ quod he,

‘That he ne livede in erthe in som degree,

Right so ther livede never man,’ he seyde,

‘In al this world, that som tyme he ne deyde.

This world nis but a thurghfare ful of wo,

And we ben pilgrimes, passinge to and fro;

Deeth is an ende of every worldly sore.’

And over al this yet seyde he muchel more

To this effect, ful wysly to enhorte

The peple, that they sholde hem reconforte.

Duk Theseus, with al his bisy cure,

Caste now wher that the sepulture

Of good Arcite may best y-maked be,

And eek most honurable in his degree.

And at the laste he took conclusioun,

That ther as first Arcite and Palamoun

Hadden for love the bataille hem bitwene,

That in that selve grove, swote and grene,

Ther as he hadde his amorous desires,

His compleynt, and for love his hote fires,

He wolde make a fyr, in which thoffice

Funeral he mighte al accomplice;

And leet comaunde anon to hakke and hewe

The okes olde, and leye hem on a rewe

In colpons wel arrayed for to brenne;

His officers with swifte feet they renne

And ryde anon at his comaundement.

And after this, Theseus hath y-sent

After a bere, and it al over-spradde

With cloth of gold, the richest that he hadde.

And of the same suyte he cladde Arcite;

Upon his hondes hadde he gloves whyte;

Eek on his heed a croune of laurer grene,

And in his hond a swerd ful bright and kene.

He leyde him bare the visage on the bere,

Therwith he weep that pitee was to here.

And for the peple sholde seen him alle,

Whan it was day, he broghte him to the halle,

That roreth of the crying and the soun.

Tho cam this woful Theban Palamoun,

With flotery berd, and ruggy asshy heres,

In clothes blake, y-dropped al with teres;

And, passing othere of weping, Emelye,

The rewfulleste of al the companye.

In as muche as the service sholde be

The more noble and riche in his degree,

Duk Theseus leet forth three stedes bringe,

That trapped were in steel al gliteringe,

And covered with the armes of daun Arcite.

Up-on thise stedes, that weren grete and whyte,

Ther seten folk, of which oon bar his sheeld,

Another his spere up in his hondes heeld;

The thridde bar with him his bowe Turkeys,

Of brend gold was the cas, and eek the harneys;

And riden forth a pas with sorweful chere

Toward the grove, as ye shul after here.

The nobleste of the Grekes that ther were

Upon hir shuldres carieden the bere,

With slakke pas, and eyen rede and wete,

Thurgh-out the citee, by the maister-strete,

That sprad was al with blak, and wonder hye

Right of the same is al the strete y-wrye.

Up-on the right hond wente old Egeus,

And on that other syde duk Theseus,

With vessels in hir hand of gold ful fyn,

Al ful of hony, milk, and blood, and wyn;

Eek Palamon, with ful greet companye;

And after that cam woful Emelye,

With fyr in honde, as was that tyme the gyse,

To do thoffice of funeral servyse.

Heigh labour, and ful greet apparaillinge

Was at the service and the fyr-makinge,

That with his grene top the heven raughte,

And twenty fadme of brede the armes straughte;

This is to seyn, the bowes were so brode.

Of stree first ther was leyd ful many a lode.

But how the fyr was maked up on highte,

And eek the names how the treës highte,

As ook, firre, birch, asp, alder, holm, popler,

Wilow, elm, plane, ash, box, chasteyn, lind, laurer,

Mapul, thorn, beech, hasel, ew, whippeltree,

How they weren feld, shal nat be told for me;

Ne how the goddes ronnen up and doun,

Disherited of hir habitacioun,

In which they woneden in reste and pees,

Nymphes, Faunes, and Amadrides;

Ne how the bestes and the briddes alle

Fledden for fere, whan the wode was falle;

Ne how the ground agast was of the light,

That was nat wont to seen the sonne bright;

Ne how the fyr was couched first with stree,

And than with drye stokkes cloven a three,

And than with grene wode and spycerye,

And than with cloth of gold and with perrye,

And gerlandes hanging with ful many a flour,

The mirre, thencens, with al so greet odour;

Ne how Arcite lay among al this,

Ne what richesse aboute his body is;

Ne how that Emelye, as was the gyse,

Putte in the fyr of funeral servyse;

Ne how she swowned whan men made the fyr,

Ne what she spak, ne what was hir desyr;

Ne what Ieweles men in the fyr tho caste,

Whan that the fyr was greet and brente faste;

Ne how som caste hir sheeld, and som hir spere,

And of hir vestiments, whiche that they were,

And cuppes ful of wyn, and milk, and blood,

Into the fyr, that brente as it were wood;

Ne how the Grekes with an huge route

Thryës riden al the fyr aboute

Up-on the left hand, with a loud shoutinge,

And thryës with hir speres clateringe;

And thryës how the ladies gonne crye;

Ne how that lad was hom-ward Emelye;

Ne how Arcite is brent to asshen colde;

Ne how that liche-wake was y-holde

Al thilke night, ne how the Grekes pleye

The wake-pleyes, ne kepe I nat to seye;

Who wrastleth best naked, with oille enoynt,

Ne who that bar him best, in no disioynt.

