Classic Poem

The Prologe of the Somonours Tale.

This Somonour in his styropes hye stood;
Upon this Frere his herte was so wood
That lyk an aspen leef he quook for ire.
" Lordynges, " quod he, " but o thyng I desire;
I yow biseke that, of youre curteisye,
Syn ye han herd this false Frere lye,
As suffreth me I may my tale telle.
This Frere bosteth that he knoweth helle,
And God it woot, that it is litel wonder;
Freres and feendes been but lyte asonder.
For, pardee, ye han ofte tyme herd telle
How that a frere ravysshed was to helle
In spirit ones by a visioun;
And as an angel ladde hym up and doun,
To shewen hym the peynes that ther were,
In al the place saugh he nat a frere;
Of oother folk he saugh ynowe in wo.
Unto this angel spak the frere tho:
" Now, sire," quod he, " han freres swich a grace
That noon of hem shal come to this place?"
" Yis," quod this angel, " many a millioun!"
And unto Sathanas he ladde hym doun.
" And now hath Sathanas," seith he, " a tayl
Brodder than of a carryk is the sayl.
Hold up thy tayl, thou Sathanas!" quod he;
" Shewe forth thyn ers, and lat the frere se
Where is the nest of freres in this place!"
And er that half a furlong wey of space,
Right so as bees out swarmen from an hyve,
Out of the develes ers ther gonne dryve
Twenty thousand freres on a route,
And thurghout helle swarmed al aboute,
And comen agayn as faste as they may gon,
And in his ers they crepten everychon.
He clapte his tayl agayn and lay ful stille.
This frere, whan he looked hadde his fille
Upon the tormentz of this sory place,
His spirit God restored, of his grace,
Unto his body agayn, and he awook.
But natheles, for fere yet he quook,
So was the develes ers ay in his mynde,
That is his heritage of verray kynde.
God save yow alle, save this cursed Frere!
My prologe wol I ende in this manere. "