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noble Knightis of The Round Table,

      And eke the Douseperis honourable,

      Which they bere in the sign of victory,

      As witness of ther dedis mightily:

      Eke ther be Knightis old of the Gartir,

      That in ther timis did right worthily,

      And the honour they did to the laurir

      Is for by it they have ther laud wholly,

      Ther triumph eke and martial glory,

      Which unto them is more perfite riches

      Than any wight imagin can or gesse;

      For one Lefe givin of that noble tre

      To any wight that hath done worthily

      [An it be done so as it ought to be]

      Is more honour than any thing erthly,

      Witness of Rome, that foundir was truly

      Of all knighthode and dedis marvelous,

      Record I take of Titus Livius.

      And as for her that crounid is in grene,

      It is Flora, of these flouris goddesse,

      And all that here on her awaiting bene

      It are such folk that lovid idlenesse,

      And not delite in no kind besinesse

      But for to hunt, and hawke, and pley in medes,

      And many othir such like idle dedes.

      And for the grete delite and the plesaunce

      They have to the Flour, and so reverently

      They unto it doin such obeisaunce,

      As ye may se. Now, fair Madame! quod I,

      [If I durst ask] what is the cause and why

      That knightis have the ensign of honour

      Rathir by the Lefè than by the Flour?

      Sothly, doughtir, quod she, this is the truth,

      For knightes evir should be persevering

      To seke honour without feintise or slouth,

      Fro wele to bettir in all manir thing,

      In sign of which with levis ay lasting

      They be rewardid aftir ther degre.

      Whose lusty grene may not appairid be,

      But ay keping ther beauty fresh and grene,

      For ther n'is no storme that may them deface,

      Ne hail nor snowe, ne wind nor frostis kene,

      Wherefore they have this propirty and grace;

      And for the Flour within a litil space

      Wollin be lost, so simple of nature

      They be, that they no grevaunce may endure:

      And every storme woll blowe them sone away,

      Ne they lastè not but for a seson,

      That is the cause [the very trouth to say]

      That they may not by no way of reson

      Be put to no such occupacion.

      Madame, quod I, with all mine whole servise

      I thank you now in my most humble wise;

      For now I am ascertain'd thoroughly

      Of every thing I desirid to knowe.

      I am right glad that I have said, sothly,

      Ought to your plesure, (if ye will me trow.)

      Quod she ayen. But to whom do ye owe

      Your service, and which wollin ye honour

      [Pray tell me] this year, the Lefe or the Flour?

      Madam, quod I, although I lest worthy,

      Unto the Lefe I ow mine observaunce.

      That is, quod she, right wel done certainly,

      And I pray God to honour you advaunce,

      And kepe you fro the wickid remembraunce

      Of Melèbouch and all his cruiltie,

      And all that gode and well-condition'd be;

      For here I may no lengir now abide,

      But I must follow the grete company

      That ye may se yondir before you ride.

      And forthwith, as I couth most humily

      I toke my leve of her, and she gan hie

      Aftir them as fast as evir she might,

      And I drow homeward, for it was nigh night.

      And put all that I had sene in writing,

      Undir support of them that lust it rede.

      O little boke! thou art so unconning,

      How darst thou put thy self in prees for drede?

      It is wondir that thou wexist not rede,

      Sith that thou wost full lite who shall behold

      Thy rude langage full boystously unfold.

      THE WIF OF BATHES TALE

      In olde days of the King Artour,

      Of which that Bretons speken gret honour,

      All was this lond fulfilled of Faerie;

      The Elf quene with hire joly compagnie

      Danced ful oft in many a grene mede,

      This was the old opinion as I rede;

      I speke of many hundred yeres ago,

      But now can no man see non elves mo;

      For now the grete charitee and prayeres

      Of limitoures and other holy freres,

      That serchen every land and every streme,

      As thikke as motes in the sonne-beme,

      Blissing halles, chambres, kichenes, and boures,

      Citees and burghes, castles highe and toures,

      Thropes and bernes, shepenes and dairies,

      This maketh that ther ben no Faeries:

      For ther as wont to walken was an elf,

      Ther walketh now the limatour himself

      In undermeles and in morweninges,

      And sayth his matines and his holy thinges

      As he goth in his limitatioun.

      Women may now go safely up and doun,

      In every bush, and under every tree,

      Ther is non other Incubus but he,

      And he ne will don hem no dishonour.

      And so befell it that this King Artour

      Had in his hous a lusty bacheler,

      That on a day came riding fro river:

      And happed that, alone as she was borne,

      He saw a maiden walking him beforne,

      Of which maid he anon, maugre hire hed,

      By veray force beraft hire maidenhed:

      For which oppression was swiche clamour,

      And swiche pursuite unto the King Artour,

      That damned was this knight for to be ded,

      By cours of lawe, and shuld have lost his hed,

      (Paraventure swiche was the statute tho)

      But that the quene and other ladies mo

      So longe praieden the king of grace,

      Til he his lif him granted in

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