Wo:

And to him-self he maketh routhe and
(280) 4200
'Allas!' quod he, 'this is a wikked jape;
Now may I seyn that I is but an ape.
Yet has my felawe som-what for his harm;
He has the milleris doghter in his arm.
He auntred him, and has his nedes sped,
And I lye as a draf-sek in my bed; 4206
And when this jape is tald another day,
I sal been halde a daf, a cokenay!
I wil aryse, and auntre it, by my fayth!
"Unhardy is unsely," thus men sayth.'
And up he roos and softely he wente (291)
Un-to the cradel, and in his hand it hente,
And baar it softe un-to his beddes feet.

Sone after this the wyf hir routing leet, And gan awake, and wente hir out to pisse,

4215

And cam agayn, and gan hir cradel misse, And groped heer and ther, but she fond

noon.

Allas!' quod she, 'I hadde almost misgoon;

I hadde almost gon to the clerkes bed. Ey, ben'cite! thanne hadde I foule y-sped: ' And forth she gooth til she the cradel fond. (301) 4221 She gropeth alwey forther with hir hond, And fond the bed, and thoghte noght but good,

By-cause that the cradel by it stood, 4224 And niste wher she was, for it was derk; But faire and wel she creep in to the clerk, And lyth ful stille, and wolde han caught a sleep.

With-inne a whyl this John the clerk up leep,

4228

And on this gode wyf he leyth on sore. So mery a fit ne hadde she nat ful yore;

He priketh harde and depe as he were mad. (311) This joly lyf han thise two clerkes lad Til that the thridde cok bigan to singe.

Aleyn wex wery in the daweninge, 4234 For he had swonken al the longe night; And seyde, 'far wel, Malin, swete wight! The day is come, I may no lenger byde; But evermo, wher so I go or ryde,

I is thyn awen clerk, swa have I seel!' 'Now dere lemman,' quod she, 'go, far weel! (320) 4240

But er thou go, o thing I wol thee telle, Whan that thou wendest homward by the melle,

Right at the entree of the dore bihinde, Thou shalt a cake of half a busshel finde That was y-maked of thyn owne mele, Which that I heelp my fader for to stele. And, gode lemman, god thee save and kepe!'

4247 And with that word almost she gan to wepe.

Aleyn up-rist, and thoughte, 'er that it dawe,

4250

I wol go crepen in by my felawe; And fond the cradel with his hand anon, 'By god,' thoghte he, 'al wrang I have misgon;

(232) Myn heed is toty of my swink to-night, That maketh me that I go nat aright. 4254 I woot wel by the cradel, I have misgo, Heer lyth the miller and his wyf also,' And forth he goth, a twenty devel way, Un-to the bed ther-as the miller lay.

He wende have cropen by his felawe John; And by the miller in he creep anon, 4260 And caughte hym by the nekke, and softe he spak : (341)

He seyde, thou, John, thou swynes-heed, awak

For Cristes saule, and heer a noble game. For by that lord that called is seint

Jame,

As I have thryes, in this shorte night, 4265 Swyved the milleres doghter bolt-upright, Whyl thow hast as a coward been agast.' 'Ye, false harlot,' quod the miller, 'hast?

A false traitour! false clerk!' quod he, Thou shalt be deed, by goddes dignitee!

Who dorste be so bold to disparage (351) My doghter, that is come of swich linage?' And by the throte-bolle he caughte Alayn. And he hente hym despitously agayn, And on the nose he smoot him with his fest. 4275 Doun ran the blody streem up-on his brest; And in the floor, with nose and mouth to-broke,

They walwe as doon two pigges in a poke. And up they goon, and doun agayn anon, Til that the miller sporned at a stoon, 4280 And doun he fil bakward up-on his wyf, That wiste no-thing of this nyce stryf; For she was falle aslepe a lyte wight (363) With John the clerk, that waked hadde al night.