I wol nat tellen eek how that they goon

Hoom til Athenes, whan the pley is doon;

But shortly to the poynt than wol I wende,

And maken of my longe tale an ende.

By processe and by lengthe of certeyn yeres

Al stinted is the moorning and the teres

Of Grekes, by oon general assent.

Than semed me ther was a parlement

At Athenes, up-on certeyn poynts and cas;

Among the whiche poynts y-spoken was

To have with certeyn contrees alliaunce,

And have fully of Thebans obeisaunce.

For which this noble Theseus anon

Leet senden after gentil Palamon,

Unwist of him what was the cause and why;

But in his blake clothes sorwefully

He cam at his comaundement in hye.

Tho sente Theseus for Emelye.

Whan they were set, and hust was al the place,

And Theseus abiden hadde a space

Er any word cam from his wyse brest,

His eyen sette he ther as was his lest,

And with a sad visage he syked stille,

And after that right thus he seyde his wille.

‘The firste moevere of the cause above,

Whan he first made the faire cheyne of love,

Greet was theffect, and heigh was his entente;

Wel wiste he why, and what ther-of he mente;

For with that faire cheyne of love he bond

The fyr, the eyr, the water, and the lond

In certeyn boundes, that they may nat flee;

That same prince and that moevere,’ quod he,

‘Hath stablissed, in this wrecched world adoun,

Certeyne dayes and duracioun

To al that is engendred in this place,

Over the whiche day they may nat pace,

Al mowe they yet tho dayes wel abregge;

Ther needeth non auctoritee allegge,

For it is preved by experience,

But that me list declaren my sentence.

Than may men by this ordre wel discerne,

That thilke moevere stable is and eterne.

Wel may men knowe, but it be a fool,

That every part deryveth from his hool.

For nature hath nat take his beginning

Of no partye ne cantel of a thing,

But of a thing that parfit is and stable,

Descending so, til it be corrumpable.

And therfore, of his wyse purveyaunce,

He hath so wel biset his ordinaunce,

That speces of thinges and progressiouns

Shullen enduren by successiouns,

And nat eterne be, with-oute lye:

This maistow understonde and seen at eye.

‘Lo the ook, that hath so long a norisshinge

From tyme that it first biginneth springe,

And hath so long a lyf, as we may see,

Yet at the laste wasted is the tree.

‘Considereth eek, how that the harde stoon

Under our feet, on which we trede and goon,

Yit wasteth it, as it lyth by the weye.

The brode river somtyme wexeth dreye.

The grete tounes see we wane and wende.

Than may ye see that al this thing hath ende.

‘Of man and womman seen we wel also,

That nedeth, in oon of thise termes two,

This is to seyn, in youthe or elles age,

He moot ben deed, the king as shal a page;

Som in his bed, som in the depe see,

Som in the large feeld, as men may se;

Ther helpeth noght, al goth that ilke weye.

Thanne may I seyn that al this thing moot deye.

What maketh this but Iupiter the king?

The which is prince and cause of alle thing,

Converting al un-to his propre welle,

From which it is deryved, sooth to telle.

And here-agayns no creature on lyve

Of no degree availleth for to stryve.

‘Thanne is it wisdom, as it thinketh me,

To maken vertu of necessitee,

And take it wel, that we may nat eschue,

And namely that to us alle is due.

And who-so gruccheth ought, he dooth folye,

And rebel is to him that al may gye.

And certeinly a man hath most honour

To dyen in his excellence and flour,

Whan he is siker of his gode name;

Than hath he doon his freend, ne him, no shame.

And gladder oghte his freend ben of his deeth,

Whan with honour up-yolden is his breeth,

Than whan his name apalled is for age;

For al forgeten is his vasselage.

Than is it best, as for a worthy fame,

To dyen whan that he is best of name.

The contrarie of al this is wilfulnesse.

Why grucchen we? why have we hevinesse,

That good Arcite, of chivalrye flour

Departed is, with duetee and honour,

Out of this foule prison of this lyf?

Why grucchen heer his cosin and his wyf

Of his wel-fare that loved hem so weel?

Can he hem thank? nay, God wot, never a deel,

That bothe his soule and eek hem-self offende,

And yet they mowe hir lustes nat amende.

‘What may I conclude of this longe serie,

But, after wo, I rede us to be merie,

And thanken Iupiter of al his grace?

And, er that we departen from this place,

I rede that we make, of sorwes two,

O parfyt Ioye, lasting ever-mo;

And loketh now, wher most sorwe is her-inne,

Ther wol we first amenden and biginne.

