1.17.5: Geoffrey Chaucer - The Canterbury Tales - The Franklin's Tale

THE PROLOGUE

“IN faith, Squier, thou hast thee well acquit,

And gentilly; I praise well thy wit,”

Quoth the Franklin; “considering thy youthe

So feelingly thou speak’st, Sir, I aloue thee,

As to my doom, there is none that is here

Of eloquence that shall be thy peer,

If that thou live; God give thee goode chance,

And in virtue send thee continuance,

For of thy speaking I have great dainty.

I have a son, and, by the Trinity;

It were me lever than twenty pound worth land,

Though it right now were fallen in my hand,

He were a man of such discretion

As that ye be: fy on possession,

But if a man be virtuous withal.

I have my sone snibbed and yet shall,

For he to virtue listeth not t’intend,

But for to play at dice, and to dispend,

And lose all that he hath, is his usage;

And he had lever talke with a page,

Than to commune with any gentle wight,

There he might learen gentilless aright.”

Straw for your gentillesse!” quoth our Host.

“What? Frankelin, pardie, Sir, well thou wost

That each of you must tellen at the least

A tale or two, or breake his behest.”

“That know I well, Sir,” quoth the Frankelin;

“I pray you have me not in disdain,

Though I to this man speak a word or two.”

“Tell on thy tale, withoute wordes mo’.”

“Gladly, Sir Host,” quoth he, “I will obey

Unto your will; now hearken what I say;

I will you not contrary in no wise,

As far as that my wittes may suffice.

I pray to God that it may please you,

Then wot I well that it is good enow.

“These olde gentle Bretons, in their days,

Of divers aventures made lays,

Rhymeden in their firste Breton tongue;

Which layes with their instruments they sung,

Or elles reade them for their pleasance;

And one of them have I in remembrance,

Which I shall say with good will as I can.

But, Sirs, because I am a borel man,

At my beginning first I you beseech

Have me excused of my rude speech.

I learned never rhetoric, certain;

Thing that I speak, it must be bare and plain.

I slept never on the mount of Parnasso,

Nor learned Marcus Tullius Cicero.

Coloures know I none, withoute dread,

But such colours as growen in the mead,

Or elles such as men dye with or paint;

Colours of rhetoric be to me quaint;

My spirit feeleth not of such mattere.

But, if you list, my tale shall ye hear.”

THE TALE

In Armoric’, that called is Bretagne,

There was a knight, that lov’d and did his pain,

To serve a lady in his beste wise;

And many a labour, many a great emprise,

He for his lady wrought, ere she were won:

For she was one the fairest under sun,

And eke thereto come of so high kindred,

That well unnethes durst this knight for dread,

Tell her his woe, his pain, and his distress

But, at the last, she for his worthiness,

And namely for his meek obeisance,

Hath such a pity caught of his penance,

That privily she fell of his accord

To take him for her husband and her lord

(Of such lordship as men have o’er their wives);

And, for to lead the more in bliss their lives,

Of his free will he swore her as a knight,

That never in all his life he day nor night

Should take upon himself no mastery

Against her will, nor kithe her jealousy,

But her obey, and follow her will in all,

As any lover to his lady shall;

Save that the name of sovereignety

That would he have, for shame of his degree.

She thanked him, and with full great humbless

She saide; “Sir, since of your gentleness

Ye proffer me to have so large a reign,

Ne woulde God never betwixt us twain,

As in my guilt, were either war or strife:

Sir, I will be your humble true wife,

Have here my troth, till that my hearte brest.”

Thus be they both in quiet and in rest.

For one thing, Sires, safely dare I say,

That friends ever each other must obey,

If they will longe hold in company.

Love will not be constrain’d by mastery.

When mast’ry comes, the god of love anon

Beateth his wings, and, farewell, he is gone.

Love is a thing as any spirit free.

Women of kind desire liberty,

And not to be constrained as a thrall,

And so do men, if soothly I say shall.

Look who that is most patient in love,

He is at his advantage all above.

Patience is a high virtue certain,

For it vanquisheth, as these clerkes sayn,

Thinges that rigour never should attain.

For every word men may not chide or plain.

Learne to suffer, or, so may I go,

Ye shall it learn whether ye will or no.

For in this world certain no wight there is,

That he not doth or saith sometimes amiss.

Ire, or sickness, or constellation,

Wine, woe, or changing of complexion,

Causeth full oft to do amiss or speaken:

On every wrong a man may not be wreaken.

After the time must be temperance

To every wight that can of governance.

And therefore hath this worthy wise knight

(To live in ease) sufferance her behight;

And she to him full wisly gan to swear

That never should there be default in her.

Here may men see a humble wife accord;

Thus hath she ta’en her servant and her lord,

Servant in love, and lord in marriage.

Then was he both in lordship and servage?

Servage? nay, but in lordship all above,

Since he had both his lady and his love:

His lady certes, and his wife also,

The which that law of love accordeth to.

And when he was in this prosperrity,

Home with his wife he went to his country,

Not far from Penmark, where his dwelling was,

And there he liv’d in bliss and in solace.

Who coulde tell, but he had wedded be,

The joy, the ease, and the prosperity,

That is betwixt a husband and his wife?

A year and more lasted this blissful life,

Till that this knight, of whom I spake thus,

That of Cairrud was call’d Arviragus,

Shope him to go and dwell a year or twain

In Engleland, that call’d was eke Britain,

To seek in armes worship and honour

(For all his lust he set in such labour);

And dwelled there two years; the book saith thus.

Now will I stint of this Arviragus,

And speak I will of Dorigen his wife,

That lov’d her husband as her hearte’s life.

