As gret as it were for an alestake:

A bokeler hadde he made him of a cake.

With him ther rode a gentil PARDONERE Of Rouncevall, his frend and his compere, That streit was comen from the court of Rome, Ful loude he sang, Come hither, love, to me. This sompnour bare to him a stiff burdoun, Was never trompe of half so gret a soun. This pardoner had here as yelwe as wax, But smoth it heng, as doth a strike of flax: By unces heng his lokkes that he hadde, And therwith he his shulders overspradde. Ful thinne it lay, by culpons on and on, But hode, for jolite, ne wered he non, For it was trussed up in his wallet. Him thought he rode al of the newe get, Dishevele, sauf his cappe, he rode all bare. Swiche glaring eyen hadde he, as an hare. A vernicle hadde he sewed upon his cappe. His wallet lay beforne him in his lappe, Bret-ful of pardon come from Rome al hote. A vois he hadde, as smale as hath a gote. No berd hadde he, ne never non shulde have, As smothe it was as it were newe shave; I trowe he were a gelding or a mare.

But of his craft, fro Berwike unto Ware, Ne was ther swiche an other pardonere. For in his male he hadde a pilwebere, Which, as he saide, was oure ladies veil: He saide, he hadde a gobbet of the seyl Thatte seint Peter had, whan that he went Upon the see, till Jesu Crist him hent.

He had a crois of laton ful of stones,
And in a glas he hadde pigges bones.
But with these relikes, whanne that he fond
A poure persone dwelling up on lond,
Upon a day he gat him more moneie

Than that the persone gat in monethes tweie.
And thus with fained flattering and japes,
He made the persone, and the peple, his apes.
But trewely to tellen atte last,

He was in chirche a noble ecclesiast.
Wel coude he rede a lesson or a storie,

But alderbest he sang an offertorie:

For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe,
He muste preche, and wel afile his tonge,
To winne silver, as he right wel coude:
Therfore he sang the merier and loude.

Now have I told you shortly in a clause,
Th'estat, th'araie, the nombre, and eke the cause
Why that assembled was this compagnie
In Southwerk at this gentil hostelrie,
That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle.
But now is time to you for to telle,
How that we baren us that ilke night,
Whan we were in that hostelrie alight.
And after wol I telle of our viage,
And all the remenant of our pilgrimage.

But firste I praie you of your curtesie,
That ye ne arette it not my vilanie,
Though that I plainly speke in this matere,
To tellen you hir wordes and hir chere;
Ne though I speke hir wordes proprely.
For this ye knowen al so wel as I,

Who so shall telle a tale after a man,
He moste reherse, as neighe as ever he can,
Everich word, if it be in his charge,

All speke he never so rudely and so large;
Or elles he moste tellen his tale untrewe,
Or feinen thinges, or finden wordes newe.
He may not spare, although he were his brother.
He moste as wel sayn o word, as an other.
Crist spake himself ful brode in holy writ,
And wel ye wote no vilanie is it.

Eke Plato sayeth, who so can him rede,
The wordes moste ben cosin to the dede.
Also I praie you to forgive it me,
All have I not sette folk in hir degree,
Here in this tale, as that they shulden stonde.
My wit is short, ye may wel understonde.

Gret chere made oure hoste us everich on, And to the souper sette he us anon: And served us with vitaille of the beste. Strong was the win, and wel to drinke us leste. A semely man our hoste was with alle For to han ben a marshal in an halle. A large man he was with eyen stepe, A fairer burgeis is ther non in Chepe: Bold of his speche, and wise and wel ytaught, And of manhood him lacked righte naught. Eke therto was he right a mery man, And after souper plaien he began, And spake of mirthe amonges other thinges, Whan that we hadden made our rekeninges; And saide thus; Now, lordinges, trewely Ye ben to me welcome right hertily:

For by my trouthe, if that I shal not lie,
I saw nat this yere swiche a compagnie
At ones in this herberwe, as is now.

Fayn wolde I do you mirthe, and I wiste how.
And of a mirthe I am right now bethought,
To don you ese, and it shall coste you nought.
Ye gon to Canterbury; God you spede,
The blisful martyr quite you your mede;
And wel I wot, as ye gon by the way,
Ye shapen you to talken and to play:
For trewely comfort ne mirthe is non,
To riden by the way dombe as the ston:
And therfore wold I maken you disport,
As I said erst, and don you some comfort.
And if you liketh alle by on assent
Now for to stonden at my jugement:
And for to werchen as I shal you say
To-morwe, whan ye riden on the way,
Now by my faders soule that is ded,
But be

ye mery, smiteth of my hed.
Hold up your hondes withouten more speche.
Our conseil was not longe for to seche:
Us thought it was not worth to make it wise,
And granted him withouten more avise,
And bad him say his verdit, as him leste.
Lordinges, (quod he) now herkeneth for the
But take it nat, I pray you, in disdain; [beste;
This is the point, to speke it plat and plain,
That eche of you to shorten with youre way,
In this viage, shal tellen tales tway,
To Canterbury ward, I mene it so,

And homeward he shall tellen other two,
Of aventures that whilom han befalle.

And which of you that bereth him best of alle,

That is to sayn, that telleth in this cas
Tales of best sentence and most solas,
Shal have a souper at youre aller cost
Here in this place sitting by this post,
Whan that ye comen agen from Canterbury.
And for to maken you the more mery,
I wol myselven gladly with you ride,
Right at min owen cost, and be your gide.
And who that wol my jugement withsay,
Shal pay for alle we spenden by the way.
And if ye vouchesauf that it be so,
Telle me anon withouten wordes mo,
And I wol erly shapen me therfore.

This thing was granted, and our othes swore
With ful glad herte, and praiden him also,
That he wold vouchesauf for to don so,
And that he wolde ben our governour,
And of our tales juge and reportour,
And sette a souper at a certain pris;
And we wol reuled ben at his devise,
In highe and lowe: and thus by on assent,
We ben accorded to his jugement.

And therupon the win was fette anon.
We dronken, and to reste wenten eche on,
Withouten any lenger tarying.

A-morwe whan the day began to spring,
Up rose our hoste, and was our aller cok,
And gaderd us togeder in a flok,

And forth we riden a litel more than pas,
Unto the watering of Seint Thomas:
And ther our hoste began his hors arest,
And saide; lordes, herkeneth if you lest.
Ye wete your forword, and I it record.
If even-song and morwe-song accord,