Awak, and thenk on cristes passioun!
		I crouche thee from elves and fro wightes.
				The Miller's Tale, (lines 3478-3479)

		An elf-queene shal my lemman be
		And slepe under my goore.
		An elf-queene wol I love, ywis,
		For in this world no womman is
		Worthy to be my make
		In towne;
		Alle othere wommen I forsake,
		And to an elf-queene I me take
		By dale and eek by downe!
		Into his sadel he clamb anon,
		And priketh over stile and stoon
		An elf-queene for t' espye,
		Til he so longe hath riden and goon
		That he foond, in a pryve woon,
		The contree of fairye
		So wilde;
		For in that contree was ther noon
		That to him durste ride or goon,
		Neither wyf ne childe;
		Til that ther cam a greet geaunt,
		His name was sire olifaunt,
		A perilus man of dede.
		He seyde, child, by termagaunt!
		But if thou prike out of myn haunt,
		Anon I sle thy steede
		With mace.
		Heere is the queene of fayerye,
		With harpe and pipe and symphonye,
		Dwellynge in this place.
				The Shipman's Tale, (lines 788-816)

		This strange knyght, that cam thus sodeynly,
		Al armed, save his heed, ful richely,
		Saleweth kyng and queene and lordes alle,
		By ordre, as they seten in the halle,
		With so heigh reverence and obeisaunce,
		As wel in speche as in his contenaunce,
		That gawayn, with his olde curteisye,
		Though he were comen ayeyn out of fairye,
		Ne koude hym nat amende with a word.
				The Squire's Tale, (lines 89-97)

		Nature ne art ne koude hym nat amende
		In no degree, as al the peple wende.
		But everemoore hir mooste wonder was
		How that it koude gon, and was of bras;
		It was of fairye, as the peple semed.
		Diverse folk diversely they demed;
		As many heddes, as manye wittes ther been.
				The Squire's Tale, (lines 197-203)


		Assayeth it youreself, thanne may ye witen
		If that I lye or noon in this matiere.
		Mayus, that sit with so benyngne a chiere,
		Hire to biholde it semed fayerye.
		Queene ester looked nevere with swich an ye
		On assuer, so meke a look hath she.
				The Clerk's Tale (lines 1740-1745)

		Ful ofte tyme he pluto and his queene,
		Proserpina, and al hire fayerye,
		Disporten hem and maken melodye
		Aboute that welle, and daunced, as men tolde.
				The Clerk's Tale (lines 2038-2041)

		And so bifel, that brighte morwe-tyde,
		That in that gardyn, in the ferther syde,
		Pluto, that is kyng of fayerye,
		And many a lady in his compaignye,
		Folwynge his wyf, the queene proserpyna,
		Which that he ravysshed out of ethna
		Whil that she gadered floures in the mede -- 
		In claudyan ye may the stories rede,
		How in his grisely carte he hire fette -- 
		This kyng of fairye thanne adoun hym sette
		Upon a bench of turves, fressh and grene,
		And right anon thus seyde he to his queene:
		My wyf, quod he, ther may no wight seye nay;
		Th' experience so preveth every day
		The tresons whiche that wommen doon to man.
		Ten hondred thousand (tales) tellen I kan
		Notable of youre untrouthe and brotilnesse.
		O salomon, wys, and richest of richesse,
		Fulfild of sapience and of worldly glorie,
		Ful worthy been thy wordes to memorie
		To every wight that wit and reson kan.
				The Clerk's Tale (lines 2225-2245)

		My word shal stonde, I warne yow certeyn.
		I am a kyng, it sit me noght to lye.
		And I, quod she, a queene of fayerye!
		Hir answere shal she have, I undertake.
				The Clerk's Tale (lines 2314-2317)

		In th' olde dayes of the kyng arthour,
		Of which that britons speken greet honour,
		Al was this land fulfild of fayerye.
		The elf-queene, with hir joly compaignye,
		Daunced ful ofte in many a grene mede.
		This was the olde opinion, as I rede;
		I speke of manye hundred yeres ago.
		But now kan no man se none elves mo,
		For now the grete charitee and prayers
		Of lymytours and othere hooly freres,
		That serchen every lond and every streem,
		As thikke as motes in the sonne-beem,
		Blessynge halles, chambres, kichenes, boures,
		Citees, burghes, castels, hye toures,
		Thropes, bernes, shipnes, dayeryes -- 
		This maketh that ther ben no fayeryes.
		For ther as wont to walken was an elf,
		Ther walketh now the lymytour hymself
		In undermeles and in morwenynges,
		And seyth his matyns and his hooly thynges
		As he gooth in his lymytacioun.
				The Wife of Bath's Tale (lines 857-877)

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