" Ah! the troop at the Tabard Inn,
Manciple, Miller, and Frankelyn,
Tightening the girths, and draining the ale,
And away on their wild ride by river and dale!
Gone, Dan Chaucer! gone, but for thee,
Is the clatter of that gay companie,
The rattle and ring of stirrup and spur,
Floating of plume, and folding of fur,
With the round of tales that held from town
To the sweet green slopes of the broad South Down.
Certes! with such it were pleasant indeed
To patter an Ave, or finger a bead,
And forth each dawn by the cock to wend
From shrine to shrine unto Albion's end;
But their day is done, and their course is run,
None goeth forth on a pilgrimage — none! "

" Well! but the woods are as green as then,
And the sunshine as splendid on gray rock and glen;
The linnet and missel-thrush sing, I trow,
With as rich a trill in their little throats now;
Rivers will ripple, and beech-boughs wave,
And the meadows be decked in a dress as brave,
And the great glad sky build a roof as blue,
Though it overarch only pilgrims two.
Sweetheart, come! let us do as they
Did in old time on as fair a day:
We lack but a chapel whereunto to wend,
A shrine and a saint for our journey's end;
And of that gay ride — the shrine, God wot,
Is the dusty goal that I envy them not. "
" Nay, pardie! " quoth she that I love,
" Fit for thy mood as the hand for the glove,
Or the hilt of his sword for the soldier's fist,
Or a poet to be praised, or a lip to be kissed,
Far on yon path, by the emerald lea,
Fair Avon glideth adown to the sea;
By the walls of a church, beneath whose stones
Sleeps dust sacred as saintly bones, —
His whom thou lovest. "


" Right good! " I said,
And forth a foot to the lea I led,
With staff and scrip, and a spirit in tune
To the merry noise of a midsummer noon: —
Two we were of one heart and age
Going a pious pilgrimage.

Sooth! I doubt if palmers as gay
Ever set forth on so fair a way.
Sooth! I doubt if a day so rare
Ever made pilgrimage half so fair.
But, certes! never did palmers go
To holier shrine than where he lies low,
Who miracles wrought for heart and eye:
The wonder of Imogen's constancy,
The airy marvels of Prospero's isle,
The magic of Queen Cleopatra's smile;
Her barge that burned on the glowing water,
The patience and faith of Lear's leal daughter,
The Roman Portia's fond, firm heart,
And the Veronese lovers death did not part.
Something I laughed, Heav'n 'ield it me,
At Becket and Benedict " saints, " — not he!
So came we on where the wayfarer sees
Far Warwick fading behind the trees,
And Guy's great castle behind the town,
That " setter up, " and that " bringer down. "
For " Stratford — ho! " our green road lay,
And I spake with my heart in the ancient day:
" Sweet! thou art fair for a prioress,
And I am an " Oxenforde clerke," no less;
Tell out some fable of ancient day!
I rede you to prove that woman may
Be as true as man! " — " Benedicite!
Hearken my story and judge, " quoth she.