No Fear Literature: The Canterbury Tales: The Nun's Priest's Tale The Nun’s Priest’s Tale Page 16

Continue reading with a SparkNotes PLUS trial

Already have an account? Log in

Original Text	Modern Text
So was he ravisshed with his flaterye. Allas! ye lordes, many a fals flatour Is in your courtes, and many a losengeour, That plesen yow wel more, by my feith, Than he that soothfastnesse unto yow seith. Redeth Ecclesiaste of flaterye; Beth war, ye lordes, of hir trecherye.	So was he ravisshed with his flaterye. Allas! ye lordes, many a fals flatour Is in your courtes, and many a losengeour, That plesen yow wel more, by my feith, Than he that soothfastnesse unto yow seith. Redeth Ecclesiaste of flaterye; Beth war, ye lordes, of hir trecherye.
This Chauntecleer stood hye upon his toos, Strecching his nekke, and heeld his eyen cloos, And gan to crowe loude for the nones; And daun Russel the fox sterte up at ones, And by the gargat hente Chauntecleer, And on his bak toward the wode him beer, For yet ne was ther no man that him sewed. O destinee, that mayst nat been eschewed! Allas, that Chauntecleer fleigh fro the bemes! Allas, his wyf ne roghte nat of dremes! And on a Friday fil al this meschaunce. O Venus, that art goddesse of plesaunce, Sin that thy servant was this Chauntecleer, And in thy service dide al his poweer, More for delyt, than world to multiplye, Why woldestow suffre him on thy day to dye? O Gaufred, dere mayster soverayn, That, whan thy worthy king Richard was slayn With shot, compleynedest his deth so sore, Why ne hadde I now thy sentence and thy lore, The Friday for to chide, as diden ye? (For on a Friday soothly slayn was he.) Than wolde I shewe yow how that I coude pleyne For Chauntecleres drede, and for his peyne.	This Chauntecleer stood hye upon his toos, Strecching his nekke, and heeld his eyen cloos, And gan to crowe loude for the nones; And daun Russel the fox sterte up at ones, And by the gargat hente Chauntecleer, And on his bak toward the wode him beer, For yet ne was ther no man that him sewed. O destinee, that mayst nat been eschewed! Allas, that Chauntecleer fleigh fro the bemes! Allas, his wyf ne roghte nat of dremes! And on a Friday fil al this meschaunce. O Venus, that art goddesse of plesaunce, Sin that thy servant was this Chauntecleer, And in thy service dide al his poweer, More for delyt, than world to multiplye, Why woldestow suffre him on thy day to dye? O Gaufred, dere mayster soverayn, That, whan thy worthy king Richard was slayn With shot, compleynedest his deth so sore, Why ne hadde I now thy sentence and thy lore, The Friday for to chide, as diden ye? (For on a Friday soothly slayn was he.) Than wolde I shewe yow how that I coude pleyne For Chauntecleres drede, and for his peyne.

Original Text	Modern Text
So was he ravisshed with his flaterye. Allas! ye lordes, many a fals flatour Is in your courtes, and many a losengeour, That plesen yow wel more, by my feith, Than he that soothfastnesse unto yow seith. Redeth Ecclesiaste of flaterye; Beth war, ye lordes, of hir trecherye.	So was he ravisshed with his flaterye. Allas! ye lordes, many a fals flatour Is in your courtes, and many a losengeour, That plesen yow wel more, by my feith, Than he that soothfastnesse unto yow seith. Redeth Ecclesiaste of flaterye; Beth war, ye lordes, of hir trecherye.
This Chauntecleer stood hye upon his toos, Strecching his nekke, and heeld his eyen cloos, And gan to crowe loude for the nones; And daun Russel the fox sterte up at ones, And by the gargat hente Chauntecleer, And on his bak toward the wode him beer, For yet ne was ther no man that him sewed. O destinee, that mayst nat been eschewed! Allas, that Chauntecleer fleigh fro the bemes! Allas, his wyf ne roghte nat of dremes! And on a Friday fil al this meschaunce. O Venus, that art goddesse of plesaunce, Sin that thy servant was this Chauntecleer, And in thy service dide al his poweer, More for delyt, than world to multiplye, Why woldestow suffre him on thy day to dye? O Gaufred, dere mayster soverayn, That, whan thy worthy king Richard was slayn With shot, compleynedest his deth so sore, Why ne hadde I now thy sentence and thy lore, The Friday for to chide, as diden ye? (For on a Friday soothly slayn was he.) Than wolde I shewe yow how that I coude pleyne For Chauntecleres drede, and for his peyne.	This Chauntecleer stood hye upon his toos, Strecching his nekke, and heeld his eyen cloos, And gan to crowe loude for the nones; And daun Russel the fox sterte up at ones, And by the gargat hente Chauntecleer, And on his bak toward the wode him beer, For yet ne was ther no man that him sewed. O destinee, that mayst nat been eschewed! Allas, that Chauntecleer fleigh fro the bemes! Allas, his wyf ne roghte nat of dremes! And on a Friday fil al this meschaunce. O Venus, that art goddesse of plesaunce, Sin that thy servant was this Chauntecleer, And in thy service dide al his poweer, More for delyt, than world to multiplye, Why woldestow suffre him on thy day to dye? O Gaufred, dere mayster soverayn, That, whan thy worthy king Richard was slayn With shot, compleynedest his deth so sore, Why ne hadde I now thy sentence and thy lore, The Friday for to chide, as diden ye? (For on a Friday soothly slayn was he.) Than wolde I shewe yow how that I coude pleyne For Chauntecleres drede, and for his peyne.