The Poetical Works of Geoffrey Chaucer: The Canterbury tales

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W. Pickering, 1845
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Page 15 - My brother shal be warisshed hastily; For I am siker that ther be sciences By whiche men make diverse apparences Swiche as thise subtile tregetoures pleye; For ofte at feestes have I wel herd seye That tregetours withinne an halle large Have maad come in a water and a barge, And in the halle rowen up and doun.
Page 183 - fy on yow, hertelees! Allas!" quod she, "for by that God above, Now han ye lost myn herte and al my love.
Page 190 - And with that word he fley doun fro the beem, For it was day, and eek his...
Page 41 - For, though a man be falle in jalous rage, Let maken with this water his potage, And never shal he more his wyf mistriste, Though he the sooth of hir defaute wiste; Al had she taken preestes two or three. Heer is a miteyn eek, that ye may see.
Page 190 - For, also siker as In principio, M-ulier est hominis confusio; Madame, the sentence of this Latin is — Womman is mannes joye and al his blis.
Page 177 - Ther may no tonge tellen for pitee. But litel out of Pise stant a tour, In whiche tour in prison yput was he, And with him ben his litel children three, The eldest scarsely five yere was of age : Alas ! fortune, it was gret crueltee Swiche briddes for to put in swiche a cage. Dampned was he to die in that prison, For Roger, which that bishop of Pise, Had on him made a false suggestion...
Page 47 - Of which ther ryseth swich fumositee That whan a man hath dronken draughtes three, And weneth that he be at hoom in Chepe, He is in Spayne, right at the toun of Lepe, Nat at the Rochel, ne at Burdeux toun; And thanne wol he seye,
Page 190 - But he was slayn anoon of Achilles. But thilke tale is al to long to telle, And eek it is ny day, I may nat dwelle.
Page 51 - An oold man and a poure with hem mette; This olde man ful mekely hem grette, And seyde thus: "Now, lordes, God yow see!" The proudeste of thise riotoures three Answerde agayn, " What, carl with sory grace, Why artow al for-wrapped, save thy face? Why lyvestow so longe in so greet age?
Page 51 - I like a restless caitiff, And on the ground, which is my modres gate, I knocke with my staf, erlich and late, And say to hire, " Leve mother, let me in. Lo, how I vanish, flesh and blood and skin, Alas ! when shall my bones ben at reste ? Mother, with you wolde I changen my cheste, That in my chambre longe time hath be, Ye, for an heren cloute to wrap in me.

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