In Oxford there once lived a rich… Who had some guest rooms that he r… And carpentry was this old fellow’… A poor young scholar boarded who h… His studies in the liberal arts, b…

My son, keep well thy tongue, and… A wicked tongue is worse than a fi… My son, from a fiend men may them… My son, God of his endless goodne… Walled a tongue with teeth and lip…

O Yonge fresshe folkes, he or she… In which that love up groweth with… Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanite… And of your herte up-casteth the v… To thilke god that after his image

Sometime this world was so steadfa… That man’s word was held obligatio… And now it is so false and deceiva… That word and work, as in conclusi… Be nothing one; for turned up so d…

I. 1. Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly I may the beaute of them not suste… So wendeth it thorowout my herte k… And but your words will helen hast…

WHEN said was this miracle, ever… As sober* was, that wonder was to… Till that our Host to japen* he b… And then *at erst* he looked upon… And saide thus; ‘What man art tho…

Incipit Prohemium Secundi Libri. Out of these blake wawes for to sa… O wind, O wind, the weder ginneth… For in this see the boot hath swic… Of my conning, that unnethe I it…

WHEN ended was my tale of Melibe… And of Prudence and her benignity… Our Hoste said, 'As I am faithfu… And by the precious corpus Madria… I had lever* than a barrel of ale,…

Incipit prohemium tercii libri. O blisful light of whiche the beme… Adorneth al the thridde hevene fai… O sonnes lief, O Ioves doughter d… Plesaunce of love, O goodly debon…

Your yën two wol sle me soden… I may the beaute of hem not susten… So woundeth hit through-out my her… And but your word wol helen hastil… My hertes wounde, whyl that hit is…

FLY from the press, and dwell wit… Suffice unto thy good, though it b… For hoard hath hate, and climbing… Preise hath envie, and weal is ble… Savor no more than thee behoven sh…

Whan that Aprille with his shoure… The droghte of March hath perced… And bathed every veyne in swich li… Of which vertú engendred is the fl… Whan Zephirus eek with his swete…

Proverbe of Chaucer What shul these clothes thus manyf… Lo this hote somers day? After grete hete cometh cold; No man caste his pilche away.

Since I from Love escaped am so f… I ne’er think to be in his prison… Since I am free, I count him not… He may answer, and saye this and t… I do no force, I speak right as I…

THE PROLOGUE. WHEN ended was the life of Sain… Ere we had ridden fully five mile, At Boughton-under-Blee us gan o’e… A man, that clothed was in clothes…