The Canterbury Tales

Geoffrey Chaucer

The Prologue

When that Aprilis, with his showers swoot,
The drought of March hath pierced to the root,
And bathed every vein in such licóur,
Of which virtúe engender’d is the flower;
When Zephyrus eke with his swootë breath
Inspired hath in every holt and heath
The tender croppës, and the youngë sun
Hath in the Ram his halfë course y-run,
And smallë fowlës makë melody,
That sleepen all the night with open eye,
(So pricketh them natúre in their coráges);
Then longë folk to go on pilgrimages,
And palmers for to seekë strangë strands,
To fernë hallows couth in sundry lands;
And specially, from every shirë’s end
Of Engleland, to Canterbury they wend,
The holy blissful Martyr for to seek,
That them hath holpen, when that they were sick.

Befell that, in that season on a day,
In Southwark at the Tabard as I lay,
Ready to wenden on my pilgrimage
To Canterbury with devout coráge,
At night was come into that hostelry
Well nine and twenty in a company
Of sundry folk, by áventure y-fall
In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all,
That toward Canterbury wouldë ride.
The chamber, and the stables werë wide,
And well we weren eased at the best.
And shortly, when the sunnë was to rest,
So had I spoken with them every one,
That I was of their fellowship anon,
And madë forword early for to rise,
To take our way there as I you devise.

But natheless, while I have time and space,
Ere that I farther in this talë pace,
Me thinketh it accordant to reasón,
To tell you allë the condition
Of each of them, so as it seemed me,
And which they weren, and of what degree;
And eke in what array that they were in:
And at a Knight then will I first begin.

A Knight there was, and that a worthy man,
That from the timë that he first began
To riden out, he loved chivalry,
Truth and honoúr, freedom and courtesy.
Full worthy was he in his Lordë’s war,
And thereto had he ridden, no man farre,
As well in Christendom as in Heatheness,
And ever honour’d for his worthiness.
At Alisandre he was when it was won.
Full often time he had the board begun
Above allë natións in Prusse.
In Lettowe had he reysed, and in Russe,
No Christian man so oft of his degree.
In Grenade at the siege eke had he be
Of Algesir, and ridden in Belmarie.
At Leyës was he, and at Satalie,
When they were won; and in the Greatë Sea
At many a noble army had he be.
At mortal battles had he been fifteen,
And foughten for our faith at Tramissene.
In listës thriës, and aye slain his foe.
This ilkë worthy knight had been also
Some timë with the lord of Palatie,
Against another heathen in Turkie:
And evermore he had a sovereign price.
And though that he was worthy he was wise,
And of his port as meek as is a maid.
He never yet no villainy ne said
In all his life, unto no manner wight.
He was a very perfect gentle knight.
But for to tellë you of his array,
His horse was good, but yet he was not gay.
Of fustian he weared a gipon,
Allë besmotter’d with his habergeon,
For he was late y-come from his voyáge,
And wentë for to do his pilgrimage.

With him there was his son, a youngë Squire,
A lover, and a lusty bacheler,
With lockës crulle as they were laid in press.
Of twenty year of age he was I guess.
Of his statúre he was of even length,
And wonderly deliver, and great of strength.
And he had been some time in chevachie,
In Flanders, in Artois, and Picardie,
And borne him well, as of so little space,
In hope to standen in his lady’s grace.
Embroider’d was he, as it were a mead
All full of freshë flowers, white and red.
Singing he was, or fluting all the day;
He was as fresh as is the month of May.
Short was his gown, with sleevës long and wide.
Well could he sit on horse, and fairë ride.
He couldë songës make, and well indite,
Joust, and eke dance, and well pourtray and write.
So hot he loved, that by nightertale
He slept no more than doth the nightingale.
Courteous he was, lowly, and serviceable,
And carv’d before his father at the table.

A Yeoman had he, and servánts no mo’
At that timë, for him list ridë so;
And he was clad in coat and hood of green.
A sheaf of peacock arrows bright and keen
Under his belt he bare full thriftily.
Well could he dress his tackle yeomanly:
His arrows drooped not with feathers low;
And in his hand he bare a mighty bow.
A nut-head had he, with a brown viságe:
Of wood-craft coud he well all the uságe:
Upon his arm he bare a gay bracér,
And by his side a sword and a bucklér,
And on that other side a gay daggere,
Harnessed well, and sharp as point of spear:
A Christopher on his breast of silver sheen.
An horn he bare, the baldric was of green:
A forester was he soothly as I guess.

There was also a Nun, a Prioress,
That of her smiling was full simple and coy;
Her greatest oathë was but by Saint Loy;
And she was cleped Madame Eglentine.
Full well she sang the servicë divine,
Entuned in her nose full seemëly;
And French she spake full fair and fetisly
After the school of Stratford attë Bow,
For French of Paris was to her unknow.
At meatë was she well y-taught withal;
She let no morsel from her lippës fall,
Nor wet her fingers in her saucë deep.
Well could she carry a morsel, and well keep,
That no droppë ne fell upon her breast.
In courtesy was set full much her lest.
Her over-lippë wiped she so clean,
That in her cup there was no farthing seen
Of greasë, when she drunken had her draught;
Full seemëly after her meat she raught:
And sickerly she was of great disport,
And full pleasánt, and amiable of port,
And pained her to counterfeitë cheer
Of court, and be estately of mannére,
And to be holden digne of reverence.

But for to speaken of her consciénce,
She was so charitable and so pitous,
She wouldë weep if that she saw a mouse
Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled.
Of smallë houndës had she, that she fed
With roasted flesh, and milk, and wastel bread.
But sore she wept if one of them were dead,
Or if men smote it with a yardë smart:
And all was conscience and tender heart.
Full seemly her wimple y-pinched was;
Her nose tretis; her eyen gray as glass;
Her mouth full small, and thereto soft and red;
But sickerly she had a fair forehéad.
It was almost a spannë broad I trow;
For hardily she was not undergrow.
Full fetis was her cloak, as I was ware.
Of small corál about her arm she bare
A pair of beadës, gauded all with green;
And thereon hung a brooch of gold full sheen,
On which was first y-written a crown’d A,
And after, Amor vincit omnia.
Another Nun also with her had she,
[That was her chapelléine, and Priestës three.]

A Monk there was, a fair for the mast’ry,
An outrider, that loved venery;
A manly man, to be an abbot able.
Full many a dainty horse had he in stable:
And when he rode, men might his bridle hear
Jingeling in a whistling wind as clear,
And eke as loud, as doth the chapel bell,
There as this lord was keeper of the cell.
The rule of Saint Maur and of Saint Benet,
Because that it was old and somedeal strait,
This ilkë monk let oldë thingës pace,
And held after the newë world the trace.
He gave not of the text a pulled hen,
That saith, that hunters be not holy men;
Ne that a monk, when he is cloisterless;
Is like to a fish that is waterless;
This is to say, a monk out of his cloister.
This ilkë text held he not worth an oyster;
And I say his opinion was good.
Why should he study, and make himselfë wood,
Upon a book in cloister always pore,
Or swinken with his handës, and laboúr,
As Austin bit? how shall the world be served?
Let Austin have his swink to him reserved.
Therefore he was a prickasour aright:
Greyhounds he had as swift as fowl of flight:
Of pricking and of hunting for the hare
Was all his lust, for no cost would he spare.
I saw his sleevës purfil’d at the hand
With gris, and that the finest of the land.
And for to fasten his hood under his chin,
He had of gold y-wrought a curious pin:
A love-knot in the greater end there was.
His head was bald, and shone as any glass,
And eke his face, as it had been anoint;
He was a lord full fat and in good point;
His eyen steep, and rolling in his head,
That steamed as a furnace of a lead.
His bootës supple, his horse in great estate,
Now certainly he was a fair preláte;
He was not pale as a forpined ghost;
A fat swan lov’d he best of any roast.
His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.

A Friar there was, a wanton and a merry,
A limitour, a full solemnë man.
In all the orders four is none that can
So much of dalliance and fair languáge.
He had y-made full many a marriáge
Of youngë women, at his owen cost.
Unto his order he was a noble post;
Full well belov’d, and familiár was he
With franklins over all in his countrý,
And eke with worthy women of the town:
For he had power of confessión,
As said himselfë, more than a curáte,
For of his order he was licentiate.
Full sweetëly heard he confession,
And pleasant was his absolution.
He was an easy man to give penánce,
There as he wist to have a good pittánce:
For unto a poor order for to give
Is signë that a man is well y-shrive.
For if he gave, he durstë make avant,
He wistë that the man was repentant.
For many a man so hard is of his heart,
He may not weep although him sorë smart.
Therefore instead of weeping and prayéres,
Men must give silver to the poorë freres.

His tippet was aye farsed full of knives,
And pinnës, for to give to fairë wives;
And certainly he had a merry note:
Well could he sing and playen on a rote;
Of yeddings he bare utterly the prize.
His neck was white as is the fleur-de-lis.
Thereto he strong was as a champion,
And knew well the tavérns in every town.
And every hosteler and gay tapstére,
Better than a lazar or a beggére,
For unto such a worthy man as he
Accordeth not, as by his faculty,
To havë with such lazars acquaintánce.
It is not honest, it may not advance,
As for to dealë with no such pouraille,
But all with rich, and sellers of vitaille.
And ov’r all there as profit should arise,
Courteous he was, and lowly of servíce;
There n’as no man nowhere so virtuous.
He was the bestë beggar in all his house:
And gave a certain farmë for the grant,
None of his bretheren came in his haunt.
For though a widow haddë but one shoe,
So pleasant was his In principio,
Yet would he have a farthing ere he went;
His purchase was well better than his rent.
And rage he could and play as any whelp,
In lovëdays; there could he muchel help.
For there was he not like a cloisterer,
With threadbare cope, as is a poor scholer,
But he was like a master or a pope.
Of double worsted was his semicope,
That rounded was as a bell out of press.
Somewhat he lisped for his wantonness,
To make his English sweet upon his tongue;
And in his harping, when that he had sung,
His eyen twinkled in his head aright,
As do the starrës in a frosty night.
This worthy limitour was call’d Hubérd.

A Merchant was there with a forked beard,
In motley, and high on his horse he sat,
Upon his head a Flandrish beaver hat.
His bootës clasped fair and fetisly.
His reasons aye spake he full solemnly,
Sounding alway th’ increase of his winning.
He would the sea were kept for any thing
Betwixtë Middleburg and Orëwell.
Well could he in exchangë shieldës sell.
This worthy man full well his wit beset;
There wistë no wight that he was in debt,
So estately was he of governance
With his bargáins, and with his chevisance.
For sooth he was a worthy man withal,
But sooth to say, I n’ot how men him call.

A Clerk there was of Oxenford also,
That unto logic haddë long y-go.
As leanë was his horse as is a rake,
And he was not right fat, I undertake;
But looked hollow, and thereto soberly.
Full threadbare was his overest courtepy,
For he had gotten him yet no benefice,
Ne was not worldly, to have an office.
For him was lever have at his bed’s head
Twenty bookës, clothed in black or red,
Of Aristotle, and his philosophy,
Than robës rich, or fiddle, or psalt’ry.
But all be that he was a philosópher,
Yet haddë he but little gold in coffer,
But all that he might of his friendës hent,
On bookës and on learning he it spent,
And busily gan for the soulës pray
Of them that gave him wherewith to scholay.
Of study took he mostë care and heed.
Not one word spake he morë than was need;
And that was said in form and reverence,
And short and quick, and full of high senténce.
Sounding in moral virtue was his speech,
And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach.

A Sergeant of the Law, wary and wise,
That often had y-been at the Parvis,
There was also, full rich of excellence.
Discreet he was, and of great reverence:
He seemed such, his wordës were so wise,
Justice he was full often in assize,
By patent, and by plein commission;
For his sciénce, and for his high renown,
Of fees and robës had he many one.
So great a purchaser was nowhere none.
All was fee simple to him, in effect
His purchasing might not be in suspect.
Nowhere so busy a man as he there was,
And yet he seemed busier than he was.
In termës had he case’ and doomës all,
That from the time of King Will. werë fall.
Thereto he could indite, and make a thing,
There couldë no wight pinch at his writing.
And every statute coud he plain by rote.
He rode but homely in a medley coat,
Girt with a seint of silk, with barrës small;
Of his array tell I no longer tale.

A Frankëlin was in this company;
White was his beard, as is the daïsy.
Of his complexión he was sanguíne.
Well lov’d he in the morn a sop in wine.
To liven in delight was ever his won,
For he was Epicurus’ owen son,
That held opinion, that plein delight
Was verily felicity perfíte.
An householder, and that a great, was he;
Saint Julian he was in his countrý.
His bread, his ale, was alway after one;
A better envined man was nowhere none;
Withouten bake-meat never was his house,
Of fish and flesh, and that so plentëous,
It snowed in his house of meat and drink,
Of allë dainties that men couldë think.
After the sundry seasons of the year,
So changed he his meat and his soupére.
Full many a fat partridge had he in mew,
And many a bream, and many a luce in stew.
Woe was his cook, but if his saucë were
Poignant and sharp, and ready all his gear.
His table dormant in his hall alway
Stood ready cover’d all the longë day.
At sessions there was he lord and sire.
Full often time he was knight of the shire.
An anlace, and a gipciere all of silk,
Hung at his girdle, white as morning milk.
A sheriff had he been, and a countour.
Was nowhere such a worthy vavasour.

An Haberdasher, and a Carpenter,
A Webbe, a Dyer, and a Tapiser,
Were with us eke, cloth’d in one livery,
Of a solémn and great fraternity.
Full fresh and new their gear y-picked was.
Their knivës were y-chaped not with brass,
But all with silver wrought full clean and well,
Their girdles and their pouches every deal.
Well seemed each of them a fair burgéss,
To sitten in a guild-hall, on the dais.
Evereach, for the wisdom that he can,
Was shapely for to be an alderman.
For chattels haddë they enough and rent,
And eke their wivës would it well assent:
And ellës certain they had been to blame.
It is full fair to be y-clep’d madáme,
And for to go to vigils all before,
And have a mantle royally y-bore.

A Cook they haddë with them for the nones,
To boil the chickens and the marrow bones,
And powder merchant tart and galingale.
Well could he know a draught of London ale.
He couldë roast, and seethe, and broil, and fry,
Makë mortrewës, and well bake a pie.
But great harm was it, as it thoughtë me,
That, on his shin a mormal haddë he.
For blanc manger, that made he with the best.

A Shipman was there, wonned far by West:
For ought I wot, be was of Dartëmouth.
He rode upon a rouncy, as he couth,
All in a gown of falding to the knee.
A dagger hanging by a lace had he
About his neck under his arm adown;
The hot summer had made his hue all brown;
And certainly he was a good felláw.
Full many a draught of wine he had y-draw
From Bourdeaux-ward, while that the chapmen sleep;
Of nicë consciénce took he no keep.
If that he fought, and had the higher hand,
By water he sent them home to every land.
But of his craft to reckon well his tides,
His streamës and his strandës him besides,
His herberow, his moon, and lodemanage,
There was none such, from Hull unto Carthage.
Hardy he was, and wise, I undertake:
With many a tempest had his beard been shake.
He knew well all the havens, as they were,
From Scotland to the Cape of Finisterre,
And every creek in Bretagne and in Spain:
His barge y-cleped was the Magdelain.

With us there was a Doctor of Physic;
In all this worldë was there none him like
To speak of physic, and of surgery:
For he was grounded in astronomy.
He kept his patiént a full great deal
In hourës by his magic natural.
Well could he fortunë the áscendent
Of his imáges for his patiént.
He knew the cause of every malady,
Were it of cold, or hot, or moist, or dry,
And where engender’d, and of what humoúr.
He was a very perfect practisour
The cause y-know, and of his harm the root,
Anon he gave to the sick man his boot.
Full ready had he his apothecaries,
To send his druggës and his lectuaries,
For each of them made other for to win:
Their friendship was not newë to begin.
Well knew he the old Esculapius,
And Dioscorides, and eke Rufus;
Old Hippocras, Hali, and Gallien;
Serapion, Rasis, and Avicen;
Averrois, Damascene, and Constantin;
Bernard, and Gatisden, and Gilbertin.
Of his diet measúrable was he,
For it was of no superfluity,
But of great nourishing, and digestible.
His study was but little on the Bible.
In sanguine and in perse he clad was, all
Lined with taffeta, and with sendall.
And yet he was but easy of dispence:
He kept that he won in the pestilence.
For gold in physic is a cordial;
Therefore he loved gold in special.

A good Wife was there of besidë Bath,
But she was somedeal deaf, and that was scath.
Of cloth-making she haddë such an haunt,
She passed them of Ypres, and of Gaunt.
In all the parish wifë was there none,
That to the off’ring before her should gon,
And if there did, certain so wroth was she,
That she was out of allë charity.
Her coverchiefs werë full fine of ground;
I durstë swear, they weighedë ten pound
That on the Sunday were upon her head.
Her hosen weren of fine scarlet red,
Full strait y-tied, and shoes full moist and new.
Bold was her face, and fair and red of hue.
She was a worthy woman all her live,
Husbands at the church door had she had five,
Withouten other company in youth;
But thereof needeth not to speak as nouth.
And thrice had she been at Jerusalem;
She haddë passed many a strangë stream;
At Rome she had been, and at Bologne,
In Galice at Saint James, and at Cologne;
She coudë much of wand’ring by the way.
Gat-toothed was she, soothly for to say.
Upon an ambler easily she sat,
Y-wimpled well, and on her head an hat
As broad as is a buckler or a targe.
A foot-mantle about her hippës large,
And on her feet a pair of spurrës sharp.
In fellowship well could she laugh and carp.
Of remedies of love she knew perchance,
For of that art she coud the oldë dance.

A good man there was of religión,
That was a poorë Parson of a town:
But rich he was of holy thought and werk:
He was also a learned man, a clerk,
That Christë’s gospel truly wouldë preach.
His parishens devoutly would he teach.
Benign he was, and wonder diligent,
And in adversity full patient:
And such he was y-proved often sithes.
Full loth were him to cursë for his tithes,
But rather would he given out of doubt,
Unto his poorë parishens about,
Of his off’ring, and eke of his substánce.
He could in little thing have suffisance.
Wide was his parish, and houses far asunder,
But he ne left not, for no rain nor thunder,
In sickness and in mischief to visit
The farthest in his parish, much and lit,
Upon his feet, and in his hand a staff.
This noble ensample to his sheep he gaf,
That first he wrought, and afterward he taught.
Out of the gospel he the wordës caught,
And this figúre he added yet thereto,
That if gold rustë, what should iron do?
For if a priest be foul, on whom we trust,
No wonder is a lewëd man to rust:
And shame it is, if that a priest take keep,
To see a shitten shepherd and clean sheep:
Well ought a priest ensample for to give,
By his own cleanness, how his sheep should live.

He settë not his benefice to hire,
And left his sheep eucumber’d in the mire,
And ran unto London, unto Saint Poul’s,
To seekë him a chantery for souls,
Or with a brotherhood to be withold:
But dwelt at home, and keptë well his fold,
So that the wolf ne made it not miscarry.
He was a shepherd, and no mercenary.
And though he holy were, and virtuous,
He was to sinful men not dispitous
Nor of his speechë dangerous nor dign,
But in his teaching díscreet and benign.
To drawen folk to heaven, with fairness,
By good ensample, was his business:
But it were any person obstinate,
What so he were of high or low estate,
Him would he snibbë sharply for the nonës.
A better priest I trow that nowhere none is.
He waited after no pomp nor reverence,
Nor maked him a spiced consciénce,
But Christë’s lore, and his apostles’ twelve,
He taught, and first he follow’d it himselve.

With him there was a Ploughman, was his brother,
That had y-laid of dung full many a fother.
A true swinker and a good was he,
Living in peace and perfect charity.
God loved he bestë with all his heart
At allë timës, were it gain or smart,
And then his neighëbour right as himselve.
He wouldë thresh, and thereto dike, and delve,
For Christë’s sake, for every poorë wight,
Withouten hire, if it lay in his might.
His tithës payed he full fair and well,
Both of his proper swink, and his chattel.
In a tabard he rode upon a mare.

There was also a Reeve, and a Millere,
A Sompnour, and a Pardoner also,
A Manciple, and myself, there were no mo’.

The Miller was a stout carle for the nones,
Full big he was of brawn, and eke of bones;
That proved well, for ov’r all where he came,
At wrestling he would bear away the ram.
He was short-shouldered, broad, a thickë gnarr,
There was no door, that he n’old heave off bar,
Or break it at a running with his head.
His beard as any sow or fox was red,
And thereto broad, as though it were a spade.
Upon the cop right of his nose he had
A wart, and thereon stood a tuft of hairs
Red as the bristles of a sowë’s ears.
His nosë-thirlës blackë were and wide.
A sword and buckler bare he by his side.
His mouth as widë was as a furnáce.
He was a jangler, and a goliardais,
And that was most of sin and harlotries.
Well could he stealë corn, and tollë thrice.
And yet he had a thumb of gold, pardie.
A white coat and a blue hood weared he.
A baggëpipe well could he blow and soun’,
And therewithal he brought us out of town.

A gentle Manciple was there of a temple,
Of which achatours mightë take ensample
For to be wise in buying of vitaille.
For whether that he paid, or took by taile,
Algate he waited so in his achate,
That he was aye before in good estate.
Now is not that of God a full fair grace
That such a lewëd mannë’s wit shall pace
The wisdom of an heap of learned men?
Of masters had he more than thriës ten,
That were of law expert and curious:
Of which there was a dozen in that house,
Worthy to be stewárds of rent and land
Of any lord that is in Engleland,
To makë him live by his proper good,
In honour debtless, but if he were wood,
Or live as scarcely as him list desire;
And able for to helpen all a shire
In any case that mightë fall or hap;
And yet this Manciple set their allër cap.

The Reevë was a slender choleric man,
His beard was shav’d as nigh as ever he can.
His hair was by his earës round y-shorn;
His top was docked like a priest beforn.
Full longë were his leggës, and full lean,
Y-like a staff, there was no calf y-seen.
Well could he keep a garner and a bin:
There was no auditor could on him win.
Well wist he by the drought, and by the rain,
The yielding of his seed and of his grain.
His lordë’s sheep, his neat, and his dairy.
His swine, his horse, his store, and his poultrý,
Were wholly in this Reevë’s governing,
And by his cov’nant gave he reckoning,
Since that his lord was twenty year of age;
There could no man bring him in arrearáge.
There was no bailiff, herd, nor other hine,
That he ne knew his sleight and his covine:
They were adrad of him, as of the death.
His wonning was full fair upon an heath,
With greenë trees y-shadow’d was his place.
He couldë better than his lord purchase.
Full rich he was y-stored privily.
His lord well could he pleasë subtilly,
To give and lend him of his owen good,
And have a thank, and yet a coat and hood.
In youth he learned had a good mistére.
He was a well good wright, a carpentére
This Reevë sate upon a right good stot,
That was all pomely gray, and hightë Scot.
A long surcoat of perse upon he had,
And by his side he bare a rusty blade.
Of Norfolk was this Reeve, of which I tell,
Beside a town men clepen Baldeswell.
Tucked he was, as is a friar, about,
And ever rode the hinderest of the rout.

A Sompnour was there with us in that place,
That had a fire-red cherubinnës face,
For sausëfleme he was, with eyen narrow.
As hot he was and lecherous as a sparrow,
With scalled browës black, and pilled beard:
Of his viságe children were sore afeard.
There n’as quicksilver, litharge, nor brimstone,
Boras, ceruse, nor oil of tartar none,
Nor ointëment that wouldë cleanse or bite,
That him might helpen of his whelkës white,
Nor of the knobbës sitting on his cheeks.
Well lov’d he garlic, onións, and leeks,
And for to drink strong wine as red as blood.
Then would he speak, and cry as he were wood;
And when that he well drunken had the wine,
Then would he speakë no word but Latin.
A fewë termës knew he, two or three,
That he had learned out of some decree;
No wonder is, he heard it all the day.
And eke ye knowen well, how that a jay
Can clepen “Wat,” as well as can the Pope.
But whoso would in other thing him grope,
Then had he spent all his philosophy,
Aye, Questio quid juris, would he cry.

He was a gentle harlot and a kind;
A better fellów should a man not find.
He wouldë suffer, for a quart of wine,
A good fellow to have his concubine
A twelvemonth, and excuse him at the full.
Full privily a finch eke could he pull.
And if he found owhere a good felláw,
He wouldë teachë him to have none awe
In such a case of the archdeacon’s curse;
But if a mannë’s soul were in his purse;
For in his purse he should y-punished be.
“Purse is the archëdeacon’s hell,” said he.
But well I wot, he lied right indeed:
Of cursing ought each guilty man to dread,
For curse will slay right as assoiling saveth;
And also ’ware him of a significavit.

In danger had he at his owen guise
The youngë girlës of the diocese,
And knew their counsel, and was of their rede.
A garland had he set upon his head,
As great as it were for an alëstake:
A buckler had he made him of a cake.

With him there rode a gentle Pardonere
Of Ronceval, his friend and his compere,
That straight was comen from the court of Romë.
Full loud he sang, “Come hither, lovë, tó me.”
This Sompnour bare to him a stiff burdoun,
Was never trump of half so great a soun’.
This Pardoner had hair as yellow as wax,
But smooth it hung, as doth a strike of flax:
By ounces hung his lockës that he had,
And therewith he his shoulders oversprad.
Full thin it lay, by culpons one and one,
But hood for jollity, he weared none,
For it was trussed up in his wallét.
Him thought he rode all of the newë get,
Dishevel, save his cap, he rode all bare.
Such glaring eyen had he, as an hare.
A vernicle had he sew’d upon his cap.
His wallët lay before him in his lap,
Bretful of pardon come from Rome all hot.
A voice he had as small as hath a goat.
No beard had he, nor ever one should have.
As smooth it was as it were new y-shave;
I trow he were a gelding or a mare.
But of his craft, from Berwick unto Ware,
Ne was there such another pardonere.
For in his mail he had a pillowbere,
Which, as he saidë, was our Lady’s veil:
He said, he had a gobbet of the sail
That Saintë Peter had, when that he went
Upon the sea, till Jesus Christ him hent.
He had a cross of latoun full of stones,
And in a glass he haddë piggë’s bones.
But with these relics, whennë that he fond
A poorë parson dwelling upon lond,
Upon a day he got him more money
Than that the parson got in moneths tway;
And thus with feigned flattering and japes,
He made the parson and the people his apes.
But truëly to tellen at the last,
He was in church a noble ecclesiast.
Well could he read a lesson or a story,
But alderbest he sang an offertóry:
For well he wistë, when that song was sung,
He mustë preach, and well afile his tongue,
To winnë silver, as he right well could:
Therefore he sang full merrily and loud.

Now have I told you shortly in a clause
Th’ estate, th’ array, the number, and eke the cause
Why that assembled was this company
In Southwark at this gentle hostelry,
That hightë the Tabard, fast by the Bell.
But now is timë to you for to tell
How that we baren us that ilkë night,
When we were in that hostelry alight.
And after will I tell of our voyáge,
And all the remnant of our pilgrimage.

But first I pray you of your courtesy,
That ye arette it not my villainy,
Though that I plainly speak in this mattére.
To tellen you their wordës and their cheer;
Not though I speak their wordës properly.
For this ye knowen all so well as I,
Whoso shall tell a tale after a man,
He must rehearse, as nigh as ever he can,
Every word, if it be in his charge,
All speak he ne’er so rudely and so large;
Or ellës he must tell his tale untrue,
Or feignë things, or findë wordës new.
He may not spare, although he were his brother;
He must as well say one word as another.
Christ spake Himself full broad in Holy Writ,
And well ye wot no villainy is it.
Eke Plato saith, whoso that can him read,
The wordës must be cousin to the deed.
Also I pray you to forgive it me,
All have I not set folk in their degree,
Here in this tale, as that they shoulden stand:
My wit is short, ye may well understand.

Great cheerë made our Host us every one,
And to the supper set he us anon:
And served us with victual of the best.
Strong was the wine, and well to drink us lest.
A seemly man Our Hostë was withal
For to have been a marshal in an hall.
A largë man he was with eyen steep,
A fairer burgess is there none in Cheap:
Bold of his speech, and wise and well y-taught,
And of manhoodë lacked him right naught.
Eke thereto was he right a merry man,
And after supper playen he began,
And spake of mirth amongës other things,
When that we haddë made our reckonings;
And saidë thus; “Now, lordingës, truly
Ye be to me welcome right heartily:
For by my troth, if that I shall not lie,
I saw not this year such a company
At once in this herberow, as is now.
Fain would I do you mirth, an I wist how.
And of a mirth I am right now bethought.
To do you ease, and it shall costë nought.
Ye go to Canterbury; God you speed,
The blissful Martyr quitë you your meed;
And well I wot, as ye go by the way,
Ye shapen you to talken and to play:
For truëly comfórt nor mirth is none
To ridë by the way as dumb as stone:
And therefore would I makë you disport,
As I said erst, and do you some comfórt.
And if you liketh all by one assent
Now for to standen at my judgëment,
And for to worken as I shall you say
To-morrow, when ye riden on the way,
Now by my father’s soulë that is dead,
But ye be merry, smiteth off mine head.
Hold up your hands withoutë morë speech.”

Our counsel was not longë for to seech:
Us thought it was not worth to make it wise,
And granted him withoutë more avise,
And bade him say his verdict, as him lest.

“Lordings (quoth he), now hearken for the best;
But take it not, I pray you, in disdain;
This is the point, to speak it plat and plain.
That each of you, to shorten with your way
In this voyáge, shall tellen talës tway,
To Canterbury-ward, I mean it so,
And homeward he shall tellen other two,
Of aventúres that whilom have befall.
And which of you that bear’th him best of all,
That is to say, that telleth in this case
Talës of best senténce and most solace,
Shall have a supper at your allër cost
Here in this placë, sitting by this post,
When that ye come again from Canterbury.
And for to makë you the morë merry,
I will myselfë gladly with you ride,
Right at mine owen cost, and be your guide.
And whoso will my judgëment withsay,
Shall pay for all we spenden by the way.
And if ye vouchësafe that it be so,
Tell me anon withoutë wordës mo’,
And I will early shapë me therefore.”

This thing was granted, and our oath we swore
With full glad heart, and prayed him also,
That he would vouchësafe for to do so,
And that he wouldë be our governour,
And of our talës judge and reportour,
And set a supper at a certain price;
And we will ruled be at his device,
In high and low: and thus by one assent,
We be accorded to his judgëment.
And thereupon the wine was fet anon.
We drunken, and to restë went each one,
Withouten any longer tarrying

A-morrow, when the day began to spring,
Up rose our host, and was our allër cock,
And gather’d us together in a flock,
And forth we ridden all a little space,
Unto the watering of Saint Thomas:
And there our host began his horse arrest,
And saidë; “Lordës, hearken if you lest.
Ye weet your forword, and I it record.
If evensong and morning-song accord,
Let see now who shall tellë the first tale.
As ever may I drinkë wine or ale,
Whoso is rebel to my judgëment,
Shall pay for all that by the way is spent.
Now draw ye cuts, ere that ye farther twin.
He which that hath the shortest shall begin.”

“Sir Knight (quoth he), my master and my lord,
Now draw the cut, for that is mine accord.
Come near (quoth he), my Lady Prioress,
And ye, Sir Clerk, let be your shamefastness,
Nor study not: lay hand to, every man.”

Anon to drawen every wight began,
And shortly for to tellen as it was,
Were it by áventure, or sort, or cas,
The sooth is this, the cut fell to the Knight,
Of which full blithe and glad was every wight;
And tell he must his tale as was reasón,
By forword, and by composition,
As ye have heard; what needeth wordës mo’?
And when this good man saw that it was so,
As he that wise was and obediént
To keep his forword by his free assent,
He said; “Sithen I shall begin this game,
Why, welcome be the cut in Goddë’s name.
Now let us ride, and hearken what I say.”

And with that word we ridden forth our way;
And he began with right a merry cheer
His tale anon, and said as ye shall hear.

The Knight’s Tale

Whilom, as oldë stories tellen us,
There was a duke that hightë Theseus.
Of Athens he was lord and governor,
And in his timë such a conqueror
That greater was there none under the sun.
Full many a richë country had he won.
What with his wisdom and his chivalry,
He conquer’d all the regne of Feminie,
That whilom was y-cleped Scythia;
And weddedë the Queen Hippolyta,
And brought her home with him to his country
With muchel glory and great solemnity,
And eke her youngë sister Emily,
And thus with vict’ry and with melody
Let I this worthy Duke to Athens ride,
And all his host, in armës him beside.

And certes, if it n’ere too long to hear,
I would have told you fully the mannére,
How wonnen was the regne of Feminie,
By Theseus, and by his chivalry;
And of the greatë battle for the nonce
Betwixt Athenës and the Amazons;
And how assieged was Hippolyta,
The fairë hardy queen of Scythia;
And of the feast that was at her wedding,
And of the tempest at her homecoming.
But all these things I must as now forbear.
I have, God wot, a largë field to ear;
And weakë be the oxen in my plough;
The remnant of my tale is long enow.
I will not letten eke none of this rout.
Let every fellow tell his tale about,
And let see now who shall the supper win.
There as I left, I will again begin.

This Duke, of whom I makë mentioún,
When he was come almost unto the town,
In all his weal and in his mostë pride,
He was ware, as he cast his eye aside,
Where that there kneeled in the highë way
A company of ladies, tway and tway,
Each after other, clad in clothës black:
But such a cry and such a woe they make,
That in this world n’is creatúre living,
That heardë such another waimenting.
And of this crying would they never stenten,
Till they the reinës of his bridle henten.
“What folk be ye that at mine homecoming
Perturben so my feastë with crying?”
Quoth Theseus; “Have ye so great envý
Of mine honoúr, that thus complain and cry?
Or who hath you misboden, or offended?
Do tellë me, if it may be amended;
And why that ye be clad thus all in black?”

The oldest lady of them all then spake,
When she had swooned, with a deadly cheer,
That it was ruthë for to see or hear.
She saidë; “Lord, to whom fortúne hath given
Vict’ry, and as a conqueror to liven,
Nought grieveth us your glory and your honoúr;
But we beseechen mercy and succóur.
Have mercy on our woe and our distress;
Some drop of pity, through thy gentleness,
Upon us wretched women let now fall.
For certës, lord, there is none of us all
That hath not been a duchess or a queen;
Now be we caitives, as it is well seen:
Thanked be Fortune, and her falsë wheel,
That none estate ensureth to be wele.
And certes, lord, t’ abiden your presénce
Here in this temple of the goddess Clemence
We have been waiting all this fortënight:
Now help us, lord, since it lies in thy might.

“I, wretched wight, that weep and wailë thus,
Was whilom wife to king Capaneus,
That starf at Thebes, cursed be that day:
And allë we that be in this array,
And maken all this lamentatioún,
We losten all our husbands at that town,
While that the siegë thereabouten lay.
And yet the oldë Creon, well-away!
That lord is now of Thebes the city,
Fulfilled of ire and of iniquity,
He for despite, and for his tyranny,
To do the deadë bodies villainy,
Of all our lordës, which that been y-slaw,
Hath all the bodies on an heap y-draw,
And will not suffer them by none assent
Neither to be y-buried, nor y-brent,
But maketh houndës eat them in despite.”
And with that word, withoutë more respite
They fallen groff, and cryden piteously;
“Have on us wretched women some mercy,
And let our sorrow sinken in thine heart.”

This gentle Duke down from his courser start
With heartë piteous, when he heard them speak.
Him thoughtë that his heart would all to-break,
When he saw them so piteous and so mate,
That whilom weren of so great estate.
And in his armës he them all up hent,
And them comfórted in full good intent,
And swore his oath, as he was truë knight,
He wouldë do so farforthly his might
Upon the tyrant Creon them to wreak,
That all the people of Greecë shouldë speak,
How Creon was of Theseus y-served,
As he that had his death full well deserved.
And right anon withoutë more abode
His banner he display’d, and forth he rode
To Thebes-ward, and all his host beside:
No ner Athenës would he go nor ride,
Nor take his easë fully half a day,
But onward on his way that night he lay:
And sent anon Hippolyta the queen,
And Emily her youngë sister sheen
Unto the town of Athens for to dwell:
And forth he rit; there is no more to tell.

The red statúe of Mars with spear and targe
So shineth in his whitë banner large,
That all the fieldës glitter up and down:
And by his banner borne is his pennon
Of gold full rich, in which there was y-beat
The Minotaur which that he slew in Crete.
Thus rit this Duke, thus rit this conquerour,
And in his host of chivalry the flower,
Till that he came to Thebes, and alight
Fair in a field, there as he thought to fight.
But shortly for to speaken of this thing,
With Creon, which that was of Thebes king,
He fought, and slew him manly as a knight
In plain batáille, and put his folk to flight:
And by assault he won the city after,
And rent adown both wall, and spar, and rafter;
And to the ladies he restored again
The bodies of their husbands that were slain,
To do obséquies, as was then the guise.

But it were all too long for to devise
The greatë clamour, and the waimenting,
Which that the ladies made at the brenning
Of the bodiës, and the great honour
That Theseus the noble conqueror
Did to the ladies, when they from him went:
But shortly for to tell is mine intent.

