THE CANTERBURY TALES 

by GEOFFREY CHAUCER 

GROUP A 

PROLOGUE 

     Here bygynneth the Book of the tales of Caunterbury. 

     Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote, 

     The droghte of March hath perced to the roote 

     And bathed every veyne in swich licour, 

     Of which vertu engendred is the flour; 

     Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth 

     Inspired hath in every holt and heeth 

     The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne 

     Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne, 

     And smale foweles maken melodye, 

     That slepen al the nyght with open eye- 

     So priketh hem Nature in hir corages- 

     Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages 

     And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes 

     To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes; 

     And specially, from every shires ende 

     Of Engelond, to Caunturbury they wende, 

     The hooly blisful martir for the seke 

     That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seeke. 

        Bifil that in that seson, on a day, 

     In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 

     Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage 

     To Caunterbury, with ful devout corage, 

     At nyght were come into that hostelrye 

     Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye 

     Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle 

     In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle, 

     That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde. 

     The chambres and the stables weren wyde, 

     And wel we weren esed atte beste; 

     And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste, 

     So hadde I spoken with hem everychon 

     That I was of hir felaweshipe anon, 

     And made forward erly for to ryse 

     To take our wey, ther as I yow devyse. 

        But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space, 

     Er that I ferther in this tale pace, 

     Me thynketh it acordaunt to resoun 

     To telle yow al the condicioun 

     Of ech of hem, so as it semed me, 

     And whiche they weren, and of what degree, 

     And eek in what array that they were inne; 

     And at a knyght than wol I first bigynne. 

        A knyght ther was, and that a worthy man, 

     That fro the tyme that he first bigan 

     To riden out, he loved chivalrie, 

     Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie. 

     Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre, 

     And therto hadde he riden, no man ferre, 

     As wel in Cristendom as in Hethenesse, 

     And evere honoured for his worthynesse. 

        At Alisaundre he was, whan it was wonne; 

     Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne 

     Aboven alle nacions in Pruce; 

     In Lettow hadde he reysed, and in Ruce, 

     No cristen man so ofte of his degree. 

     In Gernade at the seege eek hadde he be 

     Of Algezir, and riden in Belmarye; 

     At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye, 

     Whan they were wonne; and in the Grete See 

     At many a noble arive hadde he be. 

     At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene, 

     And foughten for oure feith at Tramyssene 

     In lystes thries, and ay slayn his foo. 

     This ilke worthy knyght hadde been also 

     Somtyme with the lord of Palatye 

     Agayn another hethen in Turkye, 

     And everemoore he hadde a sovereyn prys. 

     And though that he were worthy, he was wys, 

     And of his port as meeke as is a mayde; 

     He nevere yet no vileynye ne sayde 

     In al his lyf unto no maner wight; 

     He was a verray parfit gentil knyght. 

        But for to tellen yow of his array, 

     His hors weren goode, but he was nat gay. 

     Of fustian he wered a gypoun, 

     Al bismotered with his habergeoun; 

     For he was late ycome from his viage, 

     And wente for to doon his pilgrymage. 

        With hym ther was his sone, a yong Squier, 

     A lovyere and a lusty bacheler, 

     With lokkes crulle, as they were leyd in presse. 

     Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. 

     Of his stature he was of evene lengthe, 

     And wonderly delyvere, and of greet strengthe. 

     And he hadde been somtyme in chyvachie 

     In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Pycardie, 

     And born hym weel, as of so litel space, 

     In hope to stonden in his lady grace. 

     Embrouded was he, as it were a meede, 

     Al ful of fresshe floures whyte and reede; 

     Syngynge he was, or floytynge, al the day, 

     He was as fressh as is the monthe of May. 

     Short was his gowne, with sleves longe and wyde. 

     Wel koude he sitte on hors, and faire ryde, 

     He koude songes make, and wel endite, 

     Juste, and eek daunce, and weel purtreye and write. 

     So hoote he lovede, that by nyghtertale 

     He slepte namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale. 

     Curteis he was, lowely, and servysable, 

     And carf biforn his fader at the table. 

        A Yeman hadde he, and servantz namo 

     At that tyme, for hym liste ride soo; 

     And he was clad in cote and hood of grene, 

     A sheef of pecok arwes bright and kene 

     Under his belt he bar ful thriftily- 

     Wel koude he dresse his takel yemanly, 

     Hise arwes drouped noght with fetheres lowe- 

     And in his hand he baar a myghty bowe. 

     A not -heed hadde he, with a broun visage, 

     Of woodecraft wel koude he al the usage. 

     Upon his arm he baar a gay bracer, 

     And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler, 

     And on that oother syde a gay daggere, 

     Harneised wel, and sharpe as point of spere. 

     A Cristophere on his brest of silver sheene, 

     An horn he bar, the bawdryk was of grene. 

     A Forster was he, soothly, as I gesse. 

        Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, 

     That of hir smylyng was ful symple and coy. 

     Hir gretteste ooth was but by Seinte Loy, 

     And she was cleped Madame Eglentyne. 

     Ful weel she soong the service dyvyne, 

     Entuned in hir nose ful semely; 

     And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly 

     After the scole of Stratford-atte-Bowe, 

     For Frenssh of Parys was to hir unknowe. 

     At mete wel ytaught was she withalle; 

     She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle, 

     Ne wette hir fyngres in hir sauce depe. 

     Wel koude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe 

     That no drope ne fille upon hir brist. 

     In curteisie was set ful muche hir list; 

     Hire over-lippe wyped she so clene, 

     That in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng sene 

     Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte. 

     Ful semely after hir mete she raughte; 

     And sikerly, she was of greet desport, 

     And ful plesaunt, and amyable of port, 

     And peyned hir to countrefete cheere 

     Of court, and been estatlich of manere, 

     And to ben holden digne of reverence. 

     But for to speken of hir conscience, 

     She was so charitable and so pitous, 

     She wolde wepe, if that she saugh a mous 

     Kaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. 

     Of smale houndes hadde she, that she fedde 

     With rosted flessh, or milk and wastel-breed. 

     But soore weep she if oon of hem were deed, 

     Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte; 

     And al was conscience, and tendre herte. 

     Ful semyly hir wympul pynched was, 

     Hire nose tretys, hir eyen greye as glas, 

     Hir mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reed; 

     But sikerly, she hadde a fair forheed, 

     It was almoost a spanne brood, I trowe, 

     For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe. 

     Ful fetys was hir cloke, as I was war; 

     Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar 

     A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene, 

     An theron heng a brooch of gold ful sheene, 

     On which ther was first write a crowned `A,' 

     And after,`Amor vincit omnia.' 

     Another Nonne with hir hadde she, 

     That was hire Chapeleyne, and preestes thre. 

        A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrie, 

     An outridere, that lovede venerie, 

     A manly man, to been an abbot able. 

     Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable; 

     And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel heere 

     Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere, 

     And eek as loude, as dooth the chapel belle, 

     Ther as this lord was keper of the celle. 

     The reule of Seint Maure, or of Seint Beneit, 

     Bycause that it was old and somdel streit- 

     This ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace, 

     And heeld after the newe world the space. 

     He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen, 

     That seith that hunters beth nat hooly men, 

     Ne that a monk, whan he is recchelees, 

     Is likned til a fissh that is waterlees- 

     This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloystre- 

     But thilke text heeld he nat worth an oystre! 

     And I seyde his opinioun was good, 

     What sholde he studie, and make hymselven wood, 

     Upon a book in cloystre alwey to poure, 

     Or swynken with his handes and laboure 

     As Austyn bit?  How shal the world be served? 

     Lat Austyn have his swynk to him reserved; 

     Therfore he was a prikasour aright, 

     Grehoundes he hadde, as swift as fowel in flight; 

     Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hare 

     Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. 

     I seigh his sleves ypurfiled at the hond 

     With grys, and that the fyneste of a lond; 

     And for to festne his hood under his chyn 

     He hadde of gold ywroght a curious pyn; 

     A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was. 

     His heed was balled, that shoon as any glas, 

     And eek his face, as it hadde been enoynt. 

     He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt, 

     Hise eyen stepe, and rollynge in his heed, 

     That stemed as a forneys of a leed; 

     His bootes souple, his hors in greet estaat; 

     Now certeinly he was a fair prelaat! 

     He was nat pale as a forpyned goost, 

     A fat swan loved he best of any roost. 

     His palfrey was as broun as is a berye, 

        A Frere ther was, a wantowne and a merye, 

     A lymytour, a ful solempne man, 

     In alle the ordres foure is noon that kan 

     So muchel of daliaunce and fair langage. 

     He hadde maad ful many a mariage 

     Of yonge wommen at his owene cost. 

     Unto his ordre he was a noble post, 

     And wel biloved and famulier was he 

     With frankeleyns overal in his contree 

     And eek with worthy wommen of the toun, 

     For he hadde power of confessioun, 

     As seyde hymself, moore than a curat, 

     For of his ordre he was licenciat. 

     Ful swetely herde he confessioun, 

     And plesaunt was his a absolucioun, 

     He was an esy man to yeve penaunce 

     Ther as he wiste to have a good pitaunce; 

     For unto a povre ordre for to yive 

     Is signe that a man is wel yshryve; 

     For, if he yaf, he dorste make avaunt, 

     He wiste that a man was repentaunt. 

     For many a man so harde is of his herte, 

     He may nat wepe, al thogh hym soore smerte; 

     Therfore, in stede of wepynge and preyeres, 

     Men moote yeve silver to the povre freres. 

     His typet was ay farsed ful of knyves 

     And pynnes, for to yeven yonge wyves. 

     And certeinly he hadde a murye note, 

     Wel koude he synge, and pleyen on a rote, 

     Of yeddynges he baar outrely the pris. 

     His nekke whit was as the flour delys; 

     Therto he strong was as a champioun, 

     He knew the tavernes wel in every toun 

     And everich hostiler and tappestere 

     Bet than a lazar or a beggestere. 

     For unto swich a worthy man as he 

     Acorded nat, as by his facultee, 

     To have with sike lazars aqueyntaunce; 

     It is nat honeste, it may nat avaunce, 

     For to deelen with no swich poraille, 

     But al with riche and selleres of vitaille; 

     And overal, ther as profit sholde arise, 

     Curteis he was, and lowely of servyse. 

     Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous; 

     He was the beste beggere in his hous, 

     (And yaf a certeyn ferme for the graunt 

     Noon of his brethren cam ther in his haunt;) 

     For thogh a wydwe hadde noght a sho, 

     So plesaunt was his `In principio' 

     Yet wolde he have a ferthyng er he wente; 

     His purchas was wel bettre than his rente. 

     And rage he koude, as it were right a whelpe; 

     In love-dayes ther koude he muchel helpe; 

     For there he was nat lyk a cloysterer, 

     With a thredbare cope, as is a povre scoler, 

     But he was lyk a maister or a pope; 

     Of double worstede was his semycope, 

     That rounded as a belle out of the presse. 

     Somwhat he lipsed for his wantownesse 

     To make his Englissh sweete upon his tonge, 

     And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde songe, 

     Hise eyen twynkled in his heed aryght 

     As doon the sterres in the frosty nyght. 

     This worthy lymytour was cleped Huberd. 

        A Marchant was ther, with a forkek berd, 

     In mottelee, and hye on horse he sat, 

     Upon his heed a Flaundryssh bevere hat, 

     His bootes clasped faire and fetisly. 

     Hise resons he spak ful solempnely, 

     Sownynge alway thencrees of his wynnyng. 

     He wolde the see were kept for any thyng 

     Bitwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle. 

     Wel koude he in eschaunge sheeldes selle. 

     This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette; 

     Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, 

     So estatly was he of his governaunce, 

     With his bargaynes and with his chevyssaunce. 

     Forsothe, he was a worthy man with-alle, 

     But, sooth to seyn, I noot how men hym calle. 

        A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also, 

     That unto logyk hadde longe ygo. 

     As leene was his hors as is a rake, 

     And he nas nat right fat, I undertake, 

     But looked holwe and therto sobrely. 

     Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy, 

     For he hadde geten hym yet no benefice, 

     Ne was so worldly for to have office, 

     For hym was levere have at his beddes heed 

     Twenty bookes, clad in blak or reed, 

     Of Aristotle and his plilosophie, 

     Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrie. 

     But al be that he was a philosophre, 

     Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre; 

     But al that he myghte of his freendes hente, 

     On bookes and his lernynge he it spente, 

     And bisily gan for the soules preye 

     Of hem that yaf hym wherwith to scoleye. 

     Of studie took he moost cure and moost heede, 

     Noght o word spak he moore than was neede, 

     And that was seyd in forme and reverence, 

     And short and quyk, and ful of hy sentence. 

     Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche, 

     And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. 

        A Sergeant of the Lawe, war and wys, 

     That often hadde been at the parvys, 

     Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. 

     Discreet he was, and of greet reverence,- 

     He semed swich, hise wordes weren so wise. 

     Justice he was ful often in assise, 

     By patente, and by pleyn commissioun. 

     For his science, and for his heigh renoun, 

     Of fees and robes hadde he many oon. 

     So greet a purchasour was nowher noon, 

     Al was fee symple to hym in effect, 

     His purchasyng myghte nat been infect. 

     Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas, 

     And yet he semed bisier than he was; 

     In termes hadde he caas and doomes alle, 

     That from the tyme of Kyng William were falle. 

     Therto he koude endite, and make a thyng, 

     Ther koude no wight pynche at his writyng. 

     And every statut koude he pleyn by rote. 

     He rood but hoomly in a medlee cote 

     Girt with a ceint of silk, with barres smale;- 

     Of his array telle I no lenger tale. 

        A Frankeleyn was in his compaignye; 

     Whit was his berd as is a dayesye. 

     Of his complexioun he was sangwyn. 

     Wel loved he by the morwe a sope in wyn, 

     To lyven in delit was evere his wone; 

     For he was Epicurus owene sone, 

     That heeld opinioun that pleyn delit 

     Was verraily felicitee parfit, 

     An housholdere, and that a greet, was he; 

     Seint Julian was he in his contree. 

     His breed, his ale, was alweys after oon, 

     A bettre envyned man was nowher noon. 

     Withoute bake mete was nevere his hous, 

     Of fissh and flessh, and that so plentevous, 

     It snewed in his hous of mete and drynke, 

     Of alle deyntees that men koude thynke. 

     After the sondry sesons of the yeer 

     So chaunged he his mete and his soper. 

     Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in muwe, 

     And many a breem and many a luce in stuwe. 

     Wo was his cook, but if his sauce were 

     Poynaunt, and sharp, and redy al his geere. 

     His table dormant in his halle alway 

     Stood redy covered al the longe day. 

     At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire; 

     Ful ofte tyme he was knyght of the shire. 

     An anlaas and a gipser al of silk 

     Heeng at his girdel, whit as morne milk. 

     A shirreve hadde he been, and a countour, 

     Was nowher swich a worthy vavasour. 

        An Haberdasshere and a Carpenter, 

     A Webbe, a Dyere, and a Tapycer- 

     And they were clothed alle in o lyveree 

     Of a solempne and a greet fraternitee. 

     Ful fressh and newe hir geere apiked was, 

     Hir knyves were chaped noght with bras, 

     But al with silver wroght ful clene and weel, 

     Hir girdles and hir pouches everydeel. 

     Wel semed ech of hem a fair burgeys 

     To sitten in a yeldehalle on a deys. 

     Everich for the wisdom that he kan 

     Was shaply for to been an alderman; 

     For catel hadde they ynogh, and rente, 

     And eek hir wyves wolde it wel assente- 

     And eles, certeyn, were they to blame! 

     It is ful fair to been ycleped `ma Dame,' 

     And goon to vigilies al bifore, 

     And have a mantel roialliche ybore. 

        A Cook they hadde with hem for the nones, 

     To boille the chiknes with the marybones, 

     And poudre-marchant tart, and galyngale. 

     Wel koude he knowe a draughte of London ale; 

     He koude rooste, and sethe, and broille, and frye, 

     Maken mortreux, and wel bake a pye. 

     But greet harm was it, as it thoughte me, 

     That on his shyne a mormal hadde he! 

     For blankmanger, that made he with the beste. 

        A Shipman was ther, wonynge fer by weste; 

     For aught I woot, he was of Dertemouthe. 

     He rood upon a rouncy, as he kouthe, 

     In a gowne of faldyng to the knee. 

     A daggere hangynge on a laas hadde he 

     Aboute his nekke, under his arm adoun. 

     The hoote somer hadde maad his hewe al broun, 

     And certeinly he was a good felawe. 

     Ful many a draughte of wyn had he ydrawe 

     Fro Burdeuxward, whil that the chapman sleep. 

     Of nyce conscience took he no keep; 

     If that he faught, and hadde the hyer hond, 

     By water he sente hem hoom to every lond. 

     But of his craft, to rekene wel his tydes, 

     His stremes, and his daungers hym bisides, 

     His herberwe and his moone, his lodemenage, 

     Ther nas noon swich from Hulle to Cartage. 

     Hardy he was, and wys to undertake, 

     With many a tempest hadde his berd been shake; 

     He knew alle the havenes as they were 

     From Gootlond to the Cape of Fynystere, 

     And every cryke in Britaigne and in Spayne. 

     His barge yeleped was the Maudelayne. 

        With us ther was a Doctour of Phisik; 

     In al this world ne was ther noon hym lik, 

     To speke of phisik and of surgerye; 

     For he was grounded in astronomye. 

     He kepte his pacient a ful greet deel 

     In houres, by his magyk natureel. 

     Wel koude he fortunen the ascendent 

     Of hisc ymages for his pacient. 

     He knew the cause of everich maladye, 

     Were it of hoot or coold, or moyste, or drye, 

     And where they engendred, and of what humour. 

     He was a verray parfit praktisour; 

     The cause yknowe, and of his harm the roote, 

     Anon he yaf the sike man his boote. 

     Ful redy hadde he hise apothecaries 

     To sende him drogges and his letuaries, 

     For ech of hem made oother for to wynne, 

     Hir frendshipe nas nat newe to bigynne. 

     Wel knew he the olde Esculapius, 

     And Deyscorides and eek Rufus, 

     Olde Ypocras, Haly, and Galyen, 

     Serapioun, Razis, and Avycen, 

     Averrois, Damascien, and Constantyn, 

     Bernard, and Gatesden, and Gilbertyn. 

     Of his diete mesurable was he, 

     For it was of no superfluitee, 

     But of greet norissyng, and digestible. 

     His studie was but litel on the Bible. 

     In sangwyn and in pers he clad was al, 

     Lyned with taffata and with sendal- 

     And yet he was but esy of dispence; 

     He kepte that he wan in pestilence. 

     For gold in phisik is a cordial, 

     Therfore he lovede gold in special. 

        A good wif was ther, of biside Bathe, 

     He was to synful man nat despitous, 

     Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne, 

     But in his techyng discreet and benygne; 

     To drawen folk to hevene by fairnesse, 

     By good ensample, this was his bisynesse. 

     But it were any persone obstinat, 

     What so he were, of heigh or lough estat, 

     Hym wolde he snybben sharply for the nonys. 

     A bettre preest, I trowe, that nowher noon ys. 

     He waited after no pompe and reverence, 

     Ne maked him a spiced conscience, 

     But Cristes loore, and Hise apostles twelve 

     He taughte, but first he folwed it hym-selve. 

        With hym ther was a Plowman, was his brother, 

     That hadde ylad of dong ful many a fother. 

     A trewe swybnker and a good was he, 

     Lyvynge in pees and parfit charitee. 

     God loved he best with al his hoole herte 

     At alle tymes, thogh him gamed or smerte, 

     And thanne his neighebore right as hym-selve; 

     He wolde thresshe, and therto dyke and delve, 

     For Cristes sake, for every povre wight 

     Withouten hire, if it lay in his myght. 

     Hise tithes payed he ful faire and wel, 

     Bothe of his propre swynk and his catel. 

     In a tabard he rood, upon a mere. 

        Ther was also a Reve and a Millere, 

     A Somnour and a Pardoner also, 

     A Maunciple, and myself, ther were namo. 

     The Millere was a stout carl for the nones, 

     Ful byg he was of brawn and eek of bones- 

     That proved wel, for overal ther he cam 

     At wrastlyng he wolde have alwey the ram. 

     He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke knarre, 

     Ther was no dore that he nolde heve of harre, 

     Or breke it at a rennyng with his heed. 

     His berd as any sowe or fox was reed, 

     And therto brood, as though it were a spade. 

     Upon the cop right of his nose he hade 

     A werte, and thereon stood a toft of heres 

     Reed as the brustles of a sowes eres; 

     Hise nosethirles blake were and wyde. 

     A swerd and bokeler bar he by his syde. 

     His mouth as greet was as a greet forneys, 

     He was a janglere and a goliardeys, 

     And that was moost of synne and harlotries. 

     Wel koude he stelen corn, and tollen thries, 

     And yet he hadde a thombe of gold, pardee. 

     A whit cote and a blew hood wered he. 

     A baggepipe wel koude he blowe and sowne, 

     And therwithal he broghte us out of towne. 

        A gentil Maunciple was ther of a temple, 

     Of which achatours myghte take exemple 

     For to be wise in byynge of vitaille; 

     For wheither that he payde or took by taille, 

     Algate he wayted so in his achaat 

     That he was ay biforn, and in good staat. 

     Now is nat that of God a ful fair grace, 

     That swich a lewed mannes wit shal pace 

     The wisdom of an heep of lerned men? 

     Of maistres hadde he mo than thries ten, 

     That weren of lawe expert and curious, 

     Of whiche ther weren a duszeyne in that hous 

     Worthy to been stywardes of rente and lond 

     Of any lord that is in Engelond, 

     To maken hym lyve by his propre good, 

     In honour dettelees, but if he were wood; 

     Or lyve as scarsly as hym list desire, 

     And able for to helpen al a shire 

     In any caas that myghte falle or happe- 

     And yet this manciple sette hir aller cappe! 

        The Reve was a sclendre colerik man; 

     His berd was shave as ny as ever he kan, 

     His heer was by his erys ful round yshorn, 

     His top was dokked lyk a preest biforn. 

     Ful longe were his legges, and ful lene, 

     Ylyk a staf, ther was no calf ysene. 

     Wel koude he kepe a gerner and a bynne, 

     Ther was noon auditour koude on him wynne. 

     Wel wiste he, by the droghte, and by the reyn, 

     The yeldynge of his seed and of his greyn. 

     His lordes sheep, his neet, his dayerye, 

     His swyn, his hors, his stoor, and his pultrye, 

     Was hooly in this reves governyng 

     And by his covenant yaf the rekenyng, 

     Syn that his lord was twenty yeer of age; 

     Ther koude no man brynge hym in arrerage. 

     Ther nas baillif, ne hierde, nor oother hyne, 

     That he ne knew his sleighte and his covyne, 

     They were adrad of hym as of the deeth. 

     His wonyng was ful faire upon an heeth, 

     With grene trees shadwed was his place. 

     He koude bettre than his lord purchace. 

     Ful riche he was astored pryvely; 

     His lord wel koude he plesen subtilly 

     To yeve and lene hym of his owene good, 

     And have a thank, and yet a cote and hook. 

     In youthe he hadde lerned a good myster, 

     He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter. 

     This reve sat upon a ful good stot, 

     That was al pomely grey, and highte Scot. 

     A long surcote of pers upon he hade, 

     And by his syde he baar a rusty blade. 

     Of Northfolk was this reve, of which I telle, 

     Bisyde a toun men clepen Baldeswelle. 

     Tukked he was, as is a frere, aboute, 

     And evere he rood the hyndreste of oure route. 

        A Somonour was ther with us in that place, 

     That hadde a fyr-reed cherubynnes face, 

     For sawcefleem he was, with eyen narwe. 

     As hoot he was, and lecherous, as a sparwe, 

     With scalled browes blake, and piled berd, 

     Of his visage children were aferd. 

     Ther nas quyk-silver, lytarge, ne brymstoon, 

     Boras, ceruce, ne oille of tartre noon, 

     Ne oynement, that wolde clense and byte, 

     That hym myghte helpen of his wheldes white, 

     Nor of the knobbes sittynge on his chekes. 

     Wel loved he garleek, oynons, and eek lekes, 

     And for to drynken strong wyn, reed as blood; 

     Thanne wolde he speke and crie as he were wood. 

     And whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn, 

     Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn. 

     A fewe termes hadde he, two or thre, 

     That he had lerned out of som decree- 

     No wonder is, he herde it al the day, 

     And eek ye knowen wel how that a jay 

     Kan clepen `watte' as wel as kan the Pope. 

     But who so koude in oother thyng hym grope, 

     Thanne hadde he spent al his plilosophie; 

     Ay `questio quid juris' wolde he crie. 

     He was a gentil harlot and a kynde, 

     A bettre felawe sholde men noght fynde; 

     He wolde suffre, for a quart of wyn, 

     A good felawe to have his concubyn 

     A twelf-monthe, and excuse hym atte fulle- 

     Ful prively a fynch eek koude he pulle. 

     And if he foond owher a good felawe, 

     He wolde techen him to have noon awe, 

     In swich caas, of the erchedekeness curs, 

     But if a mannes soule were in his purs; 

     For in his purs he sholde ypunysshed be, 

     `Purs is the erchedekenes helle,' seyde he. 

     But wel I woot he lyed right in dede; 

     Of cursyng oghte ech gilty man him drede- 

     For curs wol slee, right as assoillyng savith- 

     And also war him of a Significavit. 

     In daunger hadde he at his owene gise 

     The yonge girles of the diocise, 

     And knew hir conseil, and was al hir reed. 

     A gerland hadde he set upon his heed 

     As greet as it were for an ale-stake; 

     A bokeleer hadde he maad him of a cake. 

        With hym ther rood a gentil Pardoner 

     Of Rouncivale, his freend and his compeer, 

     That streight was comen fro the court of Rome. 

     Ful loude he soong `com hider, love, to me.' 

     This Somonour bar to hym a stif burdoun, 

     Was nevere trompe of half so greet a soun. 

     This Pardoner hadde heer as yelow as wex, 

     But smothe it heeng as dooth a strike of flex; 

     By ounces henge hise lokkes that he hadde, 

     And therwith he hise shuldres overspradde; 

     But thynne it lay by colpons oon and oon. 

     But hood, for jolitee, wered he noon, 

     For it was trussed up in his walet. 

     Hym thoughte he rood al of the newe jet, 

     Dischevele, save his cappe, he rood al bare. 

     Swiche glarynge eyen hadde he as an hare. 

     A vernycle hadde he sowed upon his cappe. 

     His walet lay biforn hym in his lappe 

     Bret-ful of pardoun come from Rome al hoot. 

     A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot, 

     No berd hadde he, ne nevere sholde have, 

     As smothe it was as it were late shave, 

     I trowe he were a geldyng or a mare. 

     But of his craft, fro Berwyk into Ware, 

     Ne was ther swich another Pardoner; 

     For in his male he hadde a pilwe-beer, 

     Which that he seyde was Oure Lady veyl; 

     He seyde, he hadde a gobet of the seyl 

     That Seinte Peter hadde, whan that he wente 

     Upon the see, til Jesu Crist hym hente. 

     He hadde a croys of latoun, ful of stones, 

     And in a glas he hadde pigges bones; 

     But with thise relikes whan that he fond 

     A povre persoun dwellyng up-on-lond, 

     Upon a day he gat hym moore moneye 

     Than that the person gat in monthes tweye, 

     And thus with feyned flaterye and japes 

     He made the persoun and the peple his apes. 

     But trewely to tellen atte laste, 

     He was in chirche a noble ecclesiaste; 

     Wel koude he rede a lessoun or a storie, 

     But alderbest he song an offertorie, 

     For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe 

     He moste preche, and wel affile his tonge; 

     To wynne silver, as he ful wel koude, 

     Therfore he song the murierly and loude. 

        Now have I toold you shortly in a clause 

     Thestaat, tharray, the nombre, and eek the cause 

     Why that assembled was this compaignye 

     In Southwerk, at this gentil hostelrye, 

     That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle. 

     But now is tyme to yow for to telle 

     How that we baren us that ilke nyght 

     Whan we were in that hostelrie alyght, 

     And after wol I telle of our viage, 

     And all the remenaunt of oure pilgrimage. 

     But first I pray yow, of youre curteisye, 

     That ye narette it nat my vileynye, 

     Thogh that I pleynly speke in this mateere 

     To telle yow hir wordes and hir cheere, 

     Ne thogh I speke hir wordes proprely. 

     For this ye knowen also wel as I, 

     Who-so shal telle a tale after a man, 

     He moot reherce as ny as evere he kan 

     Everich a word, if it be in his charge, 

     Al speke he never so rudeliche or large; 

     Or ellis he moot telle his tale untrewe, 

     Or feyne thyng, or fynde wordes newe. 

     He may nat spare, al thogh he were his brother, 

     He moot as wel seye o word as another. 

     Crist spak hym-self ful brode in Hooly Writ, 

     And, wel ye woot, no vileynye is it. 

     Eek Plato seith, who so kan hym rede, 

     The wordes moote be cosyn to the dede. 

     Also I prey yow to foryeve it me, 

     Al have I nat set folk in hir degree 

     Heere in this tale, as that they sholde stonde- 

     My wit is short, ye may wel understonde. 

     Greet chiere made oure hoost us everichon, 

     And to the soper sette he us'anon. 

     He served us with vitaille at the beste; 

     Strong was the wyn, and wel to drynke us lestel 

     A semely man oure Hooste was withalle 

     For to been a marchal in an halle. 

     A large man he was, with eyen stepe, 

     A fairer burgeys was ther noon in Chepe; 

     Boold of his speche, and wys, and well ytaught, 

     And of manhod hym lakkede right naught. 

     Eek therto he was right a myrie man; 

     And after soper pleyen he bigan, 

     And spak of myrthe amonges othere thynges, 

     Whan that we hadde maad our rekenynges, 

     And seyde thus: "Now lordynges, trewely, 

     Ye been to me right welcome hertely, 

     For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye, 

     I saugh nat this yeer so myrie a compaignye 

     Atones in this herberwe, as is now. 

     Fayn wolde I doon yow myrthe, wiste I how- 

     And of a myrthe I am right now bythoght 

     To doon yow ese, and it shal coste noght. 

     Ye goon to Caunterbury, God yow speede- 

     The blisful martir quite yow youre meede- 

     And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye, 

     Ye shapen yow to talen and to pleye, 

     For trewely, confort ne myrthe is noon 

     To ride by the weye doumb as stoon, 

     And therfore wol I maken yow disport, 

     As I seyde erst, and doon yow som confort; 

     And if yow liketh alle by oon assent 

     For to stonden at my juggement, 

     And for to werken as I shal yow seye, 

     To-morwe, whan ye riden by the weye, 

     Now, by my fader soule that is deed, 

     But ye be myrie I wol yeve yow myn heed! 

     Hoold up youre hond, withouten moore speche." 

     Oure conseil was nat longe for to seche- 

     Us thoughte it was noght worth to make it wys- 

     And graunted hym, withouten moore avys, 

     And bad him seye his voirdit, as hym leste. 

     "Lordynges," quod he, "now herkneth for the beste, 

     But taak it nought, I prey yow, in desdeyn. 

     This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn, 

     That ech of yow, to shorte with oure weye, 

     In this viage shal telle tales tweye, 

     To Caunterburyward I mene it so, 

     And homward he shal tellen othere two, 

     Of aventures that whilom han bifalle. 

     And which of yow that bereth hym best of alle- 

     That is to seyn, that telleth in this caas 

     Tales of best sentence and moost solaas- 

     Shal have a soper at oure aller cost, 

     Heere in this place, sittynge by this post, 

     Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbury. 

     And for to make yow the moore mury 

     I wol my-selven goodly with yow ryde 

     Right at myn owene cost, and be youre gyde. 

     And who so wole my juggement withseye 

     Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye. 

     And if ye vouchesauf that it be so, 

     Tel me anon, withouten wordes mo, 

     And I wol erly shape me therfore." 

     This thyng was graunted, and oure othes swore 

     With ful gald herte, and preyden hym also 

     That he wolde vouchesauf for to do so, 

     And that he wolde been oure governour, 

     And of our tales juge and reportour, 

     And sette a soper at a certeyn pris, 

     And we wol reuled been at his devys 

     In heigh and lough; and thus by oon assent 

     We been acorded to his juggement; 

     And therupon the wyn was fet anon, 

     We dronken, and to reste wente echon 

     Withouten any lenger taryynge. 

        Amorwe, whan that day bigan to sprynge, 

     Up roos oure Hoost, and was oure aller cok, 

     And gadrede us to gidre, alle in a flok, 

     And forth we riden, a litel moore than paas, 

     Unto the wateryng of Seint Thomas.  

     And there oure Hoost bigan his hors areste, 

     And seyde, "Lordynges, herkneth if yow leste, 

     Ye woot youre foreward, and I it yow recorde; 

     If even-song and morwe-song accorde, 

     Lat se now who shal telle the firste tale. 

     As evere mote I drynke wyn or ale, 

     Whoso be rebel to my juggement 

     Shal paye for al that by the wey is spent. 

     Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer twynne, 

     He which that hath the shorteste shal bigynne. 

     Sire knyght," quod he, "my mayster and my lord, 

     Now draweth cut, for that is myn accord, 

     Cometh neer," quod he, "my lady Prioresse, 

     And ye, Sir Clerk, lat be your shamefastnesse, 

     Ne studieth noght; ley hond to, every man." 

     Anon to drawen every wight bigan, 

     And shortly for to tellen as it was, 

     Were it by aventure, or sort, or cas, 

     The sothe is this, the cut fil to the knyght, 

     Of which ful blithe and glad was every wyght. 

     And telle he moste his tale, as was resoun, 

     By foreward and by composicioun,- 

     As ye han herd, what nedeth wordes mo? 

     And whan this goode man saugh that it was so, 

     As he that wys was and obedient 

     To kepe his foreward by his free assent, 

     He seyde, "Syn I shal bigynne the game, 

     What, welcome be the cut, a Goddes name! 

     Now lat us ryde, and herkneth what I seye." 

        And with that word we ryden forth oure weye, 

     And he bigan with right a myrie cheere 

     His tale anon, and seyde in this manere. 

     Part 2 

     THE KNYGHTES TALE. 

        Iamque domos patrias Scithice post aspera gentis prelia 

     laurigero &c. Thebaid, xii, 519. 

     Heere bigynneth the knyghtes tale. 

        Whilom, as olde stories tellen us, 

     Ther was a duc that highte Theseus; 

     Of Atthenes he was lord and governour, 

     That gretter was ther noon under the sonne. 

     Ful many a riche contree hadde he wonne, 

     What with his wysdom and his chivalrie; 

     He conquered al the regne of Femenye, 

     That whilom was ycleped Scithia, 

     And weddede the queene Ypolita, 

     And broghte hir hoom with hym in his contree, 

     With muchel glorie and greet solempnytee, 

     And eek hir yonge suster Emelye. 

     And thus with victorie and with melodye 

     Lete I this noble duk to Atthenes ryde, 

     And al his hoost, in armes hym bisyde. 

     And certes, if it nere to long to heere, 

     I wolde have toold yow fully the manere 

     How wonnen was the regne of Femenye 

     By Theseus, and by his chivalrye, 

     And of the grete bataille for the nones 

     Bitwixen Atthenes and Amazones, 

     And how asseged was Ypolita 

     The faire hardy queene of Scithia, 

     And of the feste that was at hir weddynge, 

     And of the tempest at hir hoom-comynge; 

     But al the thyng I moot as now forbere, 

     I have, God woot, a large feeld to ere, 

     And wayke been the oxen in my plough, 

     The remenant of the tale is long ynough. 

     I wol nat letten eek noon of this route, 

     Lat every felawe telle his tale aboute, 

     And lat se now who shal the soper wynne;- 

     And ther I lefte, I wol ayeyn bigynne. 

        This duc of whom I make mencioun, 

     Whan he was come almoost unto the toun, 

     In al his wele and in his mooste pride, 

     He was war, as he caste his eye aside, 

     Where that ther kneled in the hye weye 

     A compaignye of ladyes, tweye and tweye, 

     Ech after oother, clad in clothes blake; 

     But swich a cry and swich a wo they make, 

     That in this world nys creature lyvynge 

     That herde swich another waymentynge! 

     And of this cry they nolde nevere stenten, 

     Til they the reynes of his brydel henten. 

     "What folk been ye, that at myn hom-comynge 

     Perturben so my feste with criynge?" 

     Quod Theseus, "hav ye so greet envye 

     Of myn honour, that thus compleyne and crye? 

     Or who hath yow mysboden or offended? 

     And telleth me if it may been amended, 

     And why that ye been clothed thus in blak?" 

     The eldeste lady of hem alle spak- 

     Whan she hadde swowned with a deedly cheere, 

     That it was routhe for to seen and heere- 

     And seyde, "Lord, to whom Fortune hath yeven 

     Victorie, and as a conqueror to lyven, 

     Nat greveth us youre glorie and youre honour, 

     But we biseken mercy and socour. 

     Have mercy on oure wo and oure distresse, 

     Som drope of pitee thurgh thy gentillesse 

     Upon us wrecched wommen lat thou falle; 

     For certes, lord, ther is noon of us alle 

     That she ne hath been a duchesse or a queene. 

     Now be we caytyves, as it is wel seene- 

     Thanked be Fortune, and hir false wheel, 

     That noon estat assureth to be weel. 

     And certes, lord, to abyden youre presence, 

     Heere in the temple of the goddesse Clemence 

     We han ben waitynge al this fourtenyght; 

     Now help us, lord, sith it is in thy myght! 

     I wrecche, which that wepe and waille thus, 

     Was whilom wyf to kyng Cappaneus, 

     That starf at Thebes, cursed be that day! 

     And alle we that been in this array 

     And maken al this lamentacioun, 

     We losten alle oure housbondes at that toun, 

     Whil that the seege theraboute lay. 

     And yet now the olde Creon, weylaway! 

