A Book of English Literature, Selected and Ed

Henne1 over a myle, with-in a greet village, Both man and womman, child and hyne,2

and page.

360

I trowe his habitacioun be there;
To been avysed3 greet wisdom it were,
Er that he dide a man a dishonour."
"Ye, goddes armes," quod this ryotour,
"Is it swich peril with him for to mete? 365
I shal him seke by wey and eek by strete,
I make avow to goddes digne1 bones!
Herkneth, felawes, we three been al ones;5
Lat ech of us holde up his hond til other,
And ech of us bicomen otheres brother, 370
And we wol sleen this false traytour Deeth;
He shal be slayn, which that so many
sleeth,

By goddes dignitee, er it be night."

Togidres han thise three her trouthes plight,

I moot go thider as I have to go." "Nay, olde cherl, by god, thou shalt nat so,"

Seyde this other hasardour anon,

"Thou partest nat so lightly, by seint

Iohn!

Thou spak right now of thilke traitour Deeth,

425 That in this contree alle our frendes sleeth. Have heer my trouthe, as thou art his aspye, 23

Tel wher he is, or thou shalt it abye,2 By god, and by the holy sacrament! For soothly thou art oon of his assent, 430 To sleen us yonge folk, thou false theef!” "Now, sirs," quod he, "if that yow be so leef26

To finde Deeth, turne up this croked wey, For in that grove I lafte him, by my fey, Under a tree, and ther he wol abyde; 435 Nat for27 your boost 28 he wol him no-thing hyde.

Til he cam to that tree, and ther they "Thou knowest wel thou art my sworne founde

brother,

480

But mighte this gold be caried fro this That, by my trouthe, I wol thee nat

biwreye."13

495

"Now," quod the firste, "thou woost wel we be tweye,

And two of us shul strenger be than oon. Look whan that he is set, and right anoon Arys, as though thou woldest with him

2 note of. • quickly.

3 jest.

4 thought.

9 know not.

7 it seems best.

8 fist.

14 agreed.

This yongest, which that wente un-to the toun,

Ful ofte in herte he rolleth up and doun 510 The beautee of thise florins newe and brighte.

"O lord!" quod he, "if so were that I mighte

Have al this tresor to my-self allone, Ther is no man that liveth under the trone1

Of god, that sholde live so mery as I!" 515 And atte laste the feend, our enemy,

Putte in his thought that he shold poyson beye,2

With which he mighte sleen his felawes tweye;

And whan that this was doon, thus spak that oon,

"Now lat us sitte and drinke, and make us merie,

And afterward we wol his body berie."

555

For why the feend fond him in swich And with that word it happed him, par

585

I yow assoile, by myn heigh power, Yow that wol offre, as clene and eek as cleer

As ye were born; and, lo, sirs, thus I preche.

And Iesu Crist, that is our soules leche,
So graunte yow his pardon to receyve;
For that is best; I wol yow nat deceyve.590
But sirs, o word forgat I in my tale;
I have reliks and pardon in my male,1
As faire as any man in Engelond,
Whiche were me yeven by the popes
hond.

Tempest thee noght al croked to redresse,
In trust of hir that turneth as a bal;
Gret reste14 stant15 in litel besinesse,
And eek be war to sporne16 ageyn an al;
Stryve noght, as doth the crokke with
the wal.

Daunte1 thyself, that dauntest otheres dede;

And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.

Whan that the soule shal fro the body And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.

That of yelownesse hadde never pere.
Ye be my lyf, ye be myn hertes stere,1
Quene of comfort and of good companye:
Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye!

Now purs, that be to me my lyves light, 15
And saveour, as doun2 in this worlde here,
Out of this toune help me through your
might,

Sin that ye wole nat been my tresorere;
For I am shave as nye3 as any frere.1
But yit I pray un-to your curtesye:
Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye!
LENVOY DE CHAUCER