When that this worthy Duke, this Theseus,
Had Creon slain, and wonnen Thebés thus,
Still in the field he took all night his rest,
And did with all the country as him lest.
To ransack in the tas of bodies dead,
Them for to strip of harness and of weed,
The pillers did their business and cure,
After the battle and discomfiture.
And so befell, that in the tas they found,
Through girt with many a grievous bloody wound,
Two youngë knightës ligging by and by
Both in one armës, wrought full richëly:
Of whichë two, Arcita hight that one,
And he that other hightë Palamon.
Not fully quick, nor fully dead they were,
But by their coat-armoúr, and by their gear,
The heralds knew them well in speciál,
As those that weren of the blood royál
Of Thebes, and of sistren two y-born.
Out of the tas the pillers have them torn,
And have them carried soft unto the tent
Of Theseus, and he full soon them sent
To Athens, for to dwellen in prisón
Perpetually, he n’oldë no ranson.
And when this worthy Duke had thus y-done,
He took his host, and home he rit anon
With laurel crowned as a conquerour;
And there he lived in joy and in honour
Term of his life; what needeth wordës mo’?
And in a tower, in anguish and in woe,
Dwellen this Palamon, and eke Arcite,
For evermore, there may no gold them quite.

Thus passed year by year, and day by day,
Till it fell onës in a morn of May
That Emily, that fairer was to seen
Than is the lily upon his stalkë green,
And fresher than the May with flowers new
(For with the rosë colour strove her hue;
I n’ot which was the finer of them two),
Ere it was day, as she was wont to do,
She was arisen, and all ready dight,
For May will have no sluggardy a-night;
The season pricketh every gentle heart,
And maketh him out of his sleep to start,
And saith, “Arise, and do thine óbservance.”

This maketh Emily have rémembrance
To do honoúr to May, and for to rise.
Y-clothed was she fresh for to devise;
Her yellow hair was braided in a tress,
Behind her back, a yardë long I guess.
And in the garden at the sun uprist
She walketh up and down where as her list.
She gathereth flowers, party white and red,
To make a sotel garland for her head,
And as an angel heavenly she sung.
The greatë tower, that was so thick and strong,
Which of the castle was the chief dungeón
(Where as these knightës weren in prisón,
Of which I toldë you, and tellë shall),
Was even joinant to the garden wall,
There as this Emily had her playing.

Bright was the sun, and clear that morrowning,
And Palamon, this woful prisoner,
As was his wont, by leave of his gaoler,
Was ris’n, and roamed in a chamber on high,
In which he all the noble city sigh,
And eke the garden, full of branches green,
There as this fresh Emelia the sheen
Was in her walk, and roamed up and down.
This sorrowful prisoner, this Palamon
Went in his chamber roaming to and fro,
And to himself complaining of his woe:
That he was born, full oft he said, Alas!
And so befell, by áventure or cas,
That through a window thick of many a bar
Of iron great, and square as any spar,
He cast his eyes upon Emelia,
And therewithal he blent and cried, Ah!
As though he stungen were unto the heart.
And with that cry Arcite anon up start,
And saidë, “Cousin mine, what aileth thee,
That art so pale and deadly for to see?
Why cried’st thou? who hath thee done offence?
For Goddë’s love, take all in patience
Our prison, for it may none other be.
Fortune hath giv’n us this adversity’.
Some wick’ aspéct or dispositión
Of Saturn, by some constellatión,
Hath giv’n us this, although we had it sworn,
So stood the heaven when that we were born,
We must endure; this is the short and plain.”

This Palamon answér’d, and said again:
“Cousin, forsooth of this opinión
Thou hast a vain imaginatión.
This prison caused me not for to cry;
But I was hurt right now thorough mine eye
Into mine heart; that will my banë be.
The fairness of the lady that I see
Yond in the garden roaming to and fro,
Is cause of all my crying and my woe.
I n’ot whe’r she be woman or goddéss.
But Venus is it, soothly as I guess.”
And therewithal on knees adown he fill,
And saidë: “Venus, if it be your will
You in this garden thus to transfigúre,
Before me sorrowful wretched creatúre,
Out of this prison help that we may scape.
And if so be our destiny be shape
By etern word to dien in prisón,
Of our lineage have some compassión,
That is so low y-brought by tyranny.”

And with that word Arcita gan espy
Where as this lady roamed to and fro.
And with that sight her beauty hurt him so,
That if that Palamon was wounded sore,
Arcite is hurt as much as he, or more.
And with a sigh he saidë piteously:
“The freshë beauty slay’th me suddenly
Of her that roameth yonder in the place.
And but I have her mercy and her grace,
That I may see her at the leastë way,
I am but dead; there is no more to say.”
This Palamon, when he these wordës heard,
Dispiteously he looked, and answér’d:
“Whether say’st thou this in earnest or in play?”
“Nay,” quoth Arcite, “in earnest, by my fay.
God help me so, me lust full ill to play.”
This Palamon gan knit his browës tway.
“It were,” quoth he, “to thee no great honoúr
For to be false, nor for to be traitoúr
To me, that am thy cousin and thy brother
Y-sworn full deep, and each of us to other,
That never for to dien in the pain,
Till that the death departen shall us twain,
Neither of us in love to hinder other,
Nor in none other case, my levë brother;
But that thou shouldest truly farther me
In every case, as I should farther thee.
This was thine oath, and mine also certáin;
I wot it well, thou dar’st it not withsayn.
Thus art thou of my counsel out of doubt.
And now thou wouldest falsely be about
To love my lady, whom I love and serve,
And ever shall, until mine heartë sterve.
Now certes, false Arcite, thou shalt not so.
I lov’d her first, and toldë thee my woe
As to my counsel, and my brother sworn
To farther me, as I have told beforn.
For which thou art y-bounden as a knight
To helpë me, if it lie in thy might,
Or ellës art thou false, I dare well sayn,”

This Arcita full proudly spake again:
“Thou shalt,” quoth he, “be rather false than I,
And thou art false, I tell thee utterly;
For par amour I lov’d her first ere thou.
What wilt thou say? thou wist it not right now
Whether she be a woman or goddéss.
Thine is affectión of holiness,
And mine is love, as to a creature:
For which I toldë thee mine áventure
As to my cousin, and my brother sworn.
I posë, that thou loved’st her beforn:
Wost thou not well the oldë clerkë’s saw,
That who shall give a lover any law?
Love is a greater lawë, by my pan,
Than may be giv’n to any earthly man:
Therefore positive law, and such decree,
Is broke alway for love in each degree
A man must needës love, maugré his head.
He may not flee it, though he should be dead,
All be she maid, or widow, or else wife.
And eke it is not likely all thy life
To standen in her grace, no more than I:
For well thou wost thyselfë verily,
That thou and I be damned to prisón
Perpetual, us gaineth no ranson.
We strive, as did the houndës for the bone;
They fought all day, and yet their part was none.
There came a kite, while that they were so wroth,
And bare away the bone betwixt them both.
And therefore at the kingë’s court, my brother,
Each man for himselfë, there is no other.
Love if thee list; for I love and aye shall:
And soothly, levë brother, this is all.
Here in this prison musten we endure,
And each of us takë his áventúre.”

Great was the strife and long betwixt them tway,
If that I haddë leisure for to say;
But to the effect: it happen’d on a day
(To tell it you as shortly as I may),
A worthy duke that hight Perithous,
That fellow was to the Duke Theseus
Since thilkë day that they were children lite,
Was come to Athéns, his fellow to visite,
And for to play, as he was wont to do;
For in this world he loved no man so;
And he lov’d him as tenderly again.
So well they lov’d, as oldë bookës sayn,
That when that one was dead, soothly to tell,
His fellow went and sought him down in hell:
But of that story list me not to write.
Duke Perithous loved well Arcite,
And had him known at Thebes year by year:
And finally at réquest and prayére
Of Perithous, withoutë ransón
Duke Theseus him let out of prisón,
Freely to go, where him list over all,
In such a guise, as I you tellen shall
This was the forword, plainly to indite,
Betwixtë Theseus and him Arcite:
That if so were, that Arcite were y-found
Ever in his life, by day or night, one stound
In any country of this Theseus,
And he were caught, it was accorded thus,
That with a sword he shouldë lose his head;
There was none other remedy nor rede.
But took his leave, and homeward he him sped;
Let him beware, his neckë lieth to wed.

How great a sorrow suff’reth now Arcite!
The death he feeleth through his heartë smite;
He weepeth, waileth, crieth piteously;
To slay himself he waiteth privily.
He said; “Alas the day that I was born!
Now is my prison worsë than beforn:
Now is me shape eternally to dwell
Not in purgatory, but right in hell.
Alas! that ever I knew Perithous.
For ellës had I dwelt with Theseus
Y-fettered in his prison evermo’.
Then had I been in bliss, and not in woe.
Only the sight of her, whom that I serve,
Though that I never may her grace deserve,
Would have sufficed right enough for me.
O dearë cousin Palamon,” quoth he,
“Thine is the vict’ry of this áventúre,
Full blissfully in prison to endure:
In prison? nay certes, in paradise.
Well hath fortúne y-turned thee the dice,
That hast the sight of her, and I th’ absénce.
For possible is, since thou hast her presénce,
And art a knight, a worthy and an able,
That by some cas, since fortune is changeáble,
Thou may’st to thy desire sometime attain.
But I that am exiled, and barrén
Of allë grace, and in so great despair,
That there n’is earthë, water, fire, nor air,
Nor creature, that of them maked is,
That may me helpë nor comfort in this,
Well ought I sterve in wanhope and distress.
Farewell my life, my lust, and my gladnéss.
Alas, why plainen men so in commúne
Of purveyance of God, or of Fortúne,
That giveth them full oft in many a guise
Well better than they can themselves devise?
Some man desireth for to have richess,
That cause is of his murder or great sickness.
And some man would out of his prison fain,
That in his house is of his meinie slain.
Infinite harmës be in this mattére.
We wot never what thing we pray for here.
We fare as he that drunk is as a mouse.
A drunken man wot well he hath an house,
But he wot not which is the right way thither,
And to a drunken man the way is slither.
And certes in this world so farë we.
We seekë fast after felicity,
But we go wrong full often truëly.
Thus we may sayen all, and namely I,
That ween’d, and had a great opinión,
That if I might escapë from prisón
Then had I been in joy and perfect heal,
Where now I am exiled from my weal.
Since that I may not see you, Emily,
I am but dead; there is no remedy.”

Upon that other sidë, Palamon,
When that he wist Arcita was agone,
Much sorrow maketh, that the greatë tower
Resounded of his yelling and clamoúr.
The purë fetters on his shinnës great
Were of his bitter saltë tearës wet.

“Alas!” quoth he, “Arcita, cousin mine,
Of all our strife, God wot, the fruit is thine.
Thou walkest now in Thebes at thy large,
And of my woe thou givest little charge.
Thou mayst, since thou hast wisdom and manhead,
Assemble all the folk of our kindréd,
And make a war so sharp on this countrý,
That by some áventure, or some treatý,
Thou mayst have her to lady and to wife,
For whom that I must needës lose my life.
For as by way of possibility,
Since thou art at thy large, of prison free,
And art a lord, great is thine ávantage,
More than is mine, that sterve here in a cage.
For I must weep and wail, while that I live,
With all the woe that prison may me give,
And eke with pain that love me gives also,
That doubles all my torment and my woe.”

Therewith the fire of jealousy upstart
Within his breast, and hent him by the heart
So woodly, that he like was to behold
The box-tree, or the ashes dead and cold.
Then said; “O cruel goddess, that govérn
This world with binding of your word etern,
And writen in the table of adamant
Your parlement and your eternal grant,
What is mankind more unto you y-hold
Than is the sheep, that rouketh in the fold!
For slain is man, right as another beast,
And dwelleth eke in prison and arrest,
And hath sicknéss, and great adversity,
And oftentimës guiltëless, pardie.
What governance is in your prescience,
That guiltëless tormenteth innocence?
And yet increaseth this all my penance,
That man is bounden to his observance
For Goddë’s sake to letten of his will,
Whereas a beast may all his lust fulfil.
And when a beast is dead, he hath no pain;
But man after his death must weep and plain,
Though in this worldë he have care and woe:
Withoutë doubt it mayë standen so.

“The answer of this leave I to divinës,
But well I wot, that in this world great pine is:
Alas! I see a serpent or a thief
That many a truë man hath done mischief,
Go at his large, and where him list may turn.
But I must be in prison through Saturn,
And eke through Juno, jealous and eke wood,
That hath well nigh destroyed all the blood
Of Thebes, with his wastë wallës wide.
And Venus slay’th me on that other side
For jealousy, and fear of him, Arcite.”

Now will I stent of Palamon a lite,
And let him in his prison stillë dwell,
And of Arcita forth I will you tell.
The summer passeth, and the nightës long
Increasë double-wise the painës strong
Both of the lover and the prisonére.
I n’ot which hath the wofuller mistére.
For, shortly for to say, this Palamon
Perpetually is damned to prisón,
In chainës and in fetters to be dead;
And Arcite is exiled on his head
For evermore as out of that country,
Nor never more he shall his lady see.
You lovers ask I now this question,
Who lieth the worse, Arcite or Palamon?
The one may see his lady day by day,
But in prison he dwellë must alway.
The other where him list may ride or go,
But see his lady shall he never mo’.
Now deem all as you listë, ye that can,
For I will tell you forth as I began.

When that Arcite to Thebes comen was,
Full oft a day he swelt, and said, “Alas!”
For see this lady he shall never mo’.
And shortly to concluden all his woe,
So much sorrow had never creatúre
That is or shall be while the world may dure.
His sleep, his meat, his drink is him byraft,
That lean he wex, and dry as any shaft.
His eyen hollow, grisly to behold,
His hue fallow, and pale as ashes cold,
And solitary he was, ever alone,
And wailing all the night, making his moan.
And if he heardë song or instrument,
Then would he weepen, he might not be stent.
So feeble were his spirits, and so low,
And changed so, that no man couldë know
His speech, neither his voice, though men it heard.
And in his gear for all the world he far’d
Not only like the lovers’ malady
Of Eros, but rather y-like maníe,
Engender’d of humoúrs meláncholic,
Before his head in his cell fántastic.
And shortly turned was all upside down,
Both habit and eke dispositioún,
Of him, this woful lover Dan Arcite.
Why should I all day of his woe indite?
When he endured had a year or two
This cruel torment, and this pain and woe,
At Thebes, in his country, as I said,
Upon a night in sleep as he him laid,
Him thought how that the winged god Mercúry
Before him stood, and bade him to be merry.
His sleepy yard in hand he bare upright;
A hat he wore upon his hairës bright.
Arrayed was this god (as he took keep)
As he was when that Argus took his sleep;
And said him thus: “To Athens shalt thou wend;
There is thee shapen of thy woe an end.”
And with that word Arcite woke and start.
“Now truëly how sore that e’er me smart,”
Quoth he, “to Athens right now will I fare.
Nor for no dread of death shall I not spare
To see my lady that I love and serve;
In her presénce I reckë not to sterve.”
And with that word he caught a great mirrór,
And saw that changed was all his colór,
And saw his visage all in other kind.
And right anon it ran him ill his mind,
That since his facë was so disfigúr’d
Of malady the which he had endúr’d,
He mightë well, if that he bare him low,
Live in Athenës evermore unknow,
And see his lady well-nigh day by day.
And right anon he changed his array,
And clad him as a poorë labourer.
And all alone, save only a squiér,
That knew his privity and all his cas,
Which was disguised poorly as he was,
To Athens is he gone the nextë way.
And to the court he went upon a day,
And at the gate he proffer’d his service,
To drudge and draw, what so men would devise.
And, shortly of this matter for to sayn,
He fell in office with a chamberlain,
The which that dwelling was with Emily.
For he was wise, and couldë soon espy
Of every servant which that served her.
Well could he hewë wood, and water bear,
For he was young and mighty for the nones,
And thereto he was strong and big of bones
To do that any wight can him devise.

A year or two he was in this servíce,
Page of the chamber of Emily the bright;
And Philostrate he saidë that he hight.
But half so well belov’d a man as he
Ne was there never in court of his degree.
He was so gentle of conditioún,
That throughout all the court was his renown.
They saidë that it were a charity
That Theseus would énhance his degree,
And put him in some worshipful servíce,
There as he might his virtue exercise.
And thus within a while his namë sprung
Both of his deedës, and of his good tongue,
That Theseus hath taken him so near,
That of his chamber he hath made him squire,
And gave him gold to máintain his degree;
And eke men brought him out of his country
From year to year full privily his rent.
But honestly and slyly he it spent,
That no man wonder’d how that he it had.
And three year in this wise his life be lad,
And bare him so in peace and eke in werre,
There was no man that Theseus had so derre.
And in this blissë leave I now Arcite,
And speak I will of Palamon a lite.

In darkness horrible, and strong prisón,
This seven year hath sitten Palamon,
Forpined, what for love, and for distress.
Who feeleth double sorrow and heaviness
But Palamon? that love distraineth so,
That wood out of his wits he went for woe,
And eke thereto he is a prisonére
Perpetual, not only for a year.
Who couldë rhyme in English properly
His martyrdom? forsooth, it is not I;
Therefore I pass as lightly as I may.
It fell that in the seventh year, in May
The thirdë night (as oldë bookës sayn,
That all this story tellen morë plain),
Were it by áventure or destiny
(As, when a thing is shapen it shall be),
That, soon after the midnight, Palamon
By helping of a friend brake his prisón,
And fled the city fast as he might go,
For he had given drink his gaoler so
Of a clary, made of a certain wine,
With narcotise and opie of Thebes fine,
That all the night, though that men would him shake,
The gaoler slept, he mightë not awake:
And thus he fled as fast as ever he may.
The night was short, and fastë by the day
That needës cast he must himself to hide.
And to a grovë fastë there beside
With dreadful foot then stalked Palamon.
For shortly this was his opinión,
That in the grove he would him hide all day,
And in the night then would he take his way
To Thebes-ward, his friendës for to pray
On Theseus to help him to warray.
And shortly either he would lose his life,
Or winnen Emily unto his wife.
This is th’ effect, and his intention plain.

Now will I turn to Arcita again,
That little wist how nighë was his care,
Till that Fortúne had brought him in the snare.
The busy lark, the messenger of day,
Saluteth in her song the morning gray;
And fiery Phoebus riseth up so bright,
That all the orient laugheth at the sight,
And with his streamës drieth in the greves
The silver droppës, hanging on the leaves;
And Arcite, that is in the court royál
With Theseus, his squier principal,
Is ris’n, and looketh on the merry day.
And for to do his óbservance to May,
Remembering the point of his desire,
He on his courser, starting as the fire,
Is ridden to the fieldës him to play,
Out of the court, were it a mile or tway.
And to the grove, of which I have you told,
By áventure his way began to hold,
To makë him a garland of the greves,
Were it of woodbine, or of hawthorn leaves,
And loud he sang against the sun so sheen.
“O May, with all thy flowers and thy green,
Right welcome be thou, fairë freshë May,
I hope that I some green here getten may.”
And from his courser, with a lusty heart,
Into the grove full hastily he start,
And in a path he roamed up and down,
There as by áventure this Palamon
Was in a bush, that no man might him see,
For sore afeard of his death was he.
Nothing ne knew he that it was Arcite;
God wot he would have trowed it full lite.
But sooth is said, gone since full many years,
The field hath eyen, and the wood hath ears.
It is full fair a man to bear him even,
For all day meeten men at unset steven.
Full little wot Arcite of his felláw,
That was so nigh to hearken of his saw,
For in the bush he sitteth now full still.
When that Arcite had roamed all his fill,
And sungen all the roundel lustily,
Into a study he fell suddenly,
As do those lovers in their quaintë gears,
Now in the crop, and now down in the breres,
Now up, now down, as bucket in a well.
Right as the Friday, soothly for to tell,
Now shineth it, and now it raineth fast,
Right so can geary Venus overcast
The heartës of her folk, right as her day
Is gearful, right so changeth she array.
Seldom is Friday all the weekë like.
When Arcite had y-sung, he gan to sike,
And sat him down withouten any more:
“Alas!” quoth he, “the day that I was bore!
How longë, Juno, through thy cruelty
Wilt thou warrayen Thebes the city?
Alas! y-brought is to confusion
The blood royál of Cadm’ and Amphion:
Of Cadmus, which that was the firstë man,
That Thebes built, or first the town began,
And of the city first was crowned king.
Of his lineáge am I, and his offspring
By very line, as of the stock royál;
And now I am so caitiff and so thrall,
That he that is my mortal enemy,
I serve him as his squiër poorëly.
And yet doth Juno me well morë shame,
For I dare not beknow mine owen name,
But there as I was wont to hight Arcite,
Now hight I Philostrate, not worth a mite.
Alas! thou fell Mars, and alas! Juno,
Thus hath your ire our lineage all fordo’.
Save only me, and wretched Palamon,
That Theseus martýreth in prisón.
And over all this, to slay me utterly,
Love hath his fiery dart so brenningly
Y-sticked through my truë careful heart,
That shapen was my death erst than my shert.
Ye slay me with your eyen, Emily;
Ye be the causë wherefore that I die.
Of all the remnant of mine other care
Ne set I not the mountance of a tare,
So that I could do aught to your pleasance.”

And with that word he fell down in a trance
A longë time; and afterward upstart
This Palamon, that thought thorough his heart
He felt a cold sword suddenly to glide:
For ire he quoke, no longer would he hide.
And when that he had heard Arcite’s tale,
As he were wood, with facë dead and pale,
He start him up out of the bushes thick,
And said: “False Arcita, false traitor wick’,
Now art thou hent, that lov’st my lady so,
For whom that I have all this pain and woe,
And art my blood, and to my counsel sworn,
As I full oft have told thee herebeforn,
And hast bejaped here Duke Theseus,
And falsely changed hast thy namë thus;
I will be dead, or ellës thou shalt die.
Thou shalt not love my lady Emily,
But I will love her only and no mo’;
For I am Palamon thy mortal foe.
And though I have no weapon in this place,
But out of prison am astart by grace,
I dreadë not that either thou shalt die,
Or else thou shalt not loven Emily.
Choose which thou wilt, for thou shalt not astart.”

This Arcite then, with full dispiteous heart,
When he him knew, and had his talë heard,
As fierce as lion pulled out a swerd,
And saidë thus; “By God that sitt’th above,
N’ere it that thou art sick, and wood for love,
And eke that thou no weap’n hast in this place,
Thou should’st never out of this grovë pace,
That thou ne shouldest dien of mine hand.
For I defy the surety and the band,
Which that thou sayest I have made to thee.
What? very fool, think well that love is free;
And I will love her maugré all thy might.
But, for thou art a worthy gentle knight,
And wilnest to darraine her by bataille,
Have here my troth, to-morrow I will not fail,
Without weeting of any other wight,
That here I will be founden as a knight,
And bringë harness right enough for thee;
And choose the best, and leave the worst for me.
And meat and drinkë this night will I bring
Enough for thee, and clothes for thy beddíng.
And if so be that thou my lady win,
And slay me in this wood that I am in,
Thou may’st well have thy lady as for me.”
This Palamon answér’d, “I grant it thee.”
And thus they be departed till the morrow,
When each of them hath laid his faith to borrow.

O Cupid, out of allë charity!
O Regne that wilt no fellow have with thee!
Full sooth is said, that love nor lordëship
Will not, his thanks, have any fellowship.
Well finden that Arcite and Palamon.
Arcite is ridd anon unto the town,
And on the morrow, ere it were daylight,
Full privily two harness hath he dight,
Both suffisant and meetë to darraine
The battle in the field betwixt them twain.
And on his horse, alone as he was born,
He carrieth all this harness him beforn;
And in the grove, at time and place y-set,
This Arcite and this Palamon be met.
Then changë gan the colour of their face;
Right as the hunter in the regne of Thrace
That standeth at a gappë with a spear
When hunted is the lion or the bear,
And heareth him come rushing in the greves,
And breaking both the boughës and the leaves,
Thinketh, “Here comes my mortal enemy,
Withoutë fail, he must be dead or I;
For either I must slay him at the gap;
Or he must slay me, if that me mishap:”
So fared they, in changing of their hue
As far as either of them other knew.
There was no good day, and no saluting,
But straight, withoutë wordës rehearsing,
Evereach of them holp to arm the other,
As friendly, as he were his owen brother.
And after that, with sharpë spearës strong
They foined each at other wonder long.
Thou mightest weenë, that this Palamon
In his fighting were as a wood lion,
And as a cruel tiger was Arcite:
As wildë boars gan they together smite,
That froth as white as foam, for irë wood.
Up to the ancle fought they in their blood.
And in this wise I let them fighting dwell,
And forth I will of Theseus you tell.

The Destiny, minister general,
That executeth in the world o’er all
The purveyánce, that God hath seen beforn;
So strong it is, that though the world had sworn
The contrary of a thing by yea or nay,
Yet some time it shall fallën on a day
That falleth not eft in a thousand year.
For certainly our appetitës here,
Be it of war, or peace, or hate, or love,
All is this ruled by the sight above.
This mean I now by mighty Theseus,
That for to hunten is so desiroús—
And namëly the greatë hart in May—
That in his bed there dawneth him no day
That he n’is clad, and ready for to ride
With hunt and horn, and houndës him beside.
For in his hunting hath he such delight,
That it is all his joy and appetite
To be himself the greatë hartë’s bane;
For after Mars he serveth now Diane.
Clear was the day, as I have told ere this,
And Theseus, with allë joy and bliss,
With his Hippolyta, the fairë queen,
And Emily, y-clothed all in green,
On hunting be they ridden royally.
And to the grove, that stood there fastë by,
In which there was an hart, as men him told,
Duke Theseus the straightë way doth hold,
And to the laund he rideth him full right,
There was the hart y-wont to have his flight,
And over a brook, and so forth on his way.
This Duke will have a course at him or tway
With houndës, such as him lust to command.
And when this Duke was comë to the laund,
Under the sun he looked, and anon
He was ware of Arcite and Palamon,
That foughtë breme, as it were bullës two.
The brightë swordës wentë to and fro
So hideously, that with the leastë stroke
It seemed that it wouldë fell an oak,
But what they werë, nothing yet he wote.
This Duke his courser with his spurrës smote,
And at a start he was betwixt them two,
And pulled out a sword and cried, “Ho!
No more, on pain of losing of your head.
By mighty Mars, he shall anon be dead
That smiteth any stroke, that I may see!
But tell to me what mister men ye be,
That be so hardy for to fightë here
Withoutë judge or other officer,
As though it were in listës royally.”

This Palamon answered hastily,
And saidë: “Sir, what needeth wordës mo’?
We have the death deserved bothë two,
Two woful wretches be we, and caitíves,
That be accumbered of our own lives,
And as thou art a rightful lord and judge,
So give us neither mercy nor refuge.
And slay me first, for saintë charity,
But slay my fellow eke as well as me.
Or slay him first; for, though thou know it lite,
This is thy mortal foe, this is Arcite,
That from thy land is banisht on his head,
For which he hath deserved to be dead.
For this is he that came unto thy gate
And saidë, that he hightë Philostrate.
Thus hath he japed thee full many year,
And thou hast made of him thy chief esquiér;
And this is he, that loveth Emily.
For since the day is come that I shall die
I makë pleinly my confessión,
That I am thilkë woful Palamon,
That hath thy prison broken wickedly.
I am thy mortal foe, and it am I
That so hot loveth Emily the bright,
That I would die here present in her sight.
Therefore I askë death and my jewise.
But slay my fellow eke in the same wise,
For both we have deserved to be slain.”

This worthy Duke answér’d anon again,
And said, “This is a short conclusión.
Your own mouth, by your own confessión
Hath damned you, and I will it record;
It needeth not to pain you with the cord;
Ye shall be dead, by mighty Mars the Red.”

The queen anon for very womanhead
Began to weep, and so did Emily,
And all the ladies in the company.
Great pity was it as it thought them all,
That ever such a chancë should befall,
For gentle men they were, of great estate,
And nothing but for love was this debate;
They saw their bloody woundës wide and sore,
And cried all at once, both less and more,
“Have mercy, Lord, upon us women all.”
And on their barë knees adown they fall,
And would have kiss’d his feet there as he stood,
Till at the last aslaked was his mood
(For pity runneth soon in gentle heart);
And though at first for ire he quoke and start,
He hath consider’d shortly in a clause
The trespass of them both, and eke the cause:
And although that his ire their guilt accused,
Yet in his reason he them both excused;
As thus; he thoughtë well that every man
Will help himself in love if that he can,
And eke deliver himself out of prison.
And eke his heartë had compassión
Of women, for they wepten ever-in-one:
And in his gentle heart he thought anon,
And soft unto himself he saidë: “Fie
Upon a lord that will have no mercy,
But be a lion both in word and deed,
To them that be in répentance and dread,
As well as to a proud dispiteous man
That will maintainë what he first began.
That lord hath little of discretión,
That in such case can no división:
But weigheth pride and humbless after one.”
And shortly, when his ire is thus agone,
He gan to look on them with eyen light,
And spake these samë wordës all on height.

“The god of love, ah! benedicite,
How mighty and how great a lord is he!
Against his might there gainë none obstácles,
He may be call’d a god for his mirácles.
For he can maken at his owen guise
Of every heart, as that him list devise.
Lo here this Arcite, and this Palamon,
That quietly were out of my prisón,
And might have lived in Thebes royally,
And weet I am their mortal enemy,
And that their death li’th in my might also,
And yet hath love, maugré their eyen two,
Y-brought them hither bothë for to die.
Now look ye, is not this an high folly?
Who may not be a fool, if but he love?
Behold, for Goddë’s sake that sits above,
See how they bleed! be they not well array’d?
Thus hath their lord, the god of love, them paid
Their wages and their fees for their servíce;
And yet they weenë for to be full wise,
That servë love, for aught that may befall.
But this is yet the bestë game of all,
That she, for whom they have this jealousy,
Can them therefor as muchel thank as me.
She wot no more of all this hotë fare,
By God, than wot a cuckoo or an hare.
But all must be assayed hot or cold;
A man must be a fool, or young or old;
I wot it by myself full yore agone:
For in my time a servant was I one.
And therefore since I know of lovë’s pain,
And wot how sore it can a man distrain,
As he that oft hath been caught in his las,
I you forgivë wholly this trespáss,
At réquest of the queen that kneeleth here,
And eke of Emily, my sister dear.
And ye shall both anon unto me swear,
That never more ye shall my country dere,
Nor makë war upon me night nor day,
But be my friends in allë that ye may.
I you forgive this trespass every deal.”
And they him sware his asking fair and well,
And him of lordship and of mercy pray’d,
And he them granted grace, and thus he said:

“To speak of royal lineage and richéss,
Though that she were a queen or a princess,
Each of you both is worthy doubtëless
To weddë when time is; but natheless
I speak as for my sister Emily,
For whom ye have this strife and jealousy,
Ye wot yourselves, she may not wed the two
At once, although ye fight for evermo’:
But one of you, all be him loth or lief,
He must go pipe into an ivy leaf:
This is to say, she may not have you both,
All be ye never so jealous, nor so wroth.
And therefore I you put in this degree,
That each of you shall have his destiny
As him is shape; and hearken in what wise;
Lo hear your end of that I shall devise.
My will is this, for plain conclusión
Withouten any replicatión,
If that you liketh, take it for the best,
That evereach of you shall go where him lest,
Freely withoutë ransom or dangér;
And this day fifty weekës, farre ne nerre,
Evereach of you shall bring an hundred knights,
Armed for listës up at allë rights
All ready to darraine her by bataille,
And this behete I you withoutë fail
Upon my troth, and as I am a knight,
That whether of you bothë that hath might,
That is to say, that whether he or thou
May with his hundred, as I spake of now,
Slay his contráry, or out of listës drive,
Him shall I given Emily to wive,
To whom that fortune gives so fair a grace.
The listës shall I make here in this place.
And God so wisly on my soulë rue,
As I shall even judgë be and true.
Ye shall none other endë with me maken
Than one of you shallë be dead or taken.
And if you thinketh this is well y-said,
Say your advice, and hold yourselves apaid.
This is your end, and your conclusión.”
Who looketh lightly now but Palamon?
Who springeth up for joyë but Arcite?
Who could it tell, or who could it indite,
The joyë that is maked in the place
When Theseus hath done so fair a grace?
But down on knees went every manner wight,
And thanked him with all their heartës’ might,
And namëly these Thebans oftë sithe.
And thus with good hope and with heartë blithe
They take their leave, and homeward gan they ride
To Thebes-ward, with his old wallës wide.

I trow men wouldë deem it negligence,
If I forgot to tellë the dispence
Of Theseus, that went so busily
To maken up the listës royally,
That such a noble theatre as it was,
I dare well say, in all this world there n’as.
The circuít a milë was about,
Walled of stone, and ditched all without.
Round was the shape, in manner of compáss,
Full of degrees, the height of sixty pas,
That when a man was set on one degree
He letted not his fellow for to see.
Eastward there stood a gate of marble white,
Westward right such another opposite.
And, shortly to concludë, such a place
Was never on earth made in so little space,
For in the land there was no craftës-man,
That geometry or arsmetrikë can,
Nor pourtrayor, nor carver of imáges,
That Theseus ne gave him meat and wages
The theatre to make and to devise.
And for to do his rite and sacrifice
He eastward hath upon the gate above,
In worship of Venus, goddess of love,
Done make an altar and an oratory;
And westward, in the mind and in memory
Of Mars, he maked hath right such another,
That costë largëly of gold a fother.
And northward, in a turret on the wall,
Of alabaster white and red corál
An oratory richë for to see,
In worship of Diane of chastity,
Hath Theseus done work in noble wise.
But yet had I forgotten to devise
The noble carving, and the portraitures,
The shape, the countenance of the figúres
That weren in there oratories three.

First in the temple of Venus may’st thou see
Wrought on the wall, full piteous to behold,
The broken sleepës, and the sikës cold,
The sacred tearës, and the waimentings,
The fiery strokës of the desirings,
That Lovë’s servants in this life endure;
The oathës, that their covenants assure.
Pleasance and Hope, Desire, Foolhardiness,
Beauty and Youth, and Bawdry and Richéss,
Charms and Sorc’ry, Leasings and Flattery,
Dispencë, Business, and Jealousy,
That wore of yellow goldës a garland,
And had a cuckoo sitting on her hand,
Feasts, instruments, and carolës and dances,
Lust and array, and all the circumstánces
Of Love, which I reckon’d and reckon shall
In order, werë painted on the wall,
And more than I can make of mentión.
For soothly all the mount of Citheron,
Where Venus hath her principal dwelling,
Was showed on the wall in pourtraying,
With all the garden, and the lustiness.
Nor was forgot the porter Idleness,
Nor Narcissus the fair of yore agone,
Nor yet the folly of King Solomon,
Nor yet the greatë strength of Hercules,
Th’ enchantments of Medea and Circés,
Nor of Turnus the hardy fierce couráge,
The richë Croesus caitif in serváge.
Thus may ye see, that wisdom nor richéss,
Beauty, nor sleight, nor strength, nor hardiness,
Ne may with Venus holdë champartie,
For as her listë the world may she gie.
Lo, all these folk so caught were in her las
Till they for woe full often said, Alas!
Sufficë these ensamples one or two,
Although I could reckon a thousand mo’.

The statue of Venus, glorious to see
Was naked floating in the largë sea,
And from the navel down all cover’d was
With wavës green, and bright as any glass.
A citole in her right hand haddë she,
And on her head, full seemly for to see,
A rosë garland fresh, and well smelling,
Above her head her dovës flickering.
Before her stood her sonë Cupido,
Upon his shoulders wingës had he two;
And blind he was, as it is often seen;
A bow he bare, and arrows bright and keen.

Why should I not as well eke tell you all
The portraiture, that was upon the wall
Within the temple of mighty Mars the Red?
All painted was the wall in length and brede
Like to the estres of the grisly place
That hight the great temple of Mars in Thrace,
In thilkë cold and frosty región,
There as Mars hath his sovereign mansión.
First on the wall was painted a forést,
In which there dwelled neither man nor beast,
With knotty gnarry barren treës old
Of stubbës sharp and hideous to behold;
In which there ran a rumble and a sough,
As though a storm should bursten every bough:
And downward from an hill under a bent,
There stood the temple of Mars Armipotent,
Wrought all of burnish’d steel, of which th’ entry
Was long and strait, and ghastly for to see.
And thereout came a rage and such a vise,
That it made all the gatës for to rise.
The northern light in at the doorë shone,
For window on the wallë was there none
Through which men mighten any light discern.
The doors were all of adamant etern,
Y-clenched overthwart and endëlong
With iron tough, and, for to make it strong,
Every pillar the temple to sustain
Was tunnë-great, of iron bright and sheen.
There saw I first the dark imagining
Of felony, and all the compassing;
The cruel ire, as red as any glede,
The pickëpurse, and eke the palë dread;
The smiler with the knife under the cloak,
The shepen burning with the blackë smoke;
The treason of the murd’ring in the bed,
The open war, with woundës all be-bled;
Conteke with bloody knife, and sharp menace.
All full of chirking was that sorry place.
The slayer of himself eke saw I there,
His heartë-blood had bathed all his hair:
The nail y-driven in the shode at night,
The coldë death, with mouth gaping upright.
Amiddës of the temple sat Mischance,
With discomfórt and sorry countenance;
Eke saw I Woodness laughing in his rage,
Armed Complaint, Outhees, and fierce Outrage;
The carrain in the bush, with throat y-corve,
A thousand slain, and not of qualm y-storve;
The tyrant, with the prey by force y-reft;
The town destroy’d, that there was nothing left.
Yet saw I brent the shippës hoppësteres,
The hunter strangled with the wildë bears:
The sow freting the child right in the cradle;
The cook scalded, for all his longë ladle.
Nor was forgot, by th’ infortune of Mart
The carter overridden with his cart;
Under the wheel full low he lay adown.
There were also of Mars’ division,
The armourer, the bowyer, and the smith,
That forgeth sharpë swordës on his stith.
And all above depainted in a tower
Saw I Conquest, sitting in great honoúr,
With thilkë sharpë sword over his head
Hanging by a subtle y-twined thread.
Painted the slaughter was of Julius,
Of cruel Nero, and Antonius:
Although at that time they were yet unborn,
Yet was their death depainted there beforn,
By menacing of Mars, right by figúre,
So was it showed in that portraitúre,
As is depainted in the stars above,
Who shall be slain, or ellës dead for love.
Sufficeth one ensample in stories old,
I may not reckon them all, though I wo’ld.

