soon to be linked to the individual parts of the Tales
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THE PROEM
I have gret wonder, be this lighte,
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Somtyme the world was so stedfast and stable
That mannes word was obligacioun,
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The firste stok, fader of gentilesse --
What man that desireth gentil for to be
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This wrecched worldes transmutacioun,
As wele or wo, now povre and now honour,
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Incipit carmen secundum ordinem litterarum alphabeti.
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Thou ferse god of armes, Mars the rede,
That in the frosty contre called Trace,
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Fle fro the pres, and dwelle with sothefastness{.e}, Suffise thin owen thing, thei it be smal;
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Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne soft{.e}, That hast this wintr{.e}s wedr{.e}s overshak{.e},
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Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;
Their beauty shakes me who was once serene;
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To yow, my purse, and to noon other wight
Complayne I, for ye be my lady dere!
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Madame, for youre newefangelnesse,
Many a servant have ye put out of grace.
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Now welcome Summer with thy sunne soft,
That hast this winter`s weathers overshake,
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The firste stock-father of gentleness,
What man desireth gentle for to be,
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Sometime this world was so steadfast and stable,
That man's word was held obligation;
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HYD, Absolon, thy gilte tresses clere;
Ester, ley thou thy meknesse al a-doun;
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FLY from the press, and dwell with soothfastness;
Suffice unto thy good, though it be small,
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When priestes failen in their saws,
And lordes turne Godde's laws
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Adam Scrivener, if ever it thee befall
Boece or Troilus for to write anew,
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Pite, that I have sought so yore agoo
With herte soore and ful of besy peyne,
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Flee from the press, and dwell with soothfastness;
Suffice thee thy good, though it be small;
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God turne us every dreem to gode!
For hit is wonder, be the rode
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Almighty and all-merciable Queen,
To whom all this world fleeth for succour,
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Alone walking
In thought plaining,
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Since I from Love escaped am so fat,
I ne'er think to be in his prison ta'en;
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What should these clothes thus manifold,
Lo! this hot summer's day?
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My Master Bukton, when of Christ our King
Was asked, What is truth or soothfastness?
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Syn I fro love escaped am so fat,
I nere thinke to ben in his prison lene;
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Som in his bed, som in the depe see,
Som in the large feeld, as men may se;
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Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
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