Title: The Canterbury Tales

Author: Geoffrey Chaucer

Year: 1478

-------

Prologue

When April with his showers sweet with fruit

The drought of March has pierced unto the root

And bathed each vein with liquor that has power

To generate therein and sire the flower;

When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath,

Quickened again, in every holt and heath,

The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun

Into the Ram one half his course has run,

And many little birds make melody

That sleep through all the night with open eye

(So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)-

Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage,

And palmers to go seeking out strange strands,

To distant shrines well known in sundry lands.

And specially from every shire's end

Of England they to Canterbury wend,

The holy blessed martyr there to seek

Who helped them when they lay so ill and weal

Befell that, in that season, on a day

In Southwark, at the Tabard, as I lay

Ready to start upon my pilgrimage

To Canterbury, full of devout homage,

There came at nightfall to that hostelry

Some nine and twenty in a company

Of sundry persons who had chanced to fall

In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all

That toward Canterbury town would ride.

The rooms and stables spacious were and wide,

And well we there were eased, and of the best.

And briefly, when the sun had gone to rest,

So had I spoken with them, every one,

That I was of their fellowship anon,

And made agreement that we'd early rise

To take the road, as you I will apprise.

But none the less, whilst I have time and space,

Before yet farther in this tale I pace,

It seems to me accordant with reason

To inform you of the state of every one

Of all of these, as it appeared to me,

And who they were, and what was their degree,

And even how arrayed there at the inn;

And with a knight thus will I first begin.

A knight there was, and he a worthy man,

Who, from the moment that he first began

To ride about the world, loved chivalry,

Truth, honour, freedom and all courtesy.

Full worthy was he in his liege-lord's war,

And therein had he ridden (none more far)

As well in Christendom as heathenesse,

And honoured everywhere for worthiness.

At Alexandria, he, when it was won;

Full oft the table's roster he'd begun

Above all nations' knights in Prussia.

In Latvia raided he, and Russia,

No christened man so oft of his degree.

In far Granada at the siege was he

Of Algeciras, and in Belmarie.

At Ayas was he and at Satalye

When they were won; and on the Middle Sea

At many a noble meeting chanced to be.

Of mortal battles he had fought fifteen,

And he'd fought for our faith at Tramissene

Three times in lists, and each time slain his foe.

This self-same worthy knight had been also

At one time with the lord of Palatye

Against another heathen in Turkey:

And always won he sovereign fame for prize.

Though so illustrious, he was very wise

And bore himself as meekly as a maid.

He never yet had any vileness said,

In all his life, to whatsoever wight.

He was a truly perfect, gentle knight.

But now, to tell you all of his array,

His steeds were good, but yet he was not gay.

Of simple fustian wore he a jupon

Sadly discoloured by his habergeon;

For he had lately come from his voyage

And now was going on this pilgrimage.

With him there was his son, a youthful squire,

A lover and a lusty bachelor,

With locks well curled, as if they'd laid in press.

Some twenty years of age he was, I guess.

In stature he was of an average length,

Wondrously active, aye, and great of strength.

He'd ridden sometime with the cavalry

In Flanders, in Artois, and Picardy,

And borne him well within that little space

In hope to win thereby his lady's grace.

Prinked out he was, as if he were a mead,

All full of fresh-cut 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 sleeves both long and wide.

Well could be sit on horse, and fairly ride.

He could make songs and words thereto indite,

Joust, and dance too, as well as sketch and write.

So hot he loved that, while night told her tale,

He slept no more than does a nightingale.

Courteous he, and humble, willing and able,

And carved before his father at the table.

A yeoman had he, nor more servants, no,

At that time, for he chose to travel so;

And he was clad in coat and hood of green.

A sheaf of peacock arrows bright and keen

Under his belt he bore right carefully

(Well could he keep his tackle yeomanly:

His arrows had no draggled feathers low),

And in his hand he bore a mighty bow.

A cropped head had he and a sun-browned face.

Of woodcraft knew he all the useful ways.

Upon his arm he bore a bracer gay,

And at one side a sword and buckler, yea,

And at the other side a dagger bright,

Well sheathed and sharp as spear point in the light;

On breast a Christopher of silver sheen.

He bore a horn in baldric all of green;

A forester he truly was, I guess.

There was also a nun, a prioress,

Who, in her smiling, modest was and coy;

Her greatest oath was but By Saint Eloy!

And she was known as Madam Eglantine.

Full well she sang the services divine,

Intoning through her nose, becomingly;

And fair she spoke her French, and fluently,

After the school of Stratford-at-the-Bow,

For French of Paris was not hers to know.

At table she had been well taught withal,

And never from her lips let morsels fall,

Nor dipped her fingers deep in sauce, but ate

With so much care the food upon her plate

That never driblet fell upon her breast.

In courtesy she had delight and zest.

Her upper lip was always wiped so clean

That in her cup was no iota seen

Of grease, when she had drunk her draught of wine.

Becomingly she reached for meat to dine.

And certainly delighting in good sport,

She was right pleasant, amiable- in short.

She was at pains to counterfeit the look

Of courtliness, and stately manners took,

And would be held worthy of reverence.

But, to say something of her moral sense,

She was so charitable and piteous

That she would weep if she but saw a mouse

Caught in a trap, though it were dead or bled.

She had some little dogs, too, that she fed

On roasted flesh, or milk and fine white bread.

But sore she'd weep if one of them were dead,

Or if men smote it with a rod to smart:

For pity ruled her, and her tender heart.

Right decorous her pleated wimple was;

Her nose was fine; her eyes were blue as glass;

Her mouth was small and therewith soft and red;

But certainly she had a fair forehead;

It was almost a full span broad, I own,

For, truth to tell, she was not undergrown.

Neat was her cloak, as I was well aware.

Of coral small about her arm she'd bear

A string of beads and gauded all with green;

And therefrom hung a brooch of golden sheen

Whereon there was first written a crowned A,

And under, Amor vincit omnia.

Another little nun with her had she,

Who was her chaplain; and of priests she'd three.

A monk there was, one made for mastery,

An outrider, who loved his venery;

A manly man, to be an abbot able.

Full many a blooded horse had he in stable:

And when he rode men might his bridle hear

A-jingling in the whistling wind as clear,

Aye, and as loud as does the chapel bell

Where this brave monk was of the cell.

The rule of Maurus or Saint Benedict,

By reason it was old and somewhat strict,

This said monk let such old things slowly pace

And followed new-world manners in their place.

He cared not for that text a clean-plucked hen

Which holds that hunters are not holy men;

Nor that a monk, when he is cloisterless,

Is like unto a fish that's waterless;

That is to say, a monk out of his cloister.

But this same text he held not worth an oyster;

And I said his opinion was right good.

What? Should he study as a madman would

Upon a book in cloister cell? Or yet

Go labour with his hands and swink and sweat,

As Austin bids? How shall the world be served?

Let Austin have his toil to him reserved.

Therefore he was a rider day and night;

Greyhounds he had, as swift as bird in flight.

Since riding and the hunting of the hare

Were all his love, for no cost would he spare.

I saw his sleeves were purfled at the hand

With fur of grey, the finest in the land;

Also, to fasten hood beneath his chin,

He had of good wrought gold a curious pin:

A love-knot in the larger end there was.

His head was bald and shone like any glass,

And smooth as one anointed was his face.

Fat was this lord, he stood in goodly case.

His bulging eyes he rolled about, and hot

They gleamed and red, like fire beneath a pot;

His boots were soft; his horse of great estate.

Now certainly he was a fine prelate:

He was not pale as some poor wasted ghost.

A fat swan loved he best of any roast.

His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.

A friar there was, a wanton and a merry,

A limiter, a very festive man.

In all the Orders Four is none that can

Equal his gossip and his fair language.

He had arranged full many a marriage

Of women young, and this at his own cost.

Unto his order he was a noble post.

Well liked by all and intimate was he

With franklins everywhere in his country,

And with the worthy women of the town:

For at confessing he'd more power in gown

(As he himself said) than it good curate,

For of his order he was licentiate.

He heard confession gently, it was said,

Gently absolved too, leaving naught of dread.

He was an easy man to give penance

When knowing he should gain a good pittance;

For to a begging friar, money given

Is sign that any man has been well shriven.

For if one gave (he dared to boast of this),

He took the man's repentance not amiss.

For many a man there is so hard of heart

He cannot weep however pains may smart.

Therefore, instead of weeping and of prayer,

Men should give silver to poor friars all bare.

His tippet was stuck always full of knives

And pins, to give to young and pleasing wives.

And certainly he kept a merry note:

Well could he sing and play upon the rote.

At balladry he bore the prize away.

His throat was white as lily of the May;

Yet strong he was as ever champion.

In towns he knew the taverns, every one,

And every good host and each barmaid too-

Better than begging lepers, these he knew.

For unto no such solid man as he

Accorded it, as far as he could see,

To have sick lepers for acquaintances.

There is no honest advantageousness

In dealing with such poverty-stricken curs;

It's with the rich and with big victuallers.

And so, wherever profit might arise,

Courteous he was and humble in men's eyes.

There was no other man so virtuous.

He was the finest beggar of his house;

A certain district being farmed to him,

None of his brethren dared approach its rim;

For though a widow had no shoes to show,

So pleasant was his In principio,

He always got a farthing ere he went.

He lived by pickings, it is evident.

And he could romp as well as any whelp.

On love days could he be of mickle help.

For there he was not like a cloisterer,

With threadbare cope as is the poor scholar,

But he was like a lord or like a pope.

Of double worsted was his semi-cope,

That rounded like a bell, as you may guess.

He lisped a little, out of wantonness,

To make his English soft upon his tongue;

And in his harping, after he had sung,

His two eyes twinkled in his head as bright

As do the stars within the frosty night.

This worthy limiter was named Hubert.

There was a merchant with forked beard, and girt

In motley gown, and high on horse he sat,

Upon his head a Flemish beaver hat;

His boots were fastened rather elegantly.

His spoke his notions out right pompously,

Stressing the times when he had won, not lost.

He would the sea were held at any cost

Across from Middleburgh to Orwell town.

At money-changing he could make a crown.

This worthy man kept all his wits well set;

There was no one could say he was in debt,

So well he governed all his trade affairs

With bargains and with borrowings and with shares.

Indeed, he was a worthy man withal,

But, sooth to say, his name I can't recall.

A clerk from Oxford was with us also,

Who'd turned to getting knowledge, long ago.

As meagre was his horse as is a rake,

Nor he himself too fat, I'll undertake,

But he looked hollow and went soberly.

Right threadbare was his overcoat; for he

Had got him yet no churchly benefice,

Nor was so worldly as to gain office.

For he would rather have at his bed's head

Some twenty books, all bound in black and red,

Of Aristotle and his philosophy

Than rich robes, fiddle, or gay psaltery.

Yet, and for all he was philosopher,

He had but little gold within his coffer;

But all that he might borrow from a friend

On books and learning he would swiftly spend,

And then he'd pray right busily for the souls

Of those who gave him wherewithal for schools.

Of study took he utmost care and heed.

Not one word spoke he more than was his need;

And that was said in fullest reverence

And short and quick and full of high good sense.

Pregnant of moral virtue was his speech;

And gladly would he learn and gladly teach.

A sergeant of the law, wary and wise,

Who'd often gone to Paul's walk to advise,

There was also, compact of excellence.

Discreet he was, and of great reverence;

At least he seemed so, his words were so wise.

Often he sat as justice in assize,

By patent or commission from the crown;

Because of learning and his high renown,

He took large fees and many robes could own.

So great a purchaser was never known.

All was fee simple to him, in effect,

Wherefore his claims could never be suspect.

Nowhere a man so busy of his class,

And yet he seemed much busier than he was.

All cases and all judgments could he cite

That from King William's time were apposite.

And he could draw a contract so explicit

Not any man could fault therefrom elicit;

And every statute he'd verbatim quote.

He rode but badly in a medley coat,

Belted in a silken sash, with little bars,

But of his dress no more particulars.

There was a franklin in his company;

White was his beard as is the white daisy.

Of sanguine temperament by every sign,

He loved right well his morning sop in wine.

Delightful living was the goal he'd won,

For he was Epicurus' very son,

That held opinion that a full delight

Was true felicity, perfect and right.

A householder, and that a great, was he;

Saint Julian he was in his own country.

His bread and ale were always right well done;

A man with better cellars there was none.

Baked meat was never wanting in his house,

Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous

It seemed to snow therein both food and drink

Of every dainty that a man could think.

According to the season of the year

He changed his diet and his means of cheer.

Full many a fattened partridge did he mew,

And many a bream and pike in fish-pond too.

Woe to his cook, except the sauces were

Poignant and sharp, and ready all his gear.

His table, waiting in his hall alway,

Stood ready covered through the livelong day.

At county sessions was he lord and sire,

And often acted as a knight of shire.

A dagger and a trinket-bag of silk

Hung from his girdle, white as morning milk.

He had been sheriff and been auditor;

And nowhere was a worthier vavasor.

A haberdasher and a carpenter,

An arras-maker, dyer, and weaver

Were with us, clothed in similar livery,

All of one sober, great fraternity.

Their gear was new and well adorned it was;

Their weapons were not cheaply trimmed with brass,

But all with silver; chastely made and well

Their girdles and their pouches too, I tell.

Each man of them appeared a proper burges

To sit in guildhall on a high dais.

And each of them, for wisdom he could span,

Was fitted to have been an alderman;

For chattels they'd enough, and, too, of rent;

To which their goodwives gave a free assent,

Or else for certain they had been to blame.

It's good to hear Madam before one's name,

And go to church when all the world may see,

Having one's mantle borne right royally.

A cook they had with them, just for the nonce,

To boil the chickens with the marrow-bones,

And flavour tartly and with galingale.

Well could he tell a draught of London ale.

And he could roast and seethe and broil and fry,

And make a good thick soup, and bake a pie.

But very ill it was, it seemed to me,

That on his shin a deadly sore had he;

For sweet blanc-mange, he made it with the best.

There was a sailor, living far out west;

For aught I know, he was of Dartmouth town.

He sadly rode a hackney, in a gown,

Of thick rough cloth falling to the knee.

A dagger hanging on a cord had he

About his neck, and under arm, and down.

The summer's heat had burned his visage brown;

And certainly he was a good fellow.

Full many a draught of wine he'd drawn, I trow,

Of Bordeaux vintage, while the trader slept.

Nice conscience was a thing he never kept.

If that he fought and got the upper hand,

By water he sent them home to every land.

But as for craft, to reckon well his tides,

His currents and the dangerous watersides,

His harbours, and his moon, his pilotage,

There was none such from Hull to far Carthage.

Hardy. and wise in all things undertaken,

By many a tempest had his beard been shaken.

He knew well all the havens, as they were,

From Gottland to the Cape of Finisterre,

And every creek in Brittany and Spain;

His vessel had been christened Madeleine.

With us there was a doctor of physic;

In all this world was none like him to pick

For talk of medicine and surgery;

For he was grounded in astronomy.

He often kept a patient from the pall

By horoscopes and magic natural.

Well could he tell the fortune ascendent

Within the houses for his sick patient.

He knew the cause of every malady,

Were it of hot or cold, of moist or dry,

And where engendered, and of what humour;

He was a very good practitioner.

The cause being known, down to the deepest root,

Anon he gave to the sick man his boot.

Ready he was, with his apothecaries,

To send him drugs and all electuaries;

By mutual aid much gold they'd always won-

Their friendship was a thing not new begun.

Well read was he in Esculapius,

And Deiscorides, and in Rufus,

Hippocrates, and Hali, and Galen,

Serapion, Rhazes, and Avicen,

Averrhoes, Gilbert, and Constantine,

Bernard and Gatisden, and John Damascene.

In diet he was measured as could be,

Including naught of superfluity,

But nourishing and easy. It's no libel

To say he read but little in the Bible.

In blue and scarlet he went clad, withal,

Lined with a taffeta and with sendal;

And yet he was right chary of expense;

He kept the gold he gained from pestilence.

For gold in physic is a fine cordial,

And therefore loved he gold exceeding all.

There was a housewife come from Bath, or near,

Who- sad to say- was deaf in either ear.

At making cloth she had so great a bent

She bettered those of Ypres and even of Ghent.

In all the parish there was no goodwife

Should offering make before her, on my life;

And if one did, indeed, so wroth was she

It put her out of all her charity.

Her kerchiefs were of finest weave and ground;

I dare swear that they weighed a full ten pound

Which, of a Sunday, she wore on her head.

Her hose were of the choicest scarlet red,

Close gartered, and her shoes were soft and new.

Bold was her face, and fair, and red of hue.

She'd been respectable throughout her life,

With five churched husbands bringing joy and strife,

Not counting other company in youth;

But thereof there's no need to speak, in truth.

Three times she'd journeyed to Jerusalem;

And many a foreign stream she'd had to stem;

At Rome she'd been, and she'd been in Boulogne,

In Spain at Santiago, and at Cologne.

She could tell much of wandering by the way:

Gap-toothed was she, it is no lie to say.

Upon an ambler easily she sat,

Well wimpled, aye, and over all a hat

As broad as is a buckler or a targe;

A rug was tucked around her buttocks large,

And on her feet a pair of sharpened spurs.

In company well could she laugh her slurs.

The remedies of love she knew, perchance,

For of that art she'd learned the old, old dance.

There was a good man of religion, too,

A country parson, poor, I warrant you;

But rich he was in holy thought and work.

He was a learned man also, a clerk,

Who Christ's own gospel truly sought to preach;

Devoutly his parishioners would he teach.

Benign he was and wondrous diligent,

Patient in adverse times and well content,

As he was ofttimes proven; always blithe,

He was right loath to curse to get a tithe,

But rather would he give, in case of doubt,

Unto those poor parishioners about,

Part of his income, even of his goods.

Enough with little, coloured all his moods.

Wide was his parish, houses far asunder,

But never did he fail, for rain or thunder,

In sickness, or in sin, or any state,

To visit to the farthest, small and great,

Going afoot, and in his hand, a stave.

This fine example to his flock he gave,

That first he wrought and afterwards he taught;

Out of the gospel then that text he caught,

And this figure he added thereunto-

That, if gold rust, what shall poor iron do?

For if the priest be foul, in whom we trust,

What wonder if a layman yield to lust?

And shame it is, if priest take thought for keep,

A shitty shepherd, shepherding clean sheep.

Well ought a priest example good to give,

By his own cleanness, how his flock should live.

He never let his benefice for hire,

Leaving his flock to flounder in the mire,

And ran to London, up to old Saint Paul's

To get himself a chantry there for souls,

Nor in some brotherhood did he withhold;

But dwelt at home and kept so well the fold

That never wolf could make his plans miscarry;

He was a shepherd and not mercenary.

And holy though he was, and virtuous,

To sinners he was not impiteous,

Nor haughty in his speech, nor too divine,

But in all teaching prudent and benign.

To lead folk into Heaven but by stress

Of good example was his busyness.

But if some sinful one proved obstinate,

Be who it might, of high or low estate,

Him he reproved, and sharply, as I know.

There is nowhere a better priest, I trow.

He had no thirst for pomp or reverence,

Nor made himself a special, spiced conscience,

But Christ's own lore, and His apostles' twelve

He taught, but first he followed it himselve.

With him there was a plowman, was his brother,

That many a load of dung, and many another

Had scattered, for a good true toiler, he,

Living in peace and perfect charity.

He loved God most, and that with his whole heart

At all times, though he played or plied his art,

And next, his neighbour, even as himself.

He'd thresh and dig, with never thought of pelf,

For Christ's own sake, for every poor wight,

All without pay, if it lay in his might.

He paid his taxes, fully, fairly, well,

Both by his own toil and by stuff he'd sell.

In a tabard he rode upon a mare.

There were also a reeve and miller there;

A summoner, manciple and pardoner,

And these, beside myself, made all there were.

The miller was a stout churl, be it known,

Hardy and big of brawn and big of bone;

Which was well proved, for when he went on lam

At wrestling, never failed he of the ram.

He was a chunky fellow, broad of build;

He'd heave a door from hinges if he willed,

Or break it through, by running, with his head.

His beard, as any sow or fox, was red,

And broad it was as if it were a spade.

Upon the coping of his nose he had

A wart, and thereon stood a tuft of hairs,

Red as the bristles in an old sow's ears;

His nostrils they were black and very wide.

A sword and buckler bore he by his side.

His mouth was like a furnace door for size.

He was a jester and could poetize,

But mostly all of sin and ribaldries.

He could steal corn and full thrice charge his fees;

And yet he had a thumb of gold, begad.

A white coat and blue hood he wore, this lad.

A bagpipe he could blow well, be it known,

And with that same he brought us out of town.

There was a manciple from an inn of court,

To whom all buyers might quite well resort

To learn the art of buying food and drink;

For whether he paid cash or not, I think

That he so knew the markets, when to buy,

He never found himself left high and dry.

Now is it not of God a full fair grace

That such a vulgar man has wit to pace

The wisdom of a crowd of learned men?

Of masters had he more than three times ten,

Who were in law expert and curious;

Whereof there were a dozen in that house

Fit to be stewards of both rent and land

Of any lord in England who would stand

Upon his own and live in manner good,

In honour, debtless (save his head were wood),

Or live as frugally as he might desire;

These men were able to have helped a shire

In any case that ever might befall;

And yet this manciple outguessed them all.

The reeve he was a slender, choleric man

Who shaved his beard as close as razor can.

His hair was cut round even with his ears;

His top was tonsured like a pulpiteer's.

Long were his legs, and they were very lean,

And like a staff, with no calf to be seen.

Well could he manage granary and bin;

No auditor could ever on him win.

He could foretell, by drought and by the rain,

The yielding of his seed and of his grain.

His lord's sheep and his oxen and his dairy,

His swine and horses, all his stores, his poultry,

Were wholly in this steward's managing;

And, by agreement, he'd made reckoning

Since his young lord of age was twenty years;

Yet no man ever found him in arrears.

There was no agent, hind, or herd who'd cheat

But he knew well his cunning and deceit;

They were afraid of him as of the death.

His cottage was a good one, on a heath;

By green trees shaded with this dwelling-place.

Much better than his lord could he purchase.

Right rich he was in his own private right,

Seeing he'd pleased his lord, by day or night,

By giving him, or lending, of his goods,

And so got thanked- but yet got coats and hoods.

In youth he'd learned a good trade, and had been

A carpenter, as fine as could be seen.

This steward sat a horse that well could trot,

And was all dapple-grey, and was named Scot.

A long surcoat of blue did he parade,

And at his side he bore a rusty blade.

Of Norfolk was this reeve of whom I tell,

From near a town that men call Badeswell.

Bundled he was like friar from chin to croup,

And ever he rode hindmost of our troop.

A summoner was with us in that place,

Who had a fiery-red, cherubic face,

For eczema he had; his eyes were narrow

As hot he was, and lecherous, as a sparrow;

With black and scabby brows and scanty beard;

He had a face that little children feared.

There was no mercury, sulphur, or litharge,

No borax, ceruse, tartar, could discharge,

Nor ointment that could cleanse enough, or bite,

To free him of his boils and pimples white,

Nor of the bosses resting on his cheeks.

Well loved he garlic, onions, aye and leeks,

And drinking of strong wine as red as blood.

Then would he talk and shout as madman would.

And when a deal of wine he'd poured within,

Then would. he utter no word save Latin.

Some phrases had he learned, say two or three,

Which he had garnered out of some decree;

No wonder, for he'd heard it all the day;

And all you know right well that even a jay

Can call out Wat as well as can the pope.

But when, for aught else, into him you'd grope,

'Twas found he'd spent his whole philosophy;

Just Questio quid juris would he cry.

He was a noble rascal, and a kind;

A better comrade 'twould be hard to find.

Why, he would suffer, for a quart of wine,

Some good fellow to have his concubine

A twelve-month, and excuse him to the full

(Between ourselves, though, he could pluck a gull).

And if he chanced upon a good fellow,

He would instruct him never to have awe,

In such a case, of the archdeacon's curse,

Except a man's soul lie within his purse;

For in his purse the man should punished be.

The purse is the archdeacon's Hell, said he.

But well I know he lied in what he said;

A curse ought every guilty man to dread

(For curse can kill, as absolution save),

And 'ware significavit to the grave.

In his own power had he, and at ease,

The boys and girls of all the diocese,

And knew their secrets, and by counsel led.

A garland had he set upon his head,

Large as a tavern's wine-bush on a stake;

A buckler had he made of bread they bake.

With him there rode a gentle pardoner

Of Rouncival, his friend and his compeer;

Straight from the court of Rome had journeyed he.

Loudly he sang Come hither, love, to me,

The summoner joining with a burden round;

Was never horn of half so great a sound.

This pardoner had hair as yellow as wax,

But lank it hung as does a strike of flax;

In wisps hung down such locks as he'd on head,

And with them he his shoulders overspread;

But thin they dropped, and stringy, one by one.

But as to hood, for sport of it, he'd none,

Though it was packed in wallet all the while.

It seemed to him he went in latest style,

Dishevelled, save for cap, his head all bare.

As shiny eyes he had as has a hare.

He had a fine veronica sewed to cap.

His wallet lay before him in his lap,

Stuffed full of pardons brought from Rome all hot.

A voice he had that bleated like a goat.

No beard had he, nor ever should he have,

For smooth his face as he'd just had a shave;

I think he was a gelding or a mare.

But in his craft, from Berwick unto Ware,

Was no such pardoner in any place.

For in his bag he had a pillowcase

The which, he said, was Our True Lady's veil:

He said he had a piece of the very sail

That good Saint Peter had, what time he went

Upon the sea, till Jesus changed his bent.

He had a latten cross set full of stones,

And in a bottle had he some pig's bones.

But with these relics, when he came upon

Some simple parson, then this paragon

In that one day more money stood to gain

Than the poor dupe in two months could attain.

And thus, with flattery and suchlike japes,

He made the parson and the rest his apes.

But yet, to tell the whole truth at the last,

He was, in church, a fine ecclesiast.

Well could he read a lesson or a story,

But best of all he sang an offertory;

For well he knew that when that song was sung,

Then might he preach, and all with polished tongue.

To win some silver, as he right well could;

Therefore he sang so merrily and so loud.

Now have I told you briefly, in a clause,

The state, the array, the number, and the cause

Of the assembling of this company

In Southwark, at this noble hostelry

Known as the Tabard Inn, hard by the Bell.

But now the time is come wherein to tell

How all we bore ourselves that very night

When at the hostelry we did alight.

And afterward the story I engage

To tell you of our common pilgrimage.

But first, I pray you, of your courtesy,

You'll not ascribe it to vulgarity

Though I speak plainly of this matter here,

Retailing you their words and means of cheer;

Nor though I use their very terms, nor lie.

For this thing do you know as well as I:

When one repeats a tale told by a man,

He must report, as nearly as he can,

Every least word, if he remember it,

However rude it be, or how unfit;

Or else he may be telling what's untrue,

Embellishing and fictionizing too.

He may not spare, although it were his brother;

He must as well say one word as another.

Christ spoke right broadly out, in holy writ,

And, you know well, there's nothing low in it.

And Plato says, to those able to read:

The word should be the cousin to the deed.

Also, I pray that you'll forgive it me

If I have not set folk, in their degree

Here in this tale, by rank as they should stand.

My wits are not the best, you'll understand.

Great cheer our host gave to us, every one,

And to the supper set us all anon;

And served us then with victuals of the best.

Strong was the wine and pleasant to each guest.

A seemly man our good host was, withal,

Fit to have been a marshal in some hall;

He was a large man, with protruding eyes,

As fine a burgher as in Cheapside lies;

Bold in his speech, and wise, and right well taught,

And as to manhood, lacking there in naught.

Also, he was a very merry man,

And after meat, at playing he began,

Speaking of mirth among some other things,

When all of us had paid our reckonings;

And saying thus: Now masters, verily

You are all welcome here, and heartily:

For by my truth, and telling you no lie,

I have not seen, this year, a company

Here in this inn, fitter for sport than now.

Fain would I make you happy, knew I how.

And of a game have I this moment thought

To give you joy, and it shall cost you naught.

You go to Canterbury; may God speed

And the blest martyr soon requite your meed.

And well I know, as you go on your way,

You'll tell good tales and shape yourselves to play;

For truly there's no mirth nor comfort, none,

Riding the roads as dumb as is a stone;

And therefore will I furnish you a sport,

As I just said, to give you some comfort.

And if you like it, all, by one assent,

And will be ruled by me, of my judgment,

And will so do as I'll proceed to say,

Tomorrow, when you ride upon your way,

Then, by my father's spirit, who is dead,

If you're not gay, I'll give you up my head.

Hold up your hands, nor more about it speak.

Our full assenting was not far to seek;

We thought there was no reason to think twice,

And granted him his way without advice,

And bade him tell his verdict just and wise,

Masters, quoth he, here now is my advice;

But take it not, I pray you, in disdain;

This is the point, to put it short and plain,

That each of you, beguiling the long day,

Shall tell two stories as you wend your way

To Canterbury town; and each of you

On coming home, shall tell another two,

All of adventures he has known befall.

And he who plays his part the best of all,

That is to say, who tells upon the road

Tales of best sense, in most amusing mode,

Shall have a supper at the others' cost

Here in this room and sitting by this post,

When we come back again from Canterbury.

And now, the more to warrant you'll be merry,

I will myself, and gladly, with you ride

At my own cost, and I will be your guide.

But whosoever shall my rule gainsay

Shall pay for all that's bought along the way.

And if you are agreed that it be so,

Tell me at once, or if not, tell me no,

And I will act accordingly. No more.

This thing was granted, and our oaths we swore,

With right glad hearts, and prayed of him, also,

That he would take the office, nor forgo

The place of governor of all of us,

Judging our tales; and by his wisdom thus

Arrange that supper at a certain price,

We to be ruled, each one, by his advice

In things both great and small; by one assent,

We stood committed to his government.

And thereupon, the wine was fetched anon;

We drank, and then to rest went every one,

And that without a longer tarrying.

Next morning, when the day began to spring,

Up rose our host, and acting as our cock,

He gathered us together in a flock,

And forth we rode, a jog-trot being the pace,

Until we reached Saint Thomas' watering-place.

And there our host pulled horse up to a walk,

And said: Now, masters, listen while I talk.

You know what you agreed at set of sun.

If even-song and morning-song are one,

Let's here decide who first shall tell a tale.

And as I hope to drink more wine and ale,

Whoso proves rebel to my government

Shall pay for all that by the way is spent.

Come now, draw cuts, before we farther win,

And he that draws the shortest shall begin.

Sir knight, said he, my master and my lord,

You shall draw first as you have pledged your word.

Come near, quoth he, my lady prioress:

And you, sir clerk, put by your bashfulness,

Nor ponder more; out hands, flow, every man!

At once to draw a cut each one began,

And, to make short the matter, as it was,

Whether by chance or whatsoever cause,

The truth is, that the cut fell to the knight,

At which right happy then was every wight.

Thus that his story first of all he'd tell,

According to the compact, it befell,

As you have heard. Why argue to and fro?

And when this good man saw that it was so,

Being a wise man and obedient

To plighted word, given by free assent,

He slid: Since I must then begin the game,

Why, welcome be the cut, and in God's name!

Now let us ride, and hearken what I say.

And at that word we rode forth on our way;

And he began to speak, with right good cheer,

His tale anon, as it is written here.

The Knight's Tale

Once on a time, as old tales tell to us,

There was a duke whose name was Theseus:

Of Athens he was lord and governor,

And in his time was such a conqueror

That greater was there not beneath the sun.

Full many a rich country had he won;

What with his wisdom and his chivalry

He gained the realm of Femininity,

That was of old time known as Scythia.

There wedded he the queen, Hippolyta,

And brought her home with him to his country.

In glory great and with great pageantry,

And, too, her younger sister, Emily.

And thus, in victory and with melody,

Let I this noble duke to Athens ride

With all his armed host marching at his side.

And truly, were it not too long to hear,

I would have told you fully how, that year,

Was gained the realm of Femininity

By Theseus and by his chivalry;

And all of the great battle that was wrought

Where Amazons and the Athenians fought;

And how was wooed and won Hippolyta,

That fair and hardy queen of Scythia;

And of the feast was made at their wedding,

And of the tempest at their home-coming;

But all of that I must for now forbear.

I have, God knows, a large field for my share,

And weak the oxen, and the soil is tough.

The remnant of the tale is long enough.

I will not hinder any, in my turn;

Let each man tell his tale, until we learn

Which of us all the most deserves to win;

So where I stopped, again I'll now begin.

This duke of whom I speak, of great renown,

When he had drawn almost unto the town,

In all well-being and in utmost pride,

He grew aware, casting his eyes aside,

That right upon the road, as suppliants do,

A company of ladies, two by two,

Knelt, all in black, before his cavalcade;

But such a clamorous cry of woe they made

That in the whole world living man had heard

No such a lamentation, on my word;

Nor would they cease lamenting till at last

They'd clutched his bridle reins and held them fast.

What folk are you that at my home-coming

Disturb my triumph with this dolorous thing?

Cried Theseus. Do you so much envy

My honour that you thus complain and cry?

Or who has wronged you now, or who offended?

Come, tell me whether it may be amended;

And tell me, why are you clothed thus, in black?

The eldest lady of them answered back,

After she'd swooned, with cheek so deathly drear

That it was pitiful to see and hear,

And said: Lord, to whom Fortune has but given

Victory, and to conquer where you've striven,

Your glory and your honour grieve not us;

But we beseech your aid and pity thus.

Have mercy on our woe and our distress.

Some drop of pity, of your gentleness,

Upon us wretched women, oh, let fall!

For see, lord, there is no one of us all

That has not been a duchess or a queen;

Now we are captives, as may well be seen:

Thanks be to Fortune and her treacherous wheel,

There's none can rest assured of constant weal.

And truly, lord, expecting your return,

In Pity's temple, where the fires yet burn,

We have been waiting through a long fortnight;

Now help us, lord, since it is in your might.

I, wretched woman, who am weeping thus,

Was once the wife of King Capaneus,

Who died at Thebes, oh, cursed be the day!

And all we that you see in this array,

And make this lamentation to be known,

All we have lost our husbands at that town

During the siege that round about it lay.

And now the old Creon, ah welaway!

The lord and governor of Thebes city,

Full of his wrath and all iniquity,

He, in despite and out of tyranny,

To do the dead a shame and villainy,

Of all our husbands, lying among the slain,

Has piled the bodies in a heap, amain,

And will not suffer them, nor give consent,

To buried be, or burned, nor will relent,

But sets his dogs to eat them, out of spite.

And on that word, at once, without respite,

They all fell prone and cried out piteously:

Have on us wretched women some mercy,

And let our sorrows sink into your heart!

This gentle duke down from his horse did start

With heart of pity, when he'd heard them speak.

It seemed to him his heart must surely break,

Seeing them there so miserable of state,

Who had been proud and happy but so late.

And in his arms he took them tenderly,

Giving them comfort understandingly:

And swore his oath, that as he was true knight,

He would put forth so thoroughly his might

Against the tyrant Creon as to wreak

Vengeance so great that all of Greece should speak

And say how Creon was by Theseus served,

As one that had his death full well deserved.

This sworn and done, he no more there abode;

His banner he displayed and forth he rode

Toward Thebes, and all his host marched on beside;

Nor nearer Athens would he walk or ride,

Nor take his ease for even half a day,

But onward, and in camp that night he lay;

And thence he sent Hippolyta the queen

And her bright sister Emily, I ween,

Unto the town of Athens, there to dwell

While he went forth. There is no more to tell.

The image of red Mars, with spear and shield,

So shone upon his banner's snow-white field

It made a billowing glitter up and down;

And by the banner borne was his pennon,

On which in beaten gold was worked, complete,

The Minotaur, which he had slain in Crete.

Thus rode this duke, thus rode this conqueror,

And in his host of chivalry the flower,

Until he came to Thebes and did alight

Full in the field where he'd intent to fight.

But to be brief in telling of this thing,

With Creon, who was Thebes' dread lord and king,

He fought and slew him, manfully, like knight,

In open war, and put his host to flight;

And by assault he took the city then,

Levelling wall and rafter with his men;

And to the ladies he restored again

The bones of their poor husbands who were slain,

To do for them the last rites of that day.

But it were far too long a tale to say

The clamour of great grief and sorrowing

Those ladies raised above the bones burning

Upon the pyres, and of the great honour

That Theseus, the noble conqueror,

Paid to the ladies when from him they went;

To make the story short is my intent.

When, then, this worthy duke, this Theseus

Had slain Creon and won Thebes city thus,

Still on the field he took that night his rest,

And dealt with all the land as he thought best.

In searching through the heap of enemy dead,

Stripping them of their gear from heel to head,

The busy pillagers could pick and choose,

After the battle, what they best could use;

And so befell that in a heap they found,

Pierced through with many a grievous, bloody wound,

Two young knights lying together, side by side,

Bearing one crest, wrought richly, of their pride,

And of those two Arcita was the one,

The other knight was known as Palamon.