The statue of Mars upon a cartë stood
Armed, and looked grim as he were wood,
And over his head there shonë two figúres
Of starrës, that be cleped in scriptures,
That one Puella, that other Rubeus.
This god of armës was arrayed thus:
A wolf there stood before him at his feet
With eyen red, and of a man he eat:
With subtle pencil painted was this story,
In redouting of Mars and of his glory.

Now to the temple of Dian the chaste
As shortly as I can I will me haste,
To tellë you all the descriptioun.
Depainted be the wallës up and down
Of hunting and of shamefast chastity.
There saw I how woful Calistope,
When that Dian aggrieved was with her,
Was turned from a woman till a bear,
And after was she made the lodëstar:
Thus was it painted, I can say no far;
Her son is eke a star as men may see.
There saw I Danë turn’d into a tree,
I meanë not the goddess Dianë,
But Peneus’ daughter, which that hight Danë.
There saw I Actaeon an hart y-maked,
For vengeance that he saw Dian all naked:
I saw how that his houndës have him caught,
And freten him, for that they knew him not.
Yet painted was, a little farthermore
How Atalanta hunted the wild boar,
And Meleager, and many other mo’,
For which Diana wrought them care and woe.
There saw I many another wondrous story,
The which me list not drawen to memóry.
This goddess on an hart full high was set,
With smallë houndës all about her feet,
And underneath her feet she had a moon,
Waxing it was, and shouldë wanë soon.
In gaudy green her statue clothed was,
With bow in hand, and arrows in a case.
Her eyen castë she full low adown,
Where Pluto hath his darkë regioun.
A woman travailing was her beforn,
But, for her child so longë was unborn,
Full piteously Lucina gan she call,
And saidë; “Help, for thou may’st best of all.”
Well could he paintë lifelike that it wrought;
With many a florin he the hues had bought.
Now be these listës made, and Theseus,
That at his greatë cost arrayed thus
The temples, and the theatre every deal,
When it was done, him liked wonder well.
But stint I will of Theseus a lite,
And speak of Palamon and of Arcite.

The day approacheth of their returning,
That evereach an hundred knights should bring,
The battle to darraine as I you told;
And to Athens, their covenant to hold,
Hath ev’reach of them brought an hundred knights,
Well armed for the war at allë rights.
And sickerly there trowed many a man,
That never, sithen that the world began,
For to speaken of knighthood of their hand,
As far as God hath maked sea and land,
Was, of so few, so noble a company.
For every wight that loved chivalry,
And would, his thankës, have a passant name,
Had prayed, that he might be of that game,
And well was him, that thereto chosen was.
For if there fell to-morrow such a case,
Ye knowë well, that every lusty knight,
That loveth par amour, and hath his might,
Were it in Engleland, or ellëswhere,
They would, their thankës, willen to be there,
T’ fight for a lady; benedicite,
It were a lusty sightë for to see.
And right so fared they with Palamon;
With him there wentë knightës many one.
Some will be armed in an habergeon,
And in a breastplate, and in a gipon;
And some will have a pair of platës large;
And some will have a Prussë shield, or targe;
Some will be armed on their leggës weel;
Some have an axe, and some a mace of steel.
There is no newë guise, but it was old.
Armed they weren, as I have you told,
Evereach after his opinión.

There may’st thou see coming with Palamon
Licurgus himself, the great king of Thrace:
Black was his beard, and manly was his face.
The circles of his eyen in his head
They glowed betwixtë yellow and red,
And like a griffin looked he about,
With kemped hairës on his browës stout;
His limbs were great, his brawns were hard and strong,
His shoulders broad, his armës round and long.
And as the guisë was in his country,
Full high upon a car of gold stood he,
With fourë whitë bullës in the trace.
Instead of coat-armour on his harness,
With yellow nails, and bright as any gold,
He had a bearë’s skin, coal-black for old.
His long hair was y-kempt behind his back,
As any raven’s feather it shone for black.
A wreath of gold arm-great, of hugë weight,
Upon his head sate, full of stonës bright,
Of finë rubies and clear diamánts.
About his car there wentë white alauns,
Twenty and more, as great as any steer,
To hunt the lion or the wildë bear,
And follow’d him, with muzzle fast y-bound,
Collars of gold, and torettes filed round.
An hundred lordës had he in his rout,
Armed full well, with heartës stern and stout.

With Arcita, in stories as men find,
The great Emetrius the king of Ind,
Upon a steedë bay, trapped in steel,
Cover’d with cloth of gold diápred well,
Came riding like the god of armës, Mars.
His coat-armoúr was of a cloth of Tars,
Couched with pearlës white and round and great.
His saddle was of burnish’d gold new beat;
A mantëlet on his shoulders hanging
Bretful of rubies red, as fire sparkling.
His crispë hair like ringës was y-run,
And that was yellow, glittering as the sun.
His nose was high, his eyen bright citrine,
His lips were round, his colour was sanguine,
A fewë fracknes in his face y-sprent,
Betwixt yellow and black somedeal y-ment,
And as a lion he his looking cast.
Of five and twenty year his age I cast.
His beard was well begunnen for to spring;
His voice was as a trumpet thundering.
Upon his head he wore of laurel green
A garland fresh and lusty to be seen;
Upon his hand he bare, for his delight,
An eagle tame, as any lily white.
An hundred lordës had he with him there,
All armed, save their heads, in all their gear,
Full richëly in allë manner things.
For trust ye well, that earlës, dukes, and kings
Were gather’d in this noble company,
For love, and for increase of chivalry.
About this king there ran on every part
Full many a tame lión and leopart.
And in this wise these lordës all and some
Be on the Sunday to the city come
Aboutë prime, and in the town alight.

This Theseus, this Duke, this worthy knight,
When he had brought them into his citý,
And inned them, ev’reach at his degree,
He feasteth them, and doth so great laboúr
To easen them, and do them all honoúr,
That yet men weenë that no mannë’s wit
Of none estatë could amenden it.
The minstrelsy, the service at the feast,
The greatë giftës to the most and least,
The rich array of Theseus’ paláce,
Nor who sate first or last upon the dais,
What ladies fairest be, or best dancing,
Or which of them can carol best or sing,
Or who most feelingly speaketh of love;
What hawkës sitten on the perch above,
What houndës liggen on the floor adown,
Of all this now make I no mentioun;
But of th’ effect; that thinketh me the best;
Now comes the point, and hearken if you lest.

The Sunday night, ere day began to spring,
When Palamon the larkë heardë sing,
Although it were not day by hourës two,
Yet sang the lark, and Palamon right tho
With holy heart, and with an high couráge,
Arose, to wenden on his pilgrimage
Unto the blissful Cithera benign,
I meanë Venus, honourable and digne.
And in her hour he walketh forth a pace
Unto the listës, where her temple was,
And down he kneeleth, and with humble cheer
And heartë sore, he said as ye shall hear.

“Fairest of fair, O lady mine Venus,
Daughter to Jove, and spouse of Vulcanus,
Thou gladder of the mount of Citheron!
For thilkë love thou haddest to Adon
Have pity on my bitter tearës’ smart,
And take mine humble prayer to thine heart.
Alas! I havë no languáge to tell
Th’ effectë, nor the torment of mine hell;
Mine heartë may mine harmës not betray;
I am so cónfused, that I cannot say.
But mercy, lady bright, that knowest well
My thought, and seest what harm that I feel.
Consider all this, and rue upon my sore,
As wisly as I shall for evermore
Enforce my might, thy true servant to be,
And holdë war alway with chastity:
That make I mine avow, so ye me help.
I keepë not of armës for to yelp,
Nor ask I not to-morrow to have victóry,
Nor rénown in this case, nor vainë glory
Of prize of armës, blowing up and down,
But I would have fully possessioun
Of Emily, and die in her service;
Find thou the manner how, and in what wise.
I reckë not but it may better be
To have vict’ry of them, or they of me,
So that I have my lady in mine arms.
For though so be that Mars is god of arms,
Your virtue is so great in heaven above,
That, if you list, I shall well have my love.
Thy temple will I worship evermo’,
And on thine altar, where I ride or go,
I will do sacrifice, and firës bete.
And if ye will not so, my lady sweet,
Then pray I you, to-morrow with a spear
That Arcita me through the heartë bear.
Then reck I not, when I have lost my life,
Though that Arcita win her to his wife.
This is th’ effect and end of my prayére—
Give me my love, thou blissful lady dear.”
When th’ orison was done of Palamon,
His sacrifice he did, and that anon,
Full piteously, with allë circumstances,
All tell I not as now his observánces.
But at the last the statue of Venus shook,
And made a signë, whereby that he took
That his prayér accepted was that day.
For though the signë shewed a delay,
Yet wist he well that granted was his boon;
And with glad heart he went him home full soon.

The third hour unequál that Palamon
Began to Venus’ temple for to gon,
Up rose the sun, and up rose Emily,
And to the temple of Dian gan hie.
Her maidens, that she thither with her lad,
Full readily with them the fire they had,
Th’ incense, the clothës, and the remnant all
That to the sacrifice belongë shall,
The hornës full of mead, as was the guise;
There lacked nought to do her sacrifice.
Smoking the temple full of clothës fair,
This Emily with heartë debonnair
Her body wash’d with water of a well.
But how she did her rite I dare not tell;
But it be any thing in general;
And yet it were a game to hearen all;
To him that meaneth well it were no charge:
But it is good a man to be at large.
Her bright hair combed was, untressed all.
A coronet of green oak cerrial
Upon her head was set full fair and meet.
Two firës on the altar gan she bete,
And did her thingës, as men may behold
In Stace of Thebes, and these bookës old.
When kindled was the fire, with piteous cheer
Unto Dian she spake as ye may hear.

“O chastë goddess of the woodës green,
To whom both heav’n and earth and sea is seen,
Queen of the realm of Pluto dark and low,
Goddess of maidens, that mine heart hast know
Full many a year, and wost what I desire,
To keep me from the vengeance of thine ire,
That Actaeon aboughtë cruelly:
Chastë goddéss, well wottest thou that I
Desire to be a maiden all my life,
Nor never will I be no love nor wife.
I am, thou wost, yet of thy company,
A maid, and love hunting and venery,
And for to walken in the woodës wild,
And not to be a wife, and be with child.
Nought will I know the company of man.
Now help me, lady, since ye may and can,
For those three formës that thou hast in thee.
And Palamon, that hath such love to me,
And eke Arcite, that loveth me so sore,
This grace I prayë thee withoutë more,
As sendë love and peace betwixt them two:
And from me turn away their heartës so,
That all their hotë love, and their desire,
And all their busy torment, and their fire,
Be queint, or turn’d into another place.
And if so be thou wilt do me no grace,
Or if my destiny be shapen so
That I shall needës have one of them two,
So send me him that most desireth me.
Behold, goddess of cleanë chastity,
The bitter tears that on my cheekës fall.
Since thou art maid, and keeper of us all,
My maidenhead thou keep and well conserve,
And, while I live, a maid I will thee serve.”

The firës burn upon the altar clear,
While Emily was thus in her prayére:
But suddenly she saw a sightë quaint.
For right anon one of the firës queint
And quick’d again, and after that anon
That other fire was queint, and all agone:
And as it queint, it made a whisteling,
As doth a brandë wet in its burning.
And at the brandës end outran anon
As it were bloody droppës many one:
For which so sore aghast was Emily,
That she was well-nigh mad, and gan to cry,
For she ne wistë what it signified;
But onëly for fearë thus she cried,
And wept, that it was pity for to hear.
And therewithal Diana gan appear
With bow in hand, right as an hunteress,
And saidë; “Daughter, stint thine heaviness.
Among the goddës high it is affirm’d,
And by eternal word writ and confirm’d,
Thou shalt be wedded unto one of tho
That have for thee so muchë care and woe:
But unto which of them I may not tell.
Farewell, for here I may no longer dwell.
The firës which that on mine altar brenn,
Shall thee declaren, ere that thou go henne,
Thine áventure of love, as in this case.”
And with that word, the arrows in the case
Of the goddess did clatter fast and ring,
And forth she went, and made a vanishing,
For which this Emily astonied was,
And saidë; “What amounteth this, alas!
I put me under thy protectión,
Diane, and in thy dispositión.”
And home she went anon the nextë way.
This is th’ effect, there is no more to say.

The nextë hour of Mars follówing this
Arcite to the temple walked is
Of fiercë Mars, to do his sacrifice
With all the ritës of his pagan guise.
With piteous heart and high devotión.
Right thus to Mars he said his orison.
“O strongë god, that in the regnës cold
Of Thracë honoured art, and lord y-hold,
And hast in every regne, and every land
Of armës all the bridle in thine hand,
And them fortúnest as thee list devise,
Accept of me my piteous sacrifice.
If so be that my youthë may deserve,
And that my might be worthy for to serve
Thy godhead, that I may be one of thine,
Then pray I thee to rue upon my pine,
For thilkë pain, and thilkë hotë fire,
In which thou whilom burned’st for desire
Whennë that thou usedest the beauty
Of fairë youngë Venus, fresh and free,
And haddest her in armës at thy will:
And though thee onës on a time misfill,
When Vulcanus had caught thee in his las,
And found thee ligging by his wife, alas!
For thilkë sorrow that was in thine heart,
Have ruth as well upon my painë’s smart.
I am young and unconning, as thou know’st,
And, as I trow, with love offended most,
That e’er was any living creature:
For she, that doth me all this woe endure,
Ne recketh ne’er whether I sink or fleet.
And well I wot, ere she me mercy hete,
I must with strengthë win her in the place:
And well I wot, withoutë help or grace
Of thee, ne may my strengthë not avail:
Then help me, lord, to-morr’w in my bataille,
For thilkë fire that whilom burned thee,
As well as this fire that now burneth me;
And do that I to-morr’w may have victóry.
Mine be the travail, all thine be the glory.
Thy sovereign temple will I most honoúr
Of any place, and alway most laboúr
In thy pleasance and in thy craftës strong.
And in thy temple I will my banner hong,
And all the armës of my company,
And evermore, until that day I die,
Eternal fire I will before thee find.
And eke to this my vow I will me bind:
My beard, my hair that hangeth long adown,
That never yet hath felt offensión
Of razor nor of shears, I will thee give,
And be thy truë servant while I live.
Now, lord, have ruth upon my sorrows sore,
Give me the victory, I ask no more.”

The prayer stint of Arcita the strong,
The ringës on the temple door that hong,
And eke the doorës, clattered full fast,
Of which Arcita somewhat was aghast.
The firës burn’d upon the altar bright,
That it gan all the temple for to light;
A sweetë smell anon the ground up gaf,
And Arcita anon his hand up haf,
And more incénse into the fire he cast,
With other ritës more and at the last
The statue of Mars began his hauberk ring;
And with that sound he heard a murmuring
Full low and dim, that saidë thus, “Victóry.”
For which he gave to Mars honour and glory.
And thus with joy, and hopë well to fare,
Arcite anon unto his inn doth fare.
As fain as fowl is of the brightë sun.

And right anon such strife there is begun
For thilkë granting, in the heav’n above,
Betwixtë Venus the goddéss of love,
And Mars the sternë god armipotent,
That Jupiter was busy it to stent:
Till that the palë Saturnus the cold,
That knew so many of adventures old,
Found in his old experience such an art,
That he full soon hath pleased every part.
As sooth is said, eld hath great advantage,
In eld is bothë wisdom and uságe:
Men may the old out-run, but not out-rede.
Saturn anon, to stint the strife and drede,
Albeit that it is against his kind,
Of all this strife gan a remédy find.

“My dearë daughter Venus,” quoth Saturn,
“My course, that hath so widë for to turn,
Hath morë power than wot any man.
Mine is the drowning in the sea so wan;
Mine is the prison in the darkë cote,
Mine the strangling and hanging by the throat,
The murmur, and the churlish rebelling,
The groyning, and the privy poisoning.
I do vengeance and plein correctión,
I dwell in the sign of the lión.
Mine is the ruin of the highë halls,
The falling of the towers and the walls
Upon the miner or the carpenter:
I slew Samson in shaking the pillar:
Mine also be the maladiës cold,
The darkë treasons, and the castës old:
My looking is the father of pestilence.
Now weep no more, I shall do diligence
That Palamon, that is thine owen knight,
Shall have his lady, as thou hast him hight.
Though Mars shall help his knight, yet natheless
Betwixtë you there must sometime be peace:
All be ye not of one complexión,
That each day causeth such división,
I am thine ayel, ready at thy will;
Weep now no more, I shall thy lust fulfil.”
Now will I stenten of the gods above,
Of Mars, and of Venus, goddess of love,
And tellë you as plainly as I can
The great effect, for which that I began.

Great was the feast in Athens thilkë day;
And eke the lusty season of that May
Made every wight to be in such pleasance,
That all that Monday jousten they and dance,
And spenden it in Venus’ high servíce.
But by the causë that they shouldë rise
Early a-morrow for to see that fight,
Unto their restë wentë they at night.
And on the morrow, when the day gan spring,
Of horse and harness noise and clattering
There was in the hostelries all about:
And to the palace rode there many a rout
Of lordës, upon steedës and palfreys.
There mayst thou see devising of harness
So uncouth and so rich, and wrought so weel
Of goldsmithry, of brouding, and of steel;
The shieldës bright, the testers, and trappures;
Gold-hewen helmets, hauberks, coat-armures;
Lordës in parements on their coursérs,
Knightës of retinue, and eke squiérs,
Nailing the spears, and helmës buckëling,
Gniding of shieldës, with lainers lacing;
There as need is, they werë nothing idle:
The foamy steeds upon the golden bridle
Gnawing, and fast the armourers also
With file and hammer pricking to and fro;
Yeomen on foot, and knavës many one
With shortë stavës, thick as they may gon;
Pipës, trumpets, nakéres, and clariouns,
That in the battle blowë bloody souns;
The palace full of people up and down,
There three, there ten, holding their questioun,
Divining of these Theban knightës two.
Some saiden thus, some said it shall he so;
Some helden with him with the blackë beard,
Some with the ballëd, some with the thick-hair’d;
Some said he lookëd grim, and wouldë fight:
He had a sparth of twenty pound of weight.
Thus was the hallë full of divining
Long after that the sunnë gan up spring.
The great Theseus that of his sleep is waked
With minstrelsy, and noisë that was maked,
Held yet the chamber of his palace rich,
Till that the Theban knightës both y-lich
Honoúred were, and to the palace fet.

Duke Theseus is at a window set,
Array’d right as he were a god in throne:
The people presseth thitherward full soon
Him for to see, and do him reverence,
And eke to hearken his hest and his sentence.
An herald on a scaffold made an O,
Till the noise of the people was y-do:
And when he saw the people of noise all still,
Thus shewed he the mighty Dukë’s will.

“The lord hath of his high discretión
Considered that it were destructión
To gentle blood, to fighten in the guise
Of mortal battle now in this emprise:
Wherefore to shapë that they shall not die,
He will his firstë purpose modify.
No man therefore, on pain of loss of life,
No manner shot, nor poleaxe, nor short knife
Into the lists shall send, or thither bring.
Nor short sword for to stick with point biting
No man shall draw, nor bear it by his side.
And no man shall unto his fellow ride
But one course, with a sharp y-grounden spear:
Foin if him list on foot, himself to wear.
And he that is at mischief shall be take,
And not slain, but be brought unto the stake,
That shall be ordained on either side;
Thither he shall by force, and there abide.
And if so fall the chiefëtain be take
On either side, or ellës slay his make,
No longer then the tourneying shall last.
God speedë you; go forth and lay on fast.
With long sword and with macë fight your fill.
Go now your way; this is the lordës will.”
The voice of the people touched the heaven,
So loudë criëd they with merry steven:
“God savë such a lord that is so good,
He willeth no destructión of blood.”

Up go the trumpets and the melody,
And to the listës rode the company
By ordinance, throughout the city large,
Hanged with cloth of gold, and not with sarge.
Full like a lord this noble Duke gan ride,
And these two Thebans upon either side:
And after rode the queen and Emily,
And after them another company
Of one and other, after their degree.
And thus they passed thorough that city,
And to the listës camë they by time:
It was not of the day yet fully prime.

When set was Theseus full rich and high,
Hippolyta the queen, and Emily,
And other ladies in their degrees about,
Unto the seatës presseth all the rout.
And westward, through the gatës under Mart,
Arcite, and eke the hundred of his part,
With banner red, is enter’d right anon;
And in the selvë moment Palamon
Is, under Venus, eastward in the place,
With banner white, and hardy cheer and face.
In all the world, to seeken up and down
So even without variatioún
There were such companiës never tway.
For there was none so wise that couldë say
That any had of other ávantáge
Of worthiness, nor of estate, nor age,
So even were they chosen for to guess.
And in two ranges fairë they them dress.
When that their namës read were every one,
That in their number guilë were there none,
Then were the gatës shut, and cried was loud;
“Do now your dévoir, youngë knights proud!”

The heralds left their pricking up and down.
Now ring the trumpet loud and clarioun.
There is no more to say, but east and west
In go the spearës sadly in the rest;
In go the sharpë spurs into the side.
There see me who can joust, and who can ride.
There shiver shaftës upon shieldës thick;
He feeleth through the heartë-spoon the prick.
Up spring the spearës twenty foot on height;
Out go the swordës as the silver bright.
The helmës they to-hewen, and to-shred;
Out burst the blood, with sternë streamës red.
With mighty maces the bones they to-brest.
He through the thickest of the throng gan threst.
There stumble steedës strong, and down go all.
He rolleth under foot as doth a ball.
He foineth on his foe with a trunchoun,
And he him hurtleth with his horse adown.
He through the body hurt is, and sith take,
Maugré his head, and brought unto the stake,
As forword was, right there he must abide.
Another led is on that other side.
And sometime doth them Theseus to rest,
Them to refresh, and drinken if them lest.

Full oft a day have thilkë Thebans two
Together met, and wrought each other woe:
Unhorsed hath each other of them tway.
There is no tiger in the vale of Galaphay,
When that her whelp is stole, when it is lite,
So cruel on the hunter, as Arcite
For jealous heart upon this Palamon:
Nor in Belmarie there is no fell lión,
That hunted is, or for his hunger wood,
Or for his prey desireth so the blood,
As Palamon to slay his foe Arcite.
The jealous strokes upon their helmets bite;
Out runneth blood on both their sidës red,
Sometime an end there is of every deed.
For ere the sun unto the restë went,
The strongë king Emetrius gan hent
This Palamon, as he fought with Arcite,
And made his sword deep in his flesh to bite,
And by the force of twenty is he take,
Unyielding, and is drawn unto the stake.
And in the rescue of this Palamon
The strongë king Licurgus is borne down:
And king Emetrius for all his strength
Is borne out of his saddle a sword’s length,
So hit him Palamon ere he were take:
But all for nought; he was brought to the stake:
His hardy heartë might him helpë naught,
He must abidë, when that he was caught,
By force, and eke by compositión.
Who sorroweth now but woful Palamon
That must no morë go again to fight?
And when that Theseus had seen that sight,
Unto the folk that foughtë thus each one,
He cried, “Ho! no more, for it is done!
I will be truë judge, and not party.
Arcite of Thebes shall have Emily,
That by his fortune hath her fairly won.”
Anon there is a noise of people gone,
For joy of this, so loud and high withal,
It seemed that the listës shouldë fall.

What can now fairë Venus do above?
What saith she now? what doth this queen of love?
But weepeth so, for wanting of her will,
Till that her tearës in the listës fill:
She said: “I am ashamed doubtëless.”
Saturnus saidë: “Daughter, hold thy peace.
Mars hath his will, his knight hath all his boon,
And by mine head thou shalt be eased soon.”

The trumpeters with the loud minstrelsy,
The heralds, that full loudë yell and cry,
Be in their joy for weal of Dan Arcite.
But hearken me, and stintë noise a lite,
What a mirácle there befell anon.
This fierce Arcite hath off his helm y-done,
And on a courser for to shew his face
He pricketh endëlong the largë place,
Looking upward upon this Emily;
And she again him cast a friendly eye
(For women, as to speaken in commúne,
They follow all the favour of fortúne),
And was all his in cheer, as his in heart.
Out of the ground a fire infernal start,
From Pluto sent, at réquest of Saturn,
For which his horse for fear began to turn,
And leap aside, and founder as he leap:
And ere that Arcite may take any keep,
He pight him on the pummel of his head,
That in the place he lay as he were dead,
His breast to-bursten with his saddle-bow.
As black he lay as any coal or crow,
So was the blood y-run into his face.
Anon he was y-borne out of the place
With heartë sore, to Theseus’ palace.
Then was he carven out of his harnéss.
And in a bed y-brought full fair and blive,
For he was yet in mem’ry and alive,
And always crying after Emily.

Duke Theseus, with all his company,
Is comë home to Athens his city,
With allë bliss and great solemnity.
Albeit that this áventure was fall,
He wouldë not discómfortë them all.
Men said eke, that Arcite should not die,
He should be healed of his malady.
And of another thing they were as fain,
That of them allë was there no one slain,
All were they sorely hurt, and namely one,
That with a spear was thirled his breast-bone.
To other woundës, and to broken arms,
Some hadden salvës, and some hadden charms:
And pharmacies of herbs, and ekë save
They dranken, for they would their livës have.
For which this noble Duke, as he well can,
Comfórteth and honoúreth every man,
And madë revel all the longë night,
Unto the strangë lordës, as was right.
Nor there was holden no discomforting,
But as at jousts or at a tourneying;
For soothly there was no discomfiture,
For falling is not but an áventure.
Nor to be led by force unto a stake
Unyielding, and with twenty knights y-take
One person all alone, withouten mo’,
And harried forth by armës, foot, and toe,
And eke his steedë driven forth with staves,
With footmen, bothë yeomen and eke knaves,
It was aretted him no villainy:
There may no man clepen it cowardy.
For which anon Duke Theseus let cry—
To stenten allë rancour and envy—
The gree as well on one side as the other,
And either side alike as other’s brother:
And gave them giftës after their degree,
And held a feastë fully dayës three:
And conveyed the kingës worthily
Out of his town a journée largëly.
And home went every man the rightë way,
There was no more but “Farewell, Have good day.”
Of this batáille I will no more indite,
But speak of Palamon and of Arcite.

Swelleth the breast of Arcite and the sore
Increaseth at his heartë more and more.
The clotted blood, for any leachë-craft,
Corrupteth and is in his bouk y-laft,
That neither veinë-blood nor ventousing,
Nor drink of herbës may be his helping.
The virtue expulsive or animal,
From thilkë virtue called natural,
Nor may the venom voidë, nor expel.
The pipës of his lungs began to swell,
And every lacert in his breast adown
Is shent with venom and corruptioún.
Him gaineth neither, for to get his life,
Vomit upwárd, nor downward laxative;
All is to-bursten thilkë región;
Nature hath now no dominatión.
And certainly where nature will not wirch,
Farewell physíc: go bear the man to chirch.
This all and some is, Arcite must die.
For which he sendeth after Emily,
And Palamon, that was his cousin dear.
Then said he thus, as ye shall after hear.

“Nought may the woful spirit in mine heart
Declare one point of all my sorrows’ smart
To you, my lady, that I love the most;
But I bequeath the service of my ghost
To you aboven every creature,
Since that my life ne may no longer dure.
Alas the woe! alas, the painës strong
That I for you have suffered, and so long!
Alas the death! alas, mine Emily!
Alas departing of our company!
Alas, mine heartë’s queen! alas, my wife!
Mine heartë’s lady, ender of my life!
What is this world? what askë men to have?
Now with his love, now in his coldë grave
Alone, withouten any company.
Farewell, my sweet, farewell, mine Emily,
And softly take me in your armës tway,
For love of God, and hearken what I say.
I have here with my cousin Palamon
Had strife and rancour many a day agone,
For love of you, and for my jealousy.
And Jupiter so wis my soulë gie,
To speaken of a servant properly,
With allë circumstances truëly,
That is to say, truth, honour, and knighthead,
Wisdom, humbless, estate, and high kindred,
Freedom, and all that longeth to that art,
So Jupiter have of my soulë part,
As in this world right now I know not one,
So worthy to be lov’d as Palamon,
That serveth you, and will do all his life.
And if that you shall ever be a wife,
Forget not Palamon, the gentle man.”

And with that word his speech to fail began.
For from his feet up to his breast was come
The cold of death, that had him overnome.
And yet moreover in his armës two
The vital strength is lost, and all ago.
Only the intellect, withoutë more,
That dwelled in his heartë sick and sore,
Gan failë, when the heartë feltë death;
Dusked his eyen two, and fail’d his breath.
But on his lady yet he cast his eye;
His lastë word was; “Mercy, Emily!”
His spirit changed house, and wentë there,
As I came never I cannot tell where.
Therefore I stent, I am no diviníster;
Of soulës find I nought in this regíster.
Ne me list not th’ opinions to tell
Of them, though that they writen where they dwell;
Arcite is cold, there Mars his soulë gie.
Now will I speakë forth of Emily.

Shriek’d Emily, and howled Palamon,
And Theseus his sister took anon
Swooning, and bare her from the corpse away.
What helpeth it to tarry forth the day,
To tellë how she wept both eve and morrow?
For in such cases women have such sorrow,
When that their husbands be from them y-go,
That for the morë part they sorrow so,
Or ellës fall into such malady,
That at the lastë certainly they die.
Infinite be the sorrows and the tears
Of oldë folk, and folk of tender years,
In all the town, for death of this Theban:
For him there weepeth bothë child and man.
So great a weeping was there none certáin,
When Hector was y-brought, all fresh y-slain,
To Troy: alas! the pity that was there,
Scratching of cheeks, and rending eke of hair.
“Why wouldest thou be dead?” these women cry,
“And haddest gold enough, and Emily.”

No manner man might gladden Theseus,
Saving his oldë father Egeus,
That knew this worldë’s transmutatioun,
As he had seen it changen up and down,
Joy after woe, and woe after gladness;
And shewed him example and likeness.
“Right as there diëd never man,” quoth he,
“That he ne liv’d in earth in some degree,
Right so there lived never man,” he said,
“In all this world, that sometime be not died.
This world is but a throughfare full of woe,
And we be pilgrims, passing to and fro:
Death is an end of every worldly sore.”
And over all this said he yet much more
To this effect, full wisely to exhort
The people, that they should them recomfórt.

Duke Theseus, with all his busy cure,
Casteth about, where that the sepulture
Of good Arcite may best y-maked be,
And eke most honourable in his degree.
And at the last he took conclusión,
That there as first Arcite and Palamon
Haddë for love the battle them between,
That in that selvë grovë, sweet and green,
There as he had his amorous desires,
His cómplaint, and for love his hotë fires,
He wouldë make a fire, in which th’ offíce
Of funeral he might all áccomplice;
And let anon command to hack and hew
The oakës old, and lay them on a rew
In culpons, well arrayed for to brenne.
His officers with swiftë feet they renne
And ride anon at his commandëment.
And after this, Duke Theseus hath sent
After a bier, and it all oversprad
With cloth of gold, the richest that he had;
And of the samë suit he clad Arcite.
Upon his handës were his glovës white,
Eke on his head a crown of laurel green,
And in his hand a sword full bright and keen.
He laid him bare the visage on the bier,
Therewith he wept, that pity was to hear.
And, for the people shouldë see him all,
When it was day he brought them to the hall,
That roareth of the crying and the soun’.
Then came this woful Theban, Palamon,
With sluttery beard, and ruggy ashy hairs,
In clothës black, y-dropped all with tears,
And (passing over weeping Emily)
The ruefullest of all the company.
And inasmuch as the servíce should be
The more noble and rich in its degree,
Duke Theseus let forth three steedës bring,
That trapped were in steel all glittering.
And covered with the arms of Dan Arcite.
Upon these steedës, that were great and white,
There sattë folk, of whom one bare his shield,
Another his spear in his handës held;
The thirdë bare with him his bow Turkeis,
Of brent gold was the case and the harness:
And ridë forth a pace with sorrowful cheer
Toward the grove, as ye shall after hear.

The noblest of the Greekës that there were
Upon their shoulders carried the bier,
With slackë pace, and eyen red and wet,
Throughout the city, by the master street,
That spread was all with black, and wondrous high
Right of the same is all the street y-wrie.
Upon the right hand went old Egeus,
And on the other side Duke Theseus,
With vessels in their hand of gold full fine,
All full of honey, milk, and blood, and wine;
Eke Palamon, with a great company;
And after that came woful Emily,
With fire in hand, as was that time the guise,
To do th’ office of funeral servíce.

High labour, and full great appareling
Was at the service, and the pyre-making,
That with its greenë top the heaven raught,
And twenty fathom broad its armës straught:
This is to say, the boughës were so broad.
Of straw first there was laid many a load.
But how the pyre was maked up on height,
And eke the namës how the treës hight,
As oak, fir, birch, asp, alder, holm, poplére,
Will’w, elm, plane, ash, box, chestnut, lind, laurére,
Maple, thorn, beech, hazel, yew, whipul tree,
How they were fell’d, shall not be told for me;
Nor how the goddës rannen up and down
Disinherited of their habitatioún,
In which they wonned had in rest and peace,
Nymphës, Faunës, and Hamadryadës;
Nor how the beastës and the birdës all
Fledden for fearë, when the wood gan fall;
Nor how the ground aghast was of the light,
That was not wont to see the sunnë bright;
Nor how the fire was couched first with stre,
And then with dry stickës cloven in three,
And then with greenë wood and spicery,
And then with cloth of gold and with pierrie,
And garlands hanging with full many a flower,
The myrrh, the incense with so sweet odoúr;
Nor how Arcita lay among all this,
Nor what richéss about his body is;
Nor how that Emily, as was the guise,
Put in the fire of funeral servíce;
Nor how she swooned when she made the fire,
Nor what she spake, nor what was her desire;
Nor what jewels men in the fire then cast
When that the fire was great and burned fast;
Nor how some cast their shield, and some their spear,
And of their vestiments, which that they wear,
And cuppës full of wine, and milk, and blood,
Into the fire, that burnt as it were wood;
Nor how the Greekës with a hugë rout
Three timës riden all the fire about
Upon the left hand, with a loud shouting,
And thriës with their spearës clattering;
And thriës how the ladies gan to cry;
Nor how that led was homeward Emily;
Nor how Arcite is burnt to ashes cold;
Nor how the lykë-wakë was y-hold
All thilkë night, nor how the Greekës play
The wakë-plays, ne keep I not to say:
Who wrestled best naked, with oil anoint,
Nor who that bare him best in no disjoint.
I will not tell eke how they all are gone
Home to Athenës when the play is done;
But shortly to the point now will I wend,
And maken of my longë tale an end.

By process and by length of certain years
All stinted is the mourning and the tears
Of Greekës, by one general assent.
Then seemed me there was a parlement
At Athens, upon certain points and cas:
Amongës the which points y-spoken was
To have with certain countries álliánce,
And have of Thebans full obeisánce.
For which this noble Theseus anon
Let send after the gentle Palamon,
Unwist of him what was the cause and why:
But in his blackë clothes sorrowfully
He came at his commandment on hie;
Then sentë Theseus for Emily.

