The Shipman's Tale
Folio 161r
8 of 11 folios
¶ On thing er that ye gon yif it may be
270
I wolde prey yow for to lene me
An hundred frankes for a wook or tweye
For certenly I most ne delynges beye
To store with a place that is oures
God helpe me so I wolde it were youres
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I shal nat faile sykerly of my day
Noght for a thousand frankes a myle way
But lat this thing be secre I yow pay
For this for beestes this nyght yit most I pay
And fare now wel myn owne cosyn dere
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Graunt mercy of your cost and of your chere
¶ This noble Marchant gentily anon
Answerd and seide o cosyn myn dan Ioħn
Now sykerly this is a smal requeste
Mi gold is yours whan so that yow lest
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And noght al only my gold but my chaffare
Take what yow list god shelde yow to spare
¶ But o thing as ye know it wel ynogħ
Of chapmen that hir money is hir plogh
We may creaunce whils we han a name
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But goodlees for to be is no game
Pay hit ageyn whan it lieth in your ese
Aftyr my myght ful feyn wol I yow plese
This hundreth frankes he fet forth Anon
And piuely he told hem to dan Ioħn
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No wight in al this world wist of this lone
Sauyng this Marchant and dan Ioħn allone
Thei drynk and speke and Rome a while and pleye
Til that dan Ioħn rideth to his Abbey
The Morwe cam and forth this Marchant rideth
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To flaundres ward his prentys wel him gideth
Til he cam to Brugges ful meryly
Now goth this Marchant fast and bisily
Aboute his nedes and bieth and creaunseth
He neither pleyeth at the dees ne daunseth