Analysis of The Nun's Priest's Tale

THE PROLOGUE.
'Ho! ' quoth the Knight, 'good sir, no more of this;
That ye have said is right enough, y-wis,*             *of a surety
And muche more; for little heaviness
Is right enough to muche folk, I guess.
I say for me, it is a great disease,*    *source of distress, annoyance
Where as men have been in great wealth and ease,
To hearen of their sudden fall, alas!
And the contrary is joy and great solas,*         *delight, comfort
As when a man hath been in poor estate,
And climbeth up, and waxeth fortunate,
And there abideth in prosperity;
Such thing is gladsome, as it thinketh me,
And of such thing were goodly for to tell.'

'Yea,' quoth our Hoste, 'by Saint Paule's bell.
Ye say right sooth; this monk hath clapped* loud;           *talked
He spake how Fortune cover'd with a cloud
I wot not what, and als' of a tragedy
Right now ye heard: and pardie no remedy
It is for to bewaile, nor complain
That that is done, and also it is pain,
As ye have said, to hear of heaviness.
Sir Monk, no more of this, so God you bless;
Your tale annoyeth all this company;
Such talking is not worth a butterfly,
For therein is there no sport nor game;
Therefore, Sir Monke, Dan Piers by your name,
I pray you heart'ly, tell us somewhat else,
For sickerly, n'ere* clinking of your bells,       *were it not for the
That on your bridle hang on every side,
By heaven's king, that for us alle died,
I should ere this have fallen down for sleep,
Although the slough had been never so deep;
Then had your tale been all told in vain.
For certainly, as these clerkes sayn,
Where as a man may have no audience,
Nought helpeth it to telle his sentence.
And well I wot the substance is in me,
If anything shall well reported be.
Sir, say somewhat of hunting,  I you pray.'

'Nay,' quoth the Monk, 'I have *no lust to play; *      *no fondness for
Now let another tell, as I have told.' jesting*
Then spake our Host with rude speech and bold,
And said unto the Nunne's Priest anon,
'Come near, thou Priest, come hither, thou Sir John,  
Tell us such thing as may our heartes glade.*              *gladden
Be blithe, although thou ride upon a jade.
What though thine horse be bothe foul and lean?
If he will serve thee, reck thou not a bean;
Look that thine heart be merry evermo'.'

'Yes, Host,' quoth he, 'so may I ride or go,
But* I be merry, y-wis I will be blamed.'                   *unless
And right anon his tale he hath attamed*             *commenced  
And thus he said unto us every one,
This sweete priest, this goodly man, Sir John.

A poor widow, *somedeal y-stept* in age,        *somewhat advanced*
Was whilom dwelling in a poor cottage,
Beside a grove, standing in a dale.
This widow, of which I telle you my tale,
Since thilke day that she was last a wife,
In patience led a full simple life,
For little was *her chattel and her rent.*   *her goods and her income*
By husbandry* of such as God her sent,          *thrifty management
She found* herself, and eke her daughters two.          *maintained
Three large sowes had she, and no mo';
Three kine, and eke a sheep that highte Mall.
Full sooty was her bow'r,* and eke her hall,               *chamber
In which she ate full many a slender meal.
Of poignant sauce knew she never a deal.*                     *whit
No dainty morsel passed through her throat;
Her diet was *accordant to her cote.*     *in keeping with her cottage*
Repletion her made never sick;
Attemper* diet was all her physic,                        *moderate
And exercise, and *hearte's suffisance.*         *contentment of heart*
The goute *let her nothing for to dance,*          *did not prevent her
Nor apoplexy shente* not her head. from dancing* *hurt
No wine drank she, neither white nor red:
Her board was served most with white and black,
Milk and brown bread, in which she found no lack,
Seind* bacon, and sometimes an egg or tway;                 *singed
For she was as it were *a manner dey.*       *kind of day labourer*  
A yard she had, enclosed all about
With stickes, and a drye ditch without,
In which she had a cock, hight Chanticleer;
In all the land of crowing *n'as his peer.*         *was not his equal*
His voice was merrier than the merry orgon,*             *organ  
On masse days that in the churches gon.
Well sickerer* was his crowing in his lodge,        *more punctual*
Than is a clock, or an abbay horloge.*                   *clock  
By nature he knew each ascensi