Not fully quick, nor fully dead they were,

But by their coats of arms and by their gear

The heralds readily could tell, withal,

That they were of the Theban blood royal,

And that they had been of two sisters born.

Out of the heap the spoilers had them torn

And carried gently over to the tent

Of Theseus; who shortly had them sent

To Athens, there in prison cell to lie

For ever, without ransom, till they die.

And when this worthy duke had all this done,

He gathered host and home he rode anon,

With laurel crowned again as conqueror;

There lived he in all joy and all honour

His term of life; what more need words express?

And in a tower, in anguish and distress,

Palamon and Arcita, day and night,

Dwelt whence no gold might help them to take flight.

Thus passed by year by year and day by day,

Till it fell out, upon a morn in May,

That Emily, far fairer to be seen

Than is the lily on its stalk of green,

And fresher than is May with flowers new

(For with the rose's colour strove her hue,

I know not which was fairer of the two),

Before the dawn, as was her wont to do,

She rose and dressed her body for delight;

For May will have no sluggards of the night.

That season rouses every gentle heart

And forces it from winter's sleep to start,

Saying: Arise and show thy reverence.

So Emily remembered to go thence

In honour of the May, and so she rose.

Clothed, she was sweeter than any flower that blows;

Her yellow hair was braided in one tress

Behind her back, a full yard long, I guess.

And in the garden, as the sun up-rose,

She sauntered back and forth and through each close,

Gathering many a flower, white and red,

To weave a delicate garland for her head;

And like a heavenly angel's was her song.

The tower tall, which was so thick and strong,

And of the castle was the great donjon,

(Wherein the two knights languished in prison,

Of whom I told and shall yet tell, withal),

Was joined, at base, unto the garden wall

Whereunder Emily went dallying.

Bright was the sun and clear that morn in spring,

And Palamon, the woeful prisoner,

As was his wont, by leave of his gaoler,

Was up and pacing round that chamber high,

From which the noble city filled his eye,

And, too, the garden full of branches green,

Wherein bright Emily, fair and serene,

Went walking and went roving up and down.

This sorrowing prisoner, this Palamon,

Being in the chamber, pacing to and fro,

And to himself complaining of his woe,

Cursing his birth, he often cried Alas!

And so it was, by chance or other pass,

That through a window, closed by many a bar

Of iron, strong and square as any spar,

He cast his eyes upon Emilia,

And thereupon he blenched and cried out Ah!

As if he had been smitten to the heart.

And at that cry Arcita did up-start,

Asking: My cousin, why what ails you now

That you've so deathly pallor on your brow?

Why did you cry out? Who's offended you?

For God's love, show some patience, as I do,

With prison, for it may not different be;

Fortune has given this adversity.

Some evil disposition or aspect

Of Saturn did our horoscopes affect

To bring us here, though differently 'twere sworn;

But so the stars stood when we two were born;

We must endure it; that, in brief, is plain.

This Palamon replied and said again:

Cousin, indeed in this opinion now

Your fancy is but vanity, I trow.

It's not our prison that caused me to cry.

But I was wounded lately through the eye

Down to my heart, and that my bane will be.

The beauty of the lady that I see

There in that garden, pacing to and fro,

Is cause of all my crying and my woe.

I know not if she's woman or goddess;

But Venus she is verily, I guess.

And thereupon down on his knees he fell,

And said: O Venus, if it be thy will

To be transfigured in this garden, thus

Before me, sorrowing wretch, oh now help us

Out of this prison to be soon escaped.

And if it be my destiny is shaped,

By fate, to die in durance, in bondage,

Have pity, then, upon our lineage

That has been brought so low by tyranny.

And on that word Arcita looked to see

This lady who went roving to and fro.

And in that look her beauty struck him so

That, if poor Palamon is wounded sore,

Arcita is as deeply hurt, and more.

And with a sigh he said then, piteously:

The virgin beauty slays me suddenly

Of her that wanders yonder in that place;

And save I have her pity and her grace,

That I at least may see her day by day,

I am but dead; there is no more to say.

This Palamon, when these words he had heard,

Pitilessly he watched him, and answered:

Do you say this in earnest or in play?

Nay, quoth Arcita, earnest, now, I say!

God help me, I am in no mood for play!

Palamon knit his brows and stood at bay.

It will not prove, he said, to your honour

After so long a time to turn traitor

To me, who am your cousin and your brother,

Sworn as we are, and each unto the other,

That never, though for death in any pain,

Never, indeed, till death shall part us twain,

Either of us in love shall hinder other,

No, nor in any thing, O my dear brother;

But that, instead, you shall so further me

As I shall you. All this we did agree.

Such was your oath and such was mine also.

You dare not now deny it, well I know.

Thus you are of my party, beyond doubt.

And now you would all falsely go about

To love my lady, whom I love and serve,

And shall while life my heart's blood may preserve.

Nay, false Arcita, it shall not be so.

I loved her first, and told you all my woe,

As to a brother and to one that swore

To further me, as I have said before.

For which you are in duty bound, as knight,

To help me, if the thing lie in your might,

Or else you're false, I say, and downfallen.

Then this Arcita proudly spoke again:

You shall, he said, be rather false than I;

And that you're so, I tell you utterly;

For par amour I loved her first, you know.

What can you say? You know not, even now,

Whether she is a woman or goddess!

Yours is a worship as of holiness,

While mine is love, as of a mortal maid;

Wherefore I told you of it, unafraid,

As to my cousin and my brother sworn.

Let us assume you loved her first, this morn;

Know you not well the ancient writer's saw

Of 'Who shall give a lover any law?'

Love is a greater law, aye by my pan,

Than man has ever given to earthly man.

And therefore statute law and such decrees

Are broken daily and in all degrees.

A man must needs have love, maugre his head.

He cannot flee it though he should be dead,

And be she maid, or widow, or a wife.

And yet it is not likely that, in life,

You'll stand within her graces; nor shall I;

For you are well aware, aye verily,

That you and I are doomed to prison drear

Perpetually; we gain no ransom here.

We strive but as those dogs did for the bone;

They fought all day, and yet their gain was none.

Till came a kite while they were still so wroth

And bore the bone away between them both.

And therefore, at the king's court, O my brother,

It's each man for himself and not for other.

Love if you like; for I love and aye shall;

And certainly, dear brother, that is all.

Here in this prison cell must we remain

And each endure whatever fate ordain.

Great was the strife, and long, betwixt the two,

If I had but the time to tell it you,

Save in effect. It happened on a day

(To tell the tale as briefly as I may),

A worthy duke men called Pirithous,

Who had been friend unto Duke Theseus

Since each had been a little child, a chit,

Was come to visit Athens and visit

His play-fellow, as he was wont to do,

For in this whole world he loved no man so;

And Theseus loved him as truly- nay,

So well each loved the other, old books say,

That when one died (it is but truth I tell),

The other went and sought him down in Hell;

But of that tale I have no wish to write.

Pirithous loved Arcita, too, that knight,

Having known him in Thebes full many a year;

And finally, at his request and prayer,

And that without a coin of ransom paid,

Duke Theseus released him out of shade,

Freely to go where'er he wished, and to

His own devices, as I'll now tell you.

The compact was, to set it plainly down,

As made between those two of great renown:

That if Arcita, any time, were found,

Ever in life, by day or night, on ground

Of any country of this Theseus,

And he were caught, it was concerted thus,

That by the sword he straight should lose his head.

He had no choice, so taking leave he sped

Homeward to Thebes, lest by the sword's sharp edge

He forfeit life. His neck was under pledge.

How great a sorrow is Arcita's now!

How through his heart he feels death's heavy blow,

He weeps, he wails, he cries out piteously;

He thinks to slay himself all privily.

Said he: Alas, the day that I was born!

I'm in worse prison, now, and more forlorn;

Now am I doomed eternally to dwell

No more in Purgatory, but in Hell.

Alas, that I have known Pirithous!

For else had I remained with Theseus,

Fettered within that cell; but even so

Then had I been in bliss and not in woe.

Only the sight of her that I would serve,

Though I might never her dear grace deserve,

Would have sufficed, oh well enough for me!

O my dear cousin Palamon, said he,

Yours is the victory, and that is sure,

For there, full happily, you may endure.

In prison? Never, but in Paradise!

Oh, well has Fortune turned for you the dice,

Who have the sight of her, I the absence.

For possible it is, in her presence,

You being a knight, a worthy and able,

That by some chance, since Fortune's changeable.

You may to your desire sometime attain.

But I, that am in exile and in pain,

Stripped of all hope and in so deep despair

That there's no earth nor water, fire nor air,

Nor any creature made of them there is

To help or give me comfort, now, in this-

Surely I'll die of sorrow and distress;

Farewell, my life, my love, my joyousness!

Alas! Why is it men so much complain

Of what great God, or Fortune, may ordain,

When better is the gift, in any guise,

Than men may often for themselves devise?

One man desires only that great wealth

Which may but cause his death or long ill-health.

One who from prison gladly would be free,

At home by his own servants slain might be.

Infinite evils lie therein, 'tis clear;

We know not what it is we pray for here.

We fare as he that's drunken as a mouse;

A drunk man knows right well he has a house,

But he knows not the right way leading thither;

And a drunk man is sure to slip and slither.

And certainly, in this world so fare we;

We furiously pursue felicity,

Yet we go often wrong before we die.

This may we all admit, and specially I,

Who deemed and held, as I were under spell,

That if I might escape from prison cell,

Then would I find again what might heal,

Who now am only exiled from my weal.

For since I may not see you, Emily,

I am but dead; there is no remedy.

And on the other hand, this Palamon,

When that he found Arcita truly gone,

Such lamentation made he, that the tower

Resounded of his crying, hour by hour.

The very fetters on his legs were yet

Again with all his bitter salt tears wet.

Alas! said he, Arcita, cousin mine,

With all our strife, God knows, you've won the wine.

You're walking, now, in Theban streets, at large,

And all my woe you may from mind discharge.

You may, too, since you've wisdom and manhood,

Assemble all the people of our blood

And wage a war so sharp on this city

That by some fortune, or by some treaty,

You shall yet have that lady to your wife

For whom I now must needs lay down my life.

For surely 'tis in possibility,

Since you are now at large, from prison free,

And are a lord, great is your advantage

Above my own, who die here in a cage.

For I must weep and wail, the while I live,

In all the grief that prison cell may give,

And now with pain that love gives me, also,

Which doubles all my torment and my woe.

Therewith the fires of jealousy up-start

Within his breast and burn him to the heart

So wildly that he seems one, to behold,

Like seared box tree, or ashes, dead and cold.

Then said he: O you cruel Gods, that sway

This world in bondage of your laws, for aye,

And write upon the tablets adamant

Your counsels and the changeless words you grant,

What better view of mankind do you hold

Than of the sheep that huddle in the fold?

For man must die like any other beast,

Or rot in prison, under foul arrest,

And suffer sickness and misfortune sad,

And still be ofttimes guiltless, too, by gad!

What management is in this prescience

That, guiltless, yet torments our innocence?

And this increases all my pain, as well,

That man is bound by law, nor may rebel,

For fear of God, but must repress his will,

Whereas a beast may all his lust fulfill.

And when a beast is dead, he feels no pain;

But, after death, man yet must weep amain,

Though in this world he had but care and woe:

There is no doubt that it is even so.

The answer leave I to divines to tell,

But well I know this present world is hell.

Alas! I see a serpent or a thief,

That has brought many a true man unto grief,

Going at large, and where he wills may turn,

But I must lie in gaol, because Saturn,

And Juno too, both envious and mad,

Have spilled out well-nigh all the blood we had

At Thebes, and desolated her wide walls.

And Venus slays me with the bitter galls

Of fear of Arcita, and jealousy.

Now will I leave this Palamon, for he

Is in his prison, where he still must dwell,

And of Arcita will I forthwith tell.

Summer being passed away and nights grown long,

Increased now doubly all the anguish strong

Both of the lover and the prisoner.

I know not which one was the woefuller.

For, to be brief about it, Palamon

Is doomed to lie for ever in prison,

In chains and fetters till he shall be dead;

And exiled (on the forfeit of his head)

Arcita must remain abroad, nor see,

For evermore, the face of his lady.

You lovers, now I ask you this question:

Who has the worse, Arcita or Palamon?

The one may see his lady day by day,

But yet in prison must he dwell for aye.

The other, where he wishes, he may go,

But never see his lady more, ah no.

Now answer as you wish, all you that can.

For I will speak right on as I began.

Explicit prima pars.

Sequitur pars secunda.

Now when Arcita unto Thebes was come,

He lay and languished all day in his home,

Since he his lady nevermore should see,

But telling of his sorrow brief I'll be.

Had never any man so much torture,

No, nor shall have while this world may endure.

Bereft he was of sleep and meat and drink,

That lean he grew and dry as shaft, I think.

His eyes were hollow and ghastly to behold,

His face was sallow, all pale and ashen-cold,

And solitary kept he and alone,

Wailing the whole night long, making his moan.

And if he heard a song or instrument,

Then he would weep ungoverned and lament;

So feeble were his spirits, and so low,

And so changed was he, that no man could know

Him by his words or voice, whoever heard.

And in this change, for all the world he fared

As if not troubled by malady of love,

But by that humor dark and grim, whereof

Springs melancholy madness in the brain,

And fantasy unbridled holds its reign.

And shortly, all was turned quite upside-down,

Both habits and the temper all had known

Of him, this woeful lover, Dan Arcite.

Why should I all day of his woe indite?

When he'd endured all this a year or two,

This cruel torment and this pain and woe,

At Thebes, in his own country, as I said,

Upon a night, while sleeping in his bed,

He dreamed of how the winged God Mercury

Before him stood and bade him happier be.

His sleep-bestowing wand he bore upright;

A hat he wore upon his ringlets bright.

Arrayed this god was (noted at a leap)

As he'd been when to Argus he gave sleep.

And thus he spoke: To Athens shall you wend;

For all your woe is destined there to end.

And on that word Arcita woke and started.

Now truly, howsoever sore I'm smarted,

Said he, to Athens right now will I fare;

Nor for the dread of death will I now spare

To see my lady, whom I love and serve;

I will not reck of death, with her, nor swerve.

And with that word he caught a great mirror,

And saw how changed was all his old colour,

And saw his visage altered from its kind.

And right away it ran into his mind

That since his face was now disfigured so,

By suffering endured (as well we know),

He might, if he should bear him low in town,

Live there in Athens evermore, unknown,

Seeing his lady well-nigh every day.

And right anon he altered his array,

Like a poor labourer in mean attire,

And all alone, save only for a squire,

Who knew his secret heart and all his case,

And who was dressed as poorly as he was,

To Athens was he gone the nearest way.

And to the court he went upon a day,

And at the gate he proffered services

To drudge and drag, as any one devises.

And to be brief herein, and to be plain,

He found employment with a chamberlain

Was serving in the house of Emily;

For he was sharp and very soon could see

What every servant did who served her there.

Right well could he hew wood and water bear,

For he was young and mighty, let me own,

And big of muscle, aye and big of bone,

To do what any man asked, in a trice.

A year or two he was in this service,

Page of the chamber of Emily the bright;

He said Philostrates would name him right.

But half so well beloved a man as he

Was never in that court, of his degree;

His gentle nature was so clearly shown,

That throughout all the court spread his renown.

They said it were but kindly courtesy

If Theseus should heighten his degree

And put him in more honourable service

Wherein he might his virtue exercise.

And thus, anon, his name was so up-sprung,

Both for his deeds and sayings of his tongue,

That Theseus had brought him nigh and nigher

And of the chamber he had made him squire,

And given him gold to maintain dignity.

Besides, men brought him, from his own country,

From year to year, clandestinely, his rent;

But honestly and slyly it was spent,

And no man wondered how he came by it.

And three years thus he lived, with much profit,

And bore him so in peace and so in war

There was no man that Theseus loved more.

And in such bliss I leave Arcita now,

And upon Palamon some words bestow.

In darksome, horrible, and strong prison

These seven years has now sat Palamon,

Wasted by woe and by his long distress.

Who has a two-fold evil heaviness

But Palamon? whom love yet tortures so

That half out of his wits he is for woe;

And joined thereto he is a prisoner,

Perpetually, not only for a year.

And who could rhyme in English, properly,

His martyrdom? Forsooth, it is not I;

And therefore I pass lightly on my way.

It fell out in the seventh year, in May,

On the third night (as say the books of old

Which have this story much more fully told),

Were it by chance or were it destiny

(Since, when a thing is destined, it must be),

That, shortly after midnight, Palamon,

By helping of a friend, broke from prison,

And fled the city, fast as he might go;

For he had given his guard a drink that so

Was mixed of spice and honey and certain wine

And Theban opiate and anodyne,

That all that night, although a man might shake

This gaoler, he slept on, nor could awake.

And thus he flees as fast as ever he may.

The night was short and it was nearly day,

Wherefore he needs must find a place to hide;

And to a grove that grew hard by, with stride

Of furtive foot, went fearful Palamon.

In brief, he'd formed his plan, as he went on,

That in the grove he would lie fast all day,

And when night came, then would he take his way

Toward Thebes, and there find friends, and of them pray

Their help on Theseus in war's array;

And briefly either he would lose his life,

Or else win Emily to be his wife;

This is the gist of his intention plain.

Now I'll return to Arcita again,

Who little knew how near to him was care

Till Fortune caught him in her tangling snare.

The busy lark, the herald of the day,

Salutes now in her song the morning grey;

And fiery Phoebus rises up so bright

That all the east is laughing with the light,

And with his streamers dries, among the greves,

The silver droplets hanging on the leaves.

And so Arcita, in the court royal

With Theseus and his squire principal,

Is risen, and looks on the merry day.

And now, to do his reverence to May,

Calling to mind the point of his desire,

He on a courser, leaping high like fire,

Is ridden to the fields to muse and play,

Out of the court, a mile or two away;

And to the grove, whereof I lately told,

By accident his way began to hold,

To make him there the garland that one weaves

Of woodbine leaves and of green hawthorn leaves.

And loud he sang within the sunlit sheen:

O May, with all thy flowers and all thy green,

Welcome be thou, thou fair and freshening May:

I hope to pluck some garland green today.

And from his courser, with a lusty heart,

Into the grove right hastily did start,

And on a path he wandered up and down,

Near which, and as it chanced, this Palamon

Lay in the thicket, where no man might see,

For sore afraid of finding death was be.

He knew not that Arcita was so near:

God knows he would have doubted eye and ear,

But it has been a truth these many years

That Fields have eyes and every wood has ears.

It's well for one to bear himself with poise;

For every day unlooked-for chance annoys.

And little knew Arcita of his friend,

Who was so near and heard him to the end,

Where in the bush lie sat now, keeping still.

Arcita, having roamed and roved his fill,

And having sung his rondel, lustily,

Into a study fell he, suddenly,

As do these lovers in their strange desires,

Now in the trees, now down among the briers,

Now up, now down, like bucket in a well.

Even as on a Friday, truth to tell,

The sun shines now, and now the rain comes fast,

Even so can fickle Venus overcast

The spirits of her people; as her day,

Is changeful, so she changes her array.

Seldom is Friday quite like all the week.

Arcita, having sung, began to speak,

And sat him down, sighing like one forlorn.

Alas, said he, the day that I was born!

How long, O Juno, of thy cruelty,

Wilt thou wage bitter war on Thebes city?

Alas! Confounded beyond all reason

The blood of Cadmus and of Amphion;

Of royal Cadmus, who was the first man

To build at Thebes, and first the town began,

And first of all the city to be king;

Of his lineage am I, and his offspring,

By true descent, and of the stock royal:

And now I'm such a wretched serving thrall,

That he who is my mortal enemy,

I serve him as his squire, and all humbly.

And even more does Juno give me shame,

For I dare not acknowledge my own name;

But whereas I was Arcita by right,

Now I'm Philostrates, not worth a mite.

Alas, thou cruel Mars! Alas, Juno!

Thus have your angers all our kin brought low,

Save only me, and wretched Palamon,

Whom Theseus martyrs yonder in prison.

And above all, to slay me utterly,

Love has his fiery dart so burningly

Struck through my faithful and care-laden heart,

My death was patterned ere my swaddling-shirt.

You slay me with your two eyes, Emily;

You are the cause for which I now must die.

For on the whole of all my other care

I would not set the value of a tare,

So I could do one thing to your pleasance!

And with that word he fell down in a trance

That lasted long; and then he did up-start.

This Palamon, who thought that through his heart

He felt a cold and sudden sword blade glide,

For rage he shook, no longer would he hide.

But after he had heard Arcita's tale,

As he were mad, with face gone deathly pale,

He started up and sprang out of the thicket,

Crying: Arcita, oh you traitor wicked,

Now are you caught, that crave my lady so,

For whom I suffer all this pain and woe,

And are my blood, and know my secrets' store,

As I have often told you heretofore,

And have befooled the great Duke Thesues,

And falsely changed your name and station thus:

Either I shall be dead or you shall die.

You shall not love my lady Emily,

But I will love her, and none other, no;

For I am Palamon, your mortal foe.

And though I have no weapon in this place,

Being but out of prison by God's grace,

I say again, that either you shall die

Or else forgo your love for Emily.

Choose which you will, for you shall not depart.

This Arcita, with scornful, angry heart,

When he knew him and all the tale had heard,

Fierce as a lion, out he pulled a sword,

And answered thus: By God that sits above!

Were it not you are sick and mad for love,

And that you have no weapon in this place,

Out of this grove you'd never move a pace,

But meet your death right now, and at my hand.

For I renounce the bond and its demand

Which you assert that I have made with you.

What, arrant fool, love's free to choose and do,

And I will have her, spite of all your might!

But in as much as you're a worthy knight

And willing to defend your love, in mail,

Hear now this word: tomorrow I'll not fail

(Without the cognizance of any wight)

To come here armed and harnessed as a knight,

And to bring arms for you, too, as you'll see;

And choose the better and leave the worse for me.

And meat and drink this very night I'll bring,

Enough for you, and clothes for your bedding.

And if it be that you my lady win

And slay me in this wood that now I'm in,

Then may you have your lady, for all of me.

This Palamon replied: I do agree.

And thus they parted till the morrow morn,

When each had pledged his honour to return.

O Cupido, that know'st not charity!

O despot, that no peer will have with thee!

Truly, 'tis said, that love, like all lordship,

Declines, with little thanks, a partnership.

Well learned they that, Arcite and Palamon.

Arcita rode into the town anon,

And on the morrow, ere the dawn, he bore,

Secretly, arms and armour out of store,

Enough for each, and proper to maintain

A battle in the field between the twain.

So on his horse, alone as he was born,

He carried out that harness as he'd sworn;

And in the grove, at time and place they'd set,

Arcita and this Palamon were met.

Each of the two changed colour in the face.

For as the hunter in the realm of Thrace

Stands at the clearing with his ready spear,

When hunted is the lion, or the bear,

And through the forest hears him rushing fast,

Breaking the boughs and leaves, and thinks aghast.

Here comes apace my mortal enemy!

Now, without fail, he must be slain, or I;

For either I must kill him ere he pass,

Or he will make of me a dead carcass-

So fared these men, in altering their hue,

So far as each the strength of other knew.

There was no good-day given, no saluting,

But without word, rehearsal, or such thing,

Each of them helping, so they armed each other

As dutifully as he were his own brother;

And afterward, with their sharp spears and strong,

They thrust each at the other wondrous long.

You might have fancied that this Palamon,

In battle, was a furious, mad lion,

And that Arcita was a tiger quite:

Like very boars the two began to smite,

Like boars that froth for anger in the wood.

Up to the ankles fought they in their blood.

And leaving them thus fighting fast and fell,

Forthwith of Theseus I now will tell.

Great destiny, minister-general,

That executes in this world, and for all,

The needs that God foresaw ere we were born,

So strong it is that, though the world had sworn

The contrary of a thing, by yea or nay,

Yet sometime it shall fall upon a day,

Though not again within a thousand years.

For certainly our wishes and our fears,

Whether of war or peace, or hate or love,

All, all are ruled by that Foresight above.

This show I now by mighty Theseus,

Who to go hunting is so desirous,

And specially of the hart of ten, in May,

That, in his bed, there dawns for him no day

That he's not clothed and soon prepared to ride

With hound and horn and huntsman at his side.

For in his hunting has he such delight,

That it is all his joy and appetite

To be himself the great hart's deadly bane:

For after Mars, he serves Diana's reign.

Clear was the day, as I have told ere this,

When Theseus, compact of joy and bliss,

With his Hippolyta, the lovely queen,

And fair Emilia, clothed all in green,

A-hunting they went riding royally.

And to the grove of trees that grew hard by,

In which there was a hart, as men had told,

Duke Theseus the shortest way did hold.

And to the glade he rode on, straight and right,

For there the hart was wont to go in flight,

And over a brook, and so forth on his way.

This duke would have a course at him today,

With such hounds as it pleased him to command.

And when this duke was come upon that land,

Under the slanting sun he looked, anon,

And there saw Arcita and Palamon,

Who furiously fought, as two boars do;

The bright swords went in circles to and fro

So terribly, that even their least stroke

Seemed powerful enough to fell an oak;

But who the two were, nothing did he note.

This duke his courser with the sharp spurs smote,

And in one bound he was between the two,

And lugged his great sword out, and cried out: Ho!

No more, I say, on pain of losing head!

By mighty Mars, that one shall soon be dead

Who smites another stroke that I may see!

But tell me now what manner of men ye be

That are so hardy as to fight out here

Without a judge or other officer,

As if you-rode in lists right royally?

This Palamon replied, then, hastily,

Saying: O Sire, what need for more ado?

We have deserved our death at hands of you.

Two woeful wretches are we, two captives

That are encumbered by our own sad lives;

And as you are a righteous lord and judge,

Give us not either mercy or refuge,

But slay me first, for sacred charity;

But slay my fellow here, as well, with me.

Or slay him first; for though you learn it late,

This is your mortal foe, Arcita- wait!-

That from the land was banished, on his head.

And for the which he merits to be dead.

For this is he who came unto your gate,

Calling himself Philostrates- nay, wait!-

Thus has he fooled you well this many a year,

And you have made him your chief squire, I hear:

And this is he that loves fair Emily.

For since the day is come when I must die,

I make confession plainly and say on,

That I am that same woeful Palamon

Who has your prison broken, viciously.

I am your mortal foe, and it is I

Who love so hotly Emily the bright

That I'll die gladly here within her sigh!

Therefore do I ask death as penalty,

But slay my fellow with the same mercy,

For both of us deserve but to be slain.

This worthy duke presently spoke again,

Saying: This judgment needs but a short session:

Your own mouth, aye, and by your own confession,

Has doomed and damned you, as I shall record.

There is no need for torture, on my word.

But you shall die, by mighty Mars the red!

But then the queen, whose heart for pity bled,

Began to weep, and so did Emily

And all the ladies in the company.

Great pity must it be, so thought they all,

That ever such misfortune should befall:

For these were gentlemen, of great estate,

And for no thing, save love, was their debate.

They saw their bloody wounds, so sore and wide,

And all cried out- greater and less, they cried:

Have mercy, lord, upon us women all!

And down upon their bare knees did they fall,

And would have kissed his feet there where he stood,

Till at the last assuaged was his high mood;

For soon will pity flow through gentle heart.

And though he first for ire did shake and start,

He soon considered, to state the case in brief,

What cause they had for fighting, what for grief;

And though his anger still their guilt accused,

Yet in his reason he held them both excused;

In such wise: he thought well that every man

Will help himself in love, if he but can,

And will himself deliver from prison;

And, too, at heart he had compassion on

Those women, for they cried and wept as one,

And in his gentle heart he thought anon,

And softly to himself he said then: Fie

Upon a lord that will have no mercy,

But acts the lion, both in word and deed,

To those repentant and in fear and need,

As well as to the proud and pitiless man

That still would do the thing that he began!

That lord must surely in discretion lack

Who, in such case, can no distinction make,

But weighs both proud and humble in one scale.

And shortly, when his ire was thus grown pale,

He looked up to the sky, with eyes alight,

And spoke these words, as he would promise plight:

The god of love, ah benedicite!

How mighty and how great a lord is he!

Against his might may stand no obstacles,

A true god is he by his miracles;

For he can manage, in his own sweet wise,

The heart of anyone as he devise.

Lo, here, Arcita and this Palamon,

That were delivered out of my prison,

And might have lived in Thebes right royally,

Knowing me for their mortal enemy,

And also that their lives lay in my hand;

And yet their love has wiled them to this land,

Against all sense, and brought them here to die!

Look you now, is not that a folly high?

Who can be called a fool, except he love?

And see, for sake of God who sits above,

See how they bleed! Are they not well arrayed?

Thus has their lord, the god of love, repaid

Their wages and their fees for their service!

And yet they are supposed to be full wise

Who serve love well, whatever may befall!

But this is yet the best jest of them all,

That she for whom they have this jollity

Can thank them for it quite as much as me;

She knows no more of all this fervent fare,

By God! than knows a cuckoo or a hare.

But all must be essayed, both hot and cold,

A man must play the fool, when young or old;

I know it of myself from years long gone:

For of love's servants I've been numbered one.

And therefore, since I know well all love's pain,

And know how sorely it can man constrain,

As one that has been taken in the net,

I will forgive your trespass, and forget,

At instance of my sweet queen, kneeling here,

Aye, and of Emily, my sister dear.

And you shall presently consent to swear

That nevermore will you my power dare,

Nor wage war on me, either night or day,

But will be friends to me in all you may;

I do forgive this trespass, full and fair.

And then they swore what he demanded there,

And, of his might, they of his mercy prayed,

And he extended grace, and thus he said:

To speak for royalty's inheritress,

Although she be a queen or a princess,

Each of you both is worthy, I confess,

When comes the time to wed: but nonetheless,

I speak now of my sister Emily,

The cause of all this strife and jealousy-

You know yourselves she may not marry two,

At once, although you fight or what you do:

One of you, then, and be he loath or lief,

Must pipe his sorrows in an ivy leaf.

That is to say, she cannot have you both,

However jealous one may be, or wroth.

Therefore I put you both in this decree,

That each of you shall learn his destiny

As it is cast; and hear, now, in what wise

The word of fate shall speak through my device.

My will is this, to draw conclusion flat,

Without reply, or plea, or caveat

(In any case, accept it for the best),

That each of you shall follow his own quest,

Free of all ransom or of fear from me;

And this day, fifty weeks hence, both shall be

Here once again, each with a hundred knights,

Armed for the lists, who stoutly for your rights

Will ready be to battle, to maintain

Your claim to love. I promise you, again,

Upon my word, and as I am a knight,

That whichsoever of you wins the fight,

That is to say, whichever of you two

May with his hundred, whom I spoke of, do

His foe to death, or out of boundary drive,

Then he shall have Emilia to wive

To whom Fortune gives so fair a grace.

The lists shall be erected in this place.

And God so truly on my soul have ruth

As I shall prove an honest judge, in truth.

You shall no other judgment in me waken

Than that the one shall die or else be taken.

And if you think the sentence is well said,

Speak your opinion, that you're well repaid.

This is the end, and I conclude hereon.

Who looks up lightly now but Palamon?

Who leaps for you but Arcita the knight?

And who could tell, or who could ever write

The jubilation made within that place

Where Theseus has shown so fair a grace?

But down on knee went each one for delight

And thanked him there with all his heart and might,

And specially those Thebans did their part.

And thus, with high hopes, being blithe of heart,

They took their leave; and homeward did they ride

To Thebes that sits within her old walls wide.

Explicit secunda pars.

Sequitur pars tercia.

I think that men would deem it negligence

If I forgot to tell of the expense

Of Theseus, who went so busily

To work upon the lists, right royally;

For such an amphitheatre he made,

Its equal never yet on earth was laid.

The circuit, rising, hemmed a mile about,

Walled all of stone and moated deep without.

Round was the shape as compass ever traces,

And built in tiers, the height of sixty paces,

That those who sat in one tier, or degree,

Should hinder not the folk behind to see.

Eastward there stood a gate of marble white.

And westward such another, opposite.

In brief, no place on earth, and so sublime,

Was ever made in so small space of time;

For in the land there was no craftsman quick

At plane geometry or arithmetic,

No painter and no sculptor of hard stone,

But Theseus pressed meat and wage upon

To build that amphitheatre and devise.

And to observe all rites and sacrifice,

Over the eastern gate, and high above,

For worship of Queen Venus, god of love,

He built an altar and an oratory;

And westward, being mindful of the glory

Of Mars, he straightway builded such another

As cost a deal of gold and many a bother.

And northward, in a turret on the wall,

Of alabaster white and red coral,

An oratory splendid as could be,

In honour of Diana's chastity,

Duke Theseus wrought out in noble wise.

But yet have forgot to advertise

The noble carvings and the portraitures,

The shapes, the countenances, the figures

That all were in these oratories three.

First, in the fane of Venus, one might see,

Wrought on the wall, and piteous to behold,

The broken slumbers and the sighing cold,

The sacred tears and the lamenting dire,

The fiery throbbing of the strong desire,

That all love's servants in this life endure;

The vows that all their promises assure;

Pleasure and hope, desire, foolhardiness,

Beauty, youth, bawdiness, and riches, yes,

Charms, and all force, and lies, and flattery,

Expense, and labour; aye, and Jealousy

That wore of marigolds a great garland

And had a cuckoo sitting on her hand;

Carols and instruments and feasts and dances,

Lust and array, and all the circumstances

Of love that I may reckon or ever shall,

In order they were painted on the wall,

Aye, and more, too, than I have ever known.

For truly, all the Mount of Citheron,

Where Venus has her chief and favoured dwelling,

Was painted on that wall, beyond my telling,

With all the gardens in their loveliness.

Nor was forgot the gate-guard Idleness,

Nor fair Narcissus of the years long gone,

Nor yet the folly of King Solomon,

No, nor the giant strength of Hercules,

Nor Circe's and Medea's sorceries,

Nor Turnus with his hardy, fierce courage,

Nor the rich Croesus, captive in his age.

Thus may be seen that wisdom, nor largess,

Beauty, nor skill, nor strength, nor hardiness,

May with Queen Venus share authority;

For as she wills, so must the whole world be.

Lo, all these folk were so caught in her snare

They cried aloud in sorrow and in care.

Here let suffice examples one or two,

Though I might give a thousand more to you.

The form of Venus, glorious as could be,

Was naked, floating on the open sea,

And from the navel down all covered was

With green waves, bright as ever any glass.

A citole in her small right hand had she,

And on her head, and beautiful to see,

A garland of red roses, sweet smelling,

Above her swirled her white doves, fluttering.

Before her stood her one son, Cupido,

Whose two white wings upon his shoulders grow;

And blind he was, as it is often seen;

A bow he bore, and arrows bright and keen.

Why should I not as well, now, tell you all

The portraiture that was upon the wall

Within the fane of mighty Mars the red?

In length and breadth the whole wall was painted

Like the interior of that grisly place,

The mighty temple of great Mars in Thrace,

In that same cold and frosty region where

Mars to his supreme mansion may repair.

First, on the wall was limned a vast forest

Wherein there dwelt no man nor any beast,

With knotted, gnarled, and leafless trees, so old

The sharpened stumps were dreadful to behold;

Through which there ran a rumbling, even now,

As if a storm were breaking every bough;

And down a hill, beneath a sharp descent,

The temple stood of Mars armipotent,

Wrought all of burnished steel, whereof the gate

Was grim like death to see, and long, and strait.

And therefrom raged a wind that seemed to shake

The very ground, and made the great doors quake.

The northern light in at those same doors shone,

For window in that massive wall was none

Through which a man might any light discern.

The doors were all of adamant eterne,

Rivetted on both sides, and all along,

With toughest iron; and to make it strong,

Each pillar that sustained this temple grim

Was thick as tun, of iron bright and trim.

There saw I first the dark imagining

Of felony, and all the compassing;

And cruel anger, red as burning coal;

Pickpurses, and the dread that eats the soul;

The smiling villain, hiding knife in cloak;

The farm barns burning, and the thick black smoke;

The treachery of murder done in bed;

The open battle, with the wounds that bled;

Contest, with bloody knife and sharp menace;

And loud with creaking was that dismal place.

The slayer of himself, too, saw I there,

His very heart's blood matted in his hair;

The nail that's driven in the skull by night;

The cold plague-corpse, with gaping mouth upright

In middle of the temple sat Mischance,

With gloomy, grimly woeful countenance.

And saw I Madness laughing in his rage;

Armed risings, and outcries, and fierce outrage;

The carrion in the bush, with throat wide carved;

A thousand slain, nor one by plague, nor starved.

The tyrant, with the spoils of violent theft;

The town destroyed, in ruins, nothing left.

