But though this mayden tendre were of age,
      Yet in the brest of hire virginitee
      Ther was enclosed sad and ripe corage: 
      And in gret reverence and charitee
      Hire olde poure fader fostred she: 
      A few sheep spinning on the feld she kept,
      She wolde not ben idel til she slept.

      And whan she homward came she wolde bring
      Wortes and other herbes times oft,
      The which she shred and sethe for hire living,
      And made hire bed ful hard, and nothing soft: 
      And ay she kept hire fadres lif on loft
      With every obeisance and diligence,
      That child may don to fadres reverence,

      Upon Grisilde, this poure creature,
      Ful often sithe this markis sette his sye, [sic]
      As he on hunting rode paraventure: 
      And whan it fell that he might hire espie,
      He not with wanton loking of folie
      His eyen cast on hire, but in sad wise
      Upon hire chere he wold him oft avise,

      Commending in his herte hire womanhede,
      And eke hire vertue, passing any wight
      Of so yong age, as wel in chere as dede. 
      For though the people have no gret insight
      In vertue, he considered ful right
      Hire bountee, and disposed that he wold
      Wedde hire only, if ever he wedden shold.

      Grisilde of this (God wot) ful innocent,
      That for hire shapen was all this array,
      To fetchen water at a welle is went,
      And cometh home as sone as ever she may. 
      For wel she had herd say, that thilke day
      The markis shulde wedde, and, if she might,
      She wolde fayn han seen som of that sight.

      She thought, “I wol with other maidens stond,
      That ben my felawes, in our dore, and see
      The markisesse, and therto wol I fond
      To don at home, as sone as it may be,
      The labour which longeth unto me,
      And than I may at leiser hire behold,
      If she this way unto the castel hold.”

      And she wolde over the threswold gon,
      The markis came and gan hire for to call,
      And she set doun her water-pot anon
      Beside the threswold in an oxes stall,
      And doun upon hire knees she gan to fall. 
      And with sad countenance kneleth still,
      Till she had herd what was the lordes will.”

The story of the little child slain in Jewry, (which is told by the Prioress, and worthy to be told by her who was “all conscience and tender heart,”) is not less touching than that of Griselda.  It is simple and heroic to the last degree.  The poetry of Chaucer has a religious sanctity about it, connected with the manners and superstitions of the age.  It has all the spirit of martyrdom.