The Canterbury Tales; CHAUCER'S TALE OF SIR THOPAS
Part
10
PROLOGUE
TO
CHAUCER'S
TALE
OF
SIR
THOPAS
Bihoold
the
murye
wordes
of
the
Hoost
to
Chaucer.
Whan
seyd
was
al
this
miracle,
every
man
As
sobre
was,
that
wonder
was
to
se,
Til
that
oure
Hooste
japen
tho
bigan,
And
thanne
at
erst
he
looked
upon
me,
And
seyde
thus,
"What
man
artow,"
quod
he,
"Thow
lookest
as
thou
woldest
fynde
an
hare,
For
ever
upon
the
ground
I
se
thee
stare.
Approche
neer,
and
looke
up
murily;
Now
war
yow,
sires,
and
lat
this
man
have
place.
He
in
the
waast
is
shape
as
wel
as
I;
This
were
a
popet
in
an
arm
tenbrace
For
any
womman
smal,
and
fair
of
face.
He
semeth
elvyssh
by
his
contenaunce,
For
unto
no
wight
dooth
he
daliaunce.
Sey
now
somwhat,
syn
oother
folk
han
sayd,
Telle
us
a
tale
of
myrthe,
and
that
anon."
"Hooste,"
quod
I,
"ne
beth
nat
yvele
apayed,
For
oother
tale
certes
kan
I
noon
But
of
a
ryme
I
lerned
longe
agoon."
"Ye,
that
is
good,"
quod
he,
"now
shul
we
heere
Som
deyntee
thyng,
me
thynketh
by
his
cheere."
Part
11
SIR
THOPAS
Heere
bigynneth
Chaucers
tale
of
Thopas.
Listeth,
lordes,
in
good
entent,
And
I
wol
telle
verrayment
Of
myrthe
and
of
solas,
Al
of
a
knyght
was
fair
and
gent
In
bataille
and
in
tourneyment,
His
name
was
Sir
Thopas.
Yborn
he
was
in
fer
contree,
In
Flaundres,
al
biyonde
the
see,
At
Poperyng
in
the
place;
His
fader
was
a
man
ful
free,
And
lord
he
was
of
that
contree,
As
it
was
Goddes
grace.
Sir
Thopas
wax
a
doghty
swayn,
Whit
was
his
face
as
payndemayn,
Hise
lippes
rede
as
rose;
His
rode
is
lyk
scarlet
in
grayn,
And
I
yow
telle,
in
good
certayn,
He
hadde
a
semely
nose.
His
heer,
his
berd,
was
lyk
saffroun,
That
to
his
girdel
raughte
adoun;
Hise
shoon
of
Cordewane.
Of
Brugges
were
his
hosen
broun,
His
robe
was
of
syklatoun
That
coste
many
a
jane.
He
koude
hunte
at
wilde
deer,
And
ride
an
haukyng
for
river,
With
grey
goshauk
on
honde,
Therto
he
was
a
good
archeer,
Of
wrastlyng
was
ther
noon
his
peer,
Ther
any
ram
shal
stonde.
Ful
many
a
mayde,
bright
in
bour,
They
moorne
for
hym,
paramour,
Whan
hem
were
bet
to
slepe;
But
he
was
chaast
and
no
lechour,
And
sweete
as
is
the
brembulflour
That
bereth
the
rede
hepe.
And
so
bifel
upon
a
day,
Frosothe
as
I
yow
telle
may,
Sir
Thopas
wolde
out
ride;
He
worth
upon
his
steede
gray,
And
in
his
hand
a
launcegay,
A
long
swerd
by
his
side.
The
priketh
thurgh
a
fair
forest,
Therinne
is
many
a
wilde
best,
Ye,
both
bukke
and
hare,
And
as
he
priketh
north
and
est,
I
telle
it
yow,
hym
hadde
almest
Bitidde
a
sory
care.
Ther
spryngen
herbes,
grete
and
smale,
The
lycorys
and
cetewale,
And
many
a
clowe-gylofre,
And
notemuge
to
putte
in
ale,
Wheither
it
be
moyste
or
stale,
Or
for
to
leye
in
cofre.
The
briddes
synge,
it
is
no
nay,
The
sparhauk
and
the
papejay
That
joye
it
was
to
heere,
The
thrustelcok
made
eek
hir
lay,
The
wodedowve
upon
a
spray
She
sang
ful
loude
and
cleere.
Sir
Thopas
fil
in
love-longynge,
Al
whan
he
herde
the
thrustel
synge,
And
pryked
as
he
were
wood;
His
faire
steede
in
his
prikynge
So
swatte
that
men
myghte
him
wrynge,
His
sydes
were
al
blood.