For his absence weepeth she and siketh,

As do these noble wives when them liketh;

She mourneth, waketh, waileth, fasteth, plaineth;

Desire of his presence her so distraineth,

That all this wide world she set at nought.

Her friendes, which that knew her heavy thought,

Comforte her in all that ever they may;

They preache her, they tell her night and day,

That causeless she slays herself, alas!

And every comfort possible in this case

They do to her, with all their business,

And all to make her leave her heaviness.

By process, as ye knowen every one,

Men may so longe graven in a stone,

Till some figure therein imprinted be:

So long have they comforted her, till she

Received hath, by hope and by reason,

Th’ imprinting of their consolation,

Through which her greate sorrow gan assuage;

She may not always duren in such rage.

And eke Arviragus, in all this care,

Hath sent his letters home of his welfare,

And that he will come hastily again,

Or elles had this sorrow her hearty-slain.

Her friendes saw her sorrow gin to slake,

And prayed her on knees for Godde’s sake

To come and roamen in their company,

Away to drive her darke fantasy;

And finally she granted that request,

For well she saw that it was for the best.

Now stood her castle faste by the sea,

And often with her friendes walked she,

Her to disport upon the bank on high,

There as many a ship and barge sigh,

Sailing their courses, where them list to go.

But then was that a parcel of her woe,

For to herself full oft, “Alas!” said she,

Is there no ship, of so many as I see,

Will bringe home my lord? then were my heart

All warish’d of this bitter paine’s smart.”

Another time would she sit and think,

And cast her eyen downward from the brink;

But when she saw the grisly rockes blake,

For very fear so would her hearte quake,

That on her feet she might her not sustene

Then would she sit adown upon the green,

And piteously into the sea behold,

And say right thus, with careful sikes cold:

“Eternal God! that through thy purveyance

Leadest this world by certain governance,

In idle, as men say, ye nothing make;

But, Lord, these grisly fiendly rockes blake,

That seem rather a foul confusion

Of work, than any fair creation

Of such a perfect wise God and stable,

Why have ye wrought this work unreasonable?

For by this work, north, south, or west, or east,

There is not foster’d man, nor bird, nor beast:

It doth no good, to my wit, but annoyeth.

See ye not, Lord, how mankind it destroyeth?

A hundred thousand bodies of mankind

Have rockes slain, all be they not in mind;

Which mankind is so fair part of thy work,

Thou madest it like to thine owen mark.

Then seemed it ye had a great cherte

Toward mankind; but how then may it be

That ye such meanes make it to destroy?

Which meanes do no good, but ever annoy.

I wot well, clerkes will say as them lest,

By arguments, that all is for the best,

Although I can the causes not y-know;

But thilke God that made the wind to blow,

As keep my lord, this is my conclusion:

To clerks leave I all disputation:

But would to God that all these rockes blake

Were sunken into helle for his sake

These rockes slay mine hearte for the fear.”

Thus would she say, with many a piteous tear.

Her friendes saw that it was no disport

To roame by the sea, but discomfort,

And shope them for to playe somewhere else.

They leade her by rivers and by wells,

And eke in other places delectables;

They dancen, and they play at chess and tables.

So on a day, right in the morning-tide,

Unto a garden that was there beside,

In which that they had made their ordinance

Of victual, and of other purveyance,

They go and play them all the longe day:

And this was on the sixth morrow of May,

Which May had painted with his softe showers

This garden full of leaves and of flowers:

And craft of manne’s hand so curiously

Arrayed had this garden truely,

That never was there garden of such price,

But if it were the very Paradise.

Th’odour of flowers, and the freshe sight,

Would have maked any hearte light

That e’er was born, but if too great sickness

Or too great sorrow held it in distress;

So full it was of beauty and pleasance.

And after dinner they began to dance

And sing also, save Dorigen alone

Who made alway her complaint and her moan,

For she saw not him on the dance go

That was her husband, and her love also;

But natheless she must a time abide

And with good hope let her sorrow slide.

Upon this dance, amonge other men,

Danced a squier before Dorigen

That fresher was, and jollier of array

As to my doom, than is the month of May.

He sang and danced, passing any man,

That is or was since that the world began;

Therewith he was, if men should him descrive,

One of the beste faring men alive,

Young, strong, and virtuous, and rich, and wise,

And well beloved, and holden in great price.

And, shortly if the sooth I telle shall,

Unweeting of this Dorigen at all,

This lusty squier, servant to Venus,

Which that y-called was Aurelius,

Had lov’d her best of any creature

Two year and more, as was his aventure;

But never durst he tell her his grievance;

Withoute cup he drank all his penance.

He was despaired, nothing durst he say,

Save in his songes somewhat would he wray

His woe, as in a general complaining;

He said, he lov’d, and was belov’d nothing.

Of suche matter made he many lays,

Songes, complaintes, roundels, virelays

How that he durste not his sorrow tell,

But languished, as doth a Fury in hell;

And die he must, he said, as did Echo For

Narcissus, that durst not tell her woe.

In other manner than ye hear me say,

He durste not to her his woe bewray,

Save that paraventure sometimes at dances,

Where younge folke keep their observances,

It may well be he looked on her face

In such a wise, as man that asketh grace,

But nothing wiste she of his intent.

Nath’less it happen’d, ere they thennes went,

Because that he was her neighebour,

And was a man of worship and honour,

And she had knowen him of time yore,

They fell in speech, and forth aye more and more

Unto his purpose drew Aurelius;

And when he saw his time, he saide thus:

Madam,” quoth he, “by God that this world made,

So that I wist it might your hearte glade,

I would, that day that your Arviragus

Went over sea, that I, Aurelius,

Had gone where I should never come again;

For well I wot my service is in vain.

