And this Chanou right in the mene while
Al redy was this preest eft to begile,
And for a countenance in his hond bare
An holow stikke, (take kepe and beware)
In the ende of which an unce and no more
Of silver limaile put was, as before
Was in his cole, and stopped with wax wel
For to kepe in his limaile every del.
And while this preest was in his besinesse,
This Chanon with his stikke gan him dresse
To him anon, and his pouder cast in,
As he did erst, (the devil out of his skin
Him torne, I pray to God, for his falshede,
For he was ever false in thought and dede)
And with his stikke, above the crosselet,
That was ordained with that false get,
He stirreth the coles, til relenten gan
The wax again the fire, as every man,
But he a fool be, wote wel it mote nede.
And all that in the stikke was out yede,
And in the crosselet hastily it fell.

Now, goode sires, what wol ye bet than wel?
Whan that this preest was thus begiled again,
Supposing nought but trouthe, soth to sain,
He was so glad, that I can not expresse
In no manere his mirth and his gladnesse,
And to the Chanon he profered eftsone
Body and good: ye, quod the Chanon, sone,
Though poure I be, crafty thou shalt me finde:
I warne thee wel, yet is ther more behinde.

Is ther any coper here within? sayd he. Ye, sire, quod the preest, I trow ther be.

Elles go beie us som, and that as swithe.
Now, goode sire, go forth thy way and hie the.
He went his way, and with the coper he came,
And this Chanon it in his hondes name,
And of that coper weyed out an unce.
To simple is my tonge to pronounce,
As minister of my wit, the doublenesse
Of this Chanon, rote of all cursednesse.

He semed frendly, to hem that knew him nought,
But he was fendly, both in werk and thought.
It werieth me to tell of his falsenesse ;
And natheles yet wol I it expresse,

To that entent men may beware therby,
And for non other cause trewely.

He put this coper into the crosselet,
And on the fire as swithe he hath it set,

And cast in pouder, and made the preest to blow,
And in his werking for to stoupen low,
As he did erst, and all n'as but a jape ;
Right as him list the preest he made his ape.
And afterward in the ingot he it cast,
And in the panne put it at the last
Of water, and in he put his owen hond;
And in his sleve, as ye beforen hond
Herde me tell, he had a silver teine;
He slily toke it out, this cursed heine,
(Unweting this preest of his false craft)
And in the pannes botome he it laft.
And in the water rombleth to and fro,
And wonder prively toke up also
The coper teine, (not knowing thilke preest)
And hid it, and him hente by the brest,
And to him spake, and thus said in his game;
Stoupeth adoun; by God ye be to blame;
Helpeth me now, as I did you whilere ;
Put in your hond, and loketh what is there.
This preest toke up this silver teine anon;
And thanne said the Chanon, let us gon

With thise three teines which that we han wrought,
To som goldsmith, and wete if they ben ought:
For by my faith I n'olde for my hood
But if they weren silver fine and good,
And that as swithe wel preved shal it be.

Unto the goldsmith with thise teines three
They went anon, and put hem in assay
To fire and hammer: might no man say nay,
But that they weren as hem ought to be.

This soted preest, who was gladder than he?
Was never brid gladder agains the day,
Ne nightingale in the seson of May
Was never non, that list better to sing,
Ne lady lustier in carolling,

Or for to speke of love and womanhede,
Ne knight in armes don a hardy dede
To stonden in grace of his lady dere,
Than hadde this preest this craft for to lere ;
And to the Chanon thus he spake and seid;
For the love of God, that for us alle deid,
And as I may deserve it unto you,
What shal this receit cost? telleth me now.
By our lady, quod this Chanon, it is dere.
I warne you wel, that, save I and a frere,
In Englelond ther can no man it make.

No force, quod he; now, sire, for Goddes sake, What shall I pay? telleth me, I you pray.

Ywis, quod he, it is ful dere I say.
Sire, at o word, if that you list it have,
Ye shal pay fourty pound, so God me save;
And n'ere the frendship that ye did er this
To me, ye shulden payen more ywis.

This preest the sum of fourty pound anon
Of nobles fet, and toke hem everich on
To this Chanon, for this ilke receit.

All his werking n'as but fraud and deceit.

