PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES.

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Anon to drawen every wight began,
And shortly for to tellen as it was,
Were it by aventure, or sort, or cas

The sothe is this, the cutte felle on the knight,
Of which ful blith and glad was every wight;

And tell he must his tale as was reson,

But forword, and by composition,

As ye han herd; what nedeth wordes mo?
And whan this good man saw that it was so,
As he that wise was and obedient
To keep his forword by his free assent,
He saide: "Sithen I shal begin this game,
What? welcome be the cutte a goddes name.
Now let us ride, and herkeneth what I say."

And with that word we riden forth our way;
And he began with right a mery chere
His tale anon, and saide as ye shul here.

WHILE A PRISONER.

BY JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND.

[JAMES I. KING OF SCOTLAND, was born in 1394. When he was eleven years old, he was sent by his father to France, and, on his passage across the sea, fell into the hands of the English, who put him in the Tower, where he was confined for nineteen years. His misfortunes were not, however, without their advantages, since he received, while a prisoner, a most excellent education, of which he afterwards made good use. He married Joanna Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, with whom he fell in love while he was a captive. He was assassinated in 1437 by his uncle Walter, Earl of Athol, and Robert Graham. James I. was remarkable for skill in poetry and music, and many productions which have been ascribed to him are still popular.]

AND though I stood abasit tho a lite,

No wonder was; for why? my wittis all

Were so overcome with pleasance and delight,

Only through letting of my eyen fall,

That suddenly my heart became her thrall,

For ever of free will,-for of menace

There was no token in her sweete face.

And in my head I drew right hastily,

And eftesoons I leant it out again,
And saw her walk that very womanly,

With no wight mo', but only women twain.
Then gan I study in myself, and sayn,
"Ah, sweet! are ye a worldly creature,
Or heavenly thing in likeness of nature?

WHILE A PRISONER.

Or are ye god Cupidis own princess,

And comin are to loose me out of band?

Or are ye very Nature the goddess,

That have depainted with your heavenly hand,

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If ye a goddess be, and that ye like

To do me pain, I may it not astart:

If ye be warldly wight, that doth me sike, Why list God make you so, my dearest heart, To do a seely prisoner this smart,

That loves you all, and wot of nought but wo And therefore mercy, sweet! sin' it is so." *

*

Of her array the form if I shall write,
Towards her golden hair and rich attire,
In fretwise couchit with pearlis white
And great balas leaming as the fire,
With mony ane emeraut and fair sapphire;
And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue,
Of plumis parted red, and white, and blue.

Full of quaking spangis bright as gold,
Forged of shape like to the amorets,
So new, so fresh, so pleasant to behold,
The plumis eke like to the flower jonets,
And other of shape, like to the flower jonets;
And above all this, there was, well I wot,
Beauty enough to make a world to doat.

About her neck, white as the fire amail,
A goodly chain of small orfevory,
Whereby there hung a ruby, without fail,
Like to ane heart shapen verily,

WHILE A PRISONER.

That as a spark of low, so wantonly

Seemed burning upon her white throat,
Now if there was good party, God it wot.

And for to walk that fresh May's morrow,
Ane hook she had upon her tissue white,
That goodlier had not been seen to-forow,
As I suppose; and girt she was alite,
Thus halflings loose for haste, to such delight
It was to see her youth in goodlihede,
That for rudeness to speak thereof I dread.

In her was youth, beauty, with humble aport,
Bounty, richess, and womanly feature,
God better wot than my pen can report:
Wisdom, largess, estate, and cunning sure,
In every point so guided her measure,
In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance,
That nature might no more her child avance!

And when she walked had a little thraw
Under the sweete greene boughis bent,
Her fair fresh face, as white as any snaw,
She turned has, and furth her wayis went;
But tho began mine aches and torment,
To see her part and follow I na might;
Methought the day was turned into night.

G

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