And he salueth hire with glad entent,
And axeth of hire whiderward she went.
And she answered, half as she were mad,
Unto the gardin, as myn husbond bad,
My trouthe for to hold, alas! alas!
Aurelius gan wondren on this cas,
And in his herte had gret compassion
Of hire, and of hire lamentation,
And of Arviragus the worthy knight,

That bad hire holden all that she had hight,
So loth him was his wif shuld breke hire trouthe.
And in his herte he caught of it gret routhe,
Considering the best on every side,
That fro his lust yet were him lever abide,
Than do so high a cherlish wretchednesse
Ageins fraunchise, and alle gentillesse;
For which in fewe wordes sayd he thus.
Madame, say to your lord Arviragus,
That sin I see the grete gentillesse
Of him, and eke I see wel your distresse,
That him were lever have shame (and that were

routhe)

Than ye to me shuld breken thus your trouthe,
I hadde wel lever ever to suffren wo,
Than to depart the love betwix you two.
I you relese, madame, into your houd
Quit every seurement and every bond,
That ye han made to me, as herebeforne,
Sin thilke time that ye were yborne.
Have here my trouthe, I shal you
never repreve
Of no behest, and here I take my leve,
As of the trewest and the beste wif,
That ever yet I knew in all my lif.
But
every wif beware of hire behest;
On Dorigene remembreth at the lest.

Thus can a squier don a gentil dede,
As wel as can a knight, withouten drede.
She thanketh him upon hire knees bare,
And home unto hire husbond is she fare,
And told him all, as ye han herd me sayd:
And, trusteth me, he was so wel apayd,
That it were impossible me to write.

What shuld I lenger of this cas endite?
Arviragus and Dorigene his wif

In soveraine blisse leden forth hir lif,
Never eft ne was ther anger hem betwene;
He cherished hire as though she were a quene,
And she was to him trewe for evermore:
Of thise two folk ye get of me no more.

Aurelius, that his cost hath all forlorne,
Curseth the time, that ever he was borne.
Alas! quod he, alas that I behight
Of pured gold a thousand pound of wight
Unto this philosophre! how shal I do?
I see no more, but that I am fordo.
Min heritage mote I nedes sell,
And ben a begger, here I n'ill not dwell,
And shamen all my kinrede in this place,
But I of him may geten better grace.
But natheles I wol of him assay
At certain daies yere by yere to pay,
And thanke him of his grete curtesie.
My trouthe wol I kepe, I wol not lie.

With herte sore he goth unto his cofre,
And broughte gold unto this philosophre,
The value of five hundred pound I gesse,
And him besecheth of his gentillesse
To graunt him daies of the remenaunt,
And sayde; maister, I dare wel make avaunt,

I failled never of my trouthe as yet.
For sikerly my dette shall be quit
Towardes you, how so that ever I fare
To gon a begging in my kirtle bare:
But wold ye vouchen sauf upon seurtee
Two yere or three for to respiten me,
Than were I wel, for elles mote I sell
Min heritage, ther is no more to tell.

This Philosophre sobrely answerd,
And saied thus, whan he thise wordes herd;
Have I not holden covenant to thee?

Yes certes, wel and trewely, quod he. Hast thou not had thy lady as thee liketh? No, no, quod he, and sorwefully he siketh. What was the cause? tell me if thou can. Aurelius his tale anon began,

And told him all as ye han herd before,
It nedeth not reherse it any more.
He sayd, Arviragus of gentillesse

Had lever die in sorwe and in distresse,
Than that his wif were of hire trouthe fals.
The sorwe of Dorigene he told him als,
How loth hire was to ben a wicked wif,
And that she lever had lost that day hire lif;
And that her trouth she swore thurgh innocence;
She never erst hadde herd speke of apparence:
That made me han of hire so gret pitee,
And right as freely as he sent hire to me,
As freely sent I hire to him again:

This is all and som, ther n'is no more to sain.
The Philosophre answerd; leve brother,
Everich of you did gentilly to other:
Thou art a squier, and he is a knight,
But God forbede for his blisful might,

But if a clerk coud don a gentil dede

As wel as any

of

you, it is no drede.

Sire, I relese thee thy thousand pound,
As thou right now were crope out of the ground,
Ne never er now ne haddest knowen me.
For, sire, I wol not take a peny of thee
For all my craft, ne nought for my travaille:
Thou hast ypaied wel for my vitaille.

It is ynough, and farewel, have good day.
And toke his hors, and forth he goth his way.
Lordings, this question wold I axen now,
Which was the moste free, as thinketh you?
Now telleth me, or that ye further wende.
I can no more, my tale is at an ende.

THE DOCTOURES PROLOGUE. YE, let that passen, quod oure Hoste, as now. Sire Doctour of Physike, I prey you,

Tell us a tale of som honest matere.

It shal be don, if that ye wol it here,

Said this doctour, and his tale began anon. Now, good men, quod he, herkeneth everich on.

THE DOCTOURES TALE.

THER was, as

telleth Titus Livius,

A knight, that cleped was Virginius,
Fulfilled of honour and worthinesse,

And strong of frendes, and of gret richesse.

This knight a doughter hadde by his wif, No children had he mo in all his lif.

Faire was this maid in excellent beautee
Aboven every wight that man may see:
For nature hath with soveraine diligence
Yformed hire in so gret excellence,
As though she wolde sayn, lo, I nature,
Thus can I forme and peint a creature,
Whan that me list; who can me contrefete?
Pigmalion? not, though he ay forge and bete,
Or grave, or peinte: for I dare wel sain,
Apelles, Xeuxis, shulden werche in vain,
Other to grave, or peinte, or forge, or bete,
If they presumed me to contrefete.
For he that is the former principal,
Hath maked me his vicaire general
To forme and peinten erthly creatures
Right as me list, and eche thing in my cure is
Under the mone, that may wane and waxe.
And for my werk right nothing wol I axe;
My lord and I ben ful of on accord.
I made hire to the worship of my lord;
So do I all min other creatures,

What colour that they han, or what figures.
Thus semeth me that nature wolde say.

This maid of age twelf yere was and tway, In which that nature hadde swiche delit. For right as she can peint a lily whit And red a rose, right with swiche peinture She peinted hath this noble creature Er she was borne, upon hire limmes free, Wheras by right swiche colours shulden be: And Phebus died hath hire tresses grete, Like to the stremes of his burned hete. And if that excellent were hire beautee, A thousand fold more vertuous was she.