Passages from The Canterbury Tales

Where elves once walked, a holy man now walks instead.

For there as wont to walkë was an elf,There walketh now the limitour himself,In undermelës and in morrownings,And saith his matins and his holy things,As he goes in his limitatioún.Women may now go safely up and down,In every bush, and under every tree;There is none other incubus but he;And he will do to them no dishonoúr.

The cruelest choice is the one you are allowed to make yourself.

Now there ye say that I am foul and old,Then dread ye not to be a cokëwold.For filth, and eldë, all so may I thé,Be greatë wardens upon chastity.But natheless, since I know your delight,I shall fulfil your wordly appetite.Choose now,” quoth she, “one of these thingës tway,To have me foul and old till that I dey,And be to you a truë humble wife,And never you displease in all my life:Or ellës will ye have me young and fair,And take your áventure of the repairThat shall be to your house because of me—Or in some other place, it may well be?

The most honest line in a dishonest sales pitch.

Now, good men, God forgive you your trespáss,And ware you from the sin of avaríce.Mine holy pardon may you all waríce,So that ye offer nobles or sterlings,Or ellës silver brooches, spoons, or rings.Bowë your head under this holy bull.Come up, ye wives, and offer of your will;Your names I enter in my roll anon;Into the bliss of heaven shall ye gon;I you assoil by minë high powére,You that will offer, as clean and eke as clearAs ye were born. Lo, Sirës, thus I preach;And Jesus Christ, that is our soulës’ leech,So grantë you his pardon to receive;

Not everyone is made for perfection, and she says so cheerfully.

For, well ye know, a lord in his householdHath not every vessel all of gold;Some are of tree, and do their lord servíce.God calleth folk to him in sundry wise,And each one hath of God a proper gift,Some this, some that, as liketh him to shift.Virginity is great perfectión,And continence eke with devotión:But Christ, that of perfection is the well,Bade not every wight he should go sellAll that he had, and give it to the poor,And in such wise follow him and his lore:He spake to them that would live perfectly—And, lordings, by your leave, that am not I;

Where beauty is most vivid when a wall is close by.

Y-clothed was she fresh for to devise;Her yellow hair was braided in a tress,Behind her back, a yardë long I guess.And in the garden at the sun upristShe walketh up and down where as her list.She gathereth flowers, party white and red,To make a sotel garland for her head,And as an angel heavenly she sung.The greatë tower, that was so thick and strong,Which of the castle was the chief dungeón(Where as these knightës weren in prisón,Of which I toldë you, and tellë shall),Was even joinant to the garden wall,There as this Emily had her playing.