Here folweth the Prologe of the Clerkes Tale of Oxenford.
'Sir clerk of Oxenford,' our hoste sayde, 'Ye ryde as coy and stille as dooth a mayde, Were newe spoused, sitting at the bord; This day ne herde I of your tonge a word. I trowe ye studie aboute som sophyme, But Salomon seith, "every thing hath tyme."
For goddes sake, as beth of bettre chere, It is no tyme for to studien here. Telle us som mery tale, by your fey; For what man that is entred in a pley, He nedes moot unto the pley assente. But precheth nat, as freres doon in Lente, To make us for our olde sinnes wepe, Ne that thy tale make us nat to slepe.
Telle us som mery thing of aventures;—
Your termes, your colours, and your figures, Kepe hem in stoor til so be ye endyte Heigh style, as whan that men to kinges wryte. Speketh so pleyn at this tyme, I yow preye, That we may understonde what ye seye.'
This worthy clerk benignely answerde, 'Hoste,' quod he, 'I am under your yerde; Ye han of us as now the governaunce, And therfor wol I do yow obeisaunce, As fer as reson axeth, hardily. I wol yow telle a tale which that I Lerned at Padowe of a worthy clerk, As preved by his wordes and his werk. He is now deed and nayled in his cheste, I prey to god so yeve his soule reste!
Fraunceys Petrark, the laureat poete, Highte this clerk, whos rethoryke sweete Enlumined al Itaille of poetrye, As Linian dide of philosophye Or lawe, or other art particuler; But deeth, that wol nat suffre us dwellen heer But as it were a twinkling of an yë, Hem bothe hath slayn, and alle shul we dyë.
But forth to tellen of this worthy man, That taughte me this tale, as I bigan, I seye that first with heigh style he endyteth, Er he the body of his tale wryteth, A proheme, in the which discryveth he Pemond, and of Saluces the contree, And speketh of Apennyn, the hilles hye, That been the boundes of West Lumbardye, And of Mount Vesulus in special, Where as the Poo, out of a welle smal, Taketh his firste springing and his sours, That estward ay encresseth in his cours To Emelward, to Ferrare, and Venyse: The which a long thing were to devyse. And trewely, as to my Iugement, Me thinketh it a thing impertinent, Save that he wol convey en his matere: But this his tale, which that ye may here.'
Here biginneth the Tale of the Clerk of Oxenford.
Ther is, at the west syde of Itaille, Doun at the rote of Vesulus the colde, A lusty playne, habundant of vitaille, Wher many a tour and toun thou mayst biholde, That founded were in tyme of fadres olde, And many another delitable sighte, And Saluces this noble contree highte.
A markis whylom lord was of that londe, As were his worthy eldres him bifore; And obeisant and redy to his honde Were alle his liges, bothe lasse and more. Thus in delyt he liveth, and hath don yore, Biloved and drad, thurgh favour of fortune, Bothe of his lordes and of his commune.
Therwith he was, to speke as of linage, The gentilleste y-born of Lumbardye, A fair persone, and strong, and yong of age, And ful of honour and of curteisye; Discreet y-nogh his contree for to gye, Save in somme thinges that he was to blame, And Walter was this yonge lordes name.
I blame him thus, that he considereth noght
In tyme cominge what mighte him bityde, But on his lust present was al his thoght, As for to hauke and hunte on every syde; Wel ny alle othere cures leet he slyde, And eek he nolde, and that was worst of alle, Wedde no wyf, for noght that may bifalle.
Only that point his peple bar so sore, That flokmele on a day they to him wente, And oon of hem, that wysest was of lore, Or elles that the lord best wolde assente That he sholde telle him what his peple mente, Or elles coude he shewe wel swich matere, He to the markis seyde as ye shul here.
'O noble markis, your humanitee
Assureth us and yeveth us hardinesse, As ofte as tyme is of necessitee That we to yow mowe telle our hevinesse; Accepteth, lord, now for your gentillesse, That we with pitous herte un-to yow pleyne, And lete your eres nat my voys disdeyne.
Al have I noght to done in this matere
More than another man hath in this place, Yet for as muche as ye, my lord so dere, Han alwey shewed me favour and grace, I dar the better aske of yow a space Of audience, to shewen our requeste, And ye, my lord, to doon right as yow leste.
For certes, lord, so wel us lyketh yow
And al your werk and ever han doon, that we
Ne coude nat us self devysen how
We mighte liven in more felicitee, Save o thing, lord, if it your wille be, That for to been a wedded man yow leste, Than were your peple in sovereyn hertes reste.