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And the broad river will be dry some day. And great towns wane; we see them vanishing. Thus may we see the end to everything. "Of man and woman just the same is true: Needs must, in either season of the two, That is to say, in youth or else in age, All men perish, the king as well as page; Some in their bed, and some in the deep sea, And some in the wide field as it may be; There's naught will help; all go the same way. Aye, Then may I say that everything must die. Who causes this but Jupiter the King? He is the Prince and Cause of everything, Converting all back to that primal well From which it was derived, 'tis sooth to tell. And against this, for every thing alive, Of any state, avalls it not to strive. "Then is it wisdom, as it seems to me, To make a virtue of necessity, And calmly take what we may not eschew, And specially that which to all is due. Whoso would balk at aught, he does folly, And thus rebels against His potency. And certainly a man has most honour In dying in his excellence and flower, When he is certain of his high good name; For then he gives to friend, and self, no shame. And gladder ought a friend be of his death When, in much honour, he yields up his breath, Than when his name's grown feeble with old age; For all forgotten, then, is his courage. Hence it is best for all of noble name To die when at the summit of their fame.

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The contrary of this is wilfulness. Why do we grumble? Why have heaviness That good Arcita, chivalry's fair flower, Is gone, with honour, in his bestlived hour. Out of the filthy prison of this life? Why grumble here his cousin and his wife About his welfare, who loved them so well? Can he thank them? Nay, God knows, not! Nor tell How they his soul and their own selves offend, Though yet they may not their desires amend. "What may I prove by this long argument Save that we all turn to merriment, After our grief, and give Jove thanks for grace. And so, before we go from out this place, I counsel that we make, of sorrows two One perfect joy, lasting for aye, for you; And look you now, where most woe is herein, The Canterbury Tales The Canterbury Tales 63There will we first amend it and begin. "Sister," quoth he, "you have my full consent, With the advice of this my Parliament, That gentle Palamon, your own true knight, Who serves you well with will and heart and might, And so has ever, since you knew him first That you shall, of your grace, allay his thirst By taking him for husband and for lord: Lend me your hand, for this is our accord. Let now your woman's pity make him glad. For he is a king's brother's son, by gad; And though he were a poor knight bachelor, Since he has served you for so many a year, And borne for you so great adversity, This ought to weigh with you, it seems to me, For mercy ought to dominate mere right." Then said he thus to Palamon the knight: "I think there needs but little sermoning To make you give consent, now, to this thing. Come near, and take your lady by the hand." Between them, then, was tied that nuptial band, Which is called matrimony or marriage, By all the council and the baronage. And thus, in all bliss and with melody, Has Palamon now wedded Emily. And God Who all this universe has wrought, Send him His love, who has it dearly bought. For now has Palamon, in all things, wealth, Living in bliss, in riches, and in health; And Emily loved him so tenderly, And he served her so well and faithfully, That never word once marred their happiness, No jealousy, nor other such distress. Thus ends now Palamon and Emily; And may God save all this fair company! Amen. HERE ENDS THE KNIGHT'S TALE THE MILLER'S PROLOGUE The Words between the Host and the Miller Now when the knight had thus his story told, In all the rout there was nor young nor old But said it was a noble story, well Worthy to be kept in mind to tell; The Canterbury Tales The Canterbury Tales 64And specially the gentle folk, each one. Our host, he laughed and swore, "So may I run, But this goes well; unbuckled is the mail; Let's see now who can tell another tale: For certainly the game is well begun. Now shall you tell, sir monk, if't can be done, Something with which to pay for the knight's tale." The miller, who with drinking was all pale, So that unsteadily on his horse he sat, He would not take off either hood or hat, Nor wait for any man, in courtesy, But all in Pilate's voice began to cry, And by the Arms and Blood and Bones he swore, "I have a noble story in my store, With which I will requite the good knight's tale." Our host saw, then, that he was drunk with ale, And said to him: "Wait, Robin, my dear brother, Some better man shall tell us first another: Submit and let us work on profitably." "Now by God's soul," cried he, "that will not I! For I will speak, or else I'll go my way." Our host replied: "Tell on, then, till doomsday! You are a fool, your wit is overcome." "Now hear me," said the miller, "all and some! But first I make a protestation round That I'm quite drunk, I know it by my sound: And therefore, if I slander or missay, Blame it on ale of Southwark, so I pray; For I will tell a legend and a life Both of a carpenter and of his wife, And how a scholar set the good wright's cap." The reeve replied and said: "Oh, shut your trap, Let be your ignorant drunken ribaldry! It is a sin, and further, great folly To asperse any man, or him defame, And, too, to bring upon a man's wife shame.