Whan that Aprille, with his shoures soote, &Canterbury Tales
General Prologue
Lines 1-18The droghte of March hath perced to the roote &
And bathed every veyne in swich licour, &
Of which vertu engendred is the flour; &
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth &
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth &
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne &
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne, &
And smale foweles maken melodye, &
That slepen al the nyght with open eye- &
So priketh hem Nature in hir corages- &
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages &
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes &
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes; &
And specially, from every shires ende &
Of Engelond, to Caunturbury they wende, &
The hooly blisful martir for the seke &
That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seeke. &
46: I wol yow telle a myrie tale in prose &Line 46-60 (play Lines)
47: To knytte up al this feeste, and make an ende. &
48: And jhesu, for his grace, wit me sende &
49: To shewe yow the wey, in this viage, &
50: Of thilke parfit glorious pilgrymage &
51: That highte jerusalem celestial. &
52: And if ye vouche sauf, anon I shal &
53: Bigynne upon my tale, for which I preye &
54: Telle youre avys, I kan no bettre seye. &
55: But nathelees, this meditacioun &
56: I putte it ay under correccioun &
57: Of clerkes, for I am nat textueel; &
58: I take but the sentence, trusteth weel. &
59: Therfore I make protestacioun &
60: That I wol stonde to correccioun. &
Franklin Reading from General Prologue
335. To lyven in delit was evere his wone; &
336. For he was Epicurus owene sone, &
337. That heeld opinioun that pleyn delit &
338. Was verraily felicitee parfit, &
339. An housholdere, and that a greet, was he; &
340. Seint Julian was he in his contree. &
341. His breed, his ale, was alweys after oon, &
342. A bettre envyned man was nowher noon. &
343. Withoute bake mete was nevere his hous, &
344. Of fissh and flessh, and that so plentevous, &
345. It snewed in his hous of mete and drynke, &
346. Of alle deyntees that men koude thynke. &
347. After the sondry sesons of the yeer &
348. So chaunged he his mete and his soper. &
349. Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in muwe, &
350. And many a breem and many a luce in stuwe. &
(Play lines
725. But first I pray yow, of youre curteisye, &
726. That ye narette it nat my vileynye, &
727. Thogh that I pleynly speke in this mateere &
728. To telle yow hir wordes and hir chere, &
729. Ne thogh I speke hir wordes proprely. &
730. For this ye knowen also wel as I, &
731. Who-so shal telle a tale after a man, &
732. He moot reherce as ny as evere he kan &
733. Everich a word, if it be in his charge, &
734. Al speke he never so rudeliche or large; &
735. Or ellis he moot telle his tale untrewe, &
736. Or feyne thyng, or fynde wordes newe. &
737. He may nat spare, al thogh he were his brother, &
738. He moot as wel seye o word as another. &
739. Crist spak hym-self ful brode in Hooly Writ, &
740. And, wel ye woot, no vileynye is it. &
741. Eek Plato seith, who so can him rede, &
742. The wordes mote be cosyn to the dede. &
The Summoner's Prologue
'Now, sire,' quod he, 'han freres swich a grace &
| 20 | That noon of hem shal come to this place?' | & | |
| 'Yis,' quod this angel, 'many a millioun!' | & | ||
| And unto Sathanas he ladde hym doun. | & | ||
| 'And now hath Sathanas,' seith he, 'a tayl | & | ||
| Brodder than of a carryk is the sayl. | & | ||
| 25 | Hold up thy tayl, thou Sathanas!' quod he; | & | |
| 'Shewe forth thyn ers, and lat the frere se | & | ||
| Where is the nest of freres in this place!' | & | ||
| And er that half a furlong wey of space, | & | ||
| Right so as bees out swarmen from an hyve, | & | ||
| 30 | Out of the develes ers ther gonne dryve | & | |
| Twenty thousand freres on a route, | & | ||
| And thurghout helle swarmed al aboute, | & | ||
| And comen agayn as faste as they may gon, | & | ||
| And in his ers they crepten everychon. | & | ||
| 35 | He clapte his tayl agayn and lay ful stille. | & |
| 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45464748 |
Thise olde gentil britouns in hir dayes Of diverse aventures maden layes, Rymeyed in hir firste briton tonge; Whiche leyes with hir instrumentz songe, Or elles redden hem for hir plesaunce, And oon of hem have I in remembraunce, Which I shal seyn with good wyl as I kan. But, sires, by cause I am a burel man, At my bigynnyng first I yow biseche, Have me excused of my rude speche. I lerned nevere rethorik, certeyn; Thyng that I speke, it moot be bare and pleyn. I sleep nevere on the mount of pernaso, Ne lerned marcus tullius scithero. Colours ne knowe I none, withouten drede, But swiche colours as growen in the mede, Or elles swiche as men dye or peynte. Colours of rethoryk been to me queynte; My spririt feeleth noght of swich mateere. But if yow list, my tale shul ye heere. |
& & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & |