Our Hostë saw well that the brightë sun Th’ arc of his artificial day had run The fourthë part, and half an hourë more; And, though he were not deep expert in lore, He wist it was the eight-and-twenty day Of April, that is messenger to May; And saw well that the shadow of every tree Was in its length of the same quantity That was the body erect that caused it; And therefore by the shadow he took his wit, That Phoebus, which that shone so clear and bright, Degrees was five-and-forty clomb on height; And for that day, as in that latitude, It was ten of the clock, he gan conclude; And suddenly he plight his horse about.
“Lordings,” quoth he, “I warn you all this rout, The fourthë partie of this day is gone. Now for the love of God and of Saint John Losë no time, as farforth as ye may. Lordings, the timë wasteth night and day, And steals from us, what privily sleepíng, And what through negligence in our wakíng, As doth the stream, that turneth never again, Descending from the mountain to the plain. Well might Senec, and many a philosópher, Bewailë timë more than gold in coffer. For loss of chattels may recover’d be, But loss of timë shendeth us, quoth he. It will not come again, withoutë dread, No morë than will Malkin’s maidenhead, When she hath lost it in her wantonness. Let us not mouldë thus in idleness. Sir Man of Law,” quoth he, “so have ye bliss, Tell us a tale anon, as forword is. Ye be submitted through your free assent To stand in this case at my judgëment. Acquit you now, and holdë your behest; Then have ye done your dévoir at the least.”
“Hostë,” quoth he, “ de par dieux jeo asente ; To breakë forword is not mine intent. Behest is debt, and I would hold it fain, All my behest; I can no better sayn. For such law as a man gives another wight, He should himselfë usen it by right. Thus will our text: but natheless certáin I can right now no thrifty talë sayn, But Chaucer (though he can but lewëdly