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.This joly prentys with his maister boodTil he were ny out of his prentishood,Al were he snybbed bothe erly and late,And somtyme lad with revel to Newegate.But atte laste his maister hym bithoghte,Upon a day, whan he his papir soghte,Of a proverbe that seith this same word:Wel bet is roten appul out of hoordThan that it rotie al the remenaunt.So fareth it by a riotous servaunt;It is wel lasse harm to lete hym paceThan he shende alle the servantz in the place.Therfore his maister yaf hym acquitance,And bad hym go with sorwe and with meschance.And thus this joly prentys hadde his leve.Now lat hym riote al the nyght or leve.And for ther is no theef withoute a lowkeThat helpeth hym to wasten and to sowkeOf that he brybe kan or borwe may,Anon he sente his bed and his arrayUnto a compier of his owene sort,That lovede dys and revel and disport,And hadde a wyf that heeld for contenanceA shoppe, and swyved for hir sustenance.Part IIMan of Law's TalePrologueThe wordes of the Hoost to the compaignye.Oure Hooste saugh wel that the brighte sonneThe ark of his artificial day hath ronneThe ferthe part, and half an houre and moore,And though he were nat depe ystert in loore,He wiste it was the eightetethe dayOf Aprill, that is messager to May;And saugh wel that the shadwe of every treeWas as in lengthe the same quantiteeThat was the body erect that caused it.And therfore by the shadwe he took his witThat Phebus, which that shoon so clere and brighte,Degrees was fyve and fourty clombe on highte,And for that day, as in that latitude,It was ten at the clokke, he gan conclude;And sodeynly he plighte his hors aboute.»Lordynges,« quod he, »I warne yow, al this route,The fourthe party of this day is gon.Now, for the love of God and of Seint John,Leseth no tyme as ferforth as ye may.Lordynges, the tyme wasteth nyght and day,And steleth from us, what pryvely slepynge,And what thurgh necligence in oure wakynge,As dooth the streem that turneth nevere agayn,Descendynge fro the montaigne into playn.Wel kan Senec and many a philosophreBiwaillen tyme moore than gold in cofre,For los of catel may recovered be,But los of tyme shendeth us,« quod he.It wol nat come agayn, withouten drede,Namoore than wole Malkynes maydenhede,Whan she hath lost it in hir wantownesse.Lat us nat mowlen thus in ydelnesse.»Sire Man of Lawe,« quod he, »so have ye blis,Telle us as tale anon, as forward is.Ye been submytted, thurgh youre free assent,To stonden in this cas at my juggement.Acquiteth yow now of youre biheeste;Thanne have ye do youre devoir atte leeste.«»Hooste,« quod he, »depardieux, ich assente;To breke forward is nat myn entente.Biheste is dette, and I wole holde faynAl my biheste; I kan no bettre sayn.For swich lawe as a man yeveth another wight,He sholde hymselven usen it, by right;Thus wole oure text.But nathelees, certeyn,I kan right now no thrifty tale seynThat Chaucer, thogh he kan but lewedlyOn metres and on rymyng craftily,Hath seyd hem in swich Englissh as he kanOf olde tyme, as knoweth many a man.And if he have noght seyd hem, leve brother,In o book, he hath seyd hem in another.For he hath toold of loveris up and dounMo than Ovide made of menciounIn his Episteles that been ful olde.What sholde I tellen hem, syn they ben tolde?In youthe he made of Ceys and Alcione,And sitthen hath he spoken of everichoneThise noble wyves and thise loveris eke.Whoso that wole his large volume sekeCleped the Seintes Legende of Cupide,Ther may he seen the large woundes wydeOf Lucresse, and of Babilan Tesbee;The swerd of Dido for the false Enee;The tree of Phillis for hire Demophon;The pleinte of Dianire and of Hermyon,Of Adriane, and of Isiphilee –The bareyne yle stondynge in the see –The dreynte Leandre for his Erro;The teeris of Eleyne, and eek the woOf Brixseyde, and the, Ladomya;The crueltee of the, queene Medea,Thy litel children hangynge by the hals,For thy Jason, that was in love so fals!O Ypermystra, Penelopee, Alceste,Youre wif hede he comendeth with the beste.But certeinly no word ne writeth heOf thilke wikke ensample of Canacee,That loved hir owene brother synfully –Of swiche cursed stories I sey fy!Or ellis of Tyro Appollonius,How that the cursed kyng AntiochusBirafte his doghter of hir maydenhede.That is so horrible a tale for to rede –Whan he hir threw upon the pavement.And therfore he, of ful avysement,Nolde nevere write in none of his sermonsOf swiche unkynde abhomynacions,Ne I wol noon reherce, if that I may.But of my tale how shal I doon this day?Me were looth be likned, doutelees,To muses that men clepe Pierides –Methamorphosios woot what I mene;But nathelees, I recche noght a beneThough I come after hym with hawebake.I speke in prose, and lat him rymes make.«And with that word he, with a sobre cheere,Bigan his tale, as ye shal after heere.The Prologe of the Mannes Tale of Lawe.O hateful harm, condicion of poverte,With thurst, with coold, with hunger so confounded!To asken help thee shameth in thyn herte;If thou noon aske, so soore artow ywoundedThat verray nede unwrappeth al thy wounde hid.Maugree thyn heed, thou most for indigenceOr stele, or begge, or borwe thy despence.Thow blamest Crist and seist ful bitterlyHe mysdeparteth richesse temporal,Thy neighebore thou wytest synfullyAnd seist thou hast to lite and he hath al.»Parfay,« seistow, »somtyme he rekene shal,Whan that his tayl shal brennen in the gleede,For he noght helpeth needfulle in hir neede.«Herke what is the sentence of the wise:Bet is to dyen than have indigence;Thy selve neighebor wol thee despise.If thou be poure, farwel thy reverence.Yet of the wise man take this sentence:Alle the dayes of poure men been wikke.Bewar, therfore, er thou come to that prikke!If thou be poure, thy brother hateth thee,And alle thy freendes fleen from thee, allas.O riche marchauntz, ful of wele been yee;O noble, O prudent folk, as in this cas,Youre bagges been nat fild with ambes asBut with sys cynk that renneth for youre chaunce
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