No Fear Literature: The Canterbury Tales: The Miller’s Tale Page 16

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Original Text	Modern Text
This Absolon ful Ioly was and light, And thoghte, ‘now is tyme wake al night; For sikirly I saugh him nat stiringe Aboute his dore sin day bigan to springe. So moot I thryve, I shal, at cokkes crowe, Ful prively knokken at his windowe That stant ful lowe upon his boures wal. To Alison now wol I tellen al My love-longing, for yet I shal nat misse That at the leste wey I shal hir kisse. Som maner confort shal I have, parfay, My mouth hath icched al this longe day; That is a signe of kissing atte leste. Al night me mette eek, I was at a feste. Therfor I wol gon slepe an houre or tweye, And al the night than wol I wake and pleye.’	This Absolon ful Ioly was and light, And thoghte, ‘now is tyme wake al night; For sikirly I saugh him nat stiringe Aboute his dore sin day bigan to springe. So moot I thryve, I shal, at cokkes crowe, Ful prively knokken at his windowe That stant ful lowe upon his boures wal. To Alison now wol I tellen al My love-longing, for yet I shal nat misse That at the leste wey I shal hir kisse. Som maner confort shal I have, parfay, My mouth hath icched al this longe day; That is a signe of kissing atte leste. Al night me mette eek, I was at a feste. Therfor I wol gon slepe an houre or tweye, And al the night than wol I wake and pleye.’
Whan that the firste cok hath crowe, anon Up rist this Ioly lover Absolon, And him arrayeth gay, at point-devys. But first he cheweth greyn and lycorys, To smellen swete, er he had kembd his heer. Under his tonge a trewe love he beer, For ther-by wende he to ben gracious. He rometh to the carpenteres hous, And stille he stant under the shot-windowe; Unto his brest it raughte, it was so lowe; And softe he cogheth with a semi-soun— ‘What do ye, hony-comb, swete Alisoun? My faire brid, my swete cinamome, Awaketh, lemman myn, and speketh to me! Wel litel thenken ye upon my wo, That for your love I swete ther I go. No wonder is thogh that I swelte and swete; I moorne as doth a lamb after the tete. Y-wis, lemman, I have swich love-longinge, That lyk a turtel trewe is my moorninge; I may nat ete na more than a mayde.’	Whan that the firste cok hath crowe, anon Up rist this Ioly lover Absolon, And him arrayeth gay, at point-devys. But first he cheweth greyn and lycorys, To smellen swete, er he had kembd his heer. Under his tonge a trewe love he beer, For ther-by wende he to ben gracious. He rometh to the carpenteres hous, And stille he stant under the shot-windowe; Unto his brest it raughte, it was so lowe; And softe he cogheth with a semi-soun— ‘What do ye, hony-comb, swete Alisoun? My faire brid, my swete cinamome, Awaketh, lemman myn, and speketh to me! Wel litel thenken ye upon my wo, That for your love I swete ther I go. No wonder is thogh that I swelte and swete; I moorne as doth a lamb after the tete. Y-wis, lemman, I have swich love-longinge, That lyk a turtel trewe is my moorninge; I may nat ete na more than a mayde.’

Original Text	Modern Text
This Absolon ful Ioly was and light, And thoghte, ‘now is tyme wake al night; For sikirly I saugh him nat stiringe Aboute his dore sin day bigan to springe. So moot I thryve, I shal, at cokkes crowe, Ful prively knokken at his windowe That stant ful lowe upon his boures wal. To Alison now wol I tellen al My love-longing, for yet I shal nat misse That at the leste wey I shal hir kisse. Som maner confort shal I have, parfay, My mouth hath icched al this longe day; That is a signe of kissing atte leste. Al night me mette eek, I was at a feste. Therfor I wol gon slepe an houre or tweye, And al the night than wol I wake and pleye.’	This Absolon ful Ioly was and light, And thoghte, ‘now is tyme wake al night; For sikirly I saugh him nat stiringe Aboute his dore sin day bigan to springe. So moot I thryve, I shal, at cokkes crowe, Ful prively knokken at his windowe That stant ful lowe upon his boures wal. To Alison now wol I tellen al My love-longing, for yet I shal nat misse That at the leste wey I shal hir kisse. Som maner confort shal I have, parfay, My mouth hath icched al this longe day; That is a signe of kissing atte leste. Al night me mette eek, I was at a feste. Therfor I wol gon slepe an houre or tweye, And al the night than wol I wake and pleye.’
Whan that the firste cok hath crowe, anon Up rist this Ioly lover Absolon, And him arrayeth gay, at point-devys. But first he cheweth greyn and lycorys, To smellen swete, er he had kembd his heer. Under his tonge a trewe love he beer, For ther-by wende he to ben gracious. He rometh to the carpenteres hous, And stille he stant under the shot-windowe; Unto his brest it raughte, it was so lowe; And softe he cogheth with a semi-soun— ‘What do ye, hony-comb, swete Alisoun? My faire brid, my swete cinamome, Awaketh, lemman myn, and speketh to me! Wel litel thenken ye upon my wo, That for your love I swete ther I go. No wonder is thogh that I swelte and swete; I moorne as doth a lamb after the tete. Y-wis, lemman, I have swich love-longinge, That lyk a turtel trewe is my moorninge; I may nat ete na more than a mayde.’	Whan that the firste cok hath crowe, anon Up rist this Ioly lover Absolon, And him arrayeth gay, at point-devys. But first he cheweth greyn and lycorys, To smellen swete, er he had kembd his heer. Under his tonge a trewe love he beer, For ther-by wende he to ben gracious. He rometh to the carpenteres hous, And stille he stant under the shot-windowe; Unto his brest it raughte, it was so lowe; And softe he cogheth with a semi-soun— ‘What do ye, hony-comb, swete Alisoun? My faire brid, my swete cinamome, Awaketh, lemman myn, and speketh to me! Wel litel thenken ye upon my wo, That for your love I swete ther I go. No wonder is thogh that I swelte and swete; I moorne as doth a lamb after the tete. Y-wis, lemman, I have swich love-longinge, That lyk a turtel trewe is my moorninge; I may nat ete na more than a mayde.’