'SIR Clerk of Oxenford,' our Hoste said, 'Ye ride as still and coy, as doth a maid That were new spoused, sitting at the board: This day I heard not of your tongue a word. I trow ye study about some sophime:* *sophism But Solomon saith, every thing hath time.
For Godde’s sake, be of *better cheer,* *livelier mien* It is no time for to study here. Tell us some merry tale, by your fay;* *faith For what man that is entered in a play, He needes must unto that play assent.
But preache not, as friars do in Lent, To make us for our olde sinnes weep, Nor that thy tale make us not to sleep. Tell us some merry thing of aventures.
Your terms, your coloures, and your figures, Keep them in store, till so be ye indite High style, as when that men to kinges write. Speake so plain at this time, I you pray, That we may understande what ye say.
' This worthy Clerk benignely answer’d; 'Hoste,' quoth he, 'I am under your yerd,* *rod <1> Ye have of us as now the governance, And therefore would I do you obeisance, As far as reason asketh, hardily:* *boldly, truly I will you tell a tale, which that I Learn’d at Padova of a worthy clerk, As proved by his wordes and his werk.
He is now dead, and nailed in his chest, I pray to God to give his soul good rest.
Francis Petrarc’, the laureate poet,<2> Highte* this clerk, whose rhetoric so sweet *was called Illumin’d all Itale of poetry, As Linian <3> did of philosophy, Or law, or other art particulere: But death, that will not suffer us dwell here But as it were a twinkling of an eye, Them both hath slain, and