When they were set, and hush’d was all the place
And Theseus abided had a space
Ere any word came from his wisë breast
His eyen set he there as was his lest,
And with a sad viságe he sighed still,
And after that right thus he said his will.
“The firstë mover of the cause above
When he first made the fairë chain of love,
Great was th’ effect, and high was his intent;
Well wist he why, and what thereof he meant:
For with that fairë chain of love he bond
The fire, the air, the water, and the lond
In certain bondës, that they may not flee:
That samë prince and mover eke,” quoth he,
“Hath stablish’d, in this wretched world adown,
Certain of dayës and duratión
To all that are engender’d in this place,
Over the whichë day they may not pace,
All may they yet their dayës well abridge.
There needeth no authority to allëge
For it is proved by experience;
But that me list declarë my senténce.
Then may men by this order well discern,
That thilkë mover stable is and etern.
Well may men know, but that it be a fool,
That every part deriveth from its whole.
For nature hath not ta’en its beginning
Of no partie nor cantle of a thing,
But of a thing that perfect is and stable,
Descending so, till it be corruptáble.
And therefore of his wisë purveyance
He hath so well beset his ordinance,
That species of things and progressións
Shallen endurë by successións,
And not etern, withouten any lie:
This mayst thou understand and see at eye.
Lo th’ oak, that hath so long a nourishing
From the time that it ’ginneth first to spring,
And hath so long a life, as ye may see,
Yet at the last y-wasted is the tree.
Consider eke, how that the hardë stone
Under our feet, on which we tread and gon,
Yet wasteth, as it lieth by the way.
The broadë river some time waxeth drey.
The greatë townës see we wane and wend.
Then may ye see that all things have an end.
Of man and woman see we well also,
That needës in one of the termës two—
That is to say, in youth or else in age—
He must be dead, the king as shall a page;
Some in his bed, some in the deepë sea,
Some in the largë field, as ye may see:
There helpeth nought, all go that ilkë way:
Then may I say that allë thing must die.
What maketh this but Jupiter the king?
The which is prince, and cause of allë thing,
Converting all unto his proper will,
From which it is derived, sooth to tell
And hereagainst no creature alive,
Of no degree, availeth for to strive.
Then is it wisdom, as it thinketh me,
To make a virtue of necessity,
And take it well, that we may not eschew,
And namëly what to us all is due.
And whoso grudgeth ought, he doth folly,
And rebel is to him that all may gie.
And certainly a man hath most honoúr
To dien in his excellence and flower,
When he is sicker of his goodë name.
Then hath he done his friend, nor him, no shame
And gladder ought his friend be of his death,
When with honoúr is yielded up his breath,
Than when his name appalled is for age;
For all forgotten is his vassalage.
Then is it best, as for a worthy fame,
To dien when a man is best of name.
The contrary of all this is wilfulness.
Why grudgë we, why have we heaviness,
That good Arcite, of chivalry the flower,
Departed is, with duty and honoúr,
Out of this foulë prison of this life?
Why grudgë here his cousin and his wife
Of his welfare, that loved him so well?
Can he them thank?—nay, God wot, never a deal—
That both his soul and eke themselves offend,
And yet they may their lustës not amend.
What may I cónclude of this longë série,
But after sorrow I rede us to be merry,
And thankë Jupiter for all his grace?
And ere that we departë from this place,
I redë that we make of sorrows two
One perfect joyë lasting evermo’:
And look now where most sorrow is herein,
There will I first amenden and begin.
“Sister,” quoth he, “this is my full assent,
With all th’ advice here of my parlement,
That gentle Palamon, your owen knight,
That serveth you with will, and heart, and might,
And ever hath, since first time ye him knew,
That ye shall of your grace upon him rue,
And take him for your husband and your lord:
Lend me your hand, for this is our accord.
Let see now of your womanly pity.
He is a kingë’s brother’s son, pardie.
And though he were a poorë bachelére,
Since he hath served you so many a year,
And had for you so great adversity,
It mustë be considered, ’lieveth me.
For gentle mercy oweth to passen right.”
Then said he thus to Palamon the knight;
“I trow there needeth little sermoning
To makë you assentë to this thing.
Come near, and take your lady by the hand.”

Betwixtë them was made anon the band,
That hight matrimony or marriáge,
By all the counsel of the baronage.
And thus with allë bliss and melody
Hath Palamon y-wedded Emily.
And God, that all this widë world hath wrought,
Send him his love, that hath it dearly bought.
For now is Palamon in all his weal,
Living in bliss, in riches, and in heal;
And Emily him loves so tenderly,
And he her serveth all so gentilly,
That never was there wordë them between
Of jealousy, nor of none other teen.

Thus endeth Palamon and Emily
And God save all this fairë company.

The Miller’s Tale

The Prologue

When that the Knight had thus his talë told,
In all the rout was neither young nor old,
That he not said it was a noble story,
And worthy to be drawen to memóry;
And namëly the gentles every one.
Our Host then laugh’d and swore, “So may I gon,
This goes aright; unbuckled is the mail;
Let see now who shall tell another tale:
For truëly this game is well begun.
Now telleth ye, Sir Monk, if that ye conne,
Somewhat, to quiten with the Knightë’s tale.”
The Miller that fordrunken was all pale,
So that unnethes upon his horse he sat,
He would avalen neither hood nor hat,
Nor abide no man for his courtesy,
But in Pilatë’s voice he gan to cry,
And swore by armës, and by blood, and bones,
“I can a noble talë for the nones,
With which I will now quite the Knightë’s tale.”
Our Host saw well how drunk he was of ale,
And said; “Robin, abide, my levë brother,
Some better man shall tell us first another:
Abide, and let us workë thriftily.”
“By Goddë’s soul,” quoth he, “that will not I,
For I will speak, or ellës go my way!”
Our Host answer’d; “Tell on a devil way;
Thou art a fool; thy wit is overcome.”
“Now hearken,” quoth the Miller, “all and some:
But first I make a protestatioún.
That I am drunk, I know it by my soun’:
And therefore if that I misspeak or say,
Wite it the ale of Southwark, I you pray:
For I will tell a legend and a life
Both of a carpenter and of his wife,
How that a clerk hath set the wrightë’s cap.”
The Reeve answér’d and saidë, “Stint thy clap,
Let be thy lewëd drunken harlotry.
It is a sin, and eke a great folly
To apeiren any man, or him defame,
And eke to bringë wives in evil name.
Thou may’st enough of other thingës sayn.”
This drunken Miller spake full soon again,
And saidë, “Levë brother Osëwold,
Who hath no wifë, he is no cuckóld.
But I say not therefore that thou art one;
There be full goodë wivës many one.
Why art thou angry with my talë now?
I have a wife, pardie, as well as thou,
Yet n’old I, for the oxen in my plough,
Taken upon me morë than enough,
To deemen of myself that I am one;
I will believë well that I am none.
An husband should not be inquisitive
Of Goddë’s privity, nor of his wife.
So he may findë Goddë’s foison there,
Of the remnant needeth not to enquére.”

What should I more say, but that this Millére
He would his wordës for no man forbear,
But told his churlish tale in his mannére;
Me thinketh, that I shall rehearse it here.
And therefore every gentle wight I pray,
For Goddë’s love to deem not that I say
Of evil intent, but that I must rehearse
Their tales all, be they better or worse,
Or ellës falsen some of my mattere.
And therefore whoso list it not to hear,
Turn o’er the leaf, and choose another tale;
For he shall find enough, both great and smale,
Of storial thing that toucheth gentiless,
And eke morality and holiness.
Blame not me, if that ye choose amiss.
The Miller is a churl, ye know well this,
So was the Reeve, with many other mo’,
And harlotry they toldë bothë two.
Avise you now, and put me out of blame;
And eke men should not make earnest of game.

The Tale

Whilom there was dwelling in Oxenford
A richë gnof, that guestës held to board,
And of his craft he was a carpentér.
With him there was dwelling a poor scholér,
Had learned art, but all his fantasy
Was turned for to learn astrology.
He coudë a certain of conclusions
To deemë by interrogations,
If that men asked him in certain hours,
When that men should have drought or ellës show’rs:
Or if men asked him what shouldë fall
Of everything, I may not reckon all.

This clerk was called Hendy Nicholas;
Of dernë love he knew and of solace;
And therewith he was sly and full privy,
And like a maiden meekë for to see.
A chamber had he in that hostelry
Alone, withouten any company,
Full fetisly y-dight with herbës swoot,
And he himself was sweet as is the root
Of liquorice, or any setewall.
His Almagest, and bookës great and small,
His astrolabe, belonging to his art,
His augrim stonës, layed fair apart
On shelvës couched at his beddë’s head,
His press y-cover’d with a falding red.
And all above there lay a gay psalt’ry
On which he made at nightës melody,
So sweetëly, that all the chamber rang:
And Angelus ad virginem he sang.
And after that he sung the kingë’s note;
Full often blessed was his merry throat.
And thus this sweetë clerk his timë spent
After his friendës finding and his rent.

This carpenter had wedded new a wife,
Which that he loved morë than his life:
Of eighteen year, I guess, she was of age.
Jealous he was, and held her narr’w in cage,
For she was wild and young, and he was old,
And deemed himself bélike a cuckóld.
He knew not Cato, for his wit was rude,
That bade a man wed his similitude.
Men shouldë wedden after their estate,
For youth and eld are often at debate.
But since that he was fallen in the snare,
He must endure (as other folk) his care.

Fair was this youngë wife, and therewithal
As any weasel her body gent and small.
A seint she weared, barred all of silk,
A barm-cloth eke as white as morning milk
Upon her lendës, full of many a gore.
White was her smock, and broider’d all before,
And eke behind, on her collar about
Of coal-black silk, within and eke without.
The tapës of her whitë volupere
Were of the samë suit of her collére;
Her fillet broad of silk, and set full high:
And sickerly she had a likerous eye.
Full small y-pulled were her browës two,
And they were bent, and black as any sloe.
She was well more blissful on to see
Than is the newë perjenetë tree;
And softer than the wool is of a wether.
And by her girdle hung a purse of leather,
Tassel’d with silk, and pearlëd with latoun.
In all this world to seeken up and down
There is no man so wise, that coudë thenche
So gay a popelot, or such a wench.
Full brighter was the shining of her hue,
Than in the Tower the noble forged new.
But of her song, it was as loud and yern,
As any swallow chittering on a bern.
Thereto she couldë skip, and make a game,
As any kid or calf following his dame.
Her mouth was sweet as braket, or as methe,
Or hoard of apples, laid in hay or heath.
Wincing she was as is a jolly colt,
Long as a mast, and upright as a bolt.
A brooch she bare upon her low collére,
As broad as is the boss of a bucklére.
Her shoon were laced on her leggës high;
She was a primerole, a piggesnie,
For any lord t’ have ligging in his bed,
Or yet for any good yeoman to wed.

Now, sir, and eft sir, so befell the case,
That on a day this Hendy Nicholas
Fell with this youngë wife to rage and play,
While that her husband was at Oseney,
As clerkës be full subtle and full quaint.
And privily he caught her by the queint,
And said; “Y-wis, but if I have my will,
For dernë love of thee, leman, I spill.”
And heldë her fast by the haunchë bones,
And saidë “Leman, love me well at once,
Or I will dien, all so God me save.”
And she sprang as a colt doth in the trave:
And with her head she writhed fast away,
And said; “I will not kiss thee, by my fay.
Why let be,” quoth she, “let be, Nicholas,
Or I will cry out harow and alas!
Do away your handës, for your courtesy.”
This Nicholas gan mercy for to cry,
And spake so fair, and proffer’d him so fast,
That she her love him granted at the last,
And swore her oath by Saint Thomas of Kent,
That she would be at his commandement,
When that she may her leisure well espy.
“My husband is so full of jealousy,
That but ye waitë well, and be privy,
I wot right well I am but dead,” quoth she.
“Ye mustë be full derne as in this case.”
“Nay, thereof care thee nought,” quoth Nicholas:
“A clerk had litherly beset his while,
But if he could a carpenter beguile.”
And thus they were accorded and y-sworn
To wait a time, as I have said beforn.
When Nicholas had done thus every deal,
And thwacked her about the lendës well,
He kiss’d her sweet, and taketh his psalt’ry
And playeth fast, and maketh melody.
Then fell it thus, that to the parish church,
Of Christë’s owen workës for to wirch,
This good wife went upon a holy day:
Her forehead shone as bright as any day,
So was it washen, when she left her werk.

Now was there of that church a parish clerk,
The which that was y-cleped Absolon.
Curl’d was his hair, and as the gold it shone,
And strutted as a fannë large and broad;
Full straight and even lay his jolly shode.
His rode was red, his eyen grey as goose,
With Paulë’s windows carven on his shoes.
In hosen red he went full fetisly.
Y-clad he was full small and properly,
All in a kirtle of a light waget;
Full fair and thickë be the pointës set.
And thereupon he had a gay surplíce,
As white as is the blossom on the rise.
A merry child he was, so God me save;
Well could he letten blood, and clip, and shave,
And make a charter of land, and a quittance.
In twenty manners could he trip and dance,
After the school of Oxenfordë tho,
And with his leggës castë to and fro;
And playen songës on a small ribible;
Thereto he sung sometimes a loud quinible.
And as well could he play on a gitérn.
In all the town was brewhouse nor tavérn,
That he not visited with his solas,
There as that any garnard tapstere was.
But sooth to say he was somedeal squaimous
Of farting, and of speechë dangerous.

This Absolon, that jolly was and gay,
Went with a censer on the holy day,
Censing the wivës of the parish fast;
And many a lovely look he on them cast,
And namëly on this carpénter’s wife:
To look on her him thought a merry life.
She was so proper, and sweet, and likerous.
I dare well say, if she had been a mouse,
And he a cat, he would her hent anon.
This parish clerk, this jolly Absolon,
Hath in his heartë such a love-longing!
That of no wife took he none offering;
For courtesy he said he wouldë none.
The moon at night full clear and brightë shone,
And Absolon his gitern hath y-taken,
For paramours he thoughtë for to waken,
And forth he went, jolif and amorous,
Till he came to the carpentérë’s house,
A little after the cock had y-crow,
And dressed him under a shot window,
That was upon the carpentérë’s wall.
He singeth in his voice gentle and small;
“Now, dear lady, if thy will be,
I pray that ye will rue on me;”
Full well accordant to his giterning.
This carpenter awoke, and heard him sing,
And spake unto his wife, and said anon,
“What, Alison, hear’st thou not Absolon,
That chanteth thus under our bower wall?”
And she answer’d her husband therewithal;
“Yes, God wot, John, I hear him every deal.”

This passeth forth; what will ye bet than well?
From day to day this jolly Absolon
So wooeth her, that him is woebegone.
He waketh all the night, and all the day,
To comb his lockës broad, and make him gay.
He wooeth her by means and by brocage,
And swore he wouldë be her owen page.
He singeth brokking as a nightingale.
He sent her piment, mead, and spiced ale,
And wafers piping hot out of the glede:
And, for she was of town, he proffer’d meed.
For some folk will be wonnen for richéss,
And some for strokes, and some with gentiless.
Sometimes, to show his lightness and mast’ry,
He playeth Herod on a scaffold high.
But what availeth him as in this case?
So loveth she the Hendy Nicholas,
That Absolon may blow the buckë’s horn:
He had for all his labour but a scorn.
And thus she maketh Absolon her ape,
And all his earnest turneth to a jape.
Full sooth is this provérb, it is no lie;
Men say right thus alway; the nighë sly
Maketh oft time the far lief to be loth.
For though that Absolon be wood or wroth
Because that he far was from her sight,
This nigh Nicholas stood still in his light.
Now bear thee well, thou Hendy Nicholas,
For Absolon may wail and sing “Alas!”

And so befell, that on a Saturday
This carpenter was gone to Oseney,
And Hendy Nicholas and Alisón
Accorded were to this conclusión,
That Nicholas shall shapë him a wile
The silly jealous husband to beguile;
And if so were the gamë went aright,
She shouldë sleepen in his arms all night;
For this was her desire and his also.
And right anon, withoutë wordës mo’,
This Nicholas no longer would he tarry,
But doth full soft unto his chamber carry
Both meat and drinkë for a day or tway.
And to her husband bade her for to say,
If that he asked after Nicholas,
She shouldë say, “She wist not where he was;
Of all the day she saw him not with eye;
She trowed he was in some maladý,
For no cry that her maiden could him call
He would answer, for nought that might befall.”
Thus passed forth all thilkë Saturday,
That Nicholas still in his chamber lay,
And ate, and slept, and diddë what him list
Till Sunday, that the sunnë went to rest.
This silly carpenter had great marvail
Of Nicholas, or what thing might him ail,
And said; “I am adrad, by Saint Thomas!
It standeth not aright with Nicholas:
God shieldë that he died suddenly.
This world is now full tickle sickerly.
I saw to-day a corpse y-borne to chirch,
That now on Monday last I saw him wirch.
“Go up,” quod he unto his knave, “anon;
Clepe at his door, or knockë with a stone:
Look how it is, and tell me boldëly.”
This knavë went him up full sturdily,
And, at the chamber door while that he stood,
He cried and knocked as that he were wood:
“What how? what do ye, Master Nicholay?
How may ye sleepen all the longë day?”
But all for nought, he heardë not a word.
An hole he found full low upon the board,
There as the cat was wont in for to creep,
And at that hole he looked in full deep,
And at the last he had of him a sight.
This Nicholas sat ever gaping upright,
As he had kyked on the newë moon.
Adown he went, and told his master soon,
In what array he saw this ilkë man.

This carpenter to blissen him began,
And said: “Now help us, Saintë Frideswide.
A man wot little what shall him betide.
This man is fall’n with his astronomy
Into some woodness or some agony.
I thought aye well how that it shouldë be.
Men should know nought of Goddë’s privity.
Yea, blessed be alway a lewëd man,
That nought but only his believë can.
So far’d another clerk with astrónomý:
He walked in the fieldës for to pry
Upon the starrës, what there should befall,
Till he was in a marlë pit y-fall.
He saw not that. But yet, by Saint Thomas!
Me rueth sore of Hendy Nicholas:
He shall be rated of his studying,
If that I may, by Jesus, heaven’s king!
Get me a staff, that I may underspore
While that thou, Robin, heavest off the door:
He shall out of his studying, as I guess.”
And to the chamber door he gan him dress.
His knavë was a strong carl for the nonce,
And by the hasp he heav’d it off at once;
Into the floor the door fell down anon.
This Nicholas sat aye as still as stone,
And ever he gap’d upward into the air.
The carpenter ween’d he were in despair,
And hent him by the shoulders mightily,
And shook him hard, and cried spitously;
“What, Nicholas? what how, man? look adown:
Awake, and think on Christë’s passioún.
I crouchë thee from elvës, and from wights.”
Therewith the night-spell said he anon rights,
On the four halvës of the house about,
And on the threshold of the door without.
“Lord Jesus Christ, and Saintë Benedight,
Blessë this house from every wicked wight,
From the night mare, the white Pater-noster;
Where wonnest thou now, Saintë Peter’s sister?”
And at the last this Hendy Nicholas
Gan for to sigh full sore, and said; “Alas!
Shall all time world be lost eftsoonës now?”
This carpenter answér’d; “What sayest thou?
What? think on God, as we do, men that swink.”
This Nicholas answer’d; “Fetch me a drink;
And after will I speak in privity
Of certain thing that toucheth thee and me:
I will tell it no other man certain.”

This carpenter went down, and came again,
And brought of mighty ale a largë quart;
And when that each of them had drunk his part,
This Nicholas his chamber door fast shet,
And down the carpentér by him he set,
And saidë; “John, mine host full lief and dear,
Thou shalt upon thy truthë swear me here,
That to no wight thou shalt my counsel wray:
For it is Christë’s counsel that I say,
And if thou tell it man, thou art forlore:
For this vengeance thou shalt have therefor,
That if thou wrayë me, thou shalt be wood.”
“Nay, Christ forbid it for his holy blood!”
Quoth then this silly man; “I am no blab,
Nor, though I say it, am I lief to gab.
Say what thou wilt, I shall it never tell
To child or wife, by him that harried Hell.”

“Now, John,” quoth Nicholas, “I will not lie;
I have y-found in my astrology,
As I have looked in the moonë bright,
That now on Monday next, at quarter night,
Shall fall a rain, and that so wild and wood,
That never half so great was Noë’s flood.
This world,” he said, “in less than half an hour
Shall all be dreint, so hideous is the shower:
Thus shall mankindë drench, and lose their life.”
This carpenter answér’d; “Alas, my wife!
And shall she drench? alas, mine Alisoún!”
For sorrow of this he fell almost adown,
And said; “Is there no remedy in this case?”
“Why, yes, for God,” quoth Hendy Nicholas;
“If thou wilt worken after lore and rede;
Thou may’st not worken after thine own head.
For thus saith Solomon, that was full true:
Work all by counsel, and thou shalt not rue.
And if thou workë wilt by good counseil,
I undertake, withoutë mast or sail,
Yet shall I savë her, and thee, and me.
Hast thou not heard how saved was Noë,
When that our Lord had warned him beforn,
That all the world with water should be lorn?”
“Yes,” quoth this carpenter, “full yore ago.”
“Hast thou not heard,” quoth Nicholas, “also
The sorrow of Noë, with his fellowship,
That he had ere he got his wife to ship?
Him had been lever, I dare well undertake,
At thilkë time, than all his wethers black,
That she had had a ship herself alone.
And therefore know’st thou what is best to be done?
This asketh haste, and of an hasty thing
Men may not preach or makë tarrying.
Anon go get us fast into this inn
A kneading trough, or else a kemelin,
For each of us; but look that they be large,
In whichë we may swim as in a barge:
And have therein vitaillë suffisant
But for one day; fie on the remenant;
The water shall aslake and go away
Aboutë prime upon the nextë day.
But Robin may not know of this, thy knave,
Nor eke thy maiden Gill I may not save:
Ask me not why: for though thou askë me
I will not tellë Goddë’s privity.
Sufficeth thee, but if thy wit be mad,
To have as great a grace as Noë had;
Thy wife shall I well saven out of doubt.
Go now thy way, and speed thee hereabout.
But when thou hast for her, and thee, and me,
Y-gotten us these kneading tubbës three,
Then shalt thou hang them in the roof full high,
So that no man our purveyance espy:
And when thou hast done thus as I have said,
And hast our vitaille fair in them y-laid,
And eke an axe to smite the cord in two
When that the water comes, that we may go,
And break an hole on high upon the gable
Into the garden-ward, over the stable,
That we may freely passë forth our way,
When that the greatë shower is gone away.
Then shalt thou swim as merry, I undertake,
As doth the whitë duck after her drake:
Then will I clepe, ‘How, Alison? How, John?
Be merry: for the flood will pass anon.’
And thou wilt say, ‘Hail, Master Nicholay,
Good-morrow, I see thee well, for it is day.’
And then shall we be lordës all our life
Of all the world, as Noë and his wife.
But of one thing I warnë thee full right,
Be well advised, on that ilkë night,
When we be enter’d into shippë’s board,
That none of us not speak a single word,
Nor clepe nor cry, but be in his prayére,
For that is Goddë’s owen hestë dear.
Thy wife and thou must hangen far atween,
For that betwixtë you shall be no sin,
No more in looking than there shall in deed.
This ordinance is said: go, God thee speed.
To-morrow night, when men be all asleep,
Into our kneading tubbës will we creep,
And sittë there, abiding Goddë’s grace.
Go now thy way, I have no longer space
To make of this no longer sermoníng:
Men say thus: Send the wise, and say nothing:
Thou art so wise, it needeth thee nought teach.
Go, save our lives, and that I thee beseech.”

This silly carpenter went forth his way,
Full oft he said, “Alas! and Well-a-day!”
And to his wife he told his privity,
And she was ware, and better knew than he
What all this quaintë cast was for to say.
But natheless she fear’d as she would dey,
And said: “Alas! go forth thy way anon.
Help us to scape, or we be dead each one.
I am thy true and very wedded wife;
Go, dearë spouse, and help to save our life.”
Lo, what a great thing is affectión!
Men may die of imaginatión,
So deeply may impressión be take.
This silly carpenter begins to quake:
He thinketh verily that he may see
This newë flood come weltering as the sea
To drenchen Alison, his honey dear.
He weepeth, waileth, maketh sorry cheer;
He sigheth, with full many a sorry sough.
He go’th, and getteth him a kneading trough,
And after that a tub, and a kemelin,
And privily he sent them to his inn:
And hung them in the roof full privily.
With his own hand then made he ladders three,
To climbë by the ranges and the stalks
Unto the tubbës hanging in the balks;
And victualed them, kemelin, trough, and tub,
With bread and cheese, and good ale in a jub,
Sufficing right enough as for a day.
But ere that he had made all this array,
He sent his knave, and eke his wench also,
Upon his need to London for to go.
And on the Monday, when it drew to night,
He shut his door withoutë candle light,
And dressed every thing as it should be.
And shortly up they climbed all the three.
They sattë stillë well a furlong way.
“Now, Pater noster, clum,” said Nicholay,
And “clum,” quoth John; and “clum,” said Alison:
This carpenter said his devotión,
And still he sat and bidded his prayére,
Awaking on the rain, if he it hear.
The deadë sleep, for weary business,
Fell on this carpenter, right as I guess,
About the curfew-time, or little more,
For travail of his ghost he groaned sore,
And eft he routed, for his head mislay.
Adown the ladder stalked Nicholay;
And Alison full soft adown she sped.
Withoutë wordës more they went to bed,
There as the carpenter was wont to lie:
There was the revel, and the melody.
And thus lay Alison and Nicholas,
In business of mirth and in solace,
Until the bell of laudes gan to ring,
And friars in the chancel went to sing.

This parish clerk, this amorous Absolon,
That is for love alway so woebegone,
Upon the Monday was at Oseney
With company, him to disport and play;
And asked upon cas a cloisterer
Full privily after John the carpenter;
And he drew him apart out of the church,
And said, “I n’ot; I saw him not here wirch
Since Saturday; I trow that he be went
For timber, where our abbot hath him sent.
For he is wont for timber for to go,
And dwellen at the Grange a day or two:
Or else he is at his own house certain.
Where that he be, I cannot soothly sayn.”
This Absolon full jolly was and light,
And thought, “Now is the time to wake all night,
For sickerly I saw him not stirríng
About his door, since day began to spring.
So may I thrive, but I shall at cock crow
Full privily go knock at his windów,
That stands full low upon his bower wall:
To Alison then will I tellen all
My lovë-longing; for I shall not miss
That at the leastë way I shall her kiss.
Some manner comfort shall I have, parfay,
My mouth hath itched all this livelong day:
That is a sign of kissing at the least.
All night I mette eke I was at a feast.
Therefore I will go sleep an hour or tway,
And all the night then will I wake and play.”
When that the first cock crowed had, anon
Up rose this jolly lover Absolon,
And him arrayed gay, at point devise.
But first he chewed grains and liquorice,
To smellë sweet, ere he had combed his hair.
Under his tongue a truë love he bare,
For thereby thought he to be gracious.
Then came he to the carpentérë’s house,
And still he stood under the shot window;
Unto his breast it raught, it was so low;
And soft he coughed with a semisoún’.

“What do ye, honeycomb, sweet Alisoún?
My fairë bird, my sweet cinamomé,
Awaken, leman mine, and speak to me.
Full little thinkë ye upon my woe,
That for your love I sweat there as I go.
No wonder is that I do swelt and sweat.
I mourn as doth a lamb after the teat.
Y-wis, leman, I have such love-longíng,
That like a turtle true is my mourníng.
I may not eat, no morë than a maid.”
“Go from the window, thou jack fool,” she said:
“As help me God, it will not be, come ba me.
I love another, else I were to blamë,
Well better than thee, by Jesus, Absolon.
Go forth thy way, or I will cast a stone;
And let me sleep; a twenty devil way.”
“Alas!” quoth Absolon, “and well away!
That true love ever was so ill beset:
Then kiss me, since that it may be no bet,
For Jesus’ love, and for the love of me.”
“Wilt thou then go thy way therewith?” quoth she.
“Yea, certes, leman,” quoth this Absolon.
“Then make thee ready,” quoth she, “I come anon.”
[And unto Nicholas she said full still:
“Now peace, and thou shalt laugh anon thy fill.”]
This Absolon down set him on his knees,
And said; “I am a lord at all degrees:
For after this I hope there cometh more;
Leman, thy grace, and, sweetë bird, thine ore.”
The window she undid, and that in haste.
“Have done,” quoth she, “come off, and speed thee fast,
Lest that our neighëbours should thee espy.”
Then Absolon gan wipe his mouth full dry.
Dark was the night as pitch or as the coal,
And at the window she put out her hole,
And Absolon him fell ne bet ne werse,
But with his mouth he kiss’d her naked erse
Full savourly. When he was ware of this,
Aback he start, and thought it was amiss,
For well he wist a woman hath no beard.
He felt a thing all rough, and long y-hair’d,
And saidë; “Fy, alas! what have I do?”
“Te he!” quoth she, and clapt the window to;
And Absolon went forth at sorry pace.
“A beard, a beard,” said Hendy Nicholas;
“By God’s corpus, this game went fair and well.”
This silly Absolon heard every deal,
And on his lip he gan for anger bite;
And to himself he said, “I shall thee quite.”
Who rubbeth now, who frotteth now his lips
With dust, with sand, with straw, with cloth, with chips,
But Absolon? that saith full oft, “Alas!
My soul betake I unto Sathanas,
But me were lever than all this town,” quoth he,
“Of this despite awroken for to be.
Alas! alas! that I have been y-blent.”
His hotë love is cold, and all y-quent.
For from that time that he had kiss’d her erse,
Of paramours he settë not a kers,
For he was healed of his malady;
Full often paramours he gan defy,
And weep as doth a child that hath been beat.
A softë pace he went over the street
Unto a smith, men callen Dan Gerveis,
That in his forgë smithed plough-harnéss;
He sharped share and culter busily.
This Absolon knocked all easily,
And said; “Undo, Gerveis, and that anon.”
“What, who art thou?” “It is I, Absolon.”
“What? Absolon, what? Christë’s sweetë tree,
Why rise so rath? hey! benedicite,
What aileth you? some gay girl, God it wote,
Hath brought you thus upon the virëtote:
By Saint Neot, ye wot well what I mean.”
This Absolon he raughtë not a bean
Of all his play; no word again he gaf,
For he had morë tow on his distaff
Than Gerveis knew, and saidë; “Friend so dear,
That hotë culter in the chimney here
Lend it to me, I have therewith to don:
I will it bring again to thee full soon.”
Gerveis answered; “Certes, were it gold,
Or in a pokë nobles all untold,
Thou shouldst it have, as I am a true smith.
Hey! Christë’s foot, what will ye do therewith?”
“Thereof,” quoth Absolon, “be as be may;
I shall well tell it thee another day:”
And caught the culter by the coldë stele.
Full soft out at the door he gan to steal,
And went unto the carpentérë’s wall
He coughed first, and knocked therewithal
Upon the window, light as he did ere.

This Alison answered; “Who is there
That knocketh so? I warrant him a thief.”
“Nay, nay,” quoth he, “God wot, my sweetë lefe,
I am thine Absolon, my own darling.
Of gold,” quoth he, “I have thee brought a ring,
My mother gave it me, so God me save!
Full fine it is, and thereto well y-grave:
This will I give to thee, if thou me kiss.”
Now Nicholas was risen up to piss,
And thought he would amenden all the jape;
He shouldë kiss his erse ere that he scape:
And up the window did he hastily,
And out his erse he put full privily
Over the buttock, to the haunchë bone.
And therewith spake this clerk, this Absolon,
“Speak, sweetë bird, I know not where thou art.”
This Nicholas anon let fly a fart,
As great as it had been a thunder dent;
That with the stroke he was well nigh y-blent;
But he was ready with his iron hot,
And Nicholas amid the erse he smote.
Off went the skin an handbreadth all about.
The hotë culter burned so his tout,
That for the smart he weened he would die;
As he were wood, for woe he gan to cry,
“Help! water, water, help for Goddë’s heart!”

This carpenter out of his slumber start,
And heard one cry “Water,” as he were wood,
And thought, “Alas! now cometh Noë’s flood.”
He sat him up withoutë wordës mo’,
And with his axe he smote the cord in two;
And down went all; he found neither to sell
Nor bread nor ale, till he came to the sell,
Upon the floor, and there in swoon he lay.
Up started Alison and Nicholay,
And cried out an “harow!” in the street.
The neighbours allë, bothë small and great
In rannë, for to gauren on this man,
That yet in swoonë lay, both pale and wan:
For with the fall he broken had his arm.
But stand he must unto his owen harm,
For when he spake, he was anon borne down
With Hendy Nicholas and Alisoún.
They told to every man that he was wood;
He was aghastë so of Noë’s flood,
Through phantasy, that of his vanity
He had y-bought him kneading-tubbës three,
And had them hanged in the roof above;
And that he prayed them for Goddë’s love
To sitten in the roof for company.
The folk gan laughen at his phantasy.
Into the roof they kyken, and they gape,
And turned all his harm into a jape.
For whatsoe’er this carpenter answér’d,
It was for nought, no man his reason heard.
With oathës great he was so sworn adown,
That he was holden wood in all the town.
For every clerk anon right held with other;
They said, “The man was wood, my levë brother;”
And every wight gan laughen at his strife.
Thus swived was the carpentérë’s wife,
For all his keeping and his jealousy;
And Absolon hath kiss’d her nether eye;
And Nicholas is scalded in the tout.
This tale is done, and God save all the rout.

The Reeve’s Tale

The Prologue

When folk had laughed all at this nice case
Of Absolon and Hendy Nicholas,
Diversë folk diversëly they said,
But for the morë part they laugh’d and play’d;
And at this tale I saw no man him grieve,
But it were only Osëwold the Reeve.
Because he was of carpentérë’s craft,
A little ire is in his heartë laft;
He gan to grudge and blamed it a lite.
“So thé I,” quoth he, “full well could I him quite
With blearing of a proudë miller’s eye,
If that me list to speak of ribaldry.
But I am old; me list not play for age;
Grass time is done, my fodder is now foráge.
This whitë top writeth mine oldë years;
Mine heart is also moulded as mine hairs;
And I do fare as doth an open-erse;
That ilkë fruit is ever longer werse,
Till it be rotten in mullok or in stre.
We oldë men, I dread, so farë we;
Till we be rotten, can we not be ripe;
We hop away, while that the world will pipe;
For in our will there sticketh aye a nail,
To have an hoary head and a green tail,
As hath a leek; for though our might be gone,
Our will desireth folly ever-in-one:
For when we may not do, then will we speak,
Yet in our ashes cold does firë reek.
Four gledës have we, which I shall devise,
Vaunting, and lying, anger, covetíse.
These fourë sparks belongen unto eld.
Our oldë limbës well may be unweld,
But will shall never fail us, that is sooth.
And yet have I alway a coltë’s tooth,
As many a year as it is passed and gone
Since that my tap of life began to run;
For sickerly, when I was born, anon
Death drew the tap of life, and let it gon:
And ever since hath so the tap y-run,
Till that almost all empty is the tun.
The stream of life now droppeth on the chimb.
The silly tonguë well may ring and chime
Of wretchedness, that passed is full yore:
With oldë folk, save dotage, is no more.”

When that our Host had heard this sermoning,
He gan to speak as lordly as a king,
And said; “To what amounteth all this wit?
What? shall we speak all day of holy writ?
The devil made a Reevë for to preach,
As of a souter a shipman, or a leach.
Say forth thy tale, and tarry not the time:
Lo here is Deptford, and ’tis half past prime:
Lo Greenwich, where many a shrew is in.
It were high time thy talë to begin.”

“Now, sirs,” quoth then this Osëwold the Reeve,
“I pray you all that none of you do grieve,
Though I answér, and somewhat set his hove,
For lawful is force off with force to shove.
This drunken miller hath y-told us here
How that beguiled was a carpentére,
Paráventure in scorn—for I am one:
And, by your leave, I shall him quite anon.
Right in his churlish termës will I speak—
I pray to God his neckë might to-break.
He can well in mine eyë see a stalk,
But in his own he cannot see a balk.”

The Tale

At Trompington, not far from Cantebrig,
There goes a brook, and over that a brig,
Upon the whichë brook there stands a mill:
And this is very sooth that I you tell.
A miller was there dwelling many a day,
As any peacock he was proud and gay:
Pipen he could, and fish, and nettës bete,
And turnë cups, and wrestle well, and shete.
Aye by his belt he bare a long pavade,
And of his sword full trenchant was the blade.
A jolly popper bare he in his pouch;
There was no man for peril durst him touch.
A Sheffield whittle bare he in his hose.
Round was his face, and camuse was his nose.
As pilled as an apë’s was his skull.
He was a market-beter at the full.
There durstë no wight hand upon him legge,
That he ne swore anon he should abegge.

A thief he was, for sooth, of corn and meal,
And that a sly, and used well to steal.
His name was hoten deinous Simekin.
A wife he haddë, come of noble kin:
The parson of the town her father was.
With her he gave full many a pan of brass,
For that Simkin should in his blood ally.
She was y-foster’d in a nunnery:
For Simkin wouldë no wife, as he said,
But she were well y-nourish’d, and a maid,
To saven his estate and yeomanry:
And she was proud, and pert as is a pie.
A full fair sight it was to see them two;
On holy days before her would he go
With his tippét y-bound about his head;
And she came after in a gite of red,
And Simkin haddë hosen of the same.
There durstë no wight call her aught but Dame:
None was so hardy, walking by that way,
That with her either durstë rage or play,
But if he would be slain by Simekin
With pavade, or with knife, or bodëkin.
For jealous folk be per’lous evermo’:
Algate they would their wivës wendë so.
And eke for she was somewhat smutterlich,
She was as dign as water in a ditch,
And all so full of hoker, and bismare.
Her thoughtë that a lady should her spare,
What for her kindred, and her nortelrie
That she had learned in the nunnery.

One daughter haddë they betwixt them two
Of twenty year, withouten any mo,
Saving a child that was of half year age,
In cradle it lay, and was a proper page.
This wenchë thick and well y-growen was,
With camuse nose, and eyen gray as glass;
With buttocks broad, and breastës round and high;
But right fair was her hair, I will not lie.
The parson of the town, for she was fair,
In purpose was to make of her his heir
Both of his chattels and his messuage,
And strange he made it of her marriáge.
His purpose was for to bestow her high
Into some worthy blood of ancestry.
For holy Church’s good may be dispended
On holy Church’s blood that is descended.
Therefore he would his holy blood honoúr,
Though that he holy Churchë should devour.

