A Canterbury TALE, TRANSLATED Out of Chaucer's old English Into our NOW VSVALL language.  
Whereunto is added the Scots pedlar.  
Newly enlarged by A. B.  
Printed in the year 1641.   

A Canterbury TALE.  
IN Calydon did live a Potent peer,  
Who had three Princely sons of courage bold,  
For brave Achivements beyond all compare,  
Ne'er fairer Creatures ere were framed on Mould,  
Whose fame, whose honour and terrene renown,  
Unto hopes highest station did aspire,  
Till fate and falsehood sought to pull them down,  
By breeding discord 'tween them and their sire:  
Hell to their ruin being solely bent,  
Had not blessed heaven crossed their damned intent.  
For some malignant sprights had so inflamed  
Their father's wrath 'gainst one of his said sons,  
That he his death and downfall only aimed,  
So hot the rancour of his fury burns;  
The sacklesses son on bended knees falls down,  
Begging the favour of his frowning sire,  
The more he seeks the farther from his boon,  
For kindled was the the fury of his ire,  
By powerful Prelates, who so fed the flame,  
That nought but his heart blood could quench the same.  
First he debars his guiltless son of bread,  
Aiming by famine for to work his fall,  
Next him imprisons, oh most doleful deed!  
When as the father shall the son enthrall,  
But life is sweet, and liberty so dear,  
To free and noble minds, that he breaks ward,  
And to his father's presence doth repair,  
With resolution not to be debarred:  
His Princely reconcilement for to gain,  
And punishment of those had bred his bane.  
His father meets him with an angry brow,  
And all his force in fury 'gainst him bends,  
He draws his sword to give the fatal blow,  
But God who always Innocents defends,  
Protects the son, who then himself to free  
From stripes, imprisonment, and cruel bands,  
From direful death, and Romish slavery,  
Boldly steps in, and gently holds his hands,  
Begging still humbly on his bended knee,  
His grievances to hear, and him to free.  
The enraged father calls his other sons,  
Him to assist 'gainst this their loving brother,  
Commands them bring their pistols, Pikes, and Guns,  
They stand amazed, looking each at other,  
Yet forth the elder steps, and with like zeal,  
On bended knees implores their wrathful sire,  
His brother's suit to hear, perchance our weal,  
It may concern (good Sir) grant his desire.  
The younger seconds him, they both prevail,  
The father is content to hear his tale.  
In presence then of his kind loving brothers,  
His grievances he gently 'gins relate,  
All plots and stratagems he then discovers  
Which were contriu'ed against their father's state,  
Each damned design he plainly then relates,  
Which had been hatched by hell, at Rome or Spain,  
For bringing in the Babylonish rites  
To brand them and their father's house with shame,  
Making them hateful to the great Commander,  
That he might list them in black Pluto's calendar.  
Dear Sir, quoth he, will you gain heavens frown,  
Through the bad counsel of accurst misleeders?  
Or will you lose the comfort of a son,  
For pleasing Parasites or mischief breeders?  
Nay will you hazard all? For all their ends,  
Aim at my brother's ruin as well as mine,  
The Sychophants which now do seem their friends  
Will prove tart foes if they find place and time.  
Consider than it is not I alone  
Must smart and suffer, though I solely groan.  
This mischief which hath now befallen to me,  
At first was framed against my elder brother,  
By that cursed conclave of impiety,  
The Cardinals and painted whore their mother.  
But great Jehova who did then foresee  
How that their damned designs were to oppose  
The glory of the eternal Deity,  
Was pleased that I their plots should counterpose,  
And gave me courage with a filial awe,  
'Gainst foes in your defence my sword to draw.  
Think what pernicious plots have been contrived  
By fire and water for to work your bane,  
Consider what armadas have arrived  
Upon your costs your Countries for to gain,  
Yet all in vain, praised be the power divine,  
The ruin they have sought of you and yours,  
And ever shall while you and they combine  
In perfect love, in spite of all their powers,  
Crush then that cursed and most viperous brood,  
That moves you thus to spill your children's blood.  
See then the sufferings of your sakelesse son,  
And his intentions with a gracious eye,  
View their endeavours who would have undone  
Yourself, your state, and Princely Progeny,  
Ponder their plots who plundered have the stream,  
And current of your hoped happiness,  
Weigh all their actions with an upright beam,  
That Justice may embrace fair righteousness;  
So none shall dare t'eclipse, or once pull down  
The glorious splendour of your high renown.  
This said, his brothers shed some brinish tears,  
Which mollified their furious father's heart,  
Who then replied (Dear sons) it now appears,  
You are resolved all to take one part,  
And so am I, I'll second you, go on,  
And rid me of these fire brands of debate,  
Root them all out, be sure you leave not one  
That sought the ruin of you, or my state;  
And thou my son, whose bane I late did wish,  
Receive thy reconciled fathers bless.  
For henceforth my dear children I shall know  
Our friends from foes, since truly now I find,  
Who aimed our bliss, our bane, our weal, our woe,  
Which I have printed in my heart and mind,  
No damned design hereafter shall take place,  
Or once be harboured in your father's breast,  
Which him, or his may in the least disgrace,  
And you oppress, or rob of quiet rest;  
Sweet peace and plenty each where shall abound,  
While all our actions with love shall be crowned.  
Down at their father's feet these joyful wights,  
Prostrate themselves and lie as men amazed,  
At length courageously they rouse their sprights,  
Which long with care and grief had been surprised,  
And all resolve unfeignedly to see  
Their father's foes cut off by fatal stroke,  
That sought the downfall of his dignity,  
And 'gainst them his displeasure did provoke,  
The hand is up (oh speak that word again)  
To give the blow let all hearts say Amen.  
Thrice blessed be that peerless Paragon,  
The potent Princely Peer of Calydon.   

