As doth the mother whan the child shal die;
Out! helpe! alas! harow! he gan to cry;
O stronge lady store, what doest thou?

And she answered: sire, what aileth you?
Have patience and reson in your minde,
I have you holpen on both your eyen blinde.
Up peril of my soule, I shal nat lien,
As me was taught to helpen with your eyen,
Was nothing better for to make you see,
Than strogle with a man upon a tree:
God wot, I did it in ful good entent.

Strogle! quod he, ye, algate in it went.
God yeve you both on shames deth to dien!
He swived thee; I saw it with min eyen;
And elles be I honged by the halse.

Than is, quod she, my medicine al false.
For certainly, if that ye mighten see,
Ye wold not say thise wordes unto me.
Ye have som glimsing, and no parfit sight.

I see, quod he, as wel as ever I might,
(Thanked be God) with both min eyen two,
And by my feith me thought he did thee so.

Ye mase, ye masen, goode sire, quod she; This thank have I for I have made you see: Alas! quod she, that ever I was so kind.

Now, dame, quod he, let al passe out of mind: Come doun, my lefe, and if I have missaid, God helpe me so, as I am evil apaid. But by my fadres soule, I wende have sein, How that this Damian had by thee lein, And that thy smock had lein upon his brest. Ye, sire, quod she, ye may wene as you lest: But, sire, a man that waketh of his slepe, He may not sodenly wel taken kepe

Upon a thing, ne seen it parfitly,
Til that he be adawed veraily.
Right so a man, that long hath blind ybe,
He may not sodenly so wel ysee,
First whan his sight his newe comen agein,
As he that hath a day or two ysein.
Til that your sight ysateled be a while,
Ther may ful many a sighte you begile.
Beware, I pray you, for by heven king
Ful many a man weneth to see a thing,
And it is all another than it semeth:
He which that misconceiveth oft misdemeth.

And with that word she lep doun fro the tree.
This January who is glad but he?
He kisseth hire, and clippeth hire ful oft,
And on hire wombe he stroketh hire ful soft;
And to his paleis home he hath hire lad.
Now, goode men, I pray you to be glad.

Thus endeth here my tale of Januarie, God blesse us, and his moder Seinte Marie.

THE SQUIERES PROLOGUE.
By Goddes mercy, sayde oure Hoste tho,
Now swiche a wif I preie God kepe me fro.
Lo, swiche sleightes and subtilitees
In women ben; for ay as besy as bees
Ben they us sely men for to deceive,
And from a sothe wol they ever weive.
By this Marchantes tale it preveth wel.
But natheles, as trewe as any stele,
I have a wif, though that she poure be;
But of hire tonge a labbing shrewe is she;

And yet she hath an hepe of vices mo.
Therof no force; let all swiche thinges go.
But wete ye what? in conseil be it seyde,
Me reweth sore I am unto hire teyde;
For and I shulde rekene every vice,
Which that she hath, ywis I were to nice;
And cause why, it shulde reported be
And told to hire of som of this compagnie,
(Of whom it nedeth not for to declare,
Sin women connen utter swiche chaffare)
And eke my wit sufficeth not therto
To tellen all; wherfore my tale is do.

Squier, come ner, if it youre wille be,
And say somwhat of love, for certes ye
Connen theron as moche as any man.
Nay, sire, quod he, but swiche thing as I can
With hertly wille, for I wol not rebelle
Agein youre lust, a tale wol I telle.
Have me excused if I speke amis;

My wille is good; and lo, my tale is this.

THE SQUIERES TALE.

AT Sarra, in the lond of Tartarie,
Ther dwelt a king that werreied Russie,
Thurgh which ther died many a doughty man:
This noble king was cleped Cambuscan,
Which in his time was of so gret renoun,
That ther n'as no wher in no regioun,
So excellent a lord in alle thing:
Him lacked nought that longeth to a king,
As of the secte of which that he was borne.
He kept his lay to which he was ysworne,

And therto he was hardy, wise, and riche,
And pitous and just, and alway yliche;
Trewe of his word, benigne and honourable;
Of his corage as any centre stable;
Yong, fresh, and strong, in armes desirous,
As any bacheler of all his hous.
A faire person he was, and fortunate,
And kept alway so wel real estat,
That ther n'as no wher swiche another man.

This noble king, this Tartre Cambuscan,
Hadde two sones by Elfeta his wif,
Of which the eldest sone highte Algarsif,
That other was ycleped Camballo.

A doughter had this worthy king also, That yongest was, and highte Canace: But for to tellen you all hire beautee, It lith not in my tonge, ne in my conning, I dare not undertake so high a thing: Min English eke is unsufficient, It muste ben a Rethor excellent, That coude his colours longing for that art, If he shuld hire descriven ony part: I am not swiche, I mote speke as I can. And so befell, that whan this Cambuscan Hath twenty winter borne his diademe, As he was wont fro yere to yere I deme, He let the feste of his nativitee Don crien, thurghout Sarra his citee, The last Idus of March, after the yere.

Phebus the sonne ful jolif was and clere,

For he was nigh his exaltation
In Martes face, and in his mansion
In Aries, the colerike hote signe:

Ful lusty was the wether and benigne,

For which the foules again the sonne shene,
What for the seson and the yonge grene,
Ful loude songen hir affections:
Hem semed han getten hem protections
Again the swerd of winter kene and cold.

This Cambuscan, of which I have you told,
In real vestiments, sit on his deis
With diademe ful high in his paleis;
And holt his feste so solempne and so riche,
That in this world ne was ther non it liche.
Of which if I shal tellen all the array,
Than wold it occupie a somers day;
And eke it nedeth not for to devise
At every cours the order of hir service.
I wol not tellen of hir strange sewes,
Ne of hir swannes, ne hir heronsewes.
Eke in that lond, as tellen knightes old,
Ther is som mete that is ful deintee hold,
That in this lond men recche of it ful smal:
Ther n'is no man that may reporten al.
I wol not tarien you, for it is prime,
And for it is no fruit, but losse of time,
Unto my purpose I wol have recours.

And so befell that after the thridde cours
While that this king sit thus in his nobley,
Herking his ministralles hir thinges pley
Beforne him at his bord deliciously,
In at the halle dore al sodenly

Ther came a knight upon a stede of bras,
And in his hond a brod mirrour of glas;
Upon his thombe he had of gold a ring,
And by his side a naked swerd hanging:
And up he rideth to the highe bord.
In all the halle ne was ther spoke a word,