The Canterbury Tales; THE MILLERES TALE
PROLOGUE
TO
THE
MILLERES
TALE
Heere
folwen
the
wordes
bitwene
the
Hoost
and
the
Millere
Whan
that
the
Knyght
had
thus
his
tale
ytoold,
In
al
the
route
ne
was
ther
yong
ne
oold
That
he
ne
seyde
it
was
a
noble
storie,
And
worthy
for
to
drawen
to
memorie;
And
namely
the
gentils
everichon.
Oure
Hooste
lough,
and
swoor,
"So
moot
I
gon,
This
gooth
aright,
unbokeled
is
the
male,
Lat
se
now
who
shal
telle
another
tale,
For
trewely
the
game
is
wel
bigonne.
Now
telleth
on,
sir
Monk,
if
that
ye
konne
Somwhat
to
quite
with
the
Knyghtes
tale."
The
Miller
that
for-dronken
was
al
pale,
So
that
unnethe
upon
his
hors
he
sat,
He
nolde
avalen
neither
hood
ne
hat,
Ne
abyde
no
man
for
his
curteisie,
But
in
Pilates
voys
he
gan
to
crie,
And
swoor
by
armes
and
by
blood
and
bones,
"I
kan
a
noble
tale
for
the
nones,
With
which
I
wol
now
quite
the
Knyghtes
tale."
Oure
Hooste
saugh
that
he
was
dronke
of
ale,
And
seyde,
"Abyd,
Robyn,
my
leeve
brother,
Som
bettre
man
shal
telle
us
first
another,
Abyd,
and
lat
us
werken
thriftily."
"By
Goddes
soule,"
quod
he,
"that
wol
nat
I,
For
I
wol
speke,
or
elles
go
my
wey."
Oure
Hoost
answerde,
"Tel
on,
a
devele
wey!
Thou
art
a
fool,
thy
wit
is
overcome!
"Now
herkneth,"
quod
the
Miller,
"alle
and
some,
But
first
I
make
a
protestacioun
That
I
am
dronke,
I
knowe
it
by
my
soun;
And
therfore,
if
that
I
mysspeke
or
seye,
Wyte
it
the
ale
of
Southwerk
I
you
preye.
For
I
wol
telle
a
legende
and
a
lyf
Bothe
of
a
carpenter
and
of
his
wyf,
How
that
a
clerk
hath
set
the
wrightes
cappe."
The
Rev
answerde
and
seyde,
"Stynt
thy
clappe,
Lat
be
thy
lewed
dronken
harlotrye,
It
is
a
synne
and
eek
a
greet
folye
To
apeyren
any
man
or
hym
defame,
And
eek
to
bryngen
wyves
in
swich
fame;
Thou
mayst
ynogh
of
othere
thynges
seyn."
This
dronke
Miller
spak
ful
soone
ageyn,
And
seyde,
"Leve
brother
Osewold,
Who
hath
no
wyf,
he
is
no
cokewold.
But
I
sey
nat
therfore
that
thou
art
oon,
Ther
been
ful
goode
wyves
many
oon,
And
evere
a
thousand
goode
ayeyns
oon
badde;
That
knowestow
wel
thyself,
but
if
thou
madde.
Why
artow
angry
with
my
tale
now?
I
have
a
wyf,
pardee,
as
wel
as
thow,
Yet
nolde
I
for
the
oxen
in
my
plogh
Take
upon
me
moore
than
ynogh,
As
demen
of
myself
that
I
were
oon;
I
wol
bileve
wel,
that
I
am
noon.
An
housbonde
shal
nat
been
inquisityf
Of
Goddes
pryvetee,
nor
of
his
wyf.
So
he
may
fynde
Goddes
foysoun
there,
Of
the
remenant
nedeth
nat
enquere."
What
sholde
I
moore
seyn,
but
this
Miller
He
nolde
his
wordes
for
no
man
forbere,
But
tolde
his
cherles
tale
in
his
manere;
Me
thynketh
that
I
shal
reherce
it
heere.
And
therfore
every
gentil
wight
I
preye,
For
Goddes
love,
demeth
nat
that
I
seye
Of
yvel
entente,
but
that
I
moot
reherce
Hir
tales
alle,
be
they
bettre
or
werse,
Or
elles
falsen
som
of
my
mateere.
And
therfore
who-so
list
it
nat
yheere,
Turne
over
the
leef,
and
chese
another
tale;
For
he
shal
fynde
ynowe,
grete
and
smale,
Of
storial
thyng
that
toucheth
gentillesse,
And
eek
moralitee,
and
hoolynesse.
Blameth
nat
me
if
that
ye
chese
amys;
The
Miller
is
a
cherl,
ye
knowe
wel
this,
So
was
the
Reve,
and
othere
manye
mo,
And
harlotrie
they
tolden
bothe
two.
Avyseth
yow,
and
put
me
out
of
blame,
And
eek
men
shal
nat
maken
ernest
of
game.
THE
TALE
(One
John,
a
rich
and
credulous
carpenter
of
Oxford,
is
beguiled
by
his
wife
Alison,
through
Nicholas,
a
poor
scholar
boarding
with
them.
Absolon,
the
parish
clerk,
is
slighted
by
Alison;
but
wreaks
vengeance
on
Nicholas.)
