Here folwen the wordes of the Frankelin to the Squier, and the wordes of the Host to the Frankelin.
'In feith, Squier, thou hast thee wel y-quit, And gentilly I preise wel thy wit,' Quod the Frankeleyn, 'considering thy youthe, So feelingly thou spekest, sir, I allow the! As to my doom, there is non that is here Of eloquence that shal be thy pere, If that thou live; god yeve thee good chaunce, And in vertu sende thee continuaunce! For of thy speche I have greet deyntee. I have a sone, and, by the Trinitee, I hadde lever than twenty pound worth lond, Though it right now were fallen in myn hond, He were a man of swich discrecioun As that ye been! fy on possessioun But-if a man be vertuous with-al. I have my sone snibbed, and yet shal, For he to vertu listeth nat entende; But for to pleye at dees, and to despende, And lese al that he hath, is his usage. And he hath lever talken with a page Than to comune with any gentil wight Ther he mighte lerne gentillesse aright.'—
'Straw for your gentillesse,' quod our host; 'What, frankeleyn? pardee, sir, wel thou wost That eche of yow mot tellen atte leste A tale or two, or breken his biheste.'
'That knowe I wel, sir,' quod the frankeleyn; 'I prey yow, haveth me nat in desdeyn Though to this man I speke a word or two.'
'Telle on thy tale with-outen wordes mo.'
'Gladly, sir host,' quod he, 'I wol obeye
Un-to your wil; now herkneth what I seye. I wol yow nat contrarien in no wyse As fer as that my wittes wol suffyse; I prey to god that it may plesen yow, Than woot I wel that it is good y-now.'
The Prologe of the Frankeleyns Tale.
Thise olde gentil Britons in hir dayes
Of diverse aventures maden layes, Rymeyed in hir firste Briton tonge; Which layes with hir instruments they songe, Or elles redden hem for hir plesaunce; And oon of hem have I in remembraunce, Which I shal seyn with good wil as I can.
But, sires, by-cause I am a burel man, At my biginning first I yow biseche Have me excused of my rude speche; I lerned never rethoryk certeyn; Thing that I speke, it moot be bare and pleyn. I sleep never on the mount of Pernaso, Ne lerned Marcus Tullius Cithero. Colours ne knowe I none, with-outen drede, But swiche colours as growen in the mede, Or elles swiche as men dye or peynte. Colours of rethoryk ben me to queynte; My spirit feleth noght of swich matere. But if yow list, my tale shul ye here.
Here biginneth the Frankeleyns Tale.
In Armorik, that called is Britayne, Ther was a knight that loved and dide his payne To serve a lady in his beste wyse; And many a labour, many a greet empryse He for his lady wroghte, er she were wonne. For she was oon, the faireste under sonne, And eek therto come of so heigh kinrede, That wel unnethes dorste this knight, for drede, Telle hir his wo, his peyne, and his distresse. But atte laste, she, for his worthinesse, And namely for his meke obeysaunce, Hath swich a pitee caught of his penaunce, That prively she fil of his accord To take him for hir housbonde and hir lord, Of swich lordshipe as men han over hir wyves; And for to lede the more in blisse hir lyves, Of his free wil he swoor hir as a knight, That never in al his lyf he, day ne night, Ne sholde up-on him take no maistrye Agayn hir wil, ne kythe hir Ialousye, But hir obeye, and folwe hir wil in al As any lovere to his lady shal; Save that the name of soveraynetee, That wolde he have for shame of his degree.
She thanked him, and with ful greet humblesse
She seyde, 'sire, sith of your gentillesse
Ye profre me to have so large a reyne, Ne wolde never god bitwixe us tweyne, As in my gilt, were outher werre or stryf. Sir, I wol be your humble trewe wyf, Have heer my trouthe, til that myn herte breste.' Thus been they bothe in quiete and in reste.