     That lord is now of Thebes the Citee, 

     Fulfild of ire and of iniquitee, 

     He, for despit and for his tirannye, 

     To do the dede bodyes vileynye, 

     Of alle oure lordes, whiche that been slawe, 

     He hath alle the bodyes on an heep ydrawe, 

     And wol nat suffren hem, by noon assent, 

     Neither to been yburyed nor ybrent, 

     But maketh houndes ete hem in despit." 

     And with that word, withouten moore respit, 

     They fillen gruf, and criden pitously, 

     "Have on us wrecched wommen som mercy 

     And lat oure sorwe synken in thyn herte." 

        This gentil duk doun from his courser sterte 

     With herte pitous, whan he herde hem speke; 

     Hym thoughte that his herte wolde breke, 

     Whan he saugh hem so pitous and so maat, 

     That whilom weren of so greet estaat. 

     And in his armes he hem alle up hente, 

     And hem conforteth in ful good entente, 

     And swoor his ooth, as he was trewe knyght, 

     He solde doon so ferforthyl his myght 

     Upon the tiraunt Creon hem to wreke, 

     That all the peple of Grece sholde speke 

     How Creon was of Theseus yserved, 

     As he that hadde his deeth ful wel deserved. 

     And right anoon, withouten moore abood, 

     His baner he desplayeth, and forth rood 

     To Thebesward, and al his hoost biside, 

     No neer Atthenes wolde he go ne ride, 

     Ne take his ese fully half a day, 

     But onward on his wey that nyght he lay- 

     And sente anon Ypolita the queene, 

     And Emelye, hir yonge suster sheene, 

     Unto the toun of Atthenes to dwelle- 

     And forth he rit; ther is namoore to telle. 

     The rede statue of Mars, with spere and targe, 

     So shyneth, in his white baner large, 

     That alle the feeldes gliteren up and doun, 

     And by his baner gorn is his penoun 

     Of gold ful riche, in which ther was ybete 

     The Mynotaur which that he slough in Crete. 

     Thus rit this duc, thus rit this conquerour, 

     And in his hoost of chivalrie the flour, 

     Til that he cam to Thebes, and alighte 

     Faire in a feeld, ther as he thoughte fighte. 

     But shortly for to speken of this thyng, 

     With Creon, which that was of Thebes kyng, 

     He faught, and slough hym manly as a knyght 

     In pleyn bataille, and putte the folk to flyght, 

     And by assaut he wan the citee after, 

     And rente adoun bothe wall, and sparre, and rafter. 

     And to the ladyes he sestored agayn 

     The bones of hir housbondes that weren slayn, 

     To doon obsequies as was tho the gyse. 

     But it were al to longe for to devyse 

     The grete clamour and the waymentynge 

     That the ladyes made at the brennynge 

     Of the bodies, and the grete honour 

     That Theseus, the noble conquerour, 

     Dooth to the ladyes, whan they from hym wente; 

     But shortly for to telle is myn entente. 

        Whan that his worthy duc, this Theseus, 

     Hath Creon slayn, and wonne Thebes thus, 

     Stille in that feeld he took al nyght his reste 

     And dide with al the contree as hym leste. 

     To ransake in the taas of bodyes dede, 

     Hem for to strepe of harneys and of wede, 

     The pilours diden bisynesse and cure, 

     After the bataille and disconfiture; 

     And so bifel, that in the taas they founde 

     Thurgh-girt with many a grevous blody wounde, 

     Two yonge knyghtes liggynge by and by, 

     Bothe in oon armes wroght ful richely, 

     Of whiche two Arcita highte that oon, 

     And that oother knyght highte Palamon. 

     Nat fully quyke, ne fully dede they were, 

     But by here cote-armures, and by hir gere, 

     The heraudes knewe hem best, in special, 

     As they that weren of the blood roial 

     Of Thebes, and of sustren two yborn. 

     Out of the taas the pilours han hem torn, 

     And had hem caried softe unto the tente 

     Of Theseus, and he ful soone hem sente 

     To Atthenes to dwellen in prisoun 

     Perpetuelly, he nolde no raunsoun. 

     And whan this worthy due hath thus ydon, 

     He took his hoost, and hoom he rood anon, 

     With laurer crowned, as a conquerour, 

     And ther he lyveth in joye and in honour 

     Terme of his lyve, what nedeth wordes mo? 

     And in a tour, in angwissh and in wo, 

     Dwellen this Palamon and eek Arcite 

     For evermoore, ther may no gold hem quite. 

        This passeth yeer by yeer, and day by day, 

     Till it fil ones, in a morwe of May, 

     That Emelye, that fairer was to sene 

     Than is the lylie upon his stalke grene, 

     And fressher than the May with floures newe- 

     For with the rose colour stroof hir hewe, 

     I noot which was the fairer of hem two- 

     Er it were day, as was hir wone to do, 

     She was arisen, and al redy dight- 

     For May wole have no slogardrie a-nyght; 

     The sesoun priketh every gentil herte, 

     And maketh hym out of his slepe to sterte, 

     And seith, `arys and do thyn observaunce,' 

     This maked Emelye have remembraunce 

     To doon honour to May, and for to ryse. 

     Yclothed was she fressh, for to devyse, 

     Hir yelow heer was broyded in a tresse, 

     Bihynde hir bak, a yerde long, I gesse, 

     And in the gardyn, at the sonne upriste, 

     She walketh up and doun, and as hir liste 

     She gadereth floures, party white and rede, 

     To make a subtil gerland for hir hede, 

     And as an aungel hevenysshly she soong. 

     The grete tour, that was so thikke and stroong, 

     Which of the castel was the chief dongeoun, 

     Ther as the knyghtes weren in prisoun, 

     Of whiche I tolde yow, and tellen shal, 

     Was evene joynant to the gardyn wal 

     Ther as this Emelye hadde hir pleyynge. 

     Bright was the sonne, and cleer that morwenynge, 

     And Palamoun, this woful prisoner, 

     As was his wone, by leve of his gayler, 

     Was risen, and romed in a chambre on heigh, 

     In which he al the noble citee seigh, 

     And eek the gardyn, ful of braunches grene, 

     Ther as this fresshe Emelye the shene 

     Was in hire walk, and romed up and doun. 

     This sorweful prisoner, this Palamoun, 

     Goth in the chambre romynge to and fro, 

     And to hym-self compleynynge of his wo. 

     That he was born, ful ofte he seyde, `allas!' 

     And so bifel, by aventure or cas, 

     That thurgh a wyndow, thikke of many a barre 

     Of iren greet, and square as any sparre, 

     He cast his eye upon Emelya, 

     And therwithal he bleynte, and cryede "A!" 

     As though he stongen were unto the herte. 

     And with that cry Arcite anon upsterte 

     And seyde, "Cosyn myn, what eyleth thee, 

     That art so pale and deedly on to see? 

     Why cridestow? who hath thee doon offence? 

     For Goddess love, taak al in pacience 

     Oure prisoun, for it may noon oother be; 

     Fortune hath yeven us this adversitee. 

     Som wikke aspect or disposicioun 

     Of Saturne by sum constellacioun 

     Hath yeven us this, al though we hadde it sworn. 

     So stood the hevene, whan that we were born. 

     We moste endure it, this the short and playn." 

     This Palamon answerde and seyde agayn, 

     "Cosyn, for sothe, of this opinioun 

     Thow hast a veyn ymaginacioun. 

     This prison caused me nat for to crye, 

     But I was hurt right now thurgh-out myn eye 

     Into myn herte, that wol my bane be. 

     The fairnesse of that lady, that I see 

     Yond in the gardyn romen to and fro, 

     Is cause of al my criyng and my wo. 

     I noot wher she be womman or goddesse, 

     But Venus is it, soothly as I gesse." 

     And therwithal, on knees doun he fil, 

     And seyde, "Venus, if it be thy wil, 

     Yow in this gardyn thus to transfigure 

     Bifore me, sorweful wrecche creature, 

     Out of this prisoun helpe that we may scapen! 

     And if so be my destynee be shapen 

     By eterne word to dyen in prisoun, 

     Of oure lynage have som compassioun, 

     That is so lowe ybroght by tirannye." 

        And with that word Arcite gan espye 

     Wher-as this lady romed to and fro, 

     And with that sighte hir beautee hurte hym so, 

     That if that Palamon was wounded sore, 

     Arcite is hurt as moche as he, or moore. 

     And with a sigh he seyde pitously, 

     "The fresshe beautee sleeth me sodeynly 

     Of hir, that rometh in the yonder place! 

     And but I have hir mercy and hir grace 

     That I may seen hir atte leeste weye, 

     I nam but deed, ther is namoore to seye." 

     This Palamon, whan he tho wordes herde, 

     Dispitously he looked and answerde, 

     "Wheither seistow this in ernest or in pley?" 

     "Nay," quod Arcite, "in ernest by my fey, 

     God helpe me so, me list ful yvele pleye." 

     This Palamon gan knytte his browes tweye; 

     "It nere," quod he, "to thee no greet honour 

     For to be fals, ne for to be traitour 

     To me, that am thy cosyn and thy brother, 

     Ysworn ful depe, and ech of us til oother, 

     That nevere for to dyen in the peyne, 

     Til that the deeth departe shal us tweyne, 

     Neither of us in love to hyndre other, 

     Ne in noon oother cas, my leeve brother, 

     But that thou sholdest trewely forthren me 

     In every cas, as I shal forthren thee. 

     This was thyn ooth, and myn also certeyn, 

     I woot right wel thou darst it nat withseyn. 

     Thus artow of my conseil, out of doute; 

     And now thou woldest falsly been aboute 

     To love my lady, whom I love and serve 

     And evere shal, til that myn herte sterve. 

     Nay, certes, false Arcite, thow shalt nat so! 

     I loved hir first, and tolde thee my wo 

     As to my conseil, and to my brother sworn, 

     To forthre me as I have toold biforn, 

     For which thou art ybounden as a knyght 

     To helpen me, if it lay in thy myght, 

     Or elles artow fals, I dar wel seyn." 

        This Arcite ful proudly spak ageyn, 

     "Thow shalt," quod he, "be rather fals than I. 

     But thou art fals, I telle thee outrely, 

     For paramour I loved hir first er thow. 

     What, wiltow seyn thou wistest nat yet now 

     Wheither she be a womman or goddesse? 

     Thyn is affeccioun of hoolynesse, 

     And myn is love as to a creature; 

     For which I tolde thee myn aventure 

     As to my cosyn and my brother sworn. 

     I pose, that thow lovedest hir biforn; 

     Wostow nat wel the olde clerkes sawe 

     That `who shal yeve a lovere any lawe?' 

     Love is a gretter lawe, by my pan, 

     Than may be yeve of any erthely man. 

     And therfore positif lawe and swich decree 

     Is broken al day for love in ech degree. 

     A man moot nedes love, maugree his heed, 

     He may nat fleen it, thogh he sholde be deed, 

     Al be she mayde, or wydwe, or elles wyf. 

     And eek it is nat likly, al thy lyf, 

     To stonden in hir grace, namoore shal I, 

     For wel thou woost thyselven, verraily, 

     That thou and I be dampned to prisoun 

     Perpetuelly, us gayneth no faunsoun. 

     We stryven as dide the houndes for the boon, 

     They foughte al day, and yet hir part was noon. 

     Ther cam a kyte, whil they weren so wrothe, 

     And baar awey the boon bitwixe hem bothe. 

     And therfore at the kynges court, my brother, 

     Ech man for hymself, ther is noon oother. 

     Love if thee list, for I love, and ay shal; 

     And soothly, leeve brother, this is al. 

     Heere in this prisoun moote we endure, 

     And everich of us take his aventure." 

        Greet was the strif and long bitwix hem tweye, 

     If that I hadde leyser for to seye- 

     But to theffect; it happed on a day, 

     To telle it yow as shortly as I may, 

     A worthy duc, that highte Perotheus, 

     That felawe was unto duc Theseus 

     Syn thilke day that they were children lite, 

     Was come to Atthenes his felawe to visite, 

     And for to pleye as he was wont to do- 

     For in this world he loved no man so, 

     And he loved hym als tendrely agayn. 

     So wel they lovede, as olde bookes sayn, 

     That whan that oon was deed, soothly to telle, 

     His felawe wente and soughte hym doun in helle. 

     But of that storie list me nat to write; 

     Duc Perotheus loved wel Arcite, 

     And hadde hym knowe at Thebes yeer by yere, 

     And finally, at requeste and preyere 

     Of Perotheus, withouten any raunsoun 

     Duc Theseus hym leet out of prisoun 

     Frely to goon, wher that hym liste overal, 

     In swich a gyse as I you tellen shal. 

     This was the forward, pleynly for tendite, 

     Bitwixen Theseus and hym Arcite, 

     That if so were that Arcite were yfounde 

     Evere in his lif, by day or nyght or stounde, 

     In any contree of this Theseus, 

     And he were caught, it was acorded thus, 

     That with a swerd he sholde lese his heed; 

     Ther nas noon oother remedie ne reed, 

     But taketh his leve and homward he him spedde; 

     Lat hym be war, his nekke lith to wedde! 

        How greet a sorwe suffreth now Arcite! 

     The deeth he feeleth thurgh his herte smyte, 

     He wepeth, wayleth, crieth pitously, 

     To sleen hymself he waiteth prively. 

     He seyde, "Allas, that day that he was born! 

     Now is my prisoun worse than biforn; 

     Now is me shape eternally to dwelle 

     Nat in purgatorie but in helle. 

     Allas, that evere knew I Perotheus! 

     For elles hadde I dwelled with Theseus, 

     Yfetered in his prisoun evermo; 

     Thanne hadde I been in blisse, and nat in wo. 

     Oonly the sighte of hire whom that I serve, 

     Though that I nevere hir grace may deserve, 

     Wolde han suffised right ynough for me. 

     O deere cosyn Palamon," quod he, 

     "Thyn is the victorie of this aventure. 

     Ful blisfully in prison maistow dure.- 

     In prisoun? certes, nay, but in Paradys! 

     Wel hath Fortune yturned thee the dys, 

     That hast the sighte of hir, and I thabsence; 

     For possible is, syn thou hast hir presence, 

     And art a knyght, a worthy and an able, 

     That by som cas, syn Fortune is chaungeable, 

     Thow maist to thy desir som tyme atteyne. 

     But I, that am exiled and bareyne 

     Of alle grace, and in so greet dispeir 

     That ther nys erthe, water, fir, ne eir, 

     Ne creature, that of hem maked is, 

     That may me heelp, or doon confort in this, 

     Wel oughte I sterve in wanhope and distresse, 

     Farwel, my lif, my lust, and my galdnesse! 

     Allas, why pleynen folk so in commune 

     On purveyaunce of God or of Fortune, 

     That yeveth hem ful ofte in many a gyse 

     Wel bettre than they kan hem-self devyse? 

     Som man desireth for to han richesse, 

     That cause is of his moerdre of greet siknesse. 

     And som man wolde out of his prisoun fayn, 

     That in his hous is of his meynee slayn. 

     Infinite harmes been in thai mateere, 

     We witen nat what thing we preyen here. 

     We faren as he that dronke is as a mous; 

     A dronke man woot wel he hath an hous, 

     But he noot which the righte wey is thider, 

     And to a dronke man the wey is slider. 

     And certes, in this world so faren we; 

     We seken faste after felicitee, 

     But we goon wrong ful often trewely. 

     Thus may we seyen alle, and namely I, 

     That wende and hadde a greet opinioun 

     That if I myghte escapen from prisoun, 

     Thanne hadde I been in joye and perfit heele, 

     Ther now I am exiled fro my wele. 

     Syn that I may nat seen you, Emelye, 

     I nam but deed, ther nys no remedye." 

        Upon that oother syde, Palamon, 

     Whan that he wiste Arcite was agon, 

     Swich sorwe he maketh, that the grete tour 

     Resouneth of his youlyng and clamour. 

     The pure fettres on his shynes grete 

     Weren of his bittre salte teeres wete. 

     "Allas," quod he, "Arcite, cosyn myn! 

     Of al oure strif, God woot, the fruyt is thyn. 

     Thow walkest now in Thebes at thy large, 

     And of my wo thow yevest litel charge. 

     Thou mayst, syn thou hast wysdom and manhede, 

     Assemblen alle the folk of oure kynrede, 

     And make a werre so sharp on this citee, 

     That by som aventure, or som tretee, 

     Thow mayst have hir to lady and to wyf, 

     For whom that I moste nedes lese my lyf. 

     For as by wey of possibilitee, 

     Sith thou art at thy large of prisoun free, 

     And art a lord, greet is thyn avauntage 

     Moore than is myn, that sterve here in a cage. 

     For I moot wepe and wayle, whil I lyve, 

     With al the wo that prison may me yeve, 

     And eek with peyne that love me yeveth also, 

     That doubleth al my torment and my wo." 

     Therwith the fyr of jalousie up-sterte 

     Withinne his brest, and hente him by the herte 

     So woodly, that he lyk was to biholde 

     The boxtree, or the asshen dede and colde. 

     Thanne seyde he, "O cruel goddes, that governe 

     This world with byndyng of youre word eterne, 

     And writen in the table of atthamaunt 

     Youre parlement and youre eterne graunt, 

     What is mankynde moore unto you holde 

     Than is the sheep that rouketh in the folde? 

     For slayn is man right as another beeste, 

     And dwelleth eek in prison and arreeste, 

     And hath siknesse, and greet adversitee, 

     And ofte tymes giltelees, pardee! 

     What governance is in this prescience 

     That giltelees tormenteth innocence? 

     And yet encresseth this al my penaunce, 

     That man is bounden to his observaunce, 

     For Goddes sake, to letten of his wille, 

     Ther as a beest may al his lust fulfille. 

     And whan a beest is deed, he hath no peyne, 

     But man after his deeth moot wepe and pleyne, 

     Though in this world he have care and wo. 

     Withouten doute it may stonden so. 

     The answere of this lete I to dyvynys, 

     But well I woot, that in this world greet pyne ys. 

     Allas, I se a serpent or a theef, 

     That many a trewe man hath doon mescheef, 

     Goon at his large, and where hym list may turne! 

     But I moot been in prisoun thurgh Saturne, 

     And eek thurgh Juno, jalous and eek wood, 

     That hath destroyed wel ny al the blood 

     Of Thebes, with hise waste walles wyde. 

     And Venus sleeth me on that oother syde 

     For jalousie and fere of hym Arcite." 

        Now wol I stynte of Palamon a lite, 

     And lete hym in his prisoun stille dwelle, 

     And of Arcita forth I wol yow telle. 

     The somer passeth, and the nyghtes longe 

     Encressen double wise the peynes stronge 

     Bothe of the lovere and the prisoner; 

     I noot which hath the wofuller mester. 

     For shortly for to seyn, this Palamoun 

     Perpetuelly is dampned to prisoun 

     In cheynes and in fettres to been deed, 

     And Arcite is exiled upon his heed 

     For evere mo as out of that contree, 

     Ne nevere mo he shal his lady see. 

        Yow loveres axe I now this questioun, 

     Who hath the worse, Arcite or Palamoun? 

     That oon may seen his lady day by day, 

     But in prison he moot dwelle alway; 

     That oother wher hym list may ride or go, 

     But seen his lady shal he nevere mo. 

     Now demeth as yow liste ye that kan, 

     For I wol telle forth, as I bigan. 

     Explicit prima pars. 

     Sequitur pars secunda. 

        Whan that Arcite to Thebes comen was, 

     Ful ofte a day he swelte and seyde `allas,' 

     For seen his lady shal he nevere mo; 

     And shortly to concluden al his wo, 

     So muche sorwe hadde nevere creature, 

     That is, or shal whil that the world may dure. 

     His sleep, his mete, his drynke is hym biraft, 

     That lene he wex and drye as is a shaft. 

     Hise eyen holwe and grisly to biholde, 

     His hewe falow and pale as asshen colde; 

     And solitarie he was and evere allone 

     And waillynge al the nyght, makynge his mone. 

     And if he herde song or instrument, 

     Thanne wolde he wepe, he myghte nat be stent. 

     So feble eek were hise spiritz, and so lowe, 

     And chaunged so, that no man koude knowe 

     His speche nor his voys, though men it herde. 

     And in his geere for al the world he ferde 

     Nat oonly lik the loveris maladye 

     Of Hereos, but rather lyk manye 

     Engendred of humour malencolik 

     Biforen in his celle fantastik, 

     And shortly turned was al up-so-doun 

     Bothe habit and eek disposicioun 

     Of hym, this woful lovere daun Arcite. 

     What sholde I al day of his wo endite? 

     Whan he endured hadde a yeer or two 

     This crueel torment, and this peyne and woo, 

     At Thebes in his contree, as I seyde, 

     Upon a nyght in sleep as he hym leyde, 

     Hym thoughte how that the wynged god Mercurie 

     Biforn hym stood, and bad hym to be murie. 

     His slepy yerde in hond he bar uprighte, 

     An hat he werede upon hise heris brighte. 

     Arrayed was this god, as he took keep, 

     As he was whan that Argus took his sleep; 

     And seyde hym thus, "To Atthenes shaltou wende, 

     Ther is thee shapen of thy wo an ende." 

     And with that word Arcite wook and sterte. 

     "Now trewely, how soore that me smerte," 

     Quod he, "to Atthenes right now wol I fare, 

     Ne for the drede of deeth shal I nat spare 

     To se my lady that I love and serve, 

     In hir presence I recche nat to sterve." 

     And with that word he caughte a greet mirour, 

     And saugh that chaunged was al his colour, 

     And saugh his visage al in another kynde. 

     And right anon it ran hym in his mynde, 

     That sith his face was so disfigured 

     Of maladye, the which he hadde endured, 

     He myghte wel, if that he bar hym lowe, 

     Lyve in Atthenes, everemoore unknowe, 

     And seen his lady wel ny day by day. 

     And right anon he chaunged his array, 

     And cladde hym as a povre laborer, 

     And al allone, save oonly a squier 

     That knew his privetee and al his cas, 

     Which was disgised povrely, as he was, 

     To Atthenes is he goon, the nexte way. 

     And to the court he wente, upon a day, 

     And at the gate he profreth his servyse, 

     To drugge and drawe, what so men wol devyse. 

     And shortly of this matere for to seyn, 

     He fil in office with a chamberleyn, 

     The which that dwellynge was with Emelye, 

     For he was wys and koude soone espye 

     Of every servant which that serveth here. 

     Wel koude he hewen wode, and water bere, 

     For he was yong and myghty for the nones, 

     And therto he was strong and big of bones 

     To doon that any wight kan hym devyse. 

     A yeer or two he was in this servyse 

     Page of the chambre of Emelye the brighte; 

     And Philostrate he seyde that he highte. 

     But half so wel biloved a man as he 

     Ne was ther nevere in court, of his degree; 

     He was so gentil of condicioun 

     That thurghout al the court was his renoun. 

     They seyden, that it were a charitee, 

     That Theseus wolde enhaunsen his degree, 

     And putten hym in worshipful servyse 

     Ther as he myghte his vertu exercise. 

     And thus withinne a while his name is spronge 

     Bothe of hise dedes and his goode tonge, 

     That Theseus hath taken hym so neer 

     That of his chambre he made hym a Squier, 

     And gaf hym gold to mayntene his degree. 

     And eek men broghte hym out of his contree 

     From yeer to yeer, ful pryvely, his rente. 

     But honestly and slyly he it spente, 

     That no man wondred how that he it hadde. 

     And thre yeer in this wise his lif he ladde, 

     And bar hym so in pees, and eek ibn werre, 

     Ther was no man that Theseus hath derre. 

     And in this blisse lete I now Arcite, 

     And speke I wole of Palamon a lite. 

        In derknesse and horrible and strong prisoun 

     Thise seven yeer hath seten Palamoun, 

     Forpyned, what for wo and for distresse. 

     Who feeleth double soor and hevynesse 

     But Palamon, that love destreyneth so, 

     That wood out of his wit he goth for wo? 

     And eek therto he is a prisoner, 

     Perpetuelly, noght oonly for a yer. 

     Who koude ryme in Englyssh proprely 

     His martirdom?  Forsothe it am nat I, 

     Therfore I passe as lightly as I may. 

     It fel that in the seventhe yer, in May, 

     The thridde nyght, as olde bookes seyn, 

     That al this storie tellen moore pleyn, 

     Were it by aventure or destynee- 

     As, whan a thyng is shapen, it shal be- 

     That soone after the mydnyght, Palamoun 

     By helpyng of a freend, brak his prisoun 

     And fleeth the citee faste as he may go; 

     For he hade yeve his gayler drynke so 

     Of a clarree maad of a certeyn wyn, 

     With nercotikes and opie of Thebes fyn, 

     That al that nyght, thogh that men wolde him shake, 

     The gayler sleep, he myghte nat awake. 

     And thus he fleeth as faste as evere he may; 

     The nyght was short and faste by the day, 

     That nedes-cost he moot hymselven hyde; 

     And til a grove, faste ther bisyde, 

     With dredeful foot thanne stalketh Palamoun. 

     For shortly this was his opinioun, 

     That in that grove he wolde hym hyde al day, 

     And in the nyght thanne wolde he take his way 

     To Thebesward, his freendes for to preye 

     On Theseus to helpe hym to werreye; 

     And shortly, outher he wolde lese his lif, 

     Or wynnen Emelye unto his wyf; 

     This is theffect and his entente pleyn. 

     Now wol I turne to Arcite ageyn, 

     That litel wiste how ny that was his care 

     Til that Fortune had broght him in the snare. 

        The bisy larke, messager of day, 

     Salueth in hir song the morwe gray, 

     And firy Phebus riseth up so brighte 

     That al the orient laugheth of the lighte, 

     And with hise stremes dryeth in the greves 

     The silver dropes hangynge on the leves; 

     And Arcita, that is in the court roial 

     With Theseus, his squier principal, 

     Is risen, and looketh on the myrie day. 

     And for to doon his observaunce ot May, 

     Remembrynge on the poynt of his desir 

     He on a courser startlynge as the fir 

     Is riden into the feeldes, hym to pleye, 

     Out of the court, were it a myle or tweye. 

     And to the grove of which that I yow tolde 

     By aventure his wey he gan to holde, 

     To maken hym a gerland of the greves, 

     Were it of wodebynde or hawethorn-leves. 

     And loude he song ayeyn the sonne shene, 

     "May, with alle thy floures and thy grene, 

     Welcome be thou, faire fresshe May, 

     In hope that I som grene gete may." 

     And from his courser, with a lusty herte, 

     Into a grove ful hastily he sterte, 

     And in a path he rometh up and doun 

     Ther as by aventure this Palamoun 

     Was in a bussh, that no man myghte hym se; 

     For soore afered of his deeth was he. 

     No thyng ne knew he that it was Arcite, 

     God woot, he wolde have trowed it ful lite! 

     But sooth is seyd, gon sithen many yeres, 

     That feeld hath eyen and the wode hath eres. 

     It is ful fair a man to bere hym evene, 

     For al day meeteth men at unset stevene. 

     Ful litel woot Arcite of his felawe, 

     That was so ny to herknen al his sawe, 

     For in the bussh he sitteth now ful stille. 

        Whan that Arcite hadde romed al his fille 

     And songen al the roundel lustily, 

     Into a studie he fil al sodeynly, 

     As doon thise loveres in hir queynte geres, 

     Now in the croppe, now doun in the breres, 

     Now up, now doun as boket in a welle. 

     Right as the Friday, soothly for to telle, 

     Now it shyneth, now it reyneth faste, 

     Right so kan geery Venus overcaste 

     The hertes of hir folk; right as hir day 

     Is gereful, right so chaungeth she array. 

     Selde is the Friday al the wowke ylike. 

     Whan that Arcite had songe, he gan to sike, 

     And sette hym doun withouten any moore; 

     "Allas," quod he, "that day that I was bore! 

     How longe, Juno, thurgh thy crueltee 

     Woltow werreyen Thebes the Citee? 

     Allas, ybroght is to confusioun 

     The blood roial of Cadme and Amphioun! 

     Of Cadmus, which that was the firste man 

     That Thebes bulte, or first the toun bigan, 

     And of the citee first was crouned kyng, 

     Of his lynage am I, and his ofspryng, 

     By verray ligne, as of the stok roial, 

     And now I am so caytyf and so thral 

     That he that is my mortal enemy 

     I serve hym as his squier povrely. 

     And yet dooth Juno me wel moore shame, 

     For I dar noght biknowe myn owene name, 

     But theras I was wont to highte Arcite, 

     Now highte I Philostrate, noght worth a myte. 

     Allas, thou felle Mars! allas, Juno! 

     Thus hath youre ire oure kynrede al fordo, 

     Save oonly me, and wrecched Palamoun 

     That Theseus martireth in prisoun. 

     And over al this, to sleen me outrely, 

     Love hath his firy dart so brennyngly 

     Ystiked thurgh my trewe careful herte, 

     That shapen was my deeth erst than my sherte. 

     Ye sleen me with youre eyen, Emelye, 

     Ye been the cause wherfore that I dye. 

     Of al the remenant of myn oother care 

     Ne sette I nat the montance of a tare, 

     So that I koude doon aught to youre plesaunce." 

     And with that word he fil doun in a traunce 

     A longe tyme, and after he upsterte. 

        This Palamoun, that thoughte that thurgh his herte 

     He felte a coold swerd sodeynliche glyde, 

     For ire he quook, no lenger wolde he byde. 

     And whan that he had herd Arcites tale, 

     As he were wood, with face deed and pale, 

     He stirte hym up out of the buskes thikke, 

     And seide, "Arcite, false traytour wikke! 

     Now artow hent that lovest my lady so, 

     For whom that I have al this peyne and wo, 

     And art my blood, and to my conseil sworn, 

     As I ful ofte have seyd thee heer-biforn, 

     And hast byjaped heere duc Theseus, 

     And falsly chaunged hast thy name thus. 

     I wol be deed, or elles thou shalt dye; 

     Thou shalt nat love my lady Emelye, 

     But I wol love hire oonly, and namo, 

     For I am Palamon, thy mortal foo! 

     And though that I no wepene have in this place, 

     But out of prison am astert by grace, 

     I drede noght that outher thow shalt dye, 

     Or thow ne shalt nat loven Emelye. 

     Chees which thou wolt, for thou shalt nat asterte!" 

     This Arcite, with ful despitous herte, 

     Whan he hym knew, and hadde his tale herd, 

     As fiers as leoun pulled out his swerd, 

     And seyde thus:  "By God that sit above, 

     Nere it that thou art sik and wood for love, 

     And eek that thow no wepne hast in this place, 

     Thou sholdest nevere out of this grove pace, 

     That thou ne sholdest dyen of myn hond. 

     For I defye the seurete and the bond 

     Which that thou seist that I have maad to thee. 

     What, verray fool, thynk wel that love is free! 

     And I wol love hir, maugree al thy myght! 

     But for as muche thou art a worthy knyght, 

     And wilnest to darreyne hire by bataille, 

     Have heer my trouthe; tomorwe I wol nat faille 

     Withoute wityng of any oother wight 

     That heere I wol be founden as a knyght, 

     And bryngen harneys right ynough for thee, 

     And chese the beste, and leve the worste for me. 

     And mete and drynke this nyght wol I brynge 

     Ynough for thee, and clothes for thy beddynge; 

     And if so be that thou my lady wynne, 

     And sle me in this wode ther I am inne, 

     Thow mayst wel have thy lady as for me." 

     This Palamon answerde, "I graunte it thee." 

     And thus they been departed til amorwe, 

     Whan ech of hem had leyd his feith to borwe. 

        O Cupide, out of alle charitee! 

     O regne, that wolt no felawe have with thee! 

     Ful sooth is seyd that love ne lordshipe 

     Wol noght, hir thankes, have no felaweshipe. 

     Wel fynden that Arcite and Palamoun: 

     Arcite is riden anon unto the toun, 

     And on the morwe, er it were dayes light, 

     Ful prively two harneys hath he dight, 

     Bothe suffisaunt and mete to darreyne 

     The bataille in the feeld bitwix hem tweyne. 

     And on his hors, allone as he was born, 

     He carieth al this harneys hym biforn, 

     And in the grove, at tyme and place yset, 

     This Arcite and this Palamon ben met. 

     Tho chaungen gan the colour in hir face 

     Right as the hunters in the regne of Trace, 

     That stondeth at the gappe with a spere, 

     Whan hunted is the leoun and the bere, 

     And hereth hym come russhyng in the greves, 

     And breketh bothe bowes and the leves, 

     And thynketh, "Heere cometh my mortal enemy, 

     Withoute faille he moot be deed or I, 

     For outher I moot sleen hym at the gappe, 

     Or he moot sleen me, if that me myshappe"- 

     So ferden they in chaungyng of hir hewe, 

     As fer as everich of hem oother knewe. 

     Ther nas no good day ne no saluyng, 

     But streight withouten word or rehersyng 

     Everich of hem heelp for to armen oother, 

     As freendly as he were his owene brother. 

     And after that with sharpe speres stronge 

     They foynen ech at oother wonder longe. 

     Thou myghtest wene that this Palamoun 

     In his fightyng were a wood leoun, 

     And as a crueel tigre was Arcite. 

     As wilde bores gonne they to smyte, 

     That frothen white as foom for ire wood. 

     Up to the ancle foghte they in hir blood; 

     And in this wise I lete hem fightyng dwelle, 

     And forth I wole of Theseus yow telle. 

        The destinee, ministre general, 

     That executeth in the world overal 

     The purveiaunce that God hath seyn biforn, 

     So strong it is, that though the world had sworn 

     The contrarie of a thyng, by ye or nay, 

     Yet somtyme it shal fallen on a day 

     That falleth nat eft withinne a thousand yeere. 

     For certeinly, oure appetites heere, 

     Be it of werre, or pees, or hate, or love, 

     Al is this reuled by the sighte above. 

     This mene I now by myghty Theseus, 

     That for to hunten is so desirus 

     And namely at the grete hert in May, 

     That in his bed ther daweth hym no day 

     That he nys clad, and redy for to ryde 

     With hunte and horn, and houndes hym bisyde. 

     For in his huntyng hath he swich delit 

     That it is al his joye and appetit 

     To been hymself the grete hertes bane- 

     For after Mars he serveth now Dyane. 

        Cleer was the day, as I have toold er this, 

     And Theseus, with alle joye and blis, 

     With his Ypolita, the faire quene, 

     And Emelye, clothed al in grene, 

     On huntyng be they riden roially, 

     And to the grove, that stood ful faste by, 

     In which ther was an hert, as men hym tolde, 

     Duc Theseus the streighte wey hath holde, 

     And to the launde he rideth hym ful right, 

     For thider was the hert wont have his flight, 

     And over a brook, and so forth in his weye. 

     This duc wol han a cours at hym, or tweye, 

     With houndes swiche as that hym list comaunde. 

     And whan this duc was come unto the launde, 

     Under the sonne he looketh, and anon 

     He was war of Arcite and Palamon, 

     That foughten breme, as it were bores two; 

     The brighte swerdes wenten to and fro 

     So hidously, that with the leeste strook 

     It semed as it wolde felle an ook; 

     But what they were, nothyng he ne woot. 

     This duc his courser with his spores smoot, 

     And at a stert he was bitwix hem two, 

     And pulled out a swerd, and cride, "Hoo! 

     Namoore, up peyne of lesynge of youre heed! 

     By myghty Mars, he shal anon be deed 

     That smyteth any strook, that I may seen! 

     But telleth me what myster men ye been, 

     That been so hardy for to fighten heere 

     Withouten juge or oother officere, 

     As it were in a lystes roially?" 

     This Palamon answerde hastily, 

     And seyde, "Sire, what nedeth wordes mo? 

     We have the deeth disserved, bothe two. 

     Two woful wrecches been we, two caytyves, 

     That been encombred of oure owene lyves, 

     And as thou art a fightful lord and juge, 

     Ne yeve us neither mercy ne refuge, 

     But sle me first for seinte charitee; 

     But sle my felawe eek as wel as me- 

     Or sle hym first, for, though thow knowest it lite, 

     This is thy mortal foo, this is Arcite, 

     That fro thy lond is banysshed on his heed, 

     For which he hath deserved to be deed. 

     For this is he, that cam unto thy gate, 

     And seyde that he highe Philostrate. 

     Thus hath he japed thee ful many a yer, 

     And thou hast maked hym thy chief Squier, 

     And this is he that loveth Emelye. 

     For sith the day is come that I shal dye, 

     I make pleynly my confessioun 

     That I am thilke woful Palamoun, 

     That hath thy prisoun broken wikkedly. 

     I am thy mortal foo, and it am I 

     That loveth so hoote Emelye the grighte, 

     That I wol dye present in hir sighte; 

     Wherfore I axe deeth and my juwise- 

     But sle my felawe in the same wise 

     For bothe han we deserved to be slayn." 

     This worthy duc answered anon agayn, 

     And seyde, "This is a short conclusioun, 

     Youre owene mouth, by your confessioun, 

     Hath dampned yow, and I wol it recorde. 

     It nedeth noght to pyne yow with the corde, 

     Ye shal be deed, by myghty Mars the rede!" 

     The queene anon, for verray wommanhede, 

     Gan for to wepe, and so dide Emelye, 

     And alle the ladyes in the compaignye. 

     Greet pitee was it, as it thoughte hem alle, 

     That evere swich a chaunce sholde falle. 

     For gentilmen they were of greet estaat, 

     And no thyng but for love was this debaat, 

     And saugh hir blody woundes wyde and soore, 

     And alle crieden, both lasse and moore, 

     "Have mercy, lord, upon us wommen alle!" 

     And on hir bare knees adoun they falle, 

     And wolde have kist his feet ther as he stood; 

     Til at the laste aslaked was his mood, 

     For pitee renneth soone in gentil herte. 

     And though he first for ire quook and sterte, 

     He hath considered shortly in a clause 

     The trespas of hem bothe, and eek the cause, 

     And although that his ire hir gilt accused, 

     Yet in his resoun he hem bothe excused. 