And saw I burnt the ships that dance by phares,

The hunter strangled by the fierce wild bears;

The sow chewing the child right in the cradle;

The cook well scalded, spite of his long ladle.

Nothing was lacking of Mars' evil part:

The carter over-driven by his cart,

Under a wheel he lay low in the dust.

There were likewise in Mars' house, as needs must,

The surgeon, and the butcher, and the smith

Who forges sharp swords and great ills therewith.

And over all, depicted in a tower,

Sat Conquest, high in honour and in power,

Yet with a sharp sword hanging o'er his head

But by the tenuous twisting of a thread.

Depicted was the death of Julius,

Of Nero great, and of Antonius;

And though at that same time they were unborn,

There were their deaths depicted to adorn

The menacing of Mars, in likeness sure;

Things were so shown, in all that portraiture,

As are fore-shown among the stars above,

Who shall be slain in war or dead for love.

Suffice one instance from old plenitude,

I could not tell them all, even if I would.

Mars' image stood upon a chariot,

Armed, and so grim that mad he seemed, God wot;

And o'er his head two constellations shone

Of stars that have been named in writings known.

One being Puella, and one Rubeus.

This god of armies was companioned thus:

A wolf there was before him, at his feet,

Red-eyed, and of a dead man he did eat.

A cunning pencil there had limned this story

In reverence of Mars and of his glory.

Now to the temple of Diana chaste,

As briefly as I can, I'll pass in haste,

To lay before you its description well.

In pictures, up and down, the wall could tell

Of hunting and of modest chastity.

There saw I how Callisto fared when she

(Diana being much aggrieved with her)

Was changed from woman into a she-bear,

And after, made into the lone Pole Star;

There was it; I can't tell how such things are.

Her son, too, is a star, as men may see.

There saw I Daphne turned into a tree

(I do not mean Diana, no, but she,

Peneus' daughter, who was called Daphne)

I saw Actaeon made a hart all rude

For punishment of seeing Diana nude;

I saw, too, how his fifty hounds had caught

And him were eating, since they knew him not.

And painted farther on, I saw before

How Atalanta hunted the wild boar;

And Meleager, and many another there,

For which Diana wrought him woe and care.

There saw I many another wondrous tale

From which I will not now draw memory's veil.

This goddess on an antlered hart was set,

With little hounds about her feet, and yet

Beneath her perfect feet there was a moon,

Waxing it was, but it should wane full soon.

In robes of yellowish green her statue was,

She'd bow in hand and arrows in a case.

Her eyes were downcast, looking at the ground.

Where Pluto in his dark realm may be found.

Before her was a woman travailing,

Who was so long in giving birth, poor thing,

That pitifully Lucina did she call,

Praying, Oh help, for thou may'st best of all!

Well could he paint, who had this picture wrought,

With many a florin he'd his colours bought,

But now the lists were done, and Theseus,

Who at so great cost had appointed thus

The temples and the circus, as I tell,

When all was done, he liked it wondrous well.

But hold I will from Theseus, and on

To speak of Arcita and Palamon.

The day of their return is forthcoming,

When each of them a hundred knights must bring

The combat to support, as I have told;

And into Athens, covenant to uphold,

Has each one ridden with his hundred knights,

Well armed for war, at all points, in their mights.

And certainly, 'twas thought by many a man

That never, since the day this world began,

Speaking of good knights hardy of their hands,

Wherever God created seas and lands,

Was, of so few, so noble company.

For every man that loved all chivalry,

And eager was to win surpassing fame,

Had prayed to play a part in that great game;

And all was well with him who chosen was.

For if there came tomorrow such a case,

You know right well that every lusty knight

Who loves the ladies fair and keeps his might,

Be it in England, aye or otherwhere,

Would wish of all things to be present there

To fight for some fair lady. Ben'cite!

'Twould be a pleasant goodly sight to see!

And so it was with those with Palamon.

With him there rode of good knights many a one;

Some would be armoured in a habergeon

And in a breastplate, under light jupon;

And some wore breast-and back-plates thick and large;

And some would have a Prussian shield, or targe;

Some on their very legs were armoured well,

And carried axe, and some a mace of steel.

There is no new thing, now, that is not old.

And so they all were armed, as I have told,

To his own liking and design, each one.

There might you see, riding with Palamon,

Lycurgus' self, the mighty king of Thrace;

Black was his beard and manly was his face.

The eyeballs in the sockets of his head,

They glowed between a yellow and a red.

And like a griffon glared he round about

From under bushy eyebrows thick and stout.

His limbs were large, his muscles hard and strong.

His shoulders broad, his arms both big and long,

And, as the fashion was in his country,

High in a chariot of gold stood he,

With four white bulls in traces, to progress.

Instead of coat-of-arms above harness,

With yellow claws preserved and bright as gold,

He wore a bear-skin, black and very old.

His long combed hair was hanging down his back,

As any raven's feather it was black:

A wreath of gold, arm-thick, of heavy weight,

Was on his head, and set with jewels great,

Of rubies fine and perfect diamonds.

About his car there circled huge white hounds,

Twenty or more, as large as any steer,

To hunt the lion or the antlered deer;

And so they followed him, with muzzles bound,

Wearing gold collars with smooth rings and round.

A hundred lords came riding in his rout,

All armed at point, with hearts both stern and stout

With Arcita, in tales men call to mind,

The great Emetreus, a king of Ind,

Upon a bay steed harnessed all in steel,

Covered with cloth of gold, all diapered well,

Came riding like the god of arms, great Mars.

His coat-of-arms was cloth of the Tartars,

Begemmed with pearls, all white and round and great.

Of beaten gold his saddle, burnished late;

A mantle from his shoulders hung, the thing

Close-set with rubies red, like fire blazing.

His crisp hair all in bright ringlets was run,

Yellow as gold and gleaming as the sun.

His nose was high, his eyes a bright citrine,

His lips were full, his colouring sanguine.

And a few freckles on his face were seen,

None either black or yellow, but the mean;

And like a lion he his glances cast.

Not more than five-and-twenty years he'd past.

His beard was well beginning, now, to spring;

His voice was as a trumpet thundering.

Upon his brows he wore, of laurel green,

A garland, fresh and pleasing to be seen.

Upon his wrist he bore, for his delight,

An eagle tame, as any lily white.

A hundred lords came riding with him there,

All armed, except their heads, in all their gear,

And wealthily appointed in all things.

For, trust me well, that dukes and earls and kings

Were gathered in this noble company

For love and for increase of chivalry.

About this king there ran, on every side,

Many tame lions and leopards in their pride.

And in such wise these mighty lords, in sum,

Were, of a Sunday, to the city come

About the prime, and in the town did light.

This Theseus, this duke, this noble knight,

When he'd conducted them to his city,

And quartered them, according to degree,

He feasted them, and was at so much pains

To give them ease and honour, of his gains,

That men yet hold that never human wit,

Of high or low estate, could better it.

The minstrelsy, the service at the feast,

The great gifts to the highest and the least,

The furnishings of Theseus, rich palace,

Who highest sat or lowest on the dais,

What ladies fairest were or best dandling,

Or which of them could dance the best, or sing,

Or who could speak most feelingly of love,

Or what hawks sat upon the perch above,

Or what great hounds were lying on the floor-

Of all these I will make no mention more;

But tell my tale, for that, I think, is best;

Now comes the point, and listen if you've zest.

That Sunday night, ere day began to spring,

When Palamon the earliest lark heard sing,

Although it lacked two hours of being day,

Yet the lark sang, and Palamon sang a lay.

With pious heart and with a high courage

He rose, to go upon a pilgrimage

Unto the blessed Cytherea's shrine

(I mean Queen Venus, worthy and benign).

And at her hour he then walked forth apace

Out to the lists wherein her temple was,

And down he knelt in manner to revere,

And from a full heart spoke as you shall hear.

Fairest of fair, O lady mine, Venus,

Daughter of Jove and spouse to Vulcanus,

Thou gladdener of the Mount of Citheron,

By that great love thou borest to Adon,

Have pity on my bitter tears that smart

And hear my humble prayer within thy heart.

Alas! I have no words in which to tell

The effect of all the torments of my hell;

My heavy heart its evils can't bewray;

I'm so confused I can find naught to say.

But mercy, lady bright, that knowest well

My heart, and seest all the ills I feel,

Consider and have ruth upon my sore

As truly as I shall, for evermore,

Well as I may, thy one true servant be,

And wage a war henceforth on chastity.

If thou wilt help, thus do I make my vow,

To boast of knightly skill I care not now,

Nor do I ask tomorrow's victory,

Nor any such renown, nor vain glory

Of prize of arms, blown before lord and churl,

But I would have possession of one girl,

Of Emily, and die in thy service;

Find thou the manner how, and in what wise.

For I care not, unless it better be,

Whether I vanquish them or they do me,

So I may have my lady in my arms.

For though Mars is the god of war's alarms,

Thy power is so great in Heaven above,

That, if it be thy will, I'll have my love.

In thy fane will I worship always, so

That on thine altar, where'er I ride or go,

I will lay sacrifice and thy fires feed.

And if thou wilt not so, O lady, cede,

I pray thee, that tomorrow, with a spear,

Arcita bear me through the heart, just here.

For I'll care naught, when I have lost my life,

That Arcita may win her for his wife.

This the effect and end of all my prayer,

Give me my love, thou blissful lady fair.

Now when he'd finished all the orison,

His sacrifice he made, this Palamon,

Right piously, with all the circumstance,

Albeit I tell not now his observance.

But at the last the form of Venus shook

And gave a sign, and thereupon he took

This as acceptance of his prayer that day.

For though the augury showed some delay,

Yet he knew well that granted was his boon;

And with glad heart he got him home right soon.

Three hours unequal after Palamon

To Venus' temple at the lists had gone,

Up rose the sun and up rose Emily,

And to Diana's temple did she hie.

Her maidens led she thither, and with them

They carefully took fire and each emblem,

And incense, robes, and the remainder all

Of things for sacrifice ceremonial.

There was not one thing lacking; I'll but add

The horns of mead, as was a way they had.

In smoking temple, full of draperies fair,

This Emily with young heart debonnaire,

Her body washed in water from a well;

But how she did the rite I dare not tell,

Except it be at large, in general;

And yet it was a thing worth hearing all;

When one's well meaning, there is no transgression;

But it is best to speak at one's discretion.

Her bright hair was unbound, but combed withal;

She wore of green oak leaves a coronal

Upon her lovely head. Then she began

Two fires upon the altar stone to fan,

And did her ceremonies as we're told

In Statius' Thebaid and books as old.

When kindled was the fire, with sober face

Unto Diana spoke she in that place.

O thou chaste goddess of the wildwood green,

By whom all heaven and earth and sea are seen,

Queen of the realm of Pluto, dark and low,

Goddess of maidens, that my heart dost know

For all my years, and knowest what I desire,

Oh, save me from thy vengeance and thine ire

That on Actaeon fell so cruelly.

Chaste goddess, well indeed thou knowest that I

Desire to be a virgin all my life,

Nor ever wish to be man's love or wife.

I am, thou know'st, yet of thy company,

A maid, who loves the hunt and venery,

And to go rambling in the greenwood wild,

And not to be a wife and be with child.

I do not crave the company of man.

Now help me, lady, since thou may'st and can,

By the three beings who are one in thee.

For Palamon, who bears such love to me,

And for Arcita, loving me so sore,

This grace I pray thee, without one thing more,

To send down love and peace between those two,

And turn their hearts away from me: so do

That all their furious love and their desire,

And all their ceaseless torment and their fire

Be quenched or turned into another place;

And if it be thou wilt not show this grace,

Or if my destiny be moulded so

That I must needs have one of these same two,

Then send me him that most desires me.

Behold, O goddess of utter chastity,

The bitter tears that down my two cheeks fall.

Since thou art maid and keeper of us all,

My maidenhead keep thou, and still preserve,

And while I live a maid, thee will I serve.

The fires blazed high upon the altar there,

While Emily was saying thus her prayer,

But suddenly she saw a sight most quaint,

For there, before her eyes, one fire went faint,

Then blazed again; and after that, anon,

The other fire was quenched, and so was gone.

And as it died it made a whistling sound,

As do wet branches burning on the ground,

And from the brands' ends there ran out, anon,

What looked like drops of blood, and many a one;

At which so much aghast was Emily

That she was near dazed, and began to cry,

For she knew naught of what it signified;

But only out of terror thus she cried

And wept, till it was pitiful to hear.

But thereupon Diana did appear,

With bow in hand, like any right huntress,

And said: My daughter, leave this heaviness.

Among the high gods it has been affirmed,

And by eternal written word confirmed,

That you shall be the wife of one of those

Who bear for you so many cares and woes;

But unto which of them may not tell.

I can no longer tarry, so farewell.

The fires that on my altar burn incense

Should tell you everything, ere you go hence,

Of what must come of love in this your case.

And with that word the arrows of the chase

The goddess carried clattered and did ring,

And forth she went in mystic vanishing;

At which this Emily astonished was,

And said she then: Ah, what means this, alas!

I put myself in thy protection here,

Diana, and at thy disposal dear.

And home she wended, then, the nearest way.

This is the purport; there's no more to say.

At the next hour of Mars, and following this,

Arcita to the temple walked, that is

Devoted to fierce Mars, to sacrifice

With all the ceremonies, pagan-wise.

With sobered heart and high devotion, on

This wise, right thus he said his orison.

O mighty god that in the regions cold

Of Thrace art honoured, where thy lordships hold,

And hast in every realm and every land

The reins of battle in thy guiding hand,

And givest fortune as thou dost devise,

Accept of me my pious sacrifice.

If so it be that my youth may deserve,

And that my strength be worthy found to serve

Thy godhead, and be numbered one of thine,

Then pray I thee for ruth on pain that's mine.

For that same pain and even that hot fire

Wherein thou once did'st burn with deep desire,

When thou did'st use the marvelous beauty

Of fair young wanton Venus, fresh and free,

And had'st her in thine arms and at thy will

(Howbeit with thee, once, all the chance fell ill,

And Vulcan caught thee in his net, whenas

He found thee lying with his wife, alas!)-

For that same sorrow that was in thy heart,

Have pity, now, upon my pains that smart.

I'm young, and little skilled, as knowest thou,

With love more hurt and much more broken now

Than ever living creature was, I'm sure;

For she who makes me all this woe endure,

Whether I float or sink cares not at all,

And ere she'll hear with mercy when I call,

I must by prowess win her in this place;

And well I know, too, without help and grace

Of thee, my human strength shall not avail

Then help me, lord, tomorrow not to fail,

For sake of that same fire that once burned thee,

The which consuming fire so now burns me;

And grant, tomorrow, I have victory.

Mine be the toil, and thine the whole glory!

Thy sovereign temple will I honour most

Of any spot, and toil and count no cost

To pleasure thee and in thy craft have grace,

And in thy fane my banner will I place,

And all the weapons of my company;

And evermore, until the day I die,

Eternal fire shalt thou before thee find.

Moreover, to this vow myself I bind:

My beard, my hair that ripples down so long,

That never yet has felt the slightest wrong

Of razor or of shears, to thee I'll give,

And be thy loyal servant while I live.

Now, lord, have pity on my sorrows sore;

Give me the victory. I ask no more.

With ended prayer of Arcita the young,

The rings that on the temple door were hung,

And even the doors themselves, rattled so fast

That this Arcita found himself aghast.

The fires blazed high upon the altar bright,

Until the entire temple shone with light;

And a sweet odour rose up from the ground;

And Arcita whirled then his arm around,

And yet more incense on the fire he cast,

And did still further rites; and at the last

The armour of God Mars began to ring,

And with that sound there came a murmuring,

Low and uncertain, saying: Victory!

For which he gave Mars honour and glory.

And thus in joy and hope, which all might dare,

Arcita to his lodging then did fare,

Fain of the fight as fowl is of the sun.

But thereupon such quarrelling was begun,

From this same granting, in the heaven above,

'Twixt lovely Venus, goddess of all love,

And Mars, the iron god armipotent,

That Jove toiled hard to make a settlement;

Until the sallow Saturn, calm and cold,

Who had so many happenings known of old,

Found from his full experience the art

To satisfy each party and each part.

For true it is, age has great advantage;

Experience and wisdom come with age;

Men may the old out-run, but not out-wit.

Thus Saturn, though it scarcely did befit

His nature so to do, devised a plan

To quiet all the strife, and thus began:

Now my dear daughter Venus, quoth Saturn,

My course, which has so wide a way to turn,

Has power more than any man may know.

Mine is the drowning in sea below;

Mine is the dungeon underneath the moat;

Mine is the hanging and strangling by the throat;

Rebellion, and the base crowd's murmuring,

The groaning and the private poisoning,

And vengeance and amercement- all are mine,

While yet I dwell within the Lion's sign.

Mine is the ruining of all high halls,

And tumbling down of towers and of walls

Upon the miner and the carpenter.

I struck down Samson, that pillar shaker;

And mine are all the maladies so cold,

The treasons dark, the machinations old;

My glance is father of all pestilence.

Now weep no more. I'll see, with diligence,

That Palamon, who is your own true knight,

Shall have his lady, as you hold is right.

Though Mars may help his man, yet none the less

Between you two there must come sometime peace,

And though you be not of one temperament,

Causing each day such violent dissent,

I am your grandsire and obey your will;

Weep then no more, your pleasure I'll fulfill.

Now will I cease to speak of gods above,

Of Mars and Venus, goddess of all love,

And tell you now, as plainly as I can,

The great result, for which I first began.

Explicit tercia pars.

Sequitur pars quarta.

Great was the fete in Athens on that day,

And too, the merry season of the May

Gave everyone such joy and such pleasance

That all that Monday they'd but joust and dance,

Or spend the time in Venus' high service.

But for the reason that they must arise

Betimes, to see the heralded great fight,

All they retired to early rest that night.

And on the morrow, when that day did spring,

Of horse and harness, noise and clattering,

There was enough in hostelries about.

And to the palace rode full many a rout

Of lords, bestriding steeds and on palfreys.

There could you see adjusting of harness,

So curious and so rich, and wrought so well

Of goldsmiths' work, embroidery, and of steel;

The shields, the helmets bright, the gay trappings,

The gold-hewn casques, the coats-of-arms, the rings,

The lords in vestments rich, on their coursers,

Knights with their retinues and also squires;

The rivetting of spears, the helm-buckling,

The strapping of the shields, and. thong-lacing-

In their great need, not one of them was idle;

The frothing steeds, champing the golden bridle,

And the quick smiths, and armourers also,

With file and hammer spurring to and fro;

Yeoman, and peasants with short staves were out,

Crowding as thick as they could move about;

Pipes, trumpets, kettledrums, and clarions,

That in the battle sound such grim summons;

The palace full of people, up and down,

Here three, there ten, debating the renown

And questioning about these Theban knights,

Some put it thus, some said, It's so by rights.

Some held with him who had the great black beard,

Some with the bald-heads, some with the thick haired;

Some said, He looks grim, and he'll fight like hate;

He has an axe of twenty pound in weight.

And thus the hall was full of gossiping

Long after the bright sun began to spring.

The mighty Theseus, from sleep awakened

By songs and all the noise that never slackened,

Kept yet the chamber of this rich palace,

Till the two Theban knights, with equal grace

And honour, were ushered in with flourish fitting.

Duke Theseus was at a window sitting,

Arrayed as he were god upon a throne.

Then pressed the people thitherward full soon,

To see him and to do him reverence,

Aye, and to hear commands of sapience.

A herald on a scaffold cried out Ho!

Till all the people's noise was stilled; and so,

When he observed that all were fallen still,

He then proclaimed the mighty ruler's will.

The duke our lord, full wise and full discreet,

Holds that it were but wanton waste to meet

And fight, these gentle folk, all in the guise

Of mortal battle in this enterprise.

Wherefore, in order that no man may die,

He does his earlier purpose modify.

No man, therefore, on pain of loss of life,

Shall any arrow, pole-axe, or short knife

Send into lists in any wise, or bring;

Nor any shortened sword, for point-thrusting,

Shall a man draw, or bear it by his side.

Nor shall knight against opponent ride,

Save one full course, with any sharp-ground spear;

Unhorsed, a man may thrust with any gear.

And he that's overcome, should this occur,

Shall not be slain, but brought to barrier,

Whereof there shall be one on either side;

Let him be forced to go there and abide.

And if by chance the leader there must go,

Of either side, or slay his equal foe,

No longer, then, shall tourneying endure.

God speed you; go forth now, and lay on sure.

With long sword and with maces fight your fill.

Go now your ways; this is the lord duke's will.

The voices of the people rent the skies,

Such was the uproar of their merry cries:

Now God save such a lord, who is so good

He will not have destruction of men's blood!

Up start the trumpets and make melody.

And to the lists rode forth the company,

In marshalled ranks, throughout the city large,

All hung with cloth of gold, and not with serge.

Full like a lord this noble duke did ride,

With the two Theban knights on either side;

And, following, rode the queen and Emily,

And, after, came another company

Of one and other, each in his degree.

And thus they went throughout the whole city,

And to the lists they came, all in good time.

The day was not yet fully come to prime

When throned was Theseus full rich and high,

And Queen Hippolyta and Emily,

While other ladies sat in tiers about.

Into the seats then pressed the lesser rout.

And westward, through the gate of Mars, right hearty,

Arcita and the hundred of his party

With banner red is entering anon;

And in that self-same moment, Palamon

Is under Venus, eastward in that place,

With banner white, and resolute of face.

In all the world, searching it up and down,

So equal were they all, from heel to crown,

There were no two such bands in any way.

For there was no man wise enough to say

How either had of other advantage

In high repute, or in estate, or age,

So even were they chosen, as I guess.

And in two goodly ranks, they did then dress.

And when the name was called of every one,

That cheating in their number might be none,

Then were the gates closed, and the cry rang loud:

Now do your devoir, all you young knights proud!

The heralds cease their spurring up and down;

Now ring the trumpets as the charge is blown;

And there's no more to say, for east and west

Two hundred spears are firmly laid in rest;

And the sharp spurs are thrust, now, into side.

Now see men who can joust and who can ride!

Now shivered are the shafts on bucklers thick;

One feels through very breast-bone the spear's prick;

Lances are flung full twenty feet in height;

Out flash the swords like silver burnished bright.

Helmets are hewed, the lacings ripped and shred;

Out bursts the blood, gushing in stern streams red.

With mighty maces bones are crushed in joust.

One through the thickest throng begins to thrust.

There strong steeds stumble now, and down goes all.

One rolls beneath their feet as rolls a ball.

One flails about with club, being overthrown,

Another, on a mailed horse, rides him down.

One through the body's hurt, and haled, for aid.

Spite of his struggles, to the barricade,

As compact was, and there he must abide;

Another's captured by the other side.

At times Duke Theseus orders them to rest,

To eat a bite and drink what each likes best.

And many times that day those Thebans two

Met in the fight and wrought each other woe;

Unhorsed each has the other on that day.

No tigress in the vale of Galgophey,

Whose little whelp is stolen in the light,

Is cruel to the hunter as Arcite

For jealousy is cruel to Palamon;

Nor in Belmarie, when the hunt is on

Is there a lion, wild for want of food,

That of his prey desires so much the blood

As Palamon the death of Arcite there.

Their jealous blows fall on their helmets fair;

Out leaps the blood and makes their two sides red.

But sometime comes the end of every deed;

And ere the sun had sunk to rest in gold,

The mighty King Emetreus did hold

This Palamon, as he fought with Arcite,

And made his sword deep in the flesh to bite;

And by the force of twenty men he's made,

Unyielded, to withdraw to barricade.

And, trying hard to rescue Palamon,

The mighty King Lyburgus is borne down;

And King Emetreus, for all his strength,

Is hurled out of the saddle a sword's length,

So hits out Palamon once more, or ere

(But all for naught) he's brought to barrier.

His hardy heart may now avail him naught;

He must abide there now, being fairly caught

By force of arms, as by provision known.

Who sorrows now but woeful Palamon,

Who may no more advance into the fight?

And when Duke Theseus had seen this sight,

Unto the warriors fighting, every one,

He cried out: Hold! No more! For it is done!

Now will I prove true judge, of no party.

Theban Arcita shall have Emily,

Who, by his fortune, has her fairly won.

And now a noise of people is begun

For joy of this, so loud and shrill withal,

It seems as if the very lists will fall.

But now, what can fair Venus do above?

What says she now? What does this queen of love

But weep so fast, for thwarting of her will,

Her tears upon the lists begin to spill.

She said: Now am I shamed and over-flung.

But Saturn said: My daughter, hold your tongue.

Mars has his will, his knight has all his boon,

And, by my head, you shall be eased, and soon.

The trumpeters and other minstrelsy,

The heralds that did loudly yell and cry,

Were at their best for joy of Arcita.

But hear me further while I tell you- ah!-

The miracle that happened there anon.

This fierce Arcita doffs his helmet soon,

And mounted on a horse, to show his face,

He spurs from end to end of that great place,

Looking aloft to gaze on Emily;

And she cast down on him a friendly eye

(For women, generally speaking, go

Wherever Fortune may her favor show)

And she was fair to see, and held his heart.

But from the ground infernal furies start,

From Pluto sent, at instance of Saturn,

Whereat his horse, for fear, began to turn

And leap aside, all suddenly falling there;

And Arcita before he could beware

Was pitched upon the ground, upon his head,

And lay there, moving not, as he were dead,

His chest crushed in upon the saddle-bow.

And black he lay as ever coal, or crow,

So ran the surging blood into his face.

Anon they carried him from out that place,

With heavy hearts, to Theseus' palace.

There was his harness cut away, each lace,

And swiftly was he laid upon a bed,

For he was yet alive and some words said,

Crying and calling after Emily.

Duke Theseus, with all his company,

Is come again to Athens, his city,

With joyous heart and great festivity.

And though sore grieved for this unhappy fall,

He would not cast a blight upon them all.

Men said, too, that Arcita should not die,

But should be healed of all his injury.

And of another thing they were right fain,

Which was, that of them all no one was slain,

Though each was sore, and hurt, and specially one

Who'd got a lance-head thrust through his breastbone.

For other bruises, wounds and broken arms,

Some of them carried salves and some had charms;

And medicines of many herbs, and sage

They drank, to keep their limbs from hemorrhage.

In all of which this duke, as he well can,

Now comforts and now honours every man,

And makes a revelry the livelong night

For all these foreign lords, as was but right.

Nor was there held any discomfiting,

Save from the jousts and from the tourneying.

For truly, there had been no cause for shame,

Since being thrown is fortune of the game;

Nor is it, to be led to barrier,

Unyielded, and by twenty knights' power,

One man alone, surrounded by the foe,

Driven by arms, and dragged out, heel and toe,

And with his courser driven forth with staves

Of men on foot, yeomen and serving knaves-

All this imputes to one no kind of vice,

And no man may bring charge of cowardice.

For which, anon, Duke Theseus bade cry,

To still all rancour and all keen envy,

The worth, as well of one side as the other,

As equal both, and each the other's brother;

And gave them gifts according to degree,

And held a three days' feast, right royally;

And then convoyed these kings upon their road

For one full day, and to them honour showed.

And home went every man on his right way.

There was naught more but Farewell and Good-day.

I'll say no more of war, but turn upon

My tale of Arcita and Palamon.

Swells now Arcita's breast until the sore

Increases near his heart yet more and more.

The clotted blood, in spite of all leech-craft,

Rots in his bulk, and there is must be left,

Since no device of skillful blood-letting,

Nor drink of herbs, can help him in this thing.

The power expulsive, or virtue animal

Called from its use the virtue natural,

Could not the poison void, nor yet expel.

The tubes of both his lungs began to swell,

And every tissue in his breast, and down,

Is foul with poison and all rotten grown.

He gains in neither, in his strife to live,

By vomiting or taking laxative;

All is so broken in that part of him,

Nature Tetains no vigour there, nor vim.

And certainly, where Nature will not work,

It's farewell physic, bear the man to kirk!

The sum of all is, Arcita must die,

And so he sends a word to Emily,

And Palamon, who was his cousin dear;

And then he said to them as you shall hear.

Naught may the woeful spirit in my heart

Declare one point of how my sorrows smart

To you, my lady, whom I love the most;

But I bequeath the service of my ghost

To you above all others, this being sure

Now that my life may here no more endure.

Alas, the woe! Alas, the pain so strong

That I for you have suffered, and so long!

Alas for death! Alas, my Emily!

Alas, the parting of our company!

Alas, my heart's own queen! Alas, my wife!

My soul's dear lady, ender of my life!

What is this world? What asks a man to have?

Now with his love, now in the cold dark grave

Alone, with never any company.

Farewell, my sweet foe! O my Emily!

Oh, take me in your gentle arms, I pray,

For love of God, and hear what I will say.

I have here, with my cousin Palamon,

Had strife and rancour many a day that's gone,

For love of you and for my jealousy.

May Jove so surely guide my soul for me,

To speak about a lover properly,

With all the circumstances, faithfully-

That is to say, truth, honour, and knighthood,

Wisdom, humility and kinship good,

And generous soul and all the lover's art-

So now may Jove have in my soul his part

As in this world, right now, I know of none

So worthy to be loved as Palamon,

Who serves you and will do so all his life.

And if you ever should become a wife,

Forget not Palamon, the noble man.

And with that word his speech to fail began,

For from his feet up to his breast had come

The cold of death, making his body numb.

And furthermore, from his two arms the strength

Was gone out, now, and he was lost, at length.

Only the intellect, and nothing more.

Which dwelt within his heart so sick and sore,

Began to fail now, when the heart felt death,

And his eyes darkened, and he failed of breath.

But on his lady turned he still his eye,

And his last word was, Mercy, Emily!

His spirit changed its house and went away.

As I was never there, I cannot say

Where; so I stop, not being a soothsayer;

Of souls here naught shall I enregister;

Nor do I wish their notions, now, to tell

Who write of them, though they say where they dwell.

Arcita's cold; Mars guides his soul on high;

Now will I speak forthwith of Emily.

Shrieked Emily and howled now Palamon,

Till Theseus his sister took, anon,

And bore her, swooning, from the corpse away.

How shall it help, to dwell the livelong day

In telling how she wept both night and morrow?

For in like cases women have such sorrow,

When their good husband from their side must go,

And, for the greater part, they take on so,

Or else they fall into such malady

That, at the last, and certainly, they die.

Infinite were the sorrows and the tears

Of all old folk and folk of tender years

Throughout the town, at death of this Theban;

For him there wept the child and wept the man;

So great a weeping was not, 'tis certain,

When Hector was brought back, but newly slain,

To Troy. Alas, the sorrow that was there!

Tearing of cheeks and rending out of hair.

Oh why will you be dead, these women cry,

Who had of gold enough, and Emily?

No man might comfort then Duke Theseus,

Excepting his old father, AEgeus,

Who knew this world's mutations, and men's own.

Since he had seen them changing up and down,

Joy after woe, and woe from happiness:

He showed them, by example, the process.

Just as there never died a man, quoth he,

But he had lived on earth in some degree,

Just so there never lived a man, he said,

In all this world, but must be sometime dead.

This world is but a thoroughfare of woe,

And we are pilgrims passing to and fro;

Death is the end of every worldly sore.

And after this, he told them yet much more

To that effect, all wisely to exhort

The people that they should find some comfort.

Duke Theseus now considered and with care

What place of burial he should prepare

For good Arcita, as it best might be,

And one most worthy of his high degree.

And at the last concluded, hereupon,

That where at first Arcita and Palamon

Had fought for love, with no man else between,

There, in that very grove, so sweet and green,

Where he mused on his amorous desires

Complaining of love's hot and flaming fires,

He'd make a pyre and have the funeral

Accomplished there, and worthily in all.

And so he gave command to hack and hew

The ancient oaks, and lay them straight and true

In split lengths that would kindle well and burn.

His officers, with sure swift feet, they turn

And ride away to do his whole intent.

And after this Duke Theseus straightway sent

For a great bier, and had it all o'er-spread

With cloth of gold, the richest that he had.

Arcita clad he, too, in cloth of gold;

White gloves were on his hands where they did fold;

Upon his head a crown of laurel green,

And near his hand a sword both bright and keen.

Then, having bared the dead face on the bier,

The duke so wept, 'twas pitiful to hear.

And, so that folk might see him, one and all,

When it was day he brought them to the hall,

Which echoed of their wailing cries anon.

Then came this woeful Theban, Plamon,

With fluttery beard and matted, ash-strewn hair,

All in black clothes wet with his tears; and there,

Surpassing all in weeping, Emily,

The most affected of the company.

And so that every several rite should be

Noble and rich, and suiting his degree,

Duke Theseus commanded that they bring

Three horses, mailed in steel all glittering,

And covered with Arcita's armour bright.

Upon these stallions, which were large and white,

There rode three men, whereof one bore the shield.

And one the spear he'd known so well to wield;

The third man bore his Turkish bow, nor less

Of burnished gold the quiver than harness;

And forth they slowly rode, with mournful cheer,

Toward that grove, as you shall further hear.

The noblest Greeks did gladly volunteer

To bear upon their shoulders that great bier,

With measured pace and eyes gone red and wet,

Through all the city, by the wide main street,

Which was all spread with black, and, wondrous high,

Covered with this same cloth were houses nigh.

Upon the right hand went old AEgeus,

And on the other side Duke Theseus,

With vessels in their hands, of gold right fine,

All filled with honey, milk, and blood, and wine;

And Palamon with a great company;

And after that came woeful Emily,

With fire in hands, as use was, to ignite

The sacrifice and set the pyre alight.

Great labour and full great apparelling

Went to the service and the fire-making,

For to the skies that green pyre reached its top,

And twenty fathoms did the arms out-crop,

That is to say, the branches went so wide.

Full many a load of straw they did provide.

But how the fire, was made to climb so high;

Or what names all the different trees went by.

As oak, fir, birch, asp, alder, poplar, holm,

Willow, plane, ash, box, chestnut, linden, elm,

Laurel, thorn, maple, beech, yew, dogwood tree,

Or how they were felled, sha'n't be told by me.

Nor how the wood-gods scampered up and down,

Driven from homes that they had called their own,

Wherein they'd lived so long at ease, in peace,

The nymphs, the fauns, the hamadryades;

Nor how the beasts, for fear, and the birds, all

Fled, when that ancient wood began to fall;

Nor how aghast the ground was in the light,

Not being used to seeing the sun so bright;

Nor how the fire was started first with straw,

And then with dry wood, riven thrice by saw,

And then with green wood and with spicery,

And then with cloth of gold and jewellery,

And garlands hanging with full many a flower,

And myrrh, and incense, sweet as rose in bower;

Nor how Arcita lies among all this,

Nor what vast wealth about his body is;

Nor how this Emily, as was their way,

Lighted the sacred funeral fire, that day,

Nor how she swooned when men built up the fire,

Nor what she said, nor what was her desire;

No, nor what gems men on the fire then cast,

When the white flame went high and burned so fast;

Nor how one cast his shield, and one his spear,

And some their vestments, on that burning bier,

With cups of wine, and cups of milk, and blood,

Into that flame, which burned as wild-fire would;

Nor how the Greeks, in one huge wailing rout,

Rode slowly three times all the fire about,

Upon the left hand, with a loud shouting,

And three times more, with weapons clattering,

While thrice the women there raised up a cry;

Nor how was homeward led sad Emily;

Nor how Arcita burned to ashes cold;

Nor aught of how the lichwake they did hold

All that same night, nor how the Greeks did play

The Funeral Games, I will not say,

Who, naked, wrestled best, with oil anointed,

Nor who best bore himself in deeds appointed.

I will not even tell how they were gone

Home, into Athens, when the play was done;

But briefly to the point, now, will I wend

And make of this, my lengthy tale, an end.

With passing in their length of certain years,

All put by was the mourning and the tears

Of Greeks, as by one general assent;

And then it seems there was a parliament

At Athens, upon certain points in case;

Among the which points spoken of there was

The ratifying of alliances

That should hold Thebes from all defiances.

Whereat this noble Theseus, anon,

Invited there the gentle Palamon,

Not telling him what was the cause, and why;

But in his mourning clothes, and sorrowfully,

He came upon that bidding, so say I.

And then Duke Theseus sent for Emily.

When they were seated and was hushed the place,

And Theseus had mused a little space,

Ere any word came from his full wise breast,

His two eyes fixed on whoso pleased him best,

Then with a sad face sighed he deep and still,

And after that began to speak his will.

The Primal Mover and the Cause above,

When first He forged the goodly chain of love,

Great the effect, and high was His intent;

Well knew He why, and what thereof He meant;

For with that goodly chain of love He bound

The fire, the air, the water, and dry ground

In certain bounds, the which they might not flee;

That same First Cause and Mover, then quoth he,

Has stablished in this base world, up and down,

A certain length of days to call their own

For all that are engendered in this place,

Beyond the which not one day may they pace,

Though yet all may that certain time abridge;

Authority there needs none, I allege,

For it is well proved by experience,

Save that I please to clarify my sense.