And with the fal, out of hir sleep she breyde4285 Help, holy croys of Bromeholm,' she seyde,

In manus tuas! lord, to thee I calle! Awak, Symond! the feend is on us falle, Myn herte is broken, help, I nam but deed;

There lyth oon up my wombe and up myn heed; 4290 Help, Simkin, for the false clerkes fighte.' This John sterte up as faste as ever he mighte,

(372)

And saugh a litel shimering of a light, For at an hole in shoon the mone bright; And by that light she saugh hem bothe two,

But sikerly she niste who was who, 4300 But as she saugh a whyt thing in hir yë. And whan she gan the whyte thing espye, She wende the clerk hadde wered a volupeer. (383)

And with the staf she drough ay neer and neer, 4304

And wende han hit this Aleyn at the fulle, And smoot the miller on the pyled skulle, That doun he gooth and cryde, 'harrow! I dye!'

Thise clerkes bete him weel and lete him lye;

And greythen hem, and toke hir hors anon, And eek hir mele, and on hir wey they (390) 4310

gon.

And at the mille yet they toke hir cake Of half a busshel flour, ful wel y-bake.

Thus is the proude miller wel y-bete, And hath y-lost the grinding of the whete, And payed for the soper every-deel 4315 Of Aleyn and of John, that bette him weel. His wyf is swyved, and his doghter als; Lo, swich it is a miller to be fals! And therfore this proverbe is seyd ful sooth,

4319 'Him thar nat wene wel that yvel dooth; A gylour shal him-self bigyled be.' (401) And God, that sitteth heighe in magestce, Save al this companye grete and smale! Thus have I quit the miller in my tale.

THE Cook of London, whyl the Reve spak, For joye, him thoughte, he clawed him on the bak, 4326

'Ha ha!' quod he,' for Cristes passioun, This miller hadde a sharp conclusioun Upon his argument of herbergage! Wel seyde Salomon in his langage, "Ne bringe nat every man in-to thyn hous;"

I

4330

(9)

For herberwing by nighte is perilous.
Wel oghte a man avysed for to be
Whom that he broghte in-to his privetee.
pray to god, so yeve me sorwe and care,
If ever, sith I highte Hogge of Ware, 4336
Herde I a miller bettre y-set a-werk.
He hadde a jape of malice in the derk.
But god forbede that we stinten here;
And therfore, if ᎩᎾ vouche-sauf to here
A tale of me, that am a povre man, 4341
I wol yow telle as wel as ever I can
A litel jape that fil in our citee.'

Our host answerde, and seide, 'Igraunte
it thee;

(20) 4344

Now telle on, Roger, loke that it be good; For many a pastee hastow laten blood, And many a Jakke of Dover hastow sold That hath been twyes hoot and twyes cold. Of many a pilgrim hastow Cristes curs, For of thy persly yet they fare the wors, That they han eten with thy stubbel-goos; For in thy shoppe is many a flye loos. (28) Now telle on, gentil Roger, by thy name. But yet I pray thee, be nat wrooth for game, A man may seye ful sooth in game and pley.' 4355 'Thou seist ful sooth,' quod Roger, by my fey,

And gadered him a meinee of his sort
To hoppe and singe, and maken swich
disport.

And ther they setten steven for to mete
To pleyen at the dys in swich a strete. (20)
For in the toune nas ther no prentys, 4385
That fairer coude caste a paire of dys
Than Perkin coude, and ther-to he was free
Of his dispense, in place of privetee.
That fond his maister wel in his chaffare;
For often tyme he fond his box ful bare.
For sikerly a prentis revelour,
That haunteth dys, riot, or paramour,
His maister shal it in his shoppe abye,
Al have he no part of the minstralcye; (30)
For thefte and riot, they ben convertible,
Al conne he pleye on giterne or ribible.
Revel and trouthe, as in a low degree,
They been ful wrothe al day, as men may

see.