Sire preest, he said, I kepe for to have no loos
Of my craft, for I wold it were kept cloos;
And as ye love me, kepeth it secree:
For if men knewen all my subtiltee,
By God they wolden have so gret envie
To me, because of my philosophie,

I shuld be ded, ther were non other way.
God it forbede, quod the preest, what ye say.
Yet had I lever spenden all the good
Which that I have, (and elles were I wood)
Than that ye shuld fallen in swiche meschefe.
For your good will, sire, have ye right good prefe,
Quod the Chanon, and farewel, grand mercy.
He went his way, and never the preest him sey
After that day and whan that this preest shold
Maken assay, at swiche time as he wold,
Of this receit, farewel, it n'olde not be.
Lo, thus bejaped and begiled was he:
Thus maketh he his introduction
To bringen folk to hir destruction.

Considereth, sires, how that in eche estat
Betwixen men and gold ther is debat,
So ferforth that unnethes is ther non.
This multiplying so blint many on,
That in good faith I trowe that it be
The cause gretest of swiche scarsitee.
Thise philosophres speke so mistily

In this craft, that men cannot come therby,
For any wit that men have now adayes.
They mow wel chateren, as don thise jayes,
And in hir termes set hir lust and peine,
But to hir purpos shul they never atteine.
A man may lightly lerne, if he have ought,
To multiplie, and bring his good to nought.

Lo, swiche a lucre is in this lusty game;
A mannes mirth it wol turne al to grame,
And emptien also gret and hevy purses,
And maken folk for to purchasen curses
Of hem, that han therto hir good ylent.
O, fy for shame, they that han be brent,
Alas! can they not flee the fires hete?
Ye that it use, I rede that ye it lete,
Lest ye lese all; for bet than never is late:
Never to thriven, were to long a date.
Though ye prolle ay, ye shul it never find:
Ye ben as bold as is Bayard the blind,
That blondereth forth, and peril casteth non:
He is as bold to renne agains a ston,
As for to go besides in the way:
So faren ye that multiplien, I say.
If that your eyen cannot seen aright,
Loketh that youre mind lacke not his sight.
For though ye loke never so brode and stare,
Ye shul not win a mite on that chaffare,
But wasten all that ye may rape and renne.
Withdraw the fire, lest it to faste brenne ;
Medleth no more with that art, I mene;
For if ye don, your thrift is gon ful clene.
And right as swithe I wol you tellen here
What philosophres sain in this matere.

Lo, thus saith Arnolde of the newe toun,
As his Rosarie maketh mentioun,
He saith right thus, withouten any lie;
Ther may no man Mercurie mortifie,
But it be with his brothers knowleching.

Lo, how that he, which firste said this thing,
Of philosophres father was Hermes :
He saith, how that the dragon douteles
Ne dieth not, but if that he be slain
With his brother. And this is for to sain,
By the dragon Mercury, and non other,
He understood, and brimstone by his brother,
That out of Sol and Luna were ydrawe.
And therfore, said he, take heed to my sawe.

Let no man besie him this art to seche,
But if that he the entention and speche

Of philosophres understonden can;
And if he do, he is a lewed man.

For this science and this conning (quod he)

Is of the secree of secrees parde.

Also ther was a disciple of Plato,
That on a time said his maister to,
As his book Senior wol bere witnesse,

And this was his demand in sothfastnesse :
Telle me the name of thilke privee ston.

And Plato answerd unto him anon;

Take the ston that Titanos men name.
Which is that? quod he. Magnetia is the same,
Saide Plato. Ye, sire, and is it thus?
This is ignotum per ignotius.
What is Magnetia, good sire, I pray?
It is a water that is made, I say,
Of the elementes foure, quod Plato.

Tell me the rote, good sire, quod he tho,
Of that water, if that it be your will.

Nay, nay, quod Plato, certain that I n'ill. The philosophres were sworne everich on, That they ne shuld discover it unto non, Ne in no book it write in no manere ; For unto God it is so lefe and dere, That he wol not that it discovered be, But wher it liketh to his deitee Man for to enspire, and eke for to defende Whom that him liketh; lo, this is the ende. Than thus conclude I, sin that God of heven Ne wol not that the philosophres neven, How that a man shal come unto this ston, I rede as for the best to let it gon. For who so maketh God his adversary, As for to werken any thing in contrary Of his will, certes never shal he thrive, Though that he multiply terme of his live. And ther a point; for ended is my tale. God send every good man bote of his bale.

THE MANCIPLES PROLOGUE.

