Prologue to the Canterbury Tales

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich hcour Of which vertu engendred is the flour; Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth Inspired hath in every holt and heeth The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne, And smale foweles maken melodye, That slepen al the nyght with open eye, — So priketh hem Nature in hir corages, — Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes, To feme halwes, kowthe in sondry londes ; And specially, from every shires ende , Of Engelond, to Caunturbury they wende, The hooly blisful martir for to seke, That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

CHAUCER. - TRUTH (Traduit page 179.)

Flee fro the prees, and dwelle with sothfastnesse Suffice unto thy thyng though hit be smal ; For hord hath hate and clymbyng tikelnesse, Prees hath envye, and wele blent overal; Savour no more than thee bihove shal ; Werk well thy-self, that other folk canst rede, And trouthe shall delivere, it is no drede.

Tempest thee noght al croked to redresse

In trust of hir that turneth as a bal ;

Greet reste stant in litel besynesse ;

An eek be war to sporne ageyn an al ;

Stryve noght, as doth the crokke with the wal.

Daunte thy-self, that dauntest otheres dede,

And trouthe shall delivere, it is no drede.

That thee is sent, receyve in buxumnesse. The wrastling for this worlde axeth a fal. Her nis non boom, her nis but wildernesse, Forth, pilgrim, forth ! Forth, beste, out of thy stal, Know thy contrée, look up, thank God of al ; Hold the bye wey, and lat thy gost thee lede, And trouth shall delivere, it is no drede.