4391

This joly prentis with his maister bood, Til he were ny out of his prentishood, 4400 Al were he snibbed bothe erly and late, And somtyme lad with revel to Newgate; But atte laste his maister him bithoghte,

Up-on a day, whan he his paper soghte, (40) Of a proverbe that seith this same word, 'Wel bet is roten appel out of hord 4406 Than that it rotie al the remenaunt.' So fareth it by a riotous servaunt; It is wel lasse harm to lete him pace, Than he shende alle the servants in the place. 4410 Therfore his maister yaf him acquitance, And bad him go with sorwe and with meschance;

And thus this joly prentis hadde his leve.

Now lat him riote al the night or leve. (50) And for ther is no theef with-oute a louke,

4415

And steleth from us, what prively slepinge, And what thurgh necligence in our wakinge,

As dooth the streem, that turneth never agayn,

Descending fro the montaigne in-to playn.
Wel can Senek, and many a philosophre 25
Biwailen tyme, more than gold in cofre.
"For los of catel may recovered be,
But los of tyme shendeth us," quod he.
It wol nat come agayn, with-outen drede,
Na more than wol Malkins maydenhede,
Whan she hath lost it in hir wantownesse;
Lat us nat moulen thus in ydelnesse.
Sir man of lawe,' quod he, 'so have ye
blis,

32

To breke forward is not myn entente. 40
Biheste is dette, and I wol holde fayn
Al my biheste; I can no better seyn.
For swich lawe as man yeveth another
wight,

He sholde him-selven usen it by right; 44
Thus wol our text; but natheles certeyn
I can right now no thrifty tale seyn,
+But Chancer, though he can but lewedly
On metres and on ryming craftily,
Hath seyd hem in swich English as he can
Of olde tyme, as knoweth many a man. 50
And if he have not seyd hem, leve brother,
In o book, he hath seyd hem in another.
For he hath told of loveres up and doun
Mo than Ovyde made of mencioun

55

In his Epistelles, that been ful olde. What sholde I tellen hem, sin they ben tolde?

In youthe he made of Ceys and Alcion,
And sithen hath he spoke of everichon,
Thise noble wyves and thise loveres eke.
Who-so that wol his large volume seke 60
Cleped the Seintes Legende of Cupyde,
Ther may he seen the large woundes wyde
Of Lucresse, and of Babilan Tisbee;
The swerd of Dido for the false Enee;
The tree of Phillis for hir Demophon; 65
The pleinte of Dianire and Hermion,
Of Adriane and of Isiphilee;
The bareyne yle stonding in the see;
The dreynte Leander for his Erro;
The teres of Eleyne, and eek the wo
Of Brixseyde, and of thee, Ladomëa;
The crueltee of thee, queen Medea,
Thy litel children hanging by the hals
For thy Jason, that was of love so fals!
O Ypermistra, Penelopee, Alceste, 75
Your wyfhod he comendeth with the beste!
But certeinly no word ne wryteth he
Of thilke wikke ensample of Canacee,
That lovede hir owne brother sinfully;
Of swiche cursed stories I sey "fy"; 80
Or elles of Tyro Apollonius,

70

86

How that the cursed king Antiochus
Birafte his doghter of hir maydenhede,
That is so horrible a tale for to rede,
Whan he hir threw up-on the pavement.
And therfor he, of ful avysement,
Nolde never wryte in none of his sermouns
Of swiche unkinde abhominaciouns,
Ne I wol noon reherse, if that I may.
But of my tale how shal I doon this day?
Me were looth be lykned, doutelees,
To Muses that men clepe Pierides-
Metamorphoseos wot what I mene :-
But nathelees, I recche noght a bene 94
Though I come after him with hawe-bake;
I speke in prose, and lat him rymes make.'
And with that word he, with a sobre chere,
Bigan his tale, as ye shal after here.

The Prologe of the Mannes Tale
of Lawe.

91