WETE ye not wher stondeth a litel toun,
Which that yeleped is Bob up and doun,
Under the blee, in Canterbury way?
Ther gan our hoste to jape and to play,
And sayde; sires, what? Dun is in the mire.
Is ther no man for praiere ne for hire,
That wol awaken our felaw behind?
A thefe him might ful lightly rob and bind.
See how he nappeth, see, for cockes bones,
As he wold fallen from his hors atones.
Is that a coke of London, with meschance?
Do him come forth, he knoweth his penance;
For he shal tell a tale by my fey,
Although it be not worth a botel hey.
Awake thou coke, quod he, God yeve thee sorwe,
What aileth thee to slepen by the morwe?

Hast thou had fieen al night, or art thou dronke ? Or hast thou with som quene al night yswonke, So that thou mayst not holden up thin hed?

This coke, that was ful pale and nothing red, Sayd to our hoste; so God my soule blesse, As ther is falle on me swiche hevinesse, N'ot I nat why, that me were lever to slepe, Than the best gallon wine that is in Chepe.

Wel, quod the Manciple, if it may don ese
To thee, sire Coke, and to no wight displese,
Which that here rideth in this compagnie,
And that our hoste wol of his curtesie,

I wol as now excuse thee of thy tale;
For in good faith thy visage is ful pale:
Thine eyen dasen, sothly as me thinketh,
And wel I wot, thy breth ful soure stinketh,
That sheweth wel thou art not wel disposed:
Of me certain thou shalt not ben yglosed.
See how he galpeth, lo, this dronken wight,
As though he wold us swalow anon right.

Hold close thy mouth, man, by thy father kin:
The devil of helle set his foot therin !
Thy cursed breth enfecten woll us alle :
Fy stinking swine, fy, foul mote thee befalle.
A, taketh heed, sires, of this lusty man.
Now, swete sire, wol ye just at the fan?
Therto, me thinketh, ye be wel yshape.
I trow that ye have dronken win of ape,
And that is whan men playen with a straw.

And with this speche the coke waxed all wraw, And on the Manciple he gan nod fast

For lacke of speche; and doun his hors him cast,
Wher as he lay, til that men him up toke.
This was a faire chivachee of a coke:
Alas that he ne had hold him by his ladel!
Ard er that he agen were in the sadel,
Ther was gret shoving bothe to and fro
To lift him up, and mochel care and wo,
So unweldy was this sely palled gost:
And to the Manciple than spake our host.
Because that drinke hath domination
Upon this man, by my salvation
I trow he lewedly wol tell his tale.
For were it win, or old or moisty ale,
That he hath dronke, he speketh in his nose,
And sneseth fast, and eke he hath the pose.
He also hath to don more than ynough
To kepe him on his capel out of the slough:
And if he falle from of his capel eftsone,
Than shul we alle have ynough to done
In lifting up his hevy dronken cors.
Tell on thy tale, of him make I no force.

But yet, Manciple, in faith thou art to nice,
Thus openly to repreve him of his vice:
Another day he wol paraventure

Recleimen thee, and bring thee to the lure:
I mene, he speken wol of smale thinges,
As for to pinchen at thy rekeninges,
That were not honest, if it came to prefe.

Quod the Manciple, that were a gret meschefe :
So might he lightly bring me in the snare.
Yet had I lever payen for the mare,
Which he rit on, than he shuld with me strive.
I wol not wrathen him, so mote I thrive;
That that I spake, I sayd it in my bourd.
And wete ye what? I have here in my gourd
A draught of win, ye of a ripe grape,
And right anon ye shul seen a good jape.
This coke shal drinke therof, if that I may;
Up peine of my lif he wol not say nay.

And certainly, to tellen as it was,
Of this vessell the coke dranke fast, (alas!
What nedeth it? he dranke ynough beforne)
And whan he hadde pouped in his horne,
To the Manciple he toke the gourd again.
And of that drinke the coke was wonder fain,
And thonked him in swiche wise as he coude.

Than gan our hoste to laughen wonder loude,
And sayd; I see wel it is necessary
Wher that we gon good drinke with us to cary;
For that wol turnen rancour and disese
To accord and love, and many a wrong apese.
O Bacchus, Bacchus, blessed be thy name,
That so canst turnen ernest into game;
Worship and thonke be to thy deitee.
Of that matere ye get no more of me.
Tell on thy tale, Manciple, I thee pray.

