think you had better try some other sort of story. Perhaps in prose
you might manage to be improving, even if you could not amuse us.
_This_ is sheer waste of time." "All right," I answered, "I will tell
you a prose tale. It is an old one and told with variations, but just
as we do not accuse the evangelists, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, of
untruth because their accounts of Christ's life differ, so you must
not blame _me_ if my tale is not like other versions." Then I told my
tale. It was a very virtuous one about Melibeus and his good wife
Prudence. It was full of quotations from the classics, and I fear it
was rather long, for I noticed that towards the end many of the
company began to yawn, and the Shipman started whispering to his
neighbour and tittering. So perhaps, as it was not exactly a success,
I will not repeat it here.

As I finished, the Host, who alone had seemed pleased with it, said,
"I would give a barrel of ale that my wife had heard this tale. She
has none of the patience that Prudence showed. Alas! she is a regular
termagant. If I have occasion to beat one of the servants, out she
comes with a great clubbed stick, crying, 'Break all the rascal's
bones. Kill the dog!' Then, when she goes to church, if everyone does
not bow to her, home she comes in a rage and vents it on me.
'Coward!' she says. 'Go and take vengeance on those despiteful
neighbours. Will you see your wife insulted and not move a finger in
her defence? Ah! that I should have married a milksop and a coward.'
And so she goes on, till I am really afraid I shall do murder, for I
am a dangerous man with a knife, though I cannot stand up to
_her_.--Well, enough of this. Lo! Rochester is not far off. Monk,
come, tell us a tale. It is your turn now. Your tale should be a
cheerful one, for you look a merry soul, well fed and lusty. I guess
you are no penitent, but cellarer or sexton or some other officer in