The Prologue
Our Hostë saw well that the brightë sun
Th’ arc of his artificial day had run
The fourthë part, and half an hourë more;
And, though he were not deep expert in lore,
He wist it was the eight-and-twenty day
Of April, that is messenger to May;
And saw well that the shadow of every tree
Was in its length of the same quantity
That was the body erect that caused it;
And therefore by the shadow he took his wit,
That Phoebus, which that shone so clear and bright,
Degrees was five-and-forty clomb on height;
And for that day, as in that latitude,
It was ten of the clock, he gan conclude;
And suddenly he plight his horse about.
“Lordings,” quoth he, “I warn you all this rout,
The fourthë partie of this day is gone.
Now for the love of God and of Saint John
Losë no time, as farforth as ye may.
Lordings, the timë wasteth night and day,
And steals from us, what privily sleepíng,
And what through negligence in our wakíng,
As doth the stream, that turneth never again,
Descending from the mountain to the plain.
Well might Senec, and many a philosópher,
Bewailë timë more than gold in coffer.
For loss of chattels may recover’d be,
But loss of timë shendeth us, quoth he.
It will not come again, withoutë dread,
No morë than will Malkin’s maidenhead,
When she hath lost it in her wantonness.
Let us not mouldë thus in idleness.
Sir Man of Law,” quoth he, “so have ye bliss,
Tell us a tale anon, as forword is.
Ye be submitted through your free assent
To stand in this case at my judgëment.
Acquit you now, and holdë your behest;
Then have ye done your dévoir at the least.”
“Hostë,” quoth he, “de par dieux jeo asente;
To breakë forword is not mine intent.
Behest is debt, and I would hold it fain,
All my behest; I can no better sayn.
For such law as a man gives another wight,
He should himselfë usen it by right.
Thus will our text: but natheless certáin
I can right now no thrifty talë sayn,
But Chaucer (though he can but lewëdly
On metres and on rhyming craftily)
Hath said them, in such English as he can,
Of oldë time, as knoweth many a man.
And if he have not said them, levë brother,
In one book, he hath said them in another
For he hath told of lovers up and down,
More than Ovidë made of mentioun
In his Epistolae, that be full old.
Why should I tellë them, since they he told?
In youth he made of Ceyx and Alcyon,
And since then he hath spoke of every one
These noble wivës, and these lovers eke.
Whoso that will his largë volume seek
Called the Saintës’ Legend of Cupíd:
There may he see the largë woundës wide
Of Lucrece, and of Babylon Thisbé;
The sword of Dido for the false Enée;
The tree of Phillis for her Demophon;
The plaint of Diane, and of Hermion,
Of Ariadne, and Hypsipilé;
The barren islë standing in the sea;
The drown’d Leander for his fair Heró;
The tearës of Heléne, and eke the woe
Of Briseïs, and Laodamia;
The cruelty of thee, Queen Medeá,
Thy little children hanging by the halse,
For thy Jason, that was of love so false.
Hypermnestra, Pénelop’, Alcest’,
Your wifehood he commendeth with the best.
But certainly no wordë writeth he
Of thilkë wick’ example of Canacé,
That loved her own brother sinfully;
(Of all such cursed stories I say, Fy),
Or else of Tyrius Apollonius,
How that the cursed king Antiochus
Bereft his daughter of her maidenhead;
That is so horrible a tale to read,
When he her threw upon the pavëment.
And therefore he, of full avisëment,
Would never write in none of his sermons
Of such unkind abominatións;
Nor I will none rehearse, if that I may.
But of my tale how shall I do this day?
Me were loth to be liken’d doubtëless
To Muses, that men call Pieridés
(Metamorphoseos wot what I mean),
But natheless I reckë not a bean,
Though I come after him with hawëbake;
I speak in prose, and let him rhymës make.”
And with that word, he with a sober cheer
Began his tale, and said as ye shall hear.