Wel, sire, quod he, now herkeneth what I say.

THE MANCIPLES TALE.

WHAN Phebus dwelled here in erth adoun,
As olde bookes maken mentioun,
He was the moste lusty bacheler

Of all this world, and eke the best archer.
He slow Phiton the serpent, as he lay
Sleping agains the sonne upon a day;
And many another noble worthy dede
He with his bow wrought, as men mowen rede.
Playen he coude on every minstralcie,
And singen, that it was a melodie
To heren of his clere vois the soun.
Certes the king of Thebes, Amphioun,
That with his singing walled the citee,
Coud never singen half so wel as he.
Therto he was the semelieste man,
That is or was, sithen the world began ;
What nedeth it his feture to descrive?
For in this world n'is non so faire on live.
He was therwith fulfilled of gentillesse,
Of honour, and of parfite worthinesse.

This Phebus, that was flour of bachelerie,
As wel in fredom, as in chivalrie,
For his disport, in signe eke of victorie
Of Phiton, so as telleth us the storie,
Was wont to beren in his hond a bowe.
Now had this Phebus in his hous a crowe,
Which in a cage he fostred many a day,
And taught it speken, as men teche a jay.
Whit was this crowe, as is a snow-whit swan,
And contrefete the speche of every man
He coude, whan he shulde tell a tale.
Therwith in all this world no nightingale
Ne coude by an hundred thousand del
Singen so wonder merily and wel.

Now had this Phebus in his hous a wif, Which that he loved more than his lif, And night and day did ever his diligence Hire for to plese, and don hire reverence: Save only, if that I the soth shal sain, Jelous he was, and wold have kept hire fain, For him were loth yjaped for to be; And so is every wight in swiche degree; But all for nought, for it availeth nought. A good wif, that is clene of werk and thought, Shuld not be kept in non await certain: And trewely the labour is in vain To kepe a shrewe, for it wol not be. This hold I for a veray nicetee, To spillen labour for to kepen wives; Thus writen olde clerkes in hir lives.

But now to purpos, as 1 first began.
This worthy Phebus doth all that he can
To plesen hire, wening thurgh swiche plesance,
And for his manhood and his governance,
That no man shulde put him from hire grace
But God it wote, ther may no man embrace
As to destreine a thing, which that nature
Hath naturelly set in a creature.

Take any brid, and put it in a cage,
And do all thin entente, and thy corage,
To foster it tendrely with mete and drinke
Of alle deintees that thou canst bethinke,
And kepe it al so clenely as thou may;
Although the cage of gold be never so gay,
Yet had this brid, by twenty thousand fold,
Lever in a forest, that is wilde and cold,

L

Gon eten wormes, and swiche wretchednesse.
For ever this brid will don his besinesse
To escape out of his cage whan that he may :
His libertee the brid desireth ay.

Let take a cat, and foster hire with milke
And tendre flesh, and make hire couche of silke,
And let hire see a mous go by the wall,
Anon she weiveth milke and flesh, and all,
And every deintee that is in that hous,
Swiche appetit bath she to ete the mous.
Lo, here hath kind hire domination,
And appetit flemeth discretion.

A she-wolf hath also a vilains kind
The lewedeste wolf that she may find,
Or lest of reputation, wol she take
In time whan hire lust to have a make.
All thise ensamples speke I by thise men
That ben untrewe, and nothing by women.
For men have ever a likerous appetit
On lower thing to parforme hir delit
Than on hir wives, be they never so faire,
Ne never so trewe, ne so debonaire.
Flesh is so newefangle, with meschance,
That we ne con in nothing have plesance
That souneth unto vertue any while.

This Phebus, which that thought upon no gile,
Disceived was for all his jolitee :
For under him another hadde she,
A man of litel reputation,

Nought worth to Phebus in comparison:
The more harme is; it happeth often so;
Of which ther cometh mochel harme and wo.
And so befell, whan Phebus was absent,
His wif anon hath for hire lemman sent.
Hire lemman certes that is a knavish speche.
Foryeve it me, and that I you beseche.

The wise Plato sayth, as ye mow rede,
The word must nede accorden with the dede,
If men shul tellen proprely a thing,
The word must cosin be to the werking.
I am a boistous man, right thus say I;
Ther is no difference trewely
Betwix a wif that is of high degree,
(If of hire body dishonest she be)
And any poure wenche, other than this,
(If it sc be they werken both amis)
But, for the gentil is in estat above,
She shal be cleped his lady and his love;
And, for that other is a poure woman,

She shal be cleped his wenche and his lemman :
And God it wote, min owen dere brother,
Men lay as low that on as lith that other.

