No Fear Literature: The Canterbury Tales: The Nun’s Priest’s Tale Page 14

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Original Text	Modern Text
‘The sonne,’ he sayde, ‘is clomben up on hevene Fourty degrees and oon, and more, y-wis. Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis, Herkneth thise blisful briddes how they singe, And see the fresshe floures how they springe; Ful is myn herte of revel and solas.’ But sodeinly him fil a sorweful cas; For ever the latter ende of Ioye is wo. God woot that worldly Ioye is sone ago; And if a rethor coude faire endyte, He in a cronique saufly mighte it wryte, As for a sovereyn notabilitee. Now every wys man, lat him herkne me; This storie is al-so trewe, I undertake, As is the book of Launcelot de Lake, That wommen holde in ful gret reverence. Now wol I torne agayn to my sentence.	‘The sonne,’ he sayde, ‘is clomben up on hevene Fourty degrees and oon, and more, y-wis. Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis, Herkneth thise blisful briddes how they singe, And see the fresshe floures how they springe; Ful is myn herte of revel and solas.’ But sodeinly him fil a sorweful cas; For ever the latter ende of Ioye is wo. God woot that worldly Ioye is sone ago; And if a rethor coude faire endyte, He in a cronique saufly mighte it wryte, As for a sovereyn notabilitee. Now every wys man, lat him herkne me; This storie is al-so trewe, I undertake, As is the book of Launcelot de Lake, That wommen holde in ful gret reverence. Now wol I torne agayn to my sentence.
A col-fox, ful of sly iniquitee, That in the grove hadde woned yeres three, By heigh imaginacioun forn-cast, The same night thurgh-out the hegges brast Into the yerd, ther Chauntecleer the faire Was wont, and eek his wyves, to repaire; And in a bed of wortes stille he lay, Til it was passed undern of the day, Wayting his tyme on Chauntecleer to falle, As gladly doon thise homicydes alle, That in awayt liggen to mordre men. O false mordrer, lurking in thy den! O newe Scariot, newe Genilon! False dissimilour, O Greek Sinon, That broghtest Troye al outrely to sorwe! O Chauntecleer, acursed be that morwe, That thou into that yerd flough fro the bemes! Thou were ful wel y-warned by thy dremes, That thilke day was perilous to thee. But what that God forwoot mot nedes be, After the opinioun of certeyn clerkis. Witnesse on him, that any perfit clerk is, That in scole is gret altercacioun In this matere, and greet disputisoun, And hath ben of an hundred thousand men. But I ne can not bulte it to the bren, As can the holy doctour Augustyn, Or Boece, or the bishop Bradwardyn, Whether that Goddes worthy forwiting Streyneth me nedely for to doon a thing, (Nedely clepe I simple necessitee); Or elles, if free choys be graunted me To do that same thing, or do it noght, Though God forwoot it, er that it was wroght; Or if his witing streyneth nevere a del But by necessitee condicionel.	A col-fox, ful of sly iniquitee, That in the grove hadde woned yeres three, By heigh imaginacioun forn-cast, The same night thurgh-out the hegges brast Into the yerd, ther Chauntecleer the faire Was wont, and eek his wyves, to repaire; And in a bed of wortes stille he lay, Til it was passed undern of the day, Wayting his tyme on Chauntecleer to falle, As gladly doon thise homicydes alle, That in awayt liggen to mordre men. O false mordrer, lurking in thy den! O newe Scariot, newe Genilon! False dissimilour, O Greek Sinon, That broghtest Troye al outrely to sorwe! O Chauntecleer, acursed be that morwe, That thou into that yerd flough fro the bemes! Thou were ful wel y-warned by thy dremes, That thilke day was perilous to thee. But what that God forwoot mot nedes be, After the opinioun of certeyn clerkis. Witnesse on him, that any perfit clerk is, That in scole is gret altercacioun In this matere, and greet disputisoun, And hath ben of an hundred thousand men. But I ne can not bulte it to the bren, As can the holy doctour Augustyn, Or Boece, or the bishop Bradwardyn, Whether that Goddes worthy forwiting Streyneth me nedely for to doon a thing, (Nedely clepe I simple necessitee); Or elles, if free choys be graunted me To do that same thing, or do it noght, Though God forwoot it, er that it was wroght; Or if his witing streyneth nevere a del But by necessitee condicionel.
I wol not han to do of swich matere; My tale is of a cok, as ye may here, That took his counseil of his wyf, with sorwe, To walken in the yerd upon that morwe That he had met the dreem, that I yow tolde. Wommennes counseils been ful ofte colde; Wommannes counseil broghte us first to wo, And made Adam fro paradys to go, Ther-as he was ful mery, and wel at ese. But for I noot, to whom it mighte displese, If I counseil of wommen wolde blame, Passe over, for I seyde it in my game. Rede auctours, wher they trete of swich matere, And what thay seyn of wommen ye may here. Thise been the cokkes wordes, and nat myne; I can noon harm of no womman divyne.	I wol not han to do of swich matere; My tale is of a cok, as ye may here, That took his counseil of his wyf, with sorwe, To walken in the yerd upon that morwe That he had met the dreem, that I yow tolde. Wommennes counseils been ful ofte colde; Wommannes counseil broghte us first to wo, And made Adam fro paradys to go, Ther-as he was ful mery, and wel at ese. But for I noot, to whom it mighte displese, If I counseil of wommen wolde blame, Passe over, for I seyde it in my game. Rede auctours, wher they trete of swich matere, And what thay seyn of wommen ye may here. Thise been the cokkes wordes, and nat myne; I can noon harm of no womman divyne.