     As thus, he thoghte wel, that every man 

     Wol helpe hym-self in love, if that he kan, 

     And eek delivere hym-self out of prisoun; 

     And eek his herte hadde compassioun 

     Of wommen, for they wepen evere in oon. 

     And in his gentil herte he thoughte anon, 

     And softe unto hym-self he seyde, "Fy 

     Upon a lord that wol have no mercy, 

     But been a leoun, bothe in word and dede, 

     To hem that been in repentaunce and drede, 

     As wel as to a proud despitous man, 

     That wol maynteyne that he first bigan! 

     That lord hath litel of discrecioun 

     That in swich cas kan no divisioun, 

     But weyeth pride and humblesse after oon." 

     And shortly, whan his ire is thus agoon, 

     He gan to looken up with eyen lighte, 

     And spak thise same wordes al on highte: 

        "The God of love, A! benedicite! 

     How myghty and how greet a lord is he! 

     Ayeyns his myght ther gayneth none obstacles, 

     He may be cleped a god for hise myracles, 

     For he kan maken at his owene gyse 

     Of everich herte as that hym list divyse. 

     Lo heere, this Arcite and this Palamoun 

     That quitly weren out of my prisoun, 

     And myghte han lyved in Thebes roially, 

     And witen I am hir mortal enemy, 

     And that hir deth lith in my myght also; 

     And yet hath love, maugree hir eyen two, 

     Ybroght hem hyder bothe for to dye! 

     Now looketh, is nat that an heigh folye? 

     Who may been a fole, but if he love? 

     Bihoold, for Goddes sake that sit above, 

     Se how they blede?  Be they noght wel arrayed? 

     Thus hath hir lord, the God of Love, ypayed 

     Hir wages and hir fees for hir servyse! 

     And yet they wenen for to been ful wyse, 

     That serven love, for aught that may bifalle! 

     But this is yet the beste game of alle, 

     That she, for whom they han this jolitee, 

     Kan hem therfore as muche thank, as me! 

     She woot namoore of al this hoote fare, 

     By God, than woot a cokkow or an hare! 

     But all moot ben assayed, hoot and coold; 

     A man moot ben a fool, or yong or oold; 

     I woot it by myself ful yore agon, 

     For in my tyme a servant was I oon. 

     And therfore, syn I knowe of loves peyne, 

     And woot how soore it kan a man distreyne, 

     As he that hath ben caught ofte in his laas, 

     I yow foryeve al hoolly this trespaas, 

     At requeste of the queene that kneleth heere, 

     And eek of Emelye, my suster deere. 

     And ye shul bothe anon unto me swere, 

     That nevere mo ye shal my contree dere, 

     Ne make werre upon me, nyght ne day, 

     But been my freendes in al that ye may, 

     I yow foryeve this trespas, every deel." 

     And they hym sworen his axyng, faire and weel, 

     And hym of lordship and of mercy preyde, 

     And he hem graunteth grace, and thus he seyde: 

        "To speke of roial lynage and richesse, 

     Though that she were a queene or a princesse, 

     Ech of you bothe is worthy doutelees 

     To wedden whan tyme is, but nathelees 

     I speke as for my suster Emelye, 

     For whom ye have this strif and jalousye: 

     Ye woot yourself, she may nat wedden two 

     Atones, though ye fighten everemo! 

     That oon of you, al be hym looth or lief, 

     He moot go pipen in an yvy-leef- 

     This is to seyn, she may nat now han bothe, 

     Al be ye never so jalouse, ne so wrothe. 

     And forthy, I yow putte in this degree; 

     That ech of yow shal have his destynee 

     As hym is shape, and herkneth in what wyse; 

     Lo, heere your ende of that I shal devyse. 

        My wyl is this, for plat conclusioun, 

     Withouten any repplicacioun, 

     If that you liketh, take it for the beste, 

     That everich of you shal goon where hym leste, 

     Frely, withouten raunson, or daunger, 

     And this day fifty wykes fer ne ner, 

     Everich of you shal brynge an hundred knyghtes 

     Armed for lystes up at alle rightes, 

     Al redy to darreyne hire by bataille. 

     And this bihote I yow withouten faille, 

     Upon my trouthe, and as I am a knyght, 

     That wheither of yow bothe that hath myght, 

     This is to seyn, that wheither he, or thow 

     May with his hundred, as I spak of now, 

     Sleen his contrarie, or out of lystes dryve, 

     Thanne shal I yeve Emelya to wyve, 

     To whom that Fortune yeveth so fair a grace. 

     Tho lystes shal I maken in this place, 

     And God so wisly on my soule rewe, 

     As I shal evene juge been, and trewe. 

     Ye shul noon oother ende with me maken, 

     That oon of yow ne shal be deed or taken. 

     And if yow thynketh this is weel ysayd, 

     Seyeth youre avys and holdeth you apayd; 

     This is youre ende and youre conclusioun." 

     Who looketh lightly now but Palamoun? 

     Who spryngeth up for joye but Arcite? 

     Who kouthe tellen, or who kouthe endite 

     The joye that is maked in the place, 

     Whan Theseus hath doon so fair a grace? 

     But doun on knees wente every maner wight, 

     And thonken hym with al hir herte and myght, 

     And namely the Thebans, often sithe. 

     And thus with good hope and with herte blithe 

     They taken hir leve, and homward gonne they ride 

     To Thebes with hise olde walles wyde. 

     Explicit secunda pars 

     Sequitur pars tercia 

        I trowe men wolde deme it necligence, 

     If I foryete to tellen the dispence 

     Of Theseus, that gooth so bisily 

     To maken up the lystes roially; 

     That swich a noble theatre as it was, 

     I dar wel seyen, in this world ther nas. 

     The circuit a myle was aboute, 

     Walled of stoon, and dyched al withoute. 

     Round was the shap, in manere of compas, 

     Ful of degrees the heighte os sixty pas, 

     That whan a man was set on o degree, 

     He lette nat his felawe for to see. 

     Estward ther stood a gate of marbul whit, 

     Westward, right swich another in the opposit; 

     And shortly to concluden, swich a place 

     Was noon in erthe, as in so litel space. 

     For in the lond ther was no crafty man 

     That geometrie or ars-metrik kan, 

     Ne portreitour, ne kervere of ymages, 

     That Theseus ne yaf him mete and wages 

     The theatre for to maken and devyse. 

     And for to doon his ryte and sacrifise 

     He estward hath upon the gate above, 

     In worship of Venus, goddesse of love, 

     Doon make an auter and an oratorie. 

     And on the gate westward, in memorie 

     Of Mars, he maked hath right swich another, 

     That coste largely of gold a fother. 

     And northward, in a touret on the wal 

     Of alabastre whit, and reed coral, 

     An oratorie, riche for to see, 

     In worship of Dyane, of chastitee, 

     Hath Theseus doon wroght in noble wyse. 

     But yet hadde I foryeten to devyse 

     The noble kervyng and the portreitures, 

     The shap, the contenaunce, and the figures, 

     That weren in thise oratories thre. 

     First in the temple of Venus maystow se 

     Wroght on the wal, ful pitous to biholde, 

     The broken slepes and the sikes colde, 

     The sacred teeris and the waymentynge, 

     The firy strokes, and the desirynge 

     That loves servauntz in this lyf enduren; 

     The othes that her covenantz assuren; 

     Plesaunce and Hope, Desir, Foolhardynesse, 

     Beautee and Youthe, Bauderie, Richesse, 

     Charmes and Force, Lesynges, Flaterye, 

     Despense, Bisynesse, and Jalousye, 

     That wered of yelewe gooldes a gerland, 

     And a cokkow sittynge on hir hand; 

     Festes, instrumentz, caroles, daunces, 

     Lust and array, and alle the circumstaunces 

     Of love, whiche that I rekned, and rekne shal, 

     By ordre weren peynted on the wal, 

     And mo than I kan make of mencioun; 

     For soothly, al the mount of Citheroun, 

     Ther Venus hath hir principal dwellynge, 

     Was shewed on the wal in portreyynge, 

     With al the gardyn and the lustynesse. 

     Nat was foryeten the Porter Ydelnesse, 

     Ne Narcisus the faire, of yore agon, 

     Ne yet the folye of kyng Salamon, 

     And eek the grete strengthe of Ercules, 

     Thenchauntementz of Medea and Circes, 

     Ne of Turnus, with the hardy fiers corage, 

     The riche Cresus, kaytyf in servage; 

     Thus may ye seen, that wysdom ne richesse, 

     Beautee ne sleighte, strengthe, hardynesse, 

     Ne may with Venus holde champartie, 

     For as hir list, the world than may she gye. 

     Lo, alle thise folk so caught were in hir las, 

     Til they for wo ful ofte seyde `allas!' 

     Suffiseth heere ensamples oon or two- 

     And, though, I koude rekene a thousand mo. 

        The statue of Venus, glorious for to se, 

     Was naked, fletynge in the large see, 

     And fro the navele doun al covered was 

     With wawes grene, and brighte as any glas. 

     A citole in hir right hand hadde she, 

     And on hir heed, ful semely for to se, 

     A rose gerland, fressh and wel smellynge; 

     Above hir heed hir dowves flikerynge. 

     Biforn hir stood hir sone, Cupido, 

     Upon his shuldres wynges hadde he two, 

     And blynd he was, as it was often seene. 

     A bowe he bar, and arwes brighte and kene. 

        Why sholde I noght as wel eek telle yow al 

     The portreiture, that was upon the wal 

     Withinne the temple of myghty Mars the rede? 

     Al peynted was the wal in lengthe and brede 

     Lyk to the estres of the grisly place 

     That highte the grete temple of Mars in Trace, 

     In thilke colde frosty regioun 

     Ther as Mars hath his sovereyn mansioun. 

     First on the wal was peynted a forest 

     In which ther dwelleth neither man ne best, 

     With knotty knarry bareyne trees olde, 

     Of stubbes sharpe and hidouse to biholde, 

     In which ther ran a rumbel and a swough 

     As though a storm sholde bresten every bough. 

     And dounward from an hille, under a bente, 

     Ther stood the temple of Mars Armypotente, 

     Wroght al of burned steel, of which the entree 

     Was long and streit, and gastly for to see, 

     And therout came a rage and suche a veze, 

     That it made al the gate for to rese. 

     The northren lyght in at the dores shoon, 

     For wyndowe on the wal ne was ther noon, 

     Thurgh which men myghten any light discerne. 

     The dore was al of adamant eterne, 

     Yclenched overthwart and endelong 

     With iren tough, and for to make it strong 

     Every pyler, the temple to sustene, 

     Was tonne-greet of iren bright and shene. 

     Ther saugh I first the dirke ymaginyng 

     Of felonye, and al the compassyng, 

     The crueel ire, reed as any gleede, 

     The pykepurs, and eek the pale drede, 

     The smyler with the knyfe under the cloke, 

     The shepne brennynge with the blake smoke, 

     The tresoun of the mordrynge in the bedde, 

     The open werre, with woundes al bibledde, 

     Contek, with blody knyf and sharp manace, 

     Al ful of chirkyng was that sory place. 

     The sleer of hymself yet saugh I ther, 

     His herte-blood hath bathed al his heer; 

     The nayl ydryven in the shode a nyght, 

     The colde deeth, with mouth gapyng upright. 

     Amyddes of the temple sat Meschaunce, 

     With Disconfort and Sory Contenaunce. 

     Yet saugh I Woodnesse laughynge in his rage, 

     Armed Compleint, Outhees, and fiers Outrage; 

     The careyne in the busk with throte ycorve, 

     A thousand slayn, and nat of qualm ystorve, 

     The tiraunt with the pray by force yraft, 

     The toun destroyed, ther was nothyng laft. 

     Yet saugh I brent the shippes hoppesteres, 

     The hunte strangled with the wilde beres, 

     The sowe freten the child right in the cradel, 

     The cook yscalded, for al his longe ladel. 

     Noght was foryeten by the infortune of Marte, 

     The cartere over-ryden with his carte, 

     Under the wheel ful lowe he lay adoun. 

     Ther were also, of Martes divisioun, 

     The barbour, and the bocher, and the smyth 

     That forgeth sharpe swerdes on his styth. 

     And al above, depeynted in a tour, 

     Saugh I Conquest sittynge in greet honour, 

     With the sharpe swerd over his heed 

     Hangynge by a soutil twyned threed. 

     Depeynted was the slaughtre of Julius, 

     Of grete Nero, and of Antonius; 

     Al be that thilke tyme they were unborn, 

     Yet was hir deth depeynted therbiforn 

     By manasynge of Mars, right by figure; 

     So was it shewed in that portreiture, 

     As is depeynted in the sterres above 

     Who shal be slayn or elles deed for love. 

     Suggiseth oon ensample in stories olde, 

     I may nat rekene hem alle though I wolde. 

        The statue of Mars upon a carte stood 

     Armed, and looked grym as he were wood, 

     And over his heed ther shynen two figures 

     Of sterres, that been cleped in scriptures 

     That oon Puella, that oother Rubeus. 

     This god of armes was arrayed thus: 

     A wolf ther stood biforn hym at his feet, 

     With eyen rede, and of a man he eet. 

     With soutil pencel was depeynt this storie, 

     In redoutynge of Mars and of his glorie. 

        Now to the temple of Dyane the chaste 

     As shortly as I kan I wol me haste, 

     To telle yow al the descripsioun. 

     Depeynted been the walles up and doun 

     Of huntyng and of shamefast chastitee. 

     Ther saugh I, how woful Calistopee 

     Whan that Diane agreved was with here, 

     Was turned from a womman til a bere, 

     And after was she maad the loode-sterre;- 

     Thus was it peynted, I kan sey yow no ferre- 

     Hir sone is eek a sterre, as men may see. 

     Ther saugh I Dane, yturned til a tree, 

     I mene nat the goddesse Diane, 

     But Penneus doughter which that highte Dane. 

     Ther saugh I Attheon an hert ymaked, 

     For vengeaunce that he saugh Diane al naked. 

     I saugh how that hise houndes have hym caught 

     And freeten hym, for that they knewe hym naught. 

     Yet peynted was a litel forthermoor 

     How Atthalante hunted the wilde boor, 

     And Meleagree, and many another mo, 

     For which Dyane wroghte hym care and wo. 

     Ther saugh I many another wonder storie, 

     The whiche me list nat drawen to memorie. 

     This goddesse on an hert ful hye seet, 

     With smale houndes al aboute hir feet; 

     And undernethe hir feet she hadde a moone, 

     Wexynge it was, and sholde wanye soone. 

     In gaude grene hir statue clothed was, 

     With bowe in honde, and arwes in a cas. 

     Hir eyen caste she ful lowe adoun, 

     Ther Pluto hath his derke regioun. 

     A womman travaillynge was hir biforn; 

     But for hir child so longe was unborn 

     Ful pitously Lucyna gan she calle, 

     And seyde, "Help, for thou mayst best of alle!" 

     Wel koude he peynten lyfly, that it wroghte, 

     With many a floryn he the hewes boghte. 

        Now been thise listes maad, and Theseus, 

     That at his grete cost arrayed thus 

     The temples, and the theatre every deel, 

     Whan it was doon, hym lyked wonder weel.- 

     But stynte I wole of Theseus a lite, 

     And speke of Palamon and of Arcite. 

     The day approcheth of hir retournynge, 

     That everich sholde an hundred knyghtes brynge 

     The bataille to darreyne, as I yow tolde. 

     And til Atthenes, hir covenantz for to holde, 

     Hath everich of hem broght an hundred knyghtes, 

     Wel armed for the werre at alle rightes. 

     And sikerly, ther trowed many a man, 

     That nevere sithen that the world bigan, 

     As for to speke of knyghthod of hir hond, 

     As fer as God hath maked see or lond, 

     Nas of so fewe so noble a compaignye. 

     For every wight that lovede chivalrye, 

     And wolde, his thankes, han a passant name, 

     Hath preyed that he myghte been of that game; 

     And wel was hym that therto chosen was. 

     For if ther fille tomorwe swich a cas 

     Ye knowen wel, that every lusty knyght 

     That loveth paramours, and hath his myght, 

     Were it in Engelond or elles where, 

     They wolde, hir thankes, wilnen to be there, 

     To fighte for a lady, benedicitee! 

     It were a lusty sighte for to see. 

     And right so ferden they with Palamon, 

     With hym ther wenten knyghtes many on. 

     Som wol ben armed in an haubergeoun, 

     In a bristplate, and in a light gypoun, 

     And somme woln have a paire plates large, 

     And somme woln have a Pruce sheeld, or a targe, 

     Somme woln ben armed on hir legges weel, 

     And have an ax, and somme a mace of steel. 

     Ther is no newe gyse, that it nas old; 

     Armed were they, as I have yow told, 

     Everych after his opinioun. 

     Ther maistow seen comyng with Palamoun 

     Lygurge hym-self, the grete kyng of Trace. 

     Blak was his berd, and manly was his face, 

     The cercles of hise eyen in his heed, 

     They gloweden bitwyxen yelow and reed, 

     And lik a griff on looked he aboute, 

     With kempe heeris on hise browes stoute, 

     Hise lymes grete, hise brawnes harde and stronge, 

     Hise shuldres brode, hise armes rounde and longe; 

     And as the gyse was in his contree, 

     Ful hye upon a chaar of gold stood he, 

     With foure white boles in the trays. 

     In stede of cote-armure, over his harnays 

     With nayles yelewe and brighte as any gold 

     He hadde a beres skyn, colblak, for-old; 

     His longe heer was kembd bihynde his bak, 

     As any ravenes fethere it shoon for-blak. 

     A wrethe of gold arm-greet, of huge wighte, 

     Upon his heed, set ful of stones brighte, 

     Of fyne rubyes and of dyamauntz. 

     Aboute his chaar ther wenten white alauntz, 

     Twenty and mo, as grete as any steer, 

     To hunten at the leoun or the deer, 

     And folwed hym, with mosel faste ybounde, 

     Colored of gold, and tourettes fyled rounde. 

     An hundred lordes hadde he in his route, 

     Armed ful wel, with hertes stierne and stoute. 

        With Arcita, in stories as men fynde, 

     The grete Emetreus, the kyng of Inde, 

     Upon a steede bay, trapped in steel, 

     Covered in clooth of gold dyapred weel, 

     Cam ridynge lyk the god of armes, Mars. 

     His cote-armure was of clooth of Tars, 

     Couched with perles white and rounde and grete. 

     His sadel was of brend gold newe ybete; 

     A mantelet upon his shuldre hangynge 

     Bret-ful of rubyes rede, as fyr sparklynge. 

     His crispe heer lyk rynges was yronne, 

     And that was yelow, and glytered as the sonne. 

     His nose was heigh, hise eyen bright citryn, 

     Hise lippes rounde, his colour was sangwyn; 

     A fewe frakenes in his face yspreynd, 

     Bitwixen yelow and somdel blak ymeynd, 

     And as a leoun he his looking caste. 

     Of fyve and twenty yeer his age I caste; 

     His berd was wel bigonne for to sprynge, 

     His voys was as a trompe thonderynge. 

     Upon his heed he wered of laurer grene 

     A gerland, fressh and lusty for to sene. 

     Upon his hand he bar for his deduyt 

     An egle tame, as any lilye whyt. 

     An hundred lordes hadde he with hym there, 

     Al armed, save hir heddes, in al hir gere, 

     Ful richely in alle maner thynges. 

     For trusteth wel, that dukes, erles, kynges, 

     Were gadered in this noble compaignye, 

     For love, and for encrees of chivalrye. 

     Aboute this kyng ther ran on every part 

     Ful many a tame leoun and leopard, 

     And in this wise thise lordes alle and some 

     Been on the sonday to the citee come, 

     Aboute pryme, and in the toun alight. 

     This Theseus, this duc, this worthy knyght, 

     Whan he had broght hem into his citee, 

     And inned hem, everich in his degree, 

     He festeth hem, and dooth so greet labour 

     To esen hem and doon hem al honour, 

     That yet men weneth that no maner wit 

     Of noon estaat ne koude amenden it. 

     The mynstralcye, the service at the feeste, 

     The grete yiftes to the mooste and leeste, 

     The riche array of Theseus paleys, 

     Ne who sat first ne last upon the deys, 

     What ladyes fairest been, or best daunsynge, 

     Or which of hem kan dauncen best and synge, 

     Ne who moost felyngly speketh of love, 

     What haukes sitten on the perche above, 

     What houndes liggen in the floor adoun- 

     Of al this make I now no mencioun; 

     But, al theffect, that thynketh me the beste, 

     Now cometh the point, and herkneth if yow leste. 

        The sonday nyght, er day bigan to sprynge, 

     Whan Palamon the lsrke herde synge, 

     Al though it nere nat day by houres two, 

     Yet song the larke, and Palamon also. 

     With hooly herte and with an heigh corage 

     He roos, to wenden on his pilgrymage, 

     Unto the blisful Citherea benigne, 

     I mene Venus, honurable and digne. 

     And in hir houre he walketh forth a pas 

     Unto the lystes, ther hire temple was, 

     And doun he kneleth, with ful humble cheer, 

     And herte soor, and seyde in this manere. 

        "Faireste of faire, O lady myn, Venus, 

     Doughter to Jove, and spouse of Vulcanus, 

     Thow glader of the Mount of Citheron, 

     For thilke love thow haddest to Adoon, 

     Have pitee of my bittre teeris smerte, 

     And taak myn humble preyere at thyn herte. 

     Allas, I ne have no langage to telle 

     Theffectes, ne the tormentz of myn helle! 

     Myn herte may myne harmes nat biwreye, 

     I am so confus that I kan noght seye. 

     But mercy, lady bright! that knowest weele 

     My thought, and seest what harmes that I feele. 

     Considere al this, and rewe upon my soore, 

     As wisly, as I shal for everemoore, 

     Emforth my myght, thy trewe servant be, 

     And holden werre alwey with chastitee. 

     That make I myn avow, so ye me helpe. 

     I kepe noght of armes for to yelpe, 

     Ne I ne axe nat tomorwe to have victorie, 

     Ne renoun in this cas, ne veyne glorie 

     Of pris of armes blowen up and doun, 

     But I wolde have fully possessioun 

     Of Emelye, and dye in thy servyse. 

     Fynd thow the manere how, and in what wyse- 

     I recche nat, but it may bettre be 

     To have victorie of hem, or they of me- 

     So that I have my lady in myne armes. 

     For though so be, that Mars is god of armes, 

     Youre vertu is so greet in hevene above 

     That if yow list, I shal wel have my love. 

     Thy temple wol I worshipe everemo, 

     And on thyn auter, where I ride or go, 

     I wol doon sacrifice and fires beete. 

     And if ye wol nat so, my lady sweete, 

     Thanne preye I thee, tomorwe with a spere 

     That Arcita me thurgh the herte bere. 

     Thanne rekke I noght, whan I have lost my lyf, 

     Though that Arcita wynne hir to his wyf. 

     This is theffect and ende of my preyere, 

     Yif me my love, thow blisful lady deere!" 

     Whan the orison was doon of Palamon, 

     His sacrifice he dide, and that anon, 

     Ful pitously with alle circumstaunce; 

     Al telle I noght as now his observaunce. 

     But atte laste, the statue of Venus shook, 

     And made a signe wherby that he took 

     That his preyere accepted was that day. 

     For thogh the signe shewed a delay, 

     Yet wiste he wel that graunted was his boone, 

     And with glad herte he wente hym hoom ful soone. 

        The thridde houre inequal, that Palamon 

     Bigan to Venus temple for to gon, 

     Up roos the sonne, and up roos Emelye, 

     And to the temple of Dyane gan hye. 

     Hir maydens that she thider with hir ladde, 

     Ful redily with hem the fyr they ladde, 

     Thencens, the clothes, and the remenant al 

     That to the sacrifice longen shal. 

     The hornes fulle of meeth, as was the gyse, 

     Ther lakked noght to doon hir sacrifise, 

     Smokynge the temple, ful of clothes faire. 

     This Emelye, with herte debonaire, 

     Hir body wessh with water of a welle- 

     But how she dide hir ryte I dar nat telle, 

     But it be any thing in general; 

     And yet it were a game to heeren al, 

     To hym that meneth wel it were no charge, 

     But it is good a man been at his large.- 

        Hir brighte heer was kempt untressed al, 

     A coroune of a grene ook cerial 

     Upon hir heed was set, ful fair and meete. 

     Two fyres on the suter gan she beete, 

     And dide hir thynges as men may biholde 

     In Stace of Thebes, and thise bookes olde. 

     Whan kyndled was the fyr, with pitous cheere 

     Unto Dyane she spak as ye may heere. 

        "O chaste goddesse of the wodes grene, 

     To whom bothe hevene and erthe and see is sene, 

     Queene of the regne of Pluto derk and lowe, 

     Goddesse of maydens, that myn herte hast knowe 

     Ful many a yeer, and woost what I desire, 

     As keep me fro thy vengeaunce and thyn ire, 

     That Attheon aboughte cruelly. 

     Chaste goddesse, wel wostow that I 

     Desire to ben a mayden al my lyf, 

     Ne nevere wol I be no love ne wyf. 

     I am, thow woost, yet of thy compaignye, 

     A mayde, and love huntynge and venerye, 

     And for to walken in the wodes wilde, 

     And noght to ben a wyf, and be with childe. 

     Noght wol I knowe the compaignye of man; 

     Now helpe me, lady, sith ye may and kan, 

     For tho thre formes that thou hast in thee. 

     And Palamon, that hath swich love to me, 

     And eek Arcite, that loveth me so sore, 

     This grace I preye thee, withoute moore, 

     As sende love and pees bitwixe hem two, 

     And fro me turne awey hir hertes so, 

     That al hir hoote love and hir desir, 

     And al hir bisy torment and hir fir, 

     Be queynt, or turned in another place. 

     And if so be thou wolt do me no grace, 

     And if my destynee be shapen so 

     That I shal nedes have oon of hem two, 

     As sende me hym that moost desireth me. 

     Bihoold, goddesse, of clene chastitee, 

     The bittre teeris that on my chekes falle. 

     Syn thou art mayde and kepere of us alle, 

     My maydenhede thou kepe and wel conserve, 

     And whil I lyve a mayde, I wol thee serve." 

     The fires brenne upon the auter cleere, 

     Whil Emelye was thus in hir preyere; 

     But sodeynly she saugh a sighte queynte, 

     For right anon oon of the fyres queynte, 

     And quyked agayn, and after that anon 

     That oother fyr was queynt and al agon. 

     And as it queynte, it made a whistelynge 

     As doon thise wete brondes in hir brennynge; 

     And at the brondes ende out ran anon 

     As it were blody dropes many oon; 

     For which so soore agast was Emelye 

     That she was wel ny mad, and gan to crye; 

     For she ne wiste what it signyfied. 

     But oonly for the feere thus hath she cried, 

     And weep that it was pitee for to heere; 

     And therwithal Dyane gan appeere, 

     With bowe in honde, right as an hunteresse, 

     And seyde, "Doghter, stynt thyn hevynesse. 

     Among the goddes hye it is affermed, 

     And by eterne word writen and confermed, 

     Thou shalt ben wedded unto oon of tho 

     That han for thee so muchel care and wo. 

     But unto which of hem I may nat telle, 

     Farwel, for I ne may no lenger dwelle. 

     The fires whiche that on myn auter brenne 

     Shule thee declaren, er that thou go henne, 

     Thyn aventure of love, as in this cas." 

     And with that word, the arwes in the caas 

     Of the goddesse clateren faste and rynge, 

     And forth she wente, and made a vanysshynge, 

     For which this Emelye astoned was, 

     And seyde, "What amounteth this, allas! 

     I putte me in thy proteccioun, 

     Dyane, and in thy disposicioun!" 

     And hoom she goth anon the nexte weye. 

     This is theffect, ther is namoore to seye. 

        The nexte houre of Mars folwynge this 

     Arcite unto the temple walked is 

     Of fierse Mars, to doon his sacrifise 

     With alle the rytes of his payen wyse. 

     With pitous herte and heigh devocioun 

     Right thus to Mars he seyde his orisoun. 

        "O stronge god, that in the regnes colde 

     Of Trace honoured art and lord yholde, 

     And hast in every regne and every lond 

     Of armes al the brydel in thyn hond, 

     And hem fortunest as thee lyst devyse, 

     Accepte of me my pitous sacrifise. 

     If so be that my youthe may deserve, 

     And that my myght be worthy for to serve 

     Thy godhede, that I may been oon of thyne, 

     Thanne preye I thee to rewe upon my pyne. 

     For thilke peyne, and thilke hoote fir, 

     In which thou whilom brendest for desir 

     Whan that thow usedest the greet beautee 

     Of faire yonge fresshe Venus free, 

     And haddest hir in armes at thy wille- 

     Al though thee ones on a tyme mysfille 

     Whan Vulcanus hadde caught thee in his las, 

     And foond thee liggynge by his wyf, allas!- 

     For thilke sorwe that was in thyn herte 

     Have routhe as wel, upon my peynes smerte! 

     I am yong and unkonnynge as thow woost, 

     And, as I trowe, with love offended moost 

     That evere was any lyves creature; 

     For she that dooth me al this wo endure, 

     Ne reccheth nevere wher I synke or fleete. 

     And wel I woot, er she me mercy heete, 

     I moot with strengthe wynne hir in the place. 

     And wel I woot, withouten help or grace 

     Of thee, ne may my strengthe noght availle. 

     Thanne help me, lord, tomorwe in my bataille 

     For thilke fyr that whilom brente thee, 

     As wel as thilke fyr now brenneth me! 

     And do that I tomorwe have victorie, 

     Myn be the travaille and thyn be the glorie. 

     Thy sovereyn temple wol I moost honouren 

     Of any place, and alwey moost labouren 

     In thy plesaunce, and in thy craftes stronge, 

     And in thy temple I wol my baner honge, 

     And alle the armes of my compaignye; 

     And evere-mo, unto that day I dye, 

     Eterne fir I wol biforn thee fynde. 

     And eek to this avow I wol me bynde; 

     My beerd, myn heer, that hongeth long adoun, 

     That nevere yet ne felte offensioun 

     Of rasour, nor of shere, I wol thee yeve, 

     And ben thy trewe servant whil I lyve. 

     Now lord, have routhe upon my sorwes soore; 

     Yif me the victorie, I aske thee namoore!" 

        The preyere stynt of Arcita the stronge; 

     The rynges on the temple dore that honge, 

     And eek the dores clatereden ful faste, 

     Of which Arcita somwhat hym agaste. 

     The fyres brenden upon the auter brighte, 

     That it gan al the temple for to lighte, 

     And sweete smel the ground anon upyaf, 

     And Arcita anon his hand uphaf, 

     And moore encens into the fyr he caste, 

     With othere rytes mo, and atte laste 

     The statue of Mars bigan his hauberk rynge, 

     And with that soun he herde a murmurynge, 

     Ful lowe and dym, and seyde thus, `Victorie!' 

     For which he yaf to Mars honour and glorie; 

     And thus with joye and hope wel to fare, 

     Arcite anon unto his in is fare, 

     As fayn as fowel is of the brighte sonne. 

        And right anon swich strif ther is bigonne 

     For thilke grauntyng in the hevene above 

     Bitwixe Venus, the Goddesse of Love, 

     And Mars the stierne God armypotente, 

     That Jupiter was bisy it to stente; 

     Til that the pale Saturnus the colde, 

     That knew so manye of aventures olde, 

     Foond in his olde experience an art 

     That he ful soone hath plesed every part. 

     As sooth is seyd, elde hath greet avantage; 

     In elde is bothe wysdom and usage; 

     Men may the olde atrenne, and noght atrede. 

     Saturne anon, to stynten strif and drede, 

     Al be it that it is agayn his kynde, 

     Of al this strif he gan remedie fynde. 

     "My deere doghter Venus," quod Saturne, 

     "My cours, that hath so wyde for to turne, 

     Hath moore power than woot any man. 

     Myn is the drenchyng in the see so wan, 

     Myn is the prison in the derke cote, 

     Myn is the stranglyng and hangyng by the throte, 

     The murmure, and the cherles rebellyng, 

     The groynynge, and the pryvee empoysonyng. 

     I do vengeance and pleyn correccioun, 

     Whil I dwelle in the signe of the leoun. 

     Myn is the ruyne of the hye halles, 

     The fallynge of the toures and of the walles 

     Upon the mynour, or the carpenter. 

     I slow Sampsoun shakynge the piler, 

     And myne be the maladyes colde, 

     The derke tresons, and the castes olde; 

     My lookyng is the fader of pestilence. 

     Now weep namoore, I shal doon diligence 

     That Palamon, that is thyn owene knyght, 

     Shal have his lady, as thou hast him hight. 

     Though Mars shal helpe his knyght, yet nathelees 

     Bitwixe yow ther moot be somtyme pees, 

     Al be ye noght of o compleccioun- 

     That causeth al day swich divisioun. 

     I am thyn aiel, redy at thy wille, 

     Weep now namoore, I wol thy lust fulfille." 

     Now wol I stynten of the goddes above, 

     Of Mars and of Venus, goddesse of Love, 

     And telle yow, as pleynly as I kan, 

     The grete effect for which that I bygan. 

     Explicit tercia pars. 

     Sequitur pars quarta. 

        Greet was the feeste in Atthenes that day, 

     And eek the lusty seson of that May 

     Made every wight to been in such plesaunce 

     That al that Monday justen they and daunce, 

     And spenten it in Venus heigh servyse. 

     And by the cause that they sholde ryse 

     Eerly for to seen the grete fight, 

     Unto hir rest wenten they at nyght. 

     And on the morwe, whan that day gan sprynge, 

     Of hors and harneys, noyse and claterynge 

     Ther was in hostelryes al aboute. 

     And to the paleys rood ther many a route 

     Of lordes, upon steedes and palfreys. 

     Ther maystow seen divisynge of harneys 

     So unkouth and so riche, and wroght so weel, 

     Of goldsmythrye, of browdynge, and of steel; 

     The sheeldes brighte, testeres, and trappures; 

     Gold-hewen helmes, hauberkes, cote-armures; 

     Lordes in parementz on hir courseres, 

     Knyghtes of retenue and eek squieres, 

     Nailynge the speres, and helmes bokelynge, 

     Giggynge of sheeldes, with layneres lacynge. 

     There as nede is, they weren nothyng ydel. 

     The fomy steedes on the golden brydel 

     Gnawynge, and faste the armurers also 

     With fyle and hamer prikynge to and fro; 

     Yemen on foote and communes many oon, 

     With shorte staves thikke as they may goon, 

     Pypes, trompes, nakerers, clariounes, 

     That in the bataille blowen blody sounes; 

     The paleys ful of peples up and doun, 

     Heere thre, ther ten, holdynge hir questioun, 

     Dyvynynge of thise Thebane knyghtes two. 

     Somme seyden thus, somme seyde it shal be so, 

     Somme helden with hym with the blake berd, 

     Somme with the balled, somme with the thikke-herd, 

     Somme seyde he looked grymme, and he wolde fighte, 

     He hath a sparth of twenty pound of wighte, 

     Thus was the halle ful of divynynge 

     Longe after that the sonne gan to sprynge. 

        The grete Theseus, that of his sleep awaked 

     With mynstralcie and noyse that was maked, 

     Heeld yet the chambre of his paleys riche, 

     Til that the Thebane knyghtes, bothe yliche 

     Honured, were into the paleys fet. 

     Due Theseus was at a wyndow set, 

     Arrayed, right as he were a god in trone. 

     The peple preesseth thiderward ful soone, 

     Hym for to seen and doon heigh reverence. 

     And eek to herkne his heste and his sentence. 

     An heraud on a scaffold made an "Oo!" 

     Til al the noyse of peple was ydo, 

     And whan he saugh the peple of noyse al stille, 

     Tho shewed he the myghty dukes wille. 

     "The lord hath of his heigh discrecioun 

     Considered, that it were destruccioun 

     To gentil blood, to fighten in the gyse 

     Of mortal bataille, now in this emprise; 

     Wherfore, to shapen that they shal nat dye, 

     He wolde his firste purpos modifye. 

     No man therfore, up peyne of los of lyf, 

     No maner shot, ne polax, ne short knyf 

     Into the lystes sende, ne thider brynge. 

     Ne short swerd for to stoke, with poynt bitynge, 

     No man ne drawe, ne bere by his syde; 

     Ne no man shal unto his felawe ryde 

     But o cours, with a sharpe ygrounde spere. 

     Foyne if hym list on foote, hym-self to were; 

     And he that is at meschief shal be take, 

     And noght slayn, but be broght unto the stake 

     That shal ben ordeyned on either syde, 

     But thider he shal by force, and there abyde. 

     And if so be the chevetayn be take 

     On outher syde, or elles sleen his make, 

     No lenger shal the turneiynge laste. 

     God spede you, gooth forth, and ley on faste! 

     With long swerd and with maces fight youre fille; 

     Gooth now youre wey, this is the lordes wille." 

        The voys of peple touchede the hevene, 

     So loude cride they with murie stevene, 

     "God save swich a lord, that is so good 

     He wilneth no destruccion of blood." 

     Up goon the trompes and the melodye, 

     And to the lystes rit the compaignye, 

     By ordinance, thurgh-out the citee large 

     Hanged with clooth of gold, and nat with sarge. 

     Ful lik a lord this noble duc gan ryde, 

     Thise two Thebanes upon either syde, 

     And after rood the queene and Emelye, 

     And after that another compaignye, 

     Of oon and oother, after hir degre; 

     And thus they passen thurgh-out the citee 

     And to the lystes come they by tyme. 

     It nas nat of the day yet fully pryme 

     Whan set was Theseus ful riche and hye, 

     Ypolita the queene, and Emelye, 

     And othere ladys in degrees aboute. 

     Unto the seettes preesseth al the route, 

     And westward thurgh the gates under Marte, 

     Arcite, and eek the hondred of his parte, 

     With baner reed is entred right anon. 

