Here the Host 'stynteth' Chaucer's Tale of Sir Thopas
Folio 168r
1 of 2 folios
His good stede al he bistrode
And forth on his wey he gloode
As sparcle out of the bronde
¶ Vpon his crest he bar a tour
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And ther ynne stiked a lily flour
God shelde his corps fro shonde
And for he was a knyght auntrous
He nold slepen in non hous
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¶ His bright helme was his wonger
And bi him baiteth his destrere
Him self dranke water of the welle
As dide the knyght syr percyuelle
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So worthly vnder wood.
Here bigynneth a reheytyng of our hoost
Na more of this for goddes dignite
Quod our host for thow makest me
So wery of thi verry lewdenesse
That also wisly god my soule blesse
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Myn eris aken of thi drasty speche
Now swich aryme the deuel I beteche
This may be wel Ryme dogerel quod he
¶ Whi so quod I whi wiltow lette me
More of my tale than an other man
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Syn that it is the best Ryme I can
¶ Bi god quod he for pleynly at o word
Thi drasti rymyng is nat worth a tord
Thow doost noght elles but dispendest tyme
Sir at a word thow shalt no lenger ryme
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Lat se wher thow canst tellen oght in geste
Or telle in prose som what at the leste
In which ther be som myrthe or som doctine
¶ Gladly quod I bi goddes swete pyne
I wole yow telle a litel thing in prose
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That oght to like yow as I suppose
Or elles certes ye ben to daungerous
It is a moral tale vertuous
Al be it tolde some tyme in sondry wise
¶ Of sondry folk as shal I yow deuyse
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As thus ye wot that euery Evangeliste