Your yën two wol sle me soden… I may the beaute of hem not susten… So woundeth hit through-out my her… And but your word wol helen hastil… My hertes wounde, whyl that hit is…

Now welcome Summer with thy sunne… That hast this winter’s weathers o… And driven away the longe nighties… Saint Valentine, that art full hi… Thus singen smalle fowles for thy…

Adam scriveyn, if ever it thee bif… Boece or Troylus for to wryten ne… Under thy long lokkes thou most ha… But after my makyng thow wryte mor… So ofte adaye I mot thy werk rene…

Madame, for youre newefangelnesse, Many a servant have ye put out of… I take my leve of your unstedefast… For wel I woot, whil ye have live… Ye can not love ful half yeer in a…

Your two great eyes will slay me s… Their beauty shakes me who was onc… Straight through my heart the woun… Only your word will heal the injur… To my hurt heart, while yet the wo…

I. 1. Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly I may the beaute of them not suste… So wendeth it thorowout my herte k… And but your words will helen hast…

THE Cook of London, while the R… For joy he laugh’d and clapp’d him… ‘Aha!’ quoth he, 'for Christes pa… This Miller had a sharp conclusio… Upon this argument of herbergage.*…

This worthy limitour, this noble… He made always a manner louring ch… Upon the Sompnour; but for honest… No villain word as yet to him spak… But at the last he said unto the…

Sometime this world was so steadfa… That man’s word was held obligatio… And now it is so false and deceiva… That word and work, as in conclusi… Be nothing one; for turned up so d…

FLY from the press, and dwell wit… Suffice unto thy good, though it b… For hoard hath hate, and climbing… Preise hath envie, and weal is ble… Savor no more than thee behoven sh…

WHEN said was this miracle, ever… As sober* was, that wonder was to… Till that our Host to japen* he b… And then *at erst* he looked upon… And saide thus; ‘What man art tho…

Adam Scrivener, if ever it thee b… Boece or Troilus for to write ane… Under thy long locks thou may’st h… But after my making thou write mor… So oft a day I must thy work rene…

PROLOGUE Here bygynneth the Book of the ta… Whan that Aprille, with hise shou… The droghte of March hath perced… And bathed every veyne in swich li…

In Oxford there once lived a rich… Who had some guest rooms that he r… And carpentry was this old fellow’… A poor young scholar boarded who h… His studies in the liberal arts, b…

Alone walking In thought plaining, And sore sighing; All desolate, Me rememb’ring