The Clerk’s Prologue
Here folweth the Prologe of the Clerkes Tale of Oxenford.
’Sir clerk of Oxenford,’ our hoste sayde,
‘Ye ryde as coy and stille as dooth a mayde,
Were newe spoused, sitting at the bord;
This day ne herde I of your tonge a word.
I trowe ye studie aboute som sophyme,
But Salomon seith, “every thing hath tyme.”
For goddes sake, as beth of bettre chere,
It is no tyme for to studien here.
Telle us som mery tale, by your fey;
For what man that is entred in a pley,
He nedes moot unto the pley assente.
But precheth nat, as freres doon in Lente,
To make us for our olde sinnes wepe,
Ne that thy tale make us nat to slepe.
Telle us som mery thing of aventures;—
Your termes, your colours, and your figures,
Kepe hem in stoor til so be ye endyte
Heigh style, as whan that men to kinges wryte.
Speketh so pleyn at this tyme, I yow preye,
That we may understonde what ye seye.’
This worthy clerk benignely answerde,
‘Hoste,’ quod he, ‘I am under your yerde;
Ye han of us as now the governaunce,
And therfor wol I do yow obeisaunce,
As fer as reson axeth, hardily.
I wol yow telle a tale which that I
Lerned at Padowe 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 Petrark, the laureat poete,
Highte this clerk, whos rethoryke sweete
Enlumined al Itaille of poetrye,
As Linian dide of philosophye
Or lawe, or other art particuler;
But deeth, that wol nat suffre us dwellen heer
But as it were a twinkling of an yë,
Hem bothe hath slayn, and alle shul we dyë.
But forth to tellen of this worthy man,
That taughte me this tale, as I bigan,
I seye that first with heigh style he endyteth,
Er he the body of his tale wryteth,
A proheme, in the which discryveth he
Pemond, and of Saluces the contree,
And speketh of Apennyn, the hilles hye,
That been the boundes of West Lumbardye,
And of Mount Vesulus in special,
Where as the Poo, out of a welle smal,
Taketh his firste springing and his sours,
That estward ay encresseth in his cours
To Emelward, to Ferrare, and Venyse:
The which a long thing were to devyse.
And trewely, as to my Iugement,
Me thinketh it a thing impertinent,
Save that he wol conveyen his matere:
But this his tale, which that ye may here.’
Here followeth the Prologue of the Clerk’s Tale of Oxford.
“Sir clerk of Oxford,” our host said,
“Ye ride as coy and still as doth a maid,
Were new spoused, sitting at the board;
This day ne heard I of your tongue a word.
I trow ye study about some sophism;
But Solomon saith ‘every thing hath time.’
For god’s sake, as beeth of better cheer!
It is no time for to studyen here.
Tell us some merry tale, by your fay;
For what man that is entered in a play,
He needs mote unto the play assent.
But preacheth not, as friars do in Lent,
To make us for our old sins weep,
Ne that thy tale make us not to sleep.
Tell us some merry thing of adventures;—
Your terms, your colours, and your figures,
Keep ’em in store till so be ye indite
High style, as when that men to kings write.
Speaketh so plain at this time, I you pray,
That we may understand what ye say.”
This worthy clerk benignly answered,
“Host,” quoth he, “I am under your yard;
Ye have of us as now the governance,
And therefore will I do you obeisance,
As far as reason asketh, hardily.
I will you tell a tale which that I
Learned at Padua of a worthy clerk,
As proved by his words and his work.
He is now dead and nailed in his chest,
I pray to god so give his soul rest!
Francis Petrarch, the laureate poet,
Hight this clerk, whose rhetoric sweet
Illumined all Itail of poetry,
As Lignan did of philosophy
Or law, or other art particular;
But death, that will not suffer us dwellen here
But as it were a twinkling of an eye,
’Em both hath slain, and all shall we die.
But forth to tellen of this worthy man,
That taught me this tale, as I began,
I say that first with high style he inditeth,
Ere he the body of his tale writeth,
A proem, in the which describeth he
Piedmont, and of Saluzzo the country,
And speaketh of Appenine, the hills high,
That be the bounds of West Lombardy,
And of Mount Vesulus in special,
Whereas the Po, out of a well small,
Taketh his first springing and his source,
That eastward aye increaseth in his course
To Emilia-ward, to Ferrara, and Venice:
The which a long thing were to devise.
And truly, as to my judgement,
Methinketh it a thing impertinent,
Save that he will conveyen his matter:
But this his tale, which that ye may hear.”
