No Fear Literature: The Canterbury Tales: The Wife of Bath's Tale Prologue to the Wife of Bath’s Tale Page 22

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Original Text	Modern Text
But now to purpos, why I tolde thee That I was beten for a book, pardee. Upon a night Iankin, that was our syre, Redde on his book, as he sat by the fyre, Of Eva first, that, for hir wikkednesse, Was al mankinde broght to wrecchednesse, For which that Iesu Crist him-self was slayn, That boghte us with his herte-blood agayn. Lo, here expres of womman may ye finde, That womman was the los of al mankinde.	But now to purpos, why I tolde thee That I was beten for a book, pardee. Upon a night Iankin, that was our syre, Redde on his book, as he sat by the fyre, Of Eva first, that, for hir wikkednesse, Was al mankinde broght to wrecchednesse, For which that Iesu Crist him-self was slayn, That boghte us with his herte-blood agayn. Lo, here expres of womman may ye finde, That womman was the los of al mankinde.
Tho redde he me how Sampson loste his heres, Slepinge, his lemman kitte hem with hir sheres; Thurgh whiche tresoun loste he bothe his yën.	Tho redde he me how Sampson loste his heres, Slepinge, his lemman kitte hem with hir sheres; Thurgh whiche tresoun loste he bothe his yën.
Tho redde he me, if that I shal nat lyen, Of Hercules and of his Dianyre, That caused him to sette himself a-fyre.	Tho redde he me, if that I shal nat lyen, Of Hercules and of his Dianyre, That caused him to sette himself a-fyre.
No-thing forgat he the penaunce and wo That Socrates had with hise wyves two; How Xantippa caste pisse upon his heed; This sely man sat stille, as he were deed; He wyped his heed, namore dorste he seyn But “er that thonder stinte, comth a reyn.”	No-thing forgat he the penaunce and wo That Socrates had with hise wyves two; How Xantippa caste pisse upon his heed; This sely man sat stille, as he were deed; He wyped his heed, namore dorste he seyn But “er that thonder stinte, comth a reyn.”
Of Phasipha, that was the quene of Crete, For shrewednesse, him thoughte the tale swete; Fy! spek na-more—it is a grisly thing— Of hir horrible lust and hir lyking.	Of Phasipha, that was the quene of Crete, For shrewednesse, him thoughte the tale swete; Fy! spek na-more—it is a grisly thing— Of hir horrible lust and hir lyking.

Original Text	Modern Text
But now to purpos, why I tolde thee That I was beten for a book, pardee. Upon a night Iankin, that was our syre, Redde on his book, as he sat by the fyre, Of Eva first, that, for hir wikkednesse, Was al mankinde broght to wrecchednesse, For which that Iesu Crist him-self was slayn, That boghte us with his herte-blood agayn. Lo, here expres of womman may ye finde, That womman was the los of al mankinde.	But now to purpos, why I tolde thee That I was beten for a book, pardee. Upon a night Iankin, that was our syre, Redde on his book, as he sat by the fyre, Of Eva first, that, for hir wikkednesse, Was al mankinde broght to wrecchednesse, For which that Iesu Crist him-self was slayn, That boghte us with his herte-blood agayn. Lo, here expres of womman may ye finde, That womman was the los of al mankinde.
Tho redde he me how Sampson loste his heres, Slepinge, his lemman kitte hem with hir sheres; Thurgh whiche tresoun loste he bothe his yën.	Tho redde he me how Sampson loste his heres, Slepinge, his lemman kitte hem with hir sheres; Thurgh whiche tresoun loste he bothe his yën.
Tho redde he me, if that I shal nat lyen, Of Hercules and of his Dianyre, That caused him to sette himself a-fyre.	Tho redde he me, if that I shal nat lyen, Of Hercules and of his Dianyre, That caused him to sette himself a-fyre.
No-thing forgat he the penaunce and wo That Socrates had with hise wyves two; How Xantippa caste pisse upon his heed; This sely man sat stille, as he were deed; He wyped his heed, namore dorste he seyn But “er that thonder stinte, comth a reyn.”	No-thing forgat he the penaunce and wo That Socrates had with hise wyves two; How Xantippa caste pisse upon his heed; This sely man sat stille, as he were deed; He wyped his heed, namore dorste he seyn But “er that thonder stinte, comth a reyn.”
Of Phasipha, that was the quene of Crete, For shrewednesse, him thoughte the tale swete; Fy! spek na-more—it is a grisly thing— Of hir horrible lust and hir lyking.	Of Phasipha, that was the quene of Crete, For shrewednesse, him thoughte the tale swete; Fy! spek na-more—it is a grisly thing— Of hir horrible lust and hir lyking.