Then may men by this order well discern

This Mover to be stable and eterne.

Well may man know, unless he be a fool,

That every part derives but from the whole.

For Nature has not taken his being

From any part and portion of a thing,

But from a substance perfect, stable aye,

And so continuing till changed away.

And therefore, of His Wisdom's Providence,

Has He so well established ordinance

That species of all things and all progressions,

If they'd endure, it must be by successions,

Not being themselves eternal, 'tis no lie:

This may you understand and see by eye.

Lo now, the oak, that has long nourishing

Even from the time that it begins to spring,

And has so long a life, as we may see,

Yet at the last all wasted is the tree.

Consider, too, how even the hard stone

Under our feet we tread each day upon

Yet wastes it, as it lies beside the way.

And the broad river will be dry some day.

And great towns wane; we see them vanishing.

Thus may we see the end to everything.

Of man and woman just the same is true:

Needs must, in either season of the two,

That is to say, in youth or else in age,

All men perish, the king as well as page;

Some in their bed, and some in the deep sea,

And some in the wide field- as it may be;

There's naught will help; all go the same way. Aye,

Then may I say that everything must die.

Who causes this but Jupiter the King?

He is the Prince and Cause of everything,

Converting all back to that primal well

From which it was derived, 'tis sooth to tell.

And against this, for every thing alive,

Of any state, avalls it not to strive.

Then is it wisdom, as it seems to me,

To make a virtue of necessity,

And calmly take what we may not eschew,

And specially that which to all is due.

Whoso would balk at aught, he does folly,

And thus rebels against His potency.

And certainly a man has most honour

In dying in his excellence and flower,

When he is certain of his high good name;

For then he gives to friend, and self, no shame.

And gladder ought a friend be of his death

When, in much honour, he yields up his breath,

Than when his name's grown feeble with old age;

For all forgotten, then, is his courage.

Hence it is best for all of noble name

To die when at the summit of their fame.

The contrary of this is wilfulness.

Why do we grumble? Why have heaviness

That good Arcita, chivalry's fair flower,

Is gone, with honour, in his best-lived hour.

Out of the filthy prison of this life?

Why grumble here his cousin and his wife

About his welfare, who loved them so well?

Can he thank them? Nay, God knows, not! Nor tell

How they his soul and their own selves offend,

Though yet they may not their desires amend.

What may I prove by this long argument

Save that we all turn to merriment,

After our grief, and give Jove thanks for grace.

And so, before we go from out this place,

I counsel that we make, of sorrows two

One perfect joy, lasting for aye, for you;

And look you now, where most woe is herein,

There will we first amend it and begin.

Sister, quoth he, you have my full consent,

With the advice of this my Parliament,

That gentle Palamon, your own true knight,

Who serves you well with will and heart and might,

And so has ever, since you knew him first-

That you shall, of your grace, allay his thirst

By taking him for husband and for lord:

Lend me your hand, for this is our accord.

Let now your woman's pity make him glad.

For he is a king's brother's son, by gad;

And though he were a poor knight bachelor,

Since he has served you for so many a year,

And borne for you so great adversity,

This ought to weigh with you, it seems to me,

For mercy ought to dominate mere right.

Then said he thus to Palamon the knight:

I think there needs but little sermoning

To make you give consent, now, to this thing.

Come near, and take your lady by the hand.

Between them, then, was tied that nuptial band,

Which is called matrimony or marriage,

By all the council and the baronage.

And thus, in all bliss and with melody,

Has Palamon now wedded Emily.

And God Who all this universe has wrought,

Send him His love, who has it dearly bought.

For now has Palamon, in all things, wealth,

Living in bliss, in riches, and in health;

And Emily loved him so tenderly,

And he served her so well and faithfully,

That never word once marred their happiness,

No jealousy, nor other such distress.

Thus ends now Palamon and Emily;

And may God save all this fair company! Amen.

The Miller's Prologue

Now when the knight had thus his story told,

In all the rout there was nor young nor old

But said it was a noble story, well

Worthy to be kept in mind to tell;

And specially the gentle folk, each one.

Our host, he laughed and swore, So may I run,

But this goes well; unbuckled is the mail;

Let's see now who can tell another tale:

For certainly the game is well begun.

Now shall you tell, sir monk, if't can be done,

Something with which to pay for the knight's tale.

The miller, who with drinking was all pale,

So that unsteadily on his horse he sat,

He would not take off either hood or hat,

Nor wait for any man, in courtesy,

But all in Pilate's voice began to cry,

And by the Arms and Blood and Bones he swore,

I have a noble story in my store,

With which I will requite the good knight's tale.

Our host saw, then, that he was drunk with ale,

And said to him: Wait, Robin, my dear brother,

Some better man shall tell us first another:

Submit and let us work on profitably.

Now by God's soul, cried he, that will not I!

For I will speak, or else I'll go my way.

Our host replied: Tell on, then, till doomsday!

You are a fool, your wit is overcome.

Now hear me, said the miller, all and some!

But first I make a protestation round

That I'm quite drunk, I know it by my sound:

And therefore, if I slander or mis-say,

Blame it on ale of Southwark, so I pray;

For I will tell a legend and a life

Both of a carpenter and of his wife,

And how a scholar set the good wright's cap.

The reeve replied and said: Oh, shut your trap,

Let be your ignorant drunken ribaldry!

It is a sin, and further, great folly

To asperse any man, or him defame,

And, too, to bring upon a man's wife shame.

There are enough of other things to say.

This drunken miller spoke on in his way,

And said: Oh, but my dear brother Oswald,

The man who has no wife is no cuckold.

But I say not, thereby, that you are one:

Many good wives there are, as women run,

And ever a thousand good to one that's bad,

As well you know yourself, unless you're mad.

Why are you angry with my story's cue?

I have a wife, begad, as well as you,

Yet I'd not, for the oxen of my plow,

Take on my shoulders more than is enow,

By judging of myself that I am one;

I will believe full well that I am none.

A husband must not be inquisitive

Of God, nor of his wife, while she's alive.

So long as he may find God's plenty there,

For all the rest he need not greatly care.

What should I say, except this miller rare

He would forgo his talk for no man there,

But told his churlish tale in his own way:

I think I'll here re-tell it, if I may.

And therefore, every gentle soul, I pray

That for God's love you'll hold not what I say

Evilly meant, but that I must rehearse,

All of their tales, the better and the worse,

Or else prove false to some of my design.

Therefore, who likes not this, let him, in fine,

Turn over page and choose another tale:

For he shall find enough, both great and small,

Of stories touching on gentility,

And holiness, and on morality;

And blame not me if you do choose amiss.

The miller was a churl, you well know this;

So was the reeve, and many another more,

And ribaldry they told from plenteous store.

Be then advised, and hold me free from blame;

Men should not be too serious at a game.

The Miller's Tale

Once on a time was dwelling in Oxford

A wealthy lout who took in guests to board,

And of his craft he was a carpenter.

A poor scholar was lodging with him there,

Who'd learned the arts, but all his phantasy

Was turned to study of astrology;

And knew a certain set of theorems

And could find out by various stratagems,

If men but asked of him in certain hours

When they should have a drought or else have showers,

Or if men asked of him what should befall

To anything- I cannot reckon them all.

This clerk was called the clever Nicholas;

Of secret loves he knew and their solace;

And he kept counsel, too, for he was sly

And meek as any maiden passing by.

He had a chamber in that hostelry,

And lived alone there, without company,

All garnished with sweet herbs of good repute;

And he himself sweet-smelling as the root

Of licorice, valerian, or setwall.

His Almagest, and books both great and small,

His astrolabe, belonging to his art,

His algorism stones- all laid apart

On shelves that ranged beside his lone bed's head;

His press was covered with a cloth of red.

And over all there lay a psaltery

Whereon he made an evening's melody,

Playing so sweetly that the chamber rang;

And Angelus ad virginem he sang;

And after that he warbled the King's Note:

Often in good voice was his merry throat.

And thus this gentle clerk his leisure spends

Supported by some income and his friends.

This carpenter had lately wed a wife

Whom lie loved better than he loved his life;

And she was come to eighteen years of age.

Jealous he was and held her close in cage.

For she was wild and young, and he was old,

And deemed himself as like to be cuckold.

He knew not Cato, for his lore was rude:

That vulgar man should wed similitude.

A man should wed according to estate,

For youth and age are often in debate.

But now, since he had fallen in the snare,

He must endure, like other folk, his care.

Fair was this youthful wife, and therewithal

As weasel's was her body slim and small.

A girdle wore she, barred and striped, of silk.

An apron, too, as white as morning milk

About her loins, and full of many a gore;

White was her smock, embroidered all before

And even behind, her collar round about,

Of coal-black silk, on both sides, in and out;

The strings of the white cap upon her head

Were, like her collar, black silk worked with thread,

Her fillet was of wide silk worn full high:

And certainly she had a lickerish eye.

She'd thinned out carefully her eyebrows two,

And they were arched and black as any sloe.

She was a far more pleasant thing to see

Than is the newly budded young pear-tree;

And softer than the wool is on a wether.

Down from her girdle hung a purse of leather,

Tasselled with silk, with latten beading sown.

In all this world, searching it up and down,

So gay a little doll, I well believe,

Or such a wench, there's no man can conceive.

Far brighter was the brilliance of her hue

Than in the Tower the gold coins minted new.

And songs came shrilling from her pretty head

As from a swallow's sitting on a shed.

Therewith she'd dance too, and could play and sham

Like any kid or calf about its dam.

Her mouth was sweet as bragget or as mead

Or hoard of apples laid in hay or weed.

Skittish she was as is a pretty colt,

Tall as a staff and straight as cross-bow bolt.

A brooch she wore upon her collar low,

As broad as boss of buckler did it show;

Her shoes laced up to where a girl's legs thicken.

She was a primrose, and a tender chicken

For any lord to lay upon his bed,

Or yet for any good yeoman to wed.

Now, sir, and then, sir, go befell the case,

That on a day this clever Nicholas

Fell in with this young wife to toy and play,

The while her husband was down Osney way,

Clerks being as crafty as the best of us;

And unperceived he caught her by the puss,

Saying: Indeed, unless I have my will,

For secret love of you, sweetheart, I'll spill.

And held her hard about the hips, and how!

And said: O darling, love me, love me now,

Or I shall die, and pray you God may save!

And she leaped as a colt does in the trave,

And with her head she twisted fast away,

And said: I will not kiss you, by my fay!

Why, let go, cried she, let go, Nicholas!

Or I will call for help and cry 'alas!'

Do take your hands away, for courtesy!

This Nicholas for mercy then did cry,

And spoke so well, importuned her so fast

That she her love did grant him at the last,

And swore her oath, by Saint Thomas of Kent,

That she would be at his command, content,

As soon as opportunity she could spy.

My husband is so full of jealousy,

Unless you will await me secretly,

I know I'm just as good as dead, said she.

You must keep all quite hidden in this case.

Nay, thereof worry not, said Nicholas,

A clerk has lazily employed his while

If he cannot a carpenter beguile.

And thus they were agreed, and then they swore

To wait a while, as I have said before.

When Nicholas had done thus every whit

And patted her about the loins a bit,

He kissed her sweetly, took his psaltery,

And played it fast and made a melody.

Then fell it thus, that to the parish kirk,

The Lord Christ Jesus' own works for to work,

This good wife went, upon a holy day;

Her forehead shone as bright as does the May,

So well she'd washed it when she left off work.

Now there was of that church a parish clerk

Whose name was (as folk called him) Absalom.

Curled was his hair, shining like gold, and from

His head spread fanwise in a thick bright mop;

'Twas parted straight and even on the top;

His cheek was red, his eyes grey as a goose;

With Saint Paul's windows cut upon his shoes,

He stood in red hose fitting famously.

And he was clothed full well and properly

All in a coat of blue, in which were let

Holes for the lacings, which were fairly set.

And over all he wore a fine surplice

As white as ever hawthorn spray, and nice.

A merry lad he was, so God me save,

And well could he let blood, cut hair, and shave,

And draw a deed or quitclaim, as might chance.

In twenty manners could he trip and dance,

After the school that reigned in Oxford, though,

And with his two legs swinging to and fro;

And he could play upon a violin;

Thereto he sang in treble voice and thin;

And as well could he play on his guitar.

In all the town no inn was, and no bar,

That he'd not visited to make good cheer,

Especially were lively barmaids there.

But, truth to tell, he was a bit squeamish

Of farting and of language haughtyish.

This Absalom, who was so light and gay,

Went with a censer on the holy day,

Censing the wives like an enthusiast;

And on them many a loving look he cast,

Especially on this carpenter's goodwife.

To look at her he thought a merry life,

She was so pretty, sweet, and lickerous.

I dare well say, if she had been a mouse

And he a cat, he would have mauled her some.

This parish clerk, this lively Absalom

Had in his heart, now, such a love-longing

That from no wife took he an offering;

For courtesy, he said, he would take none.

The moon, when it was night, full brightly shone,

And his guitar did Absalom then take,

For in love-watching he'd intent to wake.

And forth he went, jolly and amorous,

Until he came unto the carpenter's house

A little after cocks began to crow;

And took his stand beneath a shot-window

That was let into the good wood-wright's wall.

He sang then, in his pleasant voice and small,

Oh now, dear lady, if your will it be,

I pray that you will have some ruth on me,

The words in harmony with his string-plucking.

This carpenter awoke and heard him sing,

And called unto his wife and said, in sum:

What, Alison! Do you hear Absalom,

Who plays and sings beneath our bedroom wall?

And she said to her husband, therewithal:

Yes, God knows, John, I hear it, truth to tell.

So this went on; what is there better than well?

From day to day this pretty Absalom

So wooed her he was woebegone therefrom.

He lay awake all night and all the day;

He combed his spreading hair and dressed him gay;

By go-betweens and agents, too, wooed he,

And swore her loyal page he'd ever be.

He sang as tremulously as nightingale;

He sent her sweetened wine and well-spiced ale

And waffles piping hot out of the fire,

And, she being town-bred, mead for her desire.

For some are won by means of money spent,

And some by tricks, and some by long descent.

Once, to display his versatility,

He acted Herod on a scaffold high.

But what availed it him in any case?

She was enamoured so of Nicholas

That Absalom might go and blow his horn;

He got naught for his labour but her scorn.

And thus she made of Absalom her ape,

And all his earnestness she made a jape.

For truth is in this proverb, and no lie,

Men say well thus: It's always he that's nigh

That makes the absent lover seem a sloth.

For now, though Absalom be wildly wroth,

Because he is so far out of her sight,

This handy Nicholas stands in his light.

Now bear you well, you clever Nicholas!

For Absalom may wail and sing Alas!

And so it chanced that on a Saturday

This carpenter departed to. Osney;

And clever Nicholas and Alison

Were well agreed to this effect: anon

This Nicholas should put in play a wile

The simple, jealous husband to beguile;

And if it chanced the game should go a-right,

She was to sleep within his arms all night,

For this was his desire, and hers also.

Presently then, and without more ado,

This Nicholas, no longer did he tarry,

But softly to his chamber did he carry

Both food and drink to last at least a day,

Saying that to her husband she should say-

If he should come to ask for Nicholas-

Why, she should say she knew not where he was,

For all day she'd not seen him, far or nigh;

She thought he must have got some malady,

Because in vain her maid would knock and call;

He'd answer not, whatever might befall.

And so it was that all that Saturday

This Nicholas quietly in chamber lay,

And ate and slept, or did what pleased him best,

Till Sunday when the sun had gone to rest.

This simple man with wonder heard the tale,

And marvelled what their Nicholas might ail,

And said: I am afraid, by Saint Thomas,

That everything's not well with Nicholas.

God send he be not dead so suddenly!

This world is most unstable, certainly;

I saw, today, the corpse being borne to kirk

Of one who, but last Monday, was at work.

Go up, said he unto his boy anon,

Call at his door, or knock there with a stone,

Learn how it is and boldly come tell me.

The servant went up, then, right sturdily,

And at the chamber door, the while he stood,

He cried and knocked as any madman would-

What! How! What do you, Master Nicholay?

How can you sleep through all the livelong day?

But all for naught, he never heard a word;

A hole he found, low down upon a board,

Through which the house cat had been wont to creep;

And to that hole he stooped, and through did peep,

And finally he ranged him in his sight.

This Nicholas sat gaping there, upright,

As if he'd looked too long at the new moon.

Downstairs he went and told his master soon

In what array he'd found this self-same man.

This carpenter to cross himself began,

And said: Now help us, holy Frideswide!

Little a man can know what shall betide.

This man is fallen, with his astromy,

Into some madness or some agony;

I always feared that somehow this would be!

Men should not meddle in God's privity.

Aye, blessed always be the ignorant man,

Whose creed is, all he ever has to scan!

So fared another clerk with astromy;

He walked into the meadows for to pry

Into the stars, to learn what should befall,

Until into a clay-pit he did fall;

He saw not that. But yet, by Saint Thomas,

I'm sorry for this clever Nicholas.

He shall be scolded for his studying,

If not too late, by Jesus, Heaven's King!

Get me a staff, that I may pry before,

The while you, Robin, heave against the door.

We'll take him from this studying, I guess.

And on the chamber door, then, he did press.

His servant was a stout lad, if a dunce,

And by the hasp he heaved it up at once;

Upon the floor that portal fell anon.

This Nicholas sat there as still as stone,

Gazing, with gaping mouth, straight up in air.

This carpenter thought he was in despair,

And took him by the shoulders, mightily,

And shook him hard, and cried out, vehemently:

What! Nicholay! Why how now! Come, look down!

Awake, and think on Jesus' death and crown!

I cross you from all elves and magic wights!

And then the night-spell said he out, by rights,

At the four corners of the house about,

And at the threshold of the door, without:-

O Jesus Christ and good Saint Benedict,

Protect this house from all that may afflict,

For the night hag the white Paternoster!-

Where hast thou gone, Saint Peter's sister?

And at the last this clever Nicholas

Began to sigh full sore, and said: Alas!

Shall all the world be lost so soon again?

This carpenter replied: What say you, then?

What! Think on God, as we do, men that swink.

This Nicholas replied: Go fetch me drink;

And afterward I'll tell you privately

A certain thing concerning you and me;

I'll tell it to no other man or men.

This carpenter went down and came again,

And brought of potent ale a brimming quart;

And when each one of them had drunk his part,

Nicholas shut the door fast, and with that

He drew a seat and near the carpenter sat.

He said: Now, John, my good host, lief and dear,

You must upon your true faith swear, right here,

That to no man will you this word betray;

For it is Christ's own word that I will say,

And if you tell a man, you're ruined quite;

This punishment shall come to you, of right,

That if you're traitor you'll go mad- and should!

Nay, Christ forbid it, for His holy blood!

Said then this simple man: I am no blab,

Nor, though I say it, am I fond of gab.

Say what you will, I never will it tell

To child or wife, by Him that harried Hell!

Now, John, said Nicholas, I will not lie;

But I've found out, from my astrology,

As I have looked upon the moon so bright,

That now, come Monday next, at nine of night,

Shall fall a rain so wildly mad as would

Have been, by half, greater than Noah's flood.

This world, he said, in less time than an hour,

Shall all be drowned, so terrible is this shower;

Thus shall all mankind drown and lose all life.

This carpenter replied: Alas, my wife!

And shall she drown? Alas, my Alison!

For grief of this he almost fell. Anon

He said: Is there no remedy in this case?

Why yes, good luck, said clever Nicholas,

If you will work by counsel of the wise;

You must not act on what your wits advise.

For so says Solomon, and it's all true,

'Work by advice and thou shalt never rue.'

And if you'll act as counselled and not fail,

I undertake, without a mast or sail,

To save us all, aye you and her and me.

Haven't you heard of, Noah, how saved was he,

Because Our Lord had warned him how to keep

Out of the flood that covered earth so deep?

Yes, said this carpenter, long years ago.

Have you not heard, asked Nicholas, also

The sorrows of Noah and his fellowship

In getting his wife to go aboard the ship?

He would have rather, I dare undertake,

At that time, and for all the weather black,

That she had one ship for herself alone.

Therefore, do you know what would best be done?

This thing needs haste, and of a hasty thing

Men must not preach nor do long tarrying.

Presently go, and fetch here to this inn

A kneading-tub, or brewing vat, and win

One each for us, but see that they are large,

Wherein we may swim out as in a barge,

And have therein sufficient food and drink

For one day only; that's enough, I think.

The water will dry up and flow away

About the prime of the succeeding day.

But Robin must not know of this, your knave,

And even Jill, your maid, I may not save;

Ask me not why, for though you do ask me,

I will not tell you of God's privity.

Suffice you, then, unless your wits are mad,

To have as great a grace as Noah had.

Your wife I shall not lose, there is no doubt,

Go, now, your way, and speedily about,

But when you have, for you and her and me,

Procured these kneading-tubs, or beer-vats, three,

Then you shall hang them near the roof-tree high,

That no man our purveyance may espy.

And when you thus have done, as I have said,

And have put in our drink and meat and bread,

Also an axe to cut the ropes in two

When the flood comes, that we may float and go,

And cut a hole, high up, upon the gable,

Upon the garden side, over the stable,

That we may freely pass forth on our way

When the great rain and flood are gone that day-

Then shall you float as merrily, I'll stake,

As does the white duck after the white drake.

Then I will call, 'Ho, Alison! Ho, John!

Be cheery, for the flood will pass anon.'

And you will say, 'Hail. Master Nicholay!

Good morrow, I see you well, for it is day!'

And then shall we be barons all our life

Of all the world, like Noah and his wife.

But of one thing I warn you now, outright.

Be well advised, that on that very night

When we have reached our ships and got aboard,

Not one of us must speak or whisper word,

Nor call, nor cry, but sit in silent prayer;

For this is God's own bidding, hence- don't dare!

Your wife and you must hang apart, that in

The night shall come no chance for you to sin

Either in looking or in carnal deed.

These orders I have told you, go, God speed!

Tomorrow night, when all men are asleep,

Into our kneading-tubs will we three creep

And sit there, still, awaiting God's high grace.

Go, now, your way, I have no longer space

Of time to make a longer sermoning.

Men say thus: 'Send the wise and say no thing.'

You are so wise it needs not that I teach;

Go, save our lives, and that I do beseech.

This silly carpenter went on his way.

Often he cried Alas! and Welaway!

And to his wife he told all, privately;

But she was better taught thereof than he

How all this rigmarole was to apply.

Nevertheless she acted as she'd die,

And said: Alas! Go on your way anon,

Help us escape, or we are lost, each one;

I am your true and lawfully wedded wife;

Go, my dear spouse, and help to save our life.

Lo, what a great thing is affection found!

Men die of imagination, I'll be bound,

So deep an imprint may the spirit take.

This hapless carpenter began to quake;

He thought now, verily, that he could see

Old Noah's flood come wallowing like the sea

To drown his Alison, his honey dear.

He wept, he wailed, he made but sorry cheer,

He sighed and made full many a sob and sough.

He went and got himself a kneading-trough

And, after that, two tubs he somewhere found

And to his dwelling privately sent round,

And hung them near the roof, all secretly.

With his own hand, then, made he ladders three,

To climb up by the rungs thereof, it seems,

And reach the tubs left hanging to the beams;

And those he victualled, tubs and kneading-trough,

With bread and cheese and good jugged ale, enough

To satisfy the needs of one full day.

But ere he'd put all this in such array,

He sent his servants, boy and maid, right down

Upon some errand into London town.

And on the Monday, when it came on night,

He shut his door, without a candle-light,

And ordered everything as it should be.

And shortly after up they climbed, all three;

They sat while one might plow a furlong-way.

Now, by Our Father, hush! said Nicholay,

And Hush! said John, and Hush! said Alison.

This carpenter, his loud devotions done,

Sat silent, saying mentally a prayer,

And waiting for the rain, to hear it there.

The deathlike sleep of utter weariness

Fell on this wood-wright even. (as I guess)

About the curfew time, or little more;

For travail of his spirit he groaned sore,

And soon he snored, for badly his head lay.

Down by the ladder crept this Nicholay,

And Alison, right softly down she sped.

Without more words they went and got in bed

Even where the carpenter was wont to lie.

There was the revel and the melody!

And thus lie Alison and Nicholas,

In joy that goes by many an alias,

Until the bells for lauds began to ring

And friars to the chancel went to sing.

This parish clerk, this amorous Absalom,

Whom love has made so woebegone and dumb,

Upon the Monday was down Osney way,

With company, to find some sport and play;

And there he chanced to ask a cloisterer,

Privately, after John the carpenter.

This monk drew him apart, out of the kirk,

And said: I have not seen him here at work.

Since Saturday; I think well that he went

For timber, that the abbot has him sent;

For he is wont for timber thus to go,

Remaining at the grange a day or so;

Or else he's surely at his house today;

But which it is I cannot truly say.

This Absalom right happy was and light,

And thought: Now is the time to wake all night;

For certainly I saw him not stirring

About his door since day began to spring.

So may I thrive, as I shall, at cock's crow,

Knock cautiously upon that window low

Which is so placed upon his bedroom wall.

To Alison then will I tell of all

My love-longing, and thus I shall not miss

That at the least I'll have her lips to kiss.

Some sort of comfort shall I have, I say,

My mouth's been itching all this livelong day;

That is a sign of kissing at the least.

All night I dreamed, too, I was at a feast.

Therefore I'll go and sleep two hours away

And all this night then will I wake and play.

And so when time of first cock-crow was come,

Up rose this merry lover, Absalom,

And dressed him gay and all at point-device,

But first he chewed some licorice and spice

So he'd smell sweet, ere he had combed his hair.

Under his tongue some bits of true-love rare,

For thereby thought he to be more gracious.

He went, then, to the carpenter's dark house.

And silent stood beneath the shot-window;

Unto his breast it reached, it was so low;

And he coughed softly, in a low half tone:

What do you, honeycomb, sweet Alison?

My cinnamon, my fair bird, my sweetie,

Awake, O darling mine, and speak to me!

It's little thought you give me and my woe,

Who for your love do sweat where'er I go.

Yet it's no wonder that I faint and sweat;

I long as does the lamb for mother's teat.

Truly, sweetheart, I have such love-longing

That like a turtle-dove's my true yearning;

And I can eat no more than can a maid.

Go from the window, Jack-a-napes, she said,

For, s'help me God, it is not 'come kiss me.'

I love another, or to blame I'd be,

Better than you, by Jesus, Absalom!

Go on your way, or I'll stone you therefrom,

And let me sleep, the fiends take you away!

Alas, quoth Absalom, and welaway!

That true love ever was so ill beset!

But kiss me, since you'll do no more, my pet,

For Jesus' love and for the love of me.

And will you go, then, on your way? asked she,

Yes truly, darling, said this Absalom.

Then make you ready, said she, and I'll come!

And unto Nicholas said she, low and still:

Be silent now, and you shall laugh your fill.

This Absalom plumped down upon his knees,

And said: I am a lord in all degrees;

For after this there may be better still

Darling, my sweetest bird, I wait your will.

The window she unbarred, and that in haste.

Have done, said she, come on, and do it fast,

Before we're seen by any neighbour's eye.

This Absalom did wipe his mouth all dry;

Dark was the night as pitch, aye dark as coal,

And through the window she put out her hole.

And Absalom no better felt nor worse,

But with his mouth he kissed her naked arse

Right greedily, before he knew of this.

Aback he leapt- it seemed somehow amiss,

For well he knew a woman has no beard;

He'd felt a thing all rough and longish haired,

And said, Oh fie, alas! What did I do?

Teehee! she laughed, and clapped the, window to;

And Absalom went forth a sorry pace.

A beard! A beard! cried clever Nicholas,

Now by God's corpus, this goes fair and well!

This hapless Absalom, he heard that yell,

And on his lip, for anger, he did bite;

And to himself he said, I will requite!

Who vigorously rubbed and scrubbed his lips

With dust, with sand, with straw, with cloth, with chips,

But Absalom, and often cried Alas!

My soul I give now unto Sathanas,

For rather far than own this town, said he,

For this despite, it's well revenged I'd be.

Alas, said he, from her I never blenched!

His hot love was grown cold, aye and all quenched;

For, from the moment that he'd kissed her arse,

For paramours he didn't care a curse,

For he was healed of all his malady;

Indeed all paramours he did defy,

And wept as does a child that has been beat.

With silent step he went across the street

Unto a smith whom men called Dan Jarvis,

Who in his smithy forged plow parts, that is

He sharpened shares and coulters busily.

This Absalom he knocked all easily,

And said: Unbar here, Jarvis, for I come.

What! Who are you? It's I, it's Absalom.

What! Absalom! For Jesus Christ's sweet tree,

Why are you up so early? Ben'cite!

What ails you now, man? Some gay girl, God knows,

Has brought you on the jump to my bellows;

By Saint Neot, you know well what I mean.

This Absalom cared not a single bean

For all this play, nor one word back he gave;

He'd more tow on his distaff, had this knave,

Than Jarvis knew, and said he: Friend so dear,

This red-hot coulter in the fireplace here,

Lend it to me, I have a need for it,

And I'll return it after just a bit.

Jarvis replied: Certainly, were it gold

Or a purse filled with yellow coins untold,

Yet should you have it, as I am true smith;

But eh, Christ's foe! What will you do therewith?

Let that, said Absalom, be as it may;

I'll tell you all tomorrow, when it's day-

And caught the coulter then by the cold steel

And softly from the smithy door did steal

And went again up to the wood-wright's wall.

He coughed at first, and then he knocked withal

Upon the window, as before, with care.

This Alison replied: Now who is there?

And who knocks so? I'll warrant it's a thief.

Why no, quoth he, God knows, my sweet roseleaf,

I am your Absalom, my own darling!

Of gold, quoth he, I have brought you a ring;

My mother gave it me, as I'll be saved;

Fine gold it is, and it is well engraved;

This will I give you for another kiss.

This Nicholas had risen for a piss,

And thought that it would carry on the jape

To have his arse kissed by this jack-a-nape.

And so he opened window hastily,

And put his arse out thereat, quietly,

Over the buttocks, showing the whole bum;

And thereto said this clerk, this Absalom,

O speak, sweet bird, I know not where thou art.

This Nicholas just then let fly a fart

As loud as it had been a thunder-clap,

And well-nigh blinded Absalom, poor chap;

But he was ready with his iron hot

And Nicholas right in the arse he got.

Off went the skin a hand's-breadth broad, about,

The coulter burned his bottom so, throughout,

That for the pain he thought that he should die.

And like one mad he started in to cry,

Help! Water! Water! For God's dear heart!

This carpenter out of his sleep did start,

Hearing that Water! cried as madman would,

And thought, Alas, now comes down Noel's flood!

He struggled up without another word

And with his axe he cut in two the cord,

And down went all; he did not stop to trade

In bread or ale till he'd the journey made,

And there upon the floor he swooning lay.

Up started Alison and Nicholay

And shouted Help! and Hello! down the street.

The neighbours, great and small, with hastening feet

Swarmed in the house to stare upon this man,

Who lay yet swooning, and all pale and wan;

For in the falling he had smashed his arm.

He had to suffer, too, another harm,

For when he spoke he was at once borne down

By clever Nicholas and Alison.

For they told everyone that he was odd;

He was so much afraid of Noel's flood,

Through fantasy, that out of vanity

He'd gone and bought these kneading-tubs, all three,

And that he'd hung them near the roof above;

And that he had prayed them, for God's dear love,

To sit with him and bear him company.

The people laughed at all this fantasy;

Up to the roof they looked, and there did gape,

And so turned all his injury to a jape.

For when this carpenter got in a word,

'Twas all in vain, no man his reasons heard;

With oaths imprenive he was so sworn down,

That he was held for mad by all the town;

For every clerk did side with every other.

They said: The man is crazy, my dear brother.

And everyone did laugh at all this strife.

Thus futtered was the carpenter's goodwife,

For all his watching and his jealousy;

And Absalom has kissed her nether eye;

And Nicholas is branded on the butt.

This tale is done, and God save all the rout!

The Reeve's Prologue

When folk had laughed their fill at this nice pass

Of Absalom and clever Nicholas,

Then divers folk diversely had their say;

And most of them were well amused and gay,

Nor at this tale did I see one man grieve,

Save it were only old Oswald the reeve,

Because he was a carpenter by craft.

A little anger in his heart was left,

And he began to grouse and blame a bit.

S' help me, said he, full well could I be quit

With blearing of a haughty miller's eye,

If I but chose to speak of ribaldry.

But I am old; I will not play, for age;

Grass time is done, my fodder is rummage,

This white top advertises my old years,

My heart, too, is as mouldy as my hairs,

Unless I fare like medlar, all perverse.

For that fruit's never ripe until it's worse,

And falls among the refuse or in straw.

We ancient men, I fear, obey this law:

Until we're rotten, we cannot be ripe;

We dance, indeed, the while the world will pipe.

liesire sticks in our nature like a nail

To have, if hoary head, a verdant tail,

As has the leek; for though our strength be gone,

Our wish is yet for folly till life's done.

For when we may not act, then will we speak;

Yet in our ashes is there fire to reek

Four embers have we, which I shall confess:

Boasting and lying, anger, covetousness;

These four remaining sparks belong to eld.

Our ancient limbs may well be hard to wield,

But lust will never fail us, that is truth.

And yet I have had always a colt's tooth,

As many years as now are past and done

Since first my tap of life began to run.

For certainly, when I was born, I know

Death turned my tap of life and let it flow;

And ever since that day the tap has run

Till nearly empty now is all the tun.

The stream of life now drips upon the chime;

The silly tongue may well ring out the time

Of wretchedness that passed so long before;

For oldsters, save for dotage, there's no more.

Now when our host had heard this sermoning,

Then did he speak as lordly as a king;

He said: To what amounts, now, all this wit?

Why should we talk all day of holy writ?

The devil makes a steward for to preach,

And of a cobbler, a sailor or a leech.

Tell, forth your tale, and do not waste the time.

Here's Deptford! And it is half way to prime.

There's Greenwich town that many a scoundrel's in;

It is high time your story should begin.

Now, sirs, then said this Oswald called the reeve,

I pray you all, now, that you will not grieve

Though I reply and somewhat twitch his cap;

It's lawful to meet force with force, mayhap.

This drunken miller has related here

How was beguiled and fooled a carpenter-

Perchance in scorn of me, for I am one.

So, by your leave, I'll him requite anon;

All in his own boor's language will I speak.

I only pray to God his neck may break.

For in my eye he well can see the mote,

But sees not in his own the beam, you'll note.

The Reeve's Tale

At Trumpington, not far from Cambridge town,

There is a bridge wherethrough a brook runs down,

Upon the side of which brook stands a mill;

And this is very truth that now I tell.

A miller dwelt there, many and many a day;

As any peacock he was proud and gay.

He could mend nets, and he could fish, and flute,

Drink and turn cups, and wrestle well, and shoot;

And in his leathern belt he did parade

A cutlass with a long trenchant blade.

A pretty dagger had he in his pouch;

There was no man who durst this man to touch.

A Sheffield whittler bore he in his hose;

Round was his face and turned-up was his nose.

As bald as any ape's head was his skull;

He was a market-swaggerer to the full.

There durst no man a hand on him to lay,

Because he swore he'd make the beggar pay.

A thief he was, forsooth, of corn and meal,

And sly at that, accustomed well to steal.

His name was known as arrogant Simpkin.

A wife he had who came of gentle kin;

The parson of the town her father was.

With her he gave full many a pan of brass,

To insure that Simpkin with his blood ally.

She had been bred up in a nunnery;

For Simpkin would not have a wife, he said,

Save she were educated and a maid

To keep up his estate of yeomanry.

And she was proud and bold as is a pie.

A handsome sight it was to see those two;

On holy days before her he would go

With a broad tippet bound about his head;

And she came after in a skirt of red,

While Simpkin's hose were dyed to match that same.

There durst no man to call her aught but dame;

Nor was there one so hardy, in the way,

As durst flirt with her or attempt to play,

Unless he would be slain by this Simpkin

With cutlass or with knife or with bodkin.

For jealous folk are dangerous, you know,

At least they'd have their wives to think them so.

Besides, because she was a dirty bitch,

She was as high as water in a ditch;

And full of scorn and full of back-biting.

She thought a lady should be quite willing

To greet her for her kin and culture, she

Having been brought up in that nunnery.

A daughter had they got between the two,

Of twenty years, and no more children, no,

Save a boy baby that was six months old;

It lay in cradle and was strong and bold.

This girl right stout and well developed was,

With nose tip-tilted and eyes blue as glass,

With buttocks broad, and round breasts full and high,

But golden was her hair, I will not lie.

The parson of the town, since she was fair,

Was purposeful to make of her his heir,

Both of his chattels and of his estate,

But all this hinged upon a proper mate.