My guerdon is but bursting of mine heart.

Madame, rue upon my paine’s smart,

For with a word ye may me slay or save.

Here at your feet God would that I were grave.

I have now no leisure more to say:

Have mercy, sweet, or you will do me dey.”

She gan to look upon Aurelius;

“Is this your will,” quoth she, “and say ye thus?

Ne’er erst,” quoth she, “I wiste what ye meant:

But now, Aurelius, I know your intent.

By thilke God that gave me soul and life,

Never shall I be an untrue wife

In word nor work, as far as I have wit;

I will be his to whom that I am knit;

Take this for final answer as of me.”

But after that in play thus saide she.

“Aurelius,” quoth she, “by high God above,

Yet will I grante you to be your love

(Since I you see so piteously complain);

Looke, what day that endelong Bretagne

Ye remove all the rockes, stone by stone,

That they not lette ship nor boat to gon,

I say, when ye have made this coast so clean

Of rockes, that there is no stone seen,

Then will I love you best of any man;

Have here my troth, in all that ever I can;

For well I wot that it shall ne’er betide.

Let such folly out of your hearte glide.

What dainty should a man have in his life

For to go love another manne’s wife,

That hath her body when that ever him liketh?”

Aurelius full often sore siketh; sigheth

Is there none other grace in you?” quoth he,

“No, by that Lord,” quoth she, “that maked me.

Woe was Aurelius when that he this heard,

And with a sorrowful heart he thus answer’d.

“Madame, quoth he, “this were an impossible.

Then must I die of sudden death horrible.”

And with that word he turned him anon.

Then came her other friends many a one,

And in the alleys roamed up and down,

And nothing wist of this conclusion,

But suddenly began to revel new,

Till that the brighte sun had lost his hue,

For th’ horizon had reft the sun his light

(This is as much to say as it was night);

And home they go in mirth and in solace;

Save only wretch’d Aurelius, alas

He to his house is gone with sorrowful heart.

He said, he may not from his death astart.

Him seemed, that he felt his hearte cold.

Up to the heav’n his handes gan he hold,

And on his knees bare he set him down.

And in his raving said his orisoun.

For very woe out of his wit he braid;

He wist not what he spake, but thus he said;

With piteous heart his plaint hath he begun

Unto the gods, and first unto the Sun.

He said; “Apollo God and governour

Of every plante, herbe, tree, and flower,

That giv’st, after thy declination,

To each of them his time and his season,

As thine herberow changeth low and high;

Lord Phoebus: cast thy merciable eye

On wretched Aurelius, which that am but lorn.

Lo, lord, my lady hath my death y-sworn,

Withoute guilt, but thy benignity

Upon my deadly heart have some pity.

For well I wot, Lord Phoebus, if you lest,

Ye may me helpe, save my lady, best.

Now vouchsafe, that I may you devise

How that I may be holp, and in what wise.

Your blissful sister, Lucina the sheen,

That of the sea is chief goddess and queen, —

Though Neptunus have deity in the sea,

Yet emperess above him is she; —

Ye know well, lord, that, right as her desire

Is to be quick’d and lighted of your fire,

For which she followeth you full busily,

Right so the sea desireth naturally

To follow her, as she that is goddess

Both in the sea and rivers more and less.

Wherefore, Lord Phoebus, this is my request,

Do this miracle, or do mine hearte brest;

That flow, next at this opposition,

Which in the sign shall be of the Lion,

As praye her so great a flood to bring,

That five fathom at least it overspring

The highest rock in Armoric Bretagne,

And let this flood endure yeares twain:

Then certes to my lady may I say,

“Holde your hest,” the rockes be away.

Lord Phoebus, this miracle do for me,

Pray her she go no faster course than ye;

I say this, pray your sister that she go

No faster course than ye these yeares two:

Then shall she be even at full alway,

And spring-flood laste bothe night and day.

And but she vouchesafe in such mannere

To grante me my sov’reign lady dear,

Pray her to sink every rock adown

Into her owen darke regioun

Under the ground, where Pluto dwelleth in

Or nevermore shall I my lady win.

Thy temple in Delphos will I barefoot seek.

Lord Phoebus! see the teares on my cheek

And on my pain have some compassioun.”

And with that word in sorrow he fell down,

And longe time he lay forth in a trance.

His brother, which that knew of his penance,

Up caught him, and to bed he hath him brought,

Despaired in this torment and this thought

Let I this woeful creature lie;

Choose he for me whe’er he will live or die.

Arviragus with health and great honour

(As he that was of chivalry the flow’r)

Is come home, and other worthy men.

Oh, blissful art thou now, thou Dorigen!

Thou hast thy lusty husband in thine arms,

The freshe knight, the worthy man of arms,

That loveth thee as his own hearte’s life:

Nothing list him to be imaginatif

If any wight had spoke, while he was out,

To her of love; he had of that no doubt;

He not intended to no such mattere,

But danced, jousted, and made merry cheer.

And thus in joy and bliss I let them dwell,

And of the sick Aurelius will I tell

In languor and in torment furious

Two year and more lay wretch’d Aurelius,

Ere any foot on earth he mighte gon;

Nor comfort in this time had he none,

Save of his brother, which that was a clerk.

He knew of all this woe and all this work;

For to none other creature certain

Of this matter he durst no worde sayn;

Under his breast he bare it more secree

Than e’er did Pamphilus for Galatee.

His breast was whole withoute for to seen,

But in his heart aye was the arrow keen,

And well ye know that of a sursanure

In surgery is perilous the cure,

But men might touch the arrow or come thereby.

