But first I pray yow, of youre curteisye,That ye n' arette it nat my vileynye,Thogh that I pleynly speke in this mateere,To telle yow hir wordes and hir cheere,Ne thogh I speke hir wordes proprely.For this ye knowen al so wel as I,Whoso shal telle a tale after a man,He moot reherce as ny as evere he kanEverich a word, if it be in his charge,Al speke he never so rudeliche and large,Or ellis he moot telle his tale untrewe,Or feyne thyng, or fynde wordes newe.He may nat spare, althogh he were his brother;He moot as wel seye o word as another.Crist spak hymself ful brode in hooly writ,And wel ye woot no vileynye is it.Eek plato seith, whoso that kan hym rede,The wordes moote be cosyn to the dede.Also I prey yow to foryeve it me,Al have I nat set folk in hir degreeHeere in this tale, as that they sholde stonde.My wit is short, ye may wel understonde.

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