With fadres pitee stiking thurgh his herte,
Al wold he from his purpos not converte.

Doughter, quod he, Virginia by thy name, Ther ben two waies, other deth or shame, That thou must suffre, alas that I was bore! For never thou deservedest wherfore

To dien with a swerd or with a knif.
O dere doughter, ender of my lif,

Which I have fostred up with swiche plesance,
That thou were never out of my

remembrance; O doughter, which that art my laste wo, And in my lif my laste joye also,

O gemme of chastitee, in patience

Take thou thy deth, for this is my sentence;
For love and not for hate thou must be ded,
My pitous hond must smiten of thin hed.
Alas that ever Appius thee say!
Thus hath he falsely juged thee to-day.
And told hire all the cas, as ye before
Han herd, it nedeth not to tell it more.

O mercy, dere father, quod this maid.
And with that word she both hire armes laid
About his necke, as she was wont to do,
(The teres brast out of hire eyen two,)
And said, O goode father, shal I die?
Is ther no grace? is ther no remedie?

No certes, dere doughter min, quod he.
Than yeve me leiser, father min, quod she,
My deth for to complaine a litel space:
For parde Jepte yave his doughter grace
For to complaine, or he hire slow, alas!
And God it wot, nothing was hire trespas,
But for she ran hire father first to see,
To welcome him with gret solempnitee.

And with that word she fell aswoune anon,
And after, whan hire swouning was agon,
She riseth up, and to hire father said:
Blessed be God, that I shall die a maid.
Yeve me my deth, or that I have a shame.
Doth with your child your wille a goddes name.
And with that word she praied him ful oft,
That with his swerd he wolde smite hire soft;
And with that word, aswoune again she fell.
Hire father, with ful sorweful herte and will,
Hire hed of smote, and by the top it hent,
And to the juge he gan it to present,
As he sat yet in dome in consistorie.

And whan the juge it saw, as saith the storie,
He bad to take him, and anhang him fast.
But right anon a thousand peple in thrast
To save the knight, for routh and for pitee,
For knowen was the false iniquitee.

The peple anon had suspect in this thing
By maner of the cherles chalenging,
That it was by the assent of Appius;
They wisten wel that he was lecherous.
For which unto this Appius they gon,
And caste him in a prison right anon,
Wheras he slow himself: and Claudius,
That servant was unto this Appius,
Was demed for to hange upon a tree;
But that Virginius of his pitee

So prayed for him, that he was exiled,
And elles certes had he ben begiled:

The remenant were anhanged, more and lesse,
That were consentant of this cursednesse.

Here men may see how sin hath his merite: Beth ware, for no man wot whom God wol smite VOL. II.

In no degree, ne in which maner wise
The worme of conscience may agrise
Of wicked lif, though it so privee be,
That no man wote therof, sauf God and he:
For be he lewed man or elles lered,

He n'ot how sone that he shal ben afered.
Therfore I rede you this conseil take,
Forsaketh sinne, or sinne you forsake.

THE PARDONERES PROLOGUE. OUR Hoste gan to swere as he were wood; Harow! (quod he) by nailes and by blood, This was a false cherl, and a false justice. As shameful deth, as herte can devise, Come to thise juges and hir advocas. Algate this sely maide is slain, alas! Alas! to dere abought she hire beautee. Wherfore I say, that al day man may see, That yeftes of fortune and of nature Ben cause of deth to many a creature. Hire beautee was hire deth, I dare wel sain; Alas! so pitously as she was slain. Of bothe yeftes, that I speke of now, Men han ful often more for harm than prow. But trewely, min owen maister dere, This was a pitous tale for to here: But natheles, passe over, is no force. I pray to God so save thy gentil corps, And eke thyn urinals, and thy jordanes, Thin Ypocras, and eke thy Galianes, And every boist ful of thy letuarie, God blesse hem and our lady Seinte Marie.

So mote I the, thou art a propre man,
And like a prelat by Seint Ronian;

Said I not wel? I cannot speke in terme;
But wel I wot, thou dost min herte to erme,
That I have almost caught a cardiacle:
By corpus domini but I have triacle,
Or elles a draught of moist and corny ale,
Or but I here anon a mery tale,

Myn herte is lost for pitee of this maid.
Thou bel amy, thou pardoner, he said,
Tel us som mirth of japes right anon.

It shal be don, quod he, by Seint Ronion.
But first (quod he) here at this ale-stake
I wol both drinke, and biten on a cake.
But right anon thise gentiles gan to crie;
Nay, let him tell us of no ribaudrie.
Tell us som moral thing, that we mow lere,
Som wit, and thanne wol we gladly here.
I graunte ywis, quod he, but I must thinke
Upon som honest thing, while that I drinke.

THE PARDONERES TALE. LORDINGS, quod he, in chirche whan I preche, I peine me to have an hautein speche,

And ring it out, as round as goth a bell,

For I can all by rote that I tell.

My teme is alway on, and ever was;
Radix malorum est cupiditas.

First I pronounce whennes that I come,
And than my bulles shew I all and some:
Our liege lordes sele on my patente,
That shew I first my body to warrente,

That no man be so bold, ne preest ne clerk,
Me to disturbe of Cristes holy werk.
And after that than tell I forth my tales.
Bulles of popes, and of cardinales,
Of patriarkes, and bishoppes I shewe,
And in Latin I speke a wordes fewe,
To saffron with my predication,
And for to stere men to devotion.
Than shew I forth my longe cristal stones,
Ycrammed ful of cloutes and of bones,
Relikes they ben, as wenen they echon.
Than have I in laton a shulder bone,
Which that was of an holy Jewes shepe.
Good men, say I, take of my wordes kepe:
If that this bone be washe in any well,
If cow, or calf, or shepe, or oxe swell,
That any worm hath ete, or worm ystonge,
Take water of that well, and wash his tonge,
And it is hole anon: and forthermore
Of pockes, and of scab, and every sore
Shal every shepe be hole, that of this well
Drinketh a draught; take kepe of that I tell.

If that the good man, that the bestes oweth, Wol every weke, er that the cok him croweth, Fasting ydrinken of this wel a draught,

As thilke holy Jew our eldres taught,
His bestes and his store shal multiplie.
And, sires, also it heleth jalousie.
For though a man be falle in jalous rage,
Let maken with this water his potage,
And never shal he more his wif mistrist,
Though he the soth of hire defaute wist;
Al had she taken preestes two or three.

Here is a mitaine eke, that ye may see: