Classic Poem

Whan that the Knight hadde thus his tale ytold,
In al the route nas ther yong ne old
That he ne saide it was a noble storye,
And worthy for to drawen to memorye,
And namely the gentils everichoon.
Oure Hoste lough and swoor, "So mote I goon,
This gooth aright: unbokeled is the male.
Lat see now who shal telle another tale.
For trewely the game is wel bigonne.
Now telleth ye, sire Monk, if that ye conne,
Somwhat to quite with the Knightes tale."
The Millere, that for dronken was al pale,
So that unnethe upon his hors he sat,
He nolde avalen neither hood ne hat,
Ne abiden no man for his curteisye,
But in Pilates vois he gan to crye,
And swoor, "By armes and by blood and bones,
I can a noble tale for the nones,
With which I wol now quite the Knightes tale."
Oure Hoste sawgh that he was dronke of ale,
And saide, "Abide, Robin, leve brother,
Som bettre man shal telle us first another.
Abide, and lat us werken thriftily."
"By Goddes soule," quod he, "that wol nat I,
For I wol speke or elles go my way."
Oure Host answerde, "Tel on, a devele way!
Thou art a fool; thy wit is overcome."
"Now herkneth," quod the Millere, "alle and some.
But first I make a protestacioun
That I am dronke: I knowe it by my soun.
And therfore if that I mis speke or saye,
Wite it the ale of Southwerk, I you praye;
For I wol telle a legende and a lif
Bothe of a carpenter and of his wif,
How that a clerk hath set the wrightes cappe."
The Reeve answerde and saide, "Stint thy clappe!
Lat be thy lewed dronken harlotrye.
It is a sinne and eek a greet folye
To apairen any man or him defame,
And eek to bringen wives in swich fame.
Thou maist ynough of othere thinges sayn."
This dronken Millere spak ful soone again,
And saide, "Leve brother Osewold,
Who hath no wif, he is no cokewold.
But I saye nat therfore that thou art oon.
Ther ben ful goode wives many oon,
And evere a thousand goode ayains oon badde.
That knowestou wel thyself but if thou madde.
Why artou angry with my tale now?
I have a wif, pardee, as wel as thou,
Yit nolde I, for the oxen in my plough,
Take upon me more than ynough
As deemen of myself that I were oon:
I wol bileve wel that I am noon.
An housbonde shal nought been inquisitif
Of Goddes privetee, nor of his wif.
So he may finde Goddes foison there,
Of the remenant needeth nought enquere."
What sholde I more sayn but this Millere
He nolde his wordes for no man forbere,
But tolde his cherles tale in his manere.
M'athinketh that I shal reherce it here,
And therefore every gentil wight I praye,
Deemeth nought, for Goddes love, that I saye
Of yvel entente, but for I moot reherse
Hir tales alle, be they bet or werse,
Or elles falsen som of my matere.
And therfore, whoso list it nought yheere
Turne over the leef, and chese another tale,
For he shal finde ynowe, grete and smale,
Of storial thing that toucheth gentilesse,
And eek moralitee and holinesse:
Blameth nought me if that ye chese amis.
The Millere is a cherl, ye knowe wel this,
So was the Reeve eek, and othere mo,
And harlotrye they tolden bothe two.
Aviseth you, and putte me out of blame:
And eek men shal nought maken ernest of game.