His brother wept and wailed privily,

Till at the last him fell in remembrance,

That while he was at Orleans in France, —

As younge clerkes, that be likerous —

To readen artes that be curious,

Seeken in every halk and every hern

Particular sciences for to learn,—

He him remember’d, that upon a day

At Orleans in study a book he say saw

Of magic natural, which his fellaw,

That was that time a bachelor of law

All were he there to learn another craft,

Had privily upon his desk y-laft;

Which book spake much of operations

Touching the eight and-twenty mansions

That longe to the Moon, and such folly

As in our dayes is not worth a fly;

For holy church’s faith, in our believe,

Us suff’reth none illusion to grieve.

And when this book was in his remembrance

Anon for joy his heart began to dance,

And to himself he saide privily;

“My brother shall be warish’d hastily

For I am sicker that there be sciences,

By which men make divers apparences,

Such as these subtle tregetoures play.

For oft at feaste’s have I well heard say,

That tregetours, within a halle large,

Have made come in a water and a barge,

And in the halle rowen up and down.

Sometimes hath seemed come a grim lioun,

And sometimes flowers spring as in a mead;

Sometimes a vine, and grapes white and red;

Sometimes a castle all of lime and stone;

And, when them liked, voided it anon:

Thus seemed it to every manne’s sight.

Now then conclude I thus; if that I might

At Orleans some olde fellow find,

That hath these Moone’s mansions in mind,

Or other magic natural above.

He should well make my brother have his love.

For with an appearance a clerk may make,

To manne’s sight, that all the rockes blake

Of Bretagne were voided every one,

And shippes by the brinke come and gon,

And in such form endure a day or two;

Then were my brother warish’d of his woe,

Then must she needes holde her behest,

Or elles he shall shame her at the least.”

Why should I make a longer tale of this?

Unto his brother’s bed he comen is,

And such comfort he gave him, for to gon

To Orleans, that he upstart anon,

And on his way forth-ward then is he fare,

In hope for to be lissed of his care.

When they were come almost to that city,

But if it were a two furlong or three,

A young clerk roaming by himself they met,

Which that in Latin thriftily them gret.

And after that he said a wondrous thing;

I know,” quoth he, “the cause of your coming;”

Aud ere they farther any foote went,

He told them all that was in their intent.

The Breton clerk him asked of fellaws

The which he hadde known in olde daws,

And he answer’d him that they deade were,

For which he wept full often many a tear.

Down off his horse Aurelius light anon,

And forth with this magician is be gone

Home to his house, and made him well at ease;

Them lacked no vitail that might them please.

So well-array’d a house as there was one,

Aurelius in his life saw never none.

He shewed him, ere they went to suppere,

Forestes, parkes, full of wilde deer.

There saw he hartes with their hornes high,

The greatest that were ever seen with eye.

He saw of them an hundred slain with hounds,

And some with arrows bleed of bitter wounds.

He saw, when voided were the wilde deer,

These falconers upon a fair rivere,

That with their hawkes have the heron slain.

Then saw he knightes jousting in a plain.

And after this he did him such pleasance,

That he him shew’d his lady on a dance,

In which himselfe danced, as him thought.

And when this master, that this magic wrought,

Saw it was time, he clapp’d his handes two,

And farewell, all the revel is y-go.

And yet remov’d they never out of the house,

While they saw all the sightes marvellous;

But in his study, where his bookes be,

They satte still, and no wight but they three.

To him this master called his squier,

And said him thus, “May we go to supper?

Almost an hour it is, I undertake,

Since I you bade our supper for to make,

When that these worthy men wente with me

Into my study, where my bookes be.”

“Sir,” quoth this squier, “when it liketh you.

It is all ready, though ye will right now.”

“Go we then sup,” quoth he, “as for the best;

These amorous folk some time must have rest.”

At after supper fell they in treaty

What summe should this master’s guerdon be,

To remove all the rockes of Bretagne,

And eke from Gironde to the mouth of Seine.

He made it strange, and swore, so God him save,

Less than a thousand pound he would not have,

Nor gladly for that sum he would not gon.

Aurelius with blissful heart anon

Answered thus; “Fie on a thousand pound!

This wide world, which that men say is round,

I would it give, if I were lord of it.

This bargain is full-driv’n, for we be knit;

Ye shall be payed truly by my troth.

But looke, for no negligence or sloth,

Ye tarry us here no longer than to-morrow.”

“Nay,” quoth the clerk, “have here my faith to borrow.”

To bed is gone Aurelius when him lest,

And well-nigh all that night he had his rest,

What for his labour, and his hope of bliss,

His woeful heart of penance had a liss.

Upon the morrow, when that it was day,

Unto Bretagne they took the righte way,

Aurelius and this magician beside,

And be descended where they would abide:

And this was, as the bookes me remember,

The colde frosty season of December.

Phoebus wax’d old, and hued like latoun,

That in his hote declinatioun

Shone as the burned gold, with streames bright;

But now in Capricorn adown he light,

Where as he shone full pale, I dare well sayn.

The bitter frostes, with the sleet and rain,

Destroyed have the green in every yard.

Janus sits by the fire with double beard,

And drinketh of his bugle horn the wine:

Before him stands the brawn of tusked swine

And “nowel” crieth every lusty man

Aurelius, in all that ev’r he can,

Did to his master cheer and reverence,

And prayed him to do his diligence

To bringe him out of his paines smart,

Or with a sword that he would slit his heart.