He was resolved that he'd bestow her high

Into some blood of worthy ancestry;

For Holy Church's goods must be expended

On Holy Church's blood, as it's descended.

Therefore he'd honour thus his holy blood,

Though Holy Church itself became his food.

Large tolls this miller took, beyond a doubt,

With wheat and malt from all the lands about;

Of which I'd specify among them all

A Cambridge college known as Soler Hall;

He ground their wheat and all their malt he ground.

And on a day it happened, as they found,

The manciple got such a malady

That all men surely thought that he should die.

Whereon this miller stole both flour and wheat

A hundredfold more than he used to cheat;

For theretofore he stole but cautiously,

But now he was a thief outrageously,

At which the warden scolded and raised hell;

The miller snapped his fingers, truth to tell,

And cracked his brags and swore it wasn't so.

There were two poor young clerks, whose names I know,

That dwelt within this Hall whereof I say.

Willful they were and lusty, full of play,

And (all for mirth and to make reverly)

After the warden eagerly did they cry

To give them leave, at least for this one round,

To go to mill and see their produce ground;

And stoutly they proclaimed they'd bet their neck

The miller should not steal one half a peck

Of grain, by trick, nor yet by force should thieve;

And at the last the warden gave them leave.

John was the one and Alain was that other;

In one town were they born, and that called Strother,

Far in the north, I cannot tell you where.

This Alain, he made ready all his gear,

And on a horse loaded the sack anon.

Forth went Alain the clerk, and also John,

With good sword and with buckler at their side.

John knew the way and didn't need a guide,

And at the mill he dropped the sack of grain.

Ah, Simon, hail, good morn, first spoke Alain.

How fares it with your fair daughter and wife?

Alain! Welcome, said Simpkin, by my life,

And John also. How now? What do you here?

Simon, said John, by God, need makes no peer;

He must himself serve who's no servant, eh?

Or else he's but a fool, as all clerks say.

Our manciple- I hope he'll soon be dead,

So aching are the grinders in his head-

And therefore am I come here with Alain

To grind our corn and carry it home again;

I pray you speed us thither, as you may.

It shall be done, said Simpkin, by my fay.

What will you do the while it is in hand?

By God, right by the hopper will I stand,

Said John, and see just how the corn goes in;

I never have seen, by my father's kin,

Just how the hopper waggles to and fro.

Alain replied: Well, John, and will you so?

Then will I get beneath it, by my crown,

To see there how the meal comes sifting down

Into the trough; and that shall be my sport.

For, John, in faith, I must be of your sort;

I am as bad a miller as you be.

The miller smiled at this, their delicacy,

And thought: All this is done but for a wile;

They think there is no man may them beguile;

But, by my thrift, I will yet blear their eyes,

For all the tricks in their philosophies.

The more odd tricks and stratagems they make,

The more I'll steal when I begin to take.

In place of flour I'll give them only bran.

'The greatest clerk is not the wisest man,'

As once unto the grey wolf said the mare.

But all their arts- I rate them not a tare.

Out of the door he went, then, secretly,

When he had seen his chance, and quietly;

He looked up and looked down, until he found

The clerks' horse where it stood, securely bound.

Behind the mill, under an arbour green;

And to the horse he went, then, all unseen;

He took the bridle off him and anon,

When the said horse was free, why he was gone

Toward the fen, for wild mares ran therein,

And with a neigh he went, through thick and thin.

This miller straight went back and no word said,

But did his business and with these clerks played,

Until their corn was fairly, fully ground.

But when the flour was sacked and the ears bound,

This John went out, to find his horse away,

And so he cried: Hello! and Weladay!

Our horse is lost! Alain, for Jesus' bones

Get to your feet, come out, man, now, at once!

Alas, our warden's palfrey's lost and lorn!

This Alain forgot all, both flour and corn,

Clean out of mind was all his husbandry,

What? Which way did he go? began to cry.

The wife came bounding from the house, and then

She said: Alas! Your horse went to the fen,

With the wild mares, as fast as he could go.

A curse light on the hand that tied him so,

And him that better should have knotted rein!

Alas! quoth John, Alain, for Jesus' pain,

Lay off your sword, and I will mine also;

I am as fleet, God knows, as is a roe;

By God's heart, he shall not escape us both!

Why didn't you put him in the barn? My oath!

Bad luck, by God, Alain, you are a fool!

These foolish clerks began to run and roll

Toward the marshes, both Alain and 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 and bread make.

He said: I think those clerks some trickery feared;

Yet can a miller match a clerkling's beard,

For all his learning; let them go their way.

Look where they go, yea, let the children play,

They'll catch him not so readily, by my crown!

Those simple clerks went running up and down

With Look out! Halt! Halt! here! 'Ware the rear!

Go whistle, you, and I will watch him here!

But briefly, till it came to utter night

They could not, though they put forth all their might,

That stallion catch, he always ran so fast,

Till in a ditch they trapped him at the last.

Weary and wet, as beast is in the rain,

Came foolish John and with him came Alain.

Alas, said John, the day that I was born!

Now are we bound toward mockery and scorn.

Our corn is stolen, folk will call us fools,

The warden and the fellows at the schools,

And specially this miller. Weladay!

Thus John complained as he went on his way

Toward the mill, with Bayard once more bound.

The miller sitting by the fire he found,

For it was night, and farther could they not;

But, for the love of God, they him besought

For shelter and for supper, for their penny.

The miller said to them: If there be any,

Such as it is, why you shall have your part.

My house is small, but you have learned your art;

You can, by metaphysics, make a place

A full mile wide in twenty feet of space.

Let us see now if this place will suffice,

Or make more room with speech, by some device.

Now, Simon, said John, by Saint Cuthbert's beard,

You're always merry and have well answered.

As I've heard, man shall take one of two things:

Such as he finds, or take such as he brings.

But specially, I pray you, mine host dear,

Give us some meat and drink and some good cheer,

And we will pay you, truly, to the full.

With empty hand no man takes hawk or gull;

Well, here's our silver, ready to be spent.

This miller to the town his daughter sent

For ale and bread, and roasted them a goose,

And tied their horse, that it might not go loose;

And then in his own chamber made a bed,

With sheets and with good blankets fairly spread,

Not from his bed more than twelve feet, or ten.

The daughter made her lone bed near the men,

In the same chamber with them, by and by;

It could not well be bettered, and for why?

There was no larger room in all the place.

They supped and talked, and gained some small solace,

And drank strong ale, that evening, of the best.

Then about midnight all they went to rest.

Well had this miller varnished his bald head,

For pale he was with drinking, and not red.

He hiccoughed and he mumbled through his nose,

As he were chilled, with humours lachrymose.

To bed he went, and with him went his wife.

As any jay she was with laughter rife,

So copiously was her gay whistle wet.

The cradle near her bed's foot-board was set,

Handy for rocking and for giving suck.

And when they'd drunk up all there was in crock,

To bed went miller's daughter, and anon

To bed went Alain and to bed went John.

There was no more; they did not need a dwale.

This miller had so roundly bibbed his ale

That, like a horse, he snorted in his sleep,

While of his tail behind he kept no keep.

His wife joined in his chorus, and so strong,

Men might have heard her snores a full furlong;

And the girl snored, as well, for company.

Alain the clerk, who heard this melody,

He poked at John and said: Asleep? But how?

Did you hear ever such a song ere now?

Lo, what a compline is among them all!

Now may the wild-fire on their bodies fall!

Who ever heard so outlandish a thing?

But they shall have the flour of ill ending.

Through this long night there'll be for me no rest;

But never mind, 'twill all be for the best.

For, John, said he, so may I ever thrive,

As, if I can, that very wench I'll swive.

Some recompense the law allows to us;

For, John, there is a statute which says thus,

That if a man in one point be aggrieved,

Yet in another shall he be relieved.

Our corn is stolen, to that there's no nay,

And we have had an evil time this day.

But since I may not have amending, now,

Against my loss I'll set some fun- and how!

By God's great soul it shan't be otherwise!

This John replied: Alain, let me advise.

The miller is a dangerous man, he said,

And if he be awakened, I'm afraid

He may well do us both an injury.

But Alain said: I count him not a fly.

And up he rose and to the girl he crept.

This wench lay on her back and soundly slept,

Until he'd come so near, ere she might spy,

It was too late to struggle, then, or cry;

And, to be brief, these two were soon alone.

Now play, Alain! For I will speak of John.

This John lay still a quarter-hour, or so,

Pitied himself and wept for all his woe.

Alas, said he, this is a wicked jape!

Now may I say that I am but an ape.

Yet has my friend, there, something for his harm;

He has the miller's daughter on his arm.

He ventured, and his pains are now all fled,

While I lie like a sack of chaff in bed;

And when this jape is told, another day,

I shall be held an ass, a milksop, yea!

I will arise and chance it, by my fay!

'Unhardy is unhappy,' as they say.

And up he rose, and softly then he went

To find the cradle for expedient,

And bore it over to his own foot-board.

Soon after this the wife no longer snored,

But woke and rose and went outside to piss,

And came again and did the cradle miss,

And groped round, here and there, but found it not.

Alas! thought she, my way I have forgot.

I nearly found myself in the clerks' bed.

Eh, ben'cite, but that were wrong! she said.

And on, until by cradle she did stand.

And, groping a bit farther with her hand,

She found the bed, and thought of naught but good,

Because her baby's cradle by it stood,;

And knew not where she was, for it was dark;

But calmly then she crept in by the clerk,

And lay right still, and would have gone to sleep.

But presently this John the clerk did leap,

And over on this goodwife did he lie.

No such gay time she'd known in years gone by.

He pricked her hard and deep, like one gone mad.

And so a jolly life these two clerks had

Till the third cock began to crow and sing.

Alain grew weary in the grey dawning,

For he had laboured hard through all the night;

And said: Farewell, now, Maudy, sweet delight!

The day is come, I may no longer bide;

But evermore, whether I walk or ride,

I am your own clerk, so may I have weal.

Now, sweetheart, said she, go and fare you well!

But ere you go, there's one thing I must tell.

When you go walking homeward past the mill,

Right at the entrance, just the door behind,

You shall a loaf of half a bushel find

That was baked up of your own flour, a deal

Of which I helped my father for to steal.

And, darling, may God save you now and keep!

And with that word she almost had to weep.

Alain arose and thought: Ere it be dawn,

I will go creep in softly by friend John.

And found the cradle with his hand, anon.

By God! thought he, all wrong I must have gone;

My head is dizzy from my work tonight,

And that's why I have failed to go aright.

I know well, by this cradle, I am wrong,

For here the miller and his wife belong.

And on he went, and on the devil's way,

Unto the bed wherein the miller lay.

He thought to have crept in by comrade John,

So, to the miller, in he got anon,

And caught him round the neck, and softly spake,

Saying: You, John, you old swine's head, awake,

For Christ's own soul, and hear a noble work,

For by Saint James, and as I am a clerk,

I have, three times in this short night, no lack,

Swived that old miller's daughter on her back,

While you, like any coward, were aghast.

You scoundrel, cried the miller, you trespassed?

Ah, traitor false and treacherous clerk! cried he,

You shall be killed, by God's own dignity!

Who dares be bold enough to bring to shame

My daughter, who is born of such a name?

And by the gullet, then, he caught Alain.

And pitilessly he handled him amain,

And on the nose he smote him with his fist.

Down ran the bloody stream upon his breast;

And on the floor, with nose and mouth a-soak,

They wallowed as two pigs do in a poke.

And up they came, and down they both went, prone,

Until the miller stumbled on a stone,

And reeled and fell down backwards on his wife,

Who nothing knew of all this silly strife;

For she had fallen into slumber tight

With John the clerk, who'd been awake all night.

But at the fall, from sleep she started out.

Help, holy Cross of Bromholm! did she shout,

In manus tuas, Lord, to Thee I call!

Simon, awake, the Fiend is on us all

My heart is broken, help, I am but dead!

There lies one on my womb, one on my head!

Help, Simpkin, for these treacherous clerks do fight!

John started up, as fast as well he might,

And searched along the wall, and to and fro,

To find a staff; and she arose also,

And knowing the room better than did John,

She found a staff against the wall, anon;

And then she saw a little ray of light,

For through a hole the moon was shining bright;

And by that light she saw the struggling two,

But certainly she knew not who was who,

Except she saw a white thing with her eye.

And when she did this same white thing espy,

She thought the clerk had worn a nightcap here.

And with the staff she nearer drew, and near,

And, thinking to hit Alain on his poll,

She fetched the miller on his bald white skull,

And down he went, crying out, Help, help, I die!

The two clerks beat him well and let him lie;

And clothed themselves, and took their horse anon,

And got their flour, and on their way were gone.

And at the mill they found the well-made cake

Which of their meal the miller's wife did bake.

Thus is the haughty miller soundly beat,

And thus he's lost his pay for grinding wheat,

And paid for the two suppers, let me tell,

Of Alain, and of John, who've tricked him well.

His wife is taken, also his daughter sweet;

Thus it befalls a miller who's a cheat.

And therefore is this proverb said with truth,

An evil end to evil man, forsooth.

The cheater shall himself well cheated be.

And God, Who sits on high in majesty,

Save all this company, both strong and frail!

Thus have I paid this miller with my tale.

The Cook's Prologue

The cook from London, while the reeve yet spoke,

Patted his back with pleasure at the joke.

Ha, ha! laughed he, by Christ's great suffering,

This miller had a mighty sharp ending

Upon his argument of harbourage!

For well says Solomon, in his language,

'Bring thou not every man into thine house;'

For harbouring by night is dangerous.

Well ought a man to know the man that he

Has brought into his own security.

I pray God give me sorrow and much care

If ever, since I have been Hodge of Ware,

Heard I of miller better brought to mark.

A wicked jest was played him in the dark.

But God forbid that we should leave off here;

And therefore, if you'll lend me now an ear,

From what I know, who am but a poor man,

I will relate, as well as ever I can,

A little trick was played in our city.

Our host replied: I grant it readily.

Now tell on, Roger; see that it be good;

For many a pasty have you robbed of blood,

And many a Jack of Dover have you sold

That has been heated twice and twice grown cold.

From many a pilgrim have you had Christ's curse,

For of your parsley they yet fare the worse,

Which they have eaten with your stubble goose;

For in your shop full many a fly is loose.

Now tell on, gentle Roger, by your name.

But yet, I pray, don't mind if I make game,

A man may tell the truth when it's in play.

You say the truth, quoth Roger, by my fay!

But 'true jest, bad jest' as the Fleming saith.

And therefore, Harry Bailey, on your faith,

Be you not angry ere we finish here,

If my tale should concern an inn-keeper.

Nevertheless, I'll tell not that one yet,

But ere we part your jokes will I upset.

And thereon did he laugh, in great good cheer,

And told his tale, as you shall straightway hear.

The Cook's Tale

There lived a 'prentice, once, in our city,

And of the craft of victuallers was he;

Happy he was as goldfinch in the glade,

Brown as a berry, short, and thickly made,

With black hair that he combed right prettily.

He could dance well, and that so jollily,

That he was nicknamed Perkin Reveller.

He was as full of love, I may aver,

As is a beehive full of honey sweet;

Well for the wench that with him chanced to meet.

At every bridal would he sing and hop,

Loving the tavern better than the shop.

When there was any festival in Cheap,

Out of the shop and thither would he leap,

And, till the whole procession he had seen,

And danced his fill, he'd not return again.

He gathered many fellows of his sort

To dance and sing and make all kinds of sport.

And they would have appointments for to meet

And play at dice in such, or such, a street.

For in the whole town was no apprentice

Who better knew the way to throw the dice

Than Perkin; and therefore he was right free

With money, when in chosen company.

His master found this out in business there;

For often-times he found the till was bare.

For certainly a revelling bond-boy

Who loves dice, wine, dancing, and girls of joy-

His master, in his shop, shall feel the effect,

Though no part have he in this said respect;

For theft and riot always comrades are,

And each alike he played on gay guitar.

Revels and truth, in one of low degree,

Do battle always, as all men may see.

This 'prentice shared his master's fair abode

Till he was nigh out of his 'prenticehood,

Though he was checked and scolded early and late,

And sometimes led, for drinking, to Newgate;

But at the last his master did take thought,

Upon a day, when he his ledger sought,

On an old proverb wherein is found this word:

Better take rotten apple from the hoard

Than let it lie to spoil the good ones there.

So with a drunken servant should it fare;

It is less ill to let him go, apace,

Than ruin all the others in the place.

Therefore he freed and cast him loose to go

His own road unto future care and woe;

And thus this jolly 'prentice had his leave.

Now let him riot all night long, or thieve.

But since there's never thief without a buck

To help him waste his money and to suck

All he can steal or borrow by the way,

Anon he sent his bed and his array

To one he knew, a fellow of his sort,

Who loved the dice and revels and all sport,

And had a wife that kept, for countenance,

A shop, and whored to gain her sustenance.

Introduction To The Lawyer's Prologue

Our good host saw well that the shining sun

The are of artificial day had run

A quarter part, plus half an hour or more;

And though not deeply expert in such lore,

He reckoned that it was the eighteenth day

Of April, which is harbinger to May;

And saw well that the shadow of each tree

Was, as to length, of even quantity

As was the body upright causing it.

And therefore by the shade he had the wit

To know that Phoebus, shining there so bright,

Had climbed degrees full forty-five in height;

And that, that day, and in that latitude,

It was ten of the clock, he did conclude,

And suddenly he put his horse about.

Masters, quoth he, I warn all of this rout,

A quarter of this present day is gone;

Now for the love of God and of Saint John,

Lose no more time, or little as you may;

Masters, the time is wasting night and day,

And steals away from us, what with our sleeping

And with our sloth, when we awake are keeping,

As does the stream, that never turns again,

Descending from the mountain to the plain.

And well may Seneca, and many more,

Bewail lost time far more than gold in store.

'For chattels lost may yet recovered be,

But time lost ruins us for aye,' says he.

It will not come again, once it has fled,

Not any more than will Mag's maidenhead

When she has lost it in her wantonness;

Let's not grow mouldy thus in idleness.

Sir Lawyer, said he, as you have hope of bliss,

Tell us a tale, as our agreement is;

You have submitted, by your free assent,

To stand, in this case, to my sole judgment;

Acquit yourself, keep promise with the rest,

And you'll have done your duty, at the least.

Mine host, said he, by the gods, I consent;

To break a promise is not my intent.

A promise is a debt, and by my fay

I keep all mine; I can no better say.

For such law as man gives to other wight,

He should himself submit to it, by right;

Thus says our text; nevertheless, 'tis true

I can relate no useful tale to you,

But Chaucer, though he speaks but vulgarly

In metre and in rhyming dextrously,

Has told them in such English as he can,

In former years, as knows full many a man.

For if he has not told them, my dear brother,

In one book, why he's done so in another.

For he has told of lovers, up and down,

More than old Ovid mentions, of renown,

In his Epistles, that are now so old.

Why should I then re-tell what has been told?

In youth he told of Ceyx and Alcyon,

And has since then spoken of everyone-

Of noble wives and lovers did he speak.

And whoso will that weighty volume seek

Called Legend of Good Women, need not chide;

There may be ever seen the large wounds wide

Of Lucrece, Babylonian Thisbe;

Dido's for false Aeneas when fled he;

Demophoon and Phyllis and her tree;

The plaint of Deianira and Hermione;

Of Ariadne and Hypsipyle;

The barren island standing in the sea;

The drowned Leander and his fair Hero;

The tears of Helen and the bitter woe

Of Briseis and that of Laodomea;

The cruelty of that fair Queen Medea,

Her little children hanging by the neck

When all her love for Jason came to wreck!

O Hypermnestra, Penelope, Alcestis,

Your wifehood does he honour, since it best is!

But certainly no word has written he

Of that so wicked woman, Canace,

Who loved her own blood brother sinfully.

Of suchlike cursed tales, I say 'Let be!'

Nor yet of Tyrian Apollonius;

Nor how the wicked King Antiochus

Bereft his daughter of her maidenhead

(Which is so horrible a tale to read),

When down he flung her on the paving stones

And therefore he, advisedly, truth owns,

Would never write, in one of his creations,

Of such unnatural abominations.

And I'll refuse to tell them, if I may.

But for my tale, what shall I do this day?

Any comparison would me displease

To Muses whom men call Pierides

(The Metamorphoses show what I mean).

Nevertheless, I do not care a bean

Though I come after him with my plain fare.

I'll stick to prose. Let him his rhymes prepare.

And thereupon, with sober face and cheer,

He told his tale, as you shall read it here.

The Lawyer's Prologue

O Hateful evil! State of Poverty!

With thirst, with cold, with hunger so confounded!

To ask help shameth thy heart's delicacy;

If none thou ask, by need thou art so wounded

That need itself uncovereth all the wound hid!

Spite of thy will thou must, for indigence,

Go steal, or beg, or borrow thine expense.

Thou blamest Christ, and thou say'st bitterly,

He misdistributes riches temporal;

Thy neighbour dost thou censure, sinfully,

Saying thou hast too little and he hath all.

My faith, sayest thou, sometime the reckoning shall

Come on him, when his tail shall burn for greed,

Not having helped the needy in their need.

Hear now what is the judgment of the wise:

Better to die than live in indigence;

Thy very pauper neighbours thee despise.

If thou be poor, farewell thy reverence!

Still of the wise man take this full sentence:

The days of the afflicted are all sin.

Beware, therefore, that thou come not therein!

If thou be poor, thy brother hateth thee,

And all thy friends will flee from thee, alas!

O wealthy merchants, full of weal ye be,

O noble, prudent folk in happier case!

Your dice-box doth not tumble out ambsace,

But with six-cinq ye throw against your chance;

And so, at Christmas, merrily may ye dance!

Ye search all land and sea for your winnings,

And, as wise folk, ye know well the estate

Of all realms; ye are sires of happenings

And tales of peace and tales of war's debate.

But I were now of tales all desolate,

Were 't not a merchant, gone this many a year,

Taught me the story which you now shall hear.

The Lawyer's Tale

In Syria, once, there dwelt a company

Of traders rich, all sober men and true,

That far abroad did send their spicery,

And cloth of gold, and satins rich in hue;

Their wares were all so excellent and new

That everyone was eager to exchange

With them, and sell them divers things and strange,

It came to pass, the masters of this sort

Decided that to Rome they all would wend,

Were it for business or for only sport;

No other message would they thither send,

But went themselves to Rome; this is the end.

And there they found an inn and took their rest

As seemed to their advantage suited best.

Sojourned have now these merchants in that town

A certain time, as fell to their pleasance.

And so it happened that the high renown

Of th' emperor's daughter, called the fair Constance.

Reported was, with every circumstance,

Unto these Syrian merchants, in such wise,

From day to day, as I will now apprise.

This was the common voice of every man:

Our emperor of Rome, God save and see,

A daughter has that since the world began.

To reckon as well her goodness as beauty,

Was never such another as is she;

I pray that God her fame will keep, serene,

And would she were of all Europe the queen.

In her is beauty high, and without pride;

Youth, without crudity or levity;

In an endeavours, virtue is her guide;

Meekness in her has humbled tyranny;

She is the mirror of all courtesy;

Her heart's a very shrine of holiness;

Her hand is freedom's agent for largess.

And all this voice said truth, as God is true.

But to our story let us turn again.

These merchants all have freighted ships anew,

And when they'd seen the lovely maid, they fain

Would seek their Syrian homes with all their train,

To do their business as they'd done yore,

And live in weal; I cannot tell you more.

Now so it was, these merchants stood in grace

Of Syria's sultan; and so wise was he

That when they came from any foreign place

He would, of his benignant courtesy,

Make them good cheer, inquiring earnestly

For news of sundry realms, to learn, by word,

The wonders that they might have seen and heard.

Among some other things, especially

These merchants told him tales of fair Constance;

From such nobility, told of earnestly,

This sultan caught a dream of great pleasance,

And she so figured in his remembrance

That all his wish and all his busy care

Were, throughout life, to love that lady fair.

Now peradventure, in that mighty book

Which men call heaven, it had come to pass,

In stars, when first a living breath he took,

That he for love should get his death, alas!

For in the stars, far dearer than is glass,

Is written, God knows, read it he who can,-

And truth it is- the death of every man.

In stars, full many a winter over-worn,

Was written the death of Hector, Achilles,

Of Pompey, Julius, long ere they were born;

The strife at Thebes; and of great Hercules,

Of Samson, of Turnus, of Socrates,

The death to each; but men's wits are so dull

There is no man may read this to the full.

This sultan for his privy-council sent,

And, but to tell it briefly in this place,

He did to them declare his whole intent,

And said that, surely, save he might have grace

To gain Constance within a little space,

He was but dead; and charged them, speedily

To find out, for his life, some remedy.

By divers men, then, divers things were said;

They reasoned, and they argued up and down;

Full much with subtle logic there they sped;

They spoke of spells, of treachery in Rome town;

But finally, as to an end foreknown,

They were agreed that nothing should gainsay

A marriage, for there was no other way.

Then saw they therein so much difficulty,

When reasoning of it, (to make all plain,

Because such conflict and diversity

Between the laws of both lands long had lain)

They held: No Christian emperor were fain

To have his child wed under our sweet laws,

Given us by Mahomet for God's cause.

But he replied: Nay, rather then than lose

The Lady Constance, I'll be christened, yes!

I must be hers, I can no other choose.

I pray you let be no rebelliousness;

Save me my life, and do not be careless

In getting her who thus alone may cure

The woe whereof I cannot long endure.

What needs a copious dilation now?

I say: By treaties and by embassy,

And the pope's mediation, high and low,

And all the Church and all the chivalry,

That, to destruction of Mahometry

And to augmenting Christian faith so dear,

They were agreed, at last, as you shall hear.

The sultan and his entire baronage

And all his vassals, they must christened be,

And he shall have Constance in true marriage,

And gold (I know not in what quantity),

For which was found enough security;

This, being agreed, was sworn by either side.

Now, Constance fair, may great God be your guide!

Now would some men expect, as I may guess,

That I should tell of all the purveyance

The emperor, of his great nobleness,

Has destined for his daughter, fair Constance.

But men must know that so great ordinance

May no one tell within a little clause

As was arrayed there for so high a cause.

Bishops were named who were with her to wend,

Ladies and lords and knights of high renown,

And other folk- but I will make an end,

Except that it was ordered through the town

That everyone, with great devotion shown,

Should pray to Christ that He this marriage lead

To happy end, and the long voyage speed.

The day is come, at last, for leave-taking,

I say, the woeful, fatal day is come,

When there may be no longer tarrying,

But to go forth make ready all and some;

Constance, who was with sorrow overcome,

Rose, sad and pale, and dressed herself to wend;

For well she saw there was no other end.

Alas! What wonder is it that she wept?

She shall be sent to a strange. country, far

From friends that her so tenderly have kept,

And bound to one her joy to make or mar

Whom she knows not, nor what his people are.

Husbands are all good, and have been of yore,

That know their wives, but I dare say no more.

Father, she said, your wretched child, Constance,

Your daughter reared in luxury so soft,

And you, my mother, and my chief pleasance,

Above all things, save Christ Who rules aloft,

Constance your child would be remembered oft

Within your prayers, for I to Syria go,

Nor shall I ever see you more, ah no!

Unto the land of Barbary my fate

Compels me now, because it is your will;

But Christ, Who died to save our sad estate,

So give me grace, His mandates I'll fulfill;

I, wretched woman, though I die, 'tis nil.

Women are born to slave and to repent,

And to be subject to man's government.

I think, at Troy, when Pyrrhus broke the wall;

When Ilium burned; when Thebes fell, that city;

At Rome, for all the harm from Hannibal,

Who vanquished Roman arms in campaigns three-

I think was heard no weeping for pity

As in the chamber at her leave-taking;

Yet go she must, whether she weep or sing.

O primal-moving, cruel Firmament,

With thy diurnal pressure, that doth sway

And hurl all things from East to Occident,

Which otherwise would hold another way,

Thy pressure set the heavens in such array,

At the beginning of this wild voyage,

That cruel Mars hath murdered this marriage.

Unfortunate ascendant tortuous,

Of which the lord has helpless fall'n, alas,

Out of his angle to the darkest house!

O Mars! O Atazir in present case!

O feeble Moon, unhappy is thy pace!

Thou'rt in conjunction where thou'rt not received,

And where thou should'st go, thou hast not achieved.

Imprudent emperor of Rome, alas!

Was no philosopher in all thy town?

Is one time like another in such case?

Indeed, can there be no election shown,

Especially to folk of high renown,

And when their dates of birth may all men know?

Alas! We are too ignorant or too slow.

To ship is brought this fair and woeful maid,

Full decorously, with every circumstance.

Now Jesus Christ be with you all, she said;

And there's no more, save Farewell, fair Constance!

She strove to keep a cheerful countenance,

And forth I let her sail in this manner,

And turn again to matters far from her.

The mother of the sultan, well of vices,

Has heard the news of her son's full intent,

How he will leave the ancient sacrifices;

And she at once for her own council sent;

And so they came to learn what thing she meant.

And when they were assembled, each compeer,

She took her seat and spoke as you shall hear.

My lords, said she, you know well, every man,

My son intends to forgo and forget

The holy precepts of our Alkoran,

Given by God's own prophet, Mahomet.

But I will make one vow to great God yet:

The life shall rather from my body start

Than Islam's laws out of my faithful heart!

What should we get from taking this new creed

But thralldom for our bodies and penance?

And afterward, be drawn to Hell, indeed,

For thus denying our faith's inheritance?

But, lords, if you will give your sustenance,

And join me for the wisdom I've in store,

I swear to save us all for evermore.

They swore and they assented, every man,

To live by her and die, and by her stand;

And each of them, in what best wise he can,

Shall gather friends and followers into band;

And she shall take the enterprise in hand,

The form of which I soon will you apprise,

And to them all she spoke, then, in this wise.

We will first feign the Christian faith to take;

Cold water will not harm us from the rite;

And I will such a feast and revel make

As will, I trust, to lull be requisite.

For though his wife be christened ever so white,

She shall have need to wash away the red,

Though a full font of water be there sped.

O sultana, root of iniquity!

Virago, you Semiramis second!

O serpent hid in femininity,

Just as the Serpent deep in Hell is bound!

O pseudo-woman, all that may confound

Virtue and innocence, through your malice,

Is bred in you, the nest of every vice!

O Satan, envious since that same day

When thou wert banished from our heritage,

Well know'st thou unto woman thine old way!

Thou made'st Eve bring us into long bondage.

Thou wilt destroy this Christian marriage.

Thine instrument- ah welaway the while!-

Make'st thou of woman when thou wilt beguile!

Now this sultana whom I blame and harry,

Let, secretly, her council go their way.

Why should I longer in my story tarry?

She rode unto the sultan, on a day,

And told him she'd renounce her old faith, yea,

Be christened at priests' hands, with all the throng,

Repentant she'd been heathen for so long.

Beseeching him to do her the honour

To let her have the Christian men to feast:

To entertain them will be my labour.

The sultan said: I'll be at your behest.

And, kneeling, thanked her for that fair request,

So glad he was he knew not what to say;

She kissed her son, and homeward went her way.

Explicit prima pars.

Sequitur pars secunda.

Arrived now are these Christian folk at land,

In Syria, with a great stately rout,

And hastily this sultan gave command,

First to his mother and all the realm about,

Saying his wife was come, beyond a doubt,

And prayed her that she ride to meet the queen,

That all due honour might be shown and seen.

Great was the crush and rich was the array

Of Syrians and Romans, meeting here;

The mother of the sultan, rich and gay,

Received her open-armed, with smiling cheer,

As any mother might a daughter dear;

And to the nearest city, with the bride,

At gentle pace, right festively they ride.

I think the triumph of great Julius,

Whereof old Lucan make so long a boast,

Was not more royal nor more curious

Than was the assembling of this happy host.

But this same Scorpion, this wicked ghost-

The old sultana, for all her flattering,

Chose in that sign full mortally to sting.

The sultan came himself, soon after this,

So regally 'twere wonderful to tell,

And welcomed her into all joy and bliss.

And thus in such delight I let them dwell.

The fruit of all is what I now shall tell.

When came the time, men thought it for the best

Their revels cease, and got them home to rest.

The time came when this old sultana there

Has ordered up the feast of which I told,

Whereto the Christian folk did them prepare,

The company together, young and old.

There men might feast and royalty behold,

With dainties more than I can e'en surmise;

But all too dear they've bought it, ere they rise.

O sudden woe! that ever will succeed

On worldly bliss, infused with bitterness;

That ends the joy of earthly toil, indeed;

Woe holds at last the place of our gladness.

Hear, now, this counsel for your certainness:

Upon your most glad day, bear then in mind

The unknown harm and woe that come behind.

For, but to tell you briefly, in one word-

The sultan and the Christians, every one,

Were all hewed down and thrust through at the board,

Save the fair Lady Constance, she alone.

This old sultana, aye, this cursed crone

Has, with her followers, done this wicked deed,

For she herself would all the nation lead.

There was no Syrian that had been converted,

Being of the sultan's council resolute,

But was struck down, ere from the board he'd started

And Constance have they taken now, hot-foot,

And on a ship, of rudder destitute,

They her have placed, bidding her learn to sail

From Syria to Italy- or fail.

A certain treasure that she'd brought, they add,

And, truth to tell, of food great quantity

They have her given, and clothing too she had;

And forth she sails upon the wide salt sea.

O Constance mine, full of benignity,

O emperor's young daughter, from afar

He that is Lord of fortune be your star!

She crossed herself, and in a pious voice

Unto the Cross of Jesus thus said she:

O bright, O blessed Altar of my choice,

Red with the Lamb's blood full of all pity,

That washed the world from old iniquity,

Me from the Fiend and from his claws, oh keep

That day when I shall drown within the deep!

Victorious Tree, Protection of the true,

The only thing that worthy was to bear

The King of Heaven with His wounds so new,

The White Lamb Who was pierced through with the spear,

Driver of devils out of him and her

Who on Thine arms do lay themselves in faith,

Keep me and give me grace before my death!

For years and days drifted this maiden pure,

Through all the seas of Greece and to the strait

Of dark Gibraltar dier she adventure;

On many a sorry meal now may she bait;

Upon her death full often may she wait

Before the wild waves and the winds shall drive

Her vessel where it shall some day arrive.

Men might well ask: But why was she not slain?

And at that feast who could her body save?

And I reply to that demand, again:

Who saved young Daniel in the dreadful cave

Where every other man, master and knave,

Was killed by lions ere he might up-start?

No one, save God, Whom he bore in his heart.

God willed to show this wondrous miracle

Through her, that we should see His mighty works;

And Christ Who every evil can dispel,

By certain means does oft, as know all clerks,

Do that whereof the end in darkness lurks

For man's poor wit, which of its ignorance

Cannot conceive His careful purveyance.

Now, since she was not slain at feast we saw,

Who kept her that she drowned not in the sea?

But who kept Jonah in the fish's maw

Till he was spewed forth there at Nineveh?

Well may men know it was no one but He

Who saved the Hebrew people from drowning

When, dry-shod, through the sea they went walking.

Who bade the four great spirits of tempest,

That power have to harry land and sea,

Not north, nor south, nor yet to east, nor west

Shall ye molest the ocean, land, or tree?

Truly, the Captain of all this was He

Who from the storm has aye this woman kept,

As well when waking as in hours she slept.

Where might this woman get her drink and meat?

Three years and more, how lasted her supply?

Who gave Egyptian Mary food to eat

In cave desert? None but Christ, say I.

Five thousand folk, the gospels testify,

On five loaves and two fishes once did feed.

And thus God sent abundance for her need.

Forth into our own ocean then she came,

Through all our wild white seas, until at last,

Under a keep, whose name I cannot name,

Far up Northumberland, her ship was cast,

And on the sands drove hard and stuck so fast

That thence it moved not, no, for all the tide,

It being Christ's will that she should there abide.

The warden of the castle down did fare

To view this wreck, and through the ship he sought

And found this weary woman, full of care;

He found, also, the treasure she had brought.

In her own language mercy she besought

That he would help her soul from body win

To free her from the plight that she was in.

A kind of bastard Latin did she speak,

But, nevertheless, these folk could understand;

The constable no longer thought to seek,

But led the sorrowing woman to the land;

There she knelt down and thanked God, on the sand.

But who or what she was, she would not say,

For threat or promise, though she died that day.

She said she'd been bewildered by the sea,

And had lost recollection, by her truth;

The warden had for her so great pity,

As had his wife, that both they wept for ruth.

She was so diligent to toil, in sooth,

To serve and please all folk within that place,

That all loved her who looked upon her face.

This warden and Dame Hermengild, his wife,

Were pagans, and that country, everywhere;

But Hermengild now loved her as her life,

And Constance has so long abided there,

And prayed so oft, with many a tearful prayer,

That Jesus has converted, through His grace,

Dame Hermengild, the lady of that place.