     And in that selve moment Palamon 

     Is under Venus estward in the place, 

     With baner whyt, and hardy chiere and face. 

     In al the world to seken up and doun 

     So evene withouten variacioun 

     Ther nere swiche compaignyes tweye! 

     For ther was noon so wys, that koude seye 

     That any hadde of oother avauntage, 

     Of worthynesse ne of estaat ne age, 

     So evene were they chosen, for to gesse. 

     And in two renges faire they hem dresse, 

     Whan that hir names rad were everichon, 

     That in hir nombre gyle were ther noon. 

     Tho were the gates shet and cried was loude, 

     "Do now youre devoir, yonge knyghtes proude!" 

     The heraudes lefte hir prikyng up and doun; 

     Now ryngen trompes loude and clarioun. 

     Ther is namoore to seyn, but west and est 

     In goon the speres ful sadly in arrest, 

     In gooth the sharpe spore into the syde. 

     Ther seen men who kan juste, and who kan ryde, 

     Ther shyveren shaftes upon sheeldes thikke; 

     He feeleth thurgh the herte-spoon the prikke. 

     Up spryngen speres twenty foot on highte; 

     Out gooth the swerdes as the silver brighte. 

     The helmes they tohewen and toshrede, 

     Out brest the blood, with stierne stremes rede, 

     With myghty maces the bones they tobreste. 

     He thurgh the thikkeste of the throng gan threste; 

     Ther stomblen steedes stronge, and doun gooth al; 

     He rolleth under foot as dooth a bal, 

     He foyneth on his feet with his tronchoun, 

     And he hym hurtleth with his hors adoun. 

     He thurgh the body is hurt and sithen ytake, 

     Maugree his heed, and broght unto the stake, 

     As forward was, right there he moste abyde; 

     Another lad is on that oother syde. 

     And som tyme dooth hem Theseus to reste, 

     Hem to refresshe, and drynken if hem leste. 

     Ful ofte a day han thise Thebanes two 

     Togydre ymet, and wroght his felawe wo. 

     Unhorsed hath ech oother of hem tweye, 

     Ther nas no tygre in the vlae of Galgopheye 

     Whan that hir whelp is stole, whan it is lite, 

     So crueel on the hunte, as is Arcite 

     For jelous herte upon this Palamoun; 

     Ne in Belmarye ther nys so fel leoun 

     That hunted is, or for his hunger wood, 

     Ne of his praye desireth so the blood, 

     As Palamoun to sleen his foo Arcite. 

     The jelous strokes on hir helmes byte, 

     Out renneth blood on bothe hir sydes rede. 

        Som tyme an ende ther is of every dede; 

     For er the sonne unto the reste wente, 

     The stronge kyng Emetreus gan hente 

     This Palamon, as he faught with Arcite, 

     And made his swerd depe in his flessh to byte. 

     And by the force of twenty is he take 

     Unyolden, and ydrawe unto the stake. 

     And in the rescous of this Palamoun 

     The stronge kyng Lygurge is born adoun, 

     And kyng Emetreus, for al his strengthe, 

     Is born out of his sadel a swerdes lengthe, 

     So hitte him Palamoun er he were take; 

     But al for noght, he was broght to the stake. 

     His hardy herte myghte hym helpe naught, 

     He moste abyde, whan that he was caught, 

     By force, and eek by composicioun. 

     Who sorweth now but woful Palamoun, 

     That moot namoore goon agayn to fighte? 

     And whan that Theseus hadde seyn this sighte 

     Unto the folk that foghten thus echon 

     He cryde, "Hoo! namoore, for it is doon. 

     I wol be trewe juge, and no partie; 

     Arcite of Thebes shal have Emelie, 

     That by his fortune hath hir faire ywonne!" 

     Anon ther is a noyse of peple bigonne 

     For joye of this so loude and heighe withalle 

     It semed that the lystes sholde falle. 

        What kan now faire Venus doon above? 

     What seith she now, what dooth this queene of Love, 

     But wepeth so, for wantynge of hir wille, 

     Til that hir teeres in the lystes fille. 

     She seyde, "I am ashamed, doutelees." 

     Saturnus seyde, "Doghter, hoold thy pees, 

     Mars hath his wille, his knyght hath al his boone, 

     And, by myn heed, thow shalt been esed soone." 

        The trompes with the loude mynstralcie, 

     The heraudes that ful loude yolle and crie, 

     Been in hir wele for joye of Daun Arcite. 

     But herkneth me, and stynteth now a lite, 

     Which a myracle ther bifel anon. 

     This fierse Arcite hath of his helm ydon, 

     And on a courser for to shewe his face 

     He priketh endelong the large place, 

     Lokynge upward upon this Emelye, 

     And she agayn hym caste a freendlich eye, 

     (For wommen, as to speken in commune, 

     They folwen al the favour of Fortune) 

     And she was al his chiere, as in his herte. 

     Out of the ground a furie infernal sterte, 

     From Pluto sent, at requeste of Saturne, 

     For which his hors for fere gan to turne, 

     And leep aside and foundred as he leep. 

     And er that Arcite may taken keep, 

     He pighte hym on the pomel of his heed, 

     That in the place he lay as he were deed, 

     His brest tobrosten with his sadel-bowe. 

     As blak he lay as any cole or crowe, 

     So was the blood yronnen in his face. 

     Anon he was yborn out of the place, 

     With herte soor, to Theseus paleys. 

     Tho was he korven out of his harneys, 

     And in a bed ybrought ful faire and blyve, 

     For he was yet in memorie and alyve, 

     And alwey criynge after Emelye. 

     Duc Theseus, with al hes compaignye, 

     Is comen hoom to Atthenes his citee, 

     With alle blisse and greet solempnitee; 

     Al be it that this aventure was falle, 

     He nolde noght disconforten hem alle. 

     Men seyde eek that Arcite shal nat dye, 

     He shal been heeled of his maladye. 

     And of another thyng they weren as fayn, 

     That of hem alle was ther noon yslayn, 

     Al were they soore yhurt, and namely oon, 

     That with a spere was thirled his brest-boon. 

     To othere woundes, and to broken armes, 

     Somme hadden salves, and somme hadden charmes, 

     Fermacies of herbes and eek save 

     They dronken, for they wolde hir lymes have. 

     For which this noble duc as he wel kan, 

     Conforteth and honoureth every man, 

     And made revel al the longe nyght 

     Unto the straunge lordes, as was right. 

     Ne ther was holden no disconfitynge 

     But as a justes or a tourneiynge, 

     For soothly ther was no disconfiture- 

     For fallyng nys nat but an aventure- 

     Ne to be lad by force unto the stake 

     Unyolden, and with twenty knyghtes take, 

     O persone allone, withouten mo, 

     And haryed forth by arme, foot, and too, 

     And eke his steede dryven forth with staves, 

     With footmen, bothe yemen and eek knaves, 

     It nas aretted hym no vileynye, 

     Ther may no man clepen it cowardye. 

     For which anon duc Theseus leet crye, 

     To stynten alle rancour and envye, 

     The gree, as wel of o syde as of oother, 

     And eyther syde ylik as ootheres brother, 

     And yaf hem yiftes after hir degree, 

     And fully heeld a feeste dayes three, 

     And convoyed the kynges worthily 

     Out of his toun a journee, largely; 

     And hoom wente every man, the righte way, 

     Ther was namoore but `fare-wel, have good day.' 

     Of this bataille I wol namoore endite, 

     But speke of Palamoun and of Arcite. 

        Swelleth the brest of Arcite, and the soore 

     Encreesseth at his herte moore and moore. 

     The clothered blood for any lechecraft 

     Corrupteth, and is in his bouk ylaft, 

     That neither veyne-blood, ne ventusynge, 

     Ne drynke of herbes may ben his helpynge. 

     The vertu expulsif, or animal, 

     Fro thilke vertu cleped natural 

     Ne may the venym voyden, ne expelle. 

     The pipes of his longes gonne to swelle, 

     And every lacerte in his brest adoun 

     Is shent with venym and corrupcioun. 

     Hym gayneth neither for to gete his lif 

     Vomyt upward, ne dounward laxatif; 

     Al is tobrosten thilke regioun, 

     Nature hath now no dominacioun. 

     And certeinly, ther Nature wol nat wirche, 

     Fare-wel phisik, go ber the man to chirche! 

     This al and som, that Arcita moot dye; 

     For which he sendeth after Emelye 

     And Palamon, that was his cosyn deere. 

     Thanne seyde he thus, as ye shal after heere: 

     "Naught may the woful spirit in myn herte 

     Declare o point of alle my sorwes smerte 

     To yow, my lady, that I love moost. 

     But I biquethe the servyce of my goost 

     To yow aboven every creature. 

     Syn that my lyf may no lenger dure, 

     Allas, the wo! allas, the peynes stronge 

     That I for yow have suffred, and so longe! 

     Allas, the deeth! allas, myn Emelye! 

     Allas, departynge of our compaignye! 

     Allas, myn hertes queene! allas, my wyf! 

     Myn hertes lady, endere of my lyf! 

     What is this world? what asketh men to have? 

     Now with his love, now in his colde grave, 

     Allone, withouten any compaignye. 

     Fare-wel, my swete foo, myn Emelye, 

     And softe taak me in youre armes tweye, 

     For love of God, and herkneth what I seye. 

        "I have heer with my cosyn Palamon 

     Had strif and rancour many a day agon, 

     For love of yow, and for my jalousye. 

     And Juppiter so wys my soule gye 

     To speken of a servaunt proprely, 

     With alle circumstances trewely, 

     That is to seyn, trouthe, honour, and knyghthede, 

     Wysdom, humblesse, estaat, and heigh kynrede, 

     Fredom, and al that longeth to that art, 

     So Juppiter have of my soule part 

     As in this world right now ne knowe I non 

     So worthy to ben loved, as Palamon 

     That serveth yow, and wol doon al his lyf; 

     And if that evere ye shul ben a wyf, 

     Foryet nat Palamon, the gentil man." 

     And with that word his speche faille gan, 

     And from his herte up to his brest was come 

     The coold of deeth, that hadde hym overcome. 

     And yet moreover in hise armes two 

     The vital strengthe is lost and al ago. 

     Oonly the intellect, withouten moore, 

     That dwelled in his herte syk and soore 

     Gan faillen, when the herte felte deeth. 

     Dusked hise eyen two, and failled breeth, 

     But on his lady yet caste he his eye. 

     His laste word was "mercy, Emelye!" 

     His spirit chaunged hous, and wente ther 

     As I cam nevere, I kan nat tellen wher, 

     Therfore I stynte; I nam no divinistre, 

     Of soules fynde I nat in this registre, 

     Ne me ne list thilke opinions to telle 

     Of hem, though that they writen wher they dwelle. 

     Arcite is coold, ther Mars his soule gye: 

     Now wol I speken forthe of Emelye. 

        Shrighte Emelye, and howleth Palamon, 

     And Theseus his suster took anon 

     Swownynge, and baar hir fro the corps away. 

     What helpeth it to tarien forth the day 

     To tellen how she weep bothe eve and morwe? 

     For in swich cas wommen have swich sorwe 

     Whan that hir housbond is from hem ago, 

     That for the moore part they sorwen so, 

     Or ellis fallen in swich maladye, 

     That at the laste certeinly they dye. 

     Infinite been the sorwes and the teeres 

     Of olde folk, and eek of tendre yeeres 

     In al the toun, for deeth of this Theban. 

     For hym ther wepeth bothe child and man; 

     So greet a wepyng was ther noon, certayn, 

     Whan Ector was ybroght al fressh yslayn 

     To Troye, allas, the pitee that was ther! 

     Cracchynge of chekes, rentynge eek of heer; 

     "Why soldestow be deed," thise wommen crye, 

     "And haddest gold ynough, and Emelye?" 

     No man myghte gladen Theseus, 

     Savynge his olde fader, Egeus, 

     That knew this worldes transmutacioun, 

     As he hadde seyn it chaungen up and doun, 

     Joye after wo, and wo after gladnesse, 

     And shewed hem ensamples and liknesse. 

        "Right as ther dyed nevere man," quod he, 

     "That he ne lyvede in erthe in som degree, 

     Right so ther lyvede never man," he seyde, 

     "In al this world that somtyme he ne deyde. 

     This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo, 

     And we been pilgrymes passynge to and fro. 

     Deeth is an ende of every worldes soore." 

     And over al this yet seyde he muchel moore, 

     To this effect ful wisely to enhorte 

     The peple, that they sholde hem reconforte. 

        Duc Theseus, with al his bisy cure, 

     Caste now, wher that the sepulture 

     Of goode Arcite may best ymaked be, 

     And eek moost honurable in his degree. 

     And at the laste he took conclusioun 

     That ther as first Arcite and Palamoun 

     Hadden for love the bataille hem bitwene, 

     That in that selve grove swoote and grene 

     Ther as he hadde hise amorouse desires, 

     His compleynte, and for love hise hoote fires 

     He wolde make a fyr, in which the office 

     Funeral he myghte al accomplice; 

     And leet comande anon to hakke and hewe 

     The okes olde, and leye hem on a rewe 

     In colpons, wel arrayed for to brenne. 

     Hise officers with swifte feet they renne 

     And ryden anon at his comandement; 

     And after this Theseus hath ysent 

     After a beere, and it al over-spradde 

     With clooth of gold, the richeste that he hadde. 

     And of the same suyte he cladde Arcite, 

     Upon his hondes hadde he gloves white, 

     EEk on his heed a coroune of laurer grene, 

     And in his hond a swerd ful bright and kene. 

     He leyde hym bare the visage on the beere, 

     Ther-with he weep that pitee was to heere. 

     And for the peple sholde seen hym alle, 

     Whan it was day, he broghte hym to the halle, 

     That roreth of the criyng and the soun. 

     Tho cam this woful Theban, Palamoun, 

     With flotery berd and rugged asshy heeres, 

     In clothes blake, ydropped al with teeres, 

     And passynge othere of wepynge Emelye, 

     The rewefulleste of al the compaignye. 

     In as muche as the servyce sholde be 

     The moore noble and riche in his degree, 

     Duc Theseus leet forth thre steedes brynge 

     That trapped were in steel al gliterynge, 

     And covered with the armes of daun Arcite. 

     Upon thise steedes that weren grete and white 

     Ther sitten folk, of whiche oon baar his sheeld, 

     Another his spere up in his hondes heeld, 

     The thridde baar with hym his bowe Turkeys, 

     Of brend gold was the caas, and eek the harneys; 

     And riden forth a paas, with sorweful cheere, 

     Toward the grove, as ye shul after heere. 

     The nobleste of the Grekes that ther were 

     Upon hir shuldres caryeden the beere, 

     With slakke paas, and eyen rede and wete, 

     Thurghout the citee by the maister-strete, 

     That sprad was al with blak, and wonder hye 

     Right of the same is the strete ywrye. 

     Upon the right hond wente olde Egeus, 

     And on that oother syde duc Theseus, 

     With vessel in hir hand of gold ful fyn, 

     Al ful of hony, milk, and blood, and wyn. 

     Eek Palamon, with ful greet compaignye, 

     And after that cam woful Emelye, 

     With fyr in honde, as was that tyme the gyse, 

     To do the office of funeral servyse. 

         Heigh labour, and ful greet apparaillynge, 

     Was at the service and the fyr makynge, 

     That with his grene top the heven raughte, 

     And twenty fadme of brede the armes straughte; 

     This is to seyn, the bowes weren so brode. 

     Of stree first ther was leyd ful many a lode, 

     But how the fyr was maked upon highte, 

     Ne eek the names that the trees highte, 

     As, ook, firre, birch, aspe, alder, holm, popeler, 

     Wylugh, elm, plane, assh, box, chasteyn, lynde, laurer, 

     Mapul, thorn, bech, hasel, ew, whippeltre, 

     How they weren fild shal nat be toold for me, 

     Ne how the goddes ronnen up and doun 

     Disherited of hir habitacioun, 

     In whiche they woneden in reste and pees, 

     Nymphes, Fawnes, and Amadrides; 

     Ne how the beestes and the briddes alle 

     Fledden for fere, whan the wode was falle; 

     Ne how the ground agast was of the light, 

     That was nat wont to seen the sonne bright; 

     Ne how the fyr was couched first with stree, 

     And thanne with drye stokkes clovena thre, 

     And thanne with grene wode and spicerye, 

     And thanne with clooth of gold and with perrye, 

     And gerlandes hangynge with ful many a flour, 

     The mirre, thencens, with al so greet odour; 

     Ne how Arcite lay among al this, 

     Ne what richesse aboute his body is, 

     Ne how that Emelye, as was the gyse, 

     Putte in the fyr of funeral servyse; 

     Ne how she swowned whan men made the fyr, 

     Ne what she spak, ne what was hir desir, 

     Ne what jeweles men in the fyr caste, 

     Whan that the fyr was greet and brente faste; 

     Ne how somme caste hir sheeld, and somme hir spere, 

     And of hire vestimentz whiche that they were, 

     And coppes full of wyn, and milk, and blood, 

     Into the fyr, that brente as it were wood, 

     Ne how the Grekes, with an huge route, 

     Thryes riden al the place aboute, 

     Upon the left hand with a loud shoutynge, 

     And thries with hir speres claterynge, 

     And thries how the ladyes gonne crye, 

     And how that lad was homward Emelye; 

     Ne how Arcite is brent to asshen colde, 

     Ne how that lychewake was yholde 

     Al thilke nyght, ne how the Grekes pleye 

     The wakepleyes ne kepe I nat to seye, 

     Who wrastleth best naked, with oille enoynt, 

     Ne who that baar hym best in no disjoynt; 

     I wol nat tellen eek, how that they goon 

     Hoom til Atthenes, whan the pley is doon; 

     But shortly to the point thanne wol I wende, 

     And maken of my longe tale an ende. 

        By processe, and by lengthe of certeyn yeres, 

     Al stynted is the moornynge and the teres 

     Of Grekes, by oon general assent. 

     Thanne semed me ther was a parlement 

     At Atthenes, upon certein pointz and caas, 

     Among the whiche pointz yspoken was  

     To have with certein contrees alliaunce, 

     And have fully of Thebans obeisaunce, 

     For which this noble Theseus anon 

     Leet senden after gentil Palamon, 

     Unwist of hym what was the cause and why. 

     But in hise blake clothes sorwefully 

     He cam at his comandement in hye; 

     Tho sente Theseus for Emelye. 

     Whan they were set, and hust was al the place, 

     And Theseus abiden hadde a space 

     Er any word cam fram his wise brest, 

     Hise eyen sette he ther as was his lest, 

     And with a sad visage he siked stille, 

     And after that right thus he seyde his wille. 

        "The firste moevere of the cause above 

     Whan he first made the faire cheyne of love, 

     Greet was theffect, and heigh was his entente; 

     Wel wiste he, why, and what therof he mente, 

     For with that faire cheyne of love he bond 

     The fyr, the eyr, the water, and the lond, 

     In certeyn boundes that they may nat flee. 

     That same prince and that same moevere," quod he, 

     "Hath stablissed in this wrecched world adoun 

     Certeyne dayes and duracioun 

     To al that is engendred in this place, 

     Over the whiche day they may nat pace; 

     Al mowe they yet tho dayes wel abregge, 

     Ther nedeth noght noon auctoritee allegge, 

     For it is preeved by experience- 

     But that me list declaren my sentence. 

     Thanne may men by this ordre wel discerne 

     That thilke moevere stable is and eterne. 

     Wel may men knowe, but it be a fool, 

     That every part deryveth from his hool; 

     For nature hath nat taken his bigynnyng 

     Of no partie nor cantel of a thyng, 

     But of a thyng that parfit is and stable, 

     Descendynge so til it be corrumpable; 

     And therfore, of his wise purveiaunce, 

     He hath so wel biset his ordinaunce, 

     That speces of thynges and progressiouns 

     Shullen enduren by successiouns, 

     And nat eterne, withouten any lye. 

     This maystow understonde and seen at eye. 

     Lo the ook, that hath so long a norisshynge 

     From tyme that it first bigynneth sprynge, 

     And hath so long a lif, as we may see, 

     Yet at the laste wasted is the tree. 

     Considereth eek, how that the harde stoon 

     Under oure feet, on which we trede and goon, 

     Yit wasteth it, as it lyth by the weye. 

     The brode ryver somtyme wexeth dreye, 

     The grete toures se we wane and wende, 

     Thanne may ye se that al this thyng hath ende. 

     Of man and womman seen we wel also, 

     That nedeth, in oon of thise termes two, 

     This is to seyn, in youthe or elles age, 

     He moot be deed, the kyng as shal a page. 

     Som in his bed, som in the depe see, 

     Som in the large feeld, as men may se; 

     Ther helpeth noght, al goth that ilke weye, 

     Thanne may I seyn that al this thyng moot deye. 

     What maketh this, but Juppiter the kyng, 

     That is prince and cause of alle thyng 

     Convertyng al unto his propre welle 

     From which it is deryved, sooth to telle, 

     And heer agayns no creature on lyve 

     Of no degree availleth for to stryve. 

     Thanne is it wysdom, as it thynketh me, 

     To maken vertu of necessitee, 

     And take it weel, that we may nat eschue; 

     And namely, that to us alle is due. 

     And who so gruccheth ought, he dooth folye, 

     And rebel is to hym that al may gye. 

     And certeinly, a man hath moost honour 

     To dyen in his excellence and flour, 

     Whan he is siker of his goode name, 

     Thanne hath he doon his freend ne hym no shame. 

     And galdder oghte his freend been of his deeth, 

     Whan with honour upyolden in his breeth, 

     Than whan his name apalled is for age; 

     For al forgeten is his vassellage. 

     Thanne is it best as for a worthy fame, 

     To dyen whan that he is best of name. 

     The contrarie of al this is wilfulnesse: 

     Why grucchen heere his cosyn and his wyf 

     That goode Arcite, of chivalrie flour, 

     Departed is with duetee and honour 

     Out of this foule prisoun of this lyf? 

     Why grucchen heere his cosyn and his wyf 

     Of his welfare, that loved hem so weel? 

     Kan he hem thank?  Nay, God woot never a deel! 

     That bothe his soule and eek hemself offende, 

     And yet they mowe hir lustes nat amende. 

        What may I concluden of this longe serye, 

     But after wo I rede us to be merye, 

     And thanken Juppiter of al his grace? 

     And er that we departen from this place 

     I rede that we make, of sorwes two, 

     O parfit joye lastyng everemo. 

     And looketh now, wher moost sorwe is her inne, 

     Ther wol we first amenden and bigynne. 

        "Suster," quod he, "this is my fulle assent, 

     With all thavys heere of my parlement, 

     That gentil Palamon thyn owene kynght, 

     That serveth yow with wille, herte, and myght, 

     And evere hath doon, syn that ye first hym knewe, 

     That ye shul of your grace upon hym rewe, 

     And taken hym for housbonde and for lord. 

     Lene me youre hond, for this is oure accord. 

     Lat se now of youre wommanly pitee; 

     He is a kynges brother sone, pardee, 

     And though he were a povre bacheler, 

     Syn he hath served yow so many a yeer, 

     And had for yow so greet adversitee, 

     It moste been considered, leeveth me, 

     For gentil mercy oghte to passen right." 

     Thanne seyde he thus to Palamon ful right: 

     "I trowe ther nedeth litel sermonyng 

     To make yow assente to this thyng. 

     Com neer, and taak youre lady by the hond." 

        Bitwixen hem was maad anon the bond 

     That highte matrimoigne, or mariage, 

     By al the conseil and the baronage. 

     And thus with alle blisse and melodye 

     Hath Palamon ywedded Emelye; 

     And God, that al this wyde world hath wroght, 

     Sende hym his love that hath it deere aboght! 

     For now is Palamon in alle wele, 

     Lyvynge in blisse, in richesse, and in heele, 

     And Emelye hym loveth so tendrely, 

     And he hir serveth al so gentilly, 

     That nevere was ther no word hem bitwene, 

     Of jalousie, or any oother teene. 

     Thus endeth Palamon and Emelye, 

     And God save al this faire compaignye!-Amen- 

     Heere is ended the knyghtes tale. 

     Part 3 

     PROLOGUE TO THE MILLERES TALE 

     Heere folwen the wordes bitwene the Hoost and the Millere 

        Whan that the Knyght had thus his tale ytoold, 

     In al the route ne was ther yong ne oold 

     That he ne seyde it was a noble storie, 

     And worthy for to drawen to memorie; 

     And namely the gentils everichon. 

     Oure Hooste lough, and swoor, "So moot I gon, 

     This gooth aright, unbokeled is the male, 

     Lat se now who shal telle another tale, 

     For trewely the game is wel bigonne. 

     Now telleth on, sir Monk, if that ye konne 

     Somwhat to quite with the Knyghtes tale." 

     The Miller that for-dronken was al pale, 

     So that unnethe upon his hors he sat, 

     He nolde avalen neither hood ne hat, 

     Ne abyde no man for his curteisie, 

     But in Pilates voys he gan to crie, 

     And swoor by armes and by blood and bones, 

     "I kan a noble tale for the nones, 

     With which I wol now quite the Knyghtes tale." 

     Oure Hooste saugh that he was dronke of ale, 

     And seyde, "Abyd, Robyn, my leeve brother, 

     Som bettre man shal telle us first another, 

     Abyd, and lat us werken thriftily." 

     "By Goddes soule," quod he, "that wol nat I, 

     For I wol speke, or elles go my wey." 

     Oure Hoost answerde, "Tel on, a devele wey! 

     Thou art a fool, thy wit is overcome! 

     "Now herkneth," quod the Miller, "alle and some, 

     But first I make a protestacioun 

     That I am dronke, I knowe it by my soun; 

     And therfore, if that I mysspeke or seye, 

     Wyte it the ale of Southwerk I you preye. 

     For I wol telle a legende and a lyf 

     Bothe of a carpenter and of his wyf, 

     How that a clerk hath set the wrightes cappe." 

     The Rev answerde and seyde, "Stynt thy clappe, 

     Lat be thy lewed dronken harlotrye, 

     It is a synne and eek a greet folye  

     To apeyren any man or hym defame, 

     And eek to bryngen wyves in swich fame; 

     Thou mayst ynogh of othere thynges seyn." 

     This dronke Miller spak ful soone ageyn, 

     And seyde, "Leve brother Osewold, 

     Who hath no wyf, he is no cokewold. 

     But I sey nat therfore that thou art oon, 

     Ther been ful goode wyves many oon, 

     And evere a thousand goode ayeyns oon badde; 

     That knowestow wel thyself, but if thou madde. 

     Why artow angry with my tale now? 

     I have a wyf, pardee, as wel as thow, 

     Yet nolde I for the oxen in my plogh 

     Take upon me moore than ynogh, 

     As demen of myself that I were oon; 

     I wol bileve wel, that I am noon. 

     An housbonde shal nat been inquisityf 

     Of Goddes pryvetee, nor of his wyf. 

     So he may fynde Goddes foysoun there, 

     Of the remenant nedeth nat enquere." 

     What sholde I moore seyn, but this Miller 

     He nolde his wordes for no man forbere, 

     But tolde his cherles tale in his manere; 

     Me thynketh that I shal reherce it heere. 

     And therfore every gentil wight I preye, 

     For Goddes love, demeth nat that I seye 

     Of yvel entente, but that I moot reherce 

     Hir tales alle, be they bettre or werse, 

     Or elles falsen som of my mateere. 

     And therfore who-so list it nat yheere, 

     Turne over the leef, and chese another tale; 

     For he shal fynde ynowe, grete and smale, 

     Of storial thyng that toucheth gentillesse, 

     And eek moralitee, and hoolynesse. 

     Blameth nat me if that ye chese amys; 

     The Miller is a cherl, ye knowe wel this, 

     So was the Reve, and othere manye mo, 

     And harlotrie they tolden bothe two. 

     Avyseth yow, and put me out of blame, 

     And eek men shal nat maken ernest of game. 

     THE TALE 

        (One John, a rich and credulous carpenter of Oxford, is 

     beguiled by his wife Alison, through Nicholas, a poor  

     scholar boarding with them.  Absolon, the parish clerk, is 

     slighted by Alison; but wreaks vengeance on Nicholas.) 

     Part 4 

     PROLOGUE TO THE REVES TALE 

     The prologe of the Reves Tale. 

        Whan folk hadde laughen at this nyce cas 

     Of Absolon and hende Nicholas, 

     Diverse folk diversely they seyde, 

     But for the moore part they loughe and pleyde, 

     Ne at this tale I saugh no man hym greve, 

     But it were oonly Osewold the Reve; 

     Bycause he was of carpenteres craft, 

     A litel ire is in his herte ylaft; 

     He gan to grucche, and blamed it a lite. 

     "So theek," quod he, "ful wel koude I you quite, 

     With bleryng of a proud milleres eye, 

     If that me liste speke of ribaudye. 

     But ik am oold, me list no pley for age, 

     Gras-tyme is doon, my fodder is now forage, 

     This white top writeth myne olde yeris, 

     Myn herte is also mowled as myne heris, 

     But if I fare as dooth an openers; 

     That ilke fruyt is ever leng the wers, 

     Til it be roten in mullok or in stree. 

     We olde men, I drede, so fare we, 

     Til we be roten kan we nat be rype. 

     We hoppen ay whil that the world wol pype, 

     For in oure wyl ther stiketh evere a nayl 

     To have an hoor heed and a grene tayl, 

     As hath a leek, for thogh oure myght be goon, 

     Oure wyl desireth folie evere in oon. 

     For whan we may nat doon, than wol we speke, 

     Yet in oure asshen olde is fyr yreke. 

     Foure gleedes han we whiche I shal devyse, 

     Avauntyng, liyng, anger, coveitise; 

     Thise foure sparkles longen unto eelde. 

     Oure olde lemes mowe wel been unweelde, 

     But wyl ne shal nat faillen, that is sooth. 

     And yet ik have alwey a coltes tooth, 

     As many a yeer as it is passed henne 

     Syn that my tappe of lif bigan to renne. 

     For sikerly whan I was bore, anon 

     Deeth drough the tappe of lyf, and leet it gon, 

     And ever sithe hath so the tappe yronne, 

     Til that almoost al empty is the tonne. 

     The streem of lyf now droppeth on the chymbe; 

     The sely tonge may wel rynge and chymbe 

     Of wrecchednesse that passed is ful yoore. 

     With olde folk, save dotage, is namoore." 

        Whan that oure Hoost hadde herd this sermonyng, 

     He gan to speke as lordly as a kyng, 

     He seide, "What amounteth al this wit? 

     What shul we speke alday of hooly writ? 

     The devel made a reve  for to preche, 

     And of a soutere, shipman, or a leche. 

     Sey forth thy tale, and tarie nat the tyme. 

     Lo Depeford, and it is half-wey pryme; 

     Lo, Grenewych, ther many a shrewe is inne; 

     It were al tyme thy tale to bigynne." 

        "Now sires," quod this Osewold the Reve, 

     "I pray yow alle, that ye nat yow greve, 

     Thogh I answere, and somdeel sette his howve, 

     For leveful is with force force of-showve. 

        This dronke Millere hath ytoold us heer,  

     How that bigyled was a Carpenteer, 

     Peraventure in scorn, for I am oon; 

     And by youre leve I shal hym quite anoon. 

     Right in his cherles termes wol I speke, 

     I pray to God his nekke mote breke! 

     He kan wel in myn eye seen a stalke, 

     But in his owene he kan nat seen a balke." 

        (Simkin, a rich thieving miller of Trumpington Mill, near 

     Cambridge, is well served by two Cambridge clerks of the 

     north country, who beguile his wife and daughter, recover 

     the stolen meal which he had hid, and leave him well beaten.) 

     Part 5 

     THE PROLOGUE TO THE COKES TALE. 

     The prologe of the Cokes Tale. 

        The Cook of London, whil the Reve spak, 

     For joye him thoughte, he clawed him on the bak. 

     "Ha! ha!" quod he, "for Criste passioun, 

     This miller hadde a sharp conclusioun 

     Upon his argument of herbergage. 

     Wel seyde Salomon in his langage, 

     `Ne brynge nat every man into thyn hous,' 

     For herberwynge by nyghte is perilous. 

     Wel oghte a man avysed for to be, 

     Whom that be broghte into his pryvetee. 

     I pray to God so yeve me sorwe and care, 

     If evere sitthe I highte Hogge of Ware, 

     Herde I a millere bettre yset awerk. 

     He hadde a jape of malice in the derk. 

     But God forbede that we stynte heere, 

     And therfore, if ye vouche-sauf to heere 

     A tale of me that am a povre man, 

     I wol yow telle, as wel as evere I kan, 

     A litel jape that fil in oure citee." 

     Oure Hoost answerde and seide, "I graunte it thee, 

     Now telle on, Roger, looke that it be good, 

     For many a pastee hastow laten blood, 

     And many a Jakke of Dovere hastow soold 

     That hath been twies hoot and twies cold. 

     Of many a pilgrim hastow Cristes curs, 

     For of thy percely yet they fare the wors, 

     That they han eten with thy stubbel-goos, 

     For in thy shoppe is many a flye loos. 

     Now telle on, gentil Roger, by thy name, 

     But yet I pray thee, be nat wroth for game, 

     A man may seye ful sooth in game and pley." 

     "Thou seist ful sooth," quod Roger, "by my fey; 

     But `sooth pley quaad pley,' as the Flemyng seith. 

     And ther-fore, Herry Bailly, by thy feith, 

     Be thou nat wrooth, er we departen heer, 

     Though that my tale be of an hostileer. 

     But nathelees I wol nat telle it yit, 

     But er we parte, ywis, thou shalt be quit." 

     And ther-with-al he lough and made cheere, 

     And seyde his tale, as ye shul after heere. 

     THE TALE (Unfinished). 

        (Perkin, a London apprentice, being dismissed by his 

     master, seeks his companions in dice, revel and disport.) 

     Part 6 

     GROUP B. 

     PROLOGUE OF THE MAN OF LAWE. 

     The wordes of the Hoost to the compaignye. 

        Oure Hooste saugh wel that the brighte sonne 

     The ark of his artificial day hath ronne 

     The ferthe part, and half an houre and moore; 

     And though he were nat depe expert in loore, 

     He wiste ti was the eightetethe day 

     Of Aprill, that is messager to May; 

     And saugh wel, that the shadwe of every tree 

     Was as in lengthe the same quantitee 

     That was the body erect that caused it, 

     And therfore by the shadwe he took his wit 

     That Phebus, which that shoon so clere and brighte, 

     Degrees was fyve and fourty clombe on highte; 

     And for that day, as in that latitude, 

     It was ten at the clokke, he gan conclude, 

     And sodeynly he plighte his hors aboute.- 

     "Lordynges," quod he, "I warne yow, al this route, 

     The fourthe party of this day is gon. 

     Now for the love of God and of Seint John, 

     Leseth no tyme, as ferforth as ye may. 

     Lordynges, the tyme wasteth nyght and day, 

     And steleth from us, what pryvely slepynge, 

     And what thurgh necligence in oure wakynge, 

     As dooth the streem, that turneth nevere agayn, 

     Descendyng fro the montaigne into playn. 

     Wel kan Senec and many a philosophre 

     Biwaillen tyme, moore than gold in cofre. 

     `for losse of catel may recovered be, 

     But losse of tyme shendeth us,' quod he. 

     It wol nat come agayn, withouten drede, 

     Namoore than wole Malkynes maydenhede, 

     Whan she hath lost it in hir wantownesse. 

     Lat us nat mowlen thus in ydelnesse; 

     Sir man of lawe," quod he, "so have ye blis, 

     Telle us a tale anon, as forward is. 

     Ye been submytted thurgh youre free assent 

     To stonden in this cas at my juggement. 

     Acquiteth yow as now of youre biheeste, 

     Thanne have ye do youre devoir atte leeste." 

        "Hooste," quod he, "Depardieux ich assente, 

     To breke forward is nat myn entente. 

     Biheste is dette, and I wole holde fayn 

     Al my biheste, I kan no bettre sayn. 

     For swich lawe as a man yeveth another wight, 

     He sholde hymselven usen it by right; 

     Thus wole oure text, but nathelees certeyn 

     I kan right now no thrifty tale seyn; 

     But Chaucer, thogh he kan but lewedly 

     On metres and on rymyng craftily, 

     Hath seyd hem in swich Englissh as he kan, 

     Of olde tyme, as knoweth many a man. 

     And if he have noght seyd hem, leve brother, 

     In o book, he hath seyd hem in another. 

     For he hath toold of loveris up and doun 

     Mo than Ovide made of mencioun, 

     In hise Episteles that been ful olde; 

     What sholde I tellen hem, syn they ben tolde? 

     In youthe he made of Ceys and Alcione, 

     And sitthen hath he spoken of everichone 

     Thise noble wyves and thise loveris eke. 

     Whoso that wole his large volume seke 

     Cleped the Seintes Legende of Cupide, 

     Ther may he seen the large woundes wyde 

     Of Lucresse, and of Babilan Tesbee, 

     The swerd of Dido for the false Enee, 

     The tree of Phillis for hir Demophon, 

     The pleinte of Dianire and Hermyon, 

     Of Adriane and of Isiphilee, 

     The bareyne yle stondynge in the see, 

     The dreynte Leandre for his Erro, 

     The teeris of Eleyne, and eek the wo 

     Of Brixseyde, and of the, Ladomea, 

     The crueltee of the, queene Medea, 

     Thy litel children hangyng by the hals 

     For thy Jason, that was in love so fals. 

     O Ypermystra, Penolopee, Alceste, 

     Youre wyfhede he comendeth with the beste! 

     But certeinly no word ne writeth he 

     Of thilke wikke ensample of Canacee, 

     That loved hir owene brother synfully- 

     Of swiche cursed stories I sey fy!- 

     Or ellis of Tyro Appollonius, 

     How that the cursed kyng Antiochus 

     Birafte his doghter of hir maydenhede, 

     That is so horrible a tale for to rede, 

     Whan he hir threw upon the pavement. 

