Chaucer, the Prologue, the Knightes Tale the Nonne Preestes Tale from the Canterbury Tales

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At the Clarendon Press, 1892 - 262 pages

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Page 2 - In felawshipe, and pilgrims were they alle, That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde; The chambres and the stables weren wyde, And wel we weren esed atte beste.
Page 18 - Up-on his feet, and in his hand a staf. This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf, That first he wroghte, and afterward he taughte; Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte; And this figure he added eek ther-to, That if gold ruste, what shal iren do?
Page 4 - With lokkes crulle, as they were leyd in presse. Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. Of his stature he was of evene lengthe, And wonderly deliver, and greet of strengthe.
Page 21 - Now is nat that of God a ful fair grace, That swich a lewed mannes wit shal pace The wisdom of an heep of lerned men?
Page 107 - A yerd she hadde, enclosed al aboute With stikkes, and a drye dich with-oute, In which she hadde a cok, hight Chauntecleer, In al the land of crowing nas his peer.
Page 6 - But for to speken of hir conscience, She was so charitable and so pitous, She wolde wepe, if that she saugh a mous Kaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. Of smale houndes hadde she, that she fedde With rosted flessh, or milk and wastel-breed. But soore weep she if oon of hem were deed, Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte; And al was conscience, and tendre herte.
Page 94 - What is this world? what asketh men to have? Now with his love, now in his colde grave Allone, with-outen any companye.
Page 26 - He may nat spare, al-thogh he were his brother; He moot as wel seye o word as another. Crist spak him-self ful brode in holy writ, And wel ye woot, no vileinye is it. 740 Eek Plato seith, who-so that can him rede, The wordes mote be cosin to the dede.
Page 6 - Hir nose tretys; hir eyen greye as glas; Hir mouth ful smal, and ther-to softe and reed; But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed; It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe; For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe.
Page 1 - Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour. Of which vertu engendred is the flour...

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