Wednesday, November 26, 2008

A spy must have been listening at the inn in Southwark, called the Tabard! We are undone by their treachery or their careless gossip. It matters not which now in this late hour. Yet with much additional hard work our event may be saved. For an event we will have and all others shall fall short in compare.

Hail! Our Ladies of the hour who will right this deed most foul. An event, an event we still will have!

"Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour,
Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tender croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halve cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(So priketh hem nature in hir corages),
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmers for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially from every shires ende
Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blissful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

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