The Prioresses Tale: Sire Thopas, the Monkes Tale, the Clerkes Tale, the Squieres Tale, from the Canterbury Tales

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Page 181 - Now had they waken'd; and the hour drew near When they were wont to bring us food; the mind Of each misgave him through his dream, and I Heard at its outlet underneath lock'd up The horrible tower : whence, uttering not a word, I look'd upon the visage of my sons.
Page 145 - Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus. Sancta Maria, mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.
Page 9 - Parfourned is by men of dignitee, But by the mouth of children thy bountee Parfourned is, for on the brest soukynge Somtyme shewen they thyn heriynge.
Page 182 - These weeds of miserable flesh we wear; And do thou strip them off from us again.' Then, not to make them sadder, I kept down My spirit in stillness. That day and the next We all were silent. Ah, obdurate earth!
Page 179 - HENRY and King Pedro clasping, Hold in straining arms each other; Tugging hard, and closely grasping, Brother proves his strength with brother Harmless pastime, sport fraternal, Blends not thus their limbs in strife : Either aims, with rage infernal, Naked dagger, sharpened knife.
Page 187 - A jest's prosperity lies in the ear • Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it : then, if sickly ears, Deaf 'd with the clamours of their own dear groans.
Page 60 - I wol yow telle a tale which that I Lerned at Padowe of a worthy clerk, As preved by his wordes and his werk. He is now deed and nayled in his cheste, I prey to god so yeve his soule reste.
Page 100 - Beth egre as is a tygre yond in Ynde, Ay clappeth as a mille, I yow consaille. Ne dreed hem nat, doth hem no reverence, For though thyn housbonde armed be in maille, The arwes of thy crabbed eloquence Shal perce his brest and eek his aventaille.
Page 12 - Twyes a day it passed thurgh his throte, To scoleward and homward whan he wente: On Cristes moder set was his entente. As I have seyd, thurgh-out the...
Page 46 - fader, why do ye wepe ? Whan wol the gayler bringen our potage, Is ther no morsel breed that ye do kepe ? I am so hungry that I may nat slepe. Now wolde god that I mighte slepen ever ! Than sholde nat hunger in my wombe crepe ; Ther is no thing, save breed, that me were lever.' Thus day by day this child bigan to crye, Til in his fadres barme adoun it lay, And seyde, ' far-wel, fader, I moot dye,' And kiste his fader, and deyde the same day.

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