In all that land no Christian dared speak out

All Christians having fled from that country,

For pagan men had conquered all about

The regions of the north, by land and sea;

To Wales was fled the Christianity

Of the old Britons dwelling in this isle;

That was their refuge in the wild meanwhile.

Yet ne'er were Christian Britons so exiled

But some of them assembled, privately,

To honour Christ, and heathen folk beguiled;

And near the castle dwelt of such men three.

But one of them was blind and could not see,

Save with the inner optics of his mind,

Wherewith all men see after they go blind.

Bright was the sun upon that summer's day

When went the warden and his wife also,

And Constance, down the hill, along the way

Toward the sea, a furlong off, or so,

To frolic and to wander to and fro;

And in their walk on this blind man they came,

With eyes fast shut, a creature old and lame.

In name of Christ! this blind old Briton cried,

Dame Hermengild, give me my sight again.

But she was frightened of the words, and sighed,

Lest that her husband, briefly to be plain,

Should have her, for her love of Jesus, slain;

Till Constance strengthened her and bade her work

The will of God, as daughter of His kirk.

The warden was confounded by that sight,

And asked: What mean these words and this affair?

Constance replied: Sir, it is Jesus' might

That helps all poor folk from the foul Fiend's snare.

And so far did she our sweet faith declare

That she the constable, before 'twas eve,

Converted, and in Christ made him believe.

This constable, though not lord of that place

Where he'd found Constance, wrecked upon the sand,

Had held it well for many a winter's space,

For Alla, king of all Northumberland,

Who was full wise and hardy of his hand

Against the Scots, as men may read and hear,

But I will to my tale again- give ear.

Satan, that ever waits, men to beguile,

Saw now, in Constance, all perfection grown,

And wondering how to be revenged the while,

He made a young knight, living in the town,

Love her so madly, with foul passion flown,

That verily he thought his life should spill,

Save that, of her, be once might have his will.

He wooed her, but it all availed him naught;

She would not sin in any wise or way;

And, for despite, he plotted in his thought

To make her die a death of shame some day.

He waited till the warden was away,

And, stealthily by night, he went and crept

To Hermengild's bed-chamber, while she slept.

Weary with waking for her orisons,

Slept Constance, and Dame Hermengild also.

This knight, by Satan's tempting, came at once

And softly to the bedside he did go.

And cut the throat of Hermengild, and so

Laid the hot reeking knife by fair Constance,

And went his way- where God give him mischance!

Soon after came the warden home again,

And with him Alla, king of all that land,

And saw his wife so pitilessly slain,

For which he wept and cried and wrung his hand;

And in the bed the bloody dagger, and

The Lady Constance. Ah! What could she say?

For very woe her wits went all away.

King Alla was apprised of this sad chance,

And told the time, and where, and in what wise

Was found in a wrecked ship the fair Constance,

As heretofore you've heard my tale apprise.

But in the king's heart pity did arise

When he saw so benignant a creature

Fallen in distress of such misadventure.

For as the lamb unto his death is brought,

So stood this innocent before the king;

And the false knight that had this treason wrought,

He swore that it was she had done this thing.

Nevertheless, there was much sorrowing

Among the people, saying, We cannot gues

That she has done so great a wickedness.

For we have seen her always virtuous,

And loving Hermengild as she loved life.

To this bore witness each one in that house,

Save he that slew the victim with his knife.

The gentle king suspected. motive rife

In that man's heart; and thought he would inquire

Deeper therein, the truth to learn entire.

Alas, Constance! You have no champion,

And since you cannot fight, it's welaway!

But He Who died for us the cross upon,

And Satan bound (who lies yet where he lay),

So be your doughty Champion this day!

For, except Christ a miracle make known,

You shall be slain, though guiltless, and right soon.

She dropped upon her knees and thus she prayed:

Immortal God, Who saved the fair Susanna

From lying blame, and Thou, O gracious Maid

(Mary, I mean, the daughter of Saint Anna),

Before Child the angels sing hosanna,

If I be guiltless of this felony,

My succour be, for otherwise I die!

Have you not sometime seen a pallid face

Among the crowd, of one that's being led

Toward his death- one who had got no grace?

And such a pallor on his face was spread

All men must mark it, full of horrid dread,

Among the other faces in the rout.

So stood fair Constance there and looked about.

O queens that live in all prosperity,

Duchesses, and you ladies, every one,

Have pity, now, on her adversity;

An emperor's young daughter stands alone;

She has no one to whom to make her moan.

O royal blood that stands there in such dread,

Far are your friends away in your great need!

This King Alla has such compassion shown

(Since gentle heart is full of all pity),

That from his two eyes ran the tears right down.

Now hastily go fetch a book, quoth he,

And if this knight will swear that it was she

Who slew the woman, then will we make clear

The judge we shall appoint the case to hear.

A book of Gospels writ in British tongue

Was brought, and on this Book he swore anon

Her guilt; but then the people all among

A clenched hand smote him on the shoulder-bone,

And down he fell, as stunned as by a stone,

And both his eyes burst forth out of his face

In sight of everybody in that place.

A voice was heard by all that audience,

Saying: You have here slandered the guiltless

Daughter of Holy Church, in high Presence;

Thus have you done, and further I'll not press.

Whereat were all the folk aghast, no less;

As men amazed they stand there, every one,

For dread of vengeance, save Constance alone.

Great was the fear and, too, the repentance

Of those that held a wrong suspicion there

Against this simple innocent Constance;

And by this miracle so wondrous fair,

And by her mediation and her prayer,

The king, with many another in that place,

Was there converted, thanks to Christ His grace!

This lying knight was slain for his untruth,

By sentence of King Alla, hastily;

Yet Constance had upon his death great ruth.

And after this, Jesus, of His mercy,

Caused Alla take in marriage, solemnly,

This holy maiden, so bright and serene,

And thus has Christ made fair Constance a queen.

But who was sad, if I am not to lie,

At this but Lady Donegild, she who

Was the king's mother, full of tyranny?

She thought her wicked heart must burst in two;

She would he'd never thought this thing to do;

And so she hugged her anger that he'd take

So strange a wife as this creature must make.

Neither with chaff nor straw it pleases me

To make a long tale, here, but with the corn.

Why should I tell of all the royalty

At that wedding, or who went first, well-born,

Or who blew out a trumpet or a horn?

The fruit of every tale is but to say,

They eat and drink and dance and sing and play.

They went to bed, as was but just and right,

For though some wives are pure and saintly things,

They must endure, in patience, in the night,

Such necessaries as make pleasurings

To men whom they have wedded well with rings,

And lay their holiness a while aside;

There may no better destiny betide.

On her he got a man-child right anon;

And to a bishop and the warden eke

He gave his wife to guard, while he was gone

To Scotland, there his enemies to seek;

Now Constance, who so humble is, and meek,

So long is gone with child that, hushed and still,

She keeps her chamber, waiting on Christ's will.

The time was come, a baby boy she bore;

Mauritius they did name him at the font;

This constable sent forth a messenger

And wrote unto King Alla at the front

Of all this glad event, a full account,

And other pressing matters did he say.

He took the letter and went on his way.

This messenger, to forward his own ends,

To the king's mother rode with swiftest speed,

Humbly saluting her as down he bends:

Madam, quoth he, be joyful now indeed!

To God a hundred thousand thanks proceed.

The queen has borne a child, beyond all doubt,

To joy and bliss of all this land about.

Lo, here are letters sealed that say this thing,

Which I must bear with all the speed I may;

If you will send aught to your son, the king,

I am your humble servant, night and day.

Donegild answered: As for this time, nay;

But here tonight I'd have you take your rest;

Tomorrow I will say what I think best.

This messenger drank deep of ale and wine,

And stolen were his letters, stealthily,

Out of his box, while slept he like a swine;

And counterfeited was, right cleverly,

Another letter, wrought full sinfully,

Unto the king; of this event so near,

All from the constable, as you shall hear.

The letter said, the queen delivered was

Of such a fiendish, horrible creature,

That in the castle none so hardy as

Durst, for a lengthy time, there to endure.

The mother was an elf or fairy, sure,

Come there by chance of charm, or sorcery,

And all good men hated her company.

Sad was the king when this letter he'd seen;

But to no man he told his sorrows sore,

But with his own hand he wrote back again:

Welcome what's sent from Christ, for evermore,

To me, who now am learned in His lore;

Lord, welcome be Thy wish, though hidden still,

My own desire is but to do Thy will.

Guard well this child, though foul it be or fair,

And guard my wife until my home-coming;

Christ, when He wills it, may send me an heir

More consonant than this with my liking.

This letter sealed, and inwardly weeping,

To the same messenger 'twas taken soon,

And forth he went; there's no more to be done.

O messenger, possessed of drunkenness,

Strong is your breath, your limbs do falter aye,

And you betray all secrets, great and less;

Your mind is gone, you jangle like a jay;

Your face is mottled in a new array!

Where drunkenness can reign, in any rout,

There is no counsel kept, beyond a doubt.

O Donegild, there is no English mine

Fit for your malice and your tyranny!

Therefore you to the Fiend I do resign,

Let him go write of your foul treachery!

Fie, mannish women! Nay, by God, I lie!

Fie, fiendish spirit, for I dare well tell,

Though you walk here, your spirit is in Hell!

This messenger came from the king again,

And at the king's old mother's court did light,

And she was of this messenger full fain

To please him in whatever way she might.

He drank until his girdle was too tight,

He slept and snored and mumbled, drunken-wise,

All night, until the sun began to rise.

Again were his letters stolen, every one,

And others counterfeited, in this wise:

The king commands his constable, anon,

On pain of hanging by the high justice,

That he shall suffer not, in any guise,

Constance within the kingdom to abide

Beyond three days and quarter of a tide.

But in the ship wherein she came to strand

She and her infant son and all her gear

Shall be embarked and pushed out from the land,

And charge her that she never again come here.

O Constance mine, well might your spirit fear,

And, sleeping, in your dream have great grievance

When Donegild arranged this ordinance.

This messenger, the morrow, when he woke,

Unto the castle held the nearest way,

And to the constable the letter took;

And when he'd read and learned what it did say,

Often he cried Alas! and Welaway!

Lord Christ, quoth he, how may this world endure?

So full of sin is many a bad creature.

O mighty God, and is it then Thy will?

Since Thou art righteous judge, how can it be

That innocence may suffer so much ill

And wicked folk reign in prosperity?

O good Constance, alas! Ah, woe is me

That I must be your torturer, or die

A shameful death! There is no other way.

Wept both the young and old of all that place

Because the king this cursed letter sent,

And Constance, with a deathly pallid face,

Upon the fourth day to the ship she went.

Nevertheless, she took as good intent

The will of Christ, and kneeling on the strand,

She said: Lord, always welcome Thy command!

He that did keep me from all lying blame

The while I lived among you, sun and snow,

He can still guard me from all harm and shame

Upon salt seas, albeit I see not how.

As strong as ever He was, so is He now.

In Him I trust and in His Mother dear,

He is my sail, the star by which I steer.

Her little child lay crying in her arm,

And kneeling, piteously to him she said:

Peace, little son, I will do you no harm.

With that the kerchief took she from her braid,

And binding it across his eyes, she laid

Again her arm about and lulled him fast

Asleep, and then to Heaven her eyes up-cast.

Mother, she said, O Thou bright Maid, Mary,

True is it that through woman's incitement

Mankind was banished and is doomed to die,

For which Thy Son upon the cross was rent;

Thy blessed eyes saw all of His torment;

Wherefore there's no comparison between

Thy woe and any woe of man, though keen.

Thou sawest them slay Thy Son before Thine eyes;

And yet lives now my little child, I say!

O Lady bright, to Whom affliction cries,

Thou glory of womanhood, O Thou fair May,

Haven of refuge, bright star of the day,

Pity my child, Who of Thy gentleness

Hast pity on mankind in all distress!

O little child, alas! What is your guilt,

Who never wrought the smallest sin? Ah me,

Why will your too hard father have you killed?

Have mercy, O dear constable! cried she,

And let my little child bide, safe from sea;

And if you dare not save him, lest they blame

Then kiss him once in his dear father's name!

Therewith she gazed long backward at the land,

And said: Farewell, my husband merciless!

And up she rose and walked right down the strand

Toward the ship; followed her all the press;

And ever she prayed her child to cry the less;

And took her leave; and with a high intent

She crossed herself; and aboard ship she went.

Victualled had been the ship, 'tis true- indeed

Abundantly- for her, and for long space;

Of many other things that she should need

She had great plenty, thanks be to God's grace!

Through wind and weather may God find her place

And bring her home! I can no better say;

But out to sea she stood upon her way.

Explicit secunda pars.

Sequitur pars tercia.

Alla the king came home soon after this

Unto his castle, of the which I've told,

And asked for wife and child, whom he did miss.

The constable about his heart grew cold,

And plainly all the story he then told,

As you have heard, I cannot tell it better,

And showed the king his seal and the false letter.

And said: My lord, as you commanded me,

On pain of death, so have I done- in vain!

The messenger was tortured until he

Made known the facts to all men, full and plain,

From night to night, in what beds he had lain.

And thus, by dint of subtle questioning,

'Twas reasoned out from whom this harm did spring.

The hand was known, now, that the letter wrote,

And all the venom of this cursed deed,

But in what wise I certainly know not,

The effect is this, that Alla, for her meed,

His mother slew, as men may plainly read,

She being false to her sworn allegiance,

And thus old Donegild ended with mischance.

The sorrow that this Alla, night and day,

Felt for his wife, and for his child also,

There is no human tongue on earth to say.

But now will I back to fair Constance go,

Who drifted on the seas, in pain and woe,

Five years and more, as was Lord Christ's command,

Before her ship approached to any land.

Under a heathen castle, at the last,

Whereof the name not in my text I find,

Constance and her young son the sea did cast.

Almighty God, Redeemer of mankind,

Have Constance and her little child in mind!

Who must fall into heathen hands and soon

Be near to death, as I shall tell anon.

Down from the castle came full many a wight

To stare upon the ship and on Constance.

But briefly, from the castle, on a night,

The warden's steward- God give him mischance!-

A thief who had renounced allegiance

To Christ, came to the ship and said he should

Possess her body, whether or not she would.

Woe for this wretched woman then began,

Her child cried out and she cried, piteously;

But blessed Mary helped her soon; the man

With whom she struggled well and mightily,

This thief fell overboard all suddenly,

And in the sea was drowned by God's vengeance;

And thus has Christ unsullied kept Constance.

O foul desire of lechery, lo thine end!

Not only dost thou cripple a man's mind,

But verily dost thou his body rend;

The end of all thy work and thy lusts blind

Is bitterness; how many may we find

That not for actions but for mere intent

To do this sin, to shame or death are sent.

How could this poor weak woman have the strength

To keep herself against that renegade?

Goliath of immeasurable length,

How could young David such a death have made,

So slight and without armour? How arrayed

Himself to look upon that dreadful face?

Men may well see, it was but God's own grace!

Who gave to Judith courage all reckless

To slay him, Holofernes, in his tent,

And to deliver out of wretchedness

The folk of God? I say, for this intent

That just as God a soul of vigour sent

To them, and saved them out of their mischance,

So sent He might and vigour to Constance.

Forth went her ship and through the narrow mouth

Of Ceuta and Gibraltar, on its way,

Sometimes to west, and sometimes north or south,

Aye and sometimes east, many a weary day,

Until Christ's Mother (blest be She for aye!)

Did destine, out of good that is endless,

To make an end of Constance' heaviness.

But let us leave this Constance now, and turn

To speak of that same Roman emperor

Who does, from Syria, by letters, learn

The slaughter of Christians and the dishonour

Done to his daughter by a vile traitor-

I mean that old sultana, years ago,

Who, at the feast, slew all men, high and low.

For which this emperor did send anon

A senator, with royal ordinance,

And other lords, God knows, and many a one,

On Syrians to take full high vengeance.

They burn, they slay, they give them all mischance

Through many a day; but, briefly to make end,

Homeward to Rome, at last, the victors wend.

This senator returned with victory

To Rome again, sailing right royally,

And spoke the ship (so goes the old story)

In which our Constance sat so piteously,

Nothing he knew of who she was, or why

She was in such a plight; nor would she say

Aught of herself, though she might die that day.

He took her into Rome, and to his wife

Gave her in charge, and her young son also;

And in his house she lived awhile her life.

Thus can Our Lady bring from deepest woe

Most woeful Constance, aye and more, we know.

And for a long time dwelt she in that place,

Engaged in God's good works, such was her grace.

The senator's good wife her own aunt was,

Yet for all that she knew her never the more;

I will no longer tarry in this case,

But to King Alla, whom we left, of yore,

Weeping for his lost wife and sighing sore.

I will return, and I will leave Constance

Under the senator's roof and governance.

King Alla, who had had his mother slain,

Upon a day fell to such repentance,

That, but to tell it briefly and be plain,

To Rome he came to pay his just penance

And put himself in the pope's ordinance,

In high and low; and Jesus Christ he sought

To pardon all the wicked deeds he'd wrought.

The news anon through all Rome town was borne,

How King Alla would come on pilgrimage,

By harbingers that unto him were sworn;

Whereat the senator, as was usage,

Rode out to him, with many of his lineage,

As well to show his own magnificence

As do to any king a reverence.

Great welcome gave this noble senator

To King Alla, and he to him also;

Each of them showed the other much honour;

And so befell that, in a day or so,

This senator to King Alla did go

To feast, and briefly, if I may not lie,

Constance' young son went in his company.

Some men would say, 'twas instance of Constance

That sent him with the senator to feast;

I cannot tell you every circumstance,

Be it as may be, he was there, at least.

But truth is that, at his mother's behest,

Before the king, during the banquet's space,

The child stood, looking in King Alla's face.

This child aroused within the king great wonder,

And to the senator he said, anon:

Whose is the fair child that is standing yonder?

I know not, quoth he, by God and Saint John!

A mother he has, but father has he none

That I know of- and briefly, at a bound,

He told King Alla how this child was found.

But God knows, said this senator, as well,

So virtuous a liver, in my life

I never saw, as she is, nor heard tell

Of earthly woman, maiden, no nor wife.

I dare say, she would rather have a knife

Thrust through her breast than play a female trick;

There is no man could bring her to the prick.

Now this boy was as like unto Constance

As it was possible for one to be.

Alla had kept the face in remembrance

Of Dame Constance, and thereon now mused he:

Mayhap the mother of the child was she

Who was his wife. And inwardly he sighed,

And left the table with a hasty stride.

In faith, thought he, a phantom's in my head!

I ought to hold, by any right judgment,

That in the wide salt sea my wife is dead.

And afterward he made this argument:

How know I but that Christ has hither sent

My wife by sea, as surely as she went

To my own land, the which was evident?

And, after noon, home with the senator

Went Alla, all to test this wondrous chance.

The senator did Alla great honour,

And hastily he sent for fair Constance.

But, trust me, she was little fain to dance

When she had heard the cause of that command.

Scarcely upon her two feet could she stand.

When Alla saw his wife, he greeted her,

Then wept till it was a sad thing to see.

For, at the first glance, when she entered there,

He knew full verily that it was she.

And she for grief stood dumb as ever tree;

So was her heart shut up in her distress

When she remembered his unkindliness.

Twice did she swoon away there, in his sight;

He wept and he protested piteously.

Now God, quoth he, and all His angels bright

So truly on my spirit have mercy

As of your ills all innocent am I,

As is Maurice, my son, so like your face,

Or may the foul Fiend take me from this place!

Long was the sobbing and the bitter pain

Before their woeful hearts could find surcease;

Great was the pity to hear them complain,

Whereof their sorrows surely did increase.

I pray you all my labour to release;

I cannot tell their grief until tomorrow,

I am so weary, speaking long of sorrow.

But, truth being known and all doubt now dismissed,

And Alla proven guiltless of her woe,

I think a hundred times they must have kissed,

And such great bliss there was between the two

That, save the joy that nevermore shall go,

There was naught like it, present time or past,

Nor shall be, ever, while the world shall last.

Then prayed she of her husband, all meekly,

As for her pain a splendid anodyne,

That he would pray her father, specially,

That, of his majesty, he would incline

And that, some day, would come with him to dine;

She prayed him, also, he should in no way

Unto her father one word of her say.

Some men would say, it was the child Maurice

Did bear this message to the emperor;

But, as I guess, King Alla was too nice

In etiquette to one of such honour

As he that was of Christendom the flower,

To send a child; and it is best to deem

He went himself, and so it well may seem.

This emperor has granted, graciously,

To come to dinner, as he's been besought,

And, well I think, he pondered busily

Upon the child, and on his daughter thought.

Alla went to his inn, and, as he ought,

Made ready for the feast in every wise

As far as his experience could devise.

The morrow came, and Alla rose to dress,

And, too, his wife, the emperor to meet;

And forth they rode in joy and happiness.

And when she saw her father in the street,

She lighted down, and falling at his feet,

Father, quoth she, your young child, your Constance,

Is now gone clean out of your remembrance.

I am your daughter Constance, then said she,

That once you sent to Syria. 'Tis I.

It is I, father, who, on the salt sea,

Was sent, alone to drift and doomed to die.

But now, good father, mercy must I cry:

Send me no more to heathendom, godless,

But thank my lord, here, for his kindliness.

But all the tender joy, who'll tell it all

That was between the three who thus are met?

But of my tale, now, make an end I shall;

The day goes fast, I will no longer fret.

These happy folk at dinner are all set,

And there, in joy and bliss, I let them dwell;

Happier a thousand fold than I can tell.

This child Maurice was, since then, emperor

Made by the pope, and lived right christianly.

Unto Christ's Church he did a great honour;

But I let all his story pass me by.

Of Constance is my tale, especially.

In ancient Roman histories men may find

The life of Maurice; I've it not in mind.

This King Alla, when came the proper day,

With his Constance, his saintly wife so sweet,

To England went again, by the straight way,

Where they did live in joy and quiet meet.

But little while it lasts us, thus complete.

Joy of this world, for time will not abide;

From day to day it changes as the tide.

Who ever lived in such delight one day

That was not stirred therefrom by his conscience,

Desire, or anger, or some kindred fray,

Envy, or pride, or passion, or offense?

I say but to one ending this sentence:

That but a little while in joy's pleasance

Lasted the bliss of Alla and Constance.

For death, that takes from high and low his rent,

When but a year had passed, as I should guess,

Out of the world King Alla quickly sent,

For whom Constance felt heavy wretchedness.

Now let us pray that God his soul will bless!

And of Dame Constance, finally to say,

Towards the town of Rome she took her way.

To Rome is come this holy one and pure,

And finds that all her friends are safe and sound;

For now she's done with all her adventure;

And when she'd come there, and her father found,

Down on her two knees fell she to the ground,

Weeping but joyful gave she God her praise

A hundred thousand times for all His ways.

In virtue, and with alms and holy deed,

They all live there, nor ever asunder wend;

Till death does part them, such a life they lead.

And fare now well, my tale is at an end.

And Jesus Christ, Who of His might may send

Joy after woe, govern us by His grace

And keep us all that now are in this place! Amen.

The Wife of Bath's Prologue

Experience, though no authority

Were in this world, were good enough for me,

To speak of woe that is in all marriage;

For, masters, since I was twelve years of age,

Thanks be to God Who is for aye alive,

Of husbands at church door have I had five;

For men so many times have wedded me;

And all were worthy men in their degree.

But someone told me not so long ago

That since Our Lord, save once, would never go

To wedding (that at Cana in Galilee),

Thus, by this same example, showed He me

I never should have married more than once.

Lo and behold! What sharp words, for the nonce,

Beside a well Lord Jesus, God and man,

Spoke in reproving the Samaritan:

'For thou hast had five husbands,' thus said He,

'And he whom thou hast now to be with thee

Is not thine husband.' Thus He said that day,

But what He meant thereby I cannot say;

And I would ask now why that same fifth man

Was not husband to the Samaritan?

How many might she have, then, in marriage?

For I have never heard, in all my age,

Clear exposition of this number shown,

Though men may guess and argue up and down.

But well I know and say, and do not lie,

God bade us to increase and multiply;

That worthy text can I well understand.

And well I know He said, too, my husband

Should father leave, and mother, and cleave to me;

But no specific number mentioned He,

Whether of bigamy or octogamy;

Why should men speak of it reproachfully?

Lo, there's the wise old king Dan Solomon;

I understand he had more wives than one;

And now would God it were permitted me

To be refreshed one half as oft as he!

Which gift of God he had for all his wives!

No man has such that in this world now lives.

God knows, this noble king, it strikes my wit,

The first night he had many a merry fit

With each of them, so much he was alive!

Praise be to God that I have wedded five!

Welcome the sixth whenever come he shall.

Forsooth, I'll not keep chaste for good and all;

When my good husband from the world is gone,

Some Christian man shall marry me anon;

For then, the apostle says that I am free

To wed, in God's name, where it pleases me.

He says that to be wedded is no sin;

Better to marry than to burn within.

What care I though folk speak reproachfully

Of wicked Lamech and his bigamy?

I know well Abraham was holy man,

And Jacob, too, as far as know I can;

And each of them had spouses more than two;

And many another holy man also.

Or can you say that you have ever heard

That God has ever by His express word

Marriage forbidden? Pray you, now, tell me.

Or where commanded He virginity?

I read as well as you no doubt have read

The apostle when he speaks of maidenhead;

He said, commandment of the Lord he'd none.

Men may advise a woman to be one,

But such advice is not commandment, no;

He left the thing to our own judgment so.

For had Lord God commanded maidenhood,

He'd have condemned all marriage as not good;

And certainly, if there were no seed sown,

Virginity- where then should it be grown?

Paul dared not to forbid us, at the least,

A thing whereof his Master'd no behest.

The dart is set up for virginity;

Catch it who can; who runs best let us see.

But this word is not meant for every wight,

But where God wills to give it, of His might.

I know well that the apostle was a maid;

Nevertheless, and though he wrote and said

He would that everyone were such as he,

All is not counsel to virginity;

And so to be a wife he gave me leave

Out of permission; there's no shame should grieve

In marrying me, if that my mate should die,

Without exception, too, of bigamy.

And though 'twere good no woman flesh to touch,

He meant, in his own bed or on his couch;

For peril 'tis fire and tow to assemble;

You know what this example may resemble.

This is the sum: he held virginity

Nearer perfection than marriage for frailty.

And frailty's all, I say, save he and she

Would lead their lives throughout in chastity.

I grant this well, I have no great envy

Though maidenhood's preferred to bigamy;

Let those who will be clean, body and ghost,

Of my condition I will make no boast.

For well you know, a lord in his household,

He has not every vessel all of gold;

Some are of wood and serve well all their days.

God calls folk unto Him in sundry ways,

And each one has from God a proper gift,

Some this, some that, as pleases Him to shift.

Virginity is great perfection known,

And continence e'en with devotion shown.

But Christ, Who of perfection is the well,

Bade not each separate man he should go sell

All that he had and give it to the poor

And follow Him in such wise going before.

He spoke to those that would live perfectly;

And, masters, by your leave, such am not I.

I will devote the flower of all my age

To all the acts and harvests of marriage.

Tell me also, to what purpose or end

The genitals were made, that I defend,

And for what benefit was man first wrought?

Trust you right well, they were not made for naught.

Explain who will and argue up and down

That they were made for passing out, as known,

Of urine, and our two belongings small

Were just to tell a female from a male,

And for no other cause- ah, say you no?

Experience knows well it is not so;

And, so the clerics be not with me wroth,

I say now that they have been made for both,

That is to say, for duty and for ease

In getting, when we do not God displease.

Why should men otherwise in their books set

That man shall pay unto his wife his debt?

Now wherewith should he ever make payment,

Except he used his blessed instrument?

Then on a creature were devised these things

For urination and engenderings.

But I say not that every one is bound,

Who's fitted out and furnished as I've found,

To go and use it to beget an heir;

Then men would have for chastity no care.

Christ was a maid, and yet shaped like a man,

And many a saint, since this old world began,

Yet has lived ever in perfect chastity.

I bear no malice to virginity;

Let such be bread of purest white wheat-seed,

And let us wives be called but barley bread;

And yet with barley bread (if Mark you scan)

Jesus Our Lord refreshed full many a man.

In such condition as God places us

I'll persevere, I'm not fastidious.

In wifehood I will use my instrument

As freely as my Maker has it sent.

If I be niggardly, God give me sorrow!

My husband he shall have it, eve and morrow,

When he's pleased to come forth and pay his debt.

I'll not delay, a husband I will get

Who shall be both my debtor and my thrall

And have his tribulations therewithal

Upon his flesh, the while I am his wife.

I have the power during all my life

Over his own good body, and not he.

For thus the apostle told it unto me;

And bade our husbands that they love us well.

And all this pleases me whereof I tell.

Up rose the pardoner, and that anon.

Now dame, said he, by God and by Saint John,

You are a noble preacher in this case!

I was about to wed a wife, alas!

Why should I buy this on my flesh so dear?

No, I would rather wed no wife this year.

But wait, said she, my tale is not begun;

Nay, you shall drink from out another tun

Before I cease, and savour worse than ale.

And when I shall have told you all my tale

Of tribulation that is in marriage,

Whereof I've been an expert all my age,

That is to say, myself have been the whip,

Then may you choose whether you will go sip

Out of that very tun which I shall broach.

Beware of it ere you too near approach;

For I shall give examples more than ten.

Whoso will not be warned by other men

By him shall other men corrected be,

The self-same words has written Ptolemy;

Read in his Almagest and find it there.

Lady, I pray you, if your will it were,

Spoke up this pardoner, as you began,

Tell forth your tale, nor spare for any man,

And teach us younger men of your technique.

Gladly, said she, since it may please, not pique.

But yet I pray of all this company

That if I speak from my own phantasy,

They will not take amiss the things I say;

For my intention's only but to play.

Now, sirs, now will I tell you forth my tale.

And as I may drink ever wine and ale,

I will tell truth of husbands that I've had,

For three of them were good and two were bad.

The three were good men and were rich and old.

Not easily could they the promise hold

Whereby they had been bound to cherish me.

You know well what I mean by that, pardie!

So help me God, I laugh now when I think

How pitifully by night I made them swink;

And by my faith I set by it no store.

They'd given me their gold, and treasure more;

I needed not do longer diligence

To win their love, or show them reverence.

They all loved me so well, by God above,

I never did set value on their love!

A woman wise will strive continually

To get herself loved, when she's not, you see.

But since I had them wholly in my hand,

And since to me they'd given all their land,

Why should I take heed, then, that I should please,

Save it were for my profit or my ease?

I set them so to work, that, by my fay,

Full many a night they sighed out 'Welaway!'

The bacon was not brought them home, I trow,

That some men have in Essex at Dunmowe.

I governed them so well, by my own law,

That each of them was happy as a daw,

And fain to bring me fine things from the fair.

And they were right glad when I spoke them fair;

For God knows that I nagged them mercilessly.

Now hearken how I bore me properly,

All you wise wives that well can understand.

Thus shall you speak and wrongfully demand;

For half so brazenfacedly can no man

Swear to his lying as a woman can.

I say not this to wives who may be wise,

Except when they themselves do misadvise.

A wise wife, if she knows what's for her good,

Will swear the crow is mad, and in this mood

Call up for witness to it her own maid;

But hear me now, for this is what I said.

'Sir Dotard, is it thus you stand today?

Why is my neighbour's wife so fine and gay?

She's honoured over all where'er she goes;

I sit at home, I have no decent clo'es.

What do you do there at my neighbour's house?

Is she so fair? Are you so amorous?

Why whisper to our maid? Benedicite!

Sir Lecher old, let your seductions be!

And if I have a gossip or a friend,

Innocently, you blame me like a fiend

If I but walk, for company, to his house!

You come home here as drunken as a mouse,

And preach there on your bench, a curse on you!

You tell me it's a great misfortune, too,

To wed a girl who costs more than she's worth;

And if she's rich and of a higher birth,

You say it's torment to abide her folly

And put up with her pride and melancholy.

And if she be right fair, you utter knave,

You say that every lecher will her have;

She may no while in chastity abide

That is assailed by all and on each side.

'You say, some men desire us for our gold,

Some for our shape and some for fairness told:

And some, that she can either sing or dance,

And some, for courtesy and dalliance;

Some for her hands and for her arms so small;

Thus all goes to the devil in your tale.

You say men cannot keep a castle wall

That's long assailed on all sides, and by all.

'And if that she be foul, you say that she

Hankers for every man that she may see;

For like a spaniel will she leap on him

Until she finds a man to be victim;

And not a grey goose swims there in the lake

But finds a gander willing her to take.

You say, it is a hard thing to enfold

Her whom no man will in his own arms hold.

This say you, worthless, when you go to bed;

And that no wise man needs thus to be wed,

No, nor a man that hearkens unto Heaven.

With furious thunder-claps and fiery levin

May your thin, withered, wrinkled neck be broke:

'You say that dripping eaves, and also smoke,

And wives contentious, will make men to flee

Out of their houses; ah, benedicite!

What ails such an old fellow so to chide?

'You say that all we wives our vices hide

Till we are married, then we show them well;

That is a scoundrel's proverb, let me tell!

'You say that oxen, asses, horses, hounds

Are tried out variously, and on good grounds;

Basins and bowls, before men will them buy,

And spoons and stools and all such goods you try.

And so with pots and clothes and all array;

But of their wives men get no trial, you say,

Till they are married, base old dotard you!

And then we show what evil we can do.

'You say also that it displeases me

Unless you praise and flatter my beauty,

And save you gaze always upon my face

And call me lovely lady every place;

And save you make a feast upon that day

When I was born, and give me garments gay;

And save due honour to my nurse is paid

As well as to my faithful chambermaid,

And to my father's folk and his allies-

Thus you go on, old barrel full of lies!

'And yet of our apprentice, young Jenkin,

For his crisp hair, showing like gold so fine,

Because he squires me walking up and down,

A false suspicion in your mind is sown;

I'd give him naught, though you were dead tomorrow.

'But tell me this, why do you hide, with sorrow,

The keys to your strong-box away from me?

It is my gold as well as yours, pardie.

Why would you make an idiot of your dame?

Now by Saint James, but you shall miss your aim,

You shall not be, although like mad you scold,

Master of both my body and my gold;

One you'll forgo in spite of both your eyes;

Why need you seek me out or set on spies?

I think you'd like to lock me in your chest!

You should say: Dear wife, go where you like best,

Amuse yourself, I will believe no tales;

You're my wife Alis true, and truth prevails.

We love no man that guards us or gives charge

Of where we go, for we will be at large.

'Of all men the most blessed may he be,

That wise astrologer, Dan Ptolemy,

Who says this proverb in his Almagest:

Of all men he's in wisdom the highest

That nothing cares who has the world in hand.

And by this proverb shall you understand:

Since you've enough, why do you reck or care

How merrily all other folks may fare?

He is too much a niggard who's so tight

That from his lantern he'll give none a light.

For he'll have never the less light, by gad;

Since you've enough, you need not be so sad.

'You say, also, that if we make us gay

With clothing, all in costliest array,

That it's a danger to our chastity;

And you must back the saying up, pardie!

Repeating these words in the apostle's name:

In habits meet for chastity, not shame,

Your women shall be garmented, said he,

And not with broidered hair, or jewellery,

Or pearls, or gold, or costly gowns and chic;

After your text and after your rubric

I will not follow more than would a gnat.

You said this, too, that I was like a cat;

For if one care to singe a cat's furred skin,

Then would the cat remain the house within;

And if the cat's coat be all sleek and gay,

She will not keep in house a half a day,

But out she'll go, ere dawn of any day,

To show her skin and caterwaul and play.

This is to say, if I'm a little gay,

To show my rags I'll gad about all day.

'Sir Ancient Fool, what ails you with your spies?

Though you pray Argus, with his hundred eyes,

To be my body-guard and do his best,

Faith, he sha'n't hold me, save I am modest;

I could delude him easily- trust me!

'You said, also, that there are three things- three-

The which things are a trouble on this earth,

And that no man may ever endure the fourth:

O dear Sir Rogue, may Christ cut short your life!

Yet do you preach and say a hateful wife

Is to be reckoned one of these mischances.

Are there no other kinds of resemblances

That you may liken thus your parables to,

But must a hapless wife be made to do?

'You liken woman's love to very Hell,

To desert land where waters do not well.

You liken it, also, unto wildfire;

The more it burns, the more it has desire

To consume everything that burned may be.

You say that just as worms destroy a tree,

Just so a wife destroys her own husband;

Men know this who are bound in marriage band.'

Masters, like this, as you must understand,

Did I my old men charge and censure, and

Claim that they said these things in drunkenness;

And all was false, but yet I took witness

Of Jenkin and of my dear niece also.

O Lord, the pain I gave them and the woe,

All guiltless, too, by God's grief exquisite!

