The Prologue

On metres and on rhyming craftily) Hath said them, in such English as he can, Of oldë time, as knoweth many a man. And if he have not said them, levë brother, In one book, he hath said them in another For he hath told of lovers up and down, More than Ovidë made of mentioun In his Epistolae, that be full old. Why should I tellë them, since they he told? In youth he made of Ceyx and Alcyon, And since then he hath spoke of every one These noble wivës, and these lovers eke. Whoso that will his largë volume seek Called the Saintës’ Legend of Cupíd: There may he see the largë woundës wide Of Lucrece, and of Babylon Thisbé; The sword of Dido for the false Enée; The tree of Phillis for her Demophon; The plaint of Diane, and of Hermion, Of Ariadne, and Hypsipilé; The barren islë standing in the sea; The drown’d Leander for his fair Heró; The tearës of Heléne, and eke the woe Of Briseïs, and Laodamia; The cruelty of thee, Queen Medeá, Thy little children hanging by the halse, For thy Jason, that was of love so false. Hypermnestra, Pénelop’, Alcest’, Your wifehood he commendeth with the best. But certainly no wordë writeth he Of thilkë wick’ example of Canacé, That loved her own brother sinfully; (Of all such cursed stories I say, Fy), Or else of Tyrius Apollonius, How that the cursed king Antiochus Bereft his daughter of her maidenhead; That is so horrible a tale to read, When he her threw upon the pavëment. And therefore he, of full avisëment, Would never write in none of his sermons Of such unkind abominatións; Nor I will none rehearse, if that I may. But of my tale how shall I do this day? Me were loth to be liken’d doubtëless To Muses, that men call Pieridés ( Metamorphoseos wot what I mean), But natheless I reckë not a bean, Though I come after him with hawëbake; I speak in prose, and let him rhymës make.” And with that word, he with a sober cheer Began his tale, and said as ye shall hear.