Thus I longe in his clawes lay, Til at the laste he to me spak In mannes vois, and seyde, “Awak! And be not so agast, for shame!” And called me tho by my name. And, for I sholde the bet abreyde-- Me mette--“Awak,” to me he seyde, Right in the same vois and stevene That useth oon I coude nevene; And with that vois, soth for to sayn, My minde cam to me agayn; For hit was goodly seyd to me, So nas hit never wont to be.... And sayde twyes “Seynte Marie! Thou art noyous for to carie.”... “O god,” thoughte I, “that madest kinde, Shal I non other weyes dye? Wher Ioves wol me stellifye, Or what thing may this signifye? I neither am Enok, nor Elye, Ne Romulus, ne Ganymede That was y-bore up, as men rede, To hevene with dan Iupiter, And maad the goddes boteler.” (_e_) _His Narrative Power._ As a story-teller Chaucer employs somewhat tortuous methods, but his narrative possesses a curious stealthy speed. His stories, viewed strictly as stories, have most of the weaknesses of his generation: a fondness for long speeches, for pedantic digressions on such subjects as dreams and ethical problems, and for long explanations when none are necessary. _Troilus and Cressida_, heavy with long speeches, is an example of his prolixity, and _The Knight’s Tale_, of baffling complexity and overabundant in detail, reveals his haphazard and dawdling methods; yet both contain many admirable narrative passages. But when he rises above the weaknesses common to the time he is terse, direct, and vivacious. The extract given below will illustrate the briskness with which his story can move. This sely widwe, and eek hir doghtres two, Herden thise hennes crie and maken wo, And out at dores stirten they anon, And syen the fox toward the grove gon, And bar upon his bak the cok away, And cryden, “Out! Harrow! And weylaway! Ha! Ha! The Fox!” And after hym they ran, And eek with staves many another man; Ran Colle, oure dogge, and Talbot, and Gerland And Malkyn, with a dystaf in hir hand; Ran cow and calf, and eek the verray hogges, So were they fered for berkynge of the dogges, And shoutyng of the men and wommen eek; They ronne so hem thoughte hir herte breek. They yolleden, as feendes doon in helle; The dokes cryden, as men wolde hem quelle; The gees, for feere, flowen over the trees; Out of the hyve cam the swarm of bees; So hidous was the noys, _a benedicitee_! Certes, he Jakke Straw, and his meynee, Ne made never shoutes half so shrille, Whan that they wolden any Flemyng kille, As thilke day was maade upon the fox. _The Nun’s Priest’s Tale_