For like a stallion could I neigh and bite.

I could complain, though mine was all the guilt,

Or else, full many a time, I'd lost the tilt.

Whoso comes first to mill first gets meal ground;

I whimpered first and so did them confound.

They were right glad to hasten to excuse

Things they had never done, save in my ruse.

With wenches would I charge him, by this hand,

When, for some illness, he could hardly stand.

Yet tickled this the heart of him, for he

Deemed it was love produced such jealousy.

I swore that all my walking out at night

Was but to spy on girls he kept outright;

And under cover of that I had much mirth.

For all such wit is given us at birth;

Deceit, weeping, and spinning, does God give

To women, naturally, the while they live.

And thus of one thing I speak boastfully,

I got the best of each one, finally,

By trick, or force, or by some kind of thing,

As by continual growls or murmuring;

Especially in bed had they mischance,

There would I chide and give them no pleasance;

I would no longer in the bed abide

If I but felt his arm across my side,

Till he had paid his ransom unto me;

Then would I let him do his nicety.

And therefore to all men this tale I tell,

Let gain who may, for everything's to sell.

With empty hand men may no falcons lure;

For profit would I all his lust endure,

And make for him a well-feigned appetite;

Yet I in bacon never had delight;

And that is why I used so much to chide.

For if the pope were seated there beside

I'd not have spared them, no, at their own board.

For by my truth, I paid them, word for word.

So help me the True God Omnipotent,

Though I right now should make my testament,

I owe them not a word that was not quit.

I brought it so about, and by my wit,

That they must give it up, as for the best,

Or otherwise we'd never have had rest.

For though he glared and scowled like lion mad,

Yet failed he of the end he wished he had.

Then would I say: 'Good dearie, see you keep

In mind how meek is Wilkin, our old sheep;

Come near, my spouse, come let me kiss your cheek!

You should be always patient, aye, and meek,

And have a sweetly scrupulous tenderness,

Since you so preach of old Job's patience, yes.

Suffer always, since you so well can preach;

And, save you do, be sure that we will teach

That it is well to leave a wife in peace.

One of us two must bow, to be at ease;

And since a man's more reasonable, they say,

Than woman is, you must have patience aye.

Such were the words I had at my command.

Now will I tell you of my fourth husband.

My fourth husband, he was a reveller,

That is to say, he kept a paramour;

And young and full of passion then was I,

Stubborn and strong and jolly as a pie.

Well could I dance to tune of harp, nor fail

To sing as well as any nightingale

When I had drunk a good draught of sweet wine.

Metellius, the foul churl and the swine,

Did with a staff deprive his wife of life

Because she drank wine; had I been his wife

He never should have frightened me from drink;

For after wine, of Venus must I think:

For just as surely as cold produces hail,

A liquorish mouth must have a lickerish tail.

In women wine's no bar of impotence,

This know all lechers by experience.

But Lord Christ! When I do remember me

Upon my youth and on my jollity,

It tickles me about my heart's deep root.

To this day does my heart sing in salute

That I have had my world in my own time.

But age, alas! that poisons every prime,

Has taken away my beauty and my pith;

Let go, farewell, the devil go therewith!

The flour is gone, there is no more to tell,

The bran, as best I may, must I now sell;

But yet to be right merry I'll try, and

Now will I tell you of my fourth husband.

I say that in my heart I'd great despite

When he of any other had delight.

But he was quit by God and by Saint Joce!

I made, of the same wood, a staff most gross;

Not with my body and in manner foul,

But certainly I showed so gay a soul

That in his own thick grease I made him fry

For anger and for utter jealousy.

By God, on earth I was his purgatory,

For which I hope his soul lives now in glory.

For God knows, many a time he sat and sung

When the shoe bitterly his foot had wrung.

There was no one, save God and he, that knew

How, in so many ways, I'd twist the screw.

He died when I came from Jerusalem,

And lies entombed beneath the great rood-beam,

Although his tomb is not so glorious

As was the sepulchre of Darius,

The which Apelles wrought full cleverly;

'Twas waste to bury him expensively.

Let him fare well. God give his soul good rest,

He now is in the grave and in his chest.

And now of my fifth husband will I tell.

God grant his soul may never get to Hell!

And yet he was to me most brutal, too;

My ribs yet feel as they were black and blue,

And ever shall, until my dying day.

But in our bed he was so fresh and gay,

And therewithal he could so well impose,

What time he wanted use of my belle chose,

That though he'd beaten me on every bone,

He could re-win my love, and that full soon.

I guess I loved him best of all, for he

Gave of his love most sparingly to me.

We women have, if I am not to lie,

In this love matter, a quaint fantasy;

Look out a thing we may not lightly have,

And after that we'll cry all day and crave.

Forbid a thing, and that thing covet we;

Press hard upon us, then we turn and flee.

Sparingly offer we our goods, when fair;

Great crowds at market for dearer ware,

And what's too common brings but little price;

All this knows every woman who is wise.

My fifth husband, may God his spirit bless!

Whom I took all for love, and not riches,

Had been sometime a student at Oxford,

And had left school and had come home to board

With my best gossip, dwelling in our town,

God save her soul! Her name was Alison.

She knew my heart and all my privity

Better than did our parish priest, s'help me!

To her confided I my secrets all.

For had my husband pissed against a wall,

Or done a thing that might have cost his life,

To her and to another worthy wife,

And to my niece whom I loved always well,

I would have told it- every bit I'd tell,

And did so, many and many a time, God wot,

Which made his face full often red and hot

For utter shame; he blamed himself that he

Had told me of so deep a privity.

So it befell that on a time, in Lent

(For oftentimes I to my gossip went,

Since I loved always to be glad and gay

And to walk out, in March, April, and May,

From house to house, to hear the latest malice),

Jenkin the clerk, and my gossip Dame Alis,

And I myself into the meadows went.

My husband was in London all that Lent;

I had the greater leisure, then, to play,

And to observe, and to be seen, I say,

By pleasant folk; what knew I where my face

Was destined to be loved, or in what place?

Therefore I made my visits round about

To vigils and processions of devout,

To preaching too, and shrines of pilgrimage,

To miracle plays, and always to each marriage,

And wore my scarlet skirt before all wights.

These worms and all these moths and all these mites,

I say it at my peril, never ate;

And know you why? I wore it early and late.

Now will I tell you what befell to me.

I say that in the meadows walked we three

Till, truly, we had come to such dalliance,

This clerk and I, that, of my vigilance,

I spoke to him and told him how that he,

Were I a widow, might well marry me.

For certainly I say it not to brag,

But I was never quite without a bag

Full of the needs of marriage that I seek.

I hold a mouse's heart not worth a leek

That has but one hole into which to run,

And if it fail of that, then all is done.

I made him think he had enchanted me;

My mother taught me all that subtlety.

And then I said I'd dreamed 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 hoped that he would do me good,

For blood betokens gold, as I was taught.

And all was false, I dreamed of him just- naught,

Save as I acted on my mother's lore,

As well in this thing as in many more.

But now, let's see, what was I going to say?

Aha, by God, I know! It goes this way.

When my fourth husband lay upon his bier,

I wept enough and made but sorry cheer,

As wives must always, for it's custom's grace,

And with my kerchief covered up my face;

But since I was provided with a mate,

I really wept but little, I may state.

To church my man was borne upon the morrow

By neighbours, who for him made signs of sorrow;

And Jenkin, our good clerk, was one of them.

So help me God, when rang the requiem

After the bier, I thought he had a pair

Of legs and feet so clean-cut and so fair

That all my heart I gave to him to hold.

He was, I think, but twenty winters old,

And I was forty, if I tell the truth;

But then I always had a young colt's tooth.

Gap-toothed I was, and that became me well;

I had the print of holy Venus' seal.

So help me God, I was a healthy one,

And fair and rich and young and full of fun;

And truly, as my husbands all told me,

I had the silkiest quoniam that could be.

For truly, I am all Venusian

In feeling, and my brain is Martian.

Venus gave me my lust, my lickerishness,

And Mars gave me my sturdy hardiness.

Taurus was my ascendant, with Mars therein.

Alas, alas, that ever love was sin!

I followed always my own inclination

By virtue of my natal constellation;

Which wrought me so I never could withdraw

My Venus-chamber from a good fellow.

Yet have I Mars's mark upon my face,

And also in another private place.

For God so truly my salvation be

As I have never loved for policy,

But ever followed my own appetite,

Though he were short or tall, or black or white;

I took no heed, so that he cared for me,

How poor he was, nor even of what degree.

What should I say now, save, at the month's end,

This jolly, gentle, Jenkin clerk, my friend,

Had wedded me full ceremoniously,

And to him gave I all the land in fee

That ever had been given me before;

But, later I repented me full sore.

He never suffered me to have my way.

By God, he smote me on the ear, one day,

Because I tore out of his book a leaf,

So that from this my ear is grown quite deaf.

Stubborn I was as is a lioness,

And with my tongue a very jay, I guess,

And walk I would, as I had done before,

From house to house, though I should not, he swore.

For which he oftentimes would sit and preach

And read old Roman tales to me and teach

How one Sulpicius Gallus left his wife

And her forsook for term of all his life

Because he saw her with bared head, I say,

Looking out from his door, upon a day.

Another Roman told he of by name

Who, since his wife was at a summer-game

Without his knowing, he forsook her eke.

And then would he within his Bible seek

That proverb of the old Ecclesiast

Where he commands so freely and so fast

That man forbid his wife to gad about;

Then would he thus repeat, with never doubt:

'Whoso would build his whole house out of sallows,

And spur his blind horse to run over fallows,

And let his wife alone go seeking hallows,

Is worthy to be hanged upon the gallows.'

But all for naught, I didn't care a haw

For all his proverbs, nor for his old saw,

Nor yet would I by him corrected be.

I hate one that my vices tells to me,

And so do more of us- God knows!- than I.

This made him mad with me, and furiously,

That I'd not yield to him in any case.

Now will I tell you truth, by Saint Thomas,

Of why I tore from out his book a leaf,

For which he struck me so it made me deaf.

He had a book that gladly, night and day,

For his amusement he would read alway.

He called it 'Theophrastus' and 'Valerius',

At which book would he laugh, uproarious.

And, too, there sometime was a clerk at Rome,

A cardinal, that men called Saint Jerome,

Who made a book against Jovinian;

In which book, too, there was Tertullian,

Chrysippus, Trotula, and Heloise

Who was abbess near Paris' diocese;

And too, the Proverbs of King Solomon,

And Ovid's Art, and books full many a one.

And all of these were bound in one volume.

And every night and day 'twas his custom,

When he had leisure and took some vacation

From all his other worldly occupation,

To read, within this book, of wicked wives.

He knew of them more legends and more lives

Than are of good wives written in the Bible.

For trust me, it's impossible, no libel,

That any cleric shall speak well of wives,

Unless it be of saints and holy lives,

But naught for other women will they do.

Who painted first the lion, tell me who?

By God, if women had but written stories,

As have these clerks within their oratories,

They would have written of men more wickedness

Than all the race of Adam could redress.

The children of Mercury and of Venus

Are in their lives antagonistic thus;

For Mercury loves wisdom and science,

And Venus loves but pleasure and expense.

Because they different dispositions own,

Each falls when other's in ascendant shown.

And God knows Mercury is desolate

In Pisces, wherein Venus rules in state;

And Venus falls when Mercury is raised;

Therefore no woman by a clerk is praised.

A clerk, when he is old and can naught do

Of Venus' labours worth his worn-out shoe,

Then sits he down and writes, in his dotage,

That women cannot keep vow of marriage!

But now to tell you, as I started to,

Why I was beaten for a book, pardieu.

Upon a night Jenkin, who was our sire,

Read in his book, as he sat by the fire,

Of Mother Eve who, by her wickedness,

First brought mankind to all his wretchedness,

For which Lord Jesus Christ Himself was slain,

Who, with His heart's blood, saved us thus again.

Lo here, expressly of woman, may you find

That woman was the ruin of mankind.

Then read he out how Samson lost his hairs,

Sleeping, his leman cut them with her shears;

And through this treason lost he either eye.

Then read he out, if I am not to lie,

Of Hercules, and Deianira's desire

That caused him to go set himself on fire.

Nothing escaped him of the pain and woe

That Socrates had with his spouses two;

How Xantippe threw piss upon his head;

This hapless man sat still, as he were dead;

He wiped his head, no more durst he complain

Than 'Ere the thunder ceases comes the rain.'

Then of Pasiphae, the queen of Crete,

For cursedness he thought the story sweet;

Fie! Say no more- it is an awful thing-

Of her so horrible lust and love-liking.

Of Clytemnestra, for her lechery,

Who caused her husband's death by treachery,

He read all this with greatest zest, I vow.

He told me, too, just when it was and how

Amphiaraus at Thebes lost his life;

My husband had a legend of his wife

Eriphyle who, for a brooch of gold,

In secrecy to hostile Greeks had told

Whereat her husband had his hiding place,

For which he found at Thebes but sorry grace.

Of Livia and Lucia told he me,

For both of them their husbands killed, you see,

The one for love, the other killed for hate;

Livia her husband, on an evening late,

Made drink some poison, for she was his foe.

Lucia, lecherous, loved her husband so

That, to the end he'd always of her think,

She gave him such a, philtre, for love-drink,

That he was dead or ever it was morrow;

And husbands thus, by same means, came to sorrow.

Then did he tell how one Latumius

Complained unto his comrade Arrius

That in his garden grew a baleful tree

Whereon, he said, his wives, and they were three,

Had hanged themselves for wretchedness and woe.

'O brother,' Arrius said, 'and did they so?

Give me a graft of that same blessed tree

And in my garden planted it shall be!'

Of wives of later date he also read,

How some had slain their husbands in their bed

And let their lovers shag them all the night

While corpses lay upon the floor upright.

And some had driven nails into the brain

While husbands slept and in such wise were slain.

And some had given them poison in their drink.

He told more evil than the mind can think.

And therewithal he knew of more proverbs

Than in this world there grows of grass or herbs.

'Better,' he said, 'your habitation be

With lion wild or dragon foul,' said he,

'Than with a woman who will nag and chide.'

'Better,' he said, 'on the housetop abide

Than with a brawling wife down in the house;

Such are so wicked and contrarious

They hate the thing their husband loves, for aye.'

He said, 'a woman throws her shame away

When she throws off her smock,' and further, too:

'A woman fair, save she be chaste also,

Is like a ring of gold in a sow's nose.'

Who would imagine or who would suppose

What grief and pain were in this heart of mine?

And when I saw he'd never cease, in fine,

His reading in this cursed book at night,

Three leaves of it I snatched and tore outright

Out of his book, as he read on; and eke

I with my fist so took him on the cheek

That in our fire he reeled and fell right down.

Then he got up as does a wild lion,

And with his fist he struck me on the head,

And on the floor I lay as I were dead.

And when he saw how limp and still I lay,

He was afraid and would have run away,

Until at last, out of my swoon I made:

'Oh, have you slain me, you false thief?' I said,

'And for my land have you thus murdered me?

Kiss me before I die, and let me be.'

He came to me and near me he knelt down,

And said: 'O my dear sister Alison,

So help me God, I'll never strike you more;

What I have done, you are to blame therefor.

But all the same forgiveness now I seek!'

And thereupon I hit him on the cheek,

And said: 'Thief, so much vengeance do I wreak!

Now will I die; I can no longer speak!'

But at the last, and with much care and woe,

We made it up between ourselves. And so

He put the bridle reins within my hand

To have the governing of house and land;

And of his tongue and of his hand, also;

And made him burn his book, right then, oho!

And when I had thus gathered unto me

Masterfully, the entire sovereignty,

And he had said: 'My own true wedded wife,

Do as you please the term of all your life,

Guard your own honour and keep fair my state'-

After that day we never had debate.

God help me now, 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, Who sits in majesty,

To bless his soul, out of His mercy dear!

Now will I tell my tale, if you will hear.

The friar laughed when he had heard all this.

Now dame, said he, so have I joy or bliss

This is a long preamble to a tale!

And when the summoner heard this friar's hail,

Lo, said the summoner, by God's arms two!

A friar will always interfere, mark you.

Behold, good men, a housefly and a friar

Will fall in every dish and matters higher.

Why speak of preambling; you in your gown?

What! Amble, trot, hold peace, or go sit down;

You hinder our diversion thus to inquire.

Aye, say you so, sir summoner? said the friar,

Now by my faith I will, before I go,

Tell of a summoner such a tale, or so,

That all the folk shall laugh who're in this place'

Otherwise, friar, I beshrew your face,

Replied this summoner, and beshrew me

If I do not tell tales here, two or three,

Of friars ere I come to Sittingbourne,

That certainly will give you cause to mourn,

For well I know your patience will be gone.

Our host cried out, Now peace, and that anon!

And said he: Let the woman tell her tale.

You act like people who are drunk with ale.

Do, lady, tell your tale, and that is best.

All ready, sir, said she, as you request,

If I have license of this worthy friar.

Yes, dame, said he, to hear you's my desire.

The Tale of the Wife of Bath

Now in the olden days of King Arthur,

Of whom the Britons speak with great honour,

All this wide land was land of faery.

The elf-queen, with her jolly company,

Danced oftentimes on many a green mead;

This was the old opinion, as I read.

I speak of many hundred years ago;

But now no man can see the elves, you know.

For now the so-great charity and prayers

Of limiters and other holy friars

That do infest each land and every stream

As thick as motes are in a bright sunbeam,

Blessing halls, chambers, kitchens, ladies' bowers,

Cities and towns and castles and high towers,

Manors and barns and stables, aye and dairies-

This causes it that there are now no fairies.

For where was wont to walk full many an elf,

Right there walks now the limiter himself

In noons and afternoons and in mornings,

Saying his matins and such holy things,

As he goes round his district in his gown.

Women may now go safely up and down,

In every copse or under every tree;

There is no other incubus, than he,

And would do them nothing but dishonour.

And so befell it that this King Arthur

Had at his court a lusty bachelor

Who, on a day, came riding from river;

And happened that, alone as she was born,

He saw a maiden walking through the corn,

From whom, in spite of all she did and said,

Straightway by force he took her maidenhead;

For which violation was there such clamour,

And such appealing unto King Arthur,

That soon condemned was this knight to be dead

By course of law, and should have lost his head,

Peradventure, such being the statute then;

But that the other ladies and the queen

So long prayed of the king to show him grace,

He granted life, at last, in the law's place,

And gave him to the queen, as she should will,

Whether she'd save him, or his blood should spill.

The queen she thanked the king with all her might,

And after this, thus spoke she to the knight,

When she'd an opportunity, one day:

You stand yet, said she, in such poor a way

That for your life you've no security.

I'll grant you life if you can tell to me

What thing it is that women most desire.

Be wise, and keep your neck from iron dire!

And if you cannot tell it me anon,

Then will I give you license to be gone

A twelvemonth and a day, to search and learn

Sufficient answer in this grave concern.

And your knight's word I'll have, ere forth you pace,

To yield your body to me in this place.

Grieved was this knight, and sorrowfully he sighed;

But there! he could not do as pleased his pride.

And at the last he chose that he would wend

And come again upon the twelvemonth's end,

With such an answer as God might purvey;

And so he took his leave and went his way.

He sought out every house and every place

Wherein he hoped to find that he had grace

To learn what women love the most of all;

But nowhere ever did it him befall

To find, upon the question stated here,

Two, persons who agreed with statement clear.

Some said that women all loved best riches,

Some said, fair fame, and some said, prettiness;

Some, rich array, some said 'twas lust abed

And often to be widowed and re-wed.

Some said that our poor hearts are aye most eased

When we have been most flattered and thus pleased

And he went near the truth, I will not lie;

A man may win us best with flattery;

And with attentions and with busyness

We're often limed, the greater and the less.

And some say, too, that we do love the best

To be quite free to do our own behest,

And that no man reprove us for our vice,

But saying we are wise, take our advice.

For truly there is no one of us all,

If anyone shall rub us on a gall,

That will not kick because he tells the truth.

Try, and he'll find, who does so, I say sooth.

No matter how much vice we have within,

We would be held for wise and clean of sin.

And some folk say that great delight have we

To be held constant, also trustworthy,

And on one purpose steadfastly to dwell,

And not betray a thing that men may tell.

But that tale is not worth a rake's handle;

By God, we women can no thing conceal,

As witness Midas. Would you hear the tale?

Ovid, among some other matters small,

Said Midas had beneath his long curled hair,

Two ass's ears that grew in secret there,

The which defect he hid, as best he might,

Full cunningly from every person's sight,

And, save his wife, no one knew of it, no.

He loved her most, and trusted her also;

And he prayed of her that to no creature

She'd tell of his disfigurement impure.

She swore him: Nay, for all this world to win

She would do no such villainy or sin

And cause her husband have so foul a name;

Nor would she tell it for her own deep shame.

Nevertheless, she thought she would have died

Because so long the secret must she hide;

It seemed to swell so big about her heart

That some word from her mouth must surely start;

And since she dared to tell it to no man,

Down to a marsh, that lay hard by, she ran;

Till she came there her heart was all afire,

And as a bittern booms in the quagmire,

She laid her mouth low to the water down:

Betray me not, you sounding water blown,

Said she, I tell it to none else but you:

Long ears like asses' has my husband two!

Now is my heart at ease, since that is out;

I could no longer keep it, there's no doubt.

Here may you see, though for a while we bide,

Yet out it must; no secret can we hide.

The rest of all this tale, if you would hear,

Read Ovid: in his book does it appear.

This knight my tale is chiefly told about

When what he went for he could not find out,

That is, the thing that women love the best,

Most saddened was the spirit in his breast;

But home he goes, he could no more delay.

The day was come when home he turned his way;

And on his way it chanced that he should ride

In all his care, beneath a forest's side,

And there he saw, a-dancing him before,

Full four and twenty ladies, maybe more;

Toward which dance eagerly did he turn

In hope that there some wisdom he should learn.

But truly, ere he came upon them there,

The dancers vanished all, he knew not where.

No creature saw he that gave sign of life,

Save, on the greensward sitting, an old wife;

A fouler person could no man devise.

Before the knight this old wife did arise,

And said: Sir knight, hence lies no travelled way.

Tell me what thing you seek, and by your fay.

Perchance you'll find it may the better be;

These ancient folk know many things, said she.

Dear mother, said this knight assuredly,

I am but dead, save I can tell, truly,

What thing it is that women most desire;

Could you inform me, I'd pay well your hire.

Plight me your troth here, hand in hand, said she,

That you will do, whatever it may be,

The thing I ask if it lie in your might;

And I'll give you your answer ere the night.

Have here my word, said he. That thing I grant.

Then, said the crone, of this I make my vaunt,

Your life is safe; and I will stand thereby,

Upon my life, the queen will say as I.

Let's see which is the proudest of them all

That wears upon her hair kerchief or caul,

Shall dare say no to that which I shall teach;

Let us go now and without longer speech.

Then whispered she a sentence 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 kept his promise as was right,

And ready was his answer, as he said.

Full many a noble wife, and many a maid,

And many a widow, since they are so wise,

The queen herself sitting as high justice,

Assembled were, his answer there to hear;

And then the knight was bidden to appear.

Command was given for silence in the hall,

And that the knight should tell before them all

What thing all worldly women love the best.

This knight did not stand dumb, as does a beast,

But to this question presently answered

With manly voice, so that the whole court heard:

My liege lady, generally, said he,

Women desire to have the sovereignty

As well upon their husband as their love,

And to have mastery their man above;

This thing you most desire, though me you kill

Do as you please, I am here at your will.

In all the court there was no wife or maid

Or widow that denied the thing he said,

But all held, he was worthy to have life.

And with that word up started the old wife

Whom he had seen a-sitting on the green.

Mercy, cried she, my sovereign lady queen!

Before the court's dismissed, give me my right.

'Twas I who taught the answer to this knight;

For which he did plight troth to me, out there,

That the first thing I should of him require

He would do that, if it lay in his might.

Before the court, now, pray I you, sir knight,

Said she, that you will take me for your wife;

For well you know that I have saved your life.

If this be false, say nay, upon your fay!

This knight replied: Alas and welaway!

That I so promised I will not protest.

But for God's love pray make a new request.

Take all my wealth and let my body go.

Nay then, said she, beshrew us if I do!

For though I may be foul and old and poor,

I will not, for all metal and all ore

That from the earth is dug or lies above,

Be aught except your wife and your true love.

My love? cried he, nay, rather my damnation!

Alas! that any of my race and station

Should ever so dishonoured foully be!

But all for naught; the end was this, that he

Was so constrained he needs must go and wed,

And take his ancient wife and go to bed.

Now, peradventure, would some men say here,

That, of my negligence, I take no care

To tell you of the joy and all the array

That at the wedding feast were seen that day.

Make a brief answer to this thing I shall;

I say, there was no joy or feast at all;

There was but heaviness and grievous sorrow;

For privately he wedded on the morrow,

And all day, then, he hid him like an owl;

So sad he was, his old wife looked so foul.

Great was the woe the knight had in his thought

When he, with her, to marriage bed was brought;

He rolled about and turned him to and fro.

His old wife lay there, always smiling so,

And said: O my dear husband, ben'cite!

Fares every knight with wife as you with me?

Is this the custom in King Arthur's house?

Are knights of his all so fastidious?

I am your own true love and, more, your wife;

And I am she who saved your very life;

And truly, since I've never done you wrong,

Why do you treat me so, this first night long?

You act as does a man who's lost his wit;

What is my fault? For God's love tell me it,

And it shall be amended, if I may.

Amended! cried this knight, Alas, nay, nay!

It will not be amended ever, no!

You are so loathsome, and so old also,

And therewith of so low a race were born,

It's little wonder that I toss and turn.

Would God my heart would break within my breast!

Is this, asked she, the cause of your unrest?

Yes, truly, said he, and no wonder 'tis.

Now, sir, said she, I could amend all this,

If I but would, and that within days three,

If you would bear yourself well towards me.

But since you speak of such gentility

As is descended from old wealth, till ye

Claim that for that you should be gentlemen,

I hold such arrogance not worth a hen.

Find him who is most virtuous alway,

Alone or publicly, and most tries aye

To do whatever noble deeds he can,

And take him for the greatest gentleman.

Christ wills we claim from Him gentility,

Not from ancestors of landocracy.

For though they give us all their heritage,

For which we claim to be of high lineage,

Yet can they not bequeath, in anything,

To any of us, their virtuous living,

That made men say they had gentility,

And bade us follow them in like degree.

Well does that poet wise of great Florence,

Called Dante, speak his mind in this sentence;

Somewhat like this may it translated be:

'Rarely unto the branches of the tree

Doth human worth mount up: and so ordains

He Who bestows it; to Him it pertains.'

For of our fathers may we nothing claim

But temporal things, that man may hurt and maim

And everyone knows this as well as I,

If nobleness were implanted naturally

Within a certain lineage, down the line,

In private and in public, I opine,

The ways of gentleness they'd alway show

And never fall to vice and conduct low.

Take fire and carry it in the darkest house

Between here and the Mount of Caucasus,

And let men shut the doors and from them turn;

Yet will the fire as fairly blaze and burn

As twenty thousand men did it behold;

Its nature and its office it will hold,

On peril of my life, until it die.

From this you see that true gentility

Is not allied to wealth a man may own,

Since folk do not their deeds, as may be shown,

As does the fire, according to its kind.

For God knows that men may full often find

A lord's son doing shame and villainy;

And he that prizes his gentility

In being born of some old noble house,

With ancestors both noble and virtuous,

But will himself do naught of noble deeds

Nor follow him to whose name he succeeds,

He is not gentle, be he duke or earl;

For acting churlish makes a man a churl.

Gentility is not just the renown

Of ancestors who have some greatness shown,

In which you have no portion of your own.

Your own gentility comes from God alone;

Thence comes our true nobility by grace,

It was not willed us with our rank and place

Think how noble, as says Valerius,

Was that same Tullius Hostilius,

Who out of poverty rose to high estate.

Seneca and Boethius inculcate,

Expressly (and no doubt it thus proceeds),

That he is noble who does noble deeds;

And therefore, husband dear, I thus conclude:

Although my ancestors mayhap were rude,

Yet may the High Lord God, and so hope I,

Grant me the grace to live right virtuously.

Then I'll be gentle when I do begin

To live in virtue and to do no sin.

And when you me reproach for poverty,

The High God, in Whom we believe, say I,

In voluntary poverty lived His life.

And surely every man, or maid, or wife

May understand that Jesus, Heaven's King,

Would not have chosen vileness of living.

Glad poverty's an honest thing, that's plain,

Which Seneca and other clerks maintain.

Whoso will be content with poverty,

I hold him rich, though not a shirt has he.

And he that covets much is a poor wight,

For he would gain what's all beyond his might,

But he that has not, nor desires to have,

Is rich, although you hold him but a knave.

True poverty, it sings right naturally;

Juvenal gaily says of poverty:

'The poor man, when he walks along the way,

Before the robbers he may sing and play.'

Poverty's odious good, and, as I guess,

It is a stimulant to busyness;

A great improver, too, of sapience

In him that takes it all with due patience.

Poverty's this, though it seem misery-

Its quality may none dispute, say I.

Poverty often, when a man is low,

Makes him his God and even himself to know.

And poverty's an eye-glass, seems to me,

Through which a man his loyal friends may see.

Since you've received no injury from me,

Then why reproach me for my poverty.

Now, sir, with age you have upbraided me;

And truly, sir, though no authority

Were in a book, you gentles of honour

Say that men should the aged show favour,

And call him father, of your gentleness;

And authors could I find for this, I guess.

Now since you say that I am foul and old,

Then fear you not to be made a cuckold;

For dirt and age, as prosperous I may be,

Are mighty wardens over chastity.

Nevertheless, since I know your delight,

I'll satisfy your worldly appetite.

Choose, now, said she, one of these two things, aye,

To have me foul and old until I die,

And be to you a true and humble wife,

And never anger you in all my life;

Or else to have me young and very fair

And take your chance with those who will repair

Unto your house, and all because of me,

Or in some other place, as well may be.

Now choose which you like better and reply.

This knight considered, and did sorely sigh,

But at the last replied as you shall hear:

My lady and my love, and wife so dear,

I put myself in your wise governing;

Do you choose which may be the more pleasing,

And bring most honour to you, and me also.

I care not which it be of these things two;

For if you like it, that suffices me.

Then have I got of you the mastery,

Since I may choose and govern, in earnest?

Yes, truly, wife, said he, I hold that best.

Kiss me, said she, we'll be no longer wroth,

For by my truth, to you I will be both;

That is to say, I'll be both good and fair.

I pray God I go mad, and so declare,

If I be not to you as good and true

As ever wife was since the world was new.

And, save I be, at dawn, as fairly seen

As any lady, empress, or great queen

That is between the east and the far west,

Do with my life and death as you like best.

Throw back the curtain and see how it is.

And when the knight saw verily all this,

That she so very fair was, and young too,

For joy he clasped her in his strong arms two,

His heart bathed in a bath of utter bliss;

A thousand times, all in a row, he'd kiss.

And she obeyed his wish in everything

That might give pleasure to his love-liking.

And thus they lived unto their lives' fair end,

In perfect joy; and Jesus to us send

Meek husbands, and young ones, and fresh in bed,

And good luck to outlive them that we wed.

And I pray Jesus to cut short the lives

Of those who'll not be governed by their wives;

And old and querulous niggards with their pence,

And send them soon a mortal pestilence!

The Friar's Prologue

This worthy limiter, this noble friar,

He turned always a lowering face, and dire,

Upon the summoner, but for courtesy

No rude and insolent word as yet spoke he.

But at the last he said unto the wife:

Lady, said he, God grant you a good life!

You have here touched, as I may prosperous be,

Upon school matters of great difficulty;

You have said many things right well, I say;

But, lady, as we ride along our way,

We need but talk to carry on our game,

And leave authorities, in good God's name,

To preachers and to schools for clergymen.

But if it pleases all this company, then,

I'll tell you of a summoner, to make game.

By God, you could surmise it by the name

That of a summoner may no good be said;

I pray that no one will be angry made.

A summoner is a runner up and down

With summonses for fornication known,

And he is beaten well at each town's end.

Our host then spoke: O sir, you should attend

To courtesy, like man of your estate;

In company here we will have no debate.

Tell forth your tale and let the summoner be.

Nay, said the summoner, let him say to me

What pleases him; when it falls to my lot,

By God I'll then repay him, every jot.

I'll then make plain to him what great honour

It is to be a flattering limiter;

I'll certainly tell him what his business is.

Our host replied: Oh peace, no more of this!

And after that he said unto the friar:

Tell now your tale to us, good master dear.

The Friar's Tale

Once on a time there dwelt in my country

An archdeacon, a man of high degree,

Who boldly executed the Church's frown

In punishment of fornication known,

And of witchcraft and of all known bawdry,

And defamation and adultery

Of church-wardens, and of fake testaments

And contracts, and the lack of sacraments,

And usury and simony also.

But unto lechers gave he greatest woe;

They should lament if they were apprehended;

And payers of short tithes to shame descended.

If anyone informed of such, 'twas plain

He'd not escape pecuniary pain.

For all short tithes and for small offering

He made folk pitifully to howl and sing.

For ere the bishop caught them with his crook,

They were already in the archdeacon's book.

Then had he, by his competent jurisdiction,

Power to punish them by such infliction.

He had a summoner ready to his hand,

A slyer rogue was not in all England;

For cunningly he'd espionage to trail

And bring reports of all that might avail.

He could protect of lechers one or two

To learn of four and twenty more, mark you.

For though this man were wild as is a hare,

To tell his evil deeds I will not spare;

For we are out of his reach of infliction;

They have of us no competent jurisdiction,

Nor ever shall for term of all their lives.

Peter! So are the women of the dives,

The summoner said, likewise beyond my cure!

Peace, with mischance and with misadventure!

Thus spoke our host, and let him tell his tale.

Now tell it on, despite the summoner's wail,

Nor spare in anything, my master dear.

This false thief, then, this summoner (said the friar)

Had always panders ready to his hand,

For any hawk to lure in all England,

Who told him all the scandal that they knew;

For their acquaintances were nothing new.

They were all his informers privily;

And he took to himself great gain thereby;

His master knew not how his profits ran.

Without an order, and an ignorant man,

Yet would he summon, on pain of Christ's curse,

Those who were glad enough to fill his purse

And feast him greatly at the taverns all.

And just as Judas had his purses small

And was a thief, just such a thief was he.

His master got but half of every fee.

He was, if I'm to give him proper laud,

A thief, and more, a summoner, and a bawd.

He'd even wenches in his retinue,

And whether 'twere Sir Robert, or Sir Hugh,

Or Jack, or Ralph, or whosoever 'twere

That lay with them, they told it in his ear;

Thus were the wench and he in partnership.

And he would forge a summons from his scrip,

And summon to the chapter-house those two

And fleece the man and let the harlot go.

Then would he say: My friend, and for your sake,

Her name from our blacklist will I now take;

Trouble no more for what this may entail;

I am your friend in all where 'twill avail.

He knew more ways to fleece and blackmail you

Than could be told in one year or in two.

For in this world's no dog trained to the bow

That can a hurt deer from a sound one know

Better than this man knew a sly lecher,

Or fornicator, or adulterer.

And since this was the fruit of all his rent,

Therefore on it he fixed his whole intent.

And so befell that once upon a day

This summoner, ever lurking for his prey,

Rode out to summon a widow, an old rip,

Feigning a cause, for her he planned to strip.

It happened that he saw before him ride

A yeoman gay along a forest's side.

A bow he bore, and arrows bright and keen;

He wore a short coat of the Lincoln green,

And hat upon his head, with fringes black.

Sir, said the summoner, hail and well met, Jack!

Welcome, said he, and every comrade good!

Whither do you ride under this greenwood?

Said this yeoman, Will you go far today?

This summoner replied to him with: Nay,

Hard by this place, said he, 'tis my intent

To ride, sir, to collect a bit of rent

Pertaining to my lord's temporality.

And are you then a bailiff? Aye, said he.

He dared not, no, for very filth and shame,

Say that he was a summoner, for the name.

In God's name, said this yeoman then, dear brother,

You are a bailiff and I am another.

I am a stranger in these parts, you see;

Of your acquaintance I'd be glad, said he,

And of your brotherhood, if 'tis welcome.

I've gold and silver in my chest at home.

And if you chance to come into our shire,

All shall be yours, just as you may desire.

Many thanks, said this summoner, by my faith!

And they struck hands and made their solemn oath

To be sworn brothers till their dying day.

Gossiping then they rode upon their way.

This summoner, who was as full of words

As full of malice are these butcher birds,

And ever enquiring after everything,

Brother, asked he, where now is your dwelling,

If some day I should wish your side to reach?

This yeoman answered him in gentle speech,

Brother, said he, far in the north country,

Where, as I hope, some day you'll come to me.

