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The Norman Blake Editions of The Canterbury Tales
And trewely it is an heigh corrage Of any man þat stopen is in age , To take a ȝong wyf by my fader kyn ȝour herte hongith on a ioly pyn Doth now in þis matier right as ȝow
god woot I . haue weped many a tere Ful priuely syns I haue had a wyf Prayse who so wil a weddid mannes lif Certes I fynd in it but cost and care And obseruaunce of alle blisses bare
in myn hert . o . wyf No spot of þe knew I in al my lif , Com forth and let vs . take oure desport , I ches þe for my wyf and my comfort Such olde lewed
wyf quod he her nys but ȝe and I þat art þe creature þat I best loue For by þat lord þat sit in heuen aboue Leuer ich had to dyen on a knyf Than þe offende deere trewe
stood in such array That needes most he wynne in such viage A thousand frankes aboue al his costage His wyf redy mette him at þe gate As sche was wont of old vsage algate And al þat night in
morwe And alday hudde him . as doþ an oule . So wo was him his wyf loked so foule Gret was þe wo . þe knight had in his þought Whan he was with his wyf on bedde brought
He walwith and he torneth to and fro His olde wyf lay smylyng euer mo And sayd o deere housbond bñdicite Fareth euery knight wiþ his wyf as ȝe , Is þis þe lawe of king arthures hous ; Is
Lat me allone , in chesyng of my wyf That charge vp on my bak I wol endure But I pray yow , and charge vp on your lyf That what wyf þt I take , ye me assure To
, in his herte longeth so To tempte his wyf , hir sadnesse for to knowe That he ne myghte , out of his herte throwe This merueilous desir , his wyf tassaye Nedelees god woot he thoghte hir for
Ful boystously , hath seyd hir this sentence Certes Grisilde , I hadde ynogh plesance To han yow to my wyf , for your goodnesse As for youre trouthe , and for your obeysance Noght for your lynage , ne
my maydenhede And am youre trewe wyf , it is no drede God shilde , swich a lordes wyf to take Another man , to housbond , or to make And of youre newe wyf , god of his grace
in his pley How liketh thee my wyf , and hir beautee Right wel quod she my lord , for in good fey A fairer saw I neuere noon , than she I prey to god , yeue hire prosperritee
defouled , with mannes foul delit Wel oghte a wyf , rather hir seluen sle Than be defouled , as it thynketh me What shal I seyn , of hasdrubales wyf That at Cartage , birafte hir self hir lyf
here I take my leue As of the treweste , and the beste wyf That euere yet I knew , in al my lyf But euery wyf , be war of hir biheste On Dorigene , remembreth at the leste
nat in chirche , to my wyf enclyne Or be so hardy , to hir to trespace Whan she cometh , she raumpeth in my face And crieth , false coward wrek thy wyf By corpus bones , I wol
wol ye moore , the Crowe anon hym tolde By sadde toknes , and by wordes bolde How þt his wyf hadde doon hire lecherye Hym to gret shame , and to gret vileynye And tolde hym , ofte he
of the parisshe faste And many a louely look , on hem he caste And namely , on this Carpenters wyf To looke on hire , hym thoughte a murye lyf She was so propre and sweete and likerous I
is day And thanne shal we be lordes al oure lyf Of al the world , as Noe and his wyf But of o thyng , I warne thee ful right Be wel auysed , on that ilke nyght That
The Senatours wyf , hir Aunte was But for al that she knew hir neuer the moore I wol no lenger taryen in this cas But to kyng Alla , which I spak of yoore That for his wyf ,
saw I neuere as she , ne herde of mo Of worldly wommen , mayde ne of wyf I dar wel seyn , hir hadde leuere a knyf Thurgh out hir brest than been a womman wikke Ther is no