Right so betwix a titleles tiraunt

And an outlawe, or elles a thefe erraunt,
The same I say, ther is no difference,
(To Alexander told was this sentence)
But, for the tyrant is of greter might
By force of meinie for to sle doun right,

And brennen hous and home, and make all plain,
Lo, therfore is he cleped a capitain;
And, for the outlawe hath but smale meinie,
And may not do so gret an harme as he,
Ne bring a contree to so gret meschiefe,
Men clepen him an outlawe or a thefe.
But, for I am a man not textuel,

I wol not tell of textes never a del;
I wol go to my tale, as I began.

Whan Phebus wif had sent for hire lemman,
Anon they wroughten all hir lust volage.
This white crowe, that heng ay in the cage,

Beheld hir werke, and sayde never a word:
And whan that home was come Phebus the lord,
This crowe song, cuckow, cuckow, cuckow.
What? brid, quod Phebus, what song singest
thou now?

Ne were thou wont so merily to sing,
That to my herte it was a rejoysing
To here thy vois? alas! what song is this?
By God, quod he, I singe not amis.
Phebus, (quod he) for all thy worthinesse,
For all thy beautee, and all thy gentillesse,
For all thy song, and all thy minstralcie,
For all thy waiting, blered is thin eye,
With on of litel reputation,

Not worth to thee as in comparison

The mountance of a gnat, so mote I thrive;
For on thy bedde thy wif I saw him swive.

What wol you more? the crowe anon him told,
By sade tokenes, and by wordes bold,
How that his wif had don hire lecherie
Him to gret shame, and to gret vilanie ;
And told him oft, he sawe it with his eyen.

This Phebus gan awayward for to wrien;
Him thought his woful herte brast atwo.
His bowe he bent, and set therin a flo;
And in his ire he hath his wif yslain:
This is the effect, ther is no more to sain.
For sorwe of which he brake his minstralcie,
Both harpe and lute, giterne, and sautrie;
And eke he brake his arwes, and his bowe ;
And after that thus spake he to the crowe.

Traitour, quod he, with tonge of scorpion,
Thou hast me brought to my confusion:
Alas that I was wrought! why n'ere I dede?
O dere wif, o gemme of lustyhede,
That were to me so sade, and eke so trewe,
Now liest thou ded, with face pale of hewe,
Ful gilteles, that durst I swere ywis.

O rakel hond, to do so foule a mis.
O troubled wit, o ire reccheles,
That unavised smitest gilteles.

O wantrust, ful of false suspecion,
Wher was thy wit and thy discretion?

O, every man beware of rakelnessc,
Ne trowe no thing withouten strong witnesse.
Smite not to sone, er that ye weten why,
And beth avised wel and sikerly,

Or ye do any execution

Upon your ire for suspecion.

Alas! a thousand folk hath rakel ire

Fully fordon, and brought hem in the mire.
Alas! for sorwe I wol myselven sle.

And to the crowe, o false thefe, said he,

I wol thee quite anon thy false tale.
Thou song whilom, like any nightingale,
Now shalt thou, false thefe, thy song forgon,
And eke thy white fethers, everich on,
Ne never in all thy lif ne shalt thou speke;
Thus shul men on a traitour ben awreke.
Thou and thin ofspring ever shul be blake,
Ne never swete noise shul ye make,
But ever crie ageins tempest and rain,
In token, that thurgh thee my wif is slain.
And to the crowe he stert, and that anon,
And pulled his white fethers everich on,
And made him blak, and raft him all his song
And eke his speche, and out at dore him flong
Unto the devil, which I him betake;
And for this cause ben alle crowes blake.
Lordings, by this ensample, I you pray,

Beth ware, and taketh kepe what that ye say;
Ne telleth never man in all your lif,
How that another man hath dight his wif;
He wol you haten mortally certain.
Dan Salomon, as wise clerkes sain,
Techeth a man to kepe his tonge wel;
But as I sayd, I am not textuel.