     And therfore he, of ful avysement, 

     Nolde nevere write, in none of his sermouns, 

     Of swiche unkynde abhomynaciouns; 

     Ne I wol noon reherce, if that I may. 

     But of my tale how shall I doon this day? 

     Me were looth be likned, doutelees, 

     To Muses that men clepe Pierides- 

     Methamorphosios woot what I mene- 

     But nathelees, I recche noght a bene 

     Though I come after hym with hawebake, 

     I speke in prose, and lat him rymes make." 

     And with that word he, with a sobre cheere, 

     Bigan his tale, as ye shal after heere. 

     Part 7 

     THE TALE OF THE MAN OF LAWE. 

     The prologe of the Mannes Tale of Lawe. 

        O hateful harm, condicion of poverte! 

     With thurst, with coold, with hunger so confoundid! 

     To asken help thee shameth in thyn herte, 

     If thou noon aske, so soore artow ywoundid 

     That verray nede unwrappeth al thy wounde hid; 

     Maugree thyn heed thou most for indigence 

     Or stele, or begge, or borwe thy despence! 

     Thow blamest Crist, and seist ful bitterly 

     He mysdeparteth richesse temporal. 

     Thy neighebore thou wytest synfully, 

     And seist thou hast to lite and he hath al. 

     "Parfay!" seistow, "somtyme he rekene shal, 

     Whan that his tayl shal brennen in the gleede, 

     For he noght helpeth needfulle in hir neede." 

     Herkne what is the sentence of the wise, 

     "Bet is to dyen than have indigence." 

     Thy selve neighebor wol thee despise, 

     If thou be povre, farwel thy reverence! 

     Yet of the wise man take this sentence, 

     "Alle dayes of povre men been wikke;" 

     Be war therfore, er thou come to that prikke. 

     If thou be povre, thy brother hateth thee, 

     And alle thy freendes fleen from thee; allas, 

     O riche marchauntz, ful of wele been yee! 

     O noble, o prudent folk, as in this cas! 

     Youre bagges been nat fild with ambes as, 

     But with sys cynk, that renneth for youre chaunce, 

     At Cristemasse myrie may ye daunce! 

     Ye seken lond and see for your wynnynges, 

     As wise folk ye knowen all thestaat 

     Of regnes; ye been fadres of tydynges 

     And tales, bothe of pees and of debaat. 

     I were right now of tales desolaat 

     Nere that a marchant, goon is many a yeere, 

     Me taughte a tale, which that ye shal heere. 

     Heere begynneth the Man of Lawe his Tale. 

        In Surrye whilom dwelte a compaignye 

     Of chapmen riche, and therto sadde and trewe, 

     That wyde-where senten hir spicerye, 

     Clothes of gold, and satyns riche of hewe. 

     Hir chaffare was so thrifty and so newe 

     That every wight hath deyntee to chaffare 

     With hem, and eek to sellen hem hir ware. 

     Now fil it, that the maistres of that sort  

     Han shapen hem to Rome for to wende; 

     Were it for chapmanhode, or for disport, 

     Noon oother message wolde they thider sende, 

     But comen hemself to Rome, this is the ende, 

     And in swich place as thoughte hem avantage 

     For hir entente, they take hir herbergage. 

     Sojourned han thise Marchantz in that toun 

     A certein tyme, as fil to hire plesance. 

     And so bifel, that thexcellent renoun 

     Of the Emperoures doghter, Dame Custance, 

     Reported was, with every circumstance 

     Unto thise Surryen marchantz in swich wyse 

     Fro day to day, as I shal yow devyse. 

     This was the commune voys of every man: 

     "Oure Emperour of Rome, God hym see, 

     A doghter hath, that syn the world bigan, 

     To rekene as wel hir goodnesse as beautee, 

     Nas nevere swich another as is shee. 

     I prey to God in honour hir sustene 

     And wolde she were of all Europe the queene! 

     In hir is heigh beautee, withoute pride, 

     Yowthe, withoute grenehede or folye, 

     To alle hir werkes vertu is hir gyde, 

     Humblesse hath slayn in hir al tirannye, 

     She is mirour of alle curteisye, 

     Hir herte is verray chambre of hoolynesse, 

     Hir hand ministre of fredam for almesse." 

     And al this voys was sooth, as God is trewe! 

     But now to purpos, lat us turne agayn; 

     Thise marchantz han doon fraught hir shippes newe, 

     And whan they han this blisful mayden sayn, 

     Hoom to Surrye been they went ful fayn, 

     And doon hir nedes as they han doon yoore, 

     And lyven in wele, I kan sey yow namoore. 

     Now fil it, that thise marchantz stode in grace 

     Of hym, that was the Sowdan of Surrye. 

     For whan they cam from any strange place, 

     He wolde, of his benigne curteisye, 

     Make hem good chiere, and bisily espye 

     Tidynges of sondry regnes, for to leere 

     The wondres that they myghte seen or heere. 

     Amonges othere thynges, specially 

     Thise marchantz han hym toold of dame Custance 

     So greet noblesse, in ernest ceriously, 

     That this Sowdan hath caught so greet plesance 

     To han hir figure in his remembrance, 

     That all his lust and al his bisy cure 

     Was for to love hir, while his lyf may dure. 

     Praventure in thilke large book, 

     Which that men clipe the hevene, ywriten was 

     With sterres, whan that he his birthe took, 

     That he for love sholde han his deeth, allas! 

     For in the sterres clerer than is glas 

     Is writen, God woot, whoso koude it rede, 

     The deeth of every man, withouten drede. 

     In sterres many a wynter therbiforn 

     Was writen the deeth of Ector, Achilles, 

     Of Pompei, Julius, er they were born, 

     The strif of Thebes, and of Ercules, 

     Of Sampson, Turnus, and of Socrates 

     The deeth, but mennes wittes ben so dulle 

     That no wight kan wel rede it atte fulle. 

     This Sowdan for his privee conseil sente, 

     And, shortly of this matiere for to pace, 

     He hath to hem declared his entente 

     And seyde hem, certein, but he myghte have grace 

     To han Custance withinne a litel space, 

     He nas but deed; and charged hem in hye 

     To shapen for his lyf som remedye. 

     Diverse men diverse thynges seyden; 

     They argumenten, casten up and doun, 

     Many a subtil resoun forth they leyden, 

     They speken of magyk and abusioun; 

     But finally, as in conclusioun, 

     They kan nat seen in that noon avantage, 

     Ne in noon oother wey, save mariage. 

     Thanne sawe they therin swich difficultee 

     By wey of reson, for to speke al playn 

     Bycause that ther was swich diversitee 

     Bitwene hir bothe lawes, that they sayn 

     They trowe that "no cristene prince wolde fayn 

     Wedden his child under oure lawes swete 

     That us were taught by Mahoun oure prophete." 

     And he answerde: "Rather than I lese 

     Custance, I wol be cristned, doutelees. 

     I moot been hires, I may noon oother chese; 

     I prey yow, hoold youre argumentz in pees. 

     Saveth my lyf, and beth noght recchelees 

     To geten hir that hath my lyf in cure, 

     For in this wo I may nat longe endure." 

     What nedeth gretter dilatacioun? 

     I syey, by tretys and embassadrye 

     And by the popes mediacioun, 

     And al the chirche and al the chivalrie, 

     That in destruccioun of Mawmettrie 

     And in encrees of Cristes lawe deere, 

     They been acorded, so as ye shal heere, 

     How that the Sowdan and his baronage 

     And alle hise liges sholde ycristned be- 

     And he shal han Custance in mariage, 

     And certein gold, I noot what quantitee, 

     And heerto founden suffisant suretee. 

     This same accord was sworn on eyther syde. 

     Now, faire Custance, almyghty God thee gyde! 

     Now wolde som men waiten, as I gesse, 

     That I sholde tellen al the purveiance 

     That themperour, of his grete noblesse, 

     Hath shapen for his doghter dame Custance; 

     Wel may men knowen that so greet ordinance 

     May no man tellen in alitel clause 

     As was arrayed for so heigh a cause. 

     Bisshopes been shapen with hir for to wende, 

     Lordes, ladies, knyghtes of renoun, 

     And oother folk ynogh, this is the ende, 

     And notified is, thurghout the toun, 

     That every wight with greet devocioun 

     Sholde preyen Crist, that he this mariage 

     Receyve in gree, and spede this viage. 

     The day is comen of hir departynge, 

     I seye, the woful day fatal is come, 

     That ther may be no lenger tariynge, 

     But forthward they hem dressen, alle and some. 

     Custance, that was with sorwe al overcome, 

     Ful pale arist, and dresseth hir to wende, 

     For wel she seeth ther is noon oother ende. 

     Allas, what wonder is it thogh she wepte, 

     That shal be sent to strange nacioun 

     Fro freendes that so tendrely hir kepte, 

     And to be bounden under subjeccioun 

     Of oon, she knoweth nat his condicioun? 

     Housbondes been alle goode, and han ben yoore, 

     That knowen wyves!  I dar sey yow namoore. 

     "Fader," she seyde, "Thy wrecched child Custance, 

     Thy yonge doghter, fostred up so softe, 

     And ye my mooder, my soverayn plesance, 

     Over alle thyng, out-taken Crist on-lofte, 

     Custance, youre child, hir recomandeth ofte 

     Unto your grace, for I shal to Surrye 

     Ne shal I nevere seen yow moore with eye. 

     Allas! unto the barbre nacioun 

     I moste goon, syn that it is youre wille, 

     But Crist, that starf for our savacioun, 

     So yeve me grace hise heestes to fulfille,- 

     I, wrecche womman, no fors though I spille. 

     Wommen are born to thraldom and penance, 

     And to been under mannes governance." 

     I trowe, at Troye whan Pirrus brak the wal, 

     Or Ilion brende, ne at Thebes the Citee, 

     Ne at Rome for the harm thurgh Hanybal 

     That Romayns hath venquysshed tymes thre, 

     Nas herd swich tendre wepyng for pitee 

     As in the chambre was, for his departynge; 

     But forth she moot, wher-so she wepe or synge. 

     O firste moevyng crueel firmanent, 

     With thy diurnal sweigh, that crowdest ay 

     And hurlest al from Est til Occident 

     That naturelly wolde holde another way, 

     Thy crowdyng set the hevene in swich array 

     At the bigynnyng of this fiers viage, 

     That crueel Mars hath slayn this mariage. 

     Infortunat ascendent tortuous, 

     Of which the lord is helplees falle, allas! 

     Out of his angle into the derkeste hous. 

     O Mars! O Atazir! as in this cas, 

     O fieble Moone, unhappy been thy paas! 

     Thou knyttest thee, ther thou art nat receyved; 

     Ther thou were weel, fro thennes artow weyved.- 

     Imprudent Emperour of Rome, allas! 

     Was ther no philosophre in al thy toun? 

     Is no tyme bet than oother in swich cas? 

     Of viage is ther noon eleccioun, 

     Namely to folk of heigh condicioun, 

     Noght whan a roote is of a burthe yknowe? 

     Allas, we been to lewed or to slowe! 

     To ship is brought this woful faire mayde 

     Solempnely, with every circumstance, 

     "Now Jesu Crist be with yow alle," she seyde. 

     Ther nys namoore but, "Farewel faire Custance!" 

     She peyneth hir to make good contenance, 

     And forth I lete hir saille in this manere, 

     And turne I wole agayn to my matere. 

        The mooder of the Sowdan, welle of vyices, 

     Espied hath hir sones pleyne entente, 

     How he wol lete hise olde sacrifices, 

     And right anon she for hir conseil sente, 

     And they been come, to knowe what she mente, 

     And whan assembled was this folk in feere, 

     She sette hir doun, and seyde as ye shal heere. 

     "Lordes," quod she, "ye knowen everichon, 

     How that my sone in point is for to lete 

     The hooly lawes of oure Alkaron, 

     Yeven by Goddes message, Makomete. 

     But oon avow to grete God I heete, 

     The lyf shal rather out of my body sterte, 

     Than Makometes lawe out of myn herte! 

     What sholde us tyden of this newe lawe 

     But thraldom to our bodies, and penance, 

     And afterward in helle to be drawe 

     For we reneyed Mahoun oure creance? 

     But lordes, wol ye maken assurance 

     As I shal seyn, assentynge to my loore, 

     And I shal make us sauf for everemoore." 

        They sworen and assenten every man 

     To lyve with hir, and dye, and by hir stonde, 

     And everich in the beste wise he kan 

     To strengthen hir shal alle hise frendes fonde, 

     And she hath this emprise ytake on honde, 

     Which ye shal heren, that I shal devyse. 

     And to hem alle she spak right in this wyse: 

     "We shul first feyne us cristendom to take,- 

     Coold water shal nat greve us but a lite- 

     And I shal swich a feeste and revel make, 

     That as I trowe I shal the Sowdan quite; 

     For thogh his wyf be cristned never so white, 

     She shal have nede to wasshe awey the rede, 

     Thogh she a fontful water with hir lede!" 

        O Sowdanesse, roote of iniquitee! 

     Virage, thou Semyrame the secounde! 

     O serpent under femynyntee, 

     Lik to the serpent depe in helle ybounde! 

     O feyned womman, al that may confounde 

     Vertu and innocence thurgh thy malice 

     Is bred in thee, as nest of every vice! 

     O Sathan, envious syn thilke day 

     That thou were chaced from oure heritage, 

     Wel knowestow to wommen the olde way! 

     Thou madest Eva brynge us in servage; 

     Thou wolt fordoon this cristen mariage. 

     Thyn instrument, so weylawey the while! 

     Makestow of wommen, whan thou wolt bigile! 

     This Sowdanesse, whom I thus blame and warie, 

     Leet prively hir conseil goon hir way. 

     What sholde I in this tale lenger tarie? 

     She rydeth to the Sowdan on a day 

     And seyde hym, that she wolde reneye hir lay, 

     And cristendom of preestes handes fonge, 

     Repentynge hir she hethen was so longe; 

     Bisechynge hym to doon hir that honour 

     That she moste han the cristen folk to feeste. 

     "To plesen hem I wol do my labour." 

     The Sowdan seith, "I wol doon at youre heeste," 

     And knelynge thanketh hir of that requeste. 

     So gald he was, he nyste what to seye; 

     She kiste hir sone, and hoome she gooth hir weye. 

     Explicit prima pars. 

     Sequitur pars secunda. 

        Arryved been this cristen folk to londe, 

     In Surrye, with a greet solempne route, 

     And hastifliche this Sowdan sente his sonde 

     First to his mooder and all the regne aboute, 

     And seyde his wyf was comen, oute of doute, 

     And preyde hir for to ryde agayn the queene, 

     The honour of his regne to susteene. 

     Greet was the prees, and riche was tharray 

     Of Surryens and Romayns met yfeere; 

     The mooder of the Sowdan, riche and gay, 

     Receyveth hir with also glad a cheere 

     As any mooder myghte hir doghter deere, 

     And to the nexte citee ther bisyde 

     A softe pass solempnely they ryde. 

     Noght trowe I the triumphe of Julius, 

     Of which that Lucan maketh swich a boost, 

     Was roialler, ne moore curius 

     Than was thassemblee of this blisful hoost. 

     But this scorpioun, this wikked goost, 

     The Sowdanesse, for all hir falterynge 

     Caste under this ful mortally to stynge. 

     The Sowdabn comth hymself soone after this 

     So roially, that wonder is to telle, 

     And welcometh hir with alle joye and blis, 

     And thus in murthe and joye I lete hem dwelle- 

     The fruyt of this matiere is that I telle.- 

     Whan tyme cam, men thoughte it for the beste, 

     The revel stynte, and men goon to hir reste. 

     The tyme cam, this olde Sowdanesse 

     Ordeyned hath this feeste of which I tolde, 

     And to the feeste cristen folk hem dresse 

     In general, ye, bothe yonge and olde. 

     Heere may men feeste and roialtee biholde, 

     And deyntees mo than I kan yow devyse; 

     But al to deere they boghte it er they ryse! 

        O sodeyn wo, that evere art successour 

     To worldly blisse, spreynd with bitternesse! 

     The ende of the joye of oure worldly labour! 

     Wo occupieth the fyn of oure galdnesse! 

     Herke this conseil for thy sikernesse, 

     Upon thy galde day have in thy minde 

     The unwar wo or harm that comth bihynde. 

     For shortly for to tellen at o word, 

     The Sowdan and the cristen everichone 

     Been al tohewe and stiked at the bord, 

     But it were oonly dame Custance allone. 

     This olde Sowdanesse, cursed krone, 

     Hath with hir freendes doon this cursed dede, 

     For she hirself wolde all the contree lede. 

     Ne was ther Surryen noon, that was converted, 

     That of the conseil of the Sowdan woot, 

     That he nas al tohewe er he asterted. 

     And Custance han they take anon foot-hoot 

     And in a ship all steerelees, God woot, 

     They han hir set, and biddeth hir lerne saille 

     Out of Surrye agaynward to Ytaille. 

     A certein tresor that she thider ladde, 

     And, sooth to seyn, vitaille greet plentee 

     They han hir yeven, and clothes eek she hadde, 

     And forth she sailleth in the salte see. 

     O my Custance, ful of benignytee, 

     O emperoures yonge doghter deere, 

     He that is lord of Fortune be thy steere! 

     She blesseth hir, and with ful pitous voys 

     Unto the croys of Crist thus seyde she, 

     "O cleere, o welful auter, hooly croys, 

     Reed of the lambes blood, ful of pitee, 

     That wesshe the world fro the olde iniquitee, 

     Me fro the feend and fro his clawes kepe, 

     That day that I shal drenchen in the depe. 

     Victorious tree, proteccioun of trewe, 

     That oonly worthy were for to bere 

     The kyng of hevene with his woundes newe, 

     The white lamb that hurt was with the spere, 

     Flemer of feendes out of hym and here 

     On which thy lymes feithfully extenden, 

     Me keep, and yif me myght my lyf tamenden." 

     Yeres and dayes fleteth this creature 

     Thurghout the See of Grece unto the Strayte 

     Of Marrok, as it was hir aventure. 

     On many a sory meel now may she bayte; 

     After hir deeth ful often may she wayte, 

     Er that the wilde wawes wol hire dryve 

     Unto the place ther she shal arryve. 

        Men myghten asken why she was nat slayn? 

     Eek at the feeste who myghte hir body save? 

     And I answere to that demande agayn, 

     Who saved Danyel in the horrible cave, 

     Ther every wight save he, maister and knave, 

     Was with the leoun frete, er he asterte? 

     No wight but God, that he bar in his herte. 

     God liste to shewe his wonderful myracle 

     In hir, for we sholde seen his myghty werkis. 

     Crist, which that is to every harm triacle, 

     By certeine meenes ofte, as knowen clerkis, 

     Dooth thyng for certein ende, that ful derk is 

     To mannes wit, that for oure ignorance 

     Ne konne noght knowe his prudent purveiance. 

     Now, sith she was nat at the feeste yslawe, 

     Who kepte hir fro the drenchyng in the see? 

     Who kepte Jonas in the fisshes mawe 

     Til he was spouted up at Nynyvee? 

     Wel may men knowe it was no wight but he 

     That kepte peple Ebrayk from hir drenchynge, 

     With drye feet thurghout the see passynge. 

     Who bad the foure spirites of tempest, 

     That power han tanoyen lond and see, 

     "Bothe north and south, and also west and est, 

     Anoyeth neither see, ne land, ne tree?" 

     Soothly, the comandour of that was he, 

     That fro the tempest ay this womman kepte, 

     As wel eek when she wook as whan she slepte. 

     Where myghte this womman mete and drynke have? 

     Thre yeer and moore how lasteth hir vitaille? 

     Who fedde the Egypcien Marie in the cave, 

     Or in desert? 

     no wight but Crist sanz faille. 

     Fyve thousand folk it was as greet mervaille 

     With loves fyve and fisshes two to feede; 

     God sente his foyson at hir grete neede. 

     She dryveth forth into oure occian 

     Thurghout oure wilde see, til atte laste 

     Under an hoold that nempnen I ne kan, 

     Fer in Northhumberlond, the wawe hir caste, 

     And in the sond hir ship stiked so faste 

     That thennes wolde it noght of al a tyde, 

     The wyl of Crist was that she sholde abyde. 

     The constable of the castel doun is fare 

     To seen his wrak, and al the ship he soghte, 

     And foond this wery womman ful of care, 

     He foond also the tresor that she broghte, 

     In hir langage mercy she bisoghte, 

     The lyf out of hire body for to twynne, 

     Hir to delivere of wo that she was inne. 

     A maner Latyn corrupt was hir speche, 

     But algates ther-by was she understonde. 

     The constable, whan hym lyst no lenger seche, 

     This woful womman broghte he to the londe. 

     She kneleth doun and thanketh Goddes sonde; 

     But what she was, she wolde no man seye, 

     For foul ne fair, thogh that she sholde deye. 

     She seyde, she was so mazed in the see 

     That she forgat hir mynde, by hir trouthe. 

     The constable hath of hir so greet pitee, 

     And eke his wyf, that they wepen for routhe. 

     She was so diligent withouten slouthe 

     To serve and plesen everich in that place, 

     That alle hir loven that looken on hir face. 

     This constable and dame Hermengyld his wyf 

     Were payens, and that contree every-where; 

     But Hermengyld loved hir right as hir lyf, 

     And Custance hath so longe sojourned there 

     In orisons with many a bitter teere, 

     Til Jesu hath converted thurgh his grace 

     Dame Hermengyld, constablesse of that place. 

     In al that lond no cristen dorste route, 

     Alle cristen folk been fled fro that contree 

     Thurgh payens that conquereden al aboute 

     The plages of the North by land and see. 

     To Walys fledde the Cristyanytee 

     Of olde Britons, dwellynge in this Ile; 

     Ther was hir refut for the meene-while. 

     But yet nere cristene Britons so exiled 

     That ther nere somme that in hir privetee 

     Honoured Crist, and hethen folk bigiled, 

     And ny the castel swiche ther dwelten three; 

     That oon of hem was blynd, and myghte nat see, 

     But it were with thilke eyen of his mynde, 

     With whiche men seen, after that they ben blynde. 

        Bright was the sonne as in that someres day, 

     For which the constable and his wyf also 

     And Custance han ytake the righte way 

     Toward the see, a furlong wey or two, 

     To pleyen, and to romen, to and fro, 

     And in hir walk this blynde man they mette, 

     Croked and oold, with eyen faste yshette. 

     "In name of Crist," cride this olde Britoun, 

     "Dame Hermengyld, yif me my sighte agayn." 

     This lady weex affrayed of the soun, 

     Lest that hir housbonde, shortly for to sayn, 

     Wolde hir for Jesu Cristes love han slayn, 

     Til Custance made hir boold, and bad hir wirche 

     The wyl of Crist, as doghter of his chirche. 

     The constable weex abasshed of that sight, 

     And seyde, "What amounteth all this fare!" 

     Custance answerde, "Sire, it is Cristes myght, 

     That helpeth folk out of the feendes snare." 

     And so ferforth she gan oure lay declare, 

     That she the constable, er that it were eve, 

     Converteth, and on Crist maketh hym bileve. 

     This constable was no-thyng lord of this place 

     Of which I speke, ther he Custance fond; 

     But kepte it strongly many wyntres space 

     Under Alla, kyng of al Northhumbrelond, 

     That was ful wys and worthy of his hond 

     Agayn the Scottes, as men may wel heere;- 

     But turne I wole agayn to my mateere. 

     Sathan, that ever us waiteth to bigile, 

     Saugh of Custance al hir perfeccioun 

     And caste anon how he myghte quite hir while; 

     And made a yong knyght, that dwelte in that toun, 

     Love hir so hoote of foul affeccioun 

     That verraily hym thoughte he sholde spille, 

     But he of hir myghte ones have his wille. 

     He woweth hir, but it availleth noght, 

     She wolde do no synne, by no were; 

     And for despit he compassed in his thoght 

     To maken hir on shameful deeth to deye. 

     He wayteth whan the constable was aweye 

     And pryvely upon a nyght he crepte 

     In Hermengyldes chambre whil she slepte. 

     Wery, for-waked in hir orisouns, 

     Slepeth Custance, and Hermengyld also. 

     This knyght, thurgh Sathanas temptaciouns, 

     All softely is to the bed ygo, 

     And kitte the throte of Hermengyld atwo, 

     And leyde the blody knyf by dame Custance, 

     And wente his wey, ther God yeve hym meschance! 

     Soone after cometh this constable hoom agayn, 

     And eek Alla, that kyng was of that lond, 

     And saugh his wyf despitously yslayn, 

     For which ful ofte he weep and wroong his hond, 

     And in the bed the blody knyf he fond 

     By Dame Custance; allas, what myghte she seye? 

     For verray wo hir wit was al aweye! 

     To kyng Alla was toold al this meschance, 

     And eek the tyme, and where, and in what wise 

     That in a ship was founden dame Custance, 

     As heer-biforn that ye han herd devyse. 

     The kynges herte of pitee gan agryse, 

     Whan he saugh so benigne a creature 

     Falle in disese and in mysaventure. 

     For as the lomb toward his deeth is broght, 

     So stant this innocent bifore the kyng. 

     This false knyght, that hath this tresoun wroght, 

     Berth hir on hond that she hath doon thys thyng, 

     But nathelees, ther was greet moornyng 

     Among the peple, and seyn, they kan nat gesse 

     That she had doon so greet a wikkednesse; 

     For they han seyn hir evere so vertuous, 

     And lovyng Hermengyld right as hir lyf: 

     Of this baar witnesse everich in that hous 

     Save he that Hermengyld slow with his knyf. 

     This gentil kyng hath caught a greet motyf 

     Of this witnesse, and thoghte he wolde enquere 

     Depper in this, a trouthe for to lere. 

     Allas, Custance, thou hast no champioun! 

     Ne fighte kanstow noght, so weylaway! 

     But he, that starf for our redempcioun, 

     And boond Sathan-and yet lith ther he lay- 

     So be thy stronge champion this day! 

     For but if Crist open myracle kithe, 

     Withouten gilt thou shalt be slayn as swithe. 

     She sette hir doun on knees, and thus she sayde, 

     "Immortal God, that savedest Susanne 

     Fro false blame, and thou, merciful Mayde, 

     Marie I meene, doghter to Seynte Anne, 

     Bifore whos child angeles synge Osanne, 

     If I be giltlees of this felonye, 

     My socour be, for ellis shal I dye." 

        Have ye nat seyn som tyme a pale face 

     Among a prees, of hym that hath be lad 

     Toward his deeth, wher as hym gat no grace, 

     And swich a colour in his face hath had, 

     Men myghte knowe his face, that was bistad, 

     Amonges alle the faces in that route? 

     So stant Custance, and looketh hir aboute. 

     O queenes, lyvynge in prosperitee, 

     Duchesses, and ladyes everichone, 

     Haveth som routhe on hir adversitee; 

     An emperoures doghter stant allone, 

     She hath no wight to whom to make hir mone. 

     O blood roial, that stondest in this drede, 

     Fer been thy freendes at thy grete nede! 

        This Alla kyng hath swich compassioun, 

     As gentil herte is fulfild of pitee, 

     That from hise eyen ran the water doun. 

     "Now hastily do fecche a book," quod he, 

     "And if this knyght wol sweren how that she 

     This womman slow, yet wol we us avyse, 

     Whom that we wole, that shal been oure justise." 

     A Britoun book, written with Evaungiles, 

     Was fet, and on this book he swoor anoon 

     She gilty was, and in the meene-whiles 

     An hand hym smoot upon the nekke-boon, 

     That doun he fil atones, as a stoon; 

     And bothe hise eyen broste out of his face, 

     In sighte of every body in that place. 

     A voys was herd in general audience, 

     And seyde, "Thou hast desclaundred giltelees 

     The doghter of hooly chirche in heigh presence, 

     Thus hastou doon, and yet holde I my pees." 

     Of this mervaille agast was al the prees, 

     As mazed folk they stoden everichone 

     For drede of wreche, save Custance allone. 

     Greet was the drede and eek the repentance 

     Of hem that hadden wronge suspecioun 

     Upon this sely innocent, Custance; 

     And for this miracle, in conclusioun, 

     And by Custances mediacioun, 

     The kyng, and many another in that place, 

     Converted was, thanked be Cristes grace. 

     This false knyght was slayn for his untrouthe, 

     By juggement of Alla hastifly- 

     And yet Custance hadde of his deeth greet routhe- 

     And after this Jesus, of His mercy, 

     Made Alla wedden ful solempnely 

     This hooly mayden, that is so bright and sheene, 

     And thus hath Crist ymaad Custance a queene. 

     But who was woful, if I shal nat lye, 

     Of this weddyng but Donegild, and namo, 

     The kynges mooder, ful of tirannye? 

     Hir thoughte hir cursed herte brast atwo, 

     She wolde noght hir sone had do so, 

     Hir thoughte a despit, that he sholde take 

     So strange a creature unto his make. 

     Me list nat of the chaf nor of the stree 

     Maken so long a tale, as of the corn; 

     What sholde I tellen of the roialtee 

     At mariages, or which cours goth biforn, 

     Who bloweth in the trumpe, or in an horn? 

     The fruyt of every tale is for to seye; 

     They ete, and drynke, and daunce, and synge, and pleye. 

     They goon to bedde, as it was skile and right, 

     For thogh that wyves be ful hooly thynges, 

     They moste take in pacience at nyght 

     Swiche manere necessaries as been plesynges 

     To folk that han ywedded hem with rynges, 

     And leye a lite hir hoolynesse aside 

     As for the tyme, it may no bet bitide. 

     On hir he gat a knave childe anon, 

     And to a bisshop and his constable eke 

     He took his wyf to kepe, whan he is gon 

     To Scotlondward, his foomen for to seke. 

     Now faire Custance, that is so humble and meke, 

     So longe is goon with childe, til that stille 

     She halt hire chambre, abidyng Cristes wille. 

     The tyme is come; a knave child she beer, 

     Mauricius at the fontstoon they hym calle. 

     This constable dooth forth come a messageer, 

     And wroot unto his kyng, that cleped was Alle, 

     How that this blisful tidyng is bifalle, 

     And othere tidynges spedeful for to seye; 

     He taketh the lettre, and forth he gooth his weye. 

     This messager, to doon his avantage, 

     Unto the kynges mooder rideth swithe, 

     And salueth hir ful faire in his langage, 

     "Madame," quod he, "ye may be glad and blithe, 

     And thanketh God an hundred thousand sithe. 

     My lady queene hath child, withouten doute, 

     To joye and blisse to al this regne aboute. 

     Lo, heere the lettres seled of this thyng, 

     That I moot bere with al the haste I may. 

     If ye wol aught unto youre sone, the kyng, 

     I am youre servant both nyght and day." 

     Donegild answerde, "as now at this tyme, nay, 

     But heere al nyght I wol thou take thy reste, 

     Tomorwe wol I seye thee what me leste." 

     This messager drank sadly ale and wyn, 

     And stolen wer hise lettres prively 

     Out of his box, whil he sleep as a swyn; 

     And countrefeted was ful subtilly 

     Another lettre wroght ful synfully, 

     Unto the kyng direct of this mateere 

     Fro his constable, as ye shal after heere. 

     The lettre spak, the queene delivered was 

     Of so horrible a feendly creature 

     That in the castel noon so hardy was 

     That any while dorste ther endure; 

     The mooder was an elf, by aventure, 

     Yeomen by charmes or by sorcerie, 

     And every wight hateth hir compaignye. 

     Wo was this kyng whan he this lettre had sayn, 

     But to no wight he tolde his sorwes soore, 

     But of his owene hand he wroot agayn: 

     "Welcome the sonde of Crist for everemoore 

     To me, that am now lerned in his loore. 

     Lord, welcome be thy lust and thy plesaunce, 

     My lust I putte al in thyn ordinaunce. 

     Kepeth this child, al be it foul or feire, 

     And eek my wyf, unto myn hoom-comynge; 

     Crist, whan hym list, may sende me an heir 

     Moore agreable than this to my likynge." 

     This lettre he seleth, pryvely wepynge, 

     Which to the messager was take soone 

     And forth he gooth, ther is namoore to doone. 

        O messager, fulfild of dronkenesse, 

     Strong is thy breeth, thy lymes faltren ay, 

     And thou biwreyest alle secreenesse. 

     Thy mynde is lorn, thou janglest as a jay, 

     Thy face is turned in a newe array; 

     Ther dronkenesse regneth in any route, 

     Ther is no conseil hyd, withouten doute. 

     O Donegild, I ne have noon Englissh digne 

     Unto thy malice and thy tirannye; 

     And therfore to the feend I thee resigne, 

     Lat hym enditen of thy traitorie! 

     Fy, mannysh, fy?  O nay, by God, I lye! 

     Fy, feendlych spirit! for I dar wel telle, 

     Thogh thou heere walke, thy spirit is in helle. 

     This messager comth fro the kyng agayn, 

     And at the kynges moodres court he lighte 

     And she was of this messager ful fayn, 

     And plesed hym in al that ever she myghte. 

     He drank, and wel his girdel underpighte. 

     He slepeth, and he fnorteth in his gyse 

     Al nyght until the sonne gan aryse. 

     Eft were hise lettres stolen everychon 

     And countrefeted lettres in this wyse, 

     "The king comandeth his constable anon 

     Up peyne of hangyng and on heigh juyse 

     That he ne sholde suffren in no wyse 

     Custance inwith his reawme for tabyde, 

     Thre dayes and o quarter of a tyde. 

     But in the same ship as he hir fond, 

     Hir and hir yonge sone, and al hir geere, 

     He sholde putte, and croude hir fro the lond, 

     And chargen hir she never eft coome theere." 

     O my Custance, wel may thy goost have fere, 

     And slepynge in thy dreem been in penance, 

     Whan Donegild cast al this ordinance. 

        This messager, on morwe whan he wook, 

     Unto the Castel halt the nexte way, 

     And to the constable he the lettre took. 

     And whan that he this pitous lettre say, 

     Ful ofte he seyde, "Allas and weylaway!" 

     "Lord Crist," quod he, "how may this world endure, 

     So ful of synne is many a creature? 

     O myghty God, if that it be thy wille, 

     Sith thou art rightful juge, how may it be 

     That thou wolt suffren innocentz to spille, 

     And wikked folk regnen in prosperitee? 

     O goode Custance, allas, so wo is me, 

     That I moot be thy tormentour, or deye 

     On shames deeth!  Ther is noon oother weye!" 

        Wepen bothe yonge and olde in al that place, 

     Whan that the kyng this cursed lettre sente, 

     And Custance, with a deedly pale face, 

     The ferthe day toward the ship she wente; 

     But nathelees she taketh in good entente 

     The wyl of Crist, and knelynge on the stronde, 

     She seyde, "Lord, ay welcome be thy sonde! 

     He that me kepte fro the false blame, 

     While I was on the lond amonges yow, 

     He kan me kepe from harm and eek fro shame 

     In salte see, al thogh I se noght how. 

     As strong as evere he was, he is yet now; 

     In hym triste I, and in his mooder deere, 

     That is to me myu seyl and eek my steere." 

     Hir litel child lay wepyng in hir arm, 

     And knelynge, pitously to hym she seyde, 

     "Pees, litel sone, I wol do thee noon harm." 

     With that hir coverchief on hir heed she breyde, 

     And over hise litel eyen she it leyde, 

     And in hir arm she lulleth it ful faste, 

     And into hevene hir eyen up she caste. 

     "Mooder," quod she, "and mayde bright, Marie, 

     Sooth is that thurgh wommanes eggement 

     Mankynde was lorn and damned ay to dye, 

     For which thy child was on a croys yrent; 

     Thy blisful eyen sawe al his torment; 

     Thanne is ther no comparison bitwene 

     Thy wo, and any wo man may sustene. 

     Thow sawe thy child yslayn bifore thyne eyen, 

     And yet now lyveth my litel child, parfay. 

     Now, lady bright, to whom alle woful cryen, 

     Thow glorie of wommanhede, thow faire may, 

     Thow haven of refut, brighte sterre of day, 

     Rewe on my child, that of thy gentillesse 

     Ruest on every reweful in distresse. 

     O litel child, allas, what is thy gilt, 

     That nevere wroghtest synne as yet, pardee! 

     Why wil thyn harde fader han thee spilt? 

     O mercy, deere Constable," quod she, 

     "As lat my litel child dwelle heer with thee; 

     And if thou darst nat saven hym for blame, 

     Yet kys hym ones in his fadres name." 

     Therwith she looketh bakward to the londe, 

     And seyde, "Farwel, housbonde routheless!" 

     And up she rist, and walketh doun the stronde, 

     Toward the ship.  Hir folweth al the prees, 

     And evere she preyeth hir child to holde his pees, 

     And taketh hir leve, and with an hooly entente 

     She blisseth hir, and into ship she wente. 

     Vitailled was the ship, it is no drede, 

     Habundantly for hir ful longe space; 

     And othere necessaries that sholde nede 

     She hadde ynogh, heried be Goddes grace; 

     For wynd and weder almyghty God purchace, 

     And brynge hir hoom, I kan no bettre seye! 

     But in the see she dryveth forth hir weye. 

        Alla the kyng comth hoom, soone after this, 

     Unto his castel of the which I tolde, 

     And asketh where his wyf and his child is. 

     The constable gan aboute his herte colde, 

     And pleynly al the manere he hym tolde, 

     As ye han herd, I kan telle it no bettre; 

     And sheweth the kyng his seel and eek his lettre, 

     And seyde, "Lord, as ye comanded me, 

     Up peyne of deeth, so have I doon, certein." 

     This messager tormented was, til he 

     Moste biknowe, and tellen plat and pleyn 

     Fro nyght to nyght in what place he had leyn, 

     And thus by wit and sotil enquerynge 

     Ymagined was, by whom this harm gan sprynge. 

