No Fear Literature: The Canterbury Tales: The Pardoner's Tale The Pardoner’s Tale Page 15

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Original Text	Modern Text
But, certes, I suppose that Avicen Wroot never in no canon, ne in no fen, Mo wonder signes of empoisoning Than hadde thise wrecches two, er hir ending. Thus ended been thise homicydes two, And eek the false empoysoner also.	But, certes, I suppose that Avicen Wroot never in no canon, ne in no fen, Mo wonder signes of empoisoning Than hadde thise wrecches two, er hir ending. Thus ended been thise homicydes two, And eek the false empoysoner also.
O cursed sinne, ful of cursednesse! O traytours homicyde, o wikkednesse! O glotonye, luxurie, and hasardrye! Thou blasphemour of Crist with vileinye And othes grete, of usage and of pryde! Allas! mankinde, how may it bityde, That to thy creatour which that thee wroghte, And with his precious herte-blood thee boghte, Thou art so fals and so unkinde, allas!	O cursed sinne, ful of cursednesse! O traytours homicyde, o wikkednesse! O glotonye, luxurie, and hasardrye! Thou blasphemour of Crist with vileinye And othes grete, of usage and of pryde! Allas! mankinde, how may it bityde, That to thy creatour which that thee wroghte, And with his precious herte-blood thee boghte, Thou art so fals and so unkinde, allas!
Now, goode men, God forgeve yow your trespas, And ware yow fro the sinne of avaryce. Myn holy pardoun may yow alle waryce, So that ye offre nobles or sterlinges, Or elles silver broches, spones, ringes. Boweth your heed under this holy bulle! Cometh up, ye wyves, offreth of your wolle! Your name I entre heer in my rolle anon; In-to the blisse of hevene shul ye gon; I yow assoile, by myn heigh power, Yow that wol offre, as clene and eek as cleer As ye were born; and, lo, sirs, thus I preche. And Iesu Crist, that is our soules leche, So graunte yow his pardon to receyve; For that is best; I wol yow nat deceyve.	Now, goode men, God forgeve yow your trespas, And ware yow fro the sinne of avaryce. Myn holy pardoun may yow alle waryce, So that ye offre nobles or sterlinges, Or elles silver broches, spones, ringes. Boweth your heed under this holy bulle! Cometh up, ye wyves, offreth of your wolle! Your name I entre heer in my rolle anon; In-to the blisse of hevene shul ye gon; I yow assoile, by myn heigh power, Yow that wol offre, as clene and eek as cleer As ye were born; and, lo, sirs, thus I preche. And Iesu Crist, that is our soules leche, So graunte yow his pardon to receyve; For that is best; I wol yow nat deceyve.

Original Text	Modern Text
But, certes, I suppose that Avicen Wroot never in no canon, ne in no fen, Mo wonder signes of empoisoning Than hadde thise wrecches two, er hir ending. Thus ended been thise homicydes two, And eek the false empoysoner also.	But, certes, I suppose that Avicen Wroot never in no canon, ne in no fen, Mo wonder signes of empoisoning Than hadde thise wrecches two, er hir ending. Thus ended been thise homicydes two, And eek the false empoysoner also.
O cursed sinne, ful of cursednesse! O traytours homicyde, o wikkednesse! O glotonye, luxurie, and hasardrye! Thou blasphemour of Crist with vileinye And othes grete, of usage and of pryde! Allas! mankinde, how may it bityde, That to thy creatour which that thee wroghte, And with his precious herte-blood thee boghte, Thou art so fals and so unkinde, allas!	O cursed sinne, ful of cursednesse! O traytours homicyde, o wikkednesse! O glotonye, luxurie, and hasardrye! Thou blasphemour of Crist with vileinye And othes grete, of usage and of pryde! Allas! mankinde, how may it bityde, That to thy creatour which that thee wroghte, And with his precious herte-blood thee boghte, Thou art so fals and so unkinde, allas!
Now, goode men, God forgeve yow your trespas, And ware yow fro the sinne of avaryce. Myn holy pardoun may yow alle waryce, So that ye offre nobles or sterlinges, Or elles silver broches, spones, ringes. Boweth your heed under this holy bulle! Cometh up, ye wyves, offreth of your wolle! Your name I entre heer in my rolle anon; In-to the blisse of hevene shul ye gon; I yow assoile, by myn heigh power, Yow that wol offre, as clene and eek as cleer As ye were born; and, lo, sirs, thus I preche. And Iesu Crist, that is our soules leche, So graunte yow his pardon to receyve; For that is best; I wol yow nat deceyve.	Now, goode men, God forgeve yow your trespas, And ware yow fro the sinne of avaryce. Myn holy pardoun may yow alle waryce, So that ye offre nobles or sterlinges, Or elles silver broches, spones, ringes. Boweth your heed under this holy bulle! Cometh up, ye wyves, offreth of your wolle! Your name I entre heer in my rolle anon; In-to the blisse of hevene shul ye gon; I yow assoile, by myn heigh power, Yow that wol offre, as clene and eek as cleer As ye were born; and, lo, sirs, thus I preche. And Iesu Crist, that is our soules leche, So graunte yow his pardon to receyve; For that is best; I wol yow nat deceyve.