But natheles thus taughte me my dame;
My sone, thinke on the crowe a Goddes name.
My sone, kepe wel thy tonge, and kepe thy frend;
A wicked tonge is werse than a fend:
My sone, from a fende men may hem blesse.
My sone, God of his endeles goodnesse
Walled a tonge with teeth, and lippes eke,
For man shuld him avisen what he speke.
My sone, ful often for to mochel speche
Hath many a man ben spilt, as clerkes teche;
But for a litel speche avisedly

Is no man shent, to speken generally.
My sone, thy tonge shuldest thou restreine
At alle time, but whan thou dost thy peine
To speke of God in honour and prayere.
The firste vertue, sone, if thou wolt lere,
Is to restreine, and kepen wel thy tonge;
Thus leren children, whan that they be yonge.
My sone, of mochel speking evil avised,
Ther lesse speking had ynough suffised,

Cometh mochel harme; thus was me told and taught;
In mochel speche sinne wanteth naught.
Wost thou wherof a rakel tonge serveth?
Right as a swerd forcutteth and forkerveth
An arme atwo, my dere sone, right so
A tonge cutteth frendship all atwo.
A jangler is to God abhominable.
Rede Salomon, so wise and honourable,
Rede David in his Psalmes, rede Senek.
My sone, speke not, but with thyn hed thou beck,
Dissimule as thou were defe, if that thou here
A janglour speke of perilous matere.
The Fleming sayth, and lerne if that thee lest,
That litel jangling causeth mochel rest.
My sone, if thou no wicked word hast said,
Thee thar not dreden for to be bewraid;
But he that hath missayd, I dare wel sain,
He may by no way clepe his word again.
Thing that is sayd is sayd, and forth it goth,
Though him repent, or be him never so loth,
He is his thral, to whom that he hath sayd
A tale, of which he is now evil apaid.
My sone, beware, and be non auctour newe
Of tidings, whether they ben false or trewe;
Wher so thou come, amonges high or lowe,
Kepe wel thy tonge, and thinke upon the crowe.

THE PERSONES PROLOGUE.

Br that the Manciple had his tale ended,
The sonne fro the south line was descended
So lowe, that it ne was not to my sight
Degrees nine and twenty as of hight.
Foure of the clok it was tho, as I gesse,
For enleven foot, a litel more or lesse,
My shadow was at thilke time, as there,
Of swiche feet as my lengthe parted were
In six feet equal of propertion.
Therwith the mones exaltation,
In mene Libra, alway gan ascende,
As we were entring at the thorpes ende.
For which our hoste, as he was wont to gie,
As in this cas, our jolly compagnie,
Said in this wise; lordings, everich on,
Now lacketh us no tales mo than on.
Fulfilled is my sentence and my decree;
I trowe that we han herd of eche degree.
Almost fulfilled is myn ordinance;

I pray to God so yeve him right good chance,
That telleth us this tale lustily.

Sire preest, quod he, art thou a vicary? Or art thou a Person? say soth by thy fay. Be what thou be, ne breke thou not our play; For every man, save thou, hath told his tale. Unbokel, and shew us what is in thy male. For trewely me thinketh by thy chere, Thou shuldest knitte up wel a gret matere. Tell us a fable anon, for cockes bones.

This Person him answered al at ones;

Thou getest fable non ytold for me,
For Poule, that writeth unto Timothe,
Repreveth hem that weiven sothfastnesse,
And tellen fables, and swiche wretchednesse.
Why shuld I sowen draf out of my fist,
Whan I may sowen whete, if that me list?
For which I say, if that you list to here
Moralitee, and vertuous matere,
And than that ye wol yeve me audience,
I wold ful fain at Cristes reverence
Don you plesance leful, as I can.

But trusteth wel, I am a sotherne man,

I cannot geste, rom, ram, ruf, by my letter,
And, God wote, rime hold I but litel better.
And therfore if you list, I wo! not glose,
I wol you tell a litel tale in prose,

To knitte up all this feste, and make an ende
And Jesu for his grace wit me sende
To shewen you the way in this viage
Of thilke parfit glorious pilgrimage,
That hight Jerusalem celestial.
And if ye vouchesauf, anon I shal
Beginne upon my tale, for which I pray
Tell your avis, I can no better say.
But natheles this meditation

I put it ay under correction

Of clerkes, for I am not textue';

I take but the sentence, trusteth me wel.
Therfore I make a protestation,
That I wol standen to correction.

Upon this word we han assented sone :
For, as us semed, it was for to don,
To enden in som vertuous sentence,
And for to yeve him space and audience;