The Reeve's Prologue
The prologe of the Reves tale.
Whan folk had laughen at this nyce cas
Of Absolon and hende Nicholas,
Diverse folk diversely they seyde;
But, for the more part, they loughe and pleyde,
Ne at this tale I saugh no man him greve,
But it were only Osewold the Reve,
By-cause he was of carpenteres craft.
A litel ire is in his herte y-laft,
He gan to grucche and blamed it a lyte.
‘So theek,’ quod he, ‘ful wel coude I yow quyte
With blering of a proud milleres yë,
If that me liste speke of ribaudye.
But ik am old, me list not pley for age;
Gras-tyme is doon, my fodder is now forage,
This whyte top wryteth myne olde yeres,
Myn herte is al-so mowled as myne heres,
But-if I fare as dooth an open-ers;
That ilke fruit is ever leng the wers,
Til it be roten in mullok or in stree.
We olde men, I drede, so fare we;
Til we be roten, can we nat be rype;
We hoppen ay, whyl that the world wol pype.
For in oure wil ther stiketh ever a nayl,
To have an hoor heed and a grene tayl,
As hath a leek; for thogh our might be goon,
Our wil desireth folie ever in oon.
For whan we may nat doon, than wol we speke;
Yet in our asshen olde is fyr y-reke.
Foure gledes han we, whiche I shal devyse,
Avaunting, lying, anger, coveityse;
Thise foure sparkles longen un-to elde.
Our olde lemes mowe wel been unwelde,
But wil ne shal nat faillen, that is sooth.
And yet ik have alwey a coltes tooth,
As many a yeer as it is passed henne
Sin that my tappe of lyf bigan to renne.
For sikerly, whan I was bore, anon
Deeth drogh the tappe of lyf and leet it gon;
And ever sith hath so the tappe y-ronne,
Til that almost al empty is the tonne.
The streem of lyf now droppeth on the chimbe;
The sely tonge may wel ringe and chimbe
Of wrecchednesse that passed is ful yore;
With olde folk, save dotage, is namore.’
Whan that our host hadde herd this sermoning,
He gan to speke as lordly as a king;
He seide, ‘what amounteth al this wit?
What shul we speke alday of holy writ?
The devel made a reve for to preche,
And of a souter a shipman or a leche.
Sey forth thy tale, and tarie nat the tyme,
Lo, Depeford! and it is half-way pryme.
Lo, Grenewich, ther many a shrewe is inne;
It were al tyme thy tale to biginne.’
‘Now, sires,’ quod this Osewold the Reve,
‘I pray yow alle that ye nat yow greve,
Thogh I answere and somdel sette his howve;
For leveful is with force force of-showve.
This dronke millere hath y-told us heer,
How that bigyled was a carpenteer,
Peraventure in scorn, for I am oon.
And, by your leve, I shal him quyte anoon;
Right in his cherles termes wol I speke.
I pray to god his nekke mote breke;
He can wel in myn yë seen a stalke,
But in his owne he can nat seen a balke.’
The prologue of the Reeve’s tale.
When folk had laughen at this nice case
Of Absolon and hend Nicholas,
Diverse folk diversely they said;
But, for the more part, they laugh and played,
Ne at this tale I saw no man him grieve,
But it were only Oswald the Reeve,
Because he was of carpenters craft.
A little ire is in his heart y-left,
He ’gan to grouch and blamed it a lite.
“So theek,” quoth he, “full well could I you quite
With blurring of a proud miller’s eye,
If that me list speak of ribaldry.
But I am old, me list not play for age;
Grass time is done, my fodder is now forage;
This white top writeth mine old years;
Mine heart is also mouled as mine hairs,
But if I fare as doth an open-ers;
That ilk fruit is ever long the worse,
Till it be rotten in mullock or in stree.
We old men, I dread, so fare we;
Till we be rotten, can we not be ripe;
We hoppen aye, while that the world will pipe.
For in our will there sticketh ever a nail,
To have an hoar head and a green tail,
As hath a leek; for though our might be gone,
Our will desireth folly ever in one.
For when we may not do, then will we speak;
Yet in our ashen old is fire y-rake.
Four gleeds have we, which I shall devise,
A-vaunting, lying, anger, covetise;
These four sparkles longen unto eld.
Our old limbs may well been unwield.
But will ne shall not failen, that is sooth.
And yet I have alway a colt’s tooth,
As many a year as it is passed hen
Since that my tap of life began to run.
For sickerly, when I was bore, anon
Death drew the tap of life and let it gon;
And ever sith hath so the tap y-run,
Till that almost all empty is the tun.
The stream of life now droppeth on the chime;
The seely tongue may well ring and chime
Of wretchedness that passed is full yore;
With old folk, save dotage, is no more.”
When that our host had heard this sermoning,
He ’gan to speak as lordly as a king;
He said, “what amounteth all this wit?
What shall we speak all day of holy writ?
The devil made a reeve for to preach,
And of a souter a shipman or a leech.
Say forth thy tale, and tarry not the time,
Lo Deptford! and it is half-way prime.
Lo Greenwich, there many a shrew is in;
It were all time thy tale to begin.”
“Now, sires,” quoth this Oswald the Reeve,
“I pray you all that ye not you grieve,
Though I answer and somedeal set his hove;
For lawful is with force force off-shove.
This drunk Miller hath y-told us here,
How that beguiled was a carpenter,
Peradventure in scorn, for I am one.
And, by your leave, I shall him quite anon;
Right in his churl’s terms will I speak.
I pray to god his neck mote break;
He can well in mine eye see a stalk,
But in his own he cannot see a baulk.”
