The Prologue

WHAN THAT THE KNIGHT had thus his tale y-told,

In al the route nas ther yong ne old

That he ne seyde it was a noble storie,

And worthy for to drawen to memorie;

And namely the gentils everichoon.

Our Hoste lough and swoor, “so moot I goon,

This gooth aright; unbokeled is the male;

Lat see now who shal telle another tale:

For trewely, the game is wel bigonne.

Now telleth ye, sir Monk, if that ye conne,

Sumwhat, to quyte with the Knightes tale.”

The Miller, that for-dronken was al pale,

So that unnethe up-on his hors he sat,

He nolde avalen neither hood ne hat,

Ne abyde no man for his curteisye,

But in Pilates vois he gan to crye,

And swoor by armes and by blood and bones,

“I can a noble tale for the nones,

With which I wol now quyte the Knightes tale.”

Our Hoste saugh that he was dronke of ale,

And seyde: “abyd, Robin, my leve brother,

Som bettre man shal telle us first another:

Abyd, and lat us werken thriftily.”

“By goddes soul,” quod he, “that wol nat I;

For I wol speke, or elles go my wey.”

Our Hoste answerde: “tel on, a devel wey!

Thou art a fool, thy wit is overcome.”

“Now herkneth,” quod the Miller, “alle and some!

But first I make a protestacioun

That I am dronke, I knowe it by my soun;

And therfore, if that I misspeke or seye,

Wyte it the ale of Southwerk, I yow preye;

For I wol telle a legende and a lyf

Bothe of a Carpenter, and of his wyf,

How that a clerk hath set the wrightes cappe.”