Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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

The Canterbury Tales

The Parson’s Prologue

BY that the maunciple hadde his tale al ended,The sonne fro the south lyne was descendedSo lowe, that he nas nat, to my sighte,Degreës nyne and twenty as in highte.Foure of the clokke it was tho, as I gesse;For eleven foot, or litel more or lesse,My shadwe was at thilke tyme, as there,Of swich feet as my lengthe parted wereIn six feet equal of proporcioun.Ther-with the mones exaltacioun,I mene Libra, alwey gan ascende,As we were entringe at a thropes ende;For which our host, as he was wont to gye,As in this caas, our Ioly companye,Seyde in this wyse, ‘lordings everichoon,Now lakketh us no tales mo than oon.Fulfild is my sentence and my decree;I trowe that we han herd of ech degree.Almost fulfild is al myn ordinaunce;I prey to god, so yeve him right good chaunce,That telleth this tale to us lustily.Sir preest,’ quod he, ‘artow a vicary?Or art a person? sey sooth, by thy fey!Be what thou be, ne breke thou nat our pley;For every man, save thou, hath told his tale,Unbokel, and shewe us what is in thy male;For trewely, me thinketh, by thy chere,Thou sholdest knitte up wel a greet matere.Tel us a tale anon, for cokkes bones!’This Persone him answerde, al at ones,‘Thou getest fable noon y-told for me;For Paul, that wryteth unto Timothee,Repreveth hem that weyven soothfastnesse,And tellen fables and swich wrecchednesse.Why sholde I sowen draf out of my fest,Whan I may sowen whete, if that me lest?For which I seye, if that yow list to hereMoralitee and vertuous matere,And thanne that ye wol yeve me audience,I wol ful fayn, at Cristes reverence,Do yow plesaunce leefful, as I can.But trusteth wel, I am a Southren man,I can nat geste—rum, ram, ruf—by lettre,Ne, god wot, rym holde I but litel bettre;And therfor, if yow list, I wol nat glose.I wol yow telle a mery tale in proseTo knitte up al this feeste, and make an ende.And Iesu, for his grace, wit me sendeTo shewe yow the wey, in this viage,Of thilke parfit glorious pilgrimageThat highte Ierusalem celestial.And, if ye vouche-sauf, anon I shalBiginne upon my tale, for whiche I preyeTelle your avys, I can no bettre seye.But nathelees, this meditaciounI putte it ay under correcciounOf clerkes, for I am nat textuel;I take but the sentens, trusteth wel.Therfor I make protestaciounThat I wol stonde to correccioun.’Up-on this word we han assented sone,For, as us semed, it was for to done,To enden in som vertuous sentence,And for to yeve him space and audience;And bede our host he sholde to him seye,That alle we to telle his tale him preye.Our host hadde the wordes for us alle:—‘Sir preest,’ quod he, ‘now fayre yow bifalle!Sey what yow list, and we wol gladly here’—And with that word he seyde in this manere—‘Telleth,’ quod he, ‘your meditacioun.But hasteth yow, the sonne wol adoun;Beth fructuous, and that in litel space,And to do wel god sende yow his grace!’