This Story was first written in _Latine_ by _Geoffry Chaucer_, and
translated by _Lydgate_ into _English_ Verse, but of the Prologue of
his own making, so much as concerns himself, thus:

----While that the Pilgrims lay
At _Canterbury_, well lodged one and all,
I not in sooth what I may it call,
Hap or fortune, in conclusioun,
That me befell to enter into the Toun,
The holy Sainte plainly to visite,
After my sicknesse, vows to acquite.
In a Cope of blacke, and not of greene,
On a Palfrey slender, long, and lene,
With rusty Bridle, made not for the sale,
My man to forne with a voyd Male,
That by Fortune tooke my Inne anone
Where the Pilgrimes were lodged everichone,
The same time her governour the host
Stonding in Hall, full of wind and bost,
Liche to a man wonder sterne and fers,
Which spake to me, and said anon Dan _Pers_,
Dan _Dominick_, Dan _Godfray_, or _Clement_,
Ye be welcome newly into _Kent_:
Thogh your bridle have nother boos ne bell;
Beseeching you, that ye will tell
First of your name, and what cuntre
Without more shortly that ye be,
That looke so pale, all devoid of bloud,
Upon your head a wonder thred-bare Hood,