The Student's Chaucer: Being a Complete Edition of His Works

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Macmillan Company, 1894 - 881 Seiten
 

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Seite 421 - But natheles, whyl I have tyme and space, Er that I ferther in this tale pace, Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun, To telle yow al the condicioun Of ech of hem, so as it semed me, And whiche they weren, and of what degree ; 40 And eek in what array that they were inne : And at a knight than wol I first biginne.
Seite 428 - To yeve and lene him of his owne good, And have a thank, and yet a cote and hood. In youthe he lerned hadde a good mister; He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter. This reve sat up-on a ful good stot, That was al pomely grey, and highte Scot.
Seite 423 - A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was. His heed was balled, that shoon as any glas, And eek his face, as he had been anoint.
Seite 552 - And bar upon his bak the cok away; And cryden, "Out! harrow! and weylaway! 560 Ha, ha, the fox!
Seite 427 - To drawen folk to heven by fairnesse By good ensample, was his bisinesse : But it were any persone obstinat, ' . What-so he were, of heigh or lowe estat, Him wolde he snibben sharply for the nones. A bettre preest, I trowe that nowher noon is. He wayted after no pompe and reverence, Ne maked him a spyced conscience, But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, He taughte, and first he folwed it himselve.
Seite 424 - As lene was his hors as is a rake, And he nas nat right fat, I undertake, But loked holwe, and ther-to soberly.
Seite 424 - But al be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre...
Seite 547 - To his felawes in he took the way ; And whan that he cam to this oxes stalle, After his felawe he bigan to calle. The hostiler answered him anon. And seyde, "sire, your felawe is agon, As sone as day he wente out of the toun.
Seite 428 - He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke knarre, Ther nas no dore that he nolde heve of harre, Or breke it, at a renning, with his heed. His berd as any sowe or fox was reed, And ther-to brood, as though it were a spade.
Seite 440 - And fyry Phebus ryseth up so brighte, That al the orient laugheth of the lighte, And with his stremes dryeth in the grevea The silver dropes, hanging on the leves.

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