This subtle clerk such ruth had on this man,

That night and day he sped him, that he can,

To wait a time of his conclusion;

This is to say, to make illusion,

By such an appearance of jugglery

(I know no termes of astrology),

That she and every wight should ween and say,

That of Bretagne the rockes were away,

Or else they were sunken under ground.

So at the last he hath a time found

To make his japes and his wretchedness

Of such a superstitious cursedness.

His tables Toletanes forth he brought,

Full well corrected, that there lacked nought,

Neither his collect, nor his expanse years,

Neither his rootes, nor his other gears,

As be his centres, and his arguments,

And his proportional convenients

For his equations in everything.

And by his eighte spheres in his working,

He knew full well how far Alnath was shove

From the head of that fix’d Aries above,

That in the ninthe sphere consider’d is.

Full subtilly he calcul’d all this.

When he had found his firste mansion,

He knew the remnant by proportion;

And knew the rising of his moone well,

And in whose face, and term, and every deal;

And knew full well the moone’s mansion

Accordant to his operation;

And knew also his other observances,

For such illusions and such meschances,

As heathen folk used in thilke days.

For which no longer made he delays;

But through his magic, for a day or tway,

It seemed all the rockes were away.

Aurelius, which yet despaired is

Whe’er he shall have his love, or fare amiss,

Awaited night and day on this miracle:

And when he knew that there was none obstacle,

That voided were these rockes every one,

Down at his master’s feet he fell anon,

And said; “I, woeful wretch’d Aurelius,

Thank you, my Lord, and lady mine Venus,

That me have holpen from my cares cold.”

And to the temple his way forth hath he hold,

Where as he knew he should his lady see.

And when he saw his time, anon right he

With dreadful heart and with full humble cheer

Saluteth hath his sovereign lady dear.

“My rightful Lady,” quoth this woeful man,

“Whom I most dread, and love as I best can,

And lothest were of all this world displease,

Were’t not that I for you have such disease,

That I must die here at your foot anon,

Nought would I tell how me is woebegone.

But certes either must I die or plain;

Ye slay me guilteless for very pain.

But of my death though that ye have no ruth,

Advise you, ere that ye break your truth:

Repente you, for thilke God above,

Ere ye me slay because that I you love.

For, Madame, well ye wot what ye have hight;

Not that I challenge anything of right

Of you, my sovereign lady, but of grace:

But in a garden yond’, in such a place,

Ye wot right well what ye behighte me,

And in mine hand your trothe plighted ye,

To love me best; God wot ye saide so,

Albeit that I unworthy am thereto;

Madame, I speak it for th’ honour of you,

More than to save my hearte’s life right now;

I have done so as ye commanded me,

And if ye vouchesafe, ye may go see.

Do as you list, have your behest in mind,

For, quick or dead, right there ye shall me find;

In you hes all to do me live or dey;

But well I wot the rockes be away.”

He took his leave, and she astonish’d stood;

In all her face was not one drop of blood:

She never ween’d t’have come in such a trap.

“Alas!” quoth she, “that ever this should hap!

For ween’d I ne’er, by possibility,

That such a monster or marvail might be;

It is against the process of nature.”

And home she went a sorrowful creature;

For very fear unnethes may she go.

She weeped, wailed, all a day or two,

And swooned, that it ruthe was to see:

But why it was, to no wight tolde she,

For out of town was gone Arviragus.

But to herself she spake, and saide thus,

With face pale, and full sorrowful cheer,

In her complaint, as ye shall after hear.

“Alas!” quoth she, “on thee, Fortune, I plain,

That unware hast me wrapped in thy chain,

From which to scape, wot I no succour,

Save only death, or elles dishonour;

One of these two behoveth me to choose.

But natheless, yet had I lever lose

My life, than of my body have shame,

Or know myselfe false, or lose my name;

And with my death I may be quit y-wis.

Hath there not many a noble wife, ere this,

And many a maiden, slain herself, alas!

Rather than with her body do trespass?

Yes, certes; lo, these stories bear witness.

When thirty tyrants full of cursedness

Had slain Phidon in Athens at the feast,

They commanded his daughters to arrest,

And bringe them before them, in despite,

All naked, to fulfil their foul delight;

And in their father’s blood they made them dance

Upon the pavement, — God give them mischance.

For which these woeful maidens, full of dread,

Rather than they would lose their maidenhead,

They privily be start into a well,

And drowned themselves, as the bookes tell.

They of Messene let inquire and seek

Of Lacedaemon fifty maidens eke,

On which they woulde do their lechery:

But there was none of all that company

That was not slain, and with a glad intent

Chose rather for to die, than to assent

To be oppressed of her maidenhead.

Why should I then to dien be in dread?

Lo, eke the tyrant Aristoclides,

That lov’d a maiden hight Stimphalides,

When that her father slain was on a night,

Unto Diana’s temple went she right,

And hent the image in her handes two,

From which image she woulde never go;

No wight her handes might off it arace,

Till she was slain right in the selfe place.

Now since that maidens hadde such despite

To be defouled with man’s foul delight,

Well ought a wife rather herself to sle,

Than be defouled, as it thinketh me.

What shall I say of Hasdrubale’s wife,

That at Carthage bereft herself of life?

For, when she saw the Romans win the town,

She took her children all, and skipt adown

Into the fire, and rather chose to die,

Than any Roman did her villainy.

Hath not Lucretia slain herself, alas!

At Rome, when that she oppressed was

Of Tarquin? for her thought it was a shame

To live, when she hadde lost her name.

The seven maidens of Milesie also

Have slain themselves for very dread and woe,

Rather than folk of Gaul them should oppress.

More than a thousand stories, as I guess,

Could I now tell as touching this mattere.

