It is not merely what Chaucer has to say, but even more the agreeable way he has of saying it, that s our attention and gives him an assured place in literature.

Lady, if strangers that [do] wish you well May be so bould to aske, pray whats the cause That you

He who s his own condition to (with) that of others will see that he has many reasons to consider himself fortunate.

Enter Van. and Mont. Come, Vandermas, Montano, wheres your corde?

Thats decreed For in such tearms I meane to sett hym fourthe

Whats then your end and purpose? Raphael.

Wheres now my hope of byrthrighte, where all Fraunce? Drownd in the cradle of a chamber groome.

It also adds the following verses: Epigram: A freemans life is like a pilgrimage Whats his life then that lives in mariage Tis Sisiphus his toyle that with a stone Doth doe what surely for ease must be done His laboures Journey's endles, tis no Riddle Since he's but halfe on's way that stands in th'middle.

I grant it, that the King knowes too well, And makes this Contract to make his faction strong: Whats a giddy-headed multitude, That's not Disciplinde nor trainde up in Armes, To be trusted unto?

Shes so inclind, Sir. Raph.

He's m-m-meaning to w-w-wade in, too, I reckon, and when you s-s-smell the fish c-c-cooking you'll be s-s-sorry you said what you did.

Grace me no graces, I respect no grace, But with a grace, to give a gracelesse stab; To chop folkes legges and armes off by the stumpes, To see what shift theile make to scramble home; Pick out mens eyes, and tell them thats the sport Of hood-man-blinde, without all sportivenesse.

Opportunely came that high festival at the capital of the world, whereat "Franccis Petrark, the laureat poete, ... whos rethorike swete Enlumined all Itaille of poetrie," received the laurel crown at the hands of the Senate of Rome, with a magnificence of ceremonial surpassed only by the triumphs of imperial victors a thousand years before.

I'll" "Whats the use of thrashing a man who will simply hand you over to the police?

Thats my voyce still.

Thy pardon, Richard: love thats too vyolent Is evermore with some straunge myscheifs spentt.