THE CANTERBURY TALES
Pass over this; I turn to my tale. Ere the pot be set on the fire with a certain quantity of metals, my lord, and no man save him, tempereth them—now he is gone, I dare speak boldly—for, as men say, he knoweth his craft well; yet, though I wot well he hath such a reputation, full oft he runneth into a fault. And wit ye how? full oft it so happeth that the pot breaketh in pieces, and farewell! all is gone! These metals be of so great a violence that our walls may not resist them unless they be wrought of lime and stone. They pierce through the walls and some of them sink into the earth (thus at times have we lost many a pound) , some are scattered all about the floor and some leap into the roof. I trow there is no doubt, though the fiend showeth him not in our sight, that he be with us, the very rogue himself! for in hell, where he is lord and master, there is not more woe nor rancour nor ire. When our pot is broke, as I have said, every man chideth and holdeth him ill used. One saith, it was along of the way the fire was made; another saith nay, it was the blowing (then was I afeard, for that was mine office); "Straw!" quoth the third, "ye be stupid and foolish; it was not tempered as it ought to have been." "Nay, stint!" quoth the fourth, "and hearken to me; our fire was not made of beechwood, that is the cause and no other I swear." I cannot tell what it was along of, but I wot well great strife was amongst us.
"What! there is no more to do," quoth my lord, "I will beware hereafter of these perils; I am right sure that the pot was cracked. Be that as it may, be not ye confounded; let the floor be swept at once, as usual ; pluck up your hearts and be glad and blithe."
The muck was swept on an heap, and a canvas was cast
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