No Fear Literature: The Canterbury Tales: The Nun's Priest's Tale The Nun’s Priest’s Tale Page 3

Continue reading with a SparkNotes PLUS trial

Already have an account? Log in

Original Text	Modern Text
And so bifel, that in a daweninge, As Chauntecleer among his wyves alle Sat on his perche, that was in the halle, And next him sat this faire Pertelote, This Chauntecleer gan gronen in his throte, As man that in his dreem is drecched sore. And whan that Pertelote thus herde him rore, She was agast, and seyde, ‘O herte dere, What eyleth yow, to grone in this manere? Ye been a verray sleper, fy for shame!’	And so bifel, that in a daweninge, As Chauntecleer among his wyves alle Sat on his perche, that was in the halle, And next him sat this faire Pertelote, This Chauntecleer gan gronen in his throte, As man that in his dreem is drecched sore. And whan that Pertelote thus herde him rore, She was agast, and seyde, ‘O herte dere, What eyleth yow, to grone in this manere? Ye been a verray sleper, fy for shame!’
And he answerde and seyde thus, ‘madame, I pray yow, that ye take it nat a-grief: By God, me mette I was in swich meschief Right now, that yet myn herte is sore afright. Now God,’ quod he, ‘my swevene recche aright, And keep my body out of foul prisoun! Me mette, how that I romed up and doun Withinne our yerde, wher-as I saugh a beste, Was lyk an hound, and wolde han maad areste Upon my body, and wolde han had me deed. His colour was bitwixe yelwe and reed; And tipped was his tail, and bothe his eres, With blak, unlyk the remenant of his heres; His snowte smal, with glowinge eyen tweye. Yet of his look for fere almost I deye; This caused me my groning, doutelees.’	And he answerde and seyde thus, ‘madame, I pray yow, that ye take it nat a-grief: By God, me mette I was in swich meschief Right now, that yet myn herte is sore afright. Now God,’ quod he, ‘my swevene recche aright, And keep my body out of foul prisoun! Me mette, how that I romed up and doun Withinne our yerde, wher-as I saugh a beste, Was lyk an hound, and wolde han maad areste Upon my body, and wolde han had me deed. His colour was bitwixe yelwe and reed; And tipped was his tail, and bothe his eres, With blak, unlyk the remenant of his heres; His snowte smal, with glowinge eyen tweye. Yet of his look for fere almost I deye; This caused me my groning, doutelees.’

Original Text	Modern Text
And so bifel, that in a daweninge, As Chauntecleer among his wyves alle Sat on his perche, that was in the halle, And next him sat this faire Pertelote, This Chauntecleer gan gronen in his throte, As man that in his dreem is drecched sore. And whan that Pertelote thus herde him rore, She was agast, and seyde, ‘O herte dere, What eyleth yow, to grone in this manere? Ye been a verray sleper, fy for shame!’	And so bifel, that in a daweninge, As Chauntecleer among his wyves alle Sat on his perche, that was in the halle, And next him sat this faire Pertelote, This Chauntecleer gan gronen in his throte, As man that in his dreem is drecched sore. And whan that Pertelote thus herde him rore, She was agast, and seyde, ‘O herte dere, What eyleth yow, to grone in this manere? Ye been a verray sleper, fy for shame!’
And he answerde and seyde thus, ‘madame, I pray yow, that ye take it nat a-grief: By God, me mette I was in swich meschief Right now, that yet myn herte is sore afright. Now God,’ quod he, ‘my swevene recche aright, And keep my body out of foul prisoun! Me mette, how that I romed up and doun Withinne our yerde, wher-as I saugh a beste, Was lyk an hound, and wolde han maad areste Upon my body, and wolde han had me deed. His colour was bitwixe yelwe and reed; And tipped was his tail, and bothe his eres, With blak, unlyk the remenant of his heres; His snowte smal, with glowinge eyen tweye. Yet of his look for fere almost I deye; This caused me my groning, doutelees.’	And he answerde and seyde thus, ‘madame, I pray yow, that ye take it nat a-grief: By God, me mette I was in swich meschief Right now, that yet myn herte is sore afright. Now God,’ quod he, ‘my swevene recche aright, And keep my body out of foul prisoun! Me mette, how that I romed up and doun Withinne our yerde, wher-as I saugh a beste, Was lyk an hound, and wolde han maad areste Upon my body, and wolde han had me deed. His colour was bitwixe yelwe and reed; And tipped was his tail, and bothe his eres, With blak, unlyk the remenant of his heres; His snowte smal, with glowinge eyen tweye. Yet of his look for fere almost I deye; This caused me my groning, doutelees.’