Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Charles Brockden Brown (1771–1810). Edgar Huntley; or, Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker. 1857.

The Canterbury Tales

Sir Thopas

LISTETH, lordes, in good entent,And I wol telle verraymentOf mirthe and of solas;Al of a knyght was fair and gentIn bataille and in tourneyment,His name was sir Thopas.Y-born he was in fer contree,In Flaundres, al biyonde the see,At Popering, in the place;His fader was a man ful free,And lord he was of that contree,As it was goddes grace.Sir Thopas wex a doghty swayn,Whyt was his face as payndemayn,His lippes rede as rose;His rode is lyk scarlet in grayn,And I yow telle in good certayn,He hadde a semely nose.His heer, his berd was lyk saffroun,That to his girdel raughte adoun;His shoon of Cordewane.Of Brugges were his hosen broun,His robe was of ciclatoun,That coste many a Iane.He coude hunte at wilde deer,And ryde an hauking for riveer,With grey goshauk on honde;Ther-to he was a good archeer,Of wrastling was ther noon his peer,Ther any ram shal stonde.Ful many a mayde, bright in bour,They moorne for him, paramour,Whan hem were bet to slepe;But he was chast and no lechour,And sweet as is the bremble-flourThat bereth the rede hepe.And so bifel up-on a day,For sothe, as I yow telle may,Sir Thopas wolde out ryde;He worth upon his stede gray,And in his honde a launcegay,A long swerd by his syde.He priketh thurgh a fair forest,Ther-inne is many a wilde best,Ye, bothe bukke and hare;And, as he priketh north and est,I telle it yow, him hadde almestBitid a sory care.Ther springen herbes grete and smale,The lycorys and cetewale,And many a clowe-gilofre;And notemuge to putte in ale,Whether it be moyste or stale,Or for to leye in cofre.The briddes singe, it is no nay,The sparhauk and the papeiay,That Ioye it was to here;The thrustelcok made eek his lay,The wodedowve upon the sprayShe sang ful loude and clere.Sir Thopas fil in love-longingeAl whan he herde the thrustel singe,And priked as he were wood:His faire stede in his prikingeSo swatte that men mighte him wringe,His sydes were al blood.Sir Thopas eek so wery wasFor prikinge on the softe gras,So fiers was his corage,That doun he leyde him in that plasTo make his stede som solas,And yaf him good forage.‘O seinte Marie, benedicite!What eyleth this love at meTo binde me so sore?Me dremed al this night, pardee,An elf-queen shal my lemman be,And slepe under my gore.An elf-queen wol I love, y-wis,For in this world no womman isWorthy to be my makeIn toune;Alle othere wommen I forsake,And to an elf-queen I me takeBy dale and eek by doune!’In-to his sadel he clamb anoon,And priketh over style and stoonAn elf-queen for tespye,Til he so longe had riden and goonThat he fond, in a privce woon,The contree of FairyeSo wilde;For in that contree was ther noonThat to him dorste ryde or goon,Neither wyf ne childe.Til that ther cam a greet geaunt,His name was sir Olifaunt,A perilous man of dede;He seyde, ‘child, by Termagaunt,But-if thou prike out of myn haunt,Anon I slee thy stedeWith mace.Heer is the queen of Fayërye,With harpe and pype and simphonyeDwelling in this place.’The child seyde, ‘al-so mote I thee,Tomorwe wol I mete theeWhan I have myn armoure;And yet I hope, par ma fay,That thou shalt with this launcegayAbyen it ful soure;Thy maweShal I percen, if I may,Er it be fully pryme of day,For heer thou shalt be slawe.’Sir Thopas drow abak ful faste;This geaunt at him stones casteOut of a fel staf-slinge;But faire escapeth child Thopas,And al it was thurgh goddes gras,And thurgh his fair beringe.Yet listeth, lordes, to my taleMerier than the nightingale,For now I wol yow rouneHow sir Thopas with sydes smale,Priking over hil and dale,Is come agayn to toune.His merie men comanded heTo make him bothe game and glee,For nedes moste he fighteWith a geaunt with hevedes three,For paramour and IoliteeOf oon that shoon ful brighte.‘Do come,’ he seyde, ‘my minstrales,And gestours, for to tellen talesAnon in myn arminge;Of romances that been royales,Of popes and of cardinales,And eek of love-lykinge.’They fette him first the swete wyn,And mede eek in a maselyn,And royal spicerye;Of gingebreed that was ful fyn,And lycorys, and eek comyn,With sugre that is so trye.He dide next his whyte lereOf clooth of lake fyn and clereA breech and eek a sherte;And next his sherte an aketoun,And over that an habergeounFor percinge of his herte;And over that a fyn hauberk,Was al y-wroght of Iewes werk,Ful strong it was of plate;And over that his cote-armourAs whyt as is a lily-flour,In which he wol debate.His sheeld was al of gold so reed,And ther-in was a bores heed,A charbocle bisyde;And there he swoor, on ale and breed,How that ‘the geaunt shal be deed,Bityde what bityde!’His Iambeux were of quirboilly,His swerdes shethe of yvory,His helm of laton bright;His sadel was of rewel-boon,His brydel as the sonne shoon,Or as the mone light.His spere was of fyn ciprees,That bodeth werre, and no-thing pees,The heed ful sharpe y-grounde;His stede was al dappel-gray,It gooth an ambel in the wayFul softely and roundeIn londe.Lo, lordes myne, heer is a fit!If ye wol any more of it,To telle it wol I fonde.

Now hold your mouth, par charitee,Bothe knight and lady free,And herkneth to my spelle;Of bataille and of chivalry,And of ladyes love-druryAnon I wol yow telle.Men speke of romances of prys,Of Horn child and of Ypotys,Of Bevis and sir Gy,Of sir Libeux and Pleyn-damour;But sir Thopas, he bereth the flourOf royal chivalry.His gode stede al he bistrood,And forth upon his wey he gloodAs sparkle out of the bronde;Up-on his crest he bar a tour,And ther-in stiked a lily-flour,God shilde his cors fro shonde!And for he was a knight auntrous,He nolde slepen in non hous,But liggen in his hode;His brighte helm was his wonger,And by him baiteth his dextrerOf herbes fyne and gode.Him-self drank water of the wel,As did the knight sir Percivel,So worthy under wede,Til on a day——