Chapter 1
The prologe of the Reves tale.
Whan folk had laughen at this nyce cas
Of Absolon and hende Nicholas,
Diverse folk diversely they seyde; But, for the more part, they loughe and pleyde,
Ne at this tale I saugh no man him greve,
But it were only Osewold the Reve,
By-cause he was of carpenteres craft. A litel ire is in his herte y-laft,
He gan to grucche and blamed it a lyte.
Of Absolon and hende Nicholas,
Diverse folk diversely they seyde; But, for the more part, they loughe and pleyde,
Ne at this tale I saugh no man him greve,
But it were only Osewold the Reve,
By-cause he was of carpenteres craft. A litel ire is in his herte y-laft,
He gan to grucche and blamed it a lyte.
‘So theek,’ quod he, ‘ful wel coude I yow quyte
With blering of a proud milleres yë,
If that me liste speke of ribaudye. But ik am old, me list not pley for age; Gras-tyme is doon, my fodder is now forage,
This whyte top wryteth myne olde yeres,
Myn herte is al-so mowled as myne heres,
But-if I fare as dooth an open-ers; That ilke fruit is ever leng the wers,
Til it be roten in mullok or in stree. We olde men, I drede, so fare we; Til we be roten, can we nat be rype; We hoppen ay, whyl that the world wol pype. For in oure wil ther stiketh ever a nayl,
To have an hoor heed and a grene tayl,
As hath a leek; for thogh our might be goon,
Our wil desireth folie ever in oon. For whan we may nat doon, than wol we speke; Yet in our asshen olde is fyr y-reke.
With blering of a proud milleres yë,
If that me liste speke of ribaudye. But ik am old, me list not pley for age; Gras-tyme is doon, my fodder is now forage,
This whyte top wryteth myne olde yeres,
Myn herte is al-so mowled as myne heres,
But-if I fare as dooth an open-ers; That ilke fruit is ever leng the wers,
Til it be roten in mullok or in stree. We olde men, I drede, so fare we; Til we be roten, can we nat be rype; We hoppen ay, whyl that the world wol pype. For in oure wil ther stiketh ever a nayl,
To have an hoor heed and a grene tayl,
As hath a leek; for thogh our might be goon,
Our wil desireth folie ever in oon. For whan we may nat doon, than wol we speke; Yet in our asshen olde is fyr y-reke.
Foure gledes han we, whiche I shal devyse,
Avaunting, lying, anger, coveityse; Thise foure sparkles longen un-to elde. Our olde lemes mowe wel been unwelde,
But wil ne shal nat faillen, that is sooth. And yet ik have alwey a coltes tooth,
As many a yeer as it is passed henne
Sin that my tappe of lyf bigan to renne. For sikerly, whan I was bore, anon
Deeth drogh the tappe of lyf and leet it gon; And ever sith hath so the tappe y-ronne,
Til that almost al empty is the tonne. The streem of lyf now droppeth on the chimbe; The sely tonge may wel ringe and chimbe
Of wrecchednesse that passed is ful yore; With olde folk, save dotage, is namore.’
Avaunting, lying, anger, coveityse; Thise foure sparkles longen un-to elde. Our olde lemes mowe wel been unwelde,
But wil ne shal nat faillen, that is sooth. And yet ik have alwey a coltes tooth,
As many a yeer as it is passed henne
Sin that my tappe of lyf bigan to renne. For sikerly, whan I was bore, anon
Deeth drogh the tappe of lyf and leet it gon; And ever sith hath so the tappe y-ronne,
Til that almost al empty is the tonne. The streem of lyf now droppeth on the chimbe; The sely tonge may wel ringe and chimbe
Of wrecchednesse that passed is ful yore; With olde folk, save dotage, is namore.’
Whan that our host hadde herd this sermoning,
He gan to speke as lordly as a king; He seide, ‘what amounteth al this wit? What shul we speke alday of holy writ? The devel made a reve for to preche,
And of a souter a shipman or a leche. Sey forth thy tale, and tarie nat the tyme,
Lo, Depeford! and it is half-way pryme. Lo, Grenewich, ther many a shrewe is inne; It were al tyme thy tale to biginne.’
He gan to speke as lordly as a king; He seide, ‘what amounteth al this wit? What shul we speke alday of holy writ? The devel made a reve for to preche,
And of a souter a shipman or a leche. Sey forth thy tale, and tarie nat the tyme,
Lo, Depeford! and it is half-way pryme. Lo, Grenewich, ther many a shrewe is inne; It were al tyme thy tale to biginne.’
‘Now, sires,’ quod this Osewold the Reve,
‘I pray yow alle that ye nat yow greve,
Thogh I answere and somdel sette his howve; For leveful is with force force of-showve.
‘I pray yow alle that ye nat yow greve,
Thogh I answere and somdel sette his howve; For leveful is with force force of-showve.
This dronke millere hath y-told us heer,
How that bigyled was a carpenteer,
Peraventure in scorn, for I am oon. And, by your leve, I shal him quyte anoon; Right in his cherles termes wol I speke. I pray to god his nekke mote breke; He can wel in myn yë seen a stalke,
But in his owne he can nat seen a balke.
How that bigyled was a carpenteer,
Peraventure in scorn, for I am oon. And, by your leve, I shal him quyte anoon; Right in his cherles termes wol I speke. I pray to god his nekke mote breke; He can wel in myn yë seen a stalke,
But in his owne he can nat seen a balke.