Great soken hath this miller, out of doubt,
With wheat and malt, of all the land about;
And namëly there was a great collége
Men call the Soler Hall at Cantebrege,
There was their wheat and eke their malt y-ground.
And on a day it happed in a stound,
Sick lay the manciple of a malady,
Men weened wisly that he shouldë die.
For which this miller stole both meal and corn
An hundred timës morë than beforn.
For theretofore he stole but courteously,
But now he was a thief outrageously.
For which the warden chid and madë fare,
But thereof set the miller not a tare;
He crack’d his boast, and swore it was not so.

Then were there youngë poorë scholars two,
That dwelled in the hall of which I say;
Testif they were, and lusty for to play;
And only for their mirth and revelry
Upon the warden busily they cry,
To give them leave for but a little stound,
To go to mill, and see their corn y-ground:
And hardily they durstë lay their neck,
The miller should not steal them half a peck
Of corn by sleight, nor them by force bereave.
And at the last the warden give them leave:
John hight the one, and Alein hight the other,
Of one town were they born, that hightë Strother,
Far in the North, I cannot tell you where.
This Alein he made ready all his gear,
And on a horse the sack he cast anon:
Forth went Alein the clerk, and also John,
With good sword and with buckler by their side.
John knew the way, him needed not no guide,
And at the mill the sack adown he lay’th.

Alein spake first; “All hail, Simón, in faith,
How fares thy fairë daughter, and thy wife?”
“Alein, welcome,” quoth Simkin, “by my life,
And John also: how now, what do ye here?”
“By God, Simón,” quoth John, “need has no peer.
Him serve himself behoves that has no swain,
Or else he is a fool, as clerkës sayn.
Our manciple I hope he will be dead,
So workës aye the wangës in his head:
And therefore is I come, and eke Alein,
To grind our corn and carry it home again:
I pray you speed us hence as well ye may.”
“It shall be done,” quoth Simkin, “by my fay.
What will ye do while that it is in hand?”
“By God, right by the hopper will I stand,”
Quoth John, “and see how that the corn goes in.
Yet saw I never, by my father’s kin,
How that the hopper waggës to and fro.”
Alein answered, “John, and wilt thou so?
Then will I be beneathë, by my crown,
And see how that the mealë falls adown
Into the trough, that shall be my disport:
For, John, in faith I may be of your sort;
I is as ill a miller as is ye.”

This miller smiled at their nicéty,
And thought, “All this is done but for a wile.
They weenen that no man may them beguile,
But by my thrift yet shall I blear their eye,
For all the sleight in their philosophy.
The more quaintë knackës that they make,
The morë will I steal when that I take.
Instead of flour yet will I give them bren.
The greatest clerks are not the wisest men,
As whilom to the wolf thus spake the mare:
Of all their art ne count I not a tare.”
Out at the door he went full privily,
When that he saw his timë, softëly.
He looked up and down, until he found
The clerkës’ horse, there as he stood y-bound
Behind the mill, under a levesell:
And to the horse he went him fair and well,
And stripped off the bridle right anon.
And when the horse was loose, he gan to gon
Toward the fen, where wildë marës run,
Forth, with “Wehee!” through thick and eke through thin.
This miller went again, no word he said,
But did his note, and with these clerkës play’d,
Till that their corn was fair and well y-ground.
And when the meal was sacked and y-bound,
Then John went out, and found his horse away,
And gan to cry, “Harow, and well-away!
Our horse is lost: Alein, for Goddë’s bones,
Step on thy feet; come off, man, all at once:
Alas! our warden has his palfrey lorn.”
This Alein all forgot, both meal and corn;
All was out of his mind his husbandry:
“What, which way is he gone?” he gan to cry.
The wife came leaping inward at a renne,
She said; “Alas! your horse went to the fen
With wildë mares, as fast as he could go.
Unthank come on his hand that bound him so,
And his that better should have knit the rein.”
“Alas!” quoth John, “Alein, for Christë’s pain
Lay down thy sword, and I shall mine also.
I is full wight, God wate, as is a roe.
By Goddë’s soul he shall not scape us bathe.
Why n’ had thou put the capel in the lathe?
Ill hail, Alein, by God thou is a fonne.”
These silly clerkës have full fast y-run
Toward the fen, both Alein and eke John;
And when the miller saw that they were gone,
He half a bushel of their flour did take,
And bade his wife go knead it in a cake.
He said; “I trow, the clerkës were afeard,
Yet can a miller make a clerkë’s beard,
For all his art: yea, let them go their way!
Lo where they go! yea, let the children play:
They get him not so lightly, by my crown.”
These silly clerkës runnen up and down
With “Keep, keep; stand, stand; jossa, warderere.
Go whistle thou, and I shall keep him here.”
But shortly, till that it was very night
They couldë not, though they did all their might,
Their capel catch, he ran alway so fast:
Till in a ditch they caught him at the last.

Weary and wet, as beastës in the rain,
Comes silly John, and with him comes Alein.
“Alas,” quoth John, “the day that I was born!
Now are we driv’n till hething and till scorn.
Our corn is stol’n, men will us fonnës call,
Both the wardén, and eke our fellows all,
And namëly the miller, well-away!”
Thus plained John, as he went by the way
Toward the mill, and Bayard in his hand.
The miller sitting by the fire he fand.
For it was night, and forther might they not,
But for the love of God they him besought
Of herberow and easë, for their penny.
The miller said again, “If there be any,
Such as it is, yet shall ye have your part.
Mine house is strait, but ye have learned art;
Ye can by arguments maken a place
A milë broad, of twenty foot of space.
Let see now if this placë may suffice,
Or make it room with speech, as is your guise.”
“Now, Simon,” said this John, “by Saint Cuthberd
Aye is thou merry, and that is fair answér’d.
I have heard say, man shall take of two things,
Such as he findës, or such as he brings.
But specially I pray thee, hostë dear,
Gar us have meat and drink, and make us cheer,
And we shall pay thee truly at the full:
With empty hand men may not hawkës tull.
Lo here our silver ready for to spend.”

This miller to the town his daughter send
For ale and bread, and roasted them a goose,
And bound their horse, he should no more go loose:
And them in his own chamber made a bed.
With sheetës and with chalons fair y-spread,
Not from his owen bed ten foot or twelve:
His daughter had a bed all by herselve,
Right in the samë chamber by and by:
It might no better be, and causë why—
There was no roomer herberow in the place.
They suppen, and they speaken of solace,
And drinken ever strong ale at the best.
Aboutë midnight went they all to rest.
Well had this miller varnished his head;
Full pale he was, fordrunken, and nought red.
He yoxed, and he spake thorough the nose,
As he were in the quakke, or in the pose.
To bed he went, and with him went his wife,
As any jay she light was and jolife,
So was her jolly whistle well y-wet.
The cradle at her beddë’s feet was set,
To rock, and eke to give the child to suck.
And when that drunken was all in the crock
To beddë went the daughter right anon,
To beddë went Alein, and also John.
There was no morë; needed them no dwale.
This miller had so wisly bibbed ale,
That as a horse he snorted in his sleep,
Nor of his tail behind he took no keep.
His wife bare him a burdoun, a full strong;
Men might their routing hearen a furlong.
The wenchë routed eke for company.

Alein the clerk, that heard this melody,
He poked John, and saidë: “Sleepest thou?
Heardest thou ever such a song ere now?
Lo what a compline is y-mell them all.
A wildë fire upon their bodies fall,
Who hearken’d ever such a ferly thing?
Yea, they shall have the flow’r of ill ending!
This longë night there tidës me no rest.
But yet no force, all shall be for the best.
For, John,” said he, “as ever may I thrive,
If that I may, yon wenchë will I swive.
Some easëment has law y-shapen us.
For, John, there is a law that sayeth thus,
That if a man in one point be aggriev’d,
That in another he shall be reliev’d.
Our corn is stol’n, soothly it is no nay,
And we have had an evil fit to-day.
And since I shall have none amendëment
Against my loss, I will have easëment:
By Goddë’s soul, it shall none, other be.”
This John answér’d; “Alein, avisë thee:
The miller is a perilous man,” he said,
“And if that he out of his sleep abraid,
He mightë do us both a villainy.”
Alein answér’d; “I count him not a fly.”
And up he rose, and by the wench he crept.
This wenchë lay upright, and fast she slept,
Till he so nigh was, ere she might espy,
That it had been too latë for to cry:
And, shortly for to say, they were at one.
Now play, Alein, for I will speak of John.

This John lay still a furlong way or two,
And to himself he madë ruth and woe.
“Alas!” quoth he, “this is a wicked jape;
Now may I say, that I is but an ape.
Yet has my fellow somewhat for his harm;
He has the miller’s daughter in his arm:
He auntred him, and hath his needës sped,
And I lie as a draff-sack in my bed;
And when this jape is told another day,
I shall be held a daffe or a cockenay:
I will arise, and auntre it, by my fay:
Unhardy is unsely, as men say.”
And up he rose, and softëly he went
Unto the cradle, and in his hand it hent,
And bare it soft unto his beddë’s feet.
Soon after this the wife her routing lete,
And gan awake, and went her out to piss,
And came again, and gan the cradle miss,
And groped here and there, but she found none.
“Alas!” quoth she, “I had almost misgone,
I had almost gone to the clerkës’ bed.
Ey! benedicite, then had I foul y-sped.”
And forth she went, till she the cradle fand.
She groped alway farther with her hand,
And found the bed, and thoughtë not but good,
Becausë that the cradle by it stood,
And wist not where she was, for it was derk;
But fair and well she crept in by the clerk,
And lay full still, and would have caught a sleep.
Within a while this John the Clerk up leap,
And on this goodë wife laid on full sore;
So merry a fit had she not had full yore.
He pricked hard and deep, as he were mad.

This jolly life have these two clerkës lad,
Till that the thirdë cock began to sing.
Alein wax’d weary in the morrowing,
For he had swonken all the longë night,
And saidë; “Farewell, Malkin, my sweet wight.
The day is come, I may no longer bide,
But evermore, where so I go or ride,
I is thine owen clerk, so have I hele.”
“Now, dearë leman,” quoth she, “go, farewele:
But ere thou go, one thing I will thee tell.
When that thou wendest homeward by the mill,
Right at the entry of the door behind
Thou shalt a cake of half a bushel find,
That was y-maked of thine owen meal,
Which that I help’d my father for to steal.
And goodë leman, God thee save and keep.”
And with that word she gan almost to weep.
Alein uprose and thought, “Ere the day daw
I will go creepen in by my felláw:”
And found the cradle with his hand anon.
“By God!” thought he, “all wrong I have misgone:
My head is totty of my swink tonight,
That maketh me that I go not aright.
I wot well by the cradle I have misgo’;
Here lie the miller and his wife also.”
And forth he went a twenty devil way
Unto the bed, there as the miller lay.
He ween’d t’ have creeped by his fellow John,
And by the miller in he crept anon,
And caught him by the neck, and gan him shake,
And said; “Thou John, thou swinë’s-head, awake
For Christë’s soul, and hear a noble game!
For by that lord that called is Saint Jame,
As I have thriës in this shortë night
Swived the miller’s daughter bolt-upright,
While thou hast as a coward lain aghast.”

“Thou falsë harlot,” quoth the miller, “hast?
Ah, falsë traitor, falsë clerk,” quoth he,
“Thou shalt be dead, by Goddë’s dignity,
Who durstë be so bold to disparáge
My daughter, that is come of such lineáge?”
And by the throatë-ball he caught Alein,
And he him hent dispiteously again,
And on the nose he smote him with his fist;
Down ran the bloody stream upon his breast:
And in the floor with nose and mouth all broke
They wallow, as do two pigs in a poke.
And up they go, and down again anon,
Till that the miller spurned on a stone,
And down he backward fell upon his wife,
That wistë nothing of this nicë strife:
For she was fall’n asleep a little wight
With John the clerk, that waked had all night:
And with the fall out of her sleep she braid.
“Help, holy cross of Bromëholm,” she said;
“In manus tuas! Lord, to thee I call.
Awake, Simón, the fiend is on me fall;
Mine heart is broken; help; I am but dead:
There li’th one on my womb and on mine head.
Help, Simkin, for these falsë clerks do fight”
This John start up as fast as e’er he might,
And groped by the wallës to and fro
To find a staff; and she start up also,
And knew the estres better than this John,
And by the wall she took a staff anon:
And saw a little shimmering of a light,
For at an hole in shone the moonë bright,
And by that light she saw them both the two,
But sickerly she wist not who was who,
But as she saw a white thing in her eye.
And when she gan this whitë thing espy,
She ween’d the clerk had wear’d a volupere;
And with the staff she drew aye nere and nere,
And ween’d to have hit this Alein at the full,
And smote the miller on the pilled skull,
That down he went, and cried, “Harow! I die.”
These clerkës beat him well, and let him lie,
And greithen them, and take their horse anon,
And eke their meal, and on their way they gon:
And at the mill door eke they took their cake
Of half a bushel flour, full well y-bake.

Thus is the proudë miller well y-beat,
And hath y-lost the grinding of the wheat,
And payed for the supper every deal
Of Alein and of John, that beat him well;
His wife is swived, and his daughter als;
Lo, such it is a miller to be false.
And therefore this proverb is said full sooth,
“Him thar not winnen well that evil do’th;
A guiler shall himself beguiled be:”
And God that sitteth high in majesty
Save all this company, both great and smale.
Thus have I quit the Miller in my tale.

The Cook’s Tale

The Prologue

The Cook of London, while the Reeve thus spake,
For joy he laugh’d and clapp’d him on the back:
“Aha!” quoth he, “for Christë’s passión,
This Miller had a sharp conclusión,
Upon this argument of herbergage.
Well saidë Solomon in his languáge,
Bring thou not every man into thine house,
For harbouring by night is periloús.
Well ought a man avised for to be
Whom that he brought into his privity.
I pray to God to give me sorrow and care
If ever, since I hightë Hodge of Ware,
Heard I a miller better set a-werk;
He had a jape of malice in the derk.
But God forbid that we should stintë here,
And therefore if ye will vouchsafe to hear
A tale of me, that am a poorë man,
I will you tell as well as e’er I can
A little jape that fell in our citý.”

Our Host answér’d and said; “I grant it thee.
Roger, tell on; and look that it be good,
For many a pasty hast thou letten blood,
And many a Jack of Dover hast thou sold,
That had been twicë hot and twicë cold.
Of many a pilgrim hast thou Christë’s curse,
For of thy parsley yet fare they the worse.
That they have eaten in thy stubble goose:
For in thy shop doth many a fly go loose.
Now tell on, gentle Roger, by thy name,
But yet I pray thee be not wroth for game;
A man may say full sooth in game and play.”
“Thou sayst full sooth,” quoth Roger, “by my fay;
But sooth play quad play, as the Fleming saith,
And therefore, Harry Bailly, by thy faith,
Be thou not wroth, else we departë here,
Though that my tale be of an hostelére.
But natheless, I will not tell it yet,
But ere we part, y-wis thou shalt be quit.”
And therewithal he laugh’d and madë cheer,
And told his tale, as ye shall after hear.

The Tale

A prentice whilom dwelt in our city,
And of a craft of victuallers was he:
Galliard he was, as goldfinch in the shaw,
Brown as a berry, a proper short felláw:
With lockës black, combed full fetisly.
And dance he could so well and jollily,
That he was called Perkin Revellour.
He was as full of love and paramour,
As is the honeycomb of honey sweet;
Well was the wenchë that with him might meet.
At every bridal would he sing and hop;
He better lov’d the tavern than the shop.
For when there any riding was in Cheap,
Out of the shoppë thither would he leap,
And, till that he had all the sight y-seen,
And danced well, he would not come again;
And gather’d him a meinie of his sort,
To hop and sing, and makë such disport:
And there they settë steven for to meet
To playen at the dice in such a street.
For in the townë was there no prentíce
That fairer couldë cast a pair of dice
Than Perkin could; and thereto he was free
Of his dispence, in place of privity.
That found his master well in his chaffare,
For oftentime he found his box full bare.
For, soothëly, a prentice revelloúr,
That haunteth dice, riot, and paramoúr,
His master shall it in his shop abie,
All have he no part of the minstrelsy.
For theft and riot they be convertible,
All can they play on gitern or ribible.
Revel and truth, as in a low degree,
They be full wroth all day, as men may see.

This jolly prentice with his master bode,
Till he was nigh out of his prenticehood,
All were he snubbed both early and late,
And sometimes led with revel to Newgate.
But at the last his master him bethought,
Upon a day when he his paper sought,
Of a proverb, that saith this samë word;
Better is rotten apple out of hoard,
Than that it should rot all the remenánt:
So fares it by a riotous servánt;
It is well lessë harm to let him pace,
Than he shend all the servants in the place.
Therefore his master gave him a quittánce,
And bade him go, with sorrow and mischance.
And thus this jolly prentice had his leve:
Now let him riot all the night, or leave.

And, for there is no thief without a louke,
That helpeth him to wasten and to souk
Of that he bribë can, or borrow may,
Anon he sent his bed and his array
Unto a compere of his owen sort,
That loved dice, and riot, and disport;
And had a wife, that held for countenance
A shop, and swived for her sustenance.
⋮

The Man of Law’s Tale

The Prologue

Our Hostë saw well that the brightë sun
Th’ arc of his artificial day had run
The fourthë part, and half an hourë more;
And, though he were not deep expert in lore,
He wist it was the eight-and-twenty day
Of April, that is messenger to May;
And saw well that the shadow of every tree
Was in its length of the same quantity
That was the body erect that caused it;
And therefore by the shadow he took his wit,
That Phoebus, which that shone so clear and bright,
Degrees was five-and-forty clomb on height;
And for that day, as in that latitude,
It was ten of the clock, he gan conclude;
And suddenly he plight his horse about.

“Lordings,” quoth he, “I warn you all this rout,
The fourthë partie of this day is gone.
Now for the love of God and of Saint John
Losë no time, as farforth as ye may.
Lordings, the timë wasteth night and day,
And steals from us, what privily sleepíng,
And what through negligence in our wakíng,
As doth the stream, that turneth never again,
Descending from the mountain to the plain.
Well might Senec, and many a philosópher,
Bewailë timë more than gold in coffer.
For loss of chattels may recover’d be,
But loss of timë shendeth us, quoth he.
It will not come again, withoutë dread,
No morë than will Malkin’s maidenhead,
When she hath lost it in her wantonness.
Let us not mouldë thus in idleness.
Sir Man of Law,” quoth he, “so have ye bliss,
Tell us a tale anon, as forword is.
Ye be submitted through your free assent
To stand in this case at my judgëment.
Acquit you now, and holdë your behest;
Then have ye done your dévoir at the least.”

“Hostë,” quoth he, “de par dieux jeo asente;
To breakë forword is not mine intent.
Behest is debt, and I would hold it fain,
All my behest; I can no better sayn.
For such law as a man gives another wight,
He should himselfë usen it by right.
Thus will our text: but natheless certáin
I can right now no thrifty talë sayn,
But Chaucer (though he can but lewëdly
On metres and on rhyming craftily)
Hath said them, in such English as he can,
Of oldë time, as knoweth many a man.
And if he have not said them, levë brother,
In one book, he hath said them in another
For he hath told of lovers up and down,
More than Ovidë made of mentioun
In his Epistolae, that be full old.
Why should I tellë them, since they he told?
In youth he made of Ceyx and Alcyon,
And since then he hath spoke of every one
These noble wivës, and these lovers eke.
Whoso that will his largë volume seek
Called the Saintës’ Legend of Cupíd:
There may he see the largë woundës wide
Of Lucrece, and of Babylon Thisbé;
The sword of Dido for the false Enée;
The tree of Phillis for her Demophon;
The plaint of Diane, and of Hermion,
Of Ariadne, and Hypsipilé;
The barren islë standing in the sea;
The drown’d Leander for his fair Heró;
The tearës of Heléne, and eke the woe
Of Briseïs, and Laodamia;
The cruelty of thee, Queen Medeá,
Thy little children hanging by the halse,
For thy Jason, that was of love so false.
Hypermnestra, Pénelop’, Alcest’,
Your wifehood he commendeth with the best.
But certainly no wordë writeth he
Of thilkë wick’ example of Canacé,
That loved her own brother sinfully;
(Of all such cursed stories I say, Fy),
Or else of Tyrius Apollonius,
How that the cursed king Antiochus
Bereft his daughter of her maidenhead;
That is so horrible a tale to read,
When he her threw upon the pavëment.
And therefore he, of full avisëment,
Would never write in none of his sermons
Of such unkind abominatións;
Nor I will none rehearse, if that I may.
But of my tale how shall I do this day?
Me were loth to be liken’d doubtëless
To Muses, that men call Pieridés
(Metamorphoseos wot what I mean),
But natheless I reckë not a bean,
Though I come after him with hawëbake;
I speak in prose, and let him rhymës make.”
And with that word, he with a sober cheer
Began his tale, and said as ye shall hear.

The Tale

O scatheful harm, condition of povérty,
With thirst, with cold, with hunger so confounded;
To askë help thee shameth in thine heartë;
If thou none ask, so sore art thou y-wounded,
That very need unwrappeth all thy wound hid.
Maugré thine head thou must for indigence
Or steal, or beg, or borrow thy dispence.

Thou blamest Christ, and sayst full bitterly,
He misdeparteth riches temporal;
Thy neighëbour thou witest sinfully,
And sayst, thou hast too little, and he hath all:
“Parfay (sayst thou) sometime he reckon shall,
When that his tail shall brennen in the glede,
For he not help’d the needful in their need.”

Hearken what is the sentence of the wise:
Better to die than to have indigence.
Thy selvë neighëbour will thee despise,
If thou be poor, farewell thy reverence.
Yet of the wisë man take this senténce,
Allë the days of poorë men be wick’,
Beware therefore ere thou come to that prick.

If thou be poor, thy brother hateth thee,
And all thy friendës flee from thee, alas!
O richë merchants, full of wealth be ye,
O noble, prudent folk, as in this case,
Your baggës be not fill’d with ambës ace,
But with six-cinque, that runneth for your chance;
At Christenmass well merry may ye dance.

Ye seekë land and sea for your winníngs,
As wisë folk ye knowen all th’ estate
Of regnës; ye be fathers of tidings,
And talës, both of peace and of debate:
I were right now of talës desolate,
But that a merchant, gone in many a year,
Me taught a tale, which ye shall after hear.

In Syria whilom dwelt a company
Of chapmen rich, and thereto sad and true,
That widëwherë sent their spicery,
Clothës of gold, and satins rich of hue.
Their chaffare was so thriftly and so new,
That every wight had dainty to chaffare
With them, and eke to sellë them their ware.

Now fell it, that the masters of that sort
Have shapen them to Romë for to wend,
Were it for chapmanhood or for disport,
None other message would they thither send,
But come themselves to Rome, this is the end:
And in such place as thought them ávantage
For their intent, they took their herbergage.

Sojourned have these merchants in that town
A certain time as fell to their pleasance:
And so befell, that th’ excellent renown
Of th’ emperorë’s daughter, Dame Constance,
Reported was, with every circumstance,
Unto these Syrian merchants in such wise,
From day to day, as I shall you devise

This was the common voice of every man:
“Our emperor of Romë, God him see,
A daughter hath, that since the world began,
To reckon as well her goodness and beautý,
Was never such another as is she:
I pray to God in honour her sustene,
And would she were of all Európe the queen.

“In her is highë beauty without pride,
And youth withoutë greenhood or follý:
To all her workës virtue is her guide;
Humbless hath slain in her all tyranny:
She is the mirror of all courtesy,
Her heart a very chamber of holiness,
Her hand miníster of freedom for almess.”

And all this voice was sooth, as God is true;
But now to purpose let us turn again.
These merchants have done freight their shippës new,
And when they have this blissful maiden seen,
Homë to Syria then they went full fain,
And did their needës, as they have done yore,
And liv’d in weal; I can you say no more.

Now fell it, that these merchants stood in grace
Of him that was the Soudan of Syrie:
For when they came from any strangë place
He would of his benignë courtesy
Make them good cheer, and busily espy
Tidings of sundry regnës, for to lear
The wonders that they mightë see or hear.

Amongës other thingës, speciálly
These merchants have him told of Dame Constance’
So great nobless, in earnest so royálly,
That this Soudan hath caught so great pleasance
To have her figure in his remembránce,
That all his lust, and all his busy cure,
Was for to love her while his life may dure.

Paráventure in thilkë largë book,
Which that men call the heaven, y-written was
With starrës, when that he his birthë took,
That he for love should have his death, alas!
For in the starrës, clearer than is glass,
Is written, God wot, whoso could it read,
The death of every man withoutë dread.

In starrës many a winter therebeforn
Was writ the death of Hector, Achilles,
Of Pompey, Julius, ere they were born;
The strife of Thebes; and of Hercules,
Of Samson, Turnus, and of Socrates
The death; but mennë’s wittës be so dull,
That no wight can well read it at the full.

This Soudan for his privy council sent,
And, shortly of this matter for to pace,
He hath to them declared his intent,
And told them certain, but he might have grace
To have Constance, within a little space,
He was but dead; and charged them in hie
To shapë for his life some remedy.

Diversë men diversë thingës said;
And arguments they casten up and down;
Many a subtle reason forth they laid;
They speak of magic, and abusión;
But finally, as in conclusión,
They cannot see in that none ávantage,
Nor in no other way, save marriáge.

Then saw they therein such difficulty
By way of reason, for to speak all plain,
Because that there was such diversity
Between their bothë lawës, that they sayn,
They trowë that no Christian prince would fain
Wedden his child under our lawë sweet,
That us was given by Mahound our prophéte.

And he answered: “Rather than I lose
Constance, I will be christen’d doubtëless:
I must be hers, I may none other choose,
I pray you hold your arguments in peace,
Savë my life, and be not reckëless
To gettë her that hath my life in cure,
For in this woe I may not long endure.”

What needeth greater dilatation?
I say, by treaty and ambassadry,
And by the Popë’s mediation,
And all the Church, and all the chivalry,
That in destruction of Mah’metry,
And in increase of Christë’s lawë dear,
They be accorded so as ye may hear;

How that the Soudan, and his baronage,
And all his lieges, shall y-christen’d be,
And he shall have Constance in marriáge,
And certain gold, I n’ot what quantity,
And hereto find they suffisant suretý.
The same accord is sworn on either side;
Now, fair Constance, Almighty God thee guide!

Now wouldë some men waiten, as I guess,
That I should tellen all the purveyance,
The which the emperor of his nobless
Hath shapen for his daughter, Dame Constance.
Well may men know that so great ordinance
May no man tellen in a little clause,
As was arrayed for so high a cause.

Bishops be shapen with her for to wend,
Lordës, ladíes, and knightës of renown,
And other folk enough, this is the end.
And notified is throughout all the town,
That every wight with great devotioún
Should pray to Christ, that he this marriáge
Receive in gree, and speedë this voyáge.

The day is comen of her départíng—
I say the woful fatal day is come,
That there may be no longer tarrying,
But forward they them dressen all and some.
Constance, that was with sorrow all o’ercome,
Full pale arose, and dressed her to wend,
For well she saw there was no other end.

Alas! what wonder is it though she wept,
That shall be sent to a strange natión
From friendës, that so tenderly her kept,
And to be bound under subjectión
of one, she knew not his conditión?
Husbands be all good, and have been of yore,
That knowë wivës; I dare say no more.

“Father,” she said, “thy wretched child Constance,
Thy youngë daughter, foster’d up so soft,
And you, my mother, my sov’reign pleasance
Over all thing, out-taken Christ on loft,
Constance your child her recommendeth oft
Unto your grace; for I shall to Syrie,
Nor shall I ever see you more with eye.

“Alas! unto the barbarous natión
I must anon, since that it is your will:
But Christ, that starf for our redemptión,
So give me grace his hestës to fulfil.
I, wretched woman, no force though I spill!
Women are born to thraldom and penánce,
And to be under mannë’s governance.”

I trow at Troy when Pyrrhus brake the wall,
Or Ilion burnt, or Thebes the city,
Nor at Rome for the harm through Hannibal,
That Romans hath y-vanquish’d timës three,
Was heard such tender weeping for pitý,
As in the chamber was for her partíng;
But forth she must, whether she weep or sing.

O firstë moving cruel Firmament,
With thy diurnal sway that crowdest aye,
And hurtlest all from East till Occident
That naturally would hold another way;
Thy crowding set the heav’n in such array
At the beginning of this fierce voyáge,
That cruel Mars hath slain this marriáge.

Unfortunate ascendant tortuous,
Of which the lord is helpless fall’n, alas!
Out of his angle into the darkest house;
O Mars, O Atyzar, as in this case;
O feeble Moon, unhappy is thy pace.
Thou knittest thee where thou art not receiv’d,
Where thou wert well, from thennës art thou weiv’d.

Imprudent emperor of Rome, alas!
Was there no philosópher in all thy town?
Is no time bet than other in such case?
Of voyage is there none electión,
Namely to folk of high conditión,
Not when a root is of a birth y-know?
Alas! we be too lewëd, or too slow.

To ship was brought this woeful fairë maid
Solemnëly, with every circumstance:
“Now Jesus Christ be with you all,” she said.
There is no more, but “Farewell, fair Constance.”
She pained her to make good countenance.
And forth I let her sail in this mannér,
And turn I will again to my mattér.

The mother of the Soudan, well of vices,
Espied hath her sonë’s plain intent,
How he will leave his oldë sacrifices:
And right anon she for her council sent,
And they be come, to knowë what she meant,
And when assembled was this folk in fere,
She sat her down, and said as ye shall hear.

“Lordës,” she said, “ye knowen every one,
How that my son in point is for to lete
The holy lawës of our Alkaron,
Given by God’s messenger Mahométe:
But one avow to greatë God I hete,
Life shall rather out of my body start,
Than Mahomet’s law go out of mine heart.

“What should us tiden of this newë law,
But thraldom to our bodies, and penánce,
And afterward in hell to be y-draw,
For we renied Mahound our creance?
But, lordës, will ye maken assurance,
As I shall say, assenting to my lore?
And I shall make us safe for evermore.”

They sworen and assented every man
To live with her and die, and by her stand:
And every one, in the best wise he can,
To strengthen her shall all his friendës fand.
And she hath this emprise taken in hand,
Which ye shall hearë that I shall devise;
And to them all she spake right in this wise.

“We shall first feign us Christendom to take;
Cold water shall not grieve us but a lite:
And I shall such a feast and revel make,
That, as I trow, I shall the Soudan quite.
For though his wife be christen’d ne’er so white,
She shall have need to wash away the red,
Though she a fount of water with her led.”

O Soudaness, root of iniquity,
Virago thou, Semiramis the secónd!
O serpent under femininity,
Like to the serpent deep in hell y-bound!
O feigned woman, all that may confound
Virtue and innocence, through thy malíce,
Is bred in thee, as nest of every vice!

O Satan envious! since thilkë day
That thou wert chased from our heritage,
Well knowest thou to woman th’ oldë way.
Thou madest Eve to bring us in serváge:
Thou wilt fordo this Christian marriáge:
Thine instrument so (well-away the while!)
Mak’st thou of women when thou wilt beguile.

This Soudaness, whom I thus blame and warray,
Let privily her council go their way:
Why should I in this talë longer tarry?
She rode unto the Soudan on a day,
And said him, that she would reny her lay,
And Christendom of priestës’ handës fong,
Repenting her she heathen was so long;

Beseeching him to do her that honour,
That she might have the Christian folk to feast:
“To pleasë them I will do my laboúr.”
The Soudan said, “I will do at your hest,”
And kneeling, thanked her for that request;
So glad he was, he wist not what to say.
She kiss’d her son, and home she went her way.

Arrived be these Christian folk to land
In Syria, with a great solemnë rout,
And hastily this Soudan sent his sond,
First to his mother, and all the realm about,
And said, his wife was comen out of doubt,
And pray’d them for to ride again the queen,
The honour of his regnë to sustene.

Great was the press, and rich was the array
Of Syrians and Romans met in fere.
The mother of the Soudan rich and gay
Received her with all so glad a cheer
As any mother might her daughter dear:
And to the nextë city there beside
A softë pace solemnely they ride.

Nought, trow I, the triúmph of Julius
Of which that Lucan maketh such a boast,
Was royaller, or morë curious,
Than was th’ assembly of this blissful host:
But O this scorpion, this wicked ghost,
The Soudaness, for all her flattering
Cast under this full mortally to sting.

The Soudan came himself soon after this,
So royally, that wonder is to tell,
And welcomed her with all joy and bliss.
And thus in mirth and joy I let them dwell.
The fruit of his mattér is that I tell;
When the time came, men thought it for the best
That revel stint, and men go to their rest.

The time is come that this old Soudaness
Ordained hath the feast of which I told,
And to the feast the Christian folk them dress
In general, yea, bothë young and old.
There may men feast and royalty behold,
And dainties more than I can you devise;
But all too dear they bought it ere they rise.

O sudden woe, that ev’r art successoúr
To worldly bliss! sprent is with bitterness
Th’ end of our joy, of our worldly laboúr;
Woe occupies the fine of our gladness.
Hearken this counsel, for thy sickerness:
Upon thy gladë days have in thy mind
The unware woe of harm, that comes behind.

For, shortly for to tell it at a word,
The Soudan and the Christians every one
Were all to-hewn and sticked at the board,
But it were only Dame Constance alone.
This oldë Soudaness, this cursed crone,
Had with her friendës done this cursed deed,
For she herself would all the country lead.

Nor there was Syrian that was converted,
That of the counsel of the Soudan wot,
That was not all to-hewn, ere he asterted:
And Constance have they ta’en anon foot-hot,
And in a ship all steerëless, God wot,
They have her set, and bid her learn to sail
Out of Syria again-ward to Itale.

A certain treasure that she thither lad,
And, sooth to say, of victual great plenty,
They have her giv’n, and clothës eke she had,
And forth she sailed in the saltë sea:
O my Constance, full of benignity,
O emperorë’s youngë daughter dear,
He that is lord of fortune be thy steer!

She bless’d herself, and with full piteous voice
Unto the cross of Christ thus saidë she;
“O dear, O wealful altar, holy cross,
Red of the Lambë’s blood, full of pity,
That wash’d the world from old iniquity,
Me from the fiend and from his clawës keep,
That day that I shall drenchen in the deep.

“Victorious tree, protection of the true,
That only worthy werë for to bear
The King of Heaven, with his woundës new,
The whitë Lamb, that hurt was with a spear;
Flemer of fiendës out of him and her
On which thy limbës faithfully extend,
Me keep, and give me might my life to mend.”

Yearës and days floated this creature
Throughout the sea of Greece, unto the strait
Of Maroc, as it was her áventure:
On many a sorry meal now may she bait,
After her death full often may she wait,
Ere that the wildë wavës will her drive
Unto the place there as she shall arrive.

Men mighten askë, why she was not slain?
Eke at the feast who might her body save?
And I answer to that demand again,
Who saved Daniel in the horrible cave,
Where every wight, save he, master or knave,
Was with the lion frett, ere he astart?
No wight but God, that he bare in his heart.

God list to shew his wonderful mirácle
In her, that we should see his mighty workës:
Christ, which that is to every harm triácle,
By certain meanës oft, as knowë clerkës,
Doth thing for certain endë, that full derk is
To mannë’s wit, that for our, ignorance
Ne cannot know his prudent purveyance.

Now since she was not at the feast y-slaw,
Who keptë her from drowning in the sea?
Who keptë Jonas in the fish’s maw,
Till he was spouted up at Nineveh?
Well may men know, it was no wight but he
That kept the Hebrew people from drowníng,
With dryë feet throughout the sea passing.

Who bade the fourë spirits of tempést,
That power have t’ annoyë land and sea,
Both north and south, and also west and east,
Annoyë neither sea, nor land, nor tree?
Soothly the cómmander of that was he
That from the tempest aye this woman kept,
As well when she awoke as when she slept.

Where might this woman meat and drinkë have?
Three year and more how lasted her vitaille?
Who fed the Egyptian Mary in the cave
Or in desért? no wight but Christ sans faille.
Five thousand folk it was as great marvaille
With loavës five and fishës two to feed:
God sent his foison at her greatë need.

She drived forth into our oceán
Throughout our wildë sea, till at the last
Under an hold, that nempnen I not can,
Far in Northumberland, the wave her cast,
And in the sand her ship sticked so fast,
That thennës would it not in all a tide:
The will of Christ was that she should abide.

The Constable of the castle down did fare
To see this wreck, and all the ship he sought,
And found this weary woman full of care;
He found also the treasure that she brought:
In her languágë mercy she besought,
The life out of her body for to twin,
Her to deliver of woe that she was in.

A manner Latin corrupt was her speech,
But algate thereby was she understond.
The Constable, when him list no longer seech,
This woeful woman brought he to the lond.
She kneeled down, and thanked Goddë’s sond;
But what she was she would to no man say
For foul nor fair, although that she should dey.

She said, she was so mazed in the sea,
That she forgot her mindë, by her truth.
The Constable had of her so great pity
And eke his wifë, that they wept for ruth:
She was so diligent withoutë slouth
To serve and please every one in that place,
That all her lov’d, that looked in her face.

The Constable and Dame Hermegild his wife
Were Pagans, and that country every where;
But Hermegild lov’d Constance as her life;
And Constance had so long sojourned there
In orisons, with many a bitter tear,
Till Jesus had converted through His grace
Dame Hermegild, Constábless of that place.

