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What sholde I moore seyn, but this MillereHe nolde his wordes for no man forbere,But tolde his cherles tale in his manere.M'athynketh that I shal reherce it heere.And therfore every gentil wight I preye,For Goddes love, demeth nat that I seyeOf yvel entente, but for I moot reherceHir tales alle, be they bettre or werse,Or elles falsen som of my mateere.And therfore, whoso list it nat yheere,Turne over the leef and chese another tale;For he shal fynde ynowe, grete and smale,Of storial thyng that toucheth gentillesse,And eek moralitee and hoolynesse.Blameth nat me if that ye chese amys.The Millere is a cherl; ye knowe wel this.So was the Reve eek and othere mo,And harlotrie they tolden bothe two.Avyseth yow, and put me out of blame;And eek men shal nat maken ernest of game.

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