     The hand was knowe that the lettre wroot, 

     And al the venym of this cursed dede, 

     But in what wise certeinly I noot. 

     Theffect is this, that Alla, out of drede, 

     His mooder slow, that may men pleynly rede, 

     For that she traitoure was to hir ligeance, 

     Thus endeth olde Donegild, with meschance! 

        The sorwe that this Alla, nyght and day, 

     Maketh for his wyf, and for his child also, 

     Ther is no tonge that it telle may- 

     But now wol I unto Custance go, 

     That fleteth in the see in peyne and wo, 

     Fyve yeer and moore, as liked Cristes sonde, 

     Er that hir ship approched unto londe. 

     Under an hethen castel, atte laste, 

     Of which the name in my text toght I fynde, 

     Custance and eek hir child the see upcaste. 

     Almyghty god that saved al mankynde, 

     Have on Custance and on hir child som mynde, 

     That fallen is in hethen hand eft-soone, 

     In point to spille, as I shal telle yow soone. 

     Doun fro the castel comth ther many a wight 

     To gauren on this ship and on Custance, 

     But shortly from the castel on a nyght 

     The lordes styward, God yeve hym meschance!- 

     A theef that hadde reneyed oure creance, 

     Cam into the ship allone, and seyde he sholde 

     Hir lemman be, wherso she wolde or nolde. 

     Wo was this wrecched womman tho bigon! 

     Hir child cride, and she cride pitously, 

     But blisful Marie heelp hir right anon, 

     For with hir struglyng wel and myghtily, 

     The theef fil over bord al sodeynly, 

     And in the see he dreynte for vengeance, 

     And thus hath Crist unwemmed kept Custance. 

        O foule lust of luxurie, lo, thyn ende! 

     Nat oonly that thou feyntest mannes mynde, 

     But verraily thou wolt his body shende. 

     Thende of thy werk or of thy lustes blynde 

     Is compleynyng; hou many oon may men fynde, 

     That noght for werk somtyme, but for thentente 

     To doon this synne, been outher slayn or shente! 

     How may this wayke womman han this strengthe 

     Hir to defende agayn this renegat? 

     O Golias, unmesurable of lengthe, 

     Hou myghte David make thee so maat, 

     So yong, and of armure so desolaat? 

     Hou dorste he looke upon thy dredful face? 

     Wel may men seen, it nas but Goddes grace! 

     Who yaf Judith corage or hardynesse 

     To sleen hym, Olofernus, in his tente, 

     And to deliveren out of wrecchednesse 

     The peple of God?  I seyde, for this entente 

     That right as God spirit of vigour sente 

     To hem, and saved hem out of meschance, 

     So sente he myght and vigour to Custance. 

     Forth gooth hir ship thurghout the narwe mouth 

     Of Jubaltar and Septe, dryvynge alway, 

     Somtyme west, and somtyme north and south, 

     And somtyme est, ful many a wery day; 

     Til Cristes mooder-blessed be she ay!- 

     Hath shapen, thurgh hir endelees goodnesse, 

     To make an ende of al hir hevynesse. 

        Now lat us stynte of Custance but a throwe, 

     And speke we of the Romayn Emperour, 

     That out of Surrye hath by lettres knowe 

     The slaughtre of cristen folk, and dishonour 

     Doon to his doghter by a fals traytour, 

     I mene the cursed wikked Sowdanesse, 

     That at the feeste leet sleen both moore and lesse; 

     For which this emperour hath sent anon 

     His senatour with roial ordinance, 

     And othere lordes, God woot many oon, 

     On Surryens to taken heigh vengeance. 

     They brennen, sleen, and brynge hem to meschance 

     Ful many a day, but shortly, this is thende, 

     Hoomward to Rome they shapen hem to wende. 

     This senatour repaireth with victorie 

     To Romeward saillynge ful roially, 

     And mette the ship dryvynge, as seith the storie, 

     In which Custance sit ful pitously. 

     No thyng ne knew he what she was, ne why 

     She was in swich array, ne she nyl seye 

     Of hir estat, thogh that she sholde deye. 

     He bryngeth hir to Rome, and to his wyf 

     He yaf hir, and hir yonge sone also, 

     And with the senatour she ladde hir lyf. 

     Thus kan oure Lady bryngen out of wo 

     Woful Custance, and many another mo. 

     And longe tyme dwelled she in that place, 

     In hooly werkes evere, as was hir grace. 

     The senatoures wyf hir aunte was, 

     But for all that she knew hir never the moore- 

     I wol no lenger tarien in this cas, 

     But to kyng Alla, which I spake of yoore, 

     That wepeth for his wyf and siketh soore, 

     I wol retourne, and lete I wol Custance 

     Under the senatoures governance. 

        Kyng Alla, which that hadde his mooder slayn, 

     Upon a day fil in swich repentance 

     That, if I shortly tellen shal and playn, 

     To Rome he comth, to receyven his penance, 

     And putte hym in the popes ordinance 

     In heigh and logh, and Jesu Crist bisoghte 

     Foryeve hise wikked werkes that he wroghte. 

     The fame anon thurgh Rome toun is born 

     How Alla kyng shal comen on pilgrymage, 

     By herbergeours that wenten hym biforn, 

     For which the Senatour, as was usage, 

     Rood hym agayns, and many of his lynage, 

     As wel to shewen his heighe magnificence 

     As to doon any kyng a reverence. 

     Greet cheere dooth this noble Senatour 

     To kyng Alla, and he to hym also, 

     Everich of hem dooth oother greet honour; 

     And so bifel, that inwith a day or two 

     This senatour is to kyng Alla go 

     To feste; and shortly, if I shal nat lye, 

     Custances sone wente in his compaignye. 

     Som men wolde seyn, at requeste of Custance 

     This senatour hath lad this child to feeste; 

     I may nat tellen every circumstance, 

     Be as be may, ther was he at the leeste, 

     But sooth is this, that at his moodres heeste 

     Biforn Alla durynge the metes space, 

     The child stood lookynge in the kynges face. 

     This Alla kyng hath of this child greet wonder, 

     And to the senatour he seyde anon, 

     "Whos is that faire child, that stondeth yonder?" 

     "I noot," quod he, "by God and by Seint John! 

     A mooder he hath, but fader hath he noon, 

     That I of woot."  But shortly, in a stounde, 

     He tolde Alla how that this child was founde. 

     "But God woot," quod this senatour also, 

     "So vertuous a lyver in my lyf 

     Ne saugh I nevere as she, ne herde of mo 

     Of worldly wommen, mayde, ne of wyf; 

     I dar wel seyn, hir hadde levere a knyf 

     Thurghout hir brest, than ben a womman wikke, 

     There is no man koude brynge hir to that prikke." 

     Now was this child as lyke unto Custance, 

     As possible is a creature to be. 

     This Alla hath the face in remembrance 

     Of dame Custance, and theron mused he, 

     If that the childes mooder were aught she 

     That is his wyf; and prively he sighte 

     And spedde hym fro the table that he myghte. 

     "Parfay," thoghte he, "fantome is in myn heed. 

     I oghte deme, of skilful juggement,  

     That in the salte see my wyf is deed." 

     And afterward he made his argument: 

     "What woot I, if that Crist have hyder ysent 

     My wyf by see, as wel as he hir sente 

     To my contree fro thennes that she wente?" 

     And, after noon, hoom with the senatour 

     Goth Alla, for to seen this wonder chaunce. 

     This senatour dooth Alla greet honour, 

     And hastifly he sente after Custance. 

     But trusteth weel, hir liste nat to daunce 

     Whan that she wiste wherfore was that sonde; 

     Unnethe upon hir feet she myghte stonde. 

     Whan Alla saugh his wyf, faire he hir grette, 

     And weep, that it was routhe for to see. 

     For at the firste look he on hir sette, 

     He knew wel verraily that it was she. 

     And she for sorwe as doumb stant as a tree, 

     So was hir herte shet in hir distresse, 

     Whan she remembred his unkyndenesse. 

     Twyes she swowned in his owene sighte. 

     He weep, and hym excuseth pitously. 

     "Now God," quod he, "and alle hise halwes brighte 

     So wisly on my soule as have mercy, 

     That of youre harm as giltelees am I 

     As is Maurice my sone, so lyk youre face; 

     Elles the feend me fecche out of this place!" 

     Long was the sobbyng and the bitter peyne 

     Er that hir woful hertes myghte cesse, 

     Greet was the pitee for to heere hem pleyne, 

     Thurgh whiche pleintes gan hir wo encresse. 

     I pray yow alle my labour to relesse; 

     I may nat telle hir wo until tomorwe, 

     I am so wery for to speke of sorwe. 

     But finally, whan that the sothe is wist, 

     That Alla giltelees was of hir wo, 

     I trowe an hundred tymes been they kist, 

     And swich a blisse is ther bitwix hem two, 

     That save the joye that lasteth everemo 

     Ther is noon lyk that any creature 

     Hath seyn, or shal, whil that the world may dure. 

     Tho preyde she hir housbonde mekely, 

     In relief of hir longe pitous pyne, 

     That he wolde preye hir fader specially 

     That, of his magestee, he wolde enclyne 

     To vouchesauf som day with hym to dyne. 

     She preyde hym eek, he wolde by no weye 

     Unto hir fader no word of hir seye. 

     Som men wolde seyn, how that the child Maurice 

     Dooth this message unto this emperour, 

     But, as I gesse, Alla was nat so nyce 

     To hym that was of so sovereyn honour, 

     As he that is of cristen folk the flour, 

     Sente any child, but it is bet to deeme 

     He wente hymself, and so it may wel seeme. 

     This emperour hath graunted gentilly 

     To come to dyner, as he hym bisoughte, 

     And wel rede I he looked bisily 

     Upon this child, and on his doghter thoghte. 

     Alla goth to his in, and as him oghte 

     Arrayed for this feste in every wise 

     As ferforth as his konnyng may suffise. 

     The morwe cam, and Alla gan hym dresse 

     And eek his wyf, this emperour to meete, 

     And forth they ryde in joye and in galdnesse, 

     And whan she saugh hir fader in the strete, 

     She lighte doun and falleth hym to feete. 

     "Fader," quod she, "youre yonge child Custance 

     Is now ful clene out of youre remembrance. 

     I am youre doghter Custance," quod she, 

     "That whilom ye han sent unto Surrye. 

     It am I, fader, that in the salte see 

     Was put allone, and dampned for to dye. 

     Now goode fader, mercy I yow crye, 

     Sende me namoore unto noon hethenesse, 

     But thonketh my lord heere of his kyndenesse." 

     Who kan the pitous joye tellen al 

     Bitwix hem thre, syn they been thus ymette? 

     But of my tale make an ende I shal, 

     The day goth faste, I wol no lenger lette. 

     This glade folk to dyner they hem sette, 

     In joye and blisse at mete I lete hem dwelle, 

     A thousand foold wel moore than I kan telle. 

     This child Maurice was sithen emperour 

     Maad by the pope, and lyved cristenly. 

     To Cristes chirche he dide greet honour; 

     But I lete all his storie passen by- 

     Of Custance is my tale specially- 

     In the olde Romayn geestes may men fynde 

     Maurices lyf, I bere it noght in mynde. 

     This kyng Alla, whan he his tyme say, 

     With his Custance, his hooly wyf so sweete, 

     To Engelond been they come the righte way, 

     Wher as they lyve in joye and in quiete. 

     But litel while it lasteth, I yow heete, 

     Joye of this world, for tyme wol nat abyde, 

     Fro day to nyght it changeth as the tyde. 

     Who lyved evere in swich delit o day 

     That hym ne moeved outher conscience 

     Or ire, or talent, or som-kyn affray, 

     Envye, or pride, or passion, or offence? 

     I ne seye but for this ende this sentence, 

     That litel while in joye or in plesance 

     Lasteth the blisse of Alla with Custance. 

     For deeth, that taketh of heigh and logh his rente, 

     Whan passed was a yeer, evene as I gesse, 

     Out of this world this kyng Alla he hente, 

     For whom Custance hath ful greet hevynesse. 

     Now lat us praye God his soule blesse, 

     And dame Custance, finally to seye, 

     Toward the toun of Rome goth hir weye. 

     To Rome is come this hooly creature, 

     And fyndeth ther hir freendes hoole and sounde. 

     Now is she scaped al hire aventure, 

     And whan that she hir fader hath yfounde, 

     Doun on hir knees falleth she to grounde, 

     Wepynge for tendrenesse, in herte blithe, 

     She heryeth God an hundred thousande sithe. 

     In vertu and in hooly almus-dede 

     They lyven alle, and never asonder wende 

     Til deeth departed hem; this lyf they lede;- 

     And fareth now weel, my tale is at an ende. 

     Now Jesu Crist, that of his myght may sende 

     Joye after wo, governe us in his grace, 

     And kepe us alle that been in this place.  Amen. 

     Heere endeth the tale of the Man of Lawe. 

     Part 8 

     PROLOGUE TO THE SHIPMANNES TALE 

     Here endith the man of lawe his tale.  And next folwith 

     the Shipman his prolog. 

        Oure Ost upon his stiropes stood anoon, 

     And seide, "Good men, herkeneth everychoon; 

     This was a thrifty tale for the nonys. 

     Sir parisshe preste," quod he, "for Godis bonys, 

     Telle us a tale, as was thi forward yore; 

     I se wel, that ye lernede men in lore 

     Can meche good, bi Godis dignite." 

     The parson him answerde, "Benedicite, 

     What eyleth the man so synfully to swere?" 

     Oure Ost answerde, "O Jankyn, be ye there? 

     I smelle a Lollere in the wynde," quod he, 

     "Howe, goodmen," quod oure Hoste, "herkeneth me, 

     Abyde for Godis digne passioun, 

     For we shul han a predicacioun, 

     This Lollere here wol prechen us somwhat." 

     "Nay, bi Godis soule, that shal he nat," 

     Seyde the Shipman, "here shal he not preche, 

     He shal no gospel glosen here, ne teche. 

     We leven alle in the grete God," quod he, 

     "He wolde sowen som difficulte 

     Or sprengen cokkel in oure clene corn. 

     And therfore, Ost, I warne the biforn, 

     My joly body shal a tale telle 

     And I shal clynkyn yow so mery a belle 

     That I shal wakyn al this companye; 

     But it shal not ben of Philosophie, 

     Ne phislyas, ne termes queynte of lawe; 

     Ther nis but litil Latyn in my mawe." 

     Here endith the Shipman his prolog.  And next folwyng  

     he bigynneth his tale. 

     THE TALE. 

        (Daun John, a monk of Paris, beguiles the wife of a  

     merchant of St. Denis by money borrowed from her husband. 

     She saves herself, on the point of discovery, by a ready 

     answer.) 

     END-LINK 

        Bihoold the murie wordes of the Hoost to the Shipman 

     and to the lady Prioresse. 

        "Wel seyd, by corpus dominus," quod our Hoost, 

     "Now longe moote thou saille by the cost, 

     Sir gentil maister, gentil maryneer. 

     God yeve this monk a thousand last quade yeer! 

     A ha! felawes, beth ware of swich a jape. 

     The monk putte in the mannes hood an ape, 

     And in his wyves eek, by Seint Austyn; 

     Draweth no monkes moore unto your in. 

     But now passe over, and lat us seke aboute 

     Who shal now telle first of al this route 

     Another tale?" and with that word he sayde, 

     As curteisly as it had ben a mayde, 

     "My lady Prioresse, by youre leve, 

     So that I wiste I sholde yow nat greve, 

     I wolde demen that ye tellen sholde 

     A tale next, if so were that ye wolde. 

     Now wol ye vouchesauf, my lady deere?" 

     "Gladly," quod she, and seyde as ye shal heere. 

     Part 9 

     THE PRIORESSES TALE 

     The prologe of the Prioresses tale. 

     Domine dominus noster. 

        O lord oure lord, thy name how merveillous 

     Is in this large world ysprad-quod she- 

     For noght oonly thy laude precious 

     Parfourned is by men of dignitee, 

     But by the mouth of children thy bountee 

     Parfourned is, for on the brest soukynge 

     Somtyme shewen they thyn heriynge. 

     Wherfore in laude, as I best kan or may, 

     Of thee, and of the whyte lylye flour 

     Which that the bar, and is a mayde alway, 

     To telle a storie I wol do my labour; 

     Nat that I may encreessen hir honour, 

     For she hirself is honour, and the roote 

     Of bountee, next hir sone, and soules boote. 

     O mooder mayde!  O mayde mooder fre! 

     O bussh unbrent, brennynge in Moyses sighte, 

     That ravysedest doun fro the deitee 

     Thurgh thyn humblesse, the goost that in thalighte, 

     Of whos vertu, whan he thyn herte lighte, 

     Conceyved was the Fadres sapience, 

     Help me to telle it in thy reverence. 

     Lady, thy bountee, thy magnificence, 

     Thy vertu, and thy grete humylitee, 

     Ther may no tonge expresse in no science, 

     For somtyme, lady, er men praye to thee, 

     Thou goost biforn of thy benyngnytee 

     And getest us the lyght, thurgh thy preyere, 

     To gyden us unto thy sone so deere. 

     My konnyng is so wayk, O blisful queene, 

     For to declare thy grete worthynesse, 

     That I ne may the weighte nat susteene, 

     But as a child of twelf monthe oold, or lesse, 

     That kan unnethes any word expresse, 

     Right so fare I; and therfore I yow preye, 

     Gydeth my song that I shal of yow seye. 

     Heere begynneth the Prioresses Tale. 

        Ther was in Asye, in a greet citee, 

     Amonges cristene folk a Jewerye, 

     Sustened by a lord of that contree 

     For foule usure and lucre of vileynye, 

     Hateful to Crist and to his compaignye, 

     And thurgh this strete men myghte ride or wende, 

     For it was free and open at eyther ende. 

     A litel scole of cristen folk ther stood 

     Doun at the ferther ende, in which ther were  

     Children an heep, ycomen of cristen blood, 

     That lerned in that scole yeer by yeer 

     Swich manere doctrine as men used there, 

     This is to seyn, to syngen and to rede, 

     As smale children doon in hir childhede. 

     Among thise children was a wydwes sone, 

     A litel clergeoun, seven yeer of age, 

     That day by day to scole was his wone, 

     And eek also, wher as he saugh thymage 

     Of Cristes mooder, he hadde in usage 

     As hym was taught, to knele adoun, and seye 

     His Ave Marie, as he goth by the weye. 

     Thus hath this wydwe hir litel sone ytaught 

     Oure blisful lady, Cristes mooder deere, 

     To worshipe ay; and he forgate it naught, 

     For sely child wol alday soone leere. 

     But ay, whan I remembre on this mateere, 

     Seint Nicholas stant evere in my presence, 

     For he so yong to Crist dide reverence. 

     This litel child, his litel book lernynge, 

     As he sat in the scole at his prymer, 

     He "Alma redemptoris" herde synge 

     As children lerned hir anthiphoner; 

     And as he dorste, he drough hym ner and ner, 

     And herkned ay the wordes and the noote, 

     Til he the firste vers koude al by rote. 

     Noght wiste he what this Latyn was to seye, 

     For he so yong and tendre was of age, 

     But on a day his felawe gan he preye 

     Texpounden hym this song in his langage, 

     Or telle hym why this song was in usage; 

     This preyde he hym to construe and declare 

     Ful often tyme upon hise knowes bare. 

     His felawe, which that elder was than he, 

     Answerde hym thus, "This song, I have herd seye, 

     Was maked of oure blisful Lady free, 

     Hir to salue, and eek hir for to preye 

     To been our help, and socour whan we deye. 

     I kan namoore expounde in this mateere, 

     I lerne song, I kan but smal grammere." 

     "And is this song maked in reverence 

     Of Cristes mooder?" seyde this innocent. 

     "Now, certes, I wol do my diligence 

     To konne it al, er Cristemasse is went; 

     Though that I for my prymer shal be shent 

     And shal be beten thries in an houre, 

     I wol it konne, oure lady for to honoure." 

     His felawe taughte hym homward prively 

     Fro day to day, til he koude it by rote; 

     And thanne he song it wel and boldely 

     Fro word to word acordynge with the note. 

     Twies a day it passed thurgh his throte, 

     To scoleward, and homward whan he wente; 

     On Cristes mooder set was his entente. 

     As I have seyd, thurghout the Jewerie 

     This litel child, as he cam to and fro, 

     Ful murily than wolde he synge and crie 

     "O Alma redemptoris" evere-mo. 

     The swetnesse hath his herte perced so 

     Of Cristes mooder, that to hir to preye 

     He kan nat stynte of syngyng by the weye. 

        Oure firste foo, the serpent Sathanas, 

     That hath in Jewes herte his waspes nest, 

     Up swal, and seyde, "O Hebrayk peple, allas, 

     Is this to yow a thyng that is honest, 

     That swich a boy shal walken as hym lest 

     In youre despit, and synge of swich sentence, 

     Which is agayn oure lawes reverence?" 

     Fro thennes forth the Jewes han conspired 

     This innocent out of this world to chace. 

     An homycide therto han they hyred 

     That in an aleye hadde a privee place; 

     And as the child gan forby for to pace, 

     This cursed Jew hym hente and heeld hym faste, 

     And kitte his throte, and in a pit hym caste. 

     I seye that in a wardrobe they hym threwe, 

     Where as this Jewes purgen hire entraille. 

     O cursed folk of Herodes al newe, 

     What may youre yvel entente yow availle? 

     Mordre wol out, certeyn, it wol nat faille, 

     And namely ther thonour of God shal sprede, 

     The blood out crieth on youre cursed dede. 

     O matir, sowded to virginitee, 

     Now maystow syngen, folwynge evere in oon 

     The white lamb celestial-quod she- 

     Of which the grete Evaungelsit Seint John 

     In Pathmos wroot, which seith that they that goon 

     Biforn this lamb and synge a song al newe, 

     That never, fleshly, wommen they ne knewe. 

        This povre wydwe awaiteth al that nyght 

     After hir litel child, but he cam noght; 

     For which, as soone as it was dayes light, 

     With face pale of drede and bisy thoght, 

     She hath at scole and elles-where hym soght, 

     Til finally she gan so fer espie, 

     That he last seyn was in the Jewerie. 

     With moodres pitee in hir brest enclosed, 

     She gooth, as she were half out of hir mynde, 

     To every place where she hath supposed 

     By liklihede hir litel child to finde, 

     And evere on Cristes mooder, meeke and kynde 

     She cride, and atte laste thus she wroghte, 

     Among the cursed Jewes she hym soghte. 

     She frayneth, and she preyeth pitously 

     To every Jew that dwelte in thilke place, 

     To telle hir if hir child wente oght forby. 

     They seyde nay; but Jesu, of his grace, 

     Yaf in hir thoght, inwith a litel space, 

     That in that place after hir sone she cryde, 

     Wher he was casten in a pit bisyde. 

        O grete God, that parfournest thy laude 

     By mouth of innocentz, lo, heer thy myght! 

     This gemme of chastite, this emeraude, 

     And eek of martirdom the ruby bright, 

     Ther he with throte ykorven lay upright, 

     He "Alma redemptoris" gan to synge 

     So loude, that al the place gan to rynge. 

        The cristene folk that thurgh the strete wente 

     In coomen, for to wondre upon this thyng, 

     And hastily they for the Provost sente. 

     He cam anon withouten tariyng, 

     And herieth Crist that is of hevene kyng, 

     And eek his mooder, honour of mankynde; 

     And after that, the Jewes leet he bynde. 

        This child, with pitous lamentacioun, 

     Uptaken was, syngynge his song alway, 

     And with honour of greet processioun 

     They carien hym unto the nexte abbay; 

     His mooder swownynge by his beere lay, 

     Unnethe myghte the peple that was theere 

     This newe Rachel brynge fro his beere. 

     With torment and with shameful deeth echon 

     This Provost dooth the Jewes for to sterve, 

     That of this mordre wiste, and that anon. 

     He nolde no swich cursednesse observe; 

     Yvele shal have that yvele wol deserve. 

     Therfore with wilde hors he dide hem drawe, 

     And after that he heng hem, by the lawe. 

     Upon his beere ay lith this innocent 

     Biforn the chief auter, whil masse laste, 

     And after that, the abbot with his covent 

     Han sped hem for to burien hym ful faste, 

     And whan they hooly water on hym caste, 

     Yet spak this child, whan spreynd was hooly water, 

     And song "O Alma redemptoris mater." 

     This abbot, which that was an hooly man, 

     As monkes been-or elles oghte be- 

     This yonge child, "and, as by wey of kynde, 

     I sholde have dyed, ye, longe tyme agon, 

     But Jesu Crist, as ye in bookes fynde, 

     Wil that his glorie laste and be in mynde, 

     And for the worship of his mooder deere, 

     Yet may I synge "O Alma" loude and cleere. 

     This welle of mercy, Cristes mooder swete, 

     I loved alwey as after my konnynge; 

     And whan that I my lyf sholde forlete, 

     To me she cam, and bad me for to synge 

     This antheme, verraily, in my deyynge, 

     As ye han herd, and whan that I hadde songe, 

     Me thoughte she leyde a greyn upon my tonge. 

     Wherfore I synge, and synge I moot certeyn 

     In honour of that blisful mayden free, 

     Til fro my tonge oftaken is the greyn. 

     And afterward thus seyde she to me, 

     `My litel child, now wol I fecche thee, 

     Whan that the greyn is fro thy tonge ytake; 

     Be nat agast, I wol thee nat forsake.'" 

     This hooly monk, this Abbot, hym meene I, 

     His tonge out-caughte, and took awey the greyn, 

     And he yaf up the goost ful softely; 

     And whan this Abbot hadde this wonder seyn, 

     Hise salte teeris trikled doun as reyn, 

     And gruf he fil al plat upon the grounde, 

     And stille he lay, as he had been ybounde. 

     The covent eek lay on the pavement, 

     Wepynge, and heryen Cristes mooder deere. 

     And after that they ryse, and forth been went, 

     And tooken awey this martir from his beere, 

     And in a temple of marbul stones cleere 

     Enclosen they his litel body sweete. 

     Ther he is now, God leve us for to meete! 

     O yonge Hugh of Lyncoln, slayn also 

     With cursed Jewes, as it is notable, 

     For it nis but a litel while ago, 

     Preye eek for us, we synful folk unstable, 

     That of his mercy God so merciable 

     On us his grete mercy multiplie, 

     For reverence of his mooder Marie.  Amen. 

     Heere is ended the Prioresses Tale. 

     Part 10 

     PROLOGUE TO CHAUCER'S TALE OF SIR THOPAS 

     Bihoold the murye wordes of the Hoost to Chaucer. 

        Whan seyd was al this miracle, every man 

     As sobre was, that wonder was to se, 

     Til that oure Hooste japen tho bigan, 

     And thanne at erst he looked upon me, 

     And seyde thus, "What man artow," quod he, 

     "Thow lookest as thou woldest fynde an hare, 

     For ever upon the ground I se thee stare. 

     Approche neer, and looke up murily; 

     Now war yow, sires, and lat this man have place. 

     He in the waast is shape as wel as I; 

     This were a popet in an arm tenbrace 

     For any womman smal, and fair of face. 

     He semeth elvyssh by his contenaunce, 

     For unto no wight dooth he daliaunce. 

     Sey now somwhat, syn oother folk han sayd, 

     Telle us a tale of myrthe, and that anon." 

     "Hooste," quod I, "ne beth nat yvele apayed, 

     For oother tale certes kan I noon 

     But of a ryme I lerned longe agoon." 

     "Ye, that is good," quod he, "now shul we heere 

     Som deyntee thyng, me thynketh by his cheere." 

     Part 11 

     SIR THOPAS 

     Heere bigynneth Chaucers tale of Thopas. 

     Listeth, lordes, in good entent, 

     And I wol telle verrayment 

        Of myrthe and of solas, 

     Al of a knyght was fair and gent 

     In bataille and in tourneyment, 

        His name was Sir Thopas. 

     Yborn he was in fer contree, 

     In Flaundres, al biyonde the see, 

        At Poperyng in the place; 

     His fader was a man ful free, 

     And lord he was of that contree, 

        As it was Goddes grace. 

     Sir Thopas wax a doghty swayn, 

     Whit was his face as payndemayn, 

        Hise lippes rede as rose; 

     His rode is lyk scarlet in grayn, 

     And I yow telle, in good certayn, 

        He hadde a semely nose. 

     His heer, his berd, was lyk saffroun, 

     That to his girdel raughte adoun; 

        Hise shoon of Cordewane. 

     Of Brugges were his hosen broun, 

     His robe was of syklatoun 

        That coste many a jane. 

     He koude hunte at wilde deer, 

     And ride an haukyng for river, 

        With grey goshauk on honde, 

     Therto he was a good archeer, 

     Of wrastlyng was ther noon his peer, 

        Ther any ram shal stonde. 

     Ful many a mayde, bright in bour, 

     They moorne for hym, paramour, 

        Whan hem were bet to slepe; 

     But he was chaast and no lechour, 

     And sweete as is the brembulflour 

        That bereth the rede hepe. 

     And so bifel upon a day, 

     Frosothe as I yow telle may, 

        Sir Thopas wolde out ride; 

     He worth upon his steede gray, 

     And in his hand a launcegay, 

        A long swerd by his side. 

     The priketh thurgh a fair forest, 

     Therinne is many a wilde best, 

        Ye, both bukke and hare, 

     And as he priketh north and est, 

     I telle it yow, hym hadde almest 

        Bitidde a sory care. 

     Ther spryngen herbes, grete and smale, 

     The lycorys and cetewale,  

        And many a clowe-gylofre, 

     And notemuge to putte in ale, 

     Wheither it be moyste or stale, 

        Or for to leye in cofre. 

     The briddes synge, it is no nay, 

     The sparhauk and the papejay 

        That joye it was to heere, 

     The thrustelcok made eek hir lay, 

     The wodedowve upon a spray 

        She sang ful loude and cleere. 

     Sir Thopas fil in love-longynge, 

     Al whan he herde the thrustel synge, 

        And pryked as he were wood; 

     His faire steede in his prikynge 

     So swatte that men myghte him wrynge, 

        His sydes were al blood. 

     Sir Thopas eek so wery was 

     For prikyng on the softe gras, 

        So fiers was his corage, 

     That doun he leyde him in that plas 

     To make his steede som solas, 

        And yaf hym good forage. 

     "O seinte Marie, benedicite, 

     What eyleth this love at me 

        To bynde me so soore? 

     Me dremed al this nyght, pardee, 

     An elf-queene shal my lemman be, 

        And slepe under my goore. 

     An elf-queene wol I love, ywis, 

     For in this world no womman is 

        Worthy to be my make 

                      In towne; 

     Alle othere wommen I forsake, 

     And to an elf-queene I me take 

        By dale and eek by downe." 

     Into his sadel he clamb anon, 

     And priketh over stile and stoon 

        An elf-queene for tespye, 

     Til he so longe hadde riden and goon 

     That he foond, in a pryve woon, 

        The contree of Fairye 

                        So wilde; 

     For in that contree was ther noon 

     That to him dorste ryde or goon, 

        Neither wyf ne childe, 

     Til that ther cam a greet geaunt, 

     His name was Sir Olifaunt, 

        A perilous man of dede; 

     He seyde "Child, by Termagaunt, 

     But if thou prike out of myn haunt, 

        Anon I sle thy steede 

                         With mace. 

     Heere is the queene of Fayerye, 

     With harpe and pipe and symphonye, 

        Dwellyng in this place." 

     The child seyde, "Also moote I thee, 

     Tomorwe wol I meete with thee, 

        Whan I have myn armoure. 

     And yet I hope, par ma fay, 

     That thou shalt with this launcegay 

        Abyen it ful sowre. 

                        Thy mawe 

     Shal I percen if I may 

     Er it be fully pryme of day, 

        For heere thow shalt be slawe." 

     Sir Thopas drow abak ful faste, 

     This geant at hym stones caste 

        Out of a fel staf-slynge; 

     But faire escapeth Child Thopas, 

     And al it was thurgh Goddes gras, 

        And thurgh his fair berynge. 

     Yet listeth, lordes, to my tale, 

     Murier than the nightyngale, 

        For now I wol yow rowne 

     How Sir Thopas, with sydes smale, 

     Prikyng over hill and dale 

        Is comen agayn to towne. 

     His murie men comanded he 

     To make hym bothe game and glee, 

        For nedes moste he fighte 

     With a geaunt with hevedes three, 

     For paramour and jolitee 

        Of oon that shoon ful brighte. 

     "Do come,: he seyde, "my mynstrales, 

     And geestours, for to tellen tales 

        Anon in myn armynge; 

     Of romances that been roiales, 

     Of Popes and of Cardinales, 

        And eek of love-likynge." 

     They fette hym first the sweete wyn, 

     And mede eek in a mazelyn, 

        And roial spicerye, 

     And gyngebreed that was ful fyn, 

     And lycorys, and eek comyn, 

        With sugre that is so trye. 

     He dide next his white leere 

     Of clooth of lake, fyn and cleere, 

        A breech, and eek a sherte, 

     And next his sherte an aketoun, 

     And over that an haubergeoun, 

        For percynge of his herte. 

     And over that a fyn hawberk, 

     Was al ywroght of Jewes werk, 

        Ful strong it was of plate. 

     And over that his cote-armour 

     As whit as is a lilye flour, 

        In which he wol debate. 

     His sheeld was al of gold so reed, 

     And therinne was a bores heed, 

        A charbocle bisyde; 

     And there he swoor on ale and breed, 

     How that "the geaunt shal be deed 

        Bityde what bityde!" 

     Hise jambeux were of quyrboilly, 

     His swerdes shethe of yvory, 

        His helm of laton bright, 

     His sadel was of rewel-boon, 

     His brydel as the sonne shoon, 

        Or as the moone light. 

     His spere it was of fyn ciprees, 

     That bodeth werre, and no thyng pees, 

        The heed ful sharpe ygrounde; 

     His steede was al dappull-gray, 

     It gooth an ambil in the way 

        Ful softely and rounde 

                         In londe. 

     Loo, lordes myne, heere is a fit; 

     If ye wol any moore of it, 

        To telle it wol I fonde. 

     The Second Fit. 

     Now holde youre mouth, par charitee, 

     Bothe knyght and lady free, 

        And herkneth to my spelle; 

     Of batailles and of chivalry 

     And of ladyes love-drury 

        Anon I wol yow telle. 

     Men speken of romances of prys, 

     Of Hornchild, and of Ypotys, 

        Of Beves and Sir Gy, 

     Of Sir Lybeux and Pleyndamour, 

     But Sir Thopas, he bereth the flour 

        Of roial chivalry. 

     His goode steede al he bistrood, 

     And forth upon his wey he glood 

        As sparcle out of the bronde. 

     Upon his creest he bar a tour, 

     And therinne stiked a lilie-flour; 

        God shilde his cors fro shonde! 

     And for he was a knyght auntrous, 

     He nolde slepen in noon hous, 

        But liggen in his hoode. 

     His brighte helm was his wonger, 

     And by hym baiteth his dextrer 

        Of herbes fyne and goode. 

     Hym-self drank water of the well, 

     As dide the knyght sir Percyvell 

        So worly under wede, 

     Til on a day----------- 

     Heere the Hoost stynteth Chaucer of his Tale of Thopas. 

        "Na moore of this, for Goddes dignitee," 

     Quod oure hooste, "for thou makest me 

     So wery of thy verray lewednesse, 

     That also wisly God my soule blesse, 

     Min eres aken of thy drasty speche. 

     Now swich a rym the devel I biteche! 

     This may wel be rym dogerel," quod he. 

     "Why so?" quod I, "why wiltow lette me 

     Moore of my tale than another man 

     Syn that it is the beste tale I kan?" 

     "By God," quod he, "for pleynly at a word 

     Thy drasty rymyng is nat worth a toord, 

     Thou doost noght elles but despendest tyme. 

     Sir, at o word thou shalt no lenger ryme. 

     Lat se wher thou kanst tellen aught in geeste, 

     Or telle in prose somwhat, at the leeste, 

     In which ther be som murthe or som doctryne." 

     "Gladly," quod I, "by Goddes sweete pyne, 

     I wol yow telle a litel thyng in prose, 

     That oghte liken yow as I suppose, 

     Or elles, certes, ye been to daungerous. 

     It is a moral tale vertuous, 

     Al be it take somtyme in sondry wyse 

     Of sondry folk as I shal yow devyse. 

     As thus; ye woot that every Evaungelist 

     That telleth us the peyne of Jesu Crist 

     Ne seith nat alle thyng as his felawe dooth, 

     But, nathelees, hir sentence is al sooth, 

     And alle acorden as in hir sentence, 

     Al be her in hir tellyng difference. 

     For somme of hem seyn moore, and somme seyn lesse, 

     Whan they his pitous passioun expresse; 

     I meene of Marke, Mathew, Luc, and John, 

     But doutelees hir sentence is al oon, 

     Therfore, lordynges alle, I yow biseche 

     If that yow thynke I varie as in my speche, 

     As thus, though that I telle somwhat moore 

     Of proverbes, than ye han herd bifoore, 

     Comprehended in this litel tretys heere, 

     To enforce with theffect of my mateere, 

     And though I nat the same wordes seye 

     As ye han herd, yet to yow alle I preye, 

     Blameth me nat; for, as in my sentence 

     Ye shul nat fynden moche difference 

     Fro the sentence of this tretys lyte 

     After the which this murye tale I write. 

     And therfore herkneth what that I shal seye, 

     And lat me tellen al my tale, I preye." 

     THE TALE (in prose). 

        (A young man called Melibeus, whose wife Prudence and 

     daughter Sophie (Wisdom) are maltreated by his foes in 

     his absence, is counseled with many wise sayings uttered by 

     his wife tending toward peace and forgiveness, instead of  

     revenge.) 

     Part 12 

     PROLOGUE TO THE MONKES TALE 

     The murye wordes of the Hoost to the Monk. 

