The Canterbury Tales; Chaucer's Tale Of Sir Thopas Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: A B C DBEFFGG HBIBBBB A AJ G A B B AABAAB GBBBBB JJBJJB JJJJJJ BBABBA BBKBBK AAAALA AABAAB HHBHHB AMBAAB MMAMMA BBMBBM ABBBBB BBLJLL JJNJJNAJJA AAAAAABNN BBBALBOAA AAMBBM HHJHHJ BBABAA BBMBB JJNJJN BBAJJA LLABBA AAAAA BBAJJA BBABBAAAAA A ABBBBB BBMBBB AAABBA BBABBA BBAA B BBBP PBBJ AABBA A JBB BB

PartA
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PROLOGUE TO CHAUCER'S TALE OF SIR THOPASB
-
Bihoold the murye wordes of the Hoost to ChaucerC
-
Whan seyd was al this miracle every manD
As sobre was that wonder was to seB
Til that oure Hooste japen tho biganE
And thanne at erst he looked upon meF
And seyde thus 'What man artow ' quod heF
'Thow lookest as thou woldest fynde an hareG
For ever upon the ground I se thee stareG
-
Approche neer and looke up murilyH
Now war yow sires and lat this man have placeB
He in the waast is shape as wel as II
This were a popet in an arm tenbraceB
For any womman smal and fair of faceB
He semeth elvyssh by his contenaunceB
For unto no wight dooth he daliaunceB
-
Sey now somwhat syn oother folk han saydA
Telle us a tale of myrthe and that anon '-
'Hooste ' quod I 'ne beth nat yvele apayedA
For oother tale certes kan I noonJ
But of a ryme I lerned longe agoon '-
'Ye that is good ' quod he 'now shul we heereG
Som deyntee thyng me thynketh by his cheere '-
PartA
-
SIR THOPASB
-
Heere bigynneth Chaucers tale of ThopasB
-
Listeth lordes in good ententA
And I wol telle verraymentA
Of myrthe and of solasB
Al of a knyght was fair and gentA
In bataille and in tourneymentA
His name was Sir ThopasB
-
Yborn he was in fer contreeG
In Flaundres al biyonde the seeB
At Poperyng in the placeB
His fader was a man ful freeB
And lord he was of that contreeB
As it was Goddes graceB
-
Sir Thopas wax a doghty swaynJ
Whit was his face as payndemaynJ
Hise lippes rede as roseB
His rode is lyk scarlet in graynJ
And I yow telle in good certaynJ
He hadde a semely noseB
-
His heer his berd was lyk saffrounJ
That to his girdel raughte adounJ
Hise shoon of CordewaneJ
Of Brugges were his hosen brounJ
His robe was of syklatounJ
That coste many a janeJ
-
He koude hunte at wilde deerB
And ride an haukyng for riverB
With grey goshauk on hondeA
Therto he was a good archeerB
Of wrastlyng was ther noon his peerB
Ther any ram shal stondeA
-
Ful many a mayde bright in bourB
They moorne for hym paramourB
Whan hem were bet to slepeK
But he was chaast and no lechourB
And sweete as is the brembulflourB
That bereth the rede hepeK
-
And so bifel upon a dayA
Frosothe as I yow telle mayA
Sir Thopas wolde out rideA
He worth upon his steede grayA
And in his hand a launcegayL
A long swerd by his sideA
-
The priketh thurgh a fair forestA
Therinne is many a wilde bestA
Ye both bukke and hareB
And as he priketh north and estA
I telle it yow hym hadde almestA
Bitidde a sory careB
-
Ther spryngen herbes grete and smaleH
The lycorys and cetewaleH
And many a clowe gylofreB
And notemuge to putte in aleH
Wheither it be moyste or staleH
Or for to leye in cofreB
-
The briddes synge it is no nayA
The sparhauk and the papejayM
That joye it was to heereB
The thrustelcok made eek hir layA
The wodedowve upon a sprayA
She sang ful loude and cleereB
-
Sir Thopas fil in love longyngeM
Al whan he herde the thrustel syngeM
And pryked as he were woodA
His faire steede in his prikyngeM
So swatte that men myghte him wryngeM
His sydes were al bloodA
-
Sir Thopas eek so wery wasB
For prikyng on the softe grasB
So fiers was his corageM
That doun he leyde him in that plasB
To make his steede som solasB
And yaf hym good forageM
-
'O seinte Marie benediciteA
What eyleth this love at meB
To bynde me so sooreB
Me dremed al this nyght pardeeB
An elf queene shal my lemman beB
And slepe under my gooreB
-
An elf queene wol I love ywisB
For in this world no womman isB
Worthy to be my makeL
In towneJ
Alle othere wommen I forsakeL
And to an elf queene I me takeL
By dale and eek by downe '-
-
Into his sadel he clamb anonJ
And priketh over stile and stoonJ
An elf queene for tespyeN
Til he so longe hadde riden and goonJ
That he foond in a pryve woonJ
The contree of FairyeN
So wildeA
For in that contree was ther noonJ
That to him dorste ryde or goonJ
Neither wyf ne childeA
