The Physician's Epilogue
The wordes of the Host to the Phisicien and the Pardoner.
Our Hoste gan to swere as he were wood,
‘Harrow!’ quod he, ‘by nayles and by blood!
This was a fals cherl and a fals Iustyse!
As shamful deeth as herte may devyse
Come to thise Iuges and hir advocats!
Algate this sely mayde is slayn, allas!
Allas! to dere boghte she beautee!
Wherfore I seye al day, as men may see,
That yiftes of fortune or of nature
Ben cause of deeth to many a creature.
Hir beautee was hir deeth, I dar wel sayn;
Allas! so pitously as she was slayn!
Of bothe yiftes that I speke of now
Men han ful ofte more harm than prow.
But trewely, myn owene mayster dere,
This is a pitous tale for to here.
But natheles, passe over, is no fors;
I prey to god, so save thy gentil cors,
And eek thyne urinals and thy Iordanes,
Thyn Ypocras, and eek thy Galianes,
And every boist ful of thy letuarie;
God blesse hem, and our lady seinte Marie!
So mot I theen, thou art a propre man,
And lyk a prelat, by seint Ronyan!
Seyde I nat wel? I can nat speke in terme;
But wel I woot, thou doost my herte to erme,
That I almost have caught a cardiacle.
By corpus bones! but I have triacle,
Or elles a draught of moyste and corny ale,
Or but I here anon a mery tale,
Myn herte is lost for pitee of this mayde.
Thou bel amy, thou Pardoner,’ he seyde,
‘Tel us som mirthe or Iapes right anon.’
‘It shall be doon,’ quod he, ‘by seint Ronyon!
But first,’ quod he, ‘heer at this ale-stake
I wol both drinke, and eten of a cake.’
But right anon thise gentils gonne to crye,
‘Nay! lat him telle us of no ribaudye;
Tel us som moral thing, that we may lere
Som wit, and thanne wol we gladly here.’
‘I graunte, y-wis,’ quod he, ‘but I mot thinke
Up-on som honest thing, whyl that I drinke.
The words of the Host to the Physician and the Pardoner.
Our Host ’gan to swear as he were wood,
“Harrow!” quoth he, “by nails and by blood!
This was a false churl and a false justice!
As shameful death as heart may devise
Come to these judges and their advocates!
Algate this seely maid is slain, alas!
Alas! too dear bought she beauty!
Wherefore I say all day, as men may see,
That gifts of fortune or of nature
Been cause of death to many a creature.
Her beauty was her death, I dare well sayn;
Alas! so piteously as she was slain!
Of both gifts that I speak of now
Men have full oft more for harm than prow.
But truly, mine own master dear,
This is a piteous tale for to hear.
But natheless, pass over, is no force;
I pray to god, so save thy gentil course,
And eke thine urinals and thy jordans,
Thine Hippocras, and eke thy Galianes,
And every boist full of thy ‘lectuary;
God bless ’em, and our lady saint Mary!
So mote I then, thou art a proper man,
And like a prelate, by saint Ronan!
Said I not well? I cannot speak in term;
But well I wot, thou doest my heart to erme,
That I almost have caught a cardiacle.
By corpus bones! But I have treacle,
Or else a draught of moist and corny ale,
Or but I hear anon a merry tale,
Mine heart is lost for pity of this maid.
Thou bel amy, thou Pardoner,” he said,
“Tell us some mirth or japes right anon.”
“It shall be done,” quoth he, “by saint Ronan!
But first,” quoth he, “here at this ale-stake
I will both drink, and eaten of a cake.”
But right anon these genteels ’gan to cry,
“Nay! let him tell us of no ribaldry;
Tell us some moral thing, that we may lere
Some wit, and then will we gladly hear.”
“I grant, y-wis,” quoth he, “but I mote think
Upon some honest thing, while that I drink.”
