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Whan that the knyght had thus his tale ytoold, In al the route nas ther yong ne oold That he ne seyde it was a noble storie,And worthy for to drawen to memorie;And namely the gentils everichon.Oure hooste lough and swoor, so moot I gon,This gooth aright; unbokeled is the male.Lat se now who shal telle another tale;For trewely the game is wel bigonne. Now telleth ye, sir monk, if that ye konne Somwhat to quite with the knyghtes tale.The millere, that for dronken was al pale,So that unnethe upon his hors he sat,He nolde avalen neither hood ne hat, Ne abyde no man for his curteisie,But in pilates voys he gan to crie,And swoor, by armes, and by blood and bones,I kan a noble tale for the nones,With which I wol now quite the knyghtes tale.Oure hooste saugh that he was dronke of ale,And seyde, abyd, robyn, my leeve brother;Som bettre man shal telle us first another. Abyd, and lat us werken thriftily.By goddes soule, quod he, that wol nat I;For I wol speke, or elles go my wey.Oure hoost answerde, tel on, a devel wey!Thou art a fool; thy wit is overcome.Now herkneth, quod the millere, alle and some!But first I make a protestaciounThat I am dronke, I knowe it by my soun; And therfore if that I mysspeke or seye,Wyte it the ale of southwerk, I you preye.