THE SCOTS pedlar.  

The pedlar now hath ope his pack,  
Come Gentlemen see what you lack.   

HEre's Spanish Needles, that will shrewdly prick  
Fair England's foes and lance them to the quick,  
Here's Romish Gloves perfumed, whose very scent  
Will cause the Babylonians to be shent.  
Here's French toys too, whose fashions came from Rome,  
Prized at no less than at a kingdom's crown,  
Here's Flanders Lace, which is most closely woven,  
Pieces of knavery made up byth' dozen,  
But here is Holland I dare say 'tis right,  
Tear it you cannot, 'tis so good and tight,  
And for Scots cloth though it be slight and thin,  
Yet safely you may wear it next your skin.  
If these shall not you please, here's ware divine,  
Late consecrated at Saint Thomas Shrine,  
In Canterbury by a holy friar,  
As some men say, or else the devil's a liar.  
For relics, here's the hand of Signior Con,  
The fingers of a Spanolized Don,  
Who pointed out three kingdom's overthrow,  
Good Pan be praised who did divert the blow,  
See here's the brains of that Capuchi●n friar,  
Who whilom set all Germany on fire,  
And blowed the coal great Britain to have brent,  
But that Jehova did his plots prevent.  
And here's the Scull of a damned Jesuite,  
Conspiring heads, and hearts and tongues, and feet,  
Of Popes, of Prelates, Cardinals, and Priests,  
Who living were in their blood thirsty feasts,  
Drunk with the gore of Potentates and Kings,  
Such ware my pack affords, and finer things,  
For here's a mitre which from Rome was sent,  
Not for Pope Joane, but for the man of Kent,  
Gay Copes, Hare sarks, Holy Bread, and Crosses,  
For Altars, penance, matins and for Masses,  
Here's Bulls, Indulgences, and Absolutions,  
For Murders, Massacres, and bloody Treasons,  
From Babylon by Toby late brought o'er,  
As a Propine from that enchanting whore:  
Yet here's a spell will keep you from all harms,  
And eke prevent and frustrate all her charms,  
A precious balsam that will clear your sight,  
And bring you out of darkness into light,  
Take from before your eyes that misty fog  
That plainly you may see Gog and Magog.  
Lo here's an Antidote which will you free  
From that vild strumpet of impiety,  
And crush her cursed designs, whose damned intent,  
Three kingdoms to confound, was solely bent:  
And here's a Corosive that sharply bites,  
And will eat out the Babylonish Rites,  
And macerate the bulk of that base slut,  
With all the crew of th' Antichristian cut;  
A whip, a whip to mortify her skin,  
And lash her soundly like an arrant quean,  
From place to place, and so sign her a pass  
To Rome from whence she came, with all her trash.  
Here's Hoods, fair Rochets, and fine Tyburn Tippets,  
For Priests, for Jesuits, and Popish Bishops;  
Nay here's a halter otherwise a rope,  
Sauce for the Dee'ls good servants, and the Pope,  
And here are tower-hill knives, or Scottish Tweasers  
To cut off traitors, and all mischief breeders,  
Fine Pins and Points, Box combs, & Looking-glasses,  
Your friends from foes to try, and know their faces,  
So pricked and pointed out that future Ages,  
The pedlar's ware shall praise upon their Stages.   

Come then and welcome to the pedlar's pack,  
Here's that will do't, will do't, see what you lack.   
FINIS.