The Prologue

WHAN FOLK HAD LAUGHEN at this nyce cas

Of Absolon and hende Nicholas,

Diverse folk diversely they seyde;

But, for the more part, they loughe and pleyde,

Ne at this tale I saugh no man him greve,

But it were only Osewold the Reve,

By-cause he was of carpenteres craft.

A litel ire is in his herte y-laft,

He gan to grucche and blamed it a lyte.

“So thee‘k,” quod he, “ful wel coude I yow quytë

With blering of a proud milleres yë,

If that me liste speke of ribaudye.

But ik am old, me list not pley for age;

Gras-tyme is doon, my fodder is now forage,

This whyte top wryteth myne olde yeres,

Myn herte is al-so mowled as myne heres,

But-if I fare as dooth an open-ers;

That ilke fruit is ever leng the wers,

Til it be roten in mullok or in stree.

We olde men, I drede, so fare we;

Til we be roten, can we nat be rype;

We hoppen ay, whyl that the world wol pype.

For in oure wil ther stiketh ever a nayl,

To have an hoor heed and a grene tayl,

As hath a leek; for thogh our might be goon,

Our wil desireth folie ever in oon.

For whan we may nat doon, than wol we speke;

Yet in our asshen olde is fyr y-reke.

Foure gledes han we, whiche I shal devyse,

Avaunting, lying, anger, coveityse;

Thise foure sparkles longen un-to elde.

Our olde lemes mowe wel ben unwelde,

But wil ne shal nat faillen, that is sooth.

And yet ik have alwey a coltes tooth,

As many a yeer as it is passed henne