‘Suster,’ quod he, ‘this is my fulle assent,

With al thavys heer of my parlement,

That gentil Palamon, your owne knight,

That serveth yow with wille, herte, and might,

And ever hath doon, sin that ye first him knewe,

That ye shul, of your grace, up-on him rewe,

And taken him for housbonde and for lord:

Leen me your hond, for this is our acord.

Lat see now of your wommanly pitee.

He is a kinges brother sone, pardee;

And, though he were a povre bacheler,

Sin he hath served yow so many a yeer,

And had for yow so greet adversitee,

It moste been considered, leveth me;

For gentil mercy oghte to passen right.’

Than seyde he thus to Palamon ful right;

‘I trowe ther nedeth litel sermoning

To make yow assente to this thing.

Com neer, and tak your lady by the hond.’

Bitwixen hem was maad anon the bond,

That highte matrimoine or mariage,

By al the counseil and the baronage.

And thus with alle blisse and melodye

Hath Palamon y-wedded Emelye.

And God, that al this wyde world hath wroght,

Sende him his love, that hath it dere a-boght.

For now is Palamon in alle wele,

Living in blisse, in richesse, and in hele;

And Emelye him loveth so tendrely,

And he hir serveth al-so gentilly,

That never was ther no word hem bitwene

Of Ielousye, or any other tene.

Thus endeth Palamon and Emelye;

And God save al this faire companye!—Amen.

Here is ended the Knightes Tale.

Here folwen the wordes bitwene the Host and the Millere.

Whan that the Knight had thus his tale y-told,

In al the route nas ther yong ne old

That he ne seyde it was a noble storie,

And worthy for to drawen to memorie;

And namely the gentils everichoon.

Our Hoste lough and swoor, ‘so moot I goon,

This gooth aright; unbokeled is the male;

Lat see now who shal telle another tale:

For trewely, the game is wel bigonne.

Now telleth ye, sir Monk, if that ye conne,

Sumwhat, to quyte with the Knightes tale.’

The Miller, that for-dronken was al pale,

So that unnethe up-on his hors he sat,

He nolde avalen neither hood ne hat,

Ne abyde no man for his curteisye,

But in Pilates vois he gan to crye,

And swoor by armes and by blood and bones,

‘I can a noble tale for the nones,

With which I wol now quyte the Knightes tale.’

Our Hoste saugh that he was dronke of ale,

And seyde: ‘abyd, Robin, my leve brother,

Som bettre man shal telle us first another:

Abyd, and lat us werken thriftily.’

‘By goddes soul,’ quod he, ‘that wol nat I;

For I wol speke, or elles go my wey.’

Our Hoste answerde: ‘tel on, a devel wey!

Thou art a fool, thy wit is overcome.’

‘Now herkneth,’ quod the Miller, ‘alle and some!

But first I make a protestacioun

That I am dronke, I knowe it by my soun;

And therfore, if that I misspeke or seye,

Wyte it the ale of Southwerk, I yow preye;

For I wol telle a legende and a lyf

Bothe of a Carpenter, and of his wyf,

How that a clerk hath set the wrightes cappe.’

The Reve answerde and seyde, ‘stint thy clappe,

Lat be thy lewed dronken harlotrye.

It is a sinne and eek a greet folye

To apeiren any man, or him diffame,

And eek to bringen wyves in swich fame.

Thou mayst y-nogh of othere thinges seyn.’

This dronken Miller spak ful sone ageyn,

And seyde, ‘leve brother Osewold,

Who hath no wyf, he is no cokewold.

But I sey nat therfore that thou art oon;

Ther been ful gode wyves many oon,

And ever a thousand gode ayeyns oon badde,

That knowestow wel thy-self, but-if thou madde.

Why artow angry with my tale now?

I have a wyf, pardee, as well as thou,

Yet nolde I, for the oxen in my plogh,

Taken up-on me more than y-nogh,

As demen of my-self that I were oon;

I wol beleve wel that I am noon.

An housbond shal nat been inquisitif

Of goddes privetee, nor of his wyf.

So he may finde goddes foyson there,

Of the remenant nedeth nat enquere.’

What sholde I more seyn, but this Millere

He nolde his wordes for no man forbere,

But tolde his cherles tale in his manere;

Me thinketh that I shal reherce it here.

And ther-fore every gentil wight I preye,

For goddes love, demeth nat that I seye

Of evel entente, but that I moot reherce

Hir tales alle, be they bettre or werse,

Or elles falsen som of my matere.

And therfore, who-so list it nat y-here,

Turne over the leef, and chese another tale;

For he shal finde y-nowe, grete and smale,

Of storial thing that toucheth gentillesse,

And eek moralitee and holinesse;

Blameth nat me if that ye chese amis.

The Miller is a cherl, ye knowe wel this;

So was the Reve, and othere many mo,

And harlotrye they tolden bothe two.

Avyseth yow and putte me out of blame;

And eek men shal nat make ernest of game.

Here endeth the prologe.