cast off her smock;” and farthermo’, “A fair woman, but she be chaste also, Is like a gold ring in a sowë’s nose.” Who couldë ween, or who couldë suppose The woe that in mine heart was, and the pine? And when I saw that he would never fine To readen on this cursed book all night, All suddenly three leavës have I plight Out of his book, right as he read, and eke I with my fist so took him on the cheek, That in our fire he backward fell adown. And he up start, as doth a wood lión, And with his fist he smote me on the head, That on the floor I lay as I were dead. And when he saw how still that there I lay, He was aghast, and would have fled away, Till at the last out of my swoon I braid, “Oh, hast thou slain me, thou false thief?” I said, “And for my land thus hast thou murder’d me? Ere I be dead, yet will I kissë thee.” And near he came, and kneeled fair adown, And saidë, “Dearë sister Alisoun, As help me God, I shall thee never smite: That I have done it is thyself to wite, Forgive it me, and that I thee beseek.” And yet eftsoons I hit him on the cheek, And saidë, “Thief, thus much am I awreak. Now will I die, I may no longer speak.”
But at the last, with muchë care and woe We fell accorded by ourselvës two: He gave me all the bridle in mine hand To have the governance of house and land, And of his tongue, and of his hand also. I made him burn his book anon right tho. And when that I had gotten unto me By mast’ry all the sovereignëty, And that he said, “Mine owen truë wife, Do as thee list, the term of all thy life, Keep thine honoúr, and eke keep mine estate;” After that day we never had debate. God help me so, I was to him as kind As any wife from Denmark unto Ind, And also true, and so was he to me: I pray to God that sits in majesty So bless his soulë, for his mercy dear. Now will I say my tale, if ye will hear.—
The Friar laugh’d when he had heard all this: “Now, Dame,” quoth he, “so have I joy and bliss, This is a long preamble of a tale.” And when the Sompnour heard the Friar gale, “Lo,” quoth this Sompnour, “Goddë’s armës two, A friar will intermete him evermo’: Lo, goodë men, a fly and eke a frere Will fall in ev’ry dish and eke mattére. What speak’st thou of