‘Well said, by Corpus Dominus,’ quoth our Host,
‘Now longë mayest thou sailë by the coast,
Sir gentle master, gentle mariner! ...
Draw ye no monkës more unto your inn!
But now pass on, and let us seek about
Who shall now tellë first, of all this rout,
Another tale;’ and with that word he said,
As courteously as it had been a maid,
‘My lady Prioressë, by your leave,
So that I wist I shouldë you not grieve,
I wouldë deemen that ye tellen should
A talë next, if so were that ye would.
Now will ye vouchësafe, my lady dear?’
‘Gladly,’ quoth she, and said as ye shall hear.

The gentle lady tells that charming tale which Burne-Jones so loved and adorned, of the little scholar murdered by Jews for his devotion to the Blessed Virgin, and sustained miraculously by her power. Chaucer loved the Prioress; and he makes us feel the reverent hush which followed upon her tale—

When said was all this miracle, every man
So sober was, that wonder was to see,
Till that our Hostë japen then began,
And then at erst he lookëd upon me,
And saidë thus: ‘What man art thou?’ quoth he;
‘Thou lookest as thou wouldest find an hare,
For ever upon the ground I see thee stare.
Approachë near, and look up merrily.
Now ware you, sirs, and let this man have place!
He in the waist is shape as well as I;
This were a puppet in an arm to embrace
For any woman, small and fair of face!
He seemeth elvish by his countenance,
For unto no wight doth he dalliance.
Say now somewhat, since other folk have said;
Tell us a tale of mirth, and that anon....’

Chaucer executes himself as willingly as the rest, and enters upon a long-winded tale of knight-errantry, parodied from the romances in vogue; but the Age of Chivalry is already half past. Before the poet has even finished the preliminary catalogue of his hero’s accomplishments—

‘No more of this, for Goddës dignitee,’
Quoth our Hostë, ‘for thou makest me
So weary of thy very lewedness[folly
That (all so wisely God my soulë bless)
Mine earës achen of thy drasty speech[trashy
Now, such a rhyme the devil I biteche![commit to
This may well be rhyme doggerel,’ quoth he.

Chaucer suffers the interruption with only the mildest of protests, and proceeds to tell instead “a lytel thing in prose,” a translation of a French translation of a long-winded moral allegory by an Italian friar-preacher. The monumental dulness of this “Tale of Melibee and of his wife Prudence” is no doubt a further stroke of satire, and Chaucer must have felt himself amply avenged in recounting this story to the bitter end. Yet there was a moral in it which appealed to the Host, who burst out—

... as I am a faithful man
And by that precious corpus Madrian[St. Mathurin
I haddë liever than a barrel ale
That goodë lief my wife had heard this tale.
For she is nothing of such patience
As was this Melibeus’ wife Prudence.
By Goddës bonës, when I beat my knaves,
She bringeth me forth the greatë clubbëd staves,
And crieth ‘Slay the doggës every one.
And break them, bothë back and every bone!’
And if that any neighëbour of mine,
Will not in churchë to my wife incline,
Or be so hardy to her to trespass,
When she com’th home she rampeth in my face
And crieth ‘Falsë coward, wreak thy wife!
By corpus bones! I will have thy knife,
And thou shalt have my distaff and go spin!’

The Host has plenty more to say on this theme; but presently he remembers his duties, and calls upon the Monk for a tale, though not without another long digression on monastic comforts and monastic morals, from the point of view of the man in the street. The Monk takes all his broad jesting with the good humour of a man who is used to it, and offers to tell some tragedies, “of which I have an hundred in my cell.” After a few harmless pedantries by way of prologue, he proceeds to reel off instalments of his hundred tragedies with the steady, self-satisfied, merciless drone of a man whose office and cloth generally assure him of a patient hearing. Here, however, we are no longer in the minster, but in God’s own sunlight and fresh air; the Pilgrim’s Way is Liberty Hall; and while Dan Piers is yet moralizing with damnable iteration over the ninth of his fallen heroes, the Knight suddenly interrupts him—the Knight himself, who never yet no villainy ne said, in all his life, unto no manner wight!

‘Ho!’ quoth the Knight, ‘good sir, no more of this!
What ye have said is right enough, ywis[certainly
And muckle more; for little heaviness
Is right enough to many folk, I guess.
I say for me it is a great dis-ease,
Where as men have been in great wealth and ease
To hearen of their sudden fall, alas!
And the contrary is joy and great solace ...
And of such thing were goodly for to tell.’
‘Yea,’ quoth our Host, ‘by Saintë Paulës Bell! ...
Sir Monk, no more of this, so God you bless,
Your tale annoyeth all this companye;
Such talking is not worth a butterflye,
For therein is there no desport nor game.
Wherefore, sire Monk, or Dan Piers by your name,
I pray you heartily, tell us somewhat else;
For surely, but for clinking of your bells
That on your bridle hang on every side,
By Heaven’s King, that for us allë died,
I should ere this have fallen down for sleep,
Although the slough had never been so deep ...
Sir, say somewhat of hunting, I you pray.’
‘Nay,’ quoth this Monk, ‘I have no lust to play;
Now let another tell, as I have told.’
Then spake our Host with rudë speech and bold,
And said unto the Nunnës Priest anon,
‘Come near, thou Priest, come hither, thou Sir John!
Tell us such thing as may our heartës glad;
Be blithë, though thou ride upon a jade.
What though thine horse be bothë foul and lean?
If it will serve thee, reck thou not a bean;
Look that thine heart be merry evermo!’