        Whan ended was my tale of Melibee, 

     And of Prudence, and hir benignytee, 

     Oure hooste seyde, "As I am feithful man, 

     And by that precious corpus Madrian, 

     I hadde levere than a barel ale 

     That goode lief my wyf hadde herd this tale! 

     She nys nothyng of swich pacience 

     As was this Melibeus wyf, Prudence. 

     By Goddes bones, whan I bete my knaves 

     She bryngeth me forth the grete clobbed staves, 

     And crieth, `Slee the dogges, everichoon, 

     And brek hem, bothe bak and every boon.' 

     And if that any neighebore of myne 

     Wol nat in chirche to my wyf enclyne, 

     Or be so hardy to hir to trespace, 

     Whan she comth hoom she rampeth in my face, 

     And crieth, `false coward, wrek thy wyf! 

     By corpus bones, I wol have thy knyf, 

     And thou shalt have my distaf and go spynne 

     Fro day to nyght!'  Right thus she wol bigynne. 

     `Allas,' she seith, `that evere I was shape 

     To wedden a milksop or a coward ape, 

     That wol been overlad with every wight; 

     Thou darst nat stonden by thy wyves right!' 

     This is my lif, but if that I wol fighte, 

     And out at dore anon I moot me dighte, 

     Or elles I am but lost, but if that I 

     Be lik a wilde leoun fool-hardy. 

     I woot wel she wol do me slee som day 

     Som neighebore, and thanne go my way. 

     For I am perilous with knyf in honde, 

     Al be it that I dar hir nat withstonde. 

     For she is byg in armes, by my feith, 

     That shal he fynde that hir mysdooth or seith- 

     But lat us passe awey fro this mateere. 

     My lord the Monk," quod he, "be myrie of cheere, 

     For ye shul telle a tale, trewely. 

     Loo, Rouchestre stant heer faste by. 

     Ryde forth, myn owene lord, brek nat oure game. 

     But, by my trouthe, I knowe nat youre name; 

     Wher shal I calle yow my lord daun John, 

     Or daun Thomas, or elles daun Albon? 

     Of what hous be ye, by youre fader kyn? 

     I vowe to God, thou hast a ful fair skyn, 

     It is a gentil pasture ther thow goost. 

     Thou art nat lyk a penant or a goost. 

     Upon my feith, thou art som officer, 

     Som worthy sexteyn, or som celerer, 

     For by my fader soule, as to my doom, 

     Thou art a maister whan thou art at hoom, 

     No povre cloysterer, ne no novys, 

     But a governour, wily and wys; 

     And therwith-al of brawnes and of bones 

     A wel-farynge persone, for the nones. 

     I pray to God, yeve hym confusioun 

     That first thee broghte unto religioun. 

     Thou woldest han been a tredefowel aright; 

     Haddwstow as greet a leeve as thou hast myght 

     To parfourne al thy lust in engendrure, 

     Thou haddest bigeten ful many a creature. 

     Allas, why werestow so wyd a cope? 

     God yeve me sorwe, but, and I were a pope, 

     Nat oonly thou but every myghty man 

     Though he were shorn ful hye upon his pan, 

     Sholde have a wyf, for al the world is lorn. 

     Religioun hath take up al the corn 

     Of tredyng, and we borel men been shrympes. 

     Of fieble trees ther comen wrecched ympes. 

     This maketh that our heyres ben so sclendre 

     And feble, that they may nat wel engendre; 

     This maketh that oure wyves wole assaye 

     Religious folk, for ye mowe bettre paye 

     Of Venus paiementz than mowe we; 

     God woot no lussheburghes payen ye. 

     But be nat wrooth, my lord, for that I pleye, 

     Ful ofte in game a sooth I have herd seye." 

     This worthy Monk took al in pacience, 

     And seyde, "I wol doon al my diligence, 

     As fer as sowneth into honestee, 

     To telle yow a tale, or two, or three. 

     And if yow list to herkne hyderward 

     I wol yow seyn the lyf of seint Edward; 

     Or ellis first tragedies wol I telle 

     Of whiche I have an hundred in my celle. 

     Tragedie is to seyn, a certeyn storie, 

     As olde bookes maken us memorie, 

     Of hym that stood in greet prosperitee 

     And is yfallen out of heigh degree 

     Into myserie, and endeth wrecchedly, 

     And they ben versified communely 

     Of six feet, which men clepen exametron. 

     In prose eek been endited many oon, 

     And eek in meetre, in many a sondry wyse. 

     Lo, this declaryng oghte ynogh suffise; 

     Now herkneth, if yow liketh for to heere. 

     But first, I yow biseeke in this mateere, 

     Though I by ordre telle nat this thynges, 

     Be it of popes, emperours, or kynges, 

     After hir ages, as men writen fynde, 

     But tellen hem, som bifore and som bihynde, 

     As it now comth unto my remembraunce; 

     Have me excused of myn ignoraunce. 

     Part 13 

     THE MONKES TALE 

     Heere bigynneth the Monkes Tale de Casibut Virorum 

     Illustrium. 

        I wol biwaille in manere of Tragedie 

     The harm of hem that stoode in heigh degree, 

     And fillen so, that ther nas no remedie 

     To brynge hem out of hir adversitee. 

     For certein, whan that Fortune list to flee, 

     Ther may no man the cours of hire withholde; 

     Lat no man truste on blynd prosperitee; 

     Be war of thise ensamples, trewe and olde. 

                                Lucifer 

        At Lucifer, though he an aungel were, 

     And nat a man, at hym wol I biginne, 

     For though Fortune may noon aungel dere, 

     From heigh degree yet fel he for his synne 

     Doun into helle, where he yet is inne. 

     O Lucifer, brightest of aungels alle, 

     Now artow Sathanas, that mayst nat twynne 

     Out of miserie, in which that thou art falle. 

                                Adam 

        Loo Adam, in the feeld of Damyssene, 

     With Goddes owene fynger wroght was he, 

     And nat bigeten of mannes sperme unclene, 

     And welte all Paradys, savynge o tree. 

     Hadde nevere worldly man so heigh degree 

     As Adam, til he, for mysgovernaunce, 

     Was dryven out of hys hye prosperitee 

     To labour, and to helle, and to meschaunce. 

                                Sampson 

        Loo Sampson, which that was annunciat 

     By angel, longe er his nativitee, 

     And was to God almyghty consecrat, 

     And stood in noblesse whil he myghte see, 

     Was nevere swich another as was hee, 

     To speke of strengthe and therwith hardynesse; 

     But to hise wyves toolde he his secree, 

     Thurgh which he slow hymself for wrecchednesse. 

     Sampsoun, this noble almyghty champioun, 

     Withouten wepene, save his handes tweye, 

     He slow and al torente the leoun 

     Toward his weddyng walkynge by the weye. 

     His false wyf koude hym so plese and preye 

     Til she his conseil knew, and she untrewe 

     Unto hise foos his conseil gan biwreye, 

     And hym forsook, and took another newe. 

     Thre hundred foxes took Sampson for ire, 

     And alle hir tayles he togydre bond, 

     And sette the foxes tayles alle on fire; 

     For he on every tayl had knyt a brond, 

     And they brende alle the cornes in that lond, 

     And alle hir olyveres and vynes eke. 

     A thousand men he slow eek with his hond, 

     And hadde no wepene but an asses cheke. 

     Whan they were slayn, so thursted hym, that he 

     Was wel ny lorn, for which he gan to preye 

     That God wolde on his peyne han som pitee, 

     And sende hym drynke, or elles moste he deye; 

     And of this asses cheke, that was dreye, 

     Out of a wang-tooth sprang anon a welle 

     Of which he drank anon, shortly to seye, 

     Thus heelp hym God, as Judicum can telle. 

     By verray force at Gazan, on a nyght, 

     Maugree Philistiens of that citee, 

     The gates of the toun he hath upplyght, 

     And on his bak ycaryed hem hath he 

     Hye on an hille, that men myghte hem see. 

     O noble almyghty Sampson, lief and deere, 

     Had thou nat toold to wommen thy secree, 

     In all this world ne hadde been thy peere. 

     This Sampson nevere ciser drank, ne wyn, 

     Ne on his heed cam rasour noon, ne sheere, 

     By precept of the messager divyn, 

     For alle hise strengthes in hise heeres weere. 

     And fully twenty wynter, yeer by yeere, 

     He hadde of Israel the governaunce. 

     But soone shal he wepen many a teere, 

     For wommen shal hym bryngen to meschaunce! 

     Unto his lemman Dalida he tolde 

     That in hise heeres al his strengthe lay, 

     And falsly to hise fooman she hym solde; 

     And slepynge in hir barme upon a day 

     She made to clippe or shere hise heres away, 

     And made hise foomen al this craft espyn. 

     And whan that they hym foond in this array, 

     They bounde hym faste, and putten out hise eyen. 

     But er his heer were clipped or yshave, 

     Ther was no boond with which men myght him bynde, 

     But now is he in prison in a cave, 

     Where as they made hym at the queerne grynde. 

     O noble Sampson, strongest of mankynde, 

     O whilom juge in glorie and in richesse, 

     Now maystow wepen with thyne eyen blynde, 

     Sith thou fro wele art falle in wrecchednesse! 

     The ende of this caytyf was as I shal seye; 

     Hise foomen made a feeste upon a day, 

     And made hym as hir fool biforn hem pleye. 

     And this was in a temple of greet array; 

     But atte laste he made a foul affray, 

     For he two pilers shook, and made hem falle, 

     And doun fil temple and al, and ther it lay, 

     And slow hymself, and eek his foomen alle. 

     This is to seyn, the prynces everichoon, 

     And eek thre thousand bodyes were ther slayn 

     With fallynge of the grete temple of stoon. 

     Of Sampson now wol I namoore sayn: 

     Beth war by this ensample oold and playn 

     That no men telle hir conseil til hir wyves 

     Of swich thyng as they solde han secree fayn, 

     If that it touche hir lymmes or hir lyves. 

                              Hercules 

        Off Hercules the sovereyn conquerour 

     Syngen hise werkes laude and heigh renoun, 

     For in his tyme of strengthe he was the flour. 

     He slow and rafte the skyn of the leoun, 

     He of Centauros leyde the boost adoun, 

     He arpies slow, the crueel bryddes felle, 

     He golden apples refte of the dragoun, 

     He drow out Cerberus the hound of helle. 

     He slow the crueel tyrant Busirus, 

     And made his hors to frete hym, flessh and boon; 

     He slow the firy serpent venymus, 

     Of Acheloys two hornes, he brak oon. 

     And he slow Cacus in a Cave of stoon; 

     He slow the geaunt Antheus the stronge, 

     He slow the grisly boor, and that anon, 

     And bar the hevene on his nekke longe. 

     Was nevere wight, sith that this world bigan, 

     That slow so manye monstres as dide he. 

     Thurghout this wyde world his name ran, 

     What for his strengthe, and for his heigh bountee, 

     And every reawme wente he for to see. 

     He was so stroong that no man myghte hym lette; 

     At bothe the worldes endes, seith Trophee, 

     In stide of boundes, he a pileer sette. 

     A lemman hadde this noble champioun, 

     That highte Dianira, fressh as May, 

     And as thise clerkes maken mencioun, 

     She hath hym sent a sherte fressh and gay. 

     Allas, this sherte, allas, and weylaway! 

     Envenymed was so subtilly withalle, 

     That er that he had wered it half a day 

     It made his flessh al from hise bones falle. 

     But nathelees somme clerkes hir excusen 

     By oon that highte Nessus, that it maked. 

     Be as be may, I wol hir noght accusen; 

     But on his bak this sherte he wered al naked, 

     Til that his flessh was for the venym blaked; 

     And whan he saugh noon oother remedye, 

     In hoote coles he hath hym-selven raked, 

     For with no venym deigned hym to dye. 

     Thus starf this worthy myghty Hercules. 

     Lo, who may truste on Fortune any throwe? 

     For hym that folweth al this world of prees, 

     Er he be war, is ofte yleyd ful lowe. 

     Ful wys is he that kan hymselven knowe. 

     Beth war, for whan that Fortune list to glose, 

     Thanne wayteth she her man to overthrowe, 

     By swich a wey, as he wolde leest suppose. 

                          Nabugodonosor 

        The myghty trone, the precious tresor 

     The golrious ceptre and roial magestee 

     That hadde the kyng Nabugodonosor, 

     With tonge unnethe may discryved bee. 

     He twyes wan Jerusalem the citee; 

     The vessel of the temple he with hym ladde. 

     At Babiloigne was his sovereyn see, 

     In which his glorie and his delit he hadde. 

     The faireste children of the blood roial 

     Of Israel he leet do gelde anoon, 

     And make ech of hem to been his thral. 

     Amonges othere, Daniel was oon, 

     That was the wiseste child of everychon; 

     For he the dremes of the kyng expouned 

     Wheras in Chaldeye clerk ne was ther noon 

     That wiste to what fyn hise dremes sowned. 

     This proude kyng leet maken a statue of gold 

     Sixty cubites long, and sevene in brede, 

     To which ymage bothe yonge and oold 

     Comaunded he to loute and have in drede, 

     Or in a fourneys ful of flambes rede 

     He shal be brent, that wolde noght obeye. 

     But nevere wolde assente to that dede 

     Daniel, ne hise yonge felawes tweye. 

     This kyng of kynges proud was and elaat; 

     He wende, that God that sit in magestee 

     Ne myghte hym nat bireve of his estaat; 

     But sodeynly he loste his dignytee, 

     And lyk a beest hym semed for to bee, 

     And eet hey as an oxe and lay theroute; 

     In reyn with wilde beestes walked hee 

     Til certein tyme was ycome aboute. 

     And lik an egles fetheres wex his heres, 

     Hise nayles lyk a briddes clawes weere, 

     Til God relessed hym a certeyn yeres, 

     And yaf hym wit, and thanne, with many a teere, 

     He thanked God; and evere his lyf in feere 

     Was he to doon amys, or moore trespace, 

     And til that tyme he leyd was on his beere, 

     He knew that God was ful of myght and grace. 

                           Balthasar 

        His sone which that highte Balthasar, 

     That heeld the regne after his fader day, 

     He by his fader koude noght be war, 

     For proud he was of herte and of array; 

     And eek an ydolastre he was ay. 

     His hye estaat assured hym in pryde; 

     But Fortune caste hym doun and ther he lay, 

     And sodeynly his regne gan divide. 

     A feeste he made unto hise lordes alle 

     Upon a tyme, and bad hem blithe bee, 

     And thanne hise officeres gan he calle, 

     "Gooth, bryngeth forth the vesseles," quod he, 

     "Whiche that my fader, in his prosperitee, 

     Out of the temple of Jerusalem birafte, 

     And to oure hye goddes thanke we 

     Of honour, that oure eldres with us lafte." 

     Hys wyf, hise lordes, and hise concubynes 

     Ay dronken, whil hire appetites laste, 

     Out of thise noble vessels sondry wynes. 

     And on a wal this kyng hise eyen caste, 

     And saugh an hand armlees that wroot ful faste, 

     For feere of which he quook and siked soore. 

     This hand, that Balthasar so soore agaste, 

     Wroot `Mame, techel, phares,' and na moore. 

     In al that land magicien was noon 

     That koude expounde what this lettre mente. 

     But Daniel expowned it anon, 

     And seyde, "Kyng, God to thy fader lente 

     Glorie and honour, regne, tresour, rente; 

     And he was proud, and nothyng God ne dradde, 

     And therfore God greet wreche upon hym sente, 

     And hym birafte the regne that he hadde. 

     He was out-cast of mannes compaignye, 

     With asses was his habitacioun, 

     And eet hey as a beest in weet and drye, 

     Til that he knew by grace and by resoun 

     That God of hevene hath domynacioun 

     Over every regne and every creature, 

     And thanne hadde God of hym compassioun 

     And hym restored his regne and his figure. 

     Eek thou that art his sone art proud also, 

     And knowest alle thise thynges verraily, 

     And art rebel to God and art his foo. 

     Thou drank eek of hise vessels boldely,  

     Thy wyf eek, and thy wenches synfully 

     Dronke of the same vessels sondry wynys, 

     And heryest false goddes cursedly; 

     Therfore to thee yshapen ful greet pyne ys. 

     This hand was sent from God, that on the wal 

     Wroot `Mane techel phares,' truste me! 

     Thy regne is doon, thou weyest noght at al, 

     Dyvyded is thy regne, and it shal be 

     To Medes and to Perses yeve," quod he. 

     And thilke same nyght this kyng was slawe 

     And Darius occupyeth his degree, 

     Thogh he therto hadde neither right ne lawe. 

     Lordynges, ensample heer-by may ye take 

     How that in lordshipe is no sikernesse; 

     For whan Fortune wole a man forsake, 

     She bereth awey his regne and his richesse, 

     And eek hise freendes, bothe moore and lesse, 

     For what man that hath freendes thurgh Fortune 

     Mishap wol maken hem enemys, as I gesse; 

     This proverbe is ful sooth and ful commune. 

                                Cenobia 

        Cenobia, of Palymerie queene, 

     As writen Persiens of hir noblesse, 

     So worthy was in armes, and so keene, 

     That no wight passed hir in hardynesse, 

     Ne in lynage, ne in oother gentillesse. 

     Of kynges blood of Perce is she descended. 

     I seye nat that she hadde moost fairnesse, 

     But of hire shap she myghte nat been amended. 

     From hir childhede I fynde that she fledde 

     Office of wommen, and to wode she wente, 

     And many a wilde hertes blood she shedde 

     With arwes brode, that she to hem sente. 

     She was so swift that she anon hem hente, 

     And whan that she was elder, she wolde kille 

     Leouns, leopardes, and beres al to-rente, 

     And in hir armes weelde hem at hir wille. 

     She dorste wilde heestes dennes seke, 

     And rennen in the montaignes al the nyght 

     And slepen under the bussh, and she koude eke 

     Wrastlen by verray force and verray myght 

     With any yong man, were he never so wight; 

     Ther myghte nothyng in hir armes stonde. 

     She kepte hir maydenhod from every wight, 

     To no man deigned hir for to be bonde. 

     But atte laste hir freendes han hir maried 

     To Odenake, a prynce of that contree, 

     Al were it so that she hem longe taried, 

     And ye shul understonde how that he 

     Hadde swiche fantasies as hadde she. 

     But nathelees, whan they were knyt infeere, 

     They lyved in joye and in felicitee, 

     For ech of hem hadde oother lief and deere; 

     Save o thyng, that she wolde nevere assente 

     By no wey that he sholde by hir lye 

     But ones, for it was hir pleyn entente 

     To have a child the world to multiplye; 

     And also soone as that she myghte espye 

     That she was nat with childe with that dede, 

     Thanne wolde she suffre hym doon his fantasye 

     Eft-soone and nat but oones, out of drede. 

     And if she were with childe at thilke cast, 

     Namoore sholde he pleyen thilke game 

     Til fully fourty dayes weren past; 

     Thanne wolde she ones suffre hym do the same. 

     Al were this Odenake wilde or tame, 

     He gat no moore of hir, for thus she seyde, 

     It was to wyves lecheie and shame 

     In oother caas, it that men with hem pleyde. 

     Two sones by this Odenake hadde she, 

     The whiche she kepte in vertu and lettrure, 

     But now unto oure tale turne we; 

     I seye, so worshipful a creature, 

     And wys ther-with, and large with mesure, 

     So penyble in the werre, and curteis eke, 

     Ne moore labour myghte in werre endure, 

     Was noon, though al this world men wolde seke. 

     Hir riche array ne myghte nat be told 

     As wel in vessel as in hir clothyng; 

     She was al clad in perree and in gold, 

     And eek she lafte noght for noon huntyng 

     To have of sondry tonges ful knowyng, 

     Whan that she leyser hadde, and for to entende 

     To lerne bookes was al hire likyng,  

     How she in vertu myghte hir lyf dispende. 

     And shortly of this proces for to trete, 

     So doghty was hir housbonde and eek she, 

     That they conquered manye regnes grete 

     In the orient, with many a faire citee, 

     Apertenaunt unto the magestee 

     Of Rome, and with strong hond held hem ful faste, 

     Ne nevere myghte hir foomen doon hem flee, 

     Ay whil that Odenakes dayes laste. 

     Hir batailles, who-so list hem for to rede, 

     Agayn Sapor the kyng and othere mo, 

     And how that al this proces fil in dede, 

     Why she conquered, and what title had therto, 

     And after of hir meschief and hire wo, 

     How that she was biseged and ytake, 

     Lat hym unto my maister Petrak go, 

     That writ ynough of this, I undertake. 

     Whan Odenake was deed, she myghtily 

     The regnes heeld; and with hir propre hond 

     Agayn hir foos she faught so cruelly 

     That ther nas kyng ne prynce in al that lond 

     That he nas glad, if he that grace fond 

     That she ne wolde upon his lond werreye. 

     With hir they makded alliance by bond 

     To been in pees, and let hire ride and pleye. 

     The Emperour of Rome, Claudius, 

     Ne hym bifore, the Romayn Galien, 

     Ne dorste nevere been so corageus, 

     Ne noon Ermyn, ne noon Egipcien, 

     Ne Surrien, ne noon arabyen, 

     With-inne the feeldes that dorste with hir fighte, 

     Lest that she wolde hem with hir handes slen, 

     Or with hir meignee putten hem to flighte. 

     In kynges habit wente hir sones two 

     As heires of hir fadres regnes alle, 

     And Hermanno, and Thymalao 

     Hir names were, as Persiens hem calle. 

     But ay Fortune hath in hir hony galle; 

     This myghty queene may no while endure. 

     Fortune out of hir regne made hir falle 

     To wrecchednesse and to mysaventure. 

     Aurelian, whan that the governaunce 

     Of Rome cam into hise handes tweye, 

     He shoope upon this queene to doon vengeaunce, 

     And with hise legions he took his weye 

     Toward Cenobie, and shortly for to seye, 

     He made hir flee and atte last hir hente, 

     And fettred hir, and eek hir children tweye, 

     And wan the land, and hoom to Rome he wente. 

     Amonges othere thynges that he wan, 

     Hir chaar, that was with gold wroght and perree, 

     This grete Romayn, this Aurelian, 

     Hath with hym lad for that men sholde it see. 

     Biforen his triumphe walketh shee, 

     With gilte cheynes on hir nekke hangynge; 

     Coroned was she, after hir degree, 

     And ful of perree charged hir clothynge. 

     Allas, Fortune! she that whilom was 

     Dredful to kynges and to emperoures, 

     Now gaureth al the peple on hir, allas! 

     And she that helmed was in starke shoures 

     And wan by force townes stronge and toures 

     Shal on hir heed now were a vitremyte, 

     And she that bar the ceptre ful of floures 

     Shal bere a distaf, hir costes for to quyte. 

                         De Petro Rege Ispannie 

        O noble, O worthy Petro, glorie of Spayne! 

     Whom Fortune heeld so hye in magestee, 

     Wel oghten men thy pitous deeth complayne; 

     Out of thy land thy brother made thee flee, 

     And after at a seege by subtiltee 

     Thou were bitraysed, and lad unto his tente 

     Where as he with his owene hand slow thee, 

     Succedynge in thy regne and in thy rente. 

     The feeld of snow, with thegle of blak therinne 

     Caught with the lymerod, coloured as the gleede, 

     He brew this cursednesse and al this synne. 

     The wikked nest was werker of this nede, 

     Noght Charles Olyvver, that took ay heede 

     Of trouthe and honour, but of Armorike 

     Genyloun Olyver, corrupt for meede, 

     Broghte this worthy kyng in swich a brike. 

                      De Petro Rege de Cipro 

        O worthy Petro, kyng of Cipre, also, 

     That Alisandre wan by heigh maistrie, 

     Ful many an hethen wroghtestow ful wo, 

     Of which thyne owene liges hadde envye, 

     And for nothyng but for thy chivalrie, 

     They in thy bed han slayn thee by the morwe. 

     Thus kan Fortune hir wheel governe and gye, 

     And out of joye brynge men to sorwe. 

                     De Barnabo de Lumbardia 

        Off Melan grete Barnabo Viscounte, 

     God of delit and scourge of Lumbardye, 

     Why sholde I nat thyn infortune acounte, 

     Sith in estaat thow cloumbe were so hye? 

     Thy brother sone, that was thy double allye 

     For he thy nevew was, and sone-in-lawe, 

     Withinne his prisoun made thee to dye, 

     But why, ne how, noot I that thou were slawe. 

                   De Hugelino Comite de Pize 

        Off the Erl Hugelyn of Pyze the langour 

     Ther may no tonge telle for pitee. 

     But litel out of Pize stant a tour, 

     In whiche tour in prisoun put was he, 

     And with hym been his litel children thre, 

     The eldeste scarsly fyf yeer was of age. 

     Allas, Fortune, it was greet crueltee 

     Swiche briddes for to putte in swiche a cage! 

     Dampned was he to dyen in that prisoun, 

     For Roger, which that Bisshop was of Pize, 

     Hadde on hym maad a fals suggestioun, 

     Thurgh which the peple gan upon hym rise, 

     And putten hym to prisoun in swich wise 

     As ye han herd, and mete and drynke he hadde 

     So smal that wel unnethe it may suffise, 

     And therwithal it was ful povre and badde. 

     And on a day bifil, that in that hour 

     Whan that his mete wont was to be broght, 

     The gayler shette the dores of the tour; 

     He herde it wel, but he spak right noght- 

     And in his herte anon ther fil a thoght, 

     That they for hunger wolde doon hym dyen. 

     "Allas," quod he, "allas, that I was wroght!" 

     Therwith the teeris fillen from hise eyen. 

     His yonge sone, that thre yeer was of age, 

     Unto hym seyde, "Fader, why do ye wepe? 

     Whanne wol the gayler bryngen our potage? 

     Is ther no morsel breed that ye do kepe? 

     I am so hungry that I may nat slepe. 

     Now wolde God that I myghte slepen evere! 

     Thanne sholde nat hunger in my wombe crepe, 

     Ther is nothyng but breed that me were levere." 

     Thus day by day this child bigan to crye, 

     Til in his fadres barm adoun it lay, 

     And seyde, "Farewel, fader, I moot dye!" 

     And kiste his fader, and dyde the same day. 

     And whan the woful fader deed it say, 

     For wo hise armes two he gan to byte, 

     And seyde, "Allas, Fortune and weylaway! 

     Thy false wheel my wo al may I wyte!" 

     Hise children wende that it for hunger was 

     That he his armes gnow, and nat for wo, 

     And seyde, "Fader, do nat so, allas! 

     But rather ete the flessh upon us two. 

     Oure flessh thou yaf us, take our flessh us fro, 

     And ete ynogh," right thus they to hym seyde; 

     And after that withinne a day or two 

     They leyde hem in his lappe adoun, and deyde. 

     Hymself, despeired, eek for hunger starf, 

     Thus ended is this myghty Erl of Pize. 

     From heigh estaat Fortune awey hym carf, 

     Of this tragedie it oghte ynough suffise. 

     Whoso wol here it in a lenger wise, 

     Redeth the grete poete of Ytaille 

     That highte Dant, for he kan al devyse 

     Fro point to point, nat o word wol he faille. 

                                Nero 

        Al though that Nero were vicius 

     As any feend that lith in helle adoun, 

     Yet he, as telleth us Swetonius, 

     This wyde world hadde in subjeccioun,  

     Bothe Est and West, South and Septemtrioun; 

     Of rubies, saphires, and of peerles white 

     Were alle hise clothes brouded up and doun, 

     For he in gemmes greetly gan delite. 

     Moore delicaat, moore pompous of array, 

     Moore proud was nevere emperour than he. 

     That ilke clooth that he hadde wered o day, 

     After that tyme he nolde it nevere see. 

     Nettes of gold-threed hadde he greet plentee, 

     To fisshe in Tybre, whan hym liste pleye. 

     Hise lustes were al lawe in his decree, 

     For Fortune as his freend hym wolde obeye. 

     He Rome brende for his delicasie; 

     The senatours he slow upon a day, 

     To heere how men wolde wepe and crie; 

     And slow his brother, and by his suster lay. 

     His mooder made he in pitous array, 

     For he hir wombe slitte, to biholde 

     Wher he conceyved was, so weilaway 

     That he so litel of his mooder tolde! 

     No teere out of hise eyen for that sighte 

     Ne cam; but seyde, "A fair womman was she." 

     Greet wonder is how that he koude or myghte 

     Be domesman of hir dede beautee. 

     The wyn to bryngen hym comanded he, 

     And drank anon; noon oother wo he made, 

     Whan myght is joyned unto crueltee, 

     Allas, to depe wol the venym wade! 

     In yowthe a maister hadde this emperour 

     To techen hym lettrure and curteisye, 

     For of moralitee he was the flour, 

     As in his tyme, but if bookes lye. 

     And whil this maister hadde of hym maistrye, 

     He maked hym so konnyng and so sowple, 

     That longe tyme it was, er tirannye 

     Or any vice dorste on hym uncowple. 

     This Seneca, of which that I devyse, 

     By-cause Nero hadde of hym swich drede, 

     (For he fro vices wolde hym chastise 

     Discreetly as by word, and nat by dede) 

     "Sire," wolde he seyn, "an emperour moot nede 

     Be vertuous and hate tirannye."- 

     For which he in a bath made hym to blede 

     On bothe hise armes, til he moste dye. 

     This Nero hadde eek of acustumaunce 

     In youthe agayns his maister for to ryse, 

     Which afterward hym thoughte greet grevaunce; 

     Therfore he made hym dyen in this wise, 

     But nathelees, this Seneca the wise 

     Chees in a bath to dye in this manere, 

     Rather than han anoother tormentise, 

     And thus hath Nero slayn his maister deere. 

     Now fil it so, that Fortune liste no lenger 

     The hye pryde of Nero to cherice; 

     For though that he was strong, yet was she strenger; 

     She thoughte thus, "By God, I am to nyce 

     To sette a man that is fulfild of vice 

     In heigh degree, and emperour hym calle. 

     By God, out of his sete I wol hym trice, 

     Whan he leest weneth, sonnest shal he falle." 

     The peple roos upon hym on a nyght 

     For his defaute, and whan he it espied 

     Out of hise dores anoon he hath hym dight 

     Allone, and ther he wende han been allied 

     He knokked faste, and ay the moore he cried, 

     The faster shette they the dores alle. 

     For drede of this hym thoughte that he dyed, 

     And wente his wey, no lenger dorste he calle. 

     The peple cride, and rombled up and doun, 

     That with his erys herde he how they seyde, 

     "Where is this false tiraunt, this Neroun?" 

     For fere almoost out of his wit he breyde, 

     And to his goddes pitously he preyde 

     For socour, but it myghte nat bityde. 

     For drede of this hym thoughte that he deyde, 

     And ran into a gardin hym to hyde. 

     And in this gardyn foond he cherles tweye, 

     That seten by a fyr greet and reed, 

     And to thise cherles two he gan to preye 

     To sleen hym and to girden of his heed, 

     That to his body whan that he were deed 

     Were no despit ydoon, for his defame. 

     Hymself he slow, he koude no bettre reed, 

     Of which Fortune lough and hadde a game. 

                           De Oloferno 

        Was nevere capitayn under a kyng 

     That regnes mo putte in subjeccioun, 

     Ne strenger was in feeld of alle thyng 

     As ibn his tyme, ne gretter of renoun, 

     Ne moore pompous in heigh presumpcioun, 

     Than Oloferne, which Fortune ay kiste 

     So likerously, and ladde hym up and doun 

     Til that his heed was of er that he wiste. 

     Nat oonly that this world hadde hym in awe 

     For lesynge of richesse or libertee, 

     But he made every man reneyen his lawe. 

     "Nabugodonosor was god," seyde hee, 

     "Noon oother god sholde adoure bee." 

     Agayns his heeste no wight dorste trespace, 

     Save in Bethulia, a strong citee, 

     Where Eliachim a preest was of that place. 

     But taak kepe of the deeth of Oloferne; 

     Amydde his hoost he dronke lay a nyght, 

     Withinne his tente, large as is a berne; 

     And yet for al his pompe and al his myght 

     Judith, a womman, as he lay upright 

     Slepynge, his heed of smoot, and from his tente 

     Ful prively she stal from every wight, 

     And with his heed unto hir toun she wente. 

                     De Rege Anthiocho illustri 

        What nedeth it of kyng Anthiochus 

     To telle his hye roial magestee, 

     His hye pride, hise werkes venymous? 

     For swich another was ther noon as he, 

     Rede which that he was in Machabee, 

     And rede the proude wordes that he seyde, 

     And why he fil fro heigh prosperitee, 

     And in an hill how wrecchedly he deyde. 

     Fortune hym hadde enhaunced so in pride 

     That verraily he wende he myghte attayne 

     Unto the sterres upon every syde, 

     And in balance weyen ech montayne,  

     And alle the floodes of the see restrayne. 

     And Goddes peple hadde he moost in hate; 

     Hem wolde he sleen in torment and in payne, 

     Wenynge that God ne myghte his pride abate. 

     And for that Nichanore and Thymothee 

     Of Jewes weren venquysshed myghtily, 

     Unto the Jewes swich an hate hadde he 

     That he bad greithen his chaar ful hastily, 

     And swoor, and seyde, ful despitously, 

     Unto Jerusalem he wolde eft-soone, 

     To wreken his ire on it ful cruelly; 

     But of his purpos he was let ful soone. 

     God for his manace hym so soore smoot 

     With invisible wounde, ay incurable, 

     That in hise guttes carf it so and boot 

     That hise peynes weren importable. 

     And certeinly, the wreche was resonable, 

     For many a mannes guttes dide he peyne, 

     But from his purpos cursed and dampnable 

     For al his smert he wolde hym nat restreyne; 

     But bad anon apparaillen his hoost, 

     And sodeynly, er he was of it war, 

     God daunted al his pride and al his boost, 

     For he so soore fil out of his char, 

     That it hise lemes and his skyn totar, 

     So that he neyther myghte go ne ryde, 

     But in a chayer men aboute hym bar 

     Al forbrused, bothe bak and syde. 

     The wreche of God hym smoot so cruelly 

     That thurgh his body wikked wormes crepte; 

     And therwithal he stank so horribly 

     That noon of al his meynee that hym kepte 

     Wheither so he wook or ellis slepte, 

     Ne myghte noghy for stynk of hym endure. 

     In this meschief he wayled and eek wepte, 

     And knew God lord of every creature. 

     To all his hoost and to hymself also 

     Ful wlatsom was the stynk of his careyne, 

     No man ne myghte hym bere to ne fro, 

     And in this stynk and this horrible peyne 

     He starf ful wrecchedly in a monteyne. 

     Thus hath this robbour and this homycide, 

     That many a man made to wepe and pleyne, 

     Swich gerdoun as bilongeth unto pryde. 

                           De Alexandro 

        The storie of Alisaundre is so commune 

     That every wight that hath discrecioun 

     Hath herd somwhat or al of his fortune. 

     This wyde world, as in conclusioun, 

     He wan by strengthe, or for his hye renoun 

     They weren glad for pees unto hym sende. 

     The pride of man and beest he leyde adoun 

     Wher-so he cam, unto the worldes ende. 

     Comparison myghte nevere yet been maked 

     Bitwixen hym and another conquerour, 

     For al this world for drede of hym hath quaked. 

     He was of knyghthod and of fredom flour, 

     Fortune hym made the heir of hir honour. 

     Save wyn and wommen nothyng myghte aswage 

     His hye entente in armes and labour, 

     So was he ful of leonyn corage. 

     What pris were it to hym, though I yow tolde 

     Of Darius, and an hundred thousand mo, 

     Of kynges, princes, erles, dukes bolde, 

     Whiche he conquered and broghte hem into wo? 

     I seye, as fer as man may ryde or go, 

     The world was his, what sholde I moore devyse? 

     For though I write or tolde yow everemo, 

     Of his knyghthode it myghte nat suffise. 

     Twelf yeer he regned, as seith Machabee, 

     Philippes sone of Macidoyne he was, 

     That first was kyng in Grece the contree. 

     O worhty gentil Alisandre, allas, 

     That evere sholde fallen swich a cas! 

     Empoysoned of thyn owene folk thou weere; 

     Thy sys Fortune hath turned into aas 

     And yet for thee ne weep she never a teere. 

     Who shal me yeven teeris to compleyne 

     The deeth of gentillesse and of franchise, 

     That al the world weelded in his demeyne? 

     And yet hym thoughte it myghte nat suffise, 

     So ful was his corage of heigh emprise. 

     Allas, who shal me helpe to endite 

     False Fortune, and poyson to despise, 

     The whiche two of al this wo I wyte? 

                          De Julio Cesare 

        By wisedom, manhede, and by gret labour 

     From humble bed to roial magestee 

     Up roos he, Julius the conquerour, 

     That wan al thoccident by land and see 

     By strengthe of hand, or elles by tretee, 

     And unto Rome made hem tributarie; 

     And sitthe of Rome the emperour was he, 

     Til that Fortune weex his adversarie. 

     O myghty Cesar, that in Thessalie 

     Agayn Pompeus, fader thyn in lawe, 

     That of the Orient hadde al the chivalrye 

     As fer as that the day bigynneth dawe, 

     Thou thurgh thy knyghthod hast hem take and slawe, 

     Save fewe folk that with Pompeus fledde, 

     Thurgh which thou puttest al thorient in awe, 

     Thanke Fortune, that so wel thee spedde! 

     But now a litel while I wol biwaille 

     This Pompeus, this noble governour 

     Of Rome, which that fleigh at this bataille, 

     I seye, oon on hise men, a fals traitour, 

     His heed of-smoot to wynnen hym favour 

     Of Julius, and hym the heed he broghte; 

     Allas, Pompeye, of thorient conquerour, 

     That Fortune unto swich a fyn thee broghte! 

     To Rome agayn repaireth Julius, 

     With his triumphe lauriat ful hye; 

     But on a tyme Brutus Cassius 

     That evere hadde of his hye estaat envye, 

     Ful prively hath maad conspiracye 

     Agayns this Julius in subtil wise, 

     And caste the place in which he sholde dye 

     With boydekyns, as I shal yow devyse. 

