193. THE PARSON

A GOOD man was ther of religioun,
And was a povre PERSOUN of a toun;
But riche he was of holy thoght and werk.
He was also a lerned man, a clerk,

That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche;
His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche.
Benigne he was, and wonder diligent,
And in adversitee ful pacient ;

And swich he was y-preved ofte sythes.
Ful looth were him to cursen for his tythes.

He sette nat his benefice to hyre,

And leet his sheep encombred in the myre,
And ran to London, un-to sëynt Poules,
To seken him a chaunterie for soules,
Or with a bretherhed to been withholde;
But dwelte at hoom, and kepte wel his folde.

A bettre preest I trowe that nowher noon is
He wayted after no pompe and reverence,
Ne maked him a spyced conscience,
But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve,
He taught, and first he folwed it himselve.

G. CHAUCER (The Canterbury Tales).

194. THE PERFECT KNIGHT

A KNIGHT ther was, and that a worthy man,
That fro the tyme that he first bigan
To ryden out, he loved chivalrye,
Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisye,
Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre,
And therto hadde he riden (no man ferre)
As wel in Cristendom as hethenesse,

And ever honoured for his worthinesse.

And evermore he hadde a sovereign prys.
And though that he were worthy, he was wys,
And of his port as meke as is a mayde.
He never yet no vileinye ne sayde
In al his lyf, un-to no maner wight.

He was a verray parfit gentil knight.

G. CHAUCER (The Canterbury Tales).

195. BALADE OF GOOD COUNCIL

FLEE fro the prees, and dwelle with sothfastnesse,
Suffyce unto thy good, though hit be smal;
For hord hath hate, and climbing tikelnesse,
Prees hath envye, and wele blent overal;
Savour no more than thee bihove shal;
Werk wel thy-self, that other folk canst rede;
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.

Tempest thee noght al croked to redresse,
In trust of hir that turneth as a bal :
Gret reste stant in litel besinesse ;

And eek be war to sporne ageyn an al;
Stryve noght, as doth the crokke with the wal.
Daunte thy-self, that dauntest otheres dede;
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.

That thee is sent, receyve in buxumnesse,
The wrastling for this worlde axeth a fal.
Her nis non hoom, her nis but wildernesse :

Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth, beste, out of thy stal!
Know thy contree, look up, thank God of al;
Hold the hye wey, and lat thy gost thee lede:
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.

ENVOY

Therfore, thou vache, leve thyn old wrecchednesse
Unto the worlde; leve now to be thral;
Crye him mercy, that of his hy goodnesse
Made thee of noght, and in especial
Draw unto him, and pray in general

For thee, and eek for other, hevenlich mede;
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.

G. CHAUCER (The Canterbury Tales).

196. THE PRIORESS EGLANTINE

THER was also a Nonne, a PRIORESSE,
That of hir smyling was ful simple and coy;
Hir gretteste ooth was but by seynt Loy;
And she was cleped madame Eglentyne.
Ful wel she song the service divyne,
Entuned in hir nose ful semely;

And Frensh she spak ful faire and fetisly,
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,
For Frensh of Paris was to hir unknowe.

She was so charitable and so pitous,
She wolde wepe, if that she sawe a mous
Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde.
Of smale houndes had she, that she fedde
With rosted flesh, or milk and wastel-breed.
But sore weep she if oon of hem were deed,
Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte:
And al was conscience and tendre herte.
Ful semely hir wimpel pinched was;
Hir nose tretys; hir eyen greye as glas;

Hir mouth ful smal, and ther-to softe and reed;
But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed;
It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe;
For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe.
Ful fetis was hir cloke, as I was war.
Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar
A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene;
And ther-on heng a broche of gold ful shene,
On which ther was first write a crowned A,
And after, Amor vincit omnia.

G. CHAUCER (The Canterbury Tales).

197. WHEN THAT APRIL WITH HIS SHOWERS SWEET

WHAN that Aprille with his shoures sote

The droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale fowles maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open yë,
(So priketh hem nature in hir corages):
Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
(And palmers for to seken straunge strondes)
To ferne halwes, couthe in sondry londes ;
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The holy blisful martir for to seke,

That hem hath holpen, whan that they were_seke.

G. CHAUCER (The Canterbury Tales).

198. THE DOCTOR OF PHYSIC

WITH us ther was a DoCTOUR OF

OH, say what is that thing called
light

Which I can ne'er enjoy?
What is the blessing of the sight?
Oh, tell your poor blind boy.
You talk of wondrous things you

see,

You say 'The sun shines bright.' I feel him warm ; but how can he Then make it day or night?

Wel coude he fortunen the ascen-
dent

Of his images for his pacient.
He knew the cause of everich
maladye,

Were it of hoot or cold, or moiste,
or drye,

And where engendred, and of what humour;

He was a verrey parfit practisour. CHAUCER (The Canterbury Tales).

BLIND BOY

| My day or night myself I make,
Whene'er I wake or play;
And could I ever keep awake
It would be always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear

You mourn my hopeless woe : But, sure, with patience I may bear

A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy.
While thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy!
200. THE DYING CHILD

C. CIBBER.

Infants, the children of the Spring!
How can an infant die
When butterflies are on the wing,
Green grass, and such a sky ?

How can they die at Spring? He held his hands for daisies white,

And then for violets blue,
And took them all to bed at night
That in the green fields grew,

As childhood's sweet delight.
And then he shut his little eyes,

And flowers would notice not; Birds' nests and eggs caused no surprise,

He now no blossoms got:

They met with plaintive sighs.