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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 shall 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 ycleped 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;

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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 fleen 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:
Thin 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,

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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!
And 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 makę 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.

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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,

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