ABSTRACT
If we somehow had access to a time machine and could transport ourselves back to the Middle Ages, we might hear rst hand the language of the great medieval poet Georey Chaucer (~1345-1400). Other dierences aside, the accents would sound at once tantalizingly familiar and bizarrely foreign. To illustrate, here’s another extract from the prologue of The Wife of Bath’s Tale (from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales). We’ve given a loose translation below and the phonetics alongside, so that you can appreciate the dierences. (Note that Chaucer’s poetry is generally written in a loose iambic pentameter, a common metrical form for English poetry; it consists of ve (that’s the penta bit) pairs of alternating unstressed and stressed beats. If you want to remember the rhythm of iambic metre think of the pulse of “iambic feet are firm and flat”.)1
But, lord crist! whan that it remembreth me bʊt lɔ:rd krɪ:st hwan ðat ɪt rəmɛmrəθ me:
Vpon my yowthe, and on my Iolitee, ʊpɔn mɪ: yu:θ and ɔn mɪ: dʒɔlɪte:
It tikleth me aboute myn herte roote. ɪt tɪkləθ me: abu:t mɪ:n hɛrtə ro:tə
Vnto this day it dooth myn herte boote ʊnto ðɪs dæɪ ɪt do:θ mɪ:n hɛrtə bo:tə
at I haue had my world as in my tyme. ðat ɪ hav had mɪ: wʊrld as ɪn mɪ: tɪ:mə
But Age, allas! at al wole enuenyme, ðat a:dʒ allas ðat al wɔl ɛnvənɪ:mə
Hath me bira my beautee and my pith. haθ me: bɪra mɪ: bɛʊte: and mɪ: pɪθ
Lat go, fare wel! e deuel go therwith! lat gɔ: fa:r wɛl ðə dɛvəl gɔ: ðɛ:rwɪθ
e our is goon, ther is namoore to telle; ðə u:r ɪs gɔ:n ðe:r ɪs namɔ:r to: tɛllə
e bren, as I best kan, now moste I selle; ðə brɛn as ɪ bɛst kan nu: mo:st ɪ sɛllə
But yet to be right myrie wol I fonde. bʊt jɛt to: be: rɪçt mɪrɪ wɔl ɪ fɔ:ndə
Now wol I tellen of my fourthe housbonde. nu: wɔl ɪ tɛllən ɔf mɪ: fɔʊrθ huzbɔ:ndə
‘But, Lord Christ! When I recall my youth and jollity, it tickles me to the bottom of my heart. And to this day it does my heart good to think that in my time I’ve had my ing. But age, alas, that poisons everything, has deprived me of my beauty and spirit. Let it go then, goodbye! e devil take it! e our’s all gone; there is no more to say. Now I must sell the bran as best I can. But all the same I mean to have my fun. And now I’ll tell about my fourth husband.’
