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.Telle us som murie thyng of aventures.Youre termes, youre colours, and youre figures,Keepe hem in stoor til so be that ye enditeHeigh style, as whan that men to kynges write.Speketh so pleyn at this tyme, we yow preye,That we may understonde what ye seye.«This worthy clerk benignely answerde,»Hooste,« quod he, »I am under youre yerde.Ye han of us as now the governance,And therfore wol I do yow obeisanceAs fer as resoun axeth, hardily.I wol yow telle a tale which that ILerned at Padwe of a worthy clerk,As preved by his wordes and his werk.He is now deed and nayled in his cheste –I prey to God so yeve his soule reste.Fraunceys Petrak, the lauriat poete,Highte this clerk, whos rethorike sweeteEnlumyned al Ytaille of poetrie,As Lynyan dide of philosophie,Or lawe, or oother art particuler;But deeth, that wol nat suffre us dwellen heer,But as it were a twynklyng of an eye,Hem bothe hath slayn, and alle shul we dye.But forth to tellen of this worthy manThat taughte me this tale, as I biganI seye that first with heigh stile he enditeth,Er he the body of his tale writeth,A prohemye, in the which discryveth hePemond and of Saluces the contree,And speketh of Apennyn, the hilles hye,That been the boundes of West Lumbardye,And of Mount Vesulus in specialWhere as the Poo out of a welle smalTaketh his firste spryngyng and his sours,That estward ay encresseth in his coursTo Emele-ward, to Ferrare, and Venyse,The which a long thyng were to devyse.And trewely, as to my juggement,Me thynketh it a thyng impertinent,Save that he wole convoyen his mateere.But this his tale, which that ye may heere.«Heere bigynneth the Tale of the Clerk of Oxenford.Ther is at the west syde of Ytaille,Doun at the roote of Vesulus the colde,A lusty playne, habundant of vitaille,Where many a tour and toun thou mayst biholdeThat founded were in tyme of fadres olde,And many another delitable sighte,And Saluces this noble contree highte.A markys whilom lord was of that lond,As were his worthy eldres hym bifore;And obeisant, ay redy to his hond,Were alle his liges, bothe lasse and moore.Thus in delit he lyveth and hath doon yoore,Biloved and drad thurgh favour of FortuneBothe of his lordes and of his commune.Therwith he was, to speke as of lynage,The gentilleste yborn of Lumbardye:A fair persone, and strong, and yong of age,And ful of honour and of curteisye,Discreet ynogh his contree for to gye –Save in somme thynges that he was to blame.And Walter was this yonge lordes name.I blame hym thus, that he considered noghtIn tyme comynge what hym myghte bityde,But on his lust present was al his thoght,As for to hauke and hunte on every syde.Wel ny alle othere cures leet he slyde.And eek he nolde – and that was worst of alle –Wedde no wyf for noght that may bifalle.Oonly that point his peple bar so sooreThat flokmeele on a day they to hym wente,And oon of hem, that wisest was of loore,Or elles that the lord best wolde assenteThat he sholde telle hym what his peple mente,Or elles koude he shewe wel swich mateere,He to the markys seyde as ye shul heere:»O noble markys, youre humaniteeAsseureth us to yeve us hardinesseAs ofte as tyme is of necessiteeThat we to yow mowe telle oure hevynesse.Accepteth, lord, now for youre gentillesse,That we with pitous herte unto yow pleyne,And lat youre eres nat my voys desdeyne.Al have I noght to doone in this mateereMoore than another man hath in this place,Yet for as muche as ye, my lord so deere,Han alwey shewed me favour and grace,I dar the bettre aske of yow a spaceOf audience to shewen oure requeste,And ye, my lord, to doon right as yow leste.For certes, lord, so wel us liketh yowAnd al youre werk, and evere han doon, that weNe koude nat us self devysen howWe myghte lyven in moore felicitee,Save o thyng, lord, if it youre wille be,That for to been a wedded man yow leste –Thanne were youre peple in sovereyn hertes reste.Boweth youre nekke under that blisful yokOf soveraynetee, noght of servyse,Which that men clepe spousaille or wedlok.And thenketh, lord, among youre thoghtes wyseHow that oure dayes passe in sondry wyse,For thogh we slepe, or wake, or rome, or ryde,Ay fleeth the tyme; it nyl no man abyde.And thogh youre grene youthe floure as yit,In crepeth age alwey as stille as stoon,And deeth manaceth every age, and smytIn ech estaat, for ther escapeth noon.And also certein as we knowe echoonThat we shul deye, as uncerteyn we alleBeen of that day whan deeth shal on us falle.Accepteth thanne of us the trewe entente,That nevere yet refuseden youre heeste,And we wol, lord, if that ye wole assente,Chese yow a wyf in short tyme atte leeste,Born of the gentilleste and of the meesteOf al this land, so that it oghte semeHonour to God and yow, as we kan deeme.Delivere us out of al this bisy dredeAnd taak a wyf, for hye Goddes sake!For if it so bifelle, as God forbede,That thurgh youre deeth youre lyne sholde slake,And that a straunge successour sholde takeYoure heritage, O wo were us alyve.Wherfore we pray you hastily to wyve.«Hir meeke preyere and hir pitous cheereMade the markys herte han pitee.»Ye wol,« quod he, »myn owene peple deere,To that I nevere erst thoughte streyne me.I me rejoysed of my liberte,That seelde tyme is founde in mariage.Ther I was free I moot been in servage.But nathelees I se youre trewe entente,And truste upon youre wit, and have doon ay;Wherfore of my free wyl I wole assenteTo wedde me as soone as evere I may.But ther as ye han profred me todayTo chese me a wyf, I yow relesseThat choys, and prey yow of that profre cesse.For God it woot that children ofte beenUnlyk hir worthy eldres hem bifore;Bountee comth al of God, nat of the streenOf which they been engendred and ybore.I truste in Goddes bountee, and therforeMy mariage and myn estaat and resteI hym bitake; he may doon as hym leste.Lat me allone in chesynge of my wyf.That charge upon my bak I wole endure
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