Before we part I will direct you so

You'll never miss it when that way you go.

Now, brother, said this summoner, I pray

You'll teach me, while we ride along our way,

Since that you are a bailiff, as am I,

A trick or two, and tell me faithfully

How, in my office, I may most coin win;

And spare not for nice conscience, nor for sin,

But as my brother tell your arts to me.

Now by my truth, dear brother, then said he,

If I am to relate a faithful tale,

My wages are right scanty, and but small.

My lord is harsh to me and niggardly,

My job is most laborious, you see;

And therefore by extortion do I live.

Forsooth, I take all that these men will give;

By any means, by trick or violence,

From year to year I win me my expense.

I can no better tell you faithfully.

Now truly, said this summoner, so do I.

I never spare to take a thing, God wot,

Unless it be too heavy or too hot.

What I get for myself, and privately,

No kind of conscience for such things have I.

But for extortion, I could not well live,

Nor of such japes will I confession give.

Stomach nor any conscience have I, none;

A curse on father-confessors, every one.

Well are we met, by God and by Saint James!

But, my dear brother, tell your name or names.

Thus said the summoner, and in meanwhile

The yeoman just a little began to smile.

Brother, said he, and will you that I tell?

I am a fiend, my dwelling is in Hell.

But here I ride about in hope of gain

And that some little gift I may obtain.

My only income is what so is sent.

I see you ride with much the same intent

To win some wealth, you never care just how;

Even so do I, for I would ride, right now,

Unto the world's end, all to get my prey.

Ah, cried he, ben'cite! What do you say?

I took you for a yeoman certainly.

You have a human shape as well as I;

Have you a figure then determinate

In Hell, where you are in your proper state?

Nay, said he, there of figure we have none;

But when it pleases us we can take one,

Or else we make you think we have a shape,

Sometimes like man, or sometimes like an ape;

Or like an angel can I seem, you know.

It is no wondrous thing that this is so;

A lousy juggler can deceive, you see,

And by gad, I have yet more craft than he.

Why, asked the summoner, ride you then, or go,

In sundry shapes, and not in one, you know?

Because, said he, we will such figures make

As render likely that our prey we'll take.

What causes you to have all this labour?

Full many a cause, my dear sir summoner,

Replied the fiend, but each thing has its time.

The day is short, and it is now past prime,

And yet have I won not a thing this day.

I will attend to winning, if I may,

And not our different notions to declare.

For, brother mine, your wits are all too bare

To understand, though I told mine fully.

But since you ask me why thus labour we-

Well, sometimes we are God's own instruments

And means to do His orders and intents,

When so He pleases, upon all His creatures,

In divers ways and shapes, and divers features.

Without Him we've no power, 'tis certain,

If He be pleased to stand against our train.

And sometimes, at our instance, have we leave

Only the body, not the soul, to grieve;

As witness job, to whom we gave such woe.

And sometimes have we power of both, you know,

That is to say, of soul and body too.

And sometimes we're allowed to search and do

That to a man which gives his soul unrest,

And not his body, and all is for the best.

And when one does withstand all our temptation,

It is the thing that gives his soul salvation;

Albeit that it was not our intent

He should be saved; we'd have him impotent.

And sometimes we are servants unto man,

As to that old archbishop, Saint Dunstan,

And to the apostles servant once was I.

Yet tell me, said the summoner, faithfully,

Make you yourselves new bodies thus alway

Of elements? The fiend replied thus: Nay.

Sometimes we feign them, sometimes we arise

In bodies that are dead, in sundry wise,

And speak as reasonably and fair and well

As to the witch at En-dor Samuel.

And yet some men maintain it was not he;

I do not care for your theology.

But of one thing I warn, nor will I jape,

You shall in all ways learn our proper shape;

You shall hereafter come, my brother dear,

Where you'll not need to ask of me, as here.

For you shall, of your own experience,

In a red chair have much more evidence

Than Virgil ever did while yet alive,

Or ever Dante; now let's swiftly drive.

For I will hold with you my company

Till it shall come to pass you part from me.

Nay, said the other, that shall not betide;

I am a bailiff, known both far and wide;

My promise will I keep in this one case.

For though you were the devil Sathanas,

My troth will I preserve to my dear brother,

As I have sworn, and each of us to other,

That we will be true brothers in this case;

And let us both about our business pace.

Take your own part, of what men will you give,

And I will mine; and thus may we both live.

And if that either of us gets more than other,

Let him be true and share it with his brother.

Agreed, then, said the devil, by my fay.

And with that word they rode upon their way.

As they drew near the town- it happened so-

To which this summoner had planned to go,

They saw a cart that loaded was with hay,

The which a carter drove along the way.

Deep was the mire; for which the cart now stood.

The carter whipped and cried as madman would,

Hi, Badger, Scot! What care you for the stones?

The Fiend, he cried, take body of you and bones,

As utterly as ever you were foaled!

More trouble you've caused me than can be told!

Devil take all, the horses, cart, and hay!

This summoner thought, Here shall be played a play.

And near the fiend he drew, as naught were there,

And unobserved he whispered in his ear:

Listen, my brother, listen, by your faith;

Hear you not what the carter says in wrath?

Take all, at once, for he has given you

Both hay and cart, and this three horses too.

Nay, said the devil, God knows, never a bit.

It is not his intention, trust to it.

Ask him yourself, if you believe not me,

Or else withhold a while, and you shall see.

This carter stroked his nags upon the croup,

And they began in collars low to stoop.

Hi now! cried he, May Jesus Christ you bless

And all His creatures, greater, aye and less!

That was well pulled, old horse, my own grey boy!

I pray God save you, and good Saint Eloy!

Now is my cart out of the slough, by gad!

Lo, brother, said the fiend, what said I, lad?

Here may you see, my very own dear brother,

The peasant said one thing, but thought another.

Let us go forth upon our travellers' way;

Here win I nothing I can take today.

When they had come a little out of town,

This summoner whispered, to his brother drawn,

Brother, said he, here lives an ancient crone

Who'd quite as gladly lose her neck as own

She must give up a penny, good or bad.

But I'll have twelvepence, though it drive her mad

Or I will summon her to our office;

And yet God knows I know of her no vice.

But since you cannot, in this strange country,

Make your expenses, here take note of me.

This summoner knocked on the widow's gate.

Come out, cried he, you old she-reprobate!

I think you've got some friar or priest there, eh?

Who knocks then? said the widow. Ben'cite!

God save you, master, what is your sweet will?

I have, said he, a summons here, a bill;

On pain of excommunication be

Tomorrow morn at the archdeacon's knee

To answer to the court for certain things.

Now, lord, said she, Christ Jesus, King of kings,

So truly keep me as I cannot; nay,

I have been sick, and that for many a day.

I cannot walk so far, said she, nor ride,

Save I were dead, such aches are in my side.

Will you not give a writ, sir summoner,

And let my proctor for me there appear

To meet this charge, whatever it may be?

Yes, said this summoner, pay anon- let's see-

Twelvepence to me, and I'll have you acquitted.

Small profit there for me, be it admitted;

My master gets the profit, and not I.

Come then, and let me ride on, speedily;

Give me twelvepence, I may no longer tarry.

Twelvepence! cried she, Our Lady Holy Mary

So truly keep me out of care and sin,

And though thereby I should the wide world win,

I have not twelvepence in my house all told.

You know right well that I am poor and old;

Show mercy unto me, a poor old wretch!

Nay, then, said he, the foul Fiend may me fetch

If I excuse you, though your life be spilt!

Alas! cried she, God knows I have no guilt!

Pay me, he cried, or by the sweet Saint Anne

I'll take away with me your brand-new pan

For debt that you have owed to me of old,

When you did make your husband a cuckold;

I paid at home that fine to save citation.

You lie, she cried then, by my own salvation!

Never was I, till now, widow or wife,

Summoned unto your court in all my life;

Nor ever of my body was I untrue!

Unto the Devil rough and black of hue

Give I your body and my pan also!

And when the devil heard her cursing so

Upon her knees, he said to her just here:

Now, Mabely, my own old mother dear,

Is this your will, in earnest, that you say?

The Devil, said she, take him alive today,

And pan and all, unless he will repent!

Nay, you old heifer, it's not my intent,

The summoner said, for pardon now to sue

Because of aught that I have had from you;

I would I had your smock and all your clo'es.

Nay, brother, said the devil, easy goes;

Your body and this pan are mine by right.

And you shall come to Hell with me tonight,

Where you shall learn more of our privity

Than any doctor of divinity.

And with that word this foul fiend to him bent;

Body and soul he with the devil went

Where summoners have their rightful heritage.

And God, Who made after His own image

Mankind, now save and guide us, all and some;

And grant that summoners good men become!

Masters, I could have told you, said this friar,

Were I not pestered by this summoner dire,

After the texts of Christ and Paul and John,

And of our other doctors, many a one,

Such torments that your hearts would shake with dread,

Albeit by no tongue can half be said,

Although I might a thousand winters tell,

Of pains in that same cursed house of Hell.

But all to keep us from that horrid place,

Watch, and pray Jesus for His holy grace,

And so reject the tempter Sathanas.

Hearken this word, be warned by this one case;

The lion lies in wait by night and day

To slay the innocent, if he but may.

Dispose your hearts in grace, that you withstand

The Fiend, who'd make you thrall among his band.

He cannot tempt more than beyond your might;

For Christ will be your champion and knight.

And pray that all these summoners repent

Of their misdeeds, before the Fiend torment.

The Summoner's Prologue

High in his stirrups, then, the summoner stood;

Against the friar his heart, as madman's would,

Shook like very aspen leaf, for ire.

Masters, said he, but one thing I desire;

I beg of you that, of your courtesy,

Since you have heard this treacherous friar lie,

You suffer it that I my tale may tell!

This friar he boasts he knows somewhat of Hell,

And God He knows that it is little wonder;

Friars and fiends are never far asunder.

For, by gad, you have oftentimes heard tell

How such a friar was snatched down into Hell

In spirit, once, and by a vision blown;

And as an angel led him up and down

To show the pains and torments that there were,

In all the place he saw no friar there.

Of other folk he saw enough in woe;

And to the angel then he questioned so:

'Now, sir,' said he, 'have friars such a grace

That none of them shall come into this place?'

'Nay,' said the angel, 'millions here are thrown!'

And unto Sathanas he led him down.

'And now has Sathanas,' said he, 'a tail

Broader than of a galleon is the sail.

Hold up thy tail, thou Sathanas!' said he,

'Show forth thine arse and let the friar see

Where is the nest of friars in this place!'

And ere one might go half a furlong's space,

Just as the bees come swarming from a hive,

Out of the Devil's arse-hole there did drive

Full twenty thousand friars in a rout,

And through all Hell they swarmed and ran about.

And came again, as fast as they could run,

And in his arse they crept back, every one.

He clapped his tail to and then lay right still.

This friar, when he'd looked at length his fill

Upon the torments of that sorry place,

His spirit God restored, of His high grace,

Into his body, and he did awake;

Nevertheless for terror did he quake

So was the Devil's arse-hole in his mind,

Which is his future home, and like in kind.

God save all but this cursed friar here;

My prologue ends thus; to my tale give ear.

The Summoner's Tale

Masters, there is in Yorkshire, as I guess,

A marshy region that's called Holderness,

Wherein there went a limiter about

To preach, and to beg too, beyond a doubt.

And so befell that on a day this friar

Had preached in church in his own manner dire,

And specially, and above everything,

Incited he the people, by preaching,

To trentals, and to give, for God's own sake,

The means wherewith men might new churches make,

That there the services of God might flower,

And not to them who waste and wealth devour,

Nor where there's no necessity to give,

As to the monks, who easily may live-

Thanks be to God!- and need no wealth to gain.

Trentals, said he, deliver from their pain

The souls of friends who're dead, the old and young,

Yea, even when they have been hastily sung;

Not that I hold as frivolous and gay,

A priest who only sings one mass a day.

Act quickly now, said he, their souls redeem,

For hard it is, with spikes and hooks, I deem,

To be so torn, aye, or to burn or bake;

Now speed you all to this, for Christ's own sake!

And when this friar had said all that he meant,

With cui cum patre on his way he went.

When folk in church had given at his behest,

He went his way, no longer would he rest,

With scrip and ferruled staff and skirts tucked high;

In every house he went to peer and pry,

And beg for flour and cheese, or else for corn.

His fellow had a staff was tipped with horn,

A set of tablets all of ivory,

And stylus that was polished elegantly,

And wrote the names down always as he stood,

Of those that gave him anything of good,

As if for them he later meant to pray.

Give us of wheat or malt or rye, he'd say,

A bushel; or a God's cake; or some cheese;

We may not choose, so give us what you please;

Give us God's halfpenny or a mass-penny,

Or give us of your brawn, if you have any;

A small piece of your blanket, my dear dame,

Our sister dear, lo, here I write your name;

Bacon or beef, or such thing as you find.

A sturdy menial went these two behind-

The servant of their host- and bore a sack,

And what men gave them, laid it on his back.

And when they'd left the house, why, then anon

He planed away the names of folk, each one,

That he before had written on his tables;

And thus he served them mockeries and fables.

(Nay, there you lie, you summoner! cried the friar.

Peace, for Christ's Mother's sake, call no one liar!

Our host said. Tell your tale, nor spare at all.

So thrive I, said this summoner, that I shall.)

Along he went from house to house, till he

Came to a house where he was wont to be

Refreshed more than in hundred places round.

And sick the goodman of the place he found;

Bedridden on a couch he prostrate lay.

Deus hic, said he. Thomas, my friend, good day,

Said he, this friar, courteously and soft.

Thomas, said he, may God repay you! Oft

Have I sat on this bench and fared right well.

Here have I eaten many a merry meal.

And from the bench he drove away the cat,

And laid down there his steel-tipped staff and hat

And his scrip, too, and sat him softly down.

His fellow had gone walking into town,

With the said menial, to a hostelry

Wherein he thought that very night to lie.

O my dear master, whispered this sick man,

How have you fared since this month March began?

I've seen you not this fortnight, aye or more.

God knows, said he, that I have toiled full sore;

And very specially for your salvation

Have I said precious prayers, and at each station,

And for our other friends, whom may God bless!

I have today been to your church, at Mass,

And preached a sermon after my poor wit,

Not wholly from the text of holy writ,

For that is hard and baffling in the main;

And therefore all its meaning I'll explain.

Glosing's a glorious thing, and that's certain,

For letters kill, as scholars say with pain.

Thus have I taught them to be charitable,

And spend their money reasonably, as well.

And there I saw your dame- ah, where is she?

Yonder within the yard I think she'll be,

Said this sick man, and she will come anon.

Eh, master! Welcome be you, by Saint John!

Exclaimed the wife. How fare you, heartily?

The friar arose, and that full courteously,

And her embraced within his two arms narrow,

And kissed her sweetly, chirping like a sparrow

With his two lips. Ah, dame, said he, right well

As one that is your servant, let me tell,

Thanks be to God Who gave you soul and life,

For saw I not this day so fair a wife

In all the congregation, God save me!

Yea, God correct all faults, sir, answered she,

But you are always welcome, by my fay!

Many thanks, dame, this have I found alway.

But of your innate goodness, by your leave,

I'd beg of you, be cross or grieve

If I with Thomas speak a little now.

These curates are right negligent and slow

In searching tenderly into conscience.

To preach confession is my diligence,

And I do study Peter's words and Paul's.

I walk and fish for Christian persons' souls

To yield to Jesus Christ His increment;

To spread His gospel is my whole intent.

Now, by your leave, O my dear sir, said she,

Berate him well, for Holy Trinity.

He is as crabbed as an old pismire,

Though he has everything he can desire.

Though him I cover at night, and make him warm,

And lay my leg across him, or my arm,

He grunts and groans like our old boar in sty

And other sport- just none from him have I.

I cannot please him, no, in any case.

O Thomas, je vous dis, Thomas, Thomas!

This is the Fiend's work, this must be amended,

Anger's a thing that makes High God offended,

And thereof will I speak a word or two.

Now, master, said the wife, before I go,

What will you eat? I will about it scoot.

Now, dame, said he then, je vous dis, sans doute,

Had I of a fat capon but the liver,

And of your soft white bread naught but a sliver,

And after that a pig's head well roasted

(Save that I would no beast for me were dead),

Then had I with you plain sufficiency.

I am a man of little gluttony.

My spirit has its nourishment in the Bible.

My body is so inured and so pliable

To watching, that my appetite's destroyed.

I pray you, lady, be you not annoyed

Though I so intimately my secret show;

By God, I would reveal it to but few.

Now, sir, said she, but one word ere I go;

My child has died within this fortnight- oh,

Soon after you left town last, it did die.

His death saw I by revelation, aye,

Replied this friar, at home in dormitory

Less than an hour, I dare say, ere to glory,

After his death, I saw him borne in bliss

In vision mine, may God me guide in this!

So did our sexton and infirmarian,

Who have been true friars fifty years, each man;

And may now, God be thanked for mercy shown,

Observe their jubilee and walk alone.

And I rose up and did my brothers seek,

With many a tear down trickling on my cheek,

And without noise or clashing of the bells;

Te deum was our song and nothing else,

Save that to Christ I said an orison,

And thanked Him for the vision he had shown

For, sir and dame, trust me full well in all,

Our orisons are more effectual,

And more we see of Christ's own secret things

Than folk of the laity, though they were kings.

We live in poverty and abstinence

And laymen live in riches and expense

Of meat and drink, and in their gross delight.

This world's desires we hold in great despite.

Dives and Lazarus lived differently,

And different recompense they had thereby.

Whoso would pray, he must fast and be clean,

Fatten his soul and keep his body lean.

We fare as says the apostle; clothes and food

Suffice us, though they be not over-good.

The cleanness and the fasting of us friars

Result in Christ's accepting all our prayers.

Lo, Moses forty days and forty nights

Fasted before the mightiest God of mights

Spoke with him on the Mountain of Sinai.

With empty belly, fasting long, say I,

Received he there the law that had been writ

By God's hand; and Elias (you know of it)

On Mount Horeb, ere he had any speech

With the High God, Who is our spirits' leech,

He fasted long and deep his contemplation.

Aaron, who ruled the temple of his nation,

And all the other great priests, every one,

When they into the temple would be gone

To pray there for the folk and do their rites.

They would not drink of that which man excites

And makes him drunk or stirs in any way,

But there in abstinence they'd watch and pray

Lest they should die- to what I say take heed!-

Were they not sober when they prayed, indeed.

Beware my words. No more! for it suffices.

Our Lord Christ, as the holy writ apprises,

Gave us example of fasting and of prayers.

Therefore we mendicants, we simple friars,

Are sworn to poverty and continence,

To charity, meekness, and abstinence,

To persecution for our righteousness,

To weeping, pity, and to cleanliness.

And therefore may you see that all our prayers-

I speak of us, we mendicants, we friars-

Are to the High God far more acceptable

Than yours, with all the feasts you make at table.

From Paradise, if I am not to lie,

Was man chased out because of gluttony;

And chaste was man in Paradise, that's plain.

But hear now, Thomas, lest I speak in vain.

I have no text for it, I must admit,

But by analogy the words will fit,

That specially our sweet Lord Christ Jesus

Spoke of the begging friars when He said thus:

'Blest are the poor in spirit.' So said He,

And so through all the gospel may you see

Whether the Word fit better our profession

Or theirs, the monks', who swim in rich possession,

Fie on their pomp and on their gluttony!

And for their lewdness do I them defy.

It seems to me they're like Jovinian,

Fat as a whale and waddling as a swan;

As full of wine as bottle in the spence.

Their prayers are always of great reverence,

When they for souls that psalm of David say:

'Cor meum eructavit- bouf!'- that way!

Who follow Christ's Word going on before

But we who are so humble, chaste, and poor,

And doers of God's Word, not hearers, merely?

As falcons rise to heaven, just so clearly

Spring up into the air the holy prayers

Of charitable and chaste and toiling friars

Make their way upward into God's ears two.

Thomas, O Thomas! As I ride or go,

And by that lord whom all we call Saint Yve,

Were you not brother to us, you'd not thrive!

In our chapter we pray both day and night

To Christ, that He will send you health and might

To move about again, and speedily.

'God knows, said he, nothing thereof feel I;

So help me Christ as I, these last few years,

Have spent on divers friars, it appears,

Full many a pound; and I'm no better yet.

Truly my wealth have I almost upset.

Farewell my gold! for it has slipped away.

The friar replied: Ah, Thomas, so you say!

But why need you to different friars reach?

Why should he need, who has a perfect leech,

To call in other leeches from the town?

Your trouble from your fickleness has grown.

Think you that I, or at least our convent,

Could not suffice to pray? That's what I meant.

Thomas, your feeble joke's not worth a tittle;

Your illness lasts because you've given too little.

'Ah, give that convent bushels four of oats!'

'Ah, give that convent four and twenty groats!'

'Ah, give that friar a penny and let him go!'

Nay, nay, Thomas, the thing should not be so!

What is a farthing worth, when split twelve ways?

A thing in its integrity displays

Far greater strength than does a unit scattered.

Thomas, by me you shall not here be flattered;

You would you had our labour all for naught.

But the High God, Who all this world has wrought,

Says that the workman's worthy of his hire.

Thomas! Naught of your treasure I desire

As for myself, but that all our convent

To pray for you is always diligent,

And also to build up Christ's holy kirk.

Thomas! If you will learn the way to work,

Of building up of churches you may find

(If it be good) in Thomas' life, of Inde.

You lie here, full of anger and of ire,

Wherewith the Devil set your heart afire,

And you chide here this hapless innocent,

Your wife, who is so meek and so patient.

And therefore, Thomas, trust me if you please,

Scold not your wife, who tries to give you ease;

And bear this word away now, by your faith,

Touching this thing, lo what the wise man saith:

'Within thy house do not the lion play,

Oppress thy subjects in no kind of way,

Nor cause thine equals and thy friends to flee.'

And Thomas, yet again I charge you, be

Wary of her that in your bosom sleeps;

Beware the serpent that so slyly creeps

Under the grass and stings so treacherously.

Beware, my son, and hear this patiently,

That twenty thousand men have lost their lives

For quarrelling with their sweet ones, and their wives.

Now, since you have so holy and meek a wife,

Why need you, Thomas, so to stir up strife?

There is, indeed, no serpent so cruel,

When man treads on his tail, nor half so fell,

As woman is when she is filled with ire;

Vengeance is then the whole of her desire.

Anger's a sin, one of the deadly seven,

Abominable unto the God of Heaven;

And it is sure destruction unto one.

This every vulgar vicar or parson

Can say, how anger leads to homicide.

Truth, anger's the executant of pride.

I could of anger tell you so much sorrow

My tale should last until it were tomorrow.

And therefore I pray God both day and night,

An ireful man, God send him little might!

It is great harm and truly great pity

To set an ireful man in high degree.

For once there was an ireful potentate,

(As Seneca says) and while he ruled the state,

Upon a day out riding went knights two,

And as Dame Fortune willed it, it was so

That one of them came home, and one did not.

Anon that knight before the judge was brought,

Who said thus: 'Sir, you have your fellow slain,

For which I doom you to the death, amain.'

And to another knight commanded he,

'Go lead him to his death, so I charge ye.'

It happened, as they went along their way,

Toward the place where he must die that day,

They met the knight that men had thought was dead

Then thought they, it were best not go ahead,

And so led both unto the judge again.

They said: 'O lord, this knight, he has not slain

His fellow; for he stands here sound, alive.'

'You shall die then,' he cried, 'so may I thrive!

That is to say, you shall all die, all three!'

And then to the first knight 'twas thus said he:

'I doomed you, and therefore you must be dead.

And you, also, must needs now lose your head,

Since you're the causing of your fellow's end.'

And then on the third knight did he descend:

'You have not done what I ordained should be!'

And thus he did away with all the three.

Ireful Cambyses was a drunkard too,

And much delighted dirty deeds to do.

And so befell, a lord of his household,

Who loved all moral virtue, we are told,

Said on a day, when they were talking, thus:

'A lord is lost if he be too vicious;

And drunkenness is foul thing to record

Of any man, and specially of a lord.

There is full many an eye and many an ear

Waiting upon a lord, nor knows he where.

For God's dear love, sir, drink more moderately;

Wine causes man to lose, and wretchedly,

His mind, and his limbs' usage, every one.'

'The opposite you'll see,' said he, 'anon;

And you'll prove, by your own experience,

That wine does not to men such foul offence.

There is no wine can rob me of my might

Of hand or foot, nor yet of my eyesight!'

And for despite he drank much wine the more,

A hundred times, than he had drunk before;

And then anon this ireful wicked wretch

Sent one this knight's young son to go and fetch,

And ordered that before him he should stand.

And suddenly he took his bow in hand,

And drew the string thereof up to his ear,

And with an arrow slew the child right there.

'Now tell me whether I've sure hand, or none!'

He said, 'And are my might and mind all gone?

Has wine deprived me of my good eyesight?'

How shall I tell the answer of the knight?

His son was slain, there is no more to say.

Beware, therefore, with lords look how you play.

But sing placebo, and 'I shall, if I can,'

Unless it be unto a helpless man.

To a poor man men should his vices tell,

But to a lord, no, though he go to Hell.

Lo, ireful Cyrus, that great Persian king,

Destroyed the river Gyndes at its spring,

Because a horse of his was drowned therein

When he went forth old Babylon to win.

He caused the river to become so small

That women could go wading through it all.

Lo, what said he whose teaching all commend?

'An angry man take never for a friend,

Nor with a madman walk along the way,

Lest you repent.' There is no more to say.

Now, Thomas, my dear brother, leave your ire;

You shall find me as just as is a squire.

Hold not the Devil's knife against your heart;

Your anger does too sorely burn and smart;

But show me all, now, in confession, son.

Nay, said the sick man, by Saint Simeon!

I have been shriven today by my curate;

I have him told the whole truth of my state;

There's no more need to speak of it, said he,

Save as I please, of my humility.

Then give me of your gold to build our cloister,

Said he, for many a mussel and an oyster,

When other men have been well at their ease,

Have been our food, that building should not cease,

And yet, God knows, is finished nothing more

Than the foundation, while of all the floor

There's not a tile yet laid to call our own;

By God, we owe full forty pounds for stone!

Now help, Thomas, for Him that harried Hell!

Else must we turn about and our books sell.

And if you laymen lack our high instruction,

Then will the world go all to its destruction.

For whoso shall deny us right to live,

So may God save me, Thomas, by your leave,

He'll have deprived the whole world of the sun.

For who can teach and work as we have done?

And that's not been for little time, said he;

Elias and Elisha used to be

Friars, you'll find the scriptures do record,

And beggars too, thanks be to the good Lord!

Now, Thomas, help for holy charity!

And down he went then, kneeling on one knee.

This sick man, he went well-nigh mad for ire;

He would have had that friar set afire

For the hypocrisy that he had shown.

Such things as I possess and are my own,

Said he, those may I give you and no other.

You tell me that I am as your own brother?

Yea, truly, said the friar, trust me well;

I gave your wife a letter with our seal.

That's well, said he, and something will I give

Unto your holy convent while I live,

And right anon you'll have it in your hand,

On this condition only, understand,

That you divide it so, my own dear brother,

That every friar shall have as much as other.

This shall you swear upon the faith you own,

And without fraud or cavil, be it known.

I swear it, said this friar, on my faith!

And on the sick man's laid his hand therewith.

Lo, hear my oath! In me shall truth not lack.

Now then, come put your hand right down my back,

Replied this man, and grope you well behind;

For underneath my buttocks shall you find

A thing that I have hid in privity.

Ah, thought the friar, this shall go with me!

And down he thrust his hand right to the cleft,

In hope that he should find there some good gift.

And when the sick man felt the friar here

Groping about his hole and all his rear,

Into his hand he let the friar a fart.

There is no stallion drawing loaded cart

That might have let a fart of such a sound.

The friar leaped up as with wild lion's bound:

Ah, treacherous churl, he cried, by God's own bones,

I'll see that he who scorns me thus atones;

You'll suffer for this fart- I'll find a way!

The servants, who had heard all this affray,

Came leaping in and chased the friar out;

And forth he scowling went, with angry shout,

And found his fellow, where he'd left his store.

He glared about as he were some wild boar;

He ground and gnashed his teeth, so wroth was he.

He quickly sought the manor, there to see

The lord thereof, whose honour was the best,

And always to the friar he confessed;

This worthy man was lord of that village.

The friar came, as he were in a rage,

Where sat the lord at dinner at his board.

And hardly could the friar speak a word,

Till at the last he said, God be with ye!

This lord looked up and said then, Ben'cite!

What, Friar John! What kind of world is this?

I see right well that something is amiss.

You look as if the wood were full of thieves,

Sit down, and tell me what it is that grieves,

And it shall be amended, if I may.

I have, said he, insulted been today-

May God reward you!- down in your village.

And in this world is not so poor a page

As would not feel the insult, if 'twere thrown

At him, that I have suffered in your town.

Yet nothing grieves me in this matter more

Than that this peasant, with his long locks hoar,

Has thus blasphemed our holy convent too.

Now, master, said his lordship, I pray you-

No master, sir, said he, but servitor,

Though true, I had in school such honour, sir.

But rabbi- God's not pleased that men so call

Us, in the public square or your wide hall.

No matter, said he, tell me all your grief.

Sir, said this friar, an odious mischief

Was this day done to my order and me,

And so, per consequens, to each degree

Of Holy Church, may God it soon amend!

Sir, said the lord, the story I attend.

As my confessor, pray your wrath control;

Salt of the earth are you- the savour whole.

For love of God, I beg you patience hold;

Tell me your grievance. And anon he told

As you have heard before, you know well what.

The lady of the house right silent sat

Till she had heard all that the friar said:

Eh, by God's Mother, cried she, Blessed Maid!

Is there aught else? A point that we did miss?

Madam, asked he, what do you think of this?

What do I think? she asked, So God me speed,

I say, a churl has done a churlish deed.

What should I say? May God desert him! See-

Why his sick head is full of vanity.

The man, no doubt, is more or less insane.

Madam, said he, I will not lie or feign:

If otherwise I cannot vengeance wreak,

I will defame him wheresoe'er I speak,

This false blasphemer who has dared charge me

Thus to divide what won't divided be,

To every man alike, and with mischance!

The lord sat still as he were in a trance,

And in his mind he rolled it up and down:

How had this churl imagination grown

To pose so fine a problem to the friar?

I never heard the like, or I'm a liar;

I think the devil stuck it in his mind.

And in arithmetic did no man find,

Before this day, such puzzling question shown.

Who could be able, now, to make it known

How every man should have an equal part

Of both the sound and savour of a fart?

O scrupulous proud churl, beshrew his face!

Lo, sirs, this lord said then, with hard grimace,

Who ever heard of such a thing ere now?

To every man alike? But tell me how!

Why it's impossible, it cannot be!

Exacting churl, God give him never glee!

The rumbling of a fart, and every sound,

Is but the air's reverberation round,

And ever it wastes, by little and little, away.

There is no man can judge, aye, by my fay,

Whether it were divided equally.

Behold, my church And yet how cursedly

To my confessor has he made this crack!

I hold him surely a demoniac!

Now eat your meat and let the churl go play,

Let him go hang himself, the devil's way!

Now the lord's squire stood ready near the board

To carve his meat, and he heard, word for word,

All of the things that I to you have said.

My lord, said he, be not ill pleased indeed;

For I could tell, for cloth to make a gown,

To you, sir friar, so you do not frown,

How this said fart evenly doled could be

Among your fellows, if the thing pleased me.

Tell, said the lord, and you shall have anon

Cloth for a gown, by God and by Saint John!

My lord, said he, when next the weather's fair,

And there's no wind to stir the quiet air,

Let someone bring a cartwheel to this hall,

But see there are no missing spokes at all.

Twelve spokes a cartwheel has, sir, commonly.

And bring me then twelve friars, and know you why?

Because a convent's thirteen, as I guess.

The present confessor, for his worthiness,

He shall complete the tale of this convent.

Then shall they all kneel down, by one assent,

And at each spoke's end, in this manner, sire,

Let the nose be laid firmly of a friar.

Your noble sir confessor, whom God save,

Shall hold his nose upright beneath the nave.

Then shall this churl, with belly stiff and taut

As any tabour- let him here be brought;

And set him on the wheel of this same cart,

Upon the hub, and make him let a fart.

And you shall see, on peril of my life,

With proof so clear that there shall be no strife,

That equally the sound of it will wend,

And the stink too, to each spoke's utter end;

Save that this worthy man, your confessor,

Because he is a man of great honour,

Shall have first fruits, as reasonable it is;

The noble custom of all friars is this,

The worthy men of them shall be first served;

And certainly this has he well deserved.

He has today taught us so much of good,

With preaching in the pulpit where he stood,

That for my part I gladly should agree,

He might well have the first smell of farts three,

And so would all his convent, generously,

He bears himself so well and holily.

The lord, the lady, and each man, save the friar,

Agreed that Jenkin spoke, as classifier,

As well as Euclid or as Ptolemy.

Touching the churl, they said that subtlety

And great wit taught him how to make his crack.

He was no fool, nor a demoniac.

And Jenkin by this means has won a gown.

My tale is done, we're almost into town.

The Clerk's Prologue

Sir clerk of Oxford, our good host then said,

You ride as quiet and still as is a maid

But newly wedded, sitting at the board;

This day I've heard not from your tongue a word.

Perhaps you mull a sophism that's prime,

But Solomon says, each thing to its own time.

For God's sake, smile and be of better cheer,

It is no time to think and study here.

Tell us some merry story, if you may;

For whatsoever man will join in play,

He needs must to the play give his consent.

But do not preach, as friars do in Lent,

To make us, for our old sins, wail and weep,

And see your tale shall put us not to sleep.

Tell us some merry thing of adventures.

Your terms, your colours, and your speech-figures,

Keep them in store till so be you indite

High style, as when men unto kings do write.

Speak you so plainly, for this time, I pray,

'That we can understand what things you say.

This worthy clerk, benignly he answered.

Good host, said he, I am under your yard;

You have of us, for now, the governance,

And therefore do I make you obeisance

As far as reason asks it, readily.

I will relate to you a tale that

Learned once, at Padua, of a worthy clerk,

As he proved by his words and by his work.

He's dead, now, and nailed down-within his chest,

And I pray God to give his soul good rest!

Francis Petrarch, the laureate poet,

Was this clerk's name, whose rhetoric so sweet

Illumed all Italy with poetry,

As did Lignano with philosophy,

Or law, or other art particular;

But Death, that suffers us not very far,

Nor more, as 'twere, than twinkling of an eye,

Has slain them both, as all of us shall die.

But forth, to tell you of this worthy man,

Who taught this tale to me, as I began,

I say that first, with high style he indites,

Before the body of his tale he writes,

A proem to describe those lands renowned,

Saluzzo, Piedmont, and the region round,

And speaks of Apennines, those hills so high

That form the boundary of West Lombardy,

And of Mount Viso, specially, the tall,

Whereat the Po, out of a fountain small,

Takes its first springing and its tiny source

That eastward ever increases in its course

Toward Emilia, Ferrara, and Venice;

The which is a long story to devise.

And truly, in my judgment reluctant

It is a thing not wholly relevant,

Save that he introduces thus his gear:

But this is his tale, which you now may hear.

The Clerk's Tale

There is, in the west side of Italy,

Down at the foot of Mount Viso the cold,

A pleasant plain that yields abundantly,

Where many a tower and town one may behold,

That were there founded in the times of old.

With many another fair delightful sight;

Saluzzo is this noble region bright.

A marquis once was lord of all that land,

As were his noble ancestors before;

Obedient and ready to his hand

Were all his lieges, both the less and more.

Thus in delight he lived, and had of yore,

Beloved and feared, through favour of Fortune,

Both by his lords and by the common run.

Therewith he was, to speak of lineage,

Born of the noblest blood of Lombardy,

With person fair, and strong, and young of age,

And full of honour and of courtesy;

Discreet enough to lead his nation, he;

Save in some things wherein he was to blame,

And Walter was this young lord's Christian name.

I blame him thus, that he considered naught

Of what in coming time might him betide,

But on his present wish was all his thought,

As, he would hunt and hawk on every side;

Well-nigh all other cares would he let slide,

And would not, and this was the worst of all,

Marry a wife, for aught that might befall.

That point alone his people felt so sore

That in a flock one day to him they went,

And one of them, the wisest in all lore,

Or else because the lord would best consent

That he should tell him what the people meant,

Or else that he could make the matter clear,

He to the marquis spoke as you shall hear.

O noble marquis, your humanity

Assures us, aye, and gives us hardiness

As often as there is necessity

That we to you may tell our heaviness.

Accept, lord, now of your great nobleness

That we with sincere hearts may here complain,

Nor let your ears my humble voice disdain.