In all that land no Christians durstë rout;
All Christian folk had fled from that countrý
Through Pagans, that conquered all about
The plages of the North by land and sea.
To Wales had fled the Christianity
Of oldë Britons, dwelling in this isle;
There was their refuge for the meanëwhile.

But yet n’ere Christian Britons so exiled,
That there n’ere some which in their privity
Honoured Christ, and heathen folk beguiled;
And nigh the castle such there dwelled three:
And one of them was blind, and might not see,
But it were with thilk eyen of his mind,
With which men mayë see when they be blind.

Bright was the sun, as in a summer’s day,
For which the Constable, and his wife also,
And Constance, have y-take the rightë way
Toward the sea, a furlong way or two,
To playen, and to roamë to and fro;
And in their walk this blindë man they met,
Crooked and old, with eyen fast y-shet.

“In the name of Christ,” criéd this blind Britón,
“Dame Hermegild, give me my sight again!”
This lady wax’d afrayed of that soun’,
Lest that her husband, shortly for to sayn,
Would her for Jesus Christë’s love have slain,
Till Constance made her hold, and bade her wirch
The will of Christ, as daughter of holy Church.

The Constable wax’d abashed of that sight,
And saidë; “What amounteth all this fare?”
Constance answered; “Sir, it is Christ’s might,
That helpeth folk out of the fiendë’s snare:”
And so farforth she gan our law declare,
That she the Constable, ere that it were eve,
Converted, and on Christ made him believe.

This Constable was not lord of the place
Of which I speak, there as he Constance fand,
But kept it strongly many a winter space,
Under Allá, king of Northumberland,
That was full wise, and worthy of his hand
Against the Scotës, as men may well hear;
But turn I will again to my mattére.

Satan, that ever us waiteth to beguile,
Saw of Constance all her perfectioún,
And cast anon how he might quite her while;
And made a young knight, that dwelt in that town,
Love her so hot of foul affectioún,
That verily him thought that he should spill
But he of her might onës have his will.

He wooed her, but it availed nought;
She wouldë do no sinnë by no way:
And for despite, he compassed his thought
To makë her a shameful death to dey;
He waiteth when the Constable is away,
And privily upon a night he crept
In Hermegilda’s chamber while she slept.

Weary, forwaked in her orisons,
Sleepeth Constance, and Hermegild also.
This knight, through Satanas’ temptatións,
All softëtly is to the bed y-go,
And cut the throat of Hermegild in two,
And laid the bloody knife by Dame Constance,
And went his way, there God give him mischance.

Soon after came the Constable home again,
And eke Allá that king was of that land,
And saw his wife dispiteously slain,
For which full oft he wept and wrung his hand;
And in the bed the bloody knife he fand
By Dame Constance: Alas! what might she say?
For very woe her wit was all away.

To King Allá was told all this mischance,
And eke the time, and where, and in what wise,
That in a ship was founden this Constance,
As here before ye have me heard devise:
The kingë’s heart for pity gan agrise,
When he saw so benign a creature
Fall in disease and in misáventure.

For as the lamb toward his death is brought,
So stood this innocent before the king:
This falsë knight, that had this treason wrought,
Bore her in hand that she had done this thing:
But natheless there was great murmuring
Among the people, that say they cannot guess
That she had done so great a wickedness.

For they had seen her ever virtuoús,
And loving Hermegild right as her life:
Of this bare witness each one in that house,
Save he that Hermegild slew with his knife:
This gentle king had caught a great motife
Of this witness, and thought he would inquere
Deeper into this case, the truth to lear.

Alas! Constance, thou has no champión,
Nor fightë canst thou not, so well-away!
But he that starf for our redemptión,
And bound Satán, and yet li’th where he lay,
So be thy strongë champion this day:
For, but Christ upon thee mirácle kithe,
Withoutë guilt thou shalt be slain as swithe.

She set her down on knees, and thus she said;
“Immortal God, that savedest Susanne
From falsë blame; and thou merciful maid,
Mary I mean, the daughter to Saint Anne,
Before whose child the angels sing Osanne,
If I be guiltless of this felony,
My succour be, or ellës shall I die.”

Have ye not seen sometime a palë face
(Among a press) of him that hath been lad
Toward his death, where he getteth no grace,
And such a colour in his face hath had,
Men mightë know him that was so bestad
Amongës all the faces in that rout?
So stood Constance, and looked her about.

O queenës living in prosperity,
Duchesses, and ye ladies every one,
Havë some ruth on her adversity!
An emperor’s daughtér, she stood alone;
She had no wight to whom to make her moan.
O blood royál, that standest in this drede,
Far be thy friendës in thy greatë need!

This king Allá had such compassióun,
As gentle heart is full filled of pitý,
That from his eyen ran the water down
“Now hastily do fetch a book,” quoth he;
“And if this knight will swearë, how that she
This woman slew, yet will we us advise
Whom that we will that shall be our justíce.”

A Briton book, written with Evangiles,
Was fetched, and on this book he swore anon
She guilty was; and, in the meanëwhiles,
An hand him smote upon the neckë bone,
That down he fell at once right as a stone:
And both his eyen burst out of his face
In sight of ev’rybody in that place.

A voice was heard, in general audience,
That said; “Thou hast deslander’d guiltëless
The daughter of holy Church in high presence;
Thus hast thou done, and yet hold I my peace?”
Of this marvel aghast was all the press,
As mazed folk they stood every one
For dread of wreakë, save Constance alone.

Great was the dread and eke the repentánce
Of them that haddë wrong suspición
Upon this sely innocent Constance;
And for this miracle, in conclusión,
And by Constance’s mediatión,
The king, and many another in that place,
Converted was, thanked be Christë’s grace!

This falsë knight was slain for his untruth
By judgëment of Alla hastily;
And yet Constance had of his death great ruth;
And after this Jesus of his mercý
Made Alla weddë full solemnëly
This holy woman, that is so bright and sheen,
And thus hath Christ y-made Constance a queen.

But who was woeful, if I shall not lie,
Of this wedding but Donegild, and no mo’,
The kingë’s mother, full of tyranny?
Her thought her cursed heart would burst in two;
She would not that her son had donë so;
Her thought it a despite that he should take
So strange a creature unto his make.

Me list not of the chaff nor of the stre
Make so long a tale, as of the corn.
What should I tellen of the royalty
Of this marriáge, or which course goes beforn,
Who bloweth in a trump or in an horn?
The fruit of every tale is for to say;
They eat and drink, and dance, and sing, and play.

They go to bed, as it was skill and right;
For though that wivës be full holy things,
They mustë take in patience at night
Such manner necessaries as be pleasings
To folk that have y-wedded them with rings,
And lay a lite their holiness aside
As for the time, it may no better betide.

On her he got a knavë child anon,
And to a Bishop and to his Constable eke
He took his wife to keep, when he is gone
To Scotland-ward, his foemen for to seek.
Now fair Constance, that is so humble and meek,
So long is gone with childë till that still
She held her chamb’r, abiding Christë’s will

The time is come, a knavë child she bare;
Mauricius at the font-stone they him call.
This Constable doth forth come a messenger,
And wrote unto his king that clep’d was All’,
How that this blissful tiding is befall,
And other tidings speedful for to say.
He hath the letter, and forth he go’th his way.

This messenger, to do his ávantage,
Unto the kingë’s mother rideth swithe,
And saluteth her full fair in his languáge.
“Madame,” quoth he, “ye may be glad and blithe,
And thankë God an hundred thousand sithe;
My lady queen hath child, withoutë doubt,
To joy and bliss of all this realm about.

“Lo, here the letter sealed of this thing,
That I must bear with all the haste I may:
If ye will aught unto your son the king,
I am your servant both by night and day.”
Donegild answér’d, “As now at this time, nay;
But here I will all night thou take thy rest,
To-morrow will I say thee what me lest.”

This messenger drank sadly ale and wine,
And stolen were his letters privily
Out of his box, while he slept as a swine;
And counterfeited was full subtilly
Another letter, wrote full sinfully,
Unto the king, direct of this mattére
From his Constable, as ye shall after hear.

This letter said, the queen deliver’d was
Of so horrible a fiendlike creatúre,
That in the castle none so hardy was
That any while he durst therein endure:
The mother was an elf by áventure
Become, by charmës or by sorcery,
And every man hated her company.

Woe was this king when he this letter had seen,
But to no wight he told his sorrows sore,
But with his owen hand he wrote again;
“Welcome the sond of Christ for evermore
To me, that am now learned in this lore:
Lord, welcome be thy lust and thy pleasance,
My lust I put all in thine ordinance.

“Keepë this child, all be it foul or fair,
And eke my wife, unto mine homecoming:
Christ when him list may send to me an heir,
More agreeáble than this to my liking.”
This letter he sealed, privily weeping.
Which to the messenger was taken soon,
And forth he went, there is no more to do’n.

O messenger full fill’d of drunkenness,
Strong is thy breath, thy limbës falter aye,
And thou betrayest allë secretness;
Thy mind is lorn, thou janglest as a jay;
Thy face is turned in a new array;
Where drunkenness reigneth in any rout,
There is no counsel hid, withoutë doubt.

O Donegild, I have no English dign
Unto thy malice, and thy tyranny:
And therefore to the fiend I thee resign,
Let him indite of all thy treachery.
Fy, mannish, fy! O nay, by God I lie;
Fy, fiendlike spirit! for I dare well tell,
Though thou here walk, thy spirit is in hell.

This messenger came from the king again,
And at the kingë’s mother’s court he light,
And she was of this messenger full fain,
And pleased him in all that e’er she might.
He drank, and well his girdle underpight;
He slept, and eke he snored in his guise
All night, until the sun began to rise.

Eft were his letters stolen every one,
And counterfeited letters in this wise:
The king commanded his Constable anon,
On pain of hanging and of high jewíse,
That he should suffer in no manner wise
Constance within his regne for to abide
Three dayës, and a quarter of a tide;

But in the samë ship as he her fand,
Her and her youngë son, and all her gear,
He shouldë put, and crowd her from the land,
And charge her, that she never eft come there.
O my Constance, well may thy ghost have fear,
And sleeping in thy dream be in penánce,
When Donegild cast all this ordinance.

This messenger, on morrow when he woke,
Unto the castle held the nextë way,
And to the constable the letter took;
And when he this dispiteous letter sey,
Full oft he said, “Alas, and well-away!
Lord Christ,” quoth he, “how may this world endure?
So full of sin is many a creature.

“O mighty God, if that it be thy will,
Since thou art rightful judge, how may it be
That thou wilt suffer innocence to spill,
And wicked folk reign in prosperity?
Ah! good Constance, alas! so woe is me,
That I must be thy tormentor, or dey
A shameful death, there is no other way.”

Wept bothë young and old in all that place,
When that the king this cursed letter sent;
And Constance, with a deadly palë face,
The fourthë day toward her ship she went:
But natheless she took in good intent
The will of Christ, and kneeling on the strond
She saidë, “Lord, aye welcome be thy sond.

“He that me keptë from the falsë blame,
While I was in the land amongës you,
He can me keep from harm and eke from shame
In the salt sea, although I see not how:
As strong as ever he was, he is yet now,
In him trust I, and in his mother dear;
That is to me my sail and eke my stere.”

Her little child lay weeping in her arm,
And, kneeling, piteously to him she said,
“Peace, little son, I will do thee no harm:”
With that her kerchief off her head she braid,
And over his little eyen she it laid,
And in her arm she lulled it full fast,
And unto heav’n her eyen up she cast.

“Mother,” quoth she, “and maiden bright, Marý,
Sooth is, that through a woman’s eggement
Mankind was lorn, and damned aye to die;
For which thy child was on a cross y-rent:
Thy blissful eyen saw all his torment,
Then is there no comparison between
Thy woe, and any woe man may sustene.

“Thou saw’st thy child y-slain before thine eyen,
And yet now lives my little child, parfay:
Now, lady bright, to whom the woeful cryen,
Thou glory of womanhood, thou fairë may,
Thou haven of refuge, bright star of day,
Rue on my child, that of thy gentleness
Ruest on every rueful in distress.

“O little child, alas! what is thy guilt,
That never wroughtest sin as yet, pardie?
Why will thine hardë father have thee spilt?
O mercy, dearë Constable,” quoth she,
“And let my little child here dwell with thee:
And if thou dar’st not save him from blame,
So kiss him onës in his father’s name.”

Therewith she looked backward to the land,
And saidë, “Farewell, husband ruthëless!”
And up she rose, and walked down the strand
Toward the ship, her following all the press:
And ever she pray’d her child to hold his peace,
And took her leave, and with an holy intent
She blessed her, and to the ship she went.

Victualed was the ship, it is no drede,
Abundantly for her a full long space:
And other necessaries that should need
She had enough, heried be Goddë’s grace:
For wind and weather, Almighty God purchase,
And bring her home; I can no better say;
But in the sea she drived forth her way.

Allá the king came home soon after this
Unto the castle, of the which I told,
And asked where his wife and his child is;
The Constable gan about his heart feel cold,
And plainly all the matter he him told
As ye have heard; I can tell it no better;
And shew’d the king his seal, and eke his letter

And saidë; “Lord, as ye commanded me
On pain of death, so have I done certáin.”
The messenger tormented was, till he
Mustë beknow, and tell it flat and plain,
From night to night in what place he had lain;
And thus, by wit and subtle inquiring,
Imagin’d was by whom this harm gan spring.

The hand was known that had the letter wrote,
And all the venom of the cursed deed;
But in what wise, certáinly I know nót.
Th’ effect is this, that Alla, out of drede,
His mother slew, that may men plainly read,
For that she traitor was to her liegeánce:
Thus ended oldë Donegild with mischance.

The sorrow that this Alla night and day
Made for his wife, and for his child also,
There is no tonguë that it tellë may.
But now will I again to Constance go,
That floated in the sea in pain and woe
Five year and more, as liked Christë’s sond,
Ere that her ship approached to the lond.

Under an heathen castle, at the last,
Of which the name in my text I not find,
Constance and eke her child the sea upcast.
Almighty God, that saved all mankind,
Have on Constance and on her child some mind,
That fallen is in heathen hand eftsoon
In point to spill, as I shall tell you soon!

Down from the castle came there many a wight
To gauren on this ship, and on Constance:
But shortly from the castle, on a night,
The lordë’s steward—God give him mischance—
A thief that had renied our creance,
Came to the ship alone, and said he would
Her leman be, whether she would or n’ould.

Woe was this wretched woman then begone;
Her child cri’d, and she cried piteously:
But blissful Mary help’d her right anon,
For, with her struggling well and mightily,
The thief fell overboard all suddenly,
And in the sea he drenched for vengeánce,
And thus hath Christ unwemmed kept Constánce.

O foul lust of luxúry! lo thine end!
Not only that thou faintest mannë’s mind,
But verily thou wilt his body shend.
Th’ end of thy work, or of thy lustës blind,
Is cómplaining: how many may men find,
That not for work, sometimes, but for th’ intent
To do this sin, be either slain or shent?

How may this weakë woman have the strength
Her to defend against this renegate?
O Góliath, unmeasurable of length,
How mightë David makë thee so mate?
So young, and of armoúr so desolate,
How durst he look upon thy dreadful face?
Well may men see it was but Goddë’s grace.

Who gave Judith couráge or hardiness
To slay him, Holofernes, in his tent,
And to deliver out of wretchedness
The people of God? I say for this intent,
That right as God spirit of vigour sent
To them, and saved them out of mischance,
So sent he might and vigour to Constance.

Forth went her ship throughout the narrow mouth
Of Jubaltare and Septe, driving alway,
Sometimë west, and sometime north and south,
And sometime east, full many a weary day:
Till Christë’s mother (blessed be she aye)
Had shapen through her endëless goodness
To make an end of all her heaviness.

Now let us stint of Constance but a throw,
And speak we of the Roman emperor,
That out of Syria had by letters know
The slaughter of Christian folk, and dishonór
Done to his daughter by a false traitór—
I mean the cursed wicked Soudaness,
That at the feast let slay both more and less.

For which this emperor had sent anon
His senator, with royal ordinance,
And other lordës, God wot, many a one,
On Syrians to takë high vengeánce:
They burn and slay, and bring them to mischance
Full many a day: but shortly this is th’ end,
Homeward to Rome they shaped them to wend.

This senator repaired with victóry
To Romë-ward, sailing full royally,
And met the ship driving, as saith the story,
In which Constancë sat full piteously:
And nothing knew he what she was, nor why
She was in such array; nor she will say
Of her estate, although that she should dey.

He brought her unto Rome, and to his wife
He gave her, and her youngë son also:
And with the senator she led her life.
Thus can our Lady bringen out of woe
Woeful Constance, and many another mo’:
And longë time she dwelled in that place,
In holy works ever, as was her grace.

The senatorë’s wife her auntë was,
But for all that she knew her ne’er the more:
I will no longer tarry in this case,
But to King Alla, whom I spake of yore,
That for his wifë wept and sighed sore,
I will return, and leave I will Constance
Under the senatorë’s governance.

King Alla, which that had his mother slain,
Upon a day fell in such repentánce;
That, if I shortly tell it shall and plain,
To Rome he came to receive his penitánce,
And put him in the Popë’s ordinance
In high and low, and Jesus Christ besought
Forgive his wicked works that he had wrought.

The fame anon throughout the town is borne,
How Alla king shall come on pilgrimage,
By harbingers that wentë him beforn,
For which the senator, as was uságe,
Rode him again, and many of his lineáge,
As well to show his high magnificence,
As to do any king a reverence.

Great cheerë did this noble senator
To King Allá and he to him also;
Each of them did the other great honór;
And so befell, that in a day or two
This senator did to King Alla go
To feast, and shortly, if I shall not lie,
Constance’s son went in his company.

Some men would say, at réquest of Constance
This senator had led this child to feast:
I may not tellen every circumstance,
Be as be may, there was he at the least:
But sooth is this, that at his mother’s hest
Before Allá, during the meatë’s space,
The child stood, looking in the kingë’s face.

This Alla king had of this child great wonder,
And to the senator he said anon,
“Whose is that fairë child that standeth yonder?”
“I n’ot,” quoth he, “by God and by Saint John;
A mother he hath, but father hath he none,
That I of wot:” and shortly in a stound
He told to Alla how this child was found.

“But God wot,” quoth this senator also,
“So virtuous a liver in all my life
I never saw, as she, nor heard of mo’
Of worldly woman, maiden, widow or wife:
I dare well say she haddë lever a knife
Throughout her breast, than be a woman wick’,
There is no man could bring her to that prick.

Now was this child as like unto Constance
As possible is a creature to be:
This Alla had the face in remembránce
Of Dame Constance, and thereon mused he,
If that the childë’s mother were aught she
That was his wife; and privily he sight,
And sped him from the table that he might.

“Parfay,” thought he, “phantom is in mine head.
I ought to deem, of skilful judgëment,
That in the saltë sea my wife is dead.”
And afterward he made his argument,
“What wot I, if that Christ have hither sent
My wife by sea, as well as he her sent
To my country, from thennës that she went?”

And, after noon, home with the senator
Went Alla, for to see this wondrous chance.
This senator did Alla great honór,
And hastily he sent after Constance:
But trustë well, her listë not to dance.
When that she wistë wherefore was that sond,
Unneth upon her feet she mightë stand.

When Alla saw his wife, fair he her gret,
And wept, that it was ruthë for to see,
For at the firstë look he on her set
He knew well verily that it was she:
And she, for sorrow, as dumb stood as a tree:
So was her heartë shut in her distress,
When she remember’d his unkindëness.

Twicë she swooned in his owen sight,
He wept and him excused piteously:
“Now God,” quoth he, “and all his hallows bright
So wisly on my soulë have mercý,
That of your harm as guiltëless am I,
As is Mauríce my son, so like your face,
Else may the fiend me fetch out of this place.”

Long was the sobbing and the bitter pain,
Ere that their woeful heartës mightë cease;
Great was the pity for to hear them plain,
Through whichë plaintës gan their woe increase.
I pray you all my labour to release,
I may not tell all their woe till to-morrow,
I am so weary for to speak of sorrow.

But finally, when that the sooth is wist,
That Alla guiltless was of all her woe,
I trow an hundred timës have they kiss’d,
And such a bliss is there betwixt them two,
That, save the joy that lasteth evermo’,
There is none like, that any creatúre
Hath seen, or shall see, while the world may dure.

Then prayed she her husband meekëly
In the relief of her long piteous pine,
That he would pray her father specially,
That of his majesty he would incline
To vouchësafe some day with him to dine:
She pray’d him eke, that he should by no way
Unto her father no word of her say.

Some men would say, how that the child Mauríce
Did this messáge unto the emperor:
But, as I guess, Alla was not so nice,
To him that is so sovereign of honór
As he that is of Christian folk the flow’r,
Send any child, but better ’tis to deem
He went himself; and so it may well seem.

This emperor hath granted gentilly
To come to dinner, as he him besought:
And well rede I, he looked busily
Upon this child, and on his daughter thought.
Alla went to his inn, and as him ought
Arrayed for this feast in every wise,
As farforth as his cunning may suffice.

The morrow came, and Alla gan him dress,
And eke his wife, the emperor to meet:
And forth they rode in joy and in gladness,
And when she saw her father in the street,
She lighted down and fell before his feet.
“Father,” quoth she, “your youngë child Constance
Is now full clean out of your rémembránce.

“I am your daughter, your Constance,” quoth she,
“That whilom ye have sent into Syrie;
It am I, father, that in the salt sea
Was put alone, and damned for to die.
Now, goodë father, I you mercy cry,
Send me no more into none heatheness,
But thank my lord here of his kindëness.”

Who can the piteous joyë tellen all,
Betwixt them three, since they be thus y-met?
But of my talë make an end I shall,
The day goes fast, I will no longer let.
These gladdë folk to dinner be y-set;
In joy and bliss at meat I let them dwell,
A thousand fold well more than I can tell.

This child Maurice was since then emperór
Made by the Pope, and lived Christianly,
To Christë’s Churchë did he great honór:
But I let all his story passë by,
Of Constance is my tale especially,
In the oldë Roman gestës men may find
Mauríce’s life, I bear it not in mind.

This King Alla, when he his timë sey,
With his Constance, his holy wife so sweet,
To England are they come the rightë way,
Where they did live in joy and in quiét.
But little while it lasted, I you hete,
Joy of this world for time will not abide,
From day to night it changeth as the tide.

Who liv’d ever in such delight one day,
That him not moved either conscience,
Or ire, or talent, or some kind affray,
Envy, or pride, or passion, or offence?
I say but for this endë this senténce,
That little while in joy or in pleasance
Lasted the bliss of Alla with Constance.

For death, that takes of high and low his rent,
When passed was a year, even as I guess,
Out of this world this King Alla he hent,
For whom Constance had full great heaviness.
Now let us pray that God his soulë bless:
And Dame Constancë, finally to say,
Toward the town of Romë went her way.

To Rome is come this holy creature,
And findeth there her friendës whole and sound:
Now is she scaped all her áventure:
And when that she her father hath y-found,
Down on her kneës falleth she to ground,
Weeping for tenderness in heartë blithe
She herieth God an hundred thousand sithe.

In virtue and in holy almës-deed
They liven all, and ne’er asunder wend;
Till death departeth them, this life they lead:
And fare now well, my tale is at an end.—
Now Jesus Christ, that of his might may send
Joy after woe, govérn us in his grace
And keep us allë that be in this place.

The Wife of Bath’s Tale

The Prologue

Experience, though none authority
Were in this world, is right enough for me
To speak of woe that is in marriáge:
For, lordings, since I twelve year was of age,
(Thanked be God that is etern on live),
Husbands at the church door have I had five—
For I so often have y-wedded be—
And all were worthy men in their degree.
But me was told, not longë timë gone is,
That sithen Christë went never but onës
To wedding, in the Cane of Galilee,
That by that ilk example taught he me,
That I not wedded shouldë be but once.
Lo, hearken eke a sharp word for the nonce,
Beside a wellë Jesus, God and man,
Spake in reproof of the Samaritan:
“Thou hast y-had five husbandës,” said he;
“And thilkë man, that now hath wedded thee,
Is not thine husband:” thus said he certáin;
What that he meant thereby, I cannot sayn.
But that I askë, why the fifthë man
Was not husband to the Samaritan?
How many might she have in marriáge?
Yet heard I never tellen in mine age
Upon this number definitioún.
Men may divine, and glosen up and down;
But well I wot, express without a lie,
God bade us for to wax and multiply;
That gentle text can I well understand.
Eke well I wot, he said, that mine husbánd
Should leave father and mother, and take to me;
But of no number mentión made he,
Of bigamy or of octogamy;
Why then should men speak of it villainy?

Lo here, the wisë king Dan Solomon,
I trow that he had wivës more than one;
As would to God it lawful were to me
To be refreshed half so oft as he!
What gift of God had he for all his wivës?
No man hath such, that in this world alive is.
God wot, this noble king, as to my wit,
The first night had many a merry fit
With each of them, so well was him on live.
Blessed be God that I have wedded five!
Welcome the sixth whenever that he shall.
For since I will not keep me chaste in all,
When mine husband is from the world y-gone,
Some Christian man shall weddë me anon.
For then th’ apostle saith that I am free
To wed, a’ God’s half, where it liketh me.
He saith, that to be wedded is no sin;
Better is to be wedded than to brin.
What recketh me though folk say villainy
Of shrewed Lamech, and his bigamy?
I wot well Abraham was a holy man,
And Jacob eke, as far as ev’r I can.
And each of them had wivës more than two;
And many another holy man also.
Where can ye see, in any manner age,
That highë God defended marriáge
By word express? I pray you tell it me;
Or where commanded he virginity?
I wot as well as you, it is no dread,
Th’ apostle, when he spake of maidenhead,
He said, that precept thereof had he none:
Men may counsél a woman to be one,
But counseling is no commandëment;
He put it in our owen judgëment.
For, haddë God commanded maidenhead,
Then had he damned wedding out of dread;
And certes, if there were no seed y-sow,
Virginity then whereof should it grow?
Paul durstë not commanden, at the least,
A thing of which his Master gave no hest.
The dart is set up for virginity;
Catch whoso may, who runneth best let see.
But this word is not ta’en of every wight,
But there as God will give it of his might.
I wot well that th’ apostle was a maid,
But natheless, although he wrote and said,
He would that every wight were such as he,
All is but counsel to virginitý.
And, since to be a wife he gave me leave
Of indulgence, so is it no repreve
To weddë me, if that my make should die,
Without exceptión of bigamy;
All were it good no woman for to touch
(He meant as in his bed or in his couch),
For peril is both fire and tow t’ assemble;
Ye know what this example may resemble.
This is all and some, he held virginity
More profit than wedding in fraïlty:
(Frailty clepe I, but if that he and she
Would lead their livës all in chastity),
I grant it well, I have of none envý
Who maidenhead prefer to bigamy;
It liketh them t’ be clean in body and ghost;
Of mine estate I will not make a boast.

For, well ye know, a lord in his household
Hath not every vessel all of gold;
Some are of tree, and do their lord servíce.
God calleth folk to him in sundry wise,
And each one hath of God a proper gift,
Some this, some that, as liketh him to shift.
Virginity is great perfectión,
And continence eke with devotión:
But Christ, that of perfection is the well,
Bade not every wight he should go sell
All that he had, and give it to the poor,
And in such wise follow him and his lore:
He spake to them that would live perfectly—
And, lordings, by your leave, that am not I;
I will bestow the flower of mine age
In th’ acts and in the fruits of marriáge.

Tell me also, to what conclusión
Were members made of generatión,
And of so perfect wise a wight y-wrought?
Trust me right well, they were not made for nought.
Glose whoso will, and say both up and down,
That they were made for the purgatioún
Of urine, and of other thingës smale,
And eke to know a female from a male:
And for none other causë? say ye no?
Experience wot well it is not so.
So that the clerkës be not with me wroth,
I say this, that they werë made for both,
That is to say, for office, and for ease
Of engendrure, there we God not displease.
Why should men ellës in their bookës set,
That man shall yield unto his wife her debt?
Now wherewith should he make his payëment,
If he us’d not his silly instrument?
Then were they made upon a creature
To purge urine, and eke for engendrure.
But I say not that every wight is hold,
That hath such harness as I to you told,
To go and usë them in engendrure;
Then should men take of chastity no cure.
Christ was a maid, and shapen as a man,
And many a saint, since that this world began,
Yet ever liv’d in perfect chastity.
I will not vie with no virginity.
Let them with bread of pured wheat be fed,
And let us wivës eat our barley bread.
And yet with barley bread, Mark tell us can,
Our Lord Jesus refreshed many a man.
In such estate as God hath cleped us,
I’ll persevere, I am not precious,
In wifehood I will use mine instrument
As freely as my Maker hath it sent.
If I be dangerous God give me sorrow;
Mine husband shall it have, both eve and morrow,
When that him list come forth and pay his debt.
A husband will I have, I will no let,
Which shall be both my debtor and my thrall,
And have his tribulatión withal
Upon his flesh, while that I am his wife.
I have the power during all my life
Upon his proper body, and not he;
Right thus th’ apostle told it unto me,
And bade our husbands for to love us well;
All this senténce me liketh every deal.—

Up start the Pardoner, and that anon;
“Now, Dame,” quoth he, “by God and by Saint John,
Ye are a noble preacher in this case.
I was about to wed a wife, alas!
What? should I bie it on my flesh so dear?
Yet had I lever wed no wife this year.”
“Abide,” quoth she; “my tale is not begun.
Nay, thou shalt drinken of another tun
Ere that I go, shall savour worse than ale.
And when that I have told thee forth my tale
Of tribulatión in marriáge,
Of which I am expert in all mine age,
(This is to say, myself hath been the whip),
Then mayest thou choose whether thou wilt sip
Of thilkë tunnë, that I now shall broach.
Beware of it, ere thou too nigh approach,
For I shall tell examples more than ten:
Whoso will not beware by other men,
By him shall other men corrected be:
These samë wordës writeth Ptolemý;
Read in his Almagest, and take it there.”
“Dame, I would pray you, if your will it were,”
Saidë this Pardoner, “as ye began,
Tell forth your tale, and sparë for no man,
And teach us youngë men of your practique.”
“Gladly,” quoth she, “since that it may you like.
But that I pray to all this company,
If that I speak after my fantasy,
To takë nought agrief what I may say;
For mine intent is only for to play.—

Now, Sirs, then will I tell you forth my tale.
As ever may I drinkë wine or ale
I shall say sooth; the husbands that I had
Three of them werë good, and two were bad.
The three were goodë men, and rich, and old.
Unnethës mightë they the statute hold
In which that they were bounden unto me.
Yet wot well what I mean of this, pardie.
As God me help, I laugh when that I think
How piteously at night I made them swink,
But, by my fay, I told of it no store:
They had me giv’n their land and their treasór,
Me needed not do longer diligence
To win their love, or do them reverence.
They loved me so well, by God above,
That I toldë no dainty of their love.
A wise woman will busy her ever-in-one
To get their lovë, where that she hath none.
But, since I had them wholly in my hand,
And that they had me given all their land,
Why should I takë keep them for to please,
But it were for my profit, or mine ease?
I set them so a-workë, by my fay,
That many a night they sangë, well-away!
The bacon was not fetched for them, I trow,
That some men have in Essex at Dunmow.
I govern’d them so well after my law,
That each of them full blissful was and fawe
To bringë me gay thingës from the fair.
They were full glad when that I spake them fair,
For, God it wot, I chid them spiteously.
Now hearken how I bare me properly.

Ye wisë wivës, that can understand,
Thus should ye speak, and bear them wrong on hand,
For half so boldëly can there no man
Swearen and lien as a woman can.
(I say not this by wivës that be wise,
But if it be when they them misadvise.)
A wisë wife, if that she can her good,
Shall bearë them on hand the cow is wood,
And takë witness of her owen maid
Of their assent: but hearken how I said.
“Sir oldë kaynard, is this thine array?
Why is my neighëbourë’s wife so gay?
She is honour’d over all where she go’th,
I sit at home, I have no thrifty cloth.
What dost thou at my neighëbourë’s house?
Is she so fair? art thou so amoroús?
What rown’st thou with our maid? ben’dicite,
Sir oldë lechour, let thy japës be.
And if I have a gossip, or a friend
(Withoutë guilt), thou chidest as a fiend,
If that I walk or play unto his house.
Thou comest home as drunken as a mouse,
And preachest on thy bench, with evil prefe:
Thou say’st to me, it is a great mischief
To wed a poorë woman, for costáge:
And if that she be rich, of high paráge,
Then say’st thou, that it is a tormentry
To suffer her pride and meláncholy.
And if that she be fair, thou very knave,
Thou say’st that every holour will her have;
She may no while in chastity abide,
That is assailed upon every side.
Thou say’st some folk desire us for richéss,
Some for our shape, and some for our fairness,
And some, for she can either sing or dance,
And some for gentiless and dalliance,
Some for her handës and her armës smale:
Thus goes all to the devil, by thy tale;
Thou say’st, men may not keep a castle wall
That may be so assailed over all.
And if that she be foul, thou say’st that she
Coveteth every man that she may see;
For as a spaniel she will on him leap,
Till she may findë some man her to cheap;
And none so grey goose goes there in the lake,
(So say’st thou) that will be without a make.
And say’st, it is a hard thing for to weld
A thing that no man will, his thankës, held.
Thus say’st thou, lorel, when thou go’st to bed,
And that no wise man needeth for to wed,
Nor no man that intendeth unto heaven.
With wildë thunder dint and fiery leven
Motë thy wicked neckë be to-broke.
Thou say’st, that dropping houses, and eke smoke,
And chiding wivës, makë men to flee
Out of their owne house; ah! ben’dicite,
What aileth such an old man for to chide?
Thou say’st, we wivës will our vices hide,
Till we be fast, and then we will them shew.
Well may that be a proverb of a shrew.
Thou say’st, that oxen, asses, horses, hounds,
They be assayed at diversë stounds,
Basons and lavers, ere that men them buy,
Spoonës, stoolës, and all such husbandry,
And so be pots, and clothës, and array,
But folk of wivës makë none assay,
Till they be wedded—oldë dotard shrew!—
And then, say’st thou, we will our vices shew.
Thou say’st also, that it displeaseth me,
But if that thou wilt praisë my beauty,
And but thou pore alway upon my face,
And call me fairë dame in every place;
And but thou make a feast on thilkë day
That I was born, and make me fresh and gay;
And but thou do to my norice honoúr,
And to my chamberere within my bow’r,
And to my father’s folk, and mine allies;
Thus sayest thou, old barrel full of lies.
And yet also of our prentice Jenkin,
For his crisp hair, shining as gold so fine,
And for he squireth me both up and down,
Yet hast thou caught a false suspicioún:
I will him not, though thou wert dead to-morrow.
But tell me this, why hidest thou, with sorrow,
The keyës of thy chest away from me?
It is my good as well as thine, pardie.
What, think’st to make an idiot of our dame?
Now, by that lord that callëd is Saint Jame,
Thou shalt not both, although that thou wert wood,
Be master of my body, and my good,
The one thou shalt forego, maugré thine eyen.
What helpeth it of me t’ inquire and spyen?
I trow thou wouldest lock me in thy chest.
Thou shouldest say, ‘Fair wife, go where thee lest;
Take your disport; I will believe no tales;
I know you for a true wife, Dame Ales.’

“We love no man, that taketh keep or charge
Where that we go; we will be at our large.
Of allë men most blessed may he be,
The wise astrologer Dan Ptolemy,
That saith this proverb in his Almagest:
‘Of allë men his wisdom is highést,
That recketh not who hath the world in hand.’
By this proverb thou shalt well understand,
Have thou enough, what thar thee reck or care
How merrily that other folkës fare?
For certes, oldë dotard, by your leave,
Ye shall have [pleasure] right enough at eve.
He is too great a niggard that will werne
A man to light a candle at his lantérn;
He shall have never the less light, pardie.
Have thou enough, thee thar not plainë thee.
Thou say’st also, if that we make us gay
With clothing and with precious array,
That it is peril of our chastity.
And yet—with sorrow!—thou enforcest thee,
And say’st these words in the apostle’s name:
‘In habit made with chastity and shame
Ye women shall apparel you,’ quoth he,
‘And not in tressed hair and gay perrie,
As pearlës, nor with gold, nor clothës rich.’
After thy text nor after thy rubrich
I will not work as muchel as a gnat.
Thou say’st also, I walk out like a cat;
For whoso wouldë singe the cattë’s skin
Then will the cattë well dwell in her inn;
And if the cattë’s skin be sleek and gay,
She will not dwell in housë half a day,
But forth she will, ere any day be daw’d,
To shew her skin, and go a caterwaw’d.
This is to say, if I be gay, sir shrew,
I will run out, my borel for to shew.
Sir oldë fool, what helpeth thee to spyen?
Though thou pray Argus with his hundred eyen
To be my wardécorps, as he can best,
In faith he shall not keep me, but me lest:
Yet could I make his beard, so may I thé.

“Thou sayest eke, that there be thingës three,
Which thingës greatly trouble all this earth,
And that no wightë may endure the ferth:
O lefe sir shrew, may Jesus short thy life.
Yet preachest thou, and say’st, a hateful wife
Y-reckon’d is for one of these mischances.
Be there none other manner resemblánces
That ye may liken your parables unto,
But if a silly wife be one of tho?
Thou likenest a woman’s love to hell;
To barren land where water may not dwell.
Thou likenest it also to wild fire;
The more it burns, the more it hath desire
To cónsume every thing that burnt will be.
Thou sayest, right as wormës shend a tree,
Right so a wife destroyeth her husbond;
This know they well that be to wivës bond.”