     This Julius to the Capitolie wente 

     Upon a day, as he was wont to goon; 

     And in the Capitolie anon hym hente 

     This false Brutus and his othere foor, 

     And stiked hym with boydekyns anoon 

     With many a wounde; and thus they lete hym lye. 

     But nevere gronte he at no strook but oon, 

     Or elles at two, but if his sstorie lye. 

     So manly was this Julius of herte 

     And so wel lovede estaatly honestee, 

     That though hise deedly woundes soore smerte, 

     His mantel over hise hypes caste he, 

     For no man sholde seen his privetee. 

     And as he lay of diyng in a traunce, 

     And wiste verraily that deed was hee, 

     Of honestee yet hadde he remembraunce. 

     Lucan, to thee this storie I recomende, 

     And to Sweton, and to Valerie also, 

     That of this storie writen word and ende, 

     How that to thise grete conqueroures two 

     Fortune was first freend, and sitthe foo. 

     No man ne truste upon hire favour longe 

     But have hir in awayt for evere moo! 

     Witnesse on alle thise conqueroures stronge. 

                               Cresus 

        This riche Cresus whilom kyng of Lyde, 

     Of whiche Cresus Cirus soore hym dradde, 

     Yet was he caught amyddes al his pryde, 

     And to be brent men to the fyr hym ladde. 

     But swich a reyn doun fro the welkne shadde 

     That slow the fyr, and made hym to escape; 

     But to be war no grace yet he hadde, 

     Til Fortune on the galwes made hym gape. 

     Whanne he escaped was, he kan nat stente 

     For to bigynne a newe werre agayn; 

     He wende wel, for that Fortune hym sente 

     Swich hap that he escaped thurgh the rayn, 

     That of hise foos he myghte nat be slayn; 

     And eek a swevene upon a nyght he mette, 

     Of which he was so proud and eek so fayn 

     That in vengeance he al his herte sette. 

     Upon a tree he was, as that hym thoughte, 

     Ther Jupiter hym wessh bothe bak and syde, 

     And Phebus eek a fair towaille hym broughte, 

     To dryen hym with; and therfore wax his pryde, 

     And to his doghter that stood hym bisyde, 

     Which that he knew in heigh science habounde, 

     He bad hir telle hym what it signyfyde, 

     And she his dreem bigan right thus expounde. 

     "The tree," quod she, "the galwes is to meene, 

     And Juppiter bitokneth snow and reyn, 

     And Phebus with his towaille so clene, 

     Tho been the sonne stremes for to seyn. 

     Thou shalt anhanged be, fader, certeyn; 

     Reyn shal thee wasshe, and sonne shal thee drye." 

     Thus warnede hym ful plat and ful pleyn, 

     His doghter, which that called was Phanye. 

     Anhanged was Cresus, the proude kyng, 

     His roial trone myghte hym nat availle. 

     Tragedie is noon oother maner thyng, 

     Ne kan in syngyng crye ne biwaille, 

     But for that Fortune alwey wole assaille 

     With unwar strook the regnes that been proude; 

     For whan me trusteth hir, thanne wol she faille, 

     And covere hir brighte face with a clowde. 

     Explicit Tragedia. 

     Heere stynteth the Knyght the Monk of his tale. 

     Part 14 

     PROLOGUE TO THE NONNES PREESTES TALE 

     The Prologue of the Nonnes Preestes Tale. 

        "Hoo!" quod the Knyght, "good sire, namoore of this, 

     That ye han seyd is right ynough, ywis, 

     And muchel moore, for litel hevynesse 

     Is right ynough to muche folk, I gesse. 

     I seye for me, it is a greet disese 

     Where as men han been in greet welthe and ese, 

     To heeren of hir sodeyn fal, allas! 

     And the contrarie is joye and greet solas, 

     As whan a man hath been in povre estaat,  

     And clymbeth up, and wexeth fortunat, 

     And there abideth in prosperitee. 

     Swich thyng is galdsom, as it thynketh me, 

     And of swich thyng were goodly for to telle." 

     "Ye," quod our Hoost, "by seinte Poules belle, 

     Ye seye right sooth!  This Monk, he clappeth lowde, 

     He spak, how Fortune covered with a clowde- 

     I noot nevere what-and also of a `Tragedie'- 

     Right now ye herde; and pardee, no remedie 

     It is for to biwaille ne compleyne 

     That that is doon; and als it is a peyne, 

     As ye han seyd, to heere of hevynesse. 

     Sire Monk, namoore of this, so God yow blesse! 

     Youre tale anoyeth al this compaignye; 

     Swich talkyng is nat worth a boterflye, 

     For ther-inne is ther no desport ne game. 

     Wherfore sir Monk, or daun Piers by youre name, 

     I pray yow hertely, telle us somwhat elles, 

     For sikerly, nere clynkyng of youre belles 

     That on your bridel hange on every syde, 

     By hevene kyng, that for us alle dyde, 

     I sholde er this han fallen doun for sleepe, 

     Althogh the slough had never been so deepe; 

     Thanne hadde your tale al be toold in veyn. 

     For, certeinly, as that thise clerkes seyn, 

     Where as a man may have noon audience, 

     Noght helpeth it to tellen his sentence. 

     And wel I woot the substance is in me, 

     If any thyng shal wel reported be. 

     Sir, sey somwhat of huntyng, I yow preye." 

     "Nay," quod this Monk, "I have no lust to pleye; 

     Not lat another telle as I have toold." 

     Thanne spak oure Hoost, with rude speche and boold, 

     And seyde unto the Nonnes Preest anon, 

     "Com neer, thou preest, com hyder, thou, sir John, 

     Telle us swich thyng as may oure hertes glade; 

     Be blithe, though thou ryde upon a jade. 

     What thogh thyn hors be bothe foul and lene? 

     If he wol serve thee, rekke nat a bene! 

     Looke that thyn herte be murie everemo." 

     "Yis sir," quod he, "yis, Hoost, so moot I go, 

     But I be myrie, ywis, I wol be blamed." 

     And right anon his tale he hath attamed, 

     And thus he seyde unto us everichon, 

     This sweete preest, this goodly man sir John. 

     Part 15 

     THE NONNES PREESTES TALE 

     Heere bigynneth the Nonnes Preestes tale of the Cok and 

     Hen, Chauntecleer and Pertelote. 

        A povre wydwe, somdel stape in age, 

     Was whilom dwellyng in a narwe cotage 

     Biside a greve, stondynge in a dale. 

     This wydwe, of which I telle yow my tale, 

     Syn thilke day that she was last a wyf, 

     In pacience ladde a ful symple lyf, 

     For litel was hir catel and hir rente. 

     By housbondrie, of swich as God hir sente, 

     She foond hirself and eek hire doghtren two. 

     Thre large sowes hadde she, and namo, 

     Three keen, and eek a sheep that highte Malle. 

     Ful sooty was hir bour and eek hire halle, 

     In whidh she eet ful many a sklendre meel- 

     Of poynaunt sauce hir neded never a deel. 

     No deyntee morsel passed thurgh hir throte, 

     Hir diete was accordant to hir cote. 

     Repleccioun ne made hir nevere sik, 

     Attempree diete was al hir phisik, 

     And exercise, and hertes suffisaunce. 

     The goute lette hir nothyng for to daunce, 

     Napoplexie shente nat hir heed. 

     No wyn ne drank she, neither whit ne reed, 

     Hir bord was served moost with whit and blak, 

     Milk and broun breed, in which she foond no lak, 

     Seynd bacoun, and somtyme an ey or tweye, 

     For she was as it were a maner deye. 

     A yeerd she hadde, enclosed al aboute 

     With stikkes, and a drye dych withoute, 

     In which she hadde a Cok, heet Chauntecleer, 

     In al the land of crowyng nas his peer. 

     His voys was murier than the murle orgon 

     On messedayes, that in the chirche gon. 

     Wel sikerer was his crowyng in his logge, 

     Than is a clokke, or an abbey orlogge. 

     By nature he crew eche ascencioun 

     Of the equynoxial in thilke toun; 

     For whan degrees fiftene weren ascended, 

     Thanne crew he, that it myghte nat been amended. 

     His coomb was redder than the fyn coral, 

     And batailled, as it were a castel wal. 

     His byle was blak, and as the jeet it shoon, 

     Lyk asure were hise legges and his toon, 

     Hise nayles whiter than the lylye flour, 

     And lyk the burned gold was his colour. 

     This gentil cok hadde in his governaunce 

     Sevene hennes, for to doon al his plesaunce, 

     Whiche were hise sustres and his paramours, 

     And wonder lyk to hym as of colours; 

     Of whiche the faireste hewed on hir throte 

     Was cleped faire damoysele Pertelote. 

     Curteys she was, discreet, and debonaire 

     And compaignable, and bar hyrself so faire 

     Syn thilke day that she was seven nyght oold, 

     That trewely she hath the herte in hoold 

     Of Chauntecleer loken in every lith. 

     He loved hir so, that wel was hym therwith. 

     But swiche a joye was it to here hem synge 

     Whan that the brighte sonne gan to sprynge, 

     In sweete accord, "My lief is faren in londe,"- 

     For thilke tyme, as I have understonde, 

     Beestes and briddes koude speke and synge. 

        And so bifel, that in the dawenynge, 

     As Chauntecleer, among hise wyves alle, 

     Sat on his perche, that was in the halle, 

     And next hym sat this faire Pertelote, 

     This Chauntecleer gan gronen in his throte 

     As man that in his dreem is drecched soore. 

     And whan that Pertelote thus herde hym roore 

     She was agast, and seyde, "O herte deere, 

     What eyleth yow, to grone in this manere? 

     Ye been a verray sleper, fy for shame!" 

     And he answerde and seyde thus, "Madame, 

     I pray yow that ye take it nat agrief. 

     By God, me thoughte I was in swich meschief 

     Right now, that yet myn herte is soore afright. 

     Now God," quod he, "my swevene recche aright, 

     And kepe my body out of foul prisoun. 

     Me mette how that I romed up and doun 

     Withinne our yeerd, wheer as I saugh a beest 

     Was lyk an hound, and wolde han maad areest 

     Upon my body, and han had me deed. 

     His colour was bitwixe yelow and reed, 

     And tipped was his tayl and bothe hise eeris; 

     With blak, unlyk the remenant of hise heeris; 

     His snowte smal, with glowynge eyen tweye. 

     Yet of his look, for feere almoost I deye! 

     This caused me my gronyng, doutelees." 

     "Avoy!" quod she, "Fly on yow hertelees! 

     Allas," quod she, "for by that God above 

     Now han ye lost myn herte and al my love! 

     I kan nat love a coward, by my feith, 

     For certes, what so any womman seith, 

     We alle desiren, if it myght bee, 

     To han housbondes hardy, wise, and free, 

     And secree, and no nygard, ne no fool, 

     Ne hym that is agast of every tool, 

     Ne noon avauntour; by that God above, 

     How dorste ye seyn for shame unto youre love 

     That any thyng myghte make yow aferd? 

     Have ye no mannes herte, and han a berd? 

     Allas, and konne ye been agast of swevenys? 

     No thyng, God woot, but vanitee in swevene is! 

     Swevenes engendren of replecciouns, 

     And ofte of fume and of complecciouns, 

     Whan humours been to habundant in a wight. 

     Certes, this dreem which ye han met tonyght 

     Cometh of greet superfluytee 

     Of youre rede colera, pardee, 

     Which causeth folk to dreden in hir dremes 

     Of arwes, and of fyre with rede lemes, 

     Of grete beestes, that they wol hem byte, 

     Of contekes, and of whelpes grete and lyte; 

     Right as the humour of malencolie 

     Causeth ful many a man in sleep to crie 

     For feere of blake beres, or boles blake, 

     Or elles blake develes wole hem take. 

     Of othere humours koude I telle also 

     That werken many a man in sleep ful wo, 

     But I wol passe as lightly as I kan. 

        Lo Catoun, which that was so wys a man, 

     Seyde he nat thus, `ne do no fors of dremes`? 

        Now sire," quod she, "whan ye flee fro the bemes, 

     For goddes love as taak som laxatyf! 

     Up peril of my soule, and of my lyf, 

     I conseille yow the beste, I wol nat lye, 

     That bothe of colere and of malencolye 

     Ye purge yow; and for ye shal nat tarie, 

     Though in this toun is noon apothecarie, 

     I shal myself to herbes techen yow, 

     That shul been for youre hele and for youre prow. 

     And in oure yeerd tho herbes shal I fynde, 

     The whiche han of hir propretee by kynde 

     To purge yow bynethe and eek above. 

     Foryet nat this, for Goddes owene love! 

     Ye been ful coleryk of compleccioun; 

     Ware the sonne in his ascencioun 

     Ne fynde yow nat repleet of humours hoote. 

     And if it do, I dar wel leye a grote 

     That ye shul have a fevere terciane, 

     Or an agu that may be youre bane. 

     A day or two ye shul have digestyves 

     Of wormes, er ye take youre laxatyves 

     Of lawriol, centaure, and fumetere, 

     Or elles of ellebor that groweth there, 

     Of katapuce, or of gaitrys beryis, 

     Of herbe yve, growyng in oure yeerd, ther mery is! 

     Pekke hem up right as they growe, and ete hem yn! 

     Be myrie, housbonde, for youre fader kyn, 

     Dredeth no dreem, I kan sey yow namoore!" 

        "Madame," quod he, "graunt mercy of youre loore, 

     But nathelees, as touchyng Daun Catoun, 

     That hath of wysdom swich a greet renoun, 

     Though that he bad no dremes for to drede, 

     By God, men may in olde bookes rede 

     Of many a man moore of auctorite 

     Than evere Caton was, so moot I thee, 

     That al the revers seyn of this sentence, 

     And han wel founden by experience 

     That dremes been significaciouns 

     As wel of joye as of tribulaciouns 

     That folk enduren in this lif present. 

     Ther nedeth make of this noon argument, 

     The verray preeve sheweth it in dede. 

     Oon of the gretteste auctours that men rede 

     Seith thus, that whilom two felawes wente 

     On pilgrimage in a ful good entente; 

     And happed so, they coomen in a toun 

     Wher as ther was swich congregacioun 

     Of peple, and eek so streit of herbergage, 

     That they ne founde as muche as o cotage 

     In which they bothe myghte logged bee; 

     Wherfore they mosten of necessitee 

     As for that nyght departen compaignye, 

     And ech of hem gooth to his hostelrye, 

     And took his loggyng as it wolde falle. 

     That oon of hem was logged in a stalle, 

     Fer in a yeerd, with oxen of the plough; 

     That oother man was logged wel ynough, 

     As was his aventure or his fortune, 

     That us governeth alle as in commune. 

        And so bifel, that longe er it were day 

     This man mette in his bed, ther as he lay, 

     How that his felawe gan upon hym calle 

     And seyde, `Allas, for in an oxes stalle 

     This nyght I shal be mordred, ther I lye! 

     Now help me, deere brother, or I dye; 

     In alle haste com to me!" he sayde. 

     This man out of his sleep for feere abrayde; 

     But whan that he was wakened of his sleep, 

     He turned hym and took of it no keep. 

     Hym thoughte, his dreem nas but a vanitee. 

     Thus twies in his slepyng dremed hee, 

     And atte thridde tyme yet his felawe 

     Cam, as hym thoughte, and seide, `I am now slawe, 

     Bihoold my bloody woundes depe and wyde; 

     Arys up erly in the morwe-tyde, 

     And at the west gate of the toun,' quod he, 

     `A carte ful of donge ther shaltow se, 

     In which my body is hid ful prively. 

     Do thilke carte arresten boldely; 

     My gold caused my mordre, sooth to sayn.'- 

     And tolde hym every point, how he was slayn, 

     With a ful pitous face, pale of hewe; 

     And truste wel, his dreem he foond ful trewe. 

     For on the morwe, as soone as it was day, 

     To his felawes in he took the way, 

     And whan that he cam to this oxes stalle, 

     After his felawe he bigan to calle. 

     The hostiler answerde hym anon, 

     And seyde, `Sire, your felawe is agon, 

     As soone as day he wente out of the toun.' 

     This man gan fallen in suspecioun, 

     Remembrynge on hise dremes that he mette, 

     And forth he gooth, no lenger wolde he lette, 

     Unto the westgate of the toun; and fond 

     A dong carte, as it were to donge lond, 

     That was arrayed in that same wise, 

     As ye han herd the dede man devyse. 

     And with an hardy herte he gan to crye, 

     `Vengeance and justice of this felonye; 

     My felawe mordred is this same myght, 

     And in this carte he lith gapyng upright. 

     I crye out on the ministres,' quod he, 

     `That sholden kepe and reulen this citee! 

     Harrow! allas, heere lith my felawe slayn!' 

     What sholde I moore unto this tale sayn? 

     The peple out-sterte, and caste the cart to grounde, 

     And in the myddel of the dong they founde 

     The dede man, that mordred was al newe. 

        O blisful God, that art so just and trewe! 

     Lo, howe that thou biwreyest mordre alway! 

     Mordre wol out, that se we, day by day. 

     Mordre is so wlatsom and abhomynable 

     To God that is so just and resonable, 

     That he ne wol nat suffre it heled be, 

     Though it abyde a yeer, or two, or thre. 

     Mordre wol out, this my conclusioun. 

     And right anon ministres of that toun 

     Han hent the carter, and so soore hym pyned, 

     And eek the hostiler so soore engyned 

     That they biknewe hire wikkednesse anon, 

     And were anhanged by the nekke bon. 

     Heere may men seen, that dremes been to drede! 

        And certes, in the same book I rede 

     Right in the nexte chapitre after this- 

     I gabbe nat, so have I joye or blis- 

     Two men that wolde han passed over see 

     For certeyn cause, into a fer contree, 

     If that the wynd ne hadde been contrarie, 

     That made hem in a citee for to tarie, 

     That stood ful myrie upon an haven-syde- 

     But on a day, agayn the even-tyde, 

     The wynd gan chaunge, and blew right as hem leste. 

     Jolif and glad they wente unto hir reste, 

     And casten hem ful erly for to saille, 

     But herkneth, to that o man fil a greet mervaille; 

     That oon of hem, in slepyng as he lay, 

     Hym mette a wonder dreem agayn the day. 

     Hym thoughte a man stood by his beddes syde, 

     And hym comanded that he sholde abyde, 

     And seyde hym thus, `If thou tomorwe wende 

     Thow shalt be dreynt; my tale is at an ende.' 

     He wook, and tolde his felawe what he mette, 

     And preyde hym his viage for to lette, 

     As for that day, he preyede hym to byde. 

     His felawe, that lay by his beddes syde, 

     Gan for to laughe and scorned him ful faste. 

     `No dreem,' quod he, `may so myn herte agaste 

     That I wol lette for to do my thynges. 

     I sette nat a straw by thy dremynges, 

     For swevenes been but vanytees and japes. 

     Men dreme al day of owles or of apes, 

     And of many a maze therwithal. 

     Men dreme of thyng that nevere was, ne shal; 

     But sith I see that thou wolt heere abyde 

     And thus forslewthen wilfully thy tyde, 

     God woot it reweth me, and have good day.' 

     And thus he took his leve and wente his way; 

     But er that he hadde half his cours yseyled, 

     Noot I nat why, ne what myschaunce it eyled, 

     But casuelly the shippes botme rente, 

     And ship and men under the water wente 

     In sighte of othere shippes it bisyde, 

     That with hem seyled at the same tyde. 

     And therfore, faire Pertelote so deere, 

     By swiche ensamples olde yet maistow leere, 

     That no man sholde been to recchelees 

     Of dremes, for I seye thee doutelees 

     That many a dreem ful soore is for to drede. 

        Lo, in the lyf of Seint Kenelm I rede, 

     That was Kenulphus sone, the noble kyng, 

     Of Mercenrike how Kenelm mette a thyng. 

     A lite er he was mordred, on a day 

     His mordre in his avysioun he say. 

     His norice hym expowned every deel 

     His swevene, and bad hym for to kepe hym weel 

     For traisoun, but he nas but seven yeer oold, 

     And therfore litel tale hath he toold 

     Of any dreem, so hooly is his herte. 

     By God, I hadde levere than my sherte 

     That ye hadde rad his legende, as have I. 

     Dame Pertelote, I sey yow trewely, 

     Macrobeus, that writ the avisioun 

     In Affrike of the worhty Cipioun, 

     Affermeth dremes, and seith that they been 

     Warnynge of thynges, that men after seen. 

     And forther-moore I pray yow looketh wel 

     In the olde testament of Daniel, 

     If he heeld dremes any vanitee! 

     Reed eek of Joseph, and ther shul ye see 

     Wher dremes be somtyme, I sey nat alle, 

     Warnynge of thynges that shul after falle. 

     Looke of Egipte the kyng, daun Pharao, 

     His baker and his butiller also, 

     Wher they ne felte noon effect in dremes! 

     Whoso wol seken actes of sondry remes 

     May rede of dremes many a wonder thyng. 

     Lo Cresus, which that was of Lyde kyng, 

     Mette he nat that he sat upon a tree, 

     Which signified, he sholde anhanged bee? 

     Lo her Adromacha, Ectores wyf, 

     That day that Ector sholde lese his lyf 

     She dremed on the same nyght biforn 

     How that the lyf of Ector sholde be lorn, 

     If thilke day he wente into bataille. 

     She warned hym, but it myghte nat availle; 

     He wente for to fighte natheles, 

     But he was slayn anon of Achilles. 

     But thilke is al to longe for to telle, 

     And eek it is ny day, I may nat dwelle. 

     Shortly I seye, as for conclusioun, 

     That I shal han of this avisioun 

     Adversitee, and I seye forthermoor 

     That I ne telle of laxatyves no stoor, 

     For they been venymes, I woot it weel, 

     I hem diffye, I love hem never a deel. 

        Now let us speke of myrthe, and stynte al this; 

     Madame Pertelote, so have I blis, 

     Of o thyng God hath sent me large grace, 

     For whan I se the beautee of youre face, 

     Ye been so scarlet reed aboute youre eyen, 

     It maketh al my drede for to dyen. 

     For, al so siker as In principio 

     Mulier est hominis confusio,- 

     Madame, the sentence of this Latyn is, 

     `Womman is mannes joye and al his blis.' 

     For whan I felle a-nyght your softe syde, 

     Al be it that I may nat on yow ryde, 

     For that oure perche is maad so narwe, allas! 

     I am so ful of joye and of solas, 

     That I diffye bothe swevene and dreem." 

     And with that word he fly doun fro the beem, 

     For it was day, and eke hise hennes alle; 

     And with a chuk he gan hem for to calle, 

     For he hadde founde a corn lay in the yerd. 

     Real he was, he was namoore aferd; 

     And fethered Pertelote twenty tyme, 

     And trad as ofte, er that it was pryme. 

     He looketh as it were a grym leoun, 

     And on hise toos he rometh up and doun, 

     Hym deigned nat to sette his foot to grounde. 

     He chukketh whan he hath a corn yfounde, 

     And to hym rennen thanne hise wyves alle. 

     Thus roial as a prince is in an halle, 

     Leve I this Chauntecleer in his pasture, 

     And after wol I telle his aventure. 

        Whan that the monthe in which the world bigan 

     That highte March, whan God first maked man, 

     Was compleet, and passed were also 

     Syn March bigan, thritty dayes and two, 

     Bifel that Chauntecleer in al his pryde, 

     Hise sevene wyves walkynge by his syde, 

     Caste up hise eyen to the brighte sonne, 

     That in the signe of Taurus hadde yronne 

     Twenty degrees and oon, and somwhat moore; 

     And knew by kynde, and by noon oother loore, 

     That it was pryme, and crew with blisful stevene. 

     "The sonne," he seyde, "is clomben upon hevene 

     Fourty degrees and oon, and moore, ywis. 

     Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis, 

     Herkneth thise blisful briddes how they synge, 

     And se the fresshe floures how they sprynge. 

     Ful is myn herte of revel and solas." 

     But sodeynly hym fil a sorweful cas, 

     For evere the latter ende of joye is wo. 

     God woot that worldly joye is soone ago, 

     And if a rethor koude faire endite, 

     He in a cronycle saufly myghte it write, 

     As for a sovereyn notabilitee. 

     Now every wys man, lat him herkne me: 

     This storie is al so trewe, I undertake, 

     As is the book of Launcelot de Lake, 

     That wommen holde in ful greet reverence. 

     Now wol I come agayn to my sentence. 

        A colfox, ful of sly iniquitee, 

     That in the grove hadde wonned yeres three, 

     By heigh ymaginacioun forn-cast, 

     The same nyght thurghout the hegges brast 

     Into the yerd, ther Chauntecleer the faire 

     Was wont, and eek hise wyves, to repaire; 

     And in a bed of wortes stille he lay, 

     Til it was passed undren of the day, 

     Waitynge his tyme on Chauntecleer to falle, 

     As gladly doon thise homycides alle 

     That in await liggen to mordre men. 

     O false mordrour, lurkynge in thy den! 

     O newe Scariot! newe Genyloun! 

     False dissymulour, O Greek synoun 

     That broghtest Troye al outrely to sorwe! 

     O Chauntecleer, acursed be that morwe 

     That thou into that yerd flaugh fro the bemes! 

     Thou were ful wel ywarned by thy dremes 

     That thilke day was perilous to thee; 

     But what that God forwoot moot nedes bee, 

     After the opinioun of certein clerkis. 

     Witnesse on hym, that any parfit clerk is, 

     That in scole is greet altercacioun 

     In this mateere, and greet disputisoun, 

     And hath been of an hundred thousand men;- 

     But I ne kan nat bulte it to the bren 

     As kan the hooly doctour Augustyn, 

     Or Boece or the Bisshop Bradwardyn,- 

     Wheither that Goddes worthy forwityng 

     Streyneth me nedefully to doon a thyng, 

     (Nedely clepe I symple necessitee) 

     Or elles, if free choys be graunted me 

     To do that same thyng, or do it noght, 

     Though God forwoot it, er that it was wroght; 

     Or if his wityng streyneth never a deel 

     But by necessitee condicioneel,- 

     I wel nat han to do of swich mateere; 

     My tale is of a Cok, as ye may heere, 

     That took his conseil of his wyf, with sorwe, 

     To walken in the yerd, upon that morwe 

     That he hadde met that dreem, that I of tolde. 

     Wommennes conseils been ful ofte colde; 

     Wommannes conseil broghte us first to wo, 

     And made Adam fro Paradys to go, 

     Ther as he was ful myrie, and wel at ese. 

     But for I noot to whom it myght displese, 

     If I conseil of wommen wolde blame, 

     Passe over, for I seye it in my game. 

     Rede auctours, wher they trete of swich mateere, 

     And what they seyn of wommen ye may heere. 

     Thise been the cokkes wordes, and nat myne, 

     I kan noon harm of no womman divyne. 

        Faire in the soond, to bathe hire myrily, 

     Lith Pertelote, and alle hir sustres by, 

     Agayn the sonne; and Chauntecleer so free 

     Soony murier than the mermayde in the see- 

     For Phisiologus seith sikerly 

     How that they syngen wel and myrily. 

     And so bifel, that as he cast his eye 

     Among the wortes on a boterflye, 

     He was war of this fox that lay ful lowe. 

     Nothyng ne liste hym thanne for to crowe, 

     But cride anon, "cok! cok!" and up he sterte, 

     As man that was affrayed in his herte. 

     For natureelly a beest desireth flee 

     Fro his contrarie, if he may it see, 

     Though he never erst hadde seyn it with his eye. 

     This Chauntecleer, whan he gan hym espye, 

     He wolde han fled, but that the fox anon 

     Seyde, "Gentil sire, allas, wher wol ye gon? 

     Be ye affrayed of me that am youre freend? 

     Now certes, I were worse than a feend 

     If I to yow wolde harm or vileynye. 

     I am nat come your conseil for tespye, 

     But trewely, the cause of my comynge 

     Was oonly for to herkne how that ye synge. 

     For trewely, ye have as myrie a stevene 

     As any aungel hath that is in hevene. 

     Therwith ye han in musyk moore feelynge 

     Than hadde Boece, or any that kan synge. 

     My lord youre fader-God his soule blesse!- 

     And eek youre mooder, of hir gentillesse 

     Han in myn hous ybeen, to my greet ese; 

     And certes, sire, ful fayn wolde I yow plese. 

     But for men speke of syngyng, I wol seye, 

     So moote I brouke wel myne eyen tweye, 

     Save yow I herde nevere man yet synge 

     As dide youre fader in the morwenynge. 

     Certes, it was of herte al that he song! 

     And for to make his voys the moore strong, 

     He wolde so peyne hym, that with bothe hise eyen 

     He moste wynke, so loude he solde cryen, 

     And stonden on his tiptoon therwithal, 

     And strecche forth his nekke long and smal. 

     And eek he was of swich discrecioun, 

     That ther nas no man in no regioun, 

     That hym in song or wisedom myghte passe. 

     I have wel rad in daun Burnel the Asse 

     Among hise vers, how that ther was a cok, 

     For that a presstes sone yaf hym a knok, 

     Upon his leg, whil he was yong and nyce, 

     He made hym for to lese his benefice. 

     But certeyn, ther nys no comparisoun 

     Bitwixe the wisedom and discrecioun 

     Of youre fader, and of his subtiltee. 

     Now syngeth, sire, for seinte charitee, 

     Lat se konne ye youre fader countrefete!" 

     This Chauntecleer hise wynges gan to bete, 

     As man that koude his traysoun nat espie, 

     So was he ravysshed with his flaterie. 

        Allas, ye lordes! many a fals flatour 

     Is in youre courtes, and many a losengeour, 

     That plesen yow wel moore, by my feith, 

     Than he that soothfastnesse unto yow seith. 

     Redeth Ecclesiaste of Flaterye; 

     Beth war, ye lordes, of hir trecherye. 

     This Chauntecleer stood hye upon his toos, 

     Strecchynge his nekke, and heeld hise eyen cloos, 

     And gan to crowe loude for the nones, 

     And daun Russell the fox stirte up atones, 

     And by the gargat hente Chauntecleer, 

     And on his bak toward the wode hym beer, 

     For yet ne was ther no man that hym sewed. 

        O destinee, that mayst nat been eschewed! 

     Allas, that Chauntecleer fleigh fro the bemes! 

     Allas, his wyf ne roghte nat of dremes! 

     And on a Friday fil al this meschaunce. 

     O Venus, that art goddesse of plesaunce! 

     Syn that thy servant was this Chauntecleer, 

     And in thy servyce dide al his poweer, 

     Moore for delit, than world to multiplye, 

     Why woltestow suffre hym on thy day to dye? 

     O Gaufred, deere Maister soverayn! 

     That whan thy worthy kyng Richard was slayn 

     With shot, compleynedest his deeth so soore, 

     Why ne hadde I now thy sentence and thy loore, 

     The Friday for to chide, as diden ye?- 

     For on a Friday soothyl slayn was he. 

     Thanne wolde I shewe yow, how that I koude pleyne 

     For Chauntecleres drede and for his peyne. 

     Certes, swich cry ne lamentacioun 

     Was nevere of ladyes maad, whan Ylioun 

     Was wonne, and Pirrus with his streite swerd, 

     Whan he hadde hent kyng Priam by the berd, 

     And slayn hym, as seith us Eneydos, 

     As maden alle the hennes in the clos, 

     Whan they had seyn of Chauntecleer the sighte. 

     But sovereynly dame Pertelote shrighte 

     Ful louder than dide Hasdrubales wyf, 

     Whan that hir housbonde hadde lost his lyf, 

     And that the Romayns hadde brend Cartage; 

     She was so ful of torment and of rage 

     That wilfully into the fyr she sterte, 

     And brende hirselven with a stedefast herte. 

     O woful hennes, right so criden ye, 

     As whan that Nero brende the Citee 

     Of Rome, cryden senatoures wyves, 

     For that hir husbondes losten alle hir lyves, 

     Withouten gilt this Nero hath hem slayn. 

     Now I wole turne to my tale agayn. 

        This sely wydwe, and eek hir doghtres two, 

     Herden thise hennes crie, and maken wo, 

     And out at dores stirten they anon, 

     And seyn the fox toward the grove gon, 

     And bar upon his bak the cok away; 

     And cryden, "Out! harrow! and weylaway! 

     Ha! ha! the fox!" and after hym they ran, 

     And eek with staves many another man, 

     Ran Colle, oure dogge, and Talbot, and Gerland, 

     And Malkyn with a dystaf in hir hand, 

     Ran cow and calf, and eek the verray hogges, 

     So were they fered for berkying of the dogges, 

     And shoutyng of the men and wommen eek, 

     They ronne so, hem thoughte hir herte breek; 

     They yolleden as feends doon in helle, 

     The dokes cryden as men wolde hem quelle, 

     The gees for feere flowen over the trees, 

     Out of the hyve cam the swarm of bees, 

     So hydous was the noyse, a! benedicitee! 

     Certes, he Jakke Straw and his meynee 

     Ne made nevere shoutes half so shille, 

     Whan that they wolden any Flemyng kille, 

     As thilke day was maad upon the fox. 

     Of bras they broghten bemes and of box, 

     Of horn, of boon, in whiche they blewe and powped, 

     And therwithal they skriked and they howped, 

     It seemed as that hevene sholde falle! 

     Now, goode men, I pray yow, herkneth alle. 

        Lo, how Fortune turneth sodeynly 

     The hope and pryde eek of hir enemy! 

     This cok, that lay upon the foxes bak, 

     In al his drede unto the fox he spak, 

     And seyde, "Sire, if that I were as ye, 

     Yet wolde I seyn, as wys God helpe me, 

     `Turneth agayn, ye proude cherles alle, 

     A verray pestilence upon yow falle! 

     Now am I come unto the wodes syde, 

     Maugree youre heed, the cok shal heere abyde, 

     I wol hym ete, in feith, and that anon,'" 

     The fox answerde, "In feith, it shal be don." 

     And as he spak that word, al sodeynly 

     This cok brak from his mouth delyverly, 

     And heighe upon a tree he fleigh anon. 

        And whan the fox saugh that he was gon, 

     "Allas!" quod he, "O Chauntecleer, allas! 

     I have to yow," quod he, "ydoon trespas, 

     In as muche as I maked yow aferd, 

     Whan I yow hente and broght into this yerd. 

     But, sire, I dide it of no wikke entente, 

     Com doun, and I shal telle yow what I mente; 

     I shal seye sooth to yow, God help me so." 

     "Nay, thanne," quod he, "I shrewe us bothe two, 

     And first I shrewe myself bothe blood and bones, 

     If thou bigyle me ofter than ones. 

     Thou shalt namoore, thurgh thy flaterye, 

     Do me to synge and wynke with myn eye; 

     For he that wynketh whan he sholde see, 

     Al wilfully, God lat him nevere thee." 

     "Nay," quod the fox, "but God yeve hym meschaunce, 

     That is so undiscreet of governaunce, 

     That jangleth, whan he sholde holde his pees." 

        Lo, swich it si for to be recchelees, 

     And necligent, and truste on flaterye! 

     But ye that holden this tale a folye, 

     As of a fox, or of a cok and hen, 

     Taketh the moralite, goode men; 

     For seint Paul seith, that al that writen is, 

     To oure doctrine it is ywrite, ywis. 

     Taketh the fruyt, and lat the chaf be stille. 

     Now goode God, if that it be thy wille, 

     As seith my lord, so make us alle goode men, 

     And brynge us to his heighe blisse.  Amen. 

     Heere is ended the Nonnes Preestes tale. 

     Part 16 

     GROUP C. 

     THE PHISICIENS TALE 

     Heere folweth the Phisiciens tale. 

        Ther was, as telleth Titus Livius, 

     A knyght that called was Virginius, 

     Fulfild of honour and of worthynesse, 

     And strong of freendes, and of greet richesse. 

     This knyght a doghter hadde by his wyf, 

     No children hadde he mo in al his lyf. 

     Fair was this mayde in excellent beautee 

     Aboven every wight that man may see. 

     For Nature hath with sovereyn diligence 

     Yformed hir in so greet excellence, 

     As though she wolde seyn, "Lo, I, Nature, 

     Thus kan I forme and peynte a creature 

     Whan that me list; who kan me countrefete? 

     Pigmalion noght, though he ay forge and bete, 

     Or grave, or peynte, for I dar wel seyn 

     Apelles, Zanzis sholde werche in veyn 

     Outher to grave or peynte, or forge, or bete, 

     If they presumed me to countrefete. 

     For He that is the former principal 

     Hath maked me his vicaire general 

     To forme and peynten erthely creaturis 

     Right as me list, and ech thyng in my cure is 

     Under the Moone, that may wane and waxe, 

     And for my werk right nothyng wol I axe. 

     My lord and I been ful of oon accord; 

     I made hir to the worship of my lord, 

     So do I alle myne othere creatures, 

     What colour that they han, or what figures." 

     Thus semeth me that Nature wolde seye. 

        This mayde of age twelf yeer was and tweye, 

     Is which that Nature hadde swich delit. 

     For right as she kan peynte a lilie whit, 

     And reed a rose, right with swich peynture 

     She peynted hath this noble creature, 

     Er she were born, upon hir lymes fre, 

     Where as by right swiche colours sholde be. 

     And Phebus dyed hath hir treses grete, 

     Lyk to the stremes of his burned heete; 

     And if that excellent was hir beautee, 

     A thousand foold moore vertuous was she. 

     In hire ne lakked no condicioun 

     That is to preyse, as by discrecioun; 

     As wel in goost as body chast was she, 

     For which she floured in virginitee 

     With alle humylitee and abstinence, 

     With alle attemperaunce and pacience, 

     With mesure eek of beryng and array. 

     Discreet she was in answeryng alway, 

     Though she were wise Pallas, dar I seyn, 

     Hir facound eek ful wommanly and pleyn, 

     No countrefeted termes hadde she