When Abradate was slain, his wife so dear

Herselfe slew, and let her blood to glide

In Abradate’s woundes, deep and wide,

And said, ‘My body at the leaste way

There shall no wight defoul, if that I may.’

Why should I more examples hereof sayn?

Since that so many have themselves slain,

Well rather than they would defouled be,

I will conclude that it is bet for me

To slay myself, than be defouled thus.

I will be true unto Arviragus,

Or elles slay myself in some mannere,

As did Demotione’s daughter dear,

Because she woulde not defouled be.

O Sedasus, it is full great pity

To reade how thy daughters died, alas!

That slew themselves for suche manner cas.

As great a pity was it, or well more,

The Theban maiden, that for Nicanor

Herselfe slew, right for such manner woe.

Another Theban maiden did right so;

For one of Macedon had her oppress’d,

She with her death her maidenhead redress’d.

What shall I say of Niceratus’ wife,

That for such case bereft herself her life?

How true was eke to Alcibiades

His love, that for to dien rather chese,

Than for to suffer his body unburied be?

Lo, what a wife was Alceste?” quoth she.

“What saith Homer of good Penelope?

All Greece knoweth of her chastity.

Pardie, of Laedamia is written thus,

That when at Troy was slain Protesilaus,

No longer would she live after his day.

The same of noble Porcia tell I may;

Withoute Brutus coulde she not live,

To whom she did all whole her hearte give.

The perfect wifehood of Artemisie

Honoured is throughout all Barbarie.

O Teuta queen, thy wifely chastity

To alle wives may a mirror be.”

Thus plained Dorigen a day or tway,

Purposing ever that she woulde dey; die

But natheless upon the thirde night

Home came Arviragus, the worthy knight,

And asked her why that she wept so sore.

And she gan weepen ever longer more.

“Alas,” quoth she, “that ever I was born!

Thus have I said,” quoth she; “thus have I sworn.”

And told him all, as ye have heard before:

It needeth not rehearse it you no more.

This husband with glad cheer, in friendly wise,

Answer’d and said, as I shall you devise.

“Is there aught elles, Dorigen, but this?”

“Nay, nay,” quoth she, “God help me so as wis,

This is too much, an it were Godde’s will.”

“Yea, wife,” quoth he, “let sleepe what is still,

It may be well par’venture yet to-day.

Ye shall your trothe holde, by my fay.

For, God so wisly have mercy on me,

I had well lever sticked for to be,

For very love which I to you have,

But if ye should your trothe keep and save.

Truth is the highest thing that man may keep.”

But with that word he burst anon to weep,

And said; “I you forbid, on pain of death,

That never, while you lasteth life or breath,

To no wight tell ye this misaventure;

As I may best, I will my woe endure,

Nor make no countenance of heaviness,

That folk of you may deeme harm, or guess.”

And forth he call’d a squier and a maid.

“Go forth anon with Dorigen,” he said,

“And bringe her to such a place anon.”

They take their leave, and on their way they gon:

But they not wiste why she thither went;

He would to no wight telle his intent.

This squier, which that hight Aurelius,

On Dorigen that was so amorous,

Of aventure happen’d her to meet

Amid the town, right in the quickest street,

As she was bound to go the way forthright

Toward the garden, there as she had hight.

And he was to the garden-ward also;

For well he spied when she woulde go

Out of her house, to any manner place;

But thus they met, of aventure or grace,

And he saluted her with glad intent,

And asked of her whitherward she went.

And she answered, half as she were mad,

“Unto the garden, as my husband bade,

My trothe for to hold, alas! alas!”

Aurelius gan to wonder on this case,

And in his heart had great compassion

Of her, and of her lamentation,

And of Arviragus, the worthy knight,

That bade her hold all that she hadde hight;

So loth him was his wife should break her truth

And in his heart he caught of it great ruth,

Considering the best on every side,

That from his lust yet were him lever abide,

Than do so high a churlish wretchedness

Against franchise, and alle gentleness;

For which in fewe words he saide thus;

“Madame, say to your lord Arviragus,

That since I see the greate gentleness

Of him, and eke I see well your distress,

That him were lever have shame (and that were ruth)

Than ye to me should breake thus your truth,

I had well lever aye to suffer woe,

Than to depart the love betwixt you two.

I you release, Madame, into your hond,

Quit ev’ry surement and ev’ry bond,

That ye have made to me as herebeforn,

Since thilke time that ye were born.

Have here my truth, I shall you ne’er repreve

Of no behest; and here I take my leave,

As of the truest and the beste wife

That ever yet I knew in all my life.

But every wife beware of her behest;

On Dorigen remember at the least.

Thus can a squier do a gentle deed,

As well as can a knight, withoute drede.”

She thanked him upon her knees bare,

And home unto her husband is she fare,

And told him all, as ye have hearde said;

And, truste me, he was so well apaid,

That it were impossible me to write.

Why should I longer of this case indite?

Arviragus and Dorigen his wife

In sov’reign blisse ledde forth their life;

Ne’er after was there anger them between;

He cherish’d her as though she were a queen,

And she was to him true for evermore;

Of these two folk ye get of me no more.

Aurelius, that his cost had all forlorn,

Cursed the time that ever he was born.

“Alas!” quoth he, “alas that I behight

Of pured gold a thousand pound of weight

To this philosopher! how shall I do?

I see no more, but that I am fordo.

Mine heritage must I needes sell,

And be a beggar; here I will not dwell,

And shamen all my kindred in this place,

But I of him may gette better grace.

But natheless I will of him assay

At certain dayes year by year to pay,

And thank him of his greate courtesy.

