Flee from the press, and dwell wit… Suffice thee thy good, though it b… For hoard hath hate, and climbing… Press hath envy, and weal is blent… Savour no more than thee behove sh…

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…

THE Cook of London, while the R… For joy he laugh’d and clapp’d him… ‘Aha!’ quoth he, 'for Christes pa… This Miller had a sharp conclusio… Upon this argument of herbergage.*…

They had a cook with them who stood alone For boiling chicken with a marrow-bone, Sharp flavouring powder and a spice for savour. He could distinguish London ale by flavour, And he coul...

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…

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…

This wrecched worldes transmutacio… As wele or wo, now povre and now h… Withouten ordre or wys discrecioun Governed is by Fortunes errour. But natheles, the lak of hir favou…

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…

Somtyme the world was so stedfast… That mannes word was obligacioun, And now it is so fals and deceivab… That word and deed, as in conclusi… Ben nothing lyk, for turned up-so-…

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…

Madame, ye ben of al beaute shryne As fer as cercled is the mapamound… For as the cristal glorious ye shy… And lyke ruby ben your chekes roun… Therwith ye ben so mery and so joc…

BOOK I Incipit liber primus. God turne us every dreem to gode! For hit is wonder, be the rode, To my wit, what causeth swevens Either on morwes, or on evens;

My Master Bukton, when of Christ… Was asked, What is truth or sooth… He not a word answer’d to that ask… As who saith, no man is all true,… And therefore, though I highte to…

THE PROLOGUE. By that the Manciple his tale had… The sunne from the south line was… So lowe, that it was not to my sig… Degrees nine-and-twenty as in heig…

Alone walking In thought plaining, And sore sighing; All desolate, Me rememb’ring