Original Text	Modern Text
‘The sonne,’ he sayde, ‘is clomben up on hevene Fourty degrees and oon, and more, y-wis. Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis, Herkneth thise blisful briddes how they singe, And see the fresshe floures how they springe; Ful is myn herte of revel and solas.’ But sodeinly him fil a sorweful cas; For ever the latter ende of Ioye is wo. God woot that worldly Ioye is sone ago; And if a rethor coude faire endyte, He in a cronique saufly mighte it wryte, As for a sovereyn notabilitee. Now every wys man, lat him herkne me; This storie is al-so trewe, I undertake, As is the book of Launcelot de Lake, That wommen holde in ful gret reverence. Now wol I torne agayn to my sentence.	‘The sonne,’ he sayde, ‘is clomben up on hevene Fourty degrees and oon, and more, y-wis. Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis, Herkneth thise blisful briddes how they singe, And see the fresshe floures how they springe; Ful is myn herte of revel and solas.’ But sodeinly him fil a sorweful cas; For ever the latter ende of Ioye is wo. God woot that worldly Ioye is sone ago; And if a rethor coude faire endyte, He in a cronique saufly mighte it wryte, As for a sovereyn notabilitee. Now every wys man, lat him herkne me; This storie is al-so trewe, I undertake, As is the book of Launcelot de Lake, That wommen holde in ful gret reverence. Now wol I torne agayn to my sentence.
A col-fox, ful of sly iniquitee, That in the grove hadde woned yeres three, By heigh imaginacioun forn-cast, The same night thurgh-out the hegges brast Into the yerd, ther Chauntecleer the faire Was wont, and eek his wyves, to repaire; And in a bed of wortes stille he lay, Til it was passed undern of the day, Wayting his tyme on Chauntecleer to falle, As gladly doon thise homicydes alle, That in awayt liggen to mordre men. O false mordrer, lurking in thy den! O newe Scariot, newe Genilon! False dissimilour, O Greek Sinon, That broghtest Troye al outrely to sorwe! O Chauntecleer, acursed be that morwe, That thou into that yerd flough fro the bemes! Thou were ful wel y-warned by thy dremes, That thilke day was perilous to thee. But what that God forwoot mot nedes be, After the opinioun of certeyn clerkis. Witnesse on him, that any perfit clerk is, That in scole is gret altercacioun In this matere, and greet disputisoun, And hath ben of an hundred thousand men. But I ne can not bulte it to the bren, As can the holy doctour Augustyn, Or Boece, or the bishop Bradwardyn, Whether that Goddes worthy forwiting Streyneth me nedely for to doon a thing, (Nedely clepe I simple necessitee); Or elles, if free choys be graunted me To do that same thing, or do it noght, Though God forwoot it, er that it was wroght; Or if his witing streyneth nevere a del But by necessitee condicionel.	A col-fox, ful of sly iniquitee, That in the grove hadde woned yeres three, By heigh imaginacioun forn-cast, The same night thurgh-out the hegges brast Into the yerd, ther Chauntecleer the faire Was wont, and eek his wyves, to repaire; And in a bed of wortes stille he lay, Til it was passed undern of the day, Wayting his tyme on Chauntecleer to falle, As gladly doon thise homicydes alle, That in awayt liggen to mordre men. O false mordrer, lurking in thy den! O newe Scariot, newe Genilon! False dissimilour, O Greek Sinon, That broghtest Troye al outrely to sorwe! O Chauntecleer, acursed be that morwe, That thou into that yerd flough fro the bemes! Thou were ful wel y-warned by thy dremes, That thilke day was perilous to thee. But what that God forwoot mot nedes be, After the opinioun of certeyn clerkis. Witnesse on him, that any perfit clerk is, That in scole is gret altercacioun In this matere, and greet disputisoun, And hath ben of an hundred thousand men. But I ne can not bulte it to the bren, As can the holy doctour Augustyn, Or Boece, or the bishop Bradwardyn, Whether that Goddes worthy forwiting Streyneth me nedely for to doon a thing, (Nedely clepe I simple necessitee); Or elles, if free choys be graunted me To do that same thing, or do it noght, Though God forwoot it, er that it was wroght; Or if his witing streyneth nevere a del But by necessitee condicionel.
I wol not han to do of swich matere; My tale is of a cok, as ye may here, That took his counseil of his wyf, with sorwe, To walken in the yerd upon that morwe That he had met the dreem, that I yow tolde. Wommennes counseils been ful ofte colde; Wommannes counseil broghte us first to wo, And made Adam fro paradys to go, Ther-as he was ful mery, and wel at ese. But for I noot, to whom it mighte displese, If I counseil of wommen wolde blame, Passe over, for I seyde it in my game. Rede auctours, wher they trete of swich matere, And what thay seyn of wommen ye may here. Thise been the cokkes wordes, and nat myne; I can noon harm of no womman divyne.	I wol not han to do of swich matere; My tale is of a cok, as ye may here, That took his counseil of his wyf, with sorwe, To walken in the yerd upon that morwe That he had met the dreem, that I yow tolde. Wommennes counseils been ful ofte colde; Wommannes counseil broghte us first to wo, And made Adam fro paradys to go, Ther-as he was ful mery, and wel at ese. But for I noot, to whom it mighte displese, If I counseil of wommen wolde blame, Passe over, for I seyde it in my game. Rede auctours, wher they trete of swich matere, And what thay seyn of wommen ye may here. Thise been the cokkes wordes, and nat myne; I can noon harm of no womman divyne.