But told his churls tale in his manner.
Me thinketh that I shall rehearse it here;
And therefore every gently wight I pray,
For Goddes love deem not that I say
Of evil intent, but for I might rehearse
Their tales all, be they better or worse,
Or else falsen some of my matter:
And therefore, who so listeth it not to hear,
Turn over the leaf and choose another tale;
For he shall find enow, both great and small,
In storial thing that toucheth gentlesse,
And eke morality and holiness,--
Blame not me if that ye choose amiss.
This miller is a churl ye know well,
So was the Reeve, and many more,
And wickedness they tolden both two.
Advise you, put me out of blame;
And eke men shall not make earnest of game."

If Chaucer had written all the tales that he meant to write,
there would have been one hundred and twenty-four in all. But
the poet died long before his work was done, and as it is there
are only twenty-four. Two of these are not finished; one,
indeed, is only begun. Thus, you see, many of the pilgrims tell
no story at all, and we do not know who got the prize, nor do we
hear anything of the grand supper at the end of the journey.

Chaucer is the first of our poets who had a perfect sense of
sound. He delights us not only with his stories, but with the
beauty of the words he uses. We lose a great deal of that beauty