The Prologue
The Cook of London, while the Reeve thus spake,
For joy he laugh’d and clapp’d him on the back:
“Aha!” quoth he, “for Christë’s passión,
This Miller had a sharp conclusión,
Upon this argument of herbergage.
Well saidë Solomon in his languáge,
Bring thou not every man into thine house,
For harbouring by night is periloús.
Well ought a man avised for to be
Whom that he brought into his privity.
I pray to God to give me sorrow and care
If ever, since I hightë Hodge of Ware,
Heard I a miller better set a-werk;
He had a jape of malice in the derk.
But God forbid that we should stintë here,
And therefore if ye will vouchsafe to hear
A tale of me, that am a poorë man,
I will you tell as well as e’er I can
A little jape that fell in our citý.”
Our Host answér’d and said; “I grant it thee.
Roger, tell on; and look that it be good,
For many a pasty hast thou letten blood,
And many a Jack of Dover hast thou sold,
That had been twicë hot and twicë cold.
Of many a pilgrim hast thou Christë’s curse,
For of thy parsley yet fare they the worse.
That they have eaten in thy stubble goose:
For in thy shop doth many a fly go loose.
Now tell on, gentle Roger, by thy name,
But yet I pray thee be not wroth for game;
A man may say full sooth in game and play.”
“Thou sayst full sooth,” quoth Roger, “by my fay;
But sooth play quad play, as the Fleming saith,
And therefore, Harry Bailly, by thy faith,
Be thou not wroth, else we departë here,
Though that my tale be of an hostelére.
But natheless, I will not tell it yet,
But ere we part, y-wis thou shalt be quit.”
And therewithal he laugh’d and madë cheer,
And told his tale, as ye shall after hear.