Lordings, right thus, as ye have understand,
Bare I stiffly mine old husbands on hand,
That thus they saiden in their drunkenness;
And all was false, but that I took witness
On Jenkin, and upon my niece also.
O Lord! the pain I did them, and the woe,
Full guiltëless, by Goddë’s sweetë pine;
For as a horse I couldë bite and whine;
I couldë plain, an’ I was in the guilt,
Or ellës oftentime I had been spilt.
Whoso first cometh to the mill, first grint;
I plained first, so was our war y-stint.
They were full glad to excuse them full blive
Of things that they never aguilt their live.
Of wenches would I bearë them on hand,
When that for sickness scarcely might they stand,
Yet tickled I his heartë for that he
Ween’d that I had of him so great cherté:
I swore that all my walking out by night
Was for to éspy wenches that he dight:
Under that colour had I many a mirth.
For all such wit is given us at birth;
Deceit, weeping, and spinning, God doth give
To women kindly, while that they may live.
And thus of one thing I may vauntë me,
At th’ end I had the better in each degree,
By sleight, or force, or by some manner thing,
As by continual murmur or grudging,
Namely a-bed, there haddë they mischance,
There would I chide, and do them no pleasance:
I would no longer in the bed abide,
If that I felt his arm over my side,
Till he had made his ransom unto me,
Then would I suffer him do his nicetý.
And therefore every man this tale I tell,
Win whoso may, for all is for to sell;
With empty hand men may no hawkës lure;
For winning would I all his will endure,
And makë me a feigned appetite—
And yet in bacon had I never delight:
That made me that I ever would them chide.
For, though the Pope had sitten them beside,
I would not spare them at their owen board,
For, by my troth, I quit them word for word.
As help me very God omnipotent,
Though I right now should make my testament,
I owe them not a word, that is not quit,
I brought it so aboutë by my wit,
That they must give it up, as for the best,
Or ellës had we never been in rest.
For, though he looked as a wood lión,
Yet should he fail of his conclusión.
Then would I say, “Now, goodë lefe, take keep
How meekly looketh Wilken ourë sheep!
Come near, my spouse, and let me ba thy cheek.
Ye shouldë be all patient and meek,
And have a sweet y-spiced conscience,
Since ye so preach of Jobë’s patience.
Suffer alway, since ye so well can preach,
And but ye do, certáin we shall you teach
That it is fair to have a wife in peace.
One of us two must bowë doubtëless:
And since a man is more reasónable
Than woman is, ye must be suff’rable.
What aileth you to grudgë thus and groan?
Is it for ye would have my [love] alone?
Why, take it all: lo, have it every deal,
Peter! shrew you but ye love it well.
For if I wouldë sell my bellë chose,
I couldë walk as fresh as is a rose,
But I will keep it for your owen tooth.
Ye be to blame, by God, I say you sooth.”
Such manner wordës haddë we on hand.
Now will I speaken of my fourth husbánd.

My fourthë husband was a revellour;
This is to say, he had a paramour,
And I was young and full of ragerie,
Stubborn and strong, and jolly as a pie.
Then could I dancë to a harpë smale,
And sing, y-wis, as any nightingale,
When I had drunk a draught of sweetë wine.
Metellius, the foulë churl, the swine,
That with a staff bereft his wife of life
For she drank wine, though I had been his wife,
Never should he have daunted me from drink:
And, after wine, of Venus most I think.
For all so sure as cold engenders hail,
A liquorish mouth must have a liquorish tail.
In woman vinolent is no defence,
This knowë lechours by experience.
But, lord Christ, when that it rememb’reth me
Upon my youth, and on my jollity,
It tickleth me about mine heartë-root;
Unto this day it doth mine heartë boot,
That I have had my world as in my time.
But age, alas! that all will envenime,
Hath me bereft my beauty and my pith:
Let go; farewell; the devil go therewith.
The flour is gon, there is no more to tell,
The bran, as I best may, now must I sell.
But yet to be right merry will I fand.
Now forth to tell you of my fourth husband,
I say, I in my heart had great despite,
That he of any other had delight;
But he was quit, by God and by Saint Joce:
I made for him of the same wood a cross;
Not of my body in no foul mannére,
But certainly I madë folk such cheer,
That in his owen grease I made him fry
For anger, and for very jealousý.
By God, in earth I was his purgatory,
For which I hope his soul may be in glory.
For, God it wot, he sat full oft and sung,
When that his shoe full bitterly him wrung.
There was no wight, save God and he, that wist
In many wise how sore I did him twist.
He died when I came from Jerusalem,
And lies in grave under the roodë beam:
Although his tomb is not so curious
As was the sepulchre of Darius,
Which that Apelles wrought so subtlely.
It is but waste to bury them preciously.
Let him fare well, God give his soulë rest,
He is now in his grave and in his chest.

Now of my fifthë husband will I tell:
God let his soul never come into hell.
And yet was he to me the mostë shrew;
That feel I on my ribbës all by rew,
And ever shall, until mine ending day.
But in our bed he was so fresh and gay,
And therewithal so well he could me glose,
When that he wouldë have my bellë chose,
Though he had beaten me on every bone,
Yet could he win again my love anon.
I trow, I lov’d him better, for that he
Was of his love so dangerous to me.
We women have, if that I shall not lie,
In this mattér a quaintë fantasy.
Whatever thing we may not lightly have,
Thereafter will we cry all day and crave.
Forbid us thing, and that desirë we;
Press on us fast, and thennë will we flee.
With danger utter we all our chaffare;
Great press at market maketh dearë ware,
And too great cheap is held at little price;
This knoweth every woman that is wise.
My fifthë husband, God his soulë bless,
Which that I took for love and no richéss,
He some time was a clerk of Oxenford,
And had left school, and went at home to board
With my gossip, dwelling in ourë town:
God have her soul, her name was Alisoun.
She knew my heart, and all my privity,
Bet than our parish priest, so may I thé.
To her betrayed I my counsel all;
For had my husband pissed on a wall,
Or done a thing that should have cost his life,
To her, and to another worthy wife,
And to my niece, which that I loved well,
I would have told his counsel every deal.
And so I did full often, God it wot,
That made his face full often red and hot
For very shame, and blam’d himself, for he
Had told to me so great a privity.
And so befell that onës in a Lent
(So oftentimes I to my gossip went,
For ever yet I loved to be gay,
And for to walk in March, April, and May
From house to house, to hearë sundry tales),
That Jenkin clerk, and my gossíp, Dame Ales,
And I myself, into the fieldës went.
Mine husband was at London all that Lent;
I had the better leisure for to play,
And for to see, and eke for to be sey
Of lusty folk; what wist I where my grace
Was shapen for to be, or in what place?
Therefore made I my visitatións
To vigilies, and to processións,
To preachings eke, and to these pilgrimáges,
To plays of miracles, and marriáges,
And weared upon me gay scarlet gites.
These wormës, nor these mothës, nor these mites
On my apparel frett them never a deal
And know’st thou why? for they were used well.
Now will I tellë forth what happen’d me:
I say, that in the fieldës walked we,
Till truëly we had such dalliance,
This clerk and I, that of my purveyance
I spake to him, and told him how that he,
If I were widow, shouldë weddë me.
For certainly, I say for no bobance,
Yet was I never without purveyance
Of marriage, nor of other thingës eke:
I hold a mouse’s wit not worth a leek,
That hath but one hole for to startë to,
And if that failë, then is all y-do.
[I bare him on hand he had enchanted me
(My damë taughtë me that subtilty);
And eke I said, I mette of him all night,
He would have slain me, as I lay upright,
And all my bed was full of very blood;
But yet I hop’d that he should do me good;
For blood betoken’d gold, as me was taught.
And all was false, I dream’d of him right naught,
But as I follow’d aye my damë’s lore,
As well of that as of other things more.]
But now, sir, let me see, what shall I sayn?
Aha! by God, I have my tale again.
When that my fourthë husband was on bier,
I wept algate and made a sorry cheer,
As wivës must, for it is the uságe;
And with my kerchief covered my viságe;
But, for I was provided with a make,
I wept but little, that I undertake.
To churchë was mine husband borne a-morrow
With neighëbours that for him madë sorrow,
And Jenkin, ourë clerk, was one of tho:
As help me God, when that I saw him go
After the bier, methought he had a pair
Of leggës and of feet so clean and fair,
That all my heart I gave unto his hold.
He was, I trow, a twenty winter old,
And I was forty, if I shall say sooth,
But yet I had always a coltë’s tooth.
Gat-toothed I was, and that became me well,
I had the print of Saintë Venus’ seal.
[As help me God, I was a lusty one,
And fair, and rich, and young, and well begone:
For certes I am all venerian
In feeling, and my heart is martian;
Venus me gave my lust and liquorishness,
And Mars gave me my sturdy hardiness.]
Mine ascendant was Taure, and Mars therein:
Alas, alas, that ever love was sin!
I follow’d aye mine inclinatión
By virtue of my constellatión:
That made me that I couldë not withdraw
My chamber of Venus from a good felláw.
[Yet have I Martë’s mark upon my face,
And also in another privy place.
For God so wisly be my salvatión,
I loved never by discretión,
But ever follow’d mine own appetite,
All were he short, or long, or black, or white,
I took no keep, so that he liked me,
How poor he was, neither of what degree.]
What should I say? but that at the month’s end
This jolly clerk Jenkin, that was so hend,
Had wedded me with great solemnity,
And to him gave I all the land and fee
That ever was me given therebefore:
But afterward repented me full sore.
He wouldë suffer nothing of my list.
By God, he smote me onës with his fist,
For that I rent out of his book a leaf,
That of the stroke mine earë wax’d all deaf.
Stubborn I was, as is a lioness,
And of my tongue a very jangleress,
And walk I would, as I had done beforn,
From house to house, although he had it sworn:
For which he oftentimes wouldë preach,
And me of oldë Roman gestës teach.
How that Sulpitius Gallus left his wife,
And her forsook for term of all his,
For nought but open-headed he her say
Looking out at his door upon a day.
Another Roman told he me by name,
That, for his wife was at a summer game
Without his knowing, he forsook her eke.
And then would he upon his Bible seek
That ilkë proverb of Ecclesiast,
Where he commandeth, and forbiddeth fast,
Man shall not suffer his wife go roll about.
Then would he say right thus withoutë doubt:
“Whoso that buildeth his house all of sallows,
And pricketh his blind horse over the fallows,
And suff’reth his wife to go seekë hallows,
Is worthy to be hanged on the gallows.”
But all for nought; I settë not a haw
Of his provérbs, nor of his oldë saw;
Nor would I not of him corrected be.
I hate them that my vices tellë me,
And so do more of us (God wot) than I.
This made him wood with me all utterly;
I wouldë not forbear him in no case.
Now will I say you sooth, by Saint Thomas,
Why that I rent out of his book a leaf,
For which he smote me, so that I was deaf.

He had a book, that gladly night and day
For his disport he would it read alway;
He call’d it Valerie, and Theophrast,
And with that book he laugh’d alway full fast.
And eke there was a clerk sometime at Rome,
A cardinal, that hightë Saint Jerome,
That made a book against Jovinian,
Which book was there; and eke Tertullian,
Chrysippus, Trotula, and Heloïse,
That was an abbess not far from Paris;
And eke the Parables of Solomon,
Ovidë’s Art, and bourdës many one;
And allë these were bound in one volume.
And every night and day was his custume
(When he had leisure and vacatión
From other worldly occupatión)
To readen in this book of wicked wives.
He knew of them more legends and more lives
Than be of goodë wivës in the Bible.
For, trust me well, it is an impossíble
That any clerk will speakë good of wives,
(But if it be of holy saintës’ lives)
Nor of none other woman never the mo’.
Who painted the lión, tell it me, who?
By God, if women haddë written stories,
As clerkës have within their oratóries,
They would have writ of men more wickedness
Than all the mark of Adam may redress.
The children of Mercury and of Venus,
Be in their working full contrarious.
Mercury loveth wisdom and sciénce,
And Venus loveth riot and dispence.
And for their diverse dispositión,
Each falls in other’s exaltatión.
As thus, God wot, Mercúry is desolate
In Pisces, where Venus is exaltáte,
And Venus falls where Mercury is raised.
Therefore no woman by no clerk is praised.
The clerk, when he is old, and may not do
Of Venus’ works not worth his oldë shoe,
Then sits he down, and writes in his dotage,
That women cannot keep their marriáge.
But now to purpose, why I toldë thee
That I was beaten for a book, pardie.

Upon a night Jenkin, that was our sire,
Read on his book, as he sat by the fire,
Of Eva first, that for her wickedness
Was all mankind brought into wretchedness,
For which that Jesus Christ himself was slain,
That bought us with his heartë-blood again.
Lo here express of women may ye find
That woman was the loss of all mankind.
Then read he me how Samson lost his hairs
Sleeping, his leman cut them with her shears,
Through whichë treason lost he both his eyen.
Then read he me, if that I shall not lien,
Of Hercules, and of his Dejanire,
That caused him to set himself on fire.
Nothing forgot he of the care and woe
That Socrates had with his wivës two;
How Xantippe cast piss upon his head.
This silly man sat still, as he were dead,
He wip’d his head, and no more durst he sayn,
But, “Ere the thunder stint there cometh rain.”
Of Phasiphaë, that was queen of Crete,
For shrewedness he thought the talë sweet.
Fy, speak no more, it is a grisly thing,
Of her horrible lust and her likíng.
Of Clytemnestra, for her lechery
That falsely made her husband for to die,
He read it with full good devotión.
He told me eke, for what occasión
Amphiorax at Thebes lost his life:
My husband had a legend of his wife
Eryphilé, that for an ouche of gold
Had privily unto the Greekës told,
Where that her husband hid him in a place,
For which he had at Thebes sorry grace.
Of Luna told he me, and of Lucie;
They bothë made their husbands for to die,
That one for love, that other was for hate.
Luna her husband on an ev’ning late
Empoison’d had, for that she was his foe:
Lucia liquorish lov’d her husband so,
That, for he should always upon her think,
She gave him such a manner lovë-drink,
That he was dead before it were the morrow:
And thus algatës husbands haddë sorrow.
Then told he me how one Latumeus
Complained to his fellow Arius
That in his garden growed such a tree,
On which he said how that his wivës three
Hanged themselves for heart dispiteous.
“O leve brother,” quoth this Arius,
“Give me a plant of thilkë blessed tree,
And in my garden planted shall it be.”
Of later date of wivës hath he read,
That some have slain their husbands in their bed,
And let their lechour dight them all the night,
While that the corpse lay on the floor upright:
And some have driven nails into their brain,
While that they slept, and thus they have them slain:
Some have them given poison in their drink:
He spake more harm than heartë may bethink.

And therewithal he knew of more provérbs,
Than in this world there groweth grass or herbs.
“Better (quoth he) thine habitatión
Be with a lion, or a foul dragón,
Than with a woman using for to chide.
Better (quoth he) high in the roof abide,
Than with an angry woman in the house,
They be so wicked and contrarioús:
They hatë that their husbands loven aye.”
He said, “A woman cast her shame away
When she cast off her smock;” and farthermo’,
“A fair woman, but she be chaste also,
Is like a gold ring in a sowë’s nose.”
Who couldë ween, or who couldë suppose
The woe that in mine heart was, and the pine?
And when I saw that he would never fine
To readen on this cursed book all night,
All suddenly three leavës have I plight
Out of his book, right as he read, and eke
I with my fist so took him on the cheek,
That in our fire he backward fell adown.
And he up start, as doth a wood lión,
And with his fist he smote me on the head,
That on the floor I lay as I were dead.
And when he saw how still that there I lay,
He was aghast, and would have fled away,
Till at the last out of my swoon I braid,
“Oh, hast thou slain me, thou false thief?” I said,
“And for my land thus hast thou murder’d me?
Ere I be dead, yet will I kissë thee.”
And near he came, and kneeled fair adown,
And saidë, “Dearë sister Alisoun,
As help me God, I shall thee never smite:
That I have done it is thyself to wite,
Forgive it me, and that I thee beseek.”
And yet eftsoons I hit him on the cheek,
And saidë, “Thief, thus much am I awreak.
Now will I die, I may no longer speak.”

But at the last, with muchë care and woe
We fell accorded by ourselvës two:
He gave me all the bridle in mine hand
To have the governance of house and land,
And of his tongue, and of his hand also.
I made him burn his book anon right tho.
And when that I had gotten unto me
By mast’ry all the sovereignëty,
And that he said, “Mine owen truë wife,
Do as thee list, the term of all thy life,
Keep thine honoúr, and eke keep mine estate;”
After that day we never had debate.
God help me so, I was to him as kind
As any wife from Denmark unto Ind,
And also true, and so was he to me:
I pray to God that sits in majesty
So bless his soulë, for his mercy dear.
Now will I say my tale, if ye will hear.—

The Friar laugh’d when he had heard all this:
“Now, Dame,” quoth he, “so have I joy and bliss,
This is a long preamble of a tale.”
And when the Sompnour heard the Friar gale,
“Lo,” quoth this Sompnour, “Goddë’s armës two,
A friar will intermete him evermo’:
Lo, goodë men, a fly and eke a frere
Will fall in ev’ry dish and eke mattére.
What speak’st thou of perambulatioún?
What? amble or trot; or peace, or go sit down:
Thou lettest our disport in this mattére.”
“Yea, wilt thou so, Sir Sompnour?” quoth the Frere;
“Now by my faith I shall, ere that I go,
Tell of a Sompnour such a tale or two,
That all the folk shall laughen in this place.”
“Now do, else, Friar, I beshrew thy face,”
Quoth this Sompnour; “and I beshrewë me,
But if I tellë talës two or three
Of friars, ere I come to Sittingbourne,
That I shall make thine heartë for to mourn:
For well I wot thy patience is gone.”
Our Hostë criëd, “Peace, and that anon;”
And saidë, “Let the woman tell her tale.
Ye fare as folk that drunken be of ale.
Do, Dame, tell forth your tale, and that is best.”
“All ready, sir,” quoth she, “right as you lest,
If I have licence of this worthy Frere.”
“Yes, Dame,” quoth he, “tell forth, and I will hear.”

The Tale

In oldë dayës of the king Arthoúr,
Of which that Britons speakë great honoúr,
All was this land full fill’d of faërie;
The Elf-queen, with her jolly company,
Danced full oft in many a green mead.
This was the old opinion, as I read;
I speak of many hundred years ago;
But now can no man see none elvës mo’,
For now the great charitý and prayéres
Of limitours, and other holy freres,
That search every land and ev’ry stream,
As thick as motës in the sunnë-beam,
Blessing halls, chambers, kitchenës, and bowers,
Cities and burghës, castles high and towers,
Thorpës and barnës, shepens and dairies,
This makes that there be now no faëries:
For there as wont to walkë was an elf,
There walketh now the limitour himself,
In undermelës and in morrownings,
And saith his matins and his holy things,
As he goes in his limitatioún.
Women may now go safely up and down,
In every bush, and under every tree;
There is none other incubus but he;
And he will do to them no dishonoúr.

And so befell it, that this king Arthoúr
Had in his house a lusty bachelér,
That on a day came riding from rivér:
And happen’d, that, alone as she was born,
He saw a maiden walking him beforn,
Of which maiden anon, maugré her head,
By very force he reft her maidenhead:
For which oppressión was such clamoúr,
And such pursuit unto the king Arthoúr,
That damned was this knight for to be dead
By course of law, and should have lost his head;
(Paráventure such was the statute tho),
But that the queen and other ladies mo’
So long they prayed the king of his grace,
Till he his life him granted in the place,
And gave him to the queen, all at her will
To choose whether she would him save or spill.
The queen thanked the king with all her might;
And, after this, thus spake she to the knight,
When that she saw her time upon a day.
“Thou standest yet,” quoth she, “in such array,
That of thy life yet hast thou no suretý;
I grant thee life, if thou canst tell to me
What thing is it that women most desiren:
Beware, and keep thy neck-bone from the iron.
And if thou canst not tell it me anon,
Yet will I give thee leavë for to gon
A twelvemonth and a day, to seek and lear
An answer suffisant in this mattére.
And surety will I have, ere that thou pace,
Thy body for to yielden in this place.”
Woe was the knight, and sorrowfully siked;
But what? he might not do all as him liked.
And at the last he chose him for to wend,
And come again, right at the yearë’s end,
With such answér as God would him purvey:
And took his leave, and wended forth his way.

He sought in ev’ry house and ev’ry place,
Where as he hoped for to findë grace,
To learnë what thing women love the most:
But he could not arrive in any coast,
Where as he mightë find in this mattére
Two creatures accordíng in fere.
Some said that women loved best richéss,
Some said honoúr, and some said jolliness,
Some rich array, and some said lust a-bed,
And oft time to be widow and be wed.
Some said, that we are in our heart most eased
When that we are y-flatter’d and y-praised.
He went full nigh the sooth, I will not lie;
A man shall win us best with flattery;
And with attendance, and with business
Be we y-liméd, bothë more and less.
And some men said that we do love the best
For to be free, and do right as us lest,
And that no man reprove us of our vice,
But say that we are wise, and nothing nice,
For truly there is none among us all,
If any wight will claw us on the gall,
That will not kick, for that he saith us sooth:
Assay, and he shall find it, that so do’th.
For be we never so vicioús within,
We will be held both wise and clean of sin.
And some men said, that great delight have we
For to be held stable and eke secré,
And in one purpose steadfastly to dwell,
And not bewray a thing that men us tell.
But that tale is not worth a rakë-stele.
Pardie, we women cannë nothing hele,
Witness on Midas; will ye hear the tale?
Ovid, amongës other thingës smale,
Saith, Midas had, under his longë hairs,
Growing upon his head two ass’s ears;
The whichë vice he hid, as best he might,
Full subtlely from every man’s sight,
That, save his wife, there knew of it no mo’;
He lov’d her most, and trusted her also;
He prayed her, that to no creature
She wouldë tellen of his disfigúre.
She swore him, nay, for all the world to win,
She would not do that villainy or sin,
To make her husband have so foul a name:
She would not tell it for her owen shame.
But natheless her thoughtë that she died,
That she so longë should a counsel hide;
Her thought it swell’d so sore about her heart,
That needës must some word from her astart;
And, since she durst not tell it unto man,
Down to a marish fast thereby she ran,
Till she came there, her heart was all afire:
And, as a bittern bumbles in the mire,
She laid her mouth unto the water down.
“Bewray me not, thou water, with thy soun’,”
Quoth she, “to thee I tell it, and no mo’,
Mine husband hath long ass’s earës two!
Now is mine heart all whole; now is it out;
I might no longer keep it, out of doubt.”
Here may ye see, though we a time abide,
Yet out it must, we can no counsel hide.
The remnant of the tale, if ye will hear,
Read in Ovíd, and there ye may it lear.

This knight, of whom my tale is specially,
When that he saw he might not come thereby—
That is to say, what women love the most—
Within his breast full sorrowful was his ghost.
But home he went, for he might not sojourn,
The day was come, that homeward he must turn.
And in his way it happen’d him to ride,
In all his care, under a forest side,
Where as he saw upon a dancë go
Of ladies four-and-twenty, and yet mo’,
Toward this ilkë dance he drew full yern,
The hope that he some wisdom there should learn;
But certainly, ere he came fully there,
Y-vanish’d was this dance, he knew not where;
No creaturë saw he that bare life,
Save on the green he sitting saw a wife—
A fouler wight there may no man devise.
Against this knight this old wife gan to rise,
And said, “Sir Knight, hereforth lieth no way.
Tell me what ye are seeking, by your fay.
Paráventure it may the better be:
These oldë folk know muchë thing,” quoth she.
“My levë mother,” quoth this knight, “certáin,
I am but dead, but if that I can sayn
What thing it is that women most desire:
Could ye me wiss, I would well quite your hire.”
“Plight me thy troth here in mine hand,” quoth she,
“The nextë thing that I require of thee
Thou shalt it do, if it be in thy might,
And I will tell it thee ere it be night.”
“Have here my trothë,” quoth the knight; “I grant.”
“Thennë,” quoth she, “I dare me well avaunt,
Thy life is safe, for I will stand thereby,
Upon my life the queen will say as I:
Let see, which is the proudest of them all,
That wears either a kerchief or a caul,
That dare say nay to that I shall you teach.
Let us go forth withoutë longer speech.”
Then rowned she a pistel in his ear,
And bade him to be glad, and have no fear.

When they were come unto the court, this knight
Said, he had held his day, as he had hight,
And ready was his answer, as he said.
Full many a noble wife, and many a maid,
And many a widow, for that they be wise—
The queen herself sitting as a justíce—
Assembled be, his answer for to hear,
And afterward this knight was bid appear.
To every wight commanded was silénce,
And that the knight should tell in audience,
What thing that worldly women love the best.
This knight he stood not still, as doth a beast,
But to this questión anon answér’d
With manly voice, that all the court it heard,
“My liegë lady, generally,” quoth he,
“Women desire to have the sovereignty
As well over their husband as their love,
And for to be in mast’ry him above.
This is your most desire, though ye me kill,
Do as you list, I am here at your will.”
In all the court there was no wife nor maid,
Nor widow, that contráried what he said,
But said, he worthy was to have his life.
And with that word up start that oldë wife
Which that the knight saw sitting on the green.
“Mercy,” quoth she, “my sovereign lady queen,
Ere that your court departë, do me right.
I taughtë this answér unto this knight,
For which he plighted me his trothë there,
The firstë thing I would of him requere,
He would it do, if it lay in his might.
Before this court then pray I thee, Sir Knight,”
Quoth she, “that thou me take unto thy wife,
For well thou know’st that I have kept thy life.
If I say false, say nay, upon thy fay.”
This knight answér’d, “Alas, and well-away!
I know right well that such was my behest.
For Goddë’s lovë choose a new request:
Take all my good, and let my body go.”
“Nay, then,” quoth she, “I shrew us bothë two,
For though that I be old, and foul, and poor,
I n’ould for all the metal nor the ore,
That under earth is grave, or lies above,
But if thy wife I were and eke thy love.”
“My love?” quoth he, “nay, my damnatión,
Alas! that any of my natión
Should ever so foul disparáged be.”
But all for nought; the end is this, that he
Constrained was, that needs he must her wed,
And take this oldë wife, and go to bed.

Now wouldë some men say paráventure,
That for my negligence I do no cure
To tell you all the joy and all th’ array
That at the feast was made that ilkë day.
To which thing shortly answeren I shall:
I say there was no joy nor feast at all,
There was but heaviness and muchë sorrow:
For privily he wed her on the morrow;
And all day after hid him as an owl,
So woe was him, his wifë look’d so foul.
Great was the woe the knight had in his thought
When he was with his wife to bed y-brought;
He wallow’d, and he turned to and fro.
This oldë wife lay smiling evermo’,
And said, “Dear husband, benedicite,
Fares every knight thus with his wife as ye?
Is this the law of king Arthoúrë’s house?
Is every knight of his thus dangerous?
I am your owen love, and eke your wife,
I am she, which that saved hath your life,
And certes yet did I you ne’er unright.
Why fare ye thus with me this firstë night?
Ye farë like a man had lost his wit.
What is my guilt? for God’s love tell me it,
And it shall be amended, if I may.”
“Amended!” quoth this knight; “alas, nay, nay,
It will not be amended, never mo’;
Thou art so loathly, and so old also,
And thereto comest of so low a kind,
That little wonder though I wallow and wind;
So wouldë God, mine heartë wouldë brest!”
“Is this,” quoth she, “the cause of your unrest?”
“Yea, certainly,” quoth he; “no wonder is.”
“Now, Sir,” quoth she, “I could amend all this,
If that me list, ere it were dayës three,
So well ye mightë bear you unto me.
But, for ye speaken of such gentleness
As is descended out of old richéss,
That therefore shallë ye be gentlemen;
Such arrogancy is not worth a hen.
Look who that is most virtuous alway,
Prive and apert, and most intendeth aye
To do the gentle deedës that he can;
And take him for the greatest gentleman.
Christ will, we claim of him our gentleness,
Not of our elders for their old richéss.
For though they gave us all their heritage,
For which we claim to be of high parage,
Yet may they not bequeathë, for no thing,
To none of us, their virtuous living
That made them gentlemen called to be,
And bade us follow them in such degree.
Well can the wisë poet of Florence,
That hightë Dante, speak of this senténce:
Lo, in such manner rhyme is Dante’s tale.
‘Full seld’ upriseth by his branches smale
Prowess of man, for God of his goodness
Wills that we claim of him our gentleness;’
For of our elders may we nothing claim
But temp’ral things that man may hurt and maim.
Eke every wight knows this as well as I,
If gentleness were planted naturally
Unto a certain lineage down the line,
Prive and apert, then would they never fine
To do of gentleness the fair offíce;
Then might they do no villainy nor vice.
Take fire, and bear it to the darkest house
Betwixt this and the mount of Caucasus,
And let men shut the doorës, and go thenne,
Yet will the fire as fair and lightë brenne
As twenty thousand men might it behold;
Its office natural aye will it hold—
On peril of my life—till that it die.
Here may ye see well how that gentery
Is not annexed to possessión,
Since folk do not their operatión
Alway, as doth the fire, lo, in its kind.
For, God it wot, men may full often find
A lordë’s son do shame and villainy.
And he that will have price of his gent’ry,
For he was boren of a gentle house,
And had his elders noble and virtuoús,
And will himselfë do no gentle deedës,
Nor follow his gentle ancestry, that dead is,
He is not gentle, be he duke or earl;
For villain sinful deedës make a churl.
For gentleness is but the renomée
Of thine ancéstors, for their high bounté,
Which is a strangë thing to thy persón:
Thy gentleness cometh from God alone.
Then comes our very gentleness of grace;
It was no thing bequeath’d us with our place.
Think how noble, as saith Valerius,
Was thilkë Tullius Hostilius,
That out of povert’ rose to high nobless.
Read in Senec, and read eke in Boece,
There shall ye see express, that it no drede is,
That he is gentle that doth gentle deedës.
And therefore, levë husband, I conclude,
Albeit that mine ancestors were rude,
Yet may the highë God—and so hope I—
Grant me His grace to live virtuously:
Then am I gentle when that I begin
To live virtuously, and waivë sin.

“And whereas ye of povert’ me repreve,
The highë God, on whom that we believe,
In wilful povert’ chose to lead his life:
And certes, every man, maiden, or wife
May understand that Jesus, heaven’s king,
Ne would not choose a virtuous living.
Glad povert’ is an honest thing, certáin;
This will Senec and other clerkës sayn.
Whoso that holds him paid of his povért’,
I hold him rich, though he hath not a shirt.
He that covéteth is a poorë wight
For he would have what is not in his might.
But he that nought hath, nor covéteth t’ have,
Is rich, although ye hold him but a knave.
Very povért’ is sinnë, properly.
Juvenal saith of povert’ merrily:
The poorë man, when he goes by the way,
Before the thievës he may sing and play.
Povért’ is hateful good; and, as I guess,
A full great bringer out of business;
A great amender eke of sapience
To him that taketh it in patience.
Povert’ is this, although it seem elenge,
Possessión that no wight will challénge.
Povert’ full often, when a man is low,
Makes him his God and eke himself to know:
Povert’ a spectacle is, as thinketh me,
Through which he may his very friendës see.
And, therefore, Sir, since that I you not grieve,
Of my povert’ no morë me repreve.

“Now, Sir, of eldë ye reprevë me:
And certes, Sir, though none authority
Were in no book, ye gentles of honoúr
Say, that men should an oldë wight honoúr,
And call him father, for your gentleness;
And authors shall I finden, as I guess.
Now there ye say that I am foul and old,
Then dread ye not to be a cokëwold.
For filth, and eldë, all so may I thé,
Be greatë wardens upon chastity.
But natheless, since I know your delight,
I shall fulfil your wordly appetite.
Choose now,” quoth she, “one of these thingës tway,
To have me foul and old till that I dey,
And be to you a truë humble wife,
And never you displease in all my life:
Or ellës will ye have me young and fair,
And take your áventure of the repair
That shall be to your house because of me—
Or in some other place, it may well be?
Now choose yourselfë whether that you liketh.”

This knight adviseth him, and sore he siketh,
But at the last he said in this mannére;
“My lady and my love, and wife so dear,
I put me in your wisë governance,
Choose for yourself which may be most pleasance
And most honoúr to you and me also;
I do no force the whether of the two:
For as you liketh, it sufficeth me.”
“Then have I got the mastery,” quoth she,
“Since I may choose and govern as me lest.”
“Yea, certes wife,” quoth he, “I hold it best.”
“Kiss me,” quoth she, “we are no longer wroth,
For by my troth I will be to you both;
This is to say, yea, bothë fair and good.
I pray to God that I may stervë wood,
But I to you be all so good and true,
As ever was wife since the world was new;
And but I be to-morrow as fair to seen,
As any lady, emperess or queen,
That is betwixt the East and eke the West,
Do with my life and death right as you lest.
Cast up the curtain, and look how it is.”

And when the knight saw verily all this,
That she so fair was, and so young thereto,
For joy he hent her in his armës two:
His heartë bathed in a bath of bliss,
A thousand times on row he gan her kiss:
And she obeyed him in every thing
That mightë do him pleasance or liking.
And thus they live unto their livës’ end
In perfect joy; and Jesus Christ us send
Husbandës meek and young, and fresh in bed,
And grace to overlive them that we wed.
And eke I pray Jesus to short their lives,
That will not be govérned by their wives.
And old and angry niggards of dispence,
God send them soon a very pestilence!

The Friar’s Tale

The Prologue

This worthy limitour, this noble Frere,
He made always a manner louring cheer
Upon the Sompnour; but for honesty
No villain word as yet to him spake he:
But at the last he said unto the Wife:
“Damë,” quoth he, “God give you right good life,
Ye have here touched, all so may I thé,
In school matter a greatë difficulty.
Ye have said muchë thing right well, I say;
But, Damë, here as we ride by the way,
Us needeth not but for to speak of game,
And leave authorities, in Goddë’s name,
To preaching, and to school eke of clergy.
But if it like unto this company,
I will you of a Sompnour tell a game;
Pardie, ye may well knowë by the name,
That of a Sompnour may no good be said;
I pray that none of you be evil paid;
A Sompnour is a runner up and down
With mandements for fornicatioún,
And is y-beat at every townë’s end.”
Then spake our Host; “Ah, sir, ye should be hend
And courteous, as a man of your estate;
In company we will have no debate:
Tell us your tale, and let the Sompnour be.”
“Nay,” quoth the Sompnour, “let him say by me
What so him list; when it comes to my lot,
By God, I shall him quiten every groat!
I shall him tellë what a great honoúr
It is to be a flattering limitour
And his offíce I shall him tell y-wis.”
Our Host answered, “Peace, no more of this.”
And afterward he said unto the frere,
“Tell forth your tale, mine owen master dear.”

The Tale

Whilom there was dwelling in my countrý
An archdeacon, a man of high degree,
That boldëly did executión,
In punishing of fornicatión,
Of witchëcraft, and eke of bawdery,
Of defamation, and adultery,
Of churchë-reevës, and of testaments,
Of contracts, and of lack of sacraments,
And eke of many another manner crime,
Which needeth not rehearsen at this time,
Of usury, and simony also;
But, certes, lechours did he greatest woe;
They shouldë singen, if that they were hent;
And smallë tithers werë foul y-shent,
If any person would on them complain;
There might astert them no pecunial pain.
For smallë tithës, and small offering,
He made the people piteously to sing;
For ere the bishop caught them with his crook,
They weren in the archëdeacon’s book;
Then had he, through his jurisdictión,
Power to do on them correctión.

He had a Sompnour ready to his hand,
A slier boy was none in Engleland;
For subtlely he had his espiaille,
That taught him well where it might aught avail.
He couldë spare of lechours one or two,
To teachë him to four and twenty mo’.
For—though this Sompnour wood be as a hare—
To tell his harlotry I will not spare,
For we be out of their correctión,
They have of us no jurisdictión,
Ne never shall have, term of all their lives.

“Peter; so be the women of the stives,”
Quoth this Sompnour, “y-put out of our cure.”

“Peace, with mischance and with misáventure,”
Our Hostë said, “and let him tell his tale.
Now tellë forth, and let the Sompnour gale,
Nor sparë not, mine owen master dear.”

This falsë thief, the Sompnour (quoth the Frere),
Had always bawdës ready to his hand,
As any hawk to lure in Engleland,
That told him all the secrets that they knew—
For their acquaintance was not come of new;
They were his approvers privily.
He took himself at great profit thereby:
His master knew not always what he wan.
Withoutë mandement, a lewëd man
He could summon, on pain of Christë’s curse,
And they were inly glad to fill his purse,
And make him greatë feastës at the nale.
And right as Judas haddë purses smale,
And was a thief, right such a thief was he,
His master had but half his duëty.
He was (if I shall givë him his laud)
A thief, and eke a Sompnour, and a bawd.
And he had wenches at his retinue,
That whether that Sir Robert or Sir Hugh,
Or Jack, or Ralph, or whoso that it were
That lay by them, they told it in his ear.
Thus were the wench and he of one assent;
And he would fetch a feigned mandement,
And to the chapter summon them both two,
And pill the man, and let the wenchë go.
Then would he say, “Friend, I shall for thy sake
Do strike thee out of ourë letters blake;
Thee thar no more as in this case travail;
I am thy friend where I may thee avail.”
Certain he knew of bribers many mo’
Than possible is to tell in yearës two:
For in this world is no dog for the bow,
That can a hurt deer from a wholë know,
Bet than this Sompnour knew a sly lechour,
Or an adult’rer, or a paramour:
And, for that was the fruit of all his rent,
Therefore on it he set all his intent.