My trothe will I keep, I will not he.”

With hearte sore he went unto his coffer,

And broughte gold unto this philosopher,

The value of five hundred pound, I guess,

And him beseeched, of his gentleness,

To grant him dayes of the remenant;

And said; “Master, I dare well make avaunt,

I failed never of my truth as yet.

For sickerly my debte shall be quit

Towardes you how so that e’er I fare

To go a-begging in my kirtle bare:

But would ye vouchesafe, upon surety,

Two year, or three, for to respite me,

Then were I well, for elles must I sell

Mine heritage; there is no more to tell.”

This philosopher soberly answer’d,

And saide thus, when he these wordes heard;

“Have I not holden covenant to thee?”

“Yes, certes, well and truely,” quoth he.

“Hast thou not had thy lady as thee liked?”

“No, no,” quoth he, and sorrowfully siked.

“What was the cause? tell me if thou can.”

Aurelius his tale anon began,

And told him all as ye have heard before,

It needeth not to you rehearse it more.

He said, “Arviragus of gentleness

Had lever die in sorrow and distress,

Than that his wife were of her trothe false.”

The sorrow of Dorigen he told him als’,

How loth her was to be a wicked wife,

And that she lever had lost that day her life;

And that her troth she swore through innocence;

She ne’er erst had heard speak of apparence

That made me have of her so great pity,

And right as freely as he sent her to me,

As freely sent I her to him again:

This is all and some, there is no more to sayn.”

The philosopher answer’d; “Leve brother,

Evereach of you did gently to the other;

Thou art a squier, and he is a knight,

But God forbidde, for his blissful might,

But if a clerk could do a gentle deed

As well as any of you, it is no drede

Sir, I release thee thy thousand pound,

As thou right now were crept out of the ground,

Nor ever ere now haddest knowen me.

For, Sir, I will not take a penny of thee

For all my craft, nor naught for my travail;

Thou hast y-payed well for my vitaille;

It is enough; and farewell, have good day.”

And took his horse, and forth he went his way.

Lordings, this question would I aske now,

Which was the moste free, as thinketh you?

Now telle me, ere that ye farther wend.

I can no more, my tale is at an end.

The Pardoner’s Tale

THE PROLOGUE

OUR Hoste gan to swear as he were wood;

“Harow!” quoth he, “by nailes and by blood,

This was a cursed thief, a false justice.

As shameful death as hearte can devise

Come to these judges and their advoca’s.

Algate this sely maid is slain, alas!

Alas! too deare bought she her beauty.

Wherefore I say, that all day man may see

That giftes of fortune and of nature

Be cause of death to many a creature.

Her beauty was her death, I dare well sayn;

Alas! so piteously as she was slain.

Of bothe giftes, that I speak of now

Men have full often more harm than prow,

But truely, mine owen master dear,

This was a piteous tale for to hear;

But natheless, pass over; ’tis no force.

I pray to God to save thy gentle corse,

And eke thine urinals, and thy jordans,

Thine Hippocras, and eke thy Galliens,

And every boist full of thy lectuary,

God bless them, and our lady Sainte Mary.

So may I the’, thou art a proper man,

And like a prelate, by Saint Ronian;

Said I not well? Can I not speak in term?

But well I wot thou dost mine heart to erme,

That I have almost caught a cardiacle:

By corpus Domini , but I have triacle,

Or else a draught of moist and corny ale,

Or but I hear anon a merry tale,

Mine heart is brost for pity of this maid.

Thou bel ami, thou Pardoner,” he said,

“Tell us some mirth of japes right anon.”

“It shall be done,” quoth he, “by Saint Ronion.

But first,” quoth he, “here at this ale-stake

I will both drink, and biten on a cake.”

But right anon the gentles gan to cry,

“Nay, let him tell us of no ribaldry.

Tell us some moral thing, that we may lear

Some wit, and thenne will we gladly hear.”

“I grant y-wis,” quoth he; “but I must think

Upon some honest thing while that I drink.”

THE TALE

Lordings (quoth he), in churche when I preach,

I paine me to have an hautein speech,

And ring it out, as round as doth a bell,

For I know all by rote that I tell.

My theme is always one, and ever was;

Radix malorum est cupiditas.

First I pronounce whence that I come,

And then my bulles shew I all and some;

Our liege lorde’s seal on my patent,

That shew I first, my body to warrent,

That no man be so hardy, priest nor clerk,

Me to disturb of Christe’s holy werk.

And after that then tell I forth my tales.

Bulles of popes, and of cardinales,

Of patriarchs, and of bishops I shew,

And in Latin I speak a wordes few,

To savour with my predication,

And for to stir men to devotion

Then show I forth my longe crystal stones,

Y-crammed fall of cloutes and of bones;

Relics they be, as weene they each one.

Then have I in latoun a shoulder-bone

Which that was of a holy Jewe’s sheep.

“Good men,” say I, “take of my wordes keep;

If that this bone be wash’d in any well,

If cow, or calf, or sheep, or oxe swell,

That any worm hath eat, or worm y-stung,

Take water of that well, and wash his tongue,

And it is whole anon; and farthermore

Of pockes, and of scab, and every sore

Shall every sheep be whole, that of this well

Drinketh a draught; take keep of that I tell.

“If that the goodman, that the beastes oweth,

Will every week, ere that the cock him croweth,

Fasting, y-drinken of this well a draught,

As thilke holy Jew our elders taught,

His beastes and his store shall multiply.

And, Sirs, also it healeth jealousy;

For though a man be fall’n in jealous rage,

Let make with this water his pottage,

And never shall he more his wife mistrist,

Though he the sooth of her defaulte wist;

All had she taken priestes two or three.

