Ne never I n'as but of my body trewe.
Unto the devil rough and blake of hewe
Yeve I thy body and my panne also."

And whan the devil herd hire cursen so
Upon hire knees, he sayd in this manere;

"Now, Mabily, min owen moder dere, Is this your will in ernest that ye sey ?”

"The devil," quod she, "so fetche him or he dey, And panne and all, but he wol him repent."

'Nay, olde stot, that is not min entent,"

Quod this sompnour, "for to repenten me
For any thing that I have had of thee;

I wold I had thy smok and every cloth."

"Now brother," quod the devil, "be not wroth; Thy body and this panne ben min by right. Thou shalt with me to Helle yet to-night, Wher thou shalt knowen of our privetee More than a maister of divinitee."

And with that word the foule fend him hent.
Body and soule, he with the devil went,
Wher as thise sompnours han hir heritage;
And God that maked after his image
Mankinde, save and gide us all and some,
And lene this sompnour good man to become.
"Lordings, I coude have told you," quod this
Frere,

"Had I had leiser for this Sompnour here,
After the text of Crist, and Poule, and John,
And of oure other doctours many on,
Swiche peines, that your hertes might agrise,
Al be it so, that no tonge may devise,
Though that I might a thousand winter telle,
The peines of thilke cursed hous of Helle.

But for to kepe us fro that cursed place,
Waketh, and prayeth Jesu of his grace,
So kepe us fro the temptour Sathanas.
Herkneth this word, beware as in this cas.
The leon sit in his awaite alway

To sle the innocent, if that he may.
Disposeth ay your hertes to withstond

The fend, that you wold maken thral and bond;
He may not tempten you over your might,
For Crist wol be your champion and your knight;
And prayeth, that this Sompnour him repent
Of his misdedes, or that the fend him hent."

F2

THE

CLERKES PROLOGUE.

"SIRE Clerk of Oxenforde," our Hoste said,
"Ye ride as stille and coy, as doth a maid,
Were newe spoused, sitting at the bord:
This day ne herd I of your tonge a word.
I trow ye studie abouten som sophime:

But Salomon saith, that every thing hath time
For Goddes sake as beth of better chere,
It is no time for to studien here.

Tell us som mery tale by your fay;
For what man that is entred in a play,
He nedes most unto the play assent.
But precheth not, as freres don in Lent,
To make us for our olde sinnes wepe,
Ne that thy tale make us not to slepe.

"Tell us som mery thing of aventures,
Your termes, your coloures, and your figures,
Kepe hem in store, til so be ye endite
Hie stile, as whan that men to kinges write.
Speketh so plain at this time, I you pray,
That we may understonden what ye say.”
This worthy Clerk benignely answerde;
"Hoste," quod he, "I am under your yerde,
Ye have of us as now the governance,
And therfore wolde I do you obeysance,

As fer as reson asketh hardely:
I wol you tell a tale, which that I
Lerned at Padowe of a worthy clerk,
As preved by his wordes and his werk.
He is now ded, and nailed in his cheste,
I pray to God so yeve his soule reste.
"Fraunceis Petrark, the laureat poete,
Highte this clerk, whos rethorike swete
Enlumined all Itaille of poetrie,

As Lynyan did of philosophie,

Or law, or other art particulere:

But Deth, that wol not suffre us dwellen here,
But as it were a twinkling of an eye,

Hem both hath slaine, and alle we shul dye.
"But forth to tellen of this worthy man,
That taughte me this tale, as I began,
I say that first he with hie stile enditeth
(Or he the body of his tale writeth)
A proheme, in the which descriveth he
Piemont, and of Saluces the contree,
And speketh of Apennin the hilles hie,
That ben the boundes of west Lumbardie:
And of mount Vesulus in special,

Wher as the Poo out of a welle smal
Taketh his firste springing and his sours,
That estward ay encreseth in his cours
To Emelie ward, to Ferare, and Venise,
The which a longe thing were to devise.
And trewely, as to my jugement,
Me thinketh it a thing impertinent,
Save that he wol conveyen his matere:
But this is the tale which that ye mow here."

THE CLERKES TALE.

THER is right at the west side of Itaille
Doun at the rote of Vesulus the cold,
A lusty plain, habundant of vitaille,

Ther many a toun and tour thou maist behold,
That founded were in time of fathers old,
And many another delitable sighte,
And Saluces this noble contree highte.

A markis whilom lord was of that lond,
As were his worthy elders him before,
And obeysant, ay redy to his hond,
Were all his lieges, bothe less and more:
Thus in delit he liveth, and hath don yore,
Beloved and drad, thurgh favour of fortune,
Both of his lordes, and of his commune.

Therwith he was, to speken of linage,
The gentilest yborne of Lumbardie,
A faire person, and strong, and yong of age,
And ful of honour and of curtesie:
Discret ynough, his contree for to gie,
Sauf in som thinges that he was to blame,
And Walter was this yonge lordes name.

I blame him thus, that he considered nought
In time coming what might him betide,
But on his lust present was all his thought,
And for to hauke and hunt on every side:
Wel neigh all other cures let he slide,
And eke he n'old (and that was worst of all)
Wedden no wif for ought that might befall.