And so befell, that once upon a day.
This Sompnour, waiting ever on his prey,
Rode forth to summon a widow, an old ribibe,
Feigning a cause, for he would have a bribe.
And happen’d that he saw before him ride
A gay yeoman under a forest side:
A bow he bare, and arrows bright and keen,
He had upon a courtepy of green,
A hat upon his head with fringes blake.
“Sir,” quoth this Sompnour, “hail, and well o’ertake.”
“Welcome,” quoth he, “and every good felláw;
Whither ridést thou under this green shaw?”
Saidë this yeoman; “wilt thou far to-day?”
This Sompnour answer’d him, and saidë, “Nay.
Here fastë by,” quoth he, “is mine intent
To ridë, for to raisen up a rent,
That longeth to my lordë’s duety.”
“Ah! art thou then a bailiff?” “Yea,” quoth he.
He durstë not for very filth and shame
Say that he was a Sompnour, for the name.
“De par dieux,” quoth this yeoman, “levë brother,
Thou art a bailiff, and I am another.
I am unknowen, as in this countrý.
Of thine acquaintance I will prayë thee,
And eke of brotherhood, if that thee list.
I have gold and silver lying in my chest;
If that thee hap to come into our shire,
All shall be thine, right as thou wilt desire.”
“Grand mercy,” quoth this Sompnour, “by my faith.”
Each in the other’s hand his trothë lay’th,
For to be swornë brethren till they dey.
In dalliance they ridë forth and play.

This Sompnour, which that was as full of jangles,
As full of venom be those wariangles,
And ev’r inquiring upon every thing,
“Brother,” quoth he, “where is now your dwelling,
Another day if that I should you seech?”
This yeoman him answered in soft speech;
“Brother,” quoth he, “far in the North countrý,
Where as I hope some time I shall thee see.
Ere we depart I shall thee so well wiss,
That of mine housë shalt thou never miss.”
“Now, brother,” quoth this Sompnour, “I you pray,
Teach me, while that we ridë by the way,
(Since that ye be a bailiff as am I,)
Some subtilty, and tell me faithfully
For mine offíce how that I most may win.
And sparë not for conscience or for sin,
But, as my brother, tell me how do ye.”
“Now by my trothë, brother mine,” said he,
“As I shall tell to thee a faithful tale:
My wages be full strait and eke full smale;
My lord is hard to me and dangerous,
And mine offíce is full laborious;
And therefore by extortión I live,
Forsooth I take all that men will me give.
Algate by sleightë, or by violence,
From year to year I win all my dispence;
I can no better tell thee faithfully.”
“Now certes,” quoth this Sompnour, “so fare I;
I sparë not to takë, God it wot,
But if it be too heavy or too hot.
What I may get in counsel privily,
No manner conscience of that have I.
N’ere mine extortión, I might not live,
For of such japës will I not be shrive.
Stomach nor consciencë know I none;
I shrew these shriftë-fathers every one.
Well be we met, by God and by St. Jame.
But, levë brother, tell me then thy name,”
Quoth this Sompnour. Right in this meanë while
This yeoman gan a little for to smile.

“Brother,” quoth he, “wilt thou that I thee tell?
I am a fiend, my dwelling is in hell,
And here I ride about my purchasing,
To know where men will give me any thing.
My purchase is th’ effect of all my rent.
Look how thou ridest for the same intent
To winnë good, thou reckest never how,
Right so fare I, for ridë will I now
Into the worldë’s endë for a prey.”

“Ah,” quoth this Sompnour, “benedicite! what say y’?
I weened ye were a yeoman trulý.
Ye have a mannë’s shape as well as I.
Have ye then a figúre determinate
In hellë, where ye be in your estate?”
“Nay, certainly,” quoth he, “there have we none,
But when us liketh we can take us one,
Or ellës make you seem that we be shape
Sometimë like a man, or like an ape;
Or like an angel can I ride or go;
It is no wondrous thing though it be so,
A lousy juggler can deceivë thee,
And pardie, yet can I more craft than he.”
“Why,” quoth the Sompnour, “ride ye then or gon
In sundry shapes and not always in one?”
“For we,” quoth he, “will us in such form make,
As most is able our prey for to take.”
“What maketh you to have all this laboúr?”
“Full many a causë, levë Sir Sompnoúr,”
Saidë this fiend. “But all thing hath a time;
The day is short and it is passed prime,
And yet have I won nothing in this day;
I will intend to winning, if I may,
And not intend our thingës to declare:
For, brother mine, thy wit is all too bare
To understand, although I told them thee.
But for thou askest why laboúrë we:
For sometimes we be Goddë’s instruments
And meanës to do his commandëments,
When that him list, upon his creatures,
In divers acts and in divérs figúres:
Withoutë him we have no might, certain,
If that him list to standë thereagain.
And sometimes, at our prayer, have we leave
Only the body, not the soul, to grieve:
Witness on Job, whom that we did full woe,
And sometimes have we might on both the two—
This is to say, on soul and body eke,
And sometimes be we suffer’d for to seek
Upon a man, and do his soul unrest
And not his body, and all is for the best,
When he withstandeth our temptatión,
It is a cause of his salvatión,
Albeit that it was not our intent
He should be safe, but that we would him hent.
And sometimes be we servants unto man,
As to the archbishop Saint Dunstan,
And to th’ apostle servant eke was I.”
“Yet tell me,” quoth this Sompnour, “faithfully,
Make ye you newë bodies thus alway
Of th’ elements?” The fiend answered, “Nay:
Sometimes we feign, and sometimes we arise
With deadë bodies, in full sundry wise,
And speak as reas’nably, and fair, and well,
As to the Pythoness did Samuel:
And yet will some men say it was not he.
I do no force of your divinity.
But one thing warn I thee, I will not jape,
Thou wilt algatës weet how we be shape:
Thou shalt hereafterward, my brother dear,
Come, where thee needeth not of me to lear.
For thou shalt by thine own experience
Conne in a chair to rede of this senténce,
Better than Virgil, while he was alive,
Or Dante also. Now let us ride blive,
For I will holdë company with thee,
Till it be so that thou forsakë me.”

“Nay,” quoth this Sompnour, “that shall ne’er betide.
I am a yeoman, that is known full wide;
My trothë will I hold, as in this case;
For though thou wert the devil Satanas,
My trothë will I hold to thee, my brother,
As I have sworn, and each of us to other,
For to be truë brethren in this case,
And both we go abouten our purchase.
Take thou thy part, what that men will thee give,
And I shall mine, thus may we bothë live.
And if that any of us have more than other,
Let him be true, and part it with his brother.”
“I grantë,” quoth the devil, “by my fay.”
And with that word they rodë forth their way,
And right at th’ ent’ring of the townë’s end,
To which this Sompnour shope him for to wend,
They saw a cart, that charged was with hay,
Which that a carter drove forth on his way.
Deep was the way, for which the cartë stood:
The carter smote, and cried as he were wood,
“Heit Scot! heit Brok! what, spare ye for the stones?
The fiend (quoth he) you fetch body and bones,
As farforthly as ever ye were foal’d,
So muchë woe as I have with you tholed.
The devil have all, horses, and cart, and hay.”
The Sompnour said, “Here shall we have a prey;”
And near the fiend he drew, as nought ne were,
Full privily, and rowned in his ear:
“Hearken, my brother, hearken, by thy faith,
Hearest thou not, how that the carter saith?
Hent it anon, for he hath giv’n it thee,
Both hay and cart, and eke his capels three.”
“Nay,” quoth the devil, “God wot, never a deal,
It is not his intent, trust thou me well;
Ask him thyself, if thou not trowest me,
Or ellës stint a while and thou shalt see.”
The carter thwack’d his horses on the croup,
And they began to drawen and to stoop.
“Heit now,” quoth he; “there, Jesus Christ you bless,
And all his handiwork, both more and less!
That was well twight, mine owen liart, boy,
I pray God save thy body, and Saint Loy!
Now is my cart out of the slough, pardie.”
“Lo, brother,” quoth the fiend, “what told I thee?
Here may ye see, mine owen dearë brother,
The churl spake one thing, but he thought another.
Let us go forth abouten our voyáge;
Here win I nothing upon this carriáge.”

When that they came somewhat out of the town,
This Sompnour to his brother gan to rown;
“Brother,” quoth he, “here wons an old rebeck,
That had almost as lief to lose her neck.
As for to give a penny of her good.
I will have twelvepence, though that she be wood,
Or I will summon her to our offíce;
And yet, God wot, of her know I no vice.
But for thou canst not, as in this countrý,
Winnë thy cost, take here example of me.”
This Sompnour clapped at the widow’s gate:
“Come out,” he said, “thou oldë very trate;
I trow thou hast some friar or priest with thee.”
“Who clappeth?” said this wife; “ben’dicite,
God save you, Sir, what is your sweetë will?”
“I have,” quoth he, “of summons here a bill.
Up pain of cursing, lookë that thou be
To-morrow before our archdeacon’s knee,
To answer to the court of certain things.”
“Now Lord,” quoth she, “Christ Jesus, king of kings,
So wis1y helpë me, as I not may.
I have been sick, and that full many a day.
I may not go so far,” quoth she, “nor ride,
But I be dead, so pricketh it my side.
May I not ask a libel, Sir Sompnoúr,
And answer there by my procúratoúr
To such thing as men would apposë me?”
“Yes,” quoth this Sompnour, “pay anon, let see,
Twelvepence to me, and I will thee acquit.
I shall no profit have thereby but lit:
My master hath the profit and not I.
Come off, and let me ridë hastily;
Give me twelvepence, I may no longer tarry.”

“Twelvepence!” quoth she; “now lady Saintë Mary
So wisly help me out of care and sin,
This widë world though that I should it win,
Ne have I not twelvepence within my hold.
Ye know full well that I am poor and old;
Kithë your almës upon me poor wretch.”
“Nay then,” quoth he, “the foulë fiend me fetch,
If I excuse thee, though thou should’st be spilt.”
“Alas!” quoth she, “God wot, I have no guilt.”
“Pay me,” quoth he, “or, by the sweet Saint Anne,
As I will bear away thy newë pan
For debtë, which thou owest me of old—
When that thou madest thine husbánd cuckóld—
I paid at home for thy correctión.”
“Thou liest,” quoth she, “by my salvatión;
Never was I ere now, widow or wife,
Summon’d unto your court in all my life;
Nor never I was but of my body true.
Unto the devil rough and black of hue
Give I thy body and my pan also.”
And when the devil heard her cursë so
Upon her knees, he said in this mannére;
“Now, Mabily, mine owen mother dear,
Is this your will in earnest that ye say?”
“The devil,” quoth she, “so fetch him ere he dey,
And pan and all, but he will him repent.”
“Nay, oldë stoat, that is not mine intent,”
Quoth this Sompnour, “for to repentë me
For any thing that I have had of thee;
I would I had thy smock and every cloth.”
“Now, brother,” quoth the devil, “be not wroth;
Thy body and this pan be mine by right.
Thou shalt with me to hellë yet tonight,
Where thou shalt knowen of our privity
More than a master of divinity.”

And with that word the foulë fiend him hent.
Body and soul, he with the devil went,
Where as the Sompnours have their heritage;
And God, that maked after his imáge
Mankindë, save and guide us all and some,
And let this Sompnour a good man become.
Lordings, I could have told you (quoth this Frere),
Had I had leisure for this Sompnour here,
After the text of Christ, and Paul, and John,
And of our other doctors many a one,
Such painës, that your heartës might agrise,
Albeit so, that no tongue may devise—
Though that I might a thousand winters tell—
The pains of thilkë cursed house of hell.
But for to keep us from that cursed place
Wake we, and pray we Jesus, of his grace,
So keep us from the tempter, Satanas.
Hearken this word, beware as in this case.
The lion sits in his await alway
To slay the innocent, if that he may.
Disposen aye your heartës to withstond
The fiend that would you makë thrall and bond;
He may not temptë you over your might,
For Christ will be your champion and your knight;
And pray, that this our Sompnour him repent
Of his misdeeds ere that the fiend him hent.

The Sompnour’s Tale

The Prologue

The Sompnour in his stirrups high he stood,
Upon this Friar his heartë was so wood,
That like an aspen leaf he quoke for ire:
“Lordings,” quoth he, “but one thing I desire;
I you beseech, that of your courtesy,
Since ye have heard this falsë Friar lie,
As suffer me I may my talë tell.
This Friar boasteth that he knoweth hell,
And, God it wot, that is but little wonder,
Friars and fiends be but little asunder.
For, pardie, ye have often time heard tell,
How that a friar ravish’d was to hell
In spirit onës by a visioún,
And, as an angel led him up and down,
To shew him all the painës that there were,
In all the place saw he not a frere;
Of other folk he saw enough in woe.
Unto the angel spake the friar tho;
‘Now, Sir,’ quoth he, ‘have friars such a grace,
That none of them shall come into this place?’
‘Yes’ quoth the angel; ‘many a millioún:’
And unto Satanas he led him down.
‘And now hath Satanas,’ said he, ‘a tail
Broader than of a carrack is the sail.
Hold up thy tail, thou Satanas,’ quoth he,
‘Shew forth thine erse, and let the friar see
Where is the nest of friars in this place.’
And less than half a furlong way of space,
Right so as bees swarmen out of a hive,
Out of the devil’s erse there gan to drive
A twenty thousand friars on a rout.
And throughout hell they swarmed all about,
And came again, as fast as they may gon,
And in his erse they creeped every one:
He clapt his tail again, and lay full still.
This friar, when he looked had his fill
Upon the torments of that sorry place,
His spirit God restored of his grace
Into his body again, and he awoke;
But natheless for fearë yet he quoke,
So was the devil’s erse aye in his mind;
That is his heritage, of very kind.
God save you allë, save this cursed Frere;
My prologue will I end in this mannére.

The Tale

Lordings, there is in Yorkshire, as I guess,
A marshy country callëd Holderness,
In which there went a limitour about
To preach, and eke to beg, it is no doubt.
And so befell that on a day this frere
Had preached at a church in his mannére,
And speciálly, above every thing,
Excited he the people in his preaching
To trentals, and to give, for Goddë’s sake,
Wherewith men mightë holy houses make,
There as divinë service is honoúr’d,
Not there as it is wasted and devoúr’d,
Nor where it needeth not for to be given,
As to possessioners, that may liven,
Thanked be God, in wealth and abundánce.
“Trentals,” said he, “deliver from penánce
Their friendës’ soulës, as well old as young,
Yea, when that they be hastily y-sung—
Not for to hold a priest jolly and gay,
He singeth not but one mass in a day.
Deliver out,” quoth he, “anon the souls.
Full hard it is, with flesh-hook or with owls
To be y-clawed, or to burn or bake:
Now speed you hastily, for Christë’s sake.”
And when this friar had said all his intent,
With qui cum patre forth his way he went,
When folk in church had giv’n him what them lest;
He went his way, no longer would he rest,
With scrip and tipped staff, y-tucked high:
In every house he gan to pore and pry,
And begged meal and cheese, or ellës corn.
His fellow had a staff tipped with horn,
A pair of tables all of ivory,
And a pointel y-polish’d fetisly,
And wrote alway the namës, as he stood,
Of all the folk that gave them any good,
Askauncë that he wouldë for them pray.
“Give us a bushel wheat, or malt, or rey,
A Goddë’s kichel, or a trip of cheese,
Or ellës what you list, we may not chese;
A Goddë’s halfpenny, or a mass penny;
Or give us of your brawn, if ye have any;
A dagon of your blanket, levë dame,
Our sister dear—lo, here I write your name—
Bacon or beef, or such thing as ye find.”
A sturdy harlot went them aye behind,
That was their hostë’s man, and bare a sack,
And what men gave them, laid it on his back.
And when that he was out at door, anon
He planed away the namës every one,
That he before had written in his tables:
He served them with nifles and with fables.—

“Nay, there thou liest, thou Sompnour,” quoth the Frere.
“Peace,” quoth our Host, “for Christë’s mother dear;
Tell forth thy tale, and spare it not at all.”
“So thrive I,” quoth this Sompnour, “so I shall.”—

So long he went from house to house, till he
Came to a house, where he was wont to be
Refreshed more than in a hundred places.
Sick lay the husband man, whose that the place is,
Bedrid upon a couchë low he lay:
“Deus hic,” quoth he; “O Thomas friend, good day,”
Said this friár, all courteously and soft.
“Thomas,” quoth he, “God yield it you, full oft
Have I upon this bench fared full well,
Here have I eaten many a merry meal.”
And from the bench he drove away the cat,
And laid adown his potent and his hat,
And eke his scrip, and sat himself adown:
His fellow was y-walked into town
Forth with his knave, into that hostelry
Where as he shopë him that night to lie.

“O dearë master,” quoth this sickë man,
“How have ye fared since that March began?
I saw you not this fortënight and more.”
“God wot,” quoth he, “laboúr’d have I full sore;
And specially for thy salvatión
Have I said many a precious orison,
And for mine other friendës, God them bless.
I have this day been at your church at mess,
And said sermón after my simple wit,
Not all after the text of Holy Writ;
For it is hard to you, as I suppose,
And therefore will I teach you aye the glose.
Glosing is a full glorious thing certáin,
For letter slayeth, as we clerkës sayn.
There have I taught them to be charitable,
And spend their good where it is reasonable.
And there I saw our damë; where is she?”
“Yonder I trow that in the yard she be,”
Saidë this man; “and she will come anon.”
“Hey master, welcome be ye by Saint John,”
Saidë this wife; “how fare ye heartily?”

This friar riseth up full courteously,
And her embraceth in his armës narrow,
And kiss’th her sweet, and chirketh as a sparrow
With his lippës: “Damë,” quoth he, “right well,
As he that is your servant every deal.
Thanked be God, that gave you soul and life,
Yet saw I not this day so fair a wife
In all the churchë, God so savë me,”
“Yea, God amend defaultës, Sir,” quoth she;
“Algatës welcome be ye, by my fay.”
“Grand mercy, Dame; that have I found alway.
But of your greatë goodness, by your leave,
I wouldë pray you that ye not you grieve,
I will with Thomas speak a little throw:
These curates be so negligent and slow
To gropë tenderly a conscience.
In shrift and preaching is my diligence
And study in Peter’s wordës and in Paul’s;
I walk and fishë Christian mennë’s souls,
To yield our Lord Jesus his proper rent;
To spread his word is allë mine intent.”
“Now by your faith, O dearë Sir,” quoth she,
“Chide him right well, for saintë charity.
He is aye angry as is a pismire,
Though that he have all that he can desire,
Though I him wrie at night, and make him warm,
And ov’r him lay my leg and eke mine arm,
He groaneth as our boar that lies in sty:
Other disport of him right none have I,
I may not please him in no manner case.”
“O Thomas, je vous dis, Thomas, Thomas,
This maketh the fiend, this must be amended.
Ire is a thing that high God hath defended,
And thereof will I speak a word or two.”
“Now, master,” quoth the wife, “ere that I go,
What will ye dine? I will go thereabout.”
“Now, Damë,” quoth he, “je vous dis sans doute,
Had I not of a capon but the liver,
And of your whitë bread not but a shiver,
And after that a roasted piggë’s head,
(But I would that for me no beast were dead,)
Then had I with you homely suffisánce.
I am a man of little sustenánce.
My spirit hath its fost’ring in the Bible.
My body is aye so ready and penible
To wakë, that my stomach is destroy’d.
I pray you, Dame, that ye be not annoy’d,
Though I so friendly you my counsel shew;
By God, I would have told it but to few.”

“Now, Sir,” quoth she, “but one word ere I go;
My child is dead within these weekës two,
Soon after that ye went out of this town.”
“His death saw I by revelatioún,”
Said this friar, “at home in our dortour.
I dare well say, that less than half an hour
After his death, I saw him borne to bliss
In minë vision, so God me wiss.
So did our sexton, and our fermerere,
That have been truë friars fifty year—
They may now, God be thanked of his love,
Makë their jubilee, and walk above.
And up I rose, and all our convent eke,
With many a tearë trilling on my cheek,
Withoutë noise or clattering of bells,
“Te Deum” was our song, and nothing else,
Save that to Christ I bade an orison,
Thanking him of my revelatión.
For, Sir and Damë, trustë me right well,
Our orisons be more effectuel,
And more we see of Christë’s secret things,
Than borel folk, although that they be kings.
We live in povert’, and in abstinence,
And borel folk in riches and dispence
Of meat and drink, and in their foul delight.
We have this worldë’s lust all in despight
Lazar and Dives lived diversely,
And diverse guerdon haddë they thereby.
Whoso will pray, he must fast and be clean,
And fat his soul, and keep his body lean.
We fare as saith th’ apostle; cloth and food
Suffice us, although they be not full good.
The cleanness and the fasting of us freres
Maketh that Christ accepteth our prayéres.
Lo, Moses forty days and forty night
Fasted, ere that the high God full of might
Spake with him in the mountain of Sinái:
With empty womb of fasting many a day
Received he the lawë, that was writ
With Goddë’s finger; and Eli, well ye wit,
In Mount Horeb, ere he had any speech
With highë God, that is our livës’ leech,
He fasted long, and was in contemplánce.
Aaron, that had the temple in governánce,
And eke the other priestës every one,
Into the temple when they shouldë gon
To prayë for the people, and do service,
They wouldë drinken in no manner wise
No drinkë, which that might them drunken make,
But there in abstinencë pray and wake,
Lest that they diëd: take heed what I say—
But they be sober that for the people pray—
Ware that, I say—no more: for it sufficeth.
Our Lord Jesus, as Holy Writ deviseth,
Gave us example of fasting and prayéres:
Therefore we mendicants, we sely freres,
Be wedded to povert’ and continence,
To charity, humbless, and abstinence,
To persecutión for righteousness,
To weeping, misericorde, and to cleannéss.
And therefore may ye see that our prayéres
(I speak of us, we mendicants, we freres),
Be to the highë God more acceptable
Than yourës, with your feastës at your table.
From Paradise first, if I shall not lie,
Was man out chased for his gluttony,
And chaste was man in Paradise certáin.
But hark now, Thomas, what I shall thee sayn;
I have no text of it, as I suppose,
But I shall find it in a manner glose;
That speciálly our sweet Lord Jesus
Spake this of friars, when he saidë thus,
‘Blessed be they that poor in spirit be.’
And so forth all the gospel may ye see,
Whether it be liker our professión,
Or theirs that swimmen in possessión;
Fy on their pomp, and on their gluttony,
And on their lewëdness! I them defy.
Me thinketh they be like Jovinian,
Fat as a whale, and walking as a swan;
All vinolent as bottle in the spence;
Their prayer is of full great reverence;
When they for soulës say the Psalm of David,
Lo, ‘Buf’ they say, Cor meum eructavit.
Who follow Christë’s gospel and his lore
But we, that humble be, and chaste, and pore,
Workers of Goddë’s word, not auditoúrs?
Therefore right as a hawk upon a sours
Up springs into the air, right so prayéres
Of charitable and chaste busy freres
Makë their sours to Goddë’s earës two.
Thomas, Thomas, so may I ride or go,
And by that lord that callëd is Saint Ive,
N’ere thou our brother, shouldest thou not thrive;
In our chapíter pray we day and night
To Christ, that he thee sendë health and might,
Thy body for to wieldë hastily.”

“God wot,” quoth he, “nothing thereof feel I;
So help me Christ, as I in fewë years
Have spended upon divers manner freres
Full many a pound, yet fare I ne’er the bet;
Certain my good have I almost beset:
Farewell my gold, for it is all ago.”

The friar answér’d, “O Thomas, dost thou so?
What needest thou diversë friars to seech?
What needeth him that hath a perfect leech,
To seeken other leeches in the town?
Your inconstánce is your confusioún.
Hold ye then me, or ellës our convént,
To prayë for you insufficiént?
Thomas, that jape it is not worth a mite;
Your malady is for we have too lite.
Ah, give that convent half a quarter oats;
And give that convent four and twenty groats;
And give that friar a penny, and let him go!
Nay, nay, Thomas, it may no thing be so.
What is a farthing worth parted on twelve?
Lo, each thing that is oned in himselve
Is morë strong than when it is y-scatter’d.
Thomas, of me thou shalt not be y-flatter’d,
Thou wouldest have our labour all for nought.
The highë God, that all this world hath wrought,
Saith, that the workman worthy is his hire.
Thomas, nought of your treasure I desire
As for myself, but that all our convént
To pray for you is aye so diligent:
And for to buildë Christë’s owen church.
Thomas, if ye will learnë for to wirch,
Of building up of churches may ye find
If it be good, in Thomas’ life of Ind.
Ye lie here full of anger and of ire,
With which the devil sets your heart on fire,
And chidë here this holy innocent
Your wife, that is so meek and patiént.
And therefore trow me, Thomas, if thee lest,
Ne strive not with thy wife, as for the best.
And bear this word away now, by thy faith,
Touching such thing, lo, what the wise man saith:
‘Within thy housë be thou no lión;
To thy subjécts do none oppressión;
Nor make thou thine acquaintance for to flee.’
And yet, Thomas, eftsoonës charge I thee,
Beware from ire that in thy bosom sleeps,
Ware from the serpent, that so slily creeps
Under the grass, and stingeth subtilly.
Beware, my son, and hearken patiently,
That twenty thousand men have lost their lives
For striving with their lemans and their wives.
Now since ye have so holy and meek a wife,
What needeth you, Thomas, to makë strife?
There is, y-wis, no serpent so cruél,
When men tread on his tail nor half so fell,
As woman is, when she hath caught an ire;
Very vengeánce is then all her desire.
Ire is a sin, one of the greatë seven,
Abominable to the God of heaven,
And to himself it is destructión.
This every lewëd vicar and parsón
Can say, how ire engenders homicide;
Ire is in sooth th’ executor of pride.
I could of ire you say so muchë sorrow,
My tale shouldë last until to-morrow.
And therefore pray I God both day and night,
An irous man God send him little might.
It is great harm, and certes great pitý
To set an irous man in high degree.

“Whilom there was an irous potestatë,
As saith Senec, that during his estate
Upon a day out rodë knightës two;
And, as fortunë would that it were so,
The one of them came home, the other not.
Anon the knight before the judge is brought,
That saidë thus; ‘Thou hast thy fellow slain,
For which I doom thee to the death certáin.’
And to another knight commanded he;
‘Go, lead him to the death, I chargë thee.’
And happened, as they went by the way
Toward the placë where as he should dey,
The knight came, which men weened had been dead.
Then thoughtë they it was the bestë rede
To lead them both unto the judge again.
They saidë, ‘Lord, the knight hath not y-slain
His fellow; here he standeth whole alive.’
‘Ye shall be dead,’ quoth he, ‘so may I thrive,
That is to say, both one, and two, and three.’
And to the firstë knight right thus spake he:
‘I damned thee, thou must algate be dead:
And thou also must needës lose thine head,
For thou the cause art why thy fellow dieth.’
And to the thirdë knight right thus he sayeth,
‘Thou hast not done that I commanded thee.’
And thus he did do slay them allë three.
Irous Cambyses was eke dronkelew,
And aye delighted him to be a shrew.
And so befell, a lord of his meinie,
That loved virtuous moralitý,
Said on a day betwixt them two right thus:
‘A lord is lost, if he be vicious.
[An irous man is like a frantic beast,
In which there is of wisdom none arrest;]
And drunkenness is eke a foul record
Of any man, and namely of a lord.
There is full many an eye and many an ear
Awaiting on a lord, he knows not where.
For Goddë’s love, drink more attemperly:
Wine maketh man to losë wretchedly
His mind, and eke his limbës every one.’
‘The réverse shalt thou see,’ quoth he, ‘anon,
And prove it by thine own experience,
That winë doth to folk no such offence.
There is no wine bereaveth me my might
Of hand, nor foot, nor of mine eyen sight.’
And for despite he drankë muchë more
A hundred part than he had done before,
And right anon this cursed irous wretch
This knightë’s sonë let before him fetch,
Commanding him he should before him stand:
And suddenly he took his bow in hand,
And up the string he pulled to his ear,
And with an arrow slew the child right there.
‘Now whether have I a sicker hand or non?’
Quoth he; ‘Is all my might and mind agone?
Hath wine bereaved me mine eyen sight?’
Why should I tell the answer of the knight?
His son was slain, there is no more to say.
Beware therefore with lordës how ye play,
Sing Placebo; and I shall if I can,
But if it be unto a poorë man:
To a poor man men should his vices tell,
But not t’ a lord, though he should go to hell.
Lo, irous Cyrus, thilkë Persian,
How he destroy’d the river of Gisen,
For that a horse of his was drowned therein,
When that he wentë Babylon to win:
He madë that the river was so small,
That women mightë wade it over all.
Lo, what said he, that so well teachë can,
‘Be thou no fellow to an irous man,
Nor with no wood man walkë by the way,
Lest thee repent;’ I will no farther say.

“Now, Thomas, levë brother, leave thine ire,
Thou shalt me find as just as is as squire;
Hold not the devil’s knife aye at thine heart;
Thine anger doth thee all too sorë smart;
But shew to me all thy confessión.”
“Nay,” quoth the sickë man, “by Saint Simón
I have been shriven this day of my curáte;
I have him told all wholly mine estate.
Needeth no more to speak of it, saith he,
But if me list of mine humility.”
“Give me then of thy good to make our cloister,”
Quoth he, “for many a mussel and many an oyster,
When other men have been full well at ease,
Hath been our food, our cloister for to rese:
And yet, God wot, unneth the foundement
Performed is, nor of our pavëment
Is not a tilë yet within our wones:
By God, we owë forty pound for stones.
Now help, Thomas, for him that harrow’d hell,
For ellës must we ourë bookës sell,
And if ye lack our predicatión,
Then goes this world all to destructión.
For whoso from this world would us bereave,
So God me save, Thomas, by your leave,
He would bereave out of this world the sun.
For who can teach and worken as we conne?
And that is not of little time (quoth he),
But since Elijah was, and Elisée,
Have friars been, that find I of record,
In charity, y-thanked be our Lord.
Now, Thomas, help for saintë charity.”
And down anon he set him on his knee.

The sick man waxed well nigh wood for ire,
He wouldë that the friar had been afire
With his falsë dissimulatión.
“Such thing as is in my possessión,”
Quoth he, “that may I give you and none other:
Ye say me thus, how that I am your brother.”
“Yea, certes,” quoth this friar, “yea, trustë well;
I took our Dame the letter of our seal”
“Now well,” quoth he, “and somewhat shall I give
Unto your holy convent while I live;
And in thine hand thou shalt it have anon,
On this conditión, and other none,
That thou depart it so, my dearë brother,
That every friar have as much as other:
This shalt thou swear on thy professión,
Withoutë fraud or cavillatión.”
“I swear it,” quoth the friar, “upon my faith.”
And therewithal his hand in his he lay’th;
“Lo here my faith, in me shall be no lack.”
“Then put thine hand adown right by my back,”
Saidë this man, “and gropë well behind,
Beneath my buttock, therë thou shalt find
A thing, that I have hid in privity.”
“Ah,” thought this friar, “that shall go with me.”
And down his hand he launched to the clift,
In hopë for to findë there a gift.
And when this sickë man feltë this frere
About his tailë groping there and here,
Amid his hand he let the friar a fart;
There is no capel drawing in a cart,
That might have let a fart of such a soun’.
The friar up start, as doth a wood lioún:
“Ah, falsë churl,” quoth he, “for Goddë’s bones,
This hast thou in despite done for the nones:
Thou shalt abie this fart, if that I may.”
His meinie, which that heard of this affray,
Came leaping in, and chased out the frere,
And forth he went with a full angry cheer
And fetch’d his fellow, there as lay his store:
He looked as it were a wildë boar,
And groundë with his teeth, so was he wroth.
A sturdy pace down to the court he go’th,
Where as there wonn’d a man of great honoúr,
To whom that he was always confessoúr:
This worthy man was lord of that villáge.
This friar came, as he were in a rage,
Where as this lord sat eating at his board:
Unnethës might the friar speak one word,
Till at the last he saidë, “God you see.”

This lord gan look, and said, “Ben’dicite!
What? Friar John, what manner world is this?
I see well that there something is amiss;
Ye look as though the wood were full of thievës.
Sit down anon, and tell me what your grieve is,
And it shall be amended, if I may.”
“I have,” quoth he, “had a despite to-day,
God yieldë you, adown in your villáge,
That in this world is none so poor a page,
That would not have abominatioún
Of that I have received in your town:
And yet ne grieveth me nothing so sore,
As that the oldë churl, with lookës hoar,
Blasphemed hath our holy convent eke.”
“Now, master,” quoth this lord, “I you beseek”—
“No master, Sir,” quoth he, “but servitoúr,
Though I have had in schoolë that honoúr.
God liketh not, that men us Rabbi call,
Neither in market, nor in your large hall.”
“No force,” quoth he; “but tell me all your grief.”
“Sir,” quoth this friar, “an odious mischíef
This day betid is to mine order and me,
And so par consequence to each degree
Of holy churchë, God amend it soon.”
“Sir,” quoth the lord, “ye know what is to doon:
Distemp’r you not, ye be my confessoúr.
Ye be the salt of th’ earth, and the savoúr;
For Goddë’s love your patiénce now hold;
Tell me your grief.” And he anon him told
As ye have heard before, ye know well what.
The lady of the house aye stillë sat,
Till she had heardë what the friar said.
“Hey, Goddë’s mother;” quoth she, “blissful maid,
Is there ought ellës? tell me faithfully.”
“Madame,” quoth he, “how thinketh you thereby?”
“How thinketh me?” quoth she; “so God me speed,
I say, a churl hath done a churlish deed,
What should I say? God let him never thé;
His sickë head is full of vanity;
I hold him in a manner phrenesy.”
“Madame,” quoth he, “by God, I shall not lie,
But I in other wise may be awreke,
I shall defame him ov’r all there I speak;
This falsë blasphemoúr, that charged me
To partë that will not departed be,
To every man alikë, with mischance.”

The lord sat still, as he were in a trance,
And in his heart he rolled up and down,
“How had this churl imaginatioún
To shewë such a problem to the frere.
Never ere now heard I of such mattére;
I trow the Devil put it in his mind.
In all arsmetrik shall there no man find,
Before this day, of such a questión.
Who shouldë make a demonstratión,
That every man should have alike his part
As of the sound and savour of a fart?
O nice proudë churl, I shrew his face.
Lo, Sirës,” quoth the lord, “with hardë grace,
Who ever heard of such a thing ere now?
To every man alikë? tell me how.
It is impossible, it may not be.
Hey nicë churl, God let him never thé.
The rumbling of a fart, and every soun’,
Is but of air reverberatioún,
And ever wasteth lite and lite away;
There is no man can deemen, by my fay,
If that it were departed equally.
What? lo, my churl, lo yet how shrewedly
Unto my confessoúr to-day he spake;
I hold him certain a demoniac.
Now eat your meat, and let the churl go play,
Let him go hang himself a devil way!”

Now stood the lordë’s squiër at the board,
That carv’d his meat, and heardë word by word
Of all this thing, which that I have you said.
“My lord,” quoth he, “be ye not evil paid,
I couldë tellë, for a gownë-cloth,
To you, Sir Friar, so that ye be not wroth,
How that this fart should even dealed be
Among your convent, if it liked thee.”
“Tell,” quoth the lord, “and thou shalt have anon
A gownë-cloth, by God and by Saint John.”
“My lord,” quoth he, “when that the weather is fair,
Withoutë wind, or perturbíng of air,
Let bring a cart-wheel here into this hall,
But lookë that it have its spokës all;
Twelve spokës hath a cart-wheel commonly;
And bring me then twelve friars, know ye why?
For thirteen is a convent as I guess;
Your confessór here, for his worthiness,
Shall perform up the number of his convént.
Then shall they kneel adown by one assent,
And to each spokë’s end, in this mannére,
Full sadly lay his nosë shall a frere;
Your noble confessór there, God him save,
Shall hold his nose upright under the nave.
Then shall this churl, with belly stiff and tought
As any tabour, hither be y-brought;
And set him on the wheel right of this cart
Upon the nave, and make him let a fart,
And ye shall see, on peril of my life,
By very proof that is demonstrative,
That equally the sound of it will wend,
And eke the stink, unto the spokës’ end,
Save that this worthy man, your confessoúr
(Because he is a man of great honoúr),
Shall have the firstë fruit, as reason is;
The noble uságe of friars yet it is,
The worthy men of them shall first be served,
And certainly he hath it well deserved;
He hath to-day taught us so muchë good
With preaching in the pulpit where he stood,
That I may vouchësafe, I say for me,
He had the firstë smell of fartës three;
And so would all his brethren hardily;
He beareth him so fair and holily.”

The lord, the lady, and each man, save the frere,
Saidë, that Jankin spake in this mattére
As well as Euclid, or as Ptolemy.
Touching the churl, they said that subtilty
And high wit made him speaken as he spake;
He is no fool, nor no demoniac.
And Jankin hath y-won a newë gown;
My tale is done, we are almost at town.

The Clerk’s Tale