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Geoffrey Chaucer - The Canterbury Tales; THE FRANKELEYNS TALE
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     At certeyn dayes yeer by yeer to paye,
     And thanke hym of his grete curteisye;
     
     My trouthe wol I kepe, I wol nat lye."
     With herte soor he gooth unto his cofre,
     And broghte gold unto this philosophre
     The value of fyve hundred pound, I gesse,
     And hym bisecheth of his gentillesse
     
     To graunte hym dayes of the remenaunte,
     And seyde, "Maister, I dar wel make avaunt,
     I failled nevere of my trouthe as yit.
     For sikerly my dette shal be quyt
     Towareds yow, how evere that I fare,
     
     To goon a begged in my kirtle bare!
     But wolde ye vouche sauf upon seuretee
     Two yeer or thre, for to respiten me,
     Thanne were I wel, for elles moot I selle
     Myn heritage, ther is namoore to telle."
     
     This philosophre sobrely answerde,
     And seyde thus, whan he thise wordes herde,
     "Have I nat holden covenant unto thee?"
     "Yes, certes, wel and trewely," quod he.
     "Hastow nat had thy lady, as thee liketh?"
     
     "No, no," quod he, and sorwefully he siketh.
     "What was the cause, tel me if thou kan?"
     Aurelius his tale anon bigan,
     And tolde hym al, as ye han herd bifoore,
     It nedeth nat to yow reherce it moore.
     
     He seide, Arveragus of gentillesse
     Hadde levere dye in sorwe and in distresse
     Than that his wyf were of hir trouthe fals;
     The sorwe of Dorigen he tolde hym als,
     How looth hir was to been a wikked wyf,
     
     And that she levere had lost that day hir lyf,
     And that hir trouthe she swoor, thurgh innocence,
     She nevere erst hadde herd speke of apparence.
     "That made me han of hir so greet pitee;
     And right as frely as he sente hir me,
     
     As frely sente I hir to hym ageyn.
     This al and som, ther is namoore to seyn."
     This philosophre answerde, "Leeve brother,
     Everich of yow dide gentilly til oother.
     Thou art a squier, and he is a knyght;
     
     But God forbede, for his blisful myght,
     But if a clerk koude doon a gentil dede
     As wel as any of yow, it is no drede.
     Sire, I releesse thee thy thousand pound,
     As thou right now were cropen out of the ground,
     
     Ne nevere er now ne haddest knowen me;
     For, sire, I wol nat taken a peny of thee
     For al my craft, ne noght for my travaille.
     Thou hast ypayed wel for my vitaille,
     It is ynogh, and farewel, have good day."
     
     And took his hors, and forth he goth his way.
        Lordynges, this questioun wolde I aske now,
     Which was the mooste fre, as thynketh yow?
     Now telleth me, er that ye ferther wende,
     I kan namoore, my tale is at an ende.
     
     Heere is ended the Frankeleyns tale.
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