Sir
Thopas
eek
so
wery
was
For
prikyng
on
the
softe
gras,
So
fiers
was
his
corage,
That
doun
he
leyde
him
in
that
plas
To
make
his
steede
som
solas,
And
yaf
hym
good
forage.
"O
seinte
Marie,
benedicite,
What
eyleth
this
love
at
me
To
bynde
me
so
soore?
Me
dremed
al
this
nyght,
pardee,
An
elf-queene
shal
my
lemman
be,
And
slepe
under
my
goore.
An
elf-queene
wol
I
love,
ywis,
For
in
this
world
no
womman
is
Worthy
to
be
my
make
In
towne;
Alle
othere
wommen
I
forsake,
And
to
an
elf-queene
I
me
take
By
dale
and
eek
by
downe."
Into
his
sadel
he
clamb
anon,
And
priketh
over
stile
and
stoon
An
elf-queene
for
tespye,
Til
he
so
longe
hadde
riden
and
goon
That
he
foond,
in
a
pryve
woon,
The
contree
of
Fairye
So
wilde;
For
in
that
contree
was
ther
noon
That
to
him
dorste
ryde
or
goon,
Neither
wyf
ne
childe,
Til
that
ther
cam
a
greet
geaunt,
His
name
was
Sir
Olifaunt,
A
perilous
man
of
dede;
He
seyde
"Child,
by
Termagaunt,
But
if
thou
prike
out
of
myn
haunt,
Anon
I
sle
thy
steede
With
mace.
Heere
is
the
queene
of
Fayerye,
With
harpe
and
pipe
and
symphonye,
Dwellyng
in
this
place."
The
child
seyde,
"Also
moote
I
thee,
Tomorwe
wol
I
meete
with
thee,
Whan
I
have
myn
armoure.
And
yet
I
hope,
par
ma
fay,
That
thou
shalt
with
this
launcegay
Abyen
it
ful
sowre.
Thy
mawe
Shal
I
percen
if
I
may
Er
it
be
fully
pryme
of
day,
For
heere
thow
shalt
be
slawe."
Sir
Thopas
drow
abak
ful
faste,
This
geant
at
hym
stones
caste
Out
of
a
fel
staf-slynge;
But
faire
escapeth
Child
Thopas,
And
al
it
was
thurgh
Goddes
gras,
And
thurgh
his
fair
berynge.
Yet
listeth,
lordes,
to
my
tale,
Murier
than
the
nightyngale,
For
now
I
wol
yow
rowne
How
Sir
Thopas,
with
sydes
smale,
Prikyng
over
hill
and
dale
Is
comen
agayn
to
towne.
His
murie
men
comanded
he
To
make
hym
bothe
game
and
glee,
For
nedes
moste
he
fighte
With
a
geaunt
with
hevedes
three,
For
paramour
and
jolitee
Of
oon
that
shoon
ful
brighte.
"Do
come,:
he
seyde,
"my
mynstrales,
And
geestours,
for
to
tellen
tales
Anon
in
myn
armynge;
Of
romances
that
been
roiales,
Of
Popes
and
of
Cardinales,
And
eek
of
love-likynge."
They
fette
hym
first
the
sweete
wyn,
And
mede
eek
in
a
mazelyn,
And
roial
spicerye,
And
gyngebreed
that
was
ful
fyn,
And
lycorys,
and
eek
comyn,
With
sugre
that
is
so
trye.
He
dide
next
his
white
leere
Of
clooth
of
lake,
fyn
and
cleere,
A
breech,
and
eek
a
sherte,
And
next
his
sherte
an
aketoun,
And
over
that
an
haubergeoun,
For
percynge
of
his
herte.
And
over
that
a
fyn
hawberk,
Was
al
ywroght
of
Jewes
werk,
Ful
strong
it
was
of
plate.
And
over
that
his
cote-armour
As
whit
as
is
a
lilye
flour,
In
which
he
wol
debate.
His
sheeld
was
al
of
gold
so
reed,
And
therinne
was
a
bores
heed,
A
charbocle
bisyde;
And
there
he
swoor
on
ale
and
breed,
How
that
"the
geaunt
shal
be
deed
Bityde
what
bityde!"
Hise
jambeux
were
of
quyrboilly,
His
swerdes
shethe
of
yvory,
His
helm
of
laton
bright,
His
sadel
was
of
rewel-boon,
His
brydel
as
the
sonne
shoon,
Or
as
the
moone
light.
His
spere
it
was
of
fyn
ciprees,
That
bodeth
werre,
and
no
thyng
pees,
The
heed
ful
sharpe
ygrounde;
His
steede
was
al
dappull-gray,
It
gooth
an
ambil
in
the
way
Ful
softely
and
rounde
In
londe.
