Charles Brockden Brown (1771–1810). Edgar Huntley; or, Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker. 1857.
The Canterbury TalesThe Reeve’s Prologue
The prologe of the Reves tale.
WHAN folk had laughen at this nyce casOf Absolon and hende Nicholas,Diverse folk diversely they seyde;But, for the more part, they loughe and pleyde,Ne at this tale I saugh no man him greve,But it were only Osewold the Reve,By-cause he was of carpenteres craft.A litel ire is in his herte y-laft,He gan to grucche and blamed it a lyte.‘So theek,’ quod he, ‘ful wel coude I yow quyteWith blering of a proud milleres yë,If that me liste speke of ribaudye.But ik am old, me list not pley for age;Gras-tyme is doon, my fodder is now forage,This whyte top wryteth myne olde yeres,Myn herte is al-so mowled as myne heres,But-if I fare as dooth an open-ers;That ilke fruit is ever leng the wers,Til it be roten in mullok or in stree.We olde men, I drede, so fare we;Til we be roten, can we nat be rype;We hoppen ay, whyl that the world wol pype.For in oure wil ther stiketh ever a nayl,To have an hoor heed and a grene tayl,As hath a leek; for thogh our might be goon,Our wil desireth folie ever in oon.For whan we may nat doon, than wol we speke;Yet in our asshen olde is fyr y-reke.Foure gledes han we, whiche I shal devyse,Avaunting, lying, anger, coveityse;Thise foure sparkles longen un-to elde.Our olde lemes mowe wel been unwelde,But wil ne shal nat faillen, that is sooth.And yet ik have alwey a coltes tooth,As many a yeer as it is passed henneSin that my tappe of lyf bigan to renne.For sikerly, whan I was bore, anonDeeth drogh the tappe of lyf and leet it gon;And ever sith hath so the tappe y-ronne,Til that almost al empty is the tonne.The streem of lyf now droppeth on the chimbe;The sely tonge may wel ringe and chimbeOf wrecchednesse that passed is ful yore;With olde folk, save dotage, is namore.’Whan that our host hadde herd this sermoning,He gan to speke as lordly as a king;He seide, ‘what amounteth al this wit?What shul we speke alday of holy writ?The devel made a reve for to preche,And of a souter a shipman or a leche.Sey forth thy tale, and tarie nat the tyme,Lo, Depeford! and it is half-way pryme.Lo, Grenewich, ther many a shrewe is inne;It were al tyme thy tale to biginne.’‘Now, sires,’ quod this Osewold the Reve,‘I pray yow alle that ye nat yow greve,Thogh I answere and somdel sette his howve;For leveful is with force force of-showve.This dronke millere hath y-told us heer,How that bigyled was a carpenteer,Peraventure in scorn, for I am oon.And, by your leve, I shal him quyte anoon;Right in his cherles termes wol I speke.I pray to god his nekke mote breke;He can wel in myn yë seen a stalke,But in his owne he can nat seen a balke.