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Page 419 - But natheles, whyl I have tyme and space, Er that I ferther in this tale pace, Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun, To telle yow al the condicioun Of ech of hem, so as it semed me, And whiche they weren, and of what degree ; 40 And eek in what array that they were inne : And at a knight than wol I first biginne.
Page 561 - leve moder, leet me in! Lo, how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and skin! Allas! whan shul my bones been at reste? Moder, with yow wolde I chaunge my cheste, That in my chambre longe tyme hath be, Ye ! for an heyre clout to wrappe me ! " But yet to me she wol nat do that grace, For which ful pale and welked is my face.
Page 428 - The blisful martir quyte yow your mede. • 770 And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye, Ye shapen yow to talen and to pleye; For trewely, confort ne mirthe is noon To ryde by the weye doumb as a stoon; And therfore wol I maken yow disport, As I seyde erst, and doon yow som confort.
Page 420 - But sore weep she if oon of hem were deed, Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte : And al was conscience and tendre herte.
Page 423 - For his science, and for his heigh renoun Of fees and robes hadde he many oon. So greet a purchasour was nowher noon. Al was fee simple to him in effect, His purchasing mighte nat been infect. 320 Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas, And yet he semed bisier than he was.
Page 421 - A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was. His heed was balled, that shoon as any glas, And eek his face, as he had been anoint. He was a lord ful fat and in good point...
Page 351 - Of making ropen, and lad awey the corn ; And I come after, glening here and there, And am ful glad if I may finde an ere Of any goodly word that ye han left.
Page 561 - An old man and a povre with hem mette. This olde man ful mekely hem grette, And seyde thus, "now, lordes, god yow see!" The proudest of thise ryotoures three Answerde agayn, "what? carl, with sory grace, Why artow al forwrapped save thy face? Why livestow so longe in so greet age?
Page 549 - O Venus, that art goddesse of plesaunce, Sin that thy servant was this Chauntecleer, And in thy service dide al his poweer, More for delyt, than world to multiplye...