The poetical works of Leigh Hunt Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould |
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THE PROLOGUE. |
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 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
172
THE PROLOGUE.
The Carpenter, whan that his tale was done,
Which sette us nigh on sleepyng everych one,
Al be it sorely smote us pilgryms gay,
Who gat us too moche comfort by the way,
Lookéd as big and highe, as thof his lore
Gaf him Saint Joseph for his auncestor.
Him seemèd, thof his eyne were somedele wry,
Which in wise head breedeth humilitee,
As he had been yborn and designate,
By that same mark, to setten all things straight;
And because termés of one craft he knew,
Which, save of carpenters, are known of few,
That he ne wanted nought to bringe to schoole
All craftés else, and rap hem with his rule.
Which sette us nigh on sleepyng everych one,
Al be it sorely smote us pilgryms gay,
Who gat us too moche comfort by the way,
Lookéd as big and highe, as thof his lore
Gaf him Saint Joseph for his auncestor.
Him seemèd, thof his eyne were somedele wry,
Which in wise head breedeth humilitee,
As he had been yborn and designate,
By that same mark, to setten all things straight;
And because termés of one craft he knew,
Which, save of carpenters, are known of few,
That he ne wanted nought to bringe to schoole
All craftés else, and rap hem with his rule.
Oure Host, good Harry Bailey, colde not bide
The mannés folie; and right loude he cryed,
“By corpus, and by bell, and holy Luke,
Ful bitter and right foule is the rebuke
Thy tale hath given, Maister Carpentere,
To all the good and worthie sinners here.
God pardon me for saying worthie and good
Of anie sort of men or multitude,
For gentle and simple we are sinners all,
Albeit some be grete and some be smalle,
And sinnes of carpenteres none may espie,
Save by some helpe of gymlet for the eie.
But that which made thy bitternesse so strong.
Sir Joyner, was, it was so veray long;
For sette ye case, there colde be made of physick
A draughte as long, who wolde not beare his tizzic,
Blotches, or blaines, and rot in veray bonés,
Sooner than draine swiche potion all at onés?
Thou shouldst have thought, how often thou hast wishéd
The sermon done while that thy meate was dishéd;
For at swiche times men care but for their shinnes
Of beef or pork, and nothing for their sinnes.”
The mannés folie; and right loude he cryed,
“By corpus, and by bell, and holy Luke,
Ful bitter and right foule is the rebuke
Thy tale hath given, Maister Carpentere,
To all the good and worthie sinners here.
God pardon me for saying worthie and good
Of anie sort of men or multitude,
For gentle and simple we are sinners all,
Albeit some be grete and some be smalle,
And sinnes of carpenteres none may espie,
Save by some helpe of gymlet for the eie.
But that which made thy bitternesse so strong.
Sir Joyner, was, it was so veray long;
For sette ye case, there colde be made of physick
A draughte as long, who wolde not beare his tizzic,
Blotches, or blaines, and rot in veray bonés,
Sooner than draine swiche potion all at onés?
Thou shouldst have thought, how often thou hast wishéd
The sermon done while that thy meate was dishéd;
For at swiche times men care but for their shinnes
Of beef or pork, and nothing for their sinnes.”
173
And thereupon whiles laughen all yfere,
Oure Host he turned him to the Tapisere,
And said, “Sir Tapisere, as ay tis mete
That long and bitter end in short and swete,
In Goddés name telleth us sodenlie
Some littel mirthe or lovely tragedie,
Some veray lumpe of sugar of a tale,
Or ellés certés we all fainte and fayle,
And may not ride but sick into the town.
Grete choyce of tales hast thou, as is reasoun,
Seeing what store thy needle hath ytold
In wol and flax; yea, and in cloth of gold;
What griesly gestés and sweete histories
Of Judiths, and of Jaels, and Sir Guys,
Of Arthurs, Esthers, Troy and Seneca,
Saint Theseus, and the grete Duke Joshua,
With hundreds moe than I may telle or think,
John Prester, and the lovely Tree of Drink;
And what, I note, so pleaseth clerkly pen,
Susanna and the twey false aldermen.
Therefore, say on. Only, in anie sort,
Deare and belovéd Tapisere, be short.”
Oure Host he turned him to the Tapisere,
And said, “Sir Tapisere, as ay tis mete
That long and bitter end in short and swete,
In Goddés name telleth us sodenlie
Some littel mirthe or lovely tragedie,
Some veray lumpe of sugar of a tale,
Or ellés certés we all fainte and fayle,
And may not ride but sick into the town.
Grete choyce of tales hast thou, as is reasoun,
Seeing what store thy needle hath ytold
In wol and flax; yea, and in cloth of gold;
What griesly gestés and sweete histories
Of Judiths, and of Jaels, and Sir Guys,
Of Arthurs, Esthers, Troy and Seneca,
Saint Theseus, and the grete Duke Joshua,
With hundreds moe than I may telle or think,
John Prester, and the lovely Tree of Drink;
And what, I note, so pleaseth clerkly pen,
Susanna and the twey false aldermen.
Therefore, say on. Only, in anie sort,
Deare and belovéd Tapisere, be short.”
The Tapisere, who was a worthy man,
Said, “I wol do my beste,” and so began.
Said, “I wol do my beste,” and so began.
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