The Canon's Yeoman's Tale
Here beginneth the Canon's Yeoman his Tale.
SEVEN years have I dwelt with this canon and never the better am I for his science. Thereby have I lost all that I had and, God wot, so have many more than I. Where I was wont to be right gay of clothing and of other fine gear, now I may wear a stocking on mine head; and where my colour was both fresh and ruddy, now is it wan and leaden of hue. Whosoever practiseth this art shall have sorrow therefor. Mine eyes are still bleared of my toil. Lo, what advantage it is to multiply! That slippery science hath made me so bare that I have naught left wheresoever I go. And thereby am I so deep in debt for gold that I have borrowed, that truly while I live I shall never repay it. Let every man forevermore beware by me! Whatsoever man turneth him thereto, I hold his thrift shall be at an end if he continue. So help me God, he shall gain naught thereby, but empty his purse and make thin his wits; and when, by his madness and folly, he hath staked and lost his own goods, then thereto he exciteth other folk to lose their goods even as he himself hath done. For it is joy and content unto rogues to have their fellows in pain and distress. Thus once was I taught of a clerk; but of that no matter; I will speak of our labours.
When we be where we shall practise our elvish craft, we seem wondrous wise, our terms be so clerkly and strange. I blow the fire till mine heart fainteth. Why should I tell all the proportions of the things which we work upon, as on five or six
ounces of silver, or perchance some other quantity, and busy me
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