Sidor som bilder
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No, saide the maister, verrannent;
I biseke God omnipotent,

That yif thou do thi sone to ded,
And hise maistres, be thi wiues red,
That on the falle swich a cas,
As dede our maister Ypocras."
The maister had so i-sped,
Th' emperour sone was his frend.
The maister was owai i-nome,

The

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emprour was to chaumbre i-come. Ther he fond his emperice,

With lourand chere, and with nice.
Hond wringging, and loud roupe,

And here visage al biwope.

"Dame, he saide, pluk up thi cher,

Other tel me whi thou makest swich cher."

"Sire, sche saide, hit is wonder non,

Hi se thi honour all i-gon.

I se the wede waxe over the corn;
Allas! allas, that I was boren,
And that I schal this dai i-se,
That we sschulle departed be!"
What, dame, is hit comen therto,
We sscholle be departed so ?"
"Ye, sire, bi Adam and bi Eue,
For thou n'elt nowt me i-leue
Of him that thou clepest thi sone.
Certes, he had the deueles wone!

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He the procureth, night and dai,

Al the sschame that he mai.

Thine barouns and thine gentilmen,

Alle thai holden thè ayèn.

Thai sschal wel sone, for inche an hete,
Put the out of thi kinges sete,

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And sette him stede inne thine;
That ware mi deth and mi pine.
Ich hadde leuere to ben an-honge,
Than that I scholde liue so longe."-
(A! hou wimmen conne hit make,
Whan thai wil ani man lake!)—

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As dede on him, that his heued was
Of his sone i-cast in a gong,
With felonie, and with wrong!"
"O dame, who might that be

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Wolde do his fader swich vilté ?

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Tel hit me, for God aboue!"

"Lat be, sire, for mi loue,

Thou ne louest nowt of mi telling;
Hit schal the rewe bi heuene kyng!"
"Yis, dame, he saide, lat here thé speke,
And ich wil sone thè awreke.
Sei on dame!" and sche bigan
To tellen als a fals wimman.

THE V. TALE.

THE FATHER MURDERED BY HIS SON.

A EMPEROUR was in thes town,
A riche man, of gret renoun,
Octouien was his name :
Wide sprong his riche fame.

Gold and siluer to wille he wan;
And more he hadde than ani man.
He made Cressent, that riche tour,
Therinne he pult his tresòr.
Seue wise men ther were in Rome,
The fiue out of londe he nome,

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And the twaie left at home,
To kepe Rome with rightful dome.
That on was bothe curteis an hende,
Lef to give, and lef to spende ;
And that other lef to pinche,
Bothe he was scars, and chinche.

And, als we finden writen in boke,

Th' emperour him taught his tresor to loke,

And he hit kept bi al his might,

Bothe bi daies an bi night.

For the wretche man, saun-fail,
Wende the erthe scholde him fail!

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The large wise wiste wel,

Of this tresor eche a del.

He saide to his "Tak a pike,

sone,

To-night thou schalt with me strike."
"Whider?" seide his sone;

"Therof haue thou no thing to done!
Arise vp quik, and with me go,
And do als tou sest me do."
For[th] thai went, withoute sojour,
To Cressent that riche tour.
An hole thai bregen, al with ginne,
And bothe thai wenten therinne,

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And token tresor, 1 you swere,

Als the moche als thai might bere,

And beren hit hom wel on hast,

And maden hem large whiles hit last.
Amorewe aros that sinatour,

And sichen to-bregen his louerdes tour,
And beren was awai that tresòur;
Therfore he made gret doldur.
He ne made no pleint to no man,
But stopped the hole anon ayèn,
For he thouwte wel that hit left,
Wolde come ayèn eft :

For thef of steling wil nowt blinne
Til he honge bi the chinne.
Nigh euene bi the hole,

Ther the catel was i-stole,

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The wise man dede make a dich,

Ful of lim and of pich,

That yif he agèn wald come,

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That the traitour sscholde bi nome.
The stolen catel i-spended is ;
The wise bicometh a fol, I wis.
"He tok his sone; ayèn he went
To that tour that hight Cressent.
An hole thay broken al biscore;
The fader lep in bifore,
Into the limed diche:

Loude he gan to crie and skriche,

And saide, "Sone, com her thou nowt,
For ich ham nomen and bicaught!"
"Hou so, fader? ich wil fechche help!"
"Nai, sone, mak therof no yelp.
Her ne geth help ne red;

For sikerliche ich am ded."

"A! leve fader, what schal I do?"

"Sone, with thin hond thi swerd tak to,

And hastiliche gird of min heued."

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"Nai! arst mi lif scholde me bi bireved, 1300

Ar ich mi fader scholde sle!"

"Sikerliche, sone, hit mot so be;

Other ich, and tou, and alle mine,
Beth i-schent withouten fine.
Bettere hit is that ich on passe,
Than al mi ken, more and lasse!

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