-
Til that ther cam a greet geauntA
His name was Sir OlifauntA
A perilous man of dedeA
He seyde 'Child by TermagauntA
But if thou prike out of myn hauntA
Anon I sle thy steedeA
With maceB
Heere is the queene of FayeryeN
With harpe and pipe and symphonyeN
Dwellyng in this place '-
-
The child seyde 'Also moote I theeB
Tomorwe wol I meete with theeB
Whan I have myn armoureB
And yet I hope par ma fayA
That thou shalt with this launcegayL
Abyen it ful sowreB
Thy maweO
Shal I percen if I mayA
Er it be fully pryme of dayA
For heere thow shalt be slawe '-
-
Sir Thopas drow abak ful fasteA
This geant at hym stones casteA
Out of a fel staf slyngeM
But faire escapeth Child ThopasB
And al it was thurgh Goddes grasB
And thurgh his fair beryngeM
-
Yet listeth lordes to my taleH
Murier than the nightyngaleH
For now I wol yow rowneJ
How Sir Thopas with sydes smaleH
Prikyng over hill and daleH
Is comen agayn to towneJ
-
His murie men comanded heB
To make hym bothe game and gleeB
For nedes moste he fighteA
With a geaunt with hevedes threeB
For paramour and joliteeA
Of oon that shoon ful brighteA
-
'Do come he seyde 'my mynstralesB
And geestours for to tellen talesB
Anon in myn armyngeM
Of romances that been roialesB
Of Popes and of CardinalesB
And eek of love likynge '-
-
They fette hym first the sweete wynJ
And mede eek in a mazelynJ
And roial spiceryeN
And gyngebreed that was ful fynJ
And lycorys and eek comynJ
With sugre that is so tryeN
-
He dide next his white leereB
Of clooth of lake fyn and cleereB
A breech and eek a sherteA
And next his sherte an aketounJ
And over that an haubergeounJ
For percynge of his herteA
-
And over that a fyn hawberkL
Was al ywroght of Jewes werkL
Ful strong it was of plateA
And over that his cote armourB
As whit as is a lilye flourB
In which he wol debateA
-
His sheeld was al of gold so reedA
And therinne was a bores heedA
A charbocle bisydeA
And there he swoor on ale and breedA
How that 'the geaunt shal be deedA
Bityde what bityde '-
-
Hise jambeux were of quyrboillyB
His swerdes shethe of yvoryB
His helm of laton brightA
His sadel was of rewel boonJ
His brydel as the sonne shoonJ
Or as the moone lightA
-
His spere it was of fyn cipreesB
That bodeth werre and no thyng peesB
The heed ful sharpe ygroundeA
His steede was al dappull grayB
It gooth an ambil in the wayB
Ful softely and roundeA
In londeA
Loo lordes myne heere is a fitA
If ye wol any moore of itA
To telle it wol I fondeA
-
The Second FitA
-
Now holde youre mouth par chariteeA
Bothe knyght and lady freeB
And herkneth to my spelleB
Of batailles and of chivalryB
And of ladyes love druryB
Anon I wol yow telleB
-
Men speken of romances of prysB
Of Hornchild and of YpotysB
Of Beves and Sir GyM
Of Sir Lybeux and PleyndamourB
But Sir Thopas he bereth the flourB
Of roial chivalryB
-
His goode steede al he bistroodA
And forth upon his wey he gloodA
As sparcle out of the brondeA
Upon his creest he bar a tourB
And therinne stiked a lilie flourB
God shilde his cors fro shondeA
-
And for he was a knyght auntrousB
He nolde slepen in noon housB
But liggen in his hoodeA
His brighte helm was his wongerB
And by hym baiteth his dextrerB
Of herbes fyne and goodeA
-
Hym self drank water of the wellB
As dide the knyght sir PercyvellB
So worly under wedeA
Til on a dayA
-
Heere the Hoost stynteth Chaucer of his Tale of ThopasB
-
'Na moore of this for Goddes dignitee '-
Quod oure hooste 'for thou makest meB
So wery of thy verray lewednesseB
That also wisly God my soule blesseB
Min eres aken of thy drasty specheP
-
Now swich a rym the devel I bitecheP
This may wel be rym dogerel ' quod heB
'Why so ' quod I 'why wiltow lette meB
Moore of my tale than another manJ
Syn that it is the beste tale I kan '-
-
'By God ' quod he 'for pleynly at a wordA
Thy drasty rymyng is nat worth a toordA
Thou doost noght elles but despendest tymeB
Sir at o word thou shalt no lenger rymeB
Lat se wher thou kanst tellen aught in geesteA
-
Or telle in prose somwhat at the leesteA
In which ther be som murthe or som doctryne '-
'Gladly ' quod I 'by Goddes sweete pyneJ
I wol yow telle a litel thyng in proseB
That oghte liken yow as I supposeB
-
Or elles certes ye been to daungerousB
It is a moral taleB

Geoffrey Chaucer



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