Loo,
lordes
myne,
heere
is
a
fit;
If
ye
wol
any
moore
of
it,
To
telle
it
wol
I
fonde.
The
Second
Fit.
Now
holde
youre
mouth,
par
charitee,
Bothe
knyght
and
lady
free,
And
herkneth
to
my
spelle;
Of
batailles
and
of
chivalry
And
of
ladyes
love-drury
Anon
I
wol
yow
telle.
Men
speken
of
romances
of
prys,
Of
Hornchild,
and
of
Ypotys,
Of
Beves
and
Sir
Gy,
Of
Sir
Lybeux
and
Pleyndamour,
But
Sir
Thopas,
he
bereth
the
flour
Of
roial
chivalry.
His
goode
steede
al
he
bistrood,
And
forth
upon
his
wey
he
glood
As
sparcle
out
of
the
bronde.
Upon
his
creest
he
bar
a
tour,
And
therinne
stiked
a
lilie-flour;
God
shilde
his
cors
fro
shonde!
And
for
he
was
a
knyght
auntrous,
He
nolde
slepen
in
noon
hous,
But
liggen
in
his
hoode.
His
brighte
helm
was
his
wonger,
And
by
hym
baiteth
his
dextrer
Of
herbes
fyne
and
goode.
Hym-self
drank
water
of
the
well,
As
dide
the
knyght
sir
Percyvell
So
worly
under
wede,
Til
on
a
day—————-
Heere
the
Hoost
stynteth
Chaucer
of
his
Tale
of
Thopas.
"Na
moore
of
this,
for
Goddes
dignitee,"
Quod
oure
hooste,
"for
thou
makest
me
So
wery
of
thy
verray
lewednesse,
That
also
wisly
God
my
soule
blesse,
Min
eres
aken
of
thy
drasty
speche.
Now
swich
a
rym
the
devel
I
biteche!
This
may
wel
be
rym
dogerel,"
quod
he.
"Why
so?"
quod
I,
"why
wiltow
lette
me
Moore
of
my
tale
than
another
man
Syn
that
it
is
the
beste
tale
I
kan?"
"By
God,"
quod
he,
"for
pleynly
at
a
word
Thy
drasty
rymyng
is
nat
worth
a
toord,
Thou
doost
noght
elles
but
despendest
tyme.
Sir,
at
o
word
thou
shalt
no
lenger
ryme.
Lat
se
wher
thou
kanst
tellen
aught
in
geeste,
Or
telle
in
prose
somwhat,
at
the
leeste,
In
which
ther
be
som
murthe
or
som
doctryne."
"Gladly,"
quod
I,
"by
Goddes
sweete
pyne,
I
wol
yow
telle
a
litel
thyng
in
prose,
That
oghte
liken
yow
as
I
suppose,
Or
elles,
certes,
ye
been
to
daungerous.
It
is
a
moral
tale
vertuous,
Al
be
it
take
somtyme
in
sondry
wyse
Of
sondry
folk
as
I
shal
yow
devyse.
As
thus;
ye
woot
that
every
Evaungelist
That
telleth
us
the
peyne
of
Jesu
Crist
Ne
seith
nat
alle
thyng
as
his
felawe
dooth,
But,
nathelees,
hir
sentence
is
al
sooth,
And
alle
acorden
as
in
hir
sentence,
Al
be
her
in
hir
tellyng
difference.
For
somme
of
hem
seyn
moore,
and
somme
seyn
lesse,
Whan
they
his
pitous
passioun
expresse;
I
meene
of
Marke,
Mathew,
Luc,
and
John,
But
doutelees
hir
sentence
is
al
oon,
Therfore,
lordynges
alle,
I
yow
biseche
If
that
yow
thynke
I
varie
as
in
my
speche,
As
thus,
though
that
I
telle
somwhat
moore
Of
proverbes,
than
ye
han
herd
bifoore,
Comprehended
in
this
litel
tretys
heere,
To
enforce
with
theffect
of
my
mateere,
And
though
I
nat
the
same
wordes
seye
As
ye
han
herd,
yet
to
yow
alle
I
preye,
Blameth
me
nat;
for,
as
in
my
sentence
Ye
shul
nat
fynden
moche
difference
Fro
the
sentence
of
this
tretys
lyte
After
the
which
this
murye
tale
I
write.
And
therfore
herkneth
what
that
I
shal
seye,
And
lat
me
tellen
al
my
tale,
I
preye."
THE
TALE
(in
prose).
(A
young
man
called
Melibeus,
whose
wife
Prudence
and
daughter
Sophie
(Wisdom)
are
maltreated
by
his
foes
in
his
absence,
is
counseled
with
many
wise
sayings
uttered
by
his
wife
tending
toward
peace
and
forgiveness,
instead
of
revenge.)
