Dan Chaucer, the first warbler whose sweet breath

“Dan Chaucer, the first warbler whose sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts that fill The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still.”

Have ye nat seyn som tyme a pale face Among a press, of hym that hath be lad Toward his deeth, where as hym gat no grace? And swich a colour in his face hath had, Men myghte knowe his face that was bistad, Amonges alle the faces in that route; So stant Custance, and looketh hire aboute. O, queenes, lyvynge in prosperitee! Duchesses, and ladyes everichone! Haveth som routhe on hire adversitee. An Emperoures doghter stant allone; She hath no wight to whom to make hir mone! O, blood roial, that stondest in this drede, Fer been thy freendes at thy grete nede! This Alla, kyng, hath swich compassioun, As gentil herte is fulfild of pitee, That from hise eyen ran the water doun. “Now hastily do fecche a book,” quod he, “And if this knyght wol sweren how that she This womman slow, yet wol we us avyse Whom that we wole that shall been our justise.” A Briton book written with Evaungiles Was fet, and on this book he swore anoon She gilty was, and in the meene whiles An hand hym smoot upon the nekke boon, That doun he fil atones as a stoon; And bothe hise eyen broste out of his face In sighte of every body in that place! A voys was herd in general audience And seyde, “Thou has desclaundred, giltlees, The doghter of hooly chirche in heigh presence; Thus hastou doon, and yet holde I my pees.” Of this mervaille agast was al the prees; As mazed folk they stoden everichone, For drede of wreche, save Custance allone. Greet was the drede, and eek the repentance, Of hem that hadden wronge suspecioun Upon this sely, innocent Custance; And for this miracle, in conclusion, And by Custance’s mediacioun, The Kyng, and many another in that place Converted was—thanked be Christes grace!