Here is a mittain eke, that ye may see;

He that his hand will put in this mittain,

He shall have multiplying of his grain,

When he hath sowen, be it wheat or oats,

So that he offer pence, or elles groats.

And, men and women, one thing warn I you;

If any wight be in this churche now

That hath done sin horrible, so that he

Dare not for shame of it y-shriven be;

Or any woman, be she young or old,

That hath y-made her husband cokewold,

Such folk shall have no power nor no grace

To offer to my relics in this place.

And whoso findeth him out of such blame,

He will come up and offer in God’s name;

And I assoil him by the authority

Which that by bull y-granted was to me.”

By this gaud have I wonne year by year

A hundred marks, since I was pardonere.

I stande like a clerk in my pulpit,

And when the lewed people down is set,

I preache so as ye have heard before,

And telle them a hundred japes more.

Then pain I me to stretche forth my neck,

And east and west upon the people I beck,

As doth a dove, sitting on a bern;

My handes and my tongue go so yern,

That it is joy to see my business.

Of avarice and of such cursedness

Is all my preaching, for to make them free

To give their pence, and namely unto me.

For mine intent is not but for to win,

And nothing for correction of sin.

I recke never, when that they be buried,

Though that their soules go a blackburied.

For certes many a predication

Cometh oft-time of evil intention;

Some for pleasance of folk, and flattery,

To be advanced by hypocrisy;

And some for vainglory, and some for hate.

For, when I dare not otherwise debate,

Then will I sting him with my tongue smart

In preaching, so that he shall not astart

To be defamed falsely, if that he

Hath trespass’d to my brethren or to me.

For, though I telle not his proper name,

Men shall well knowe that it is the same

By signes, and by other circumstances.

Thus quite I folk that do us displeasances:

Thus spit I out my venom, under hue

Of holiness, to seem holy and true.

But, shortly mine intent I will devise,

I preach of nothing but of covetise.

Therefore my theme is yet, and ever was, —

Radix malorum est cupiditas.

Thus can I preach against the same vice

Which that I use, and that is avarice.

But though myself be guilty in that sin,

Yet can I maken other folk to twin

From avarice, and sore them repent.

But that is not my principal intent;

I preache nothing but for covetise.

Of this mattere it ought enough suffice.

Then tell I them examples many a one,

Of olde stories longe time gone;

For lewed people love tales old;

Such thinges can they well report and hold.

What? trowe ye, that whiles I may preach

And winne gold and silver for I teach,

That I will live in povert’ wilfully?

Nay, nay, I thought it never truely.

For I will preach and beg in sundry lands;

I will not do no labour with mine hands,

Nor make baskets for to live thereby,

Because I will not beggen idlely.

I will none of the apostles counterfeit;

I will have money, wool, and cheese, and wheat,

All were it given of the poorest page,

Or of the pooreste widow in a village:

All should her children sterve for famine.

Nay, I will drink the liquor of the vine,

And have a jolly wench in every town.

But hearken, lordings, in conclusioun;

Your liking is, that I shall tell a tale

Now I have drunk a draught of corny ale,

By God, I hope I shall you tell a thing

That shall by reason be to your liking;

For though myself be a full vicious man,

A moral tale yet I you telle can,

Which I am wont to preache, for to win.

Now hold your peace, my tale I will begin.

In Flanders whilom was a company

Of younge folkes, that haunted folly,

As riot, hazard, stewes, and taverns;

Where as with lutes, harpes, and giterns,

They dance and play at dice both day and night,

And eat also, and drink over their might;

Through which they do the devil sacrifice

Within the devil’s temple, in cursed wise,

By superfluity abominable.

Their oathes be so great and so damnable,

That it is grisly for to hear them swear.

Our blissful Lorde’s body they to-tear;

Them thought the Jewes rent him not enough,

And each of them at other’s sinne lough.

And right anon in come tombesteres

Fetis and small, and younge fruitesteres.

Singers with harpes, baudes, waferers,

Which be the very devil’s officers,

To kindle and blow the fire of lechery,

That is annexed unto gluttony.

The Holy Writ take I to my witness,

That luxury is in wine and drunkenness.

Lo, how that drunken Lot unkindely

Lay by his daughters two unwittingly,

So drunk he was he knew not what he wrought.

Herodes, who so well the stories sought,

When he of wine replete was at his feast,

Right at his owen table gave his hest

To slay the Baptist John full guilteless.

Seneca saith a good word, doubteless:

He saith he can no difference find

Betwixt a man that is out of his mind,

And a man whiche that is drunkelew:

But that woodness, y-fallen in a shrew,

Persevereth longer than drunkenness.

O gluttony, full of all cursedness;

O cause first of our confusion,

Original of our damnation,

Till Christ had bought us with his blood again!

Looke, how deare, shortly for to sayn,

Abought was first this cursed villainy:

Corrupt was all this world for gluttony.

Adam our father, and his wife also,

From Paradise, to labour and to woe,

Were driven for that vice, it is no dread.

For while that Adam fasted, as I read,

He was in Paradise; and when that he

Ate of the fruit defended of the tree,

Anon he was cast out to woe and pain.

O gluttony! well ought us on thee plain.

Oh! wist a man how many maladies

Follow of excess and of gluttonies,

He woulde be the more measurable

Of his diete, sitting at his table.

Alas! the shorte throat, the tender mouth,

Maketh that east and west, and north and south,

In earth, in air, in water, men do swink

To get a glutton dainty meat and drink.

Of this mattere, O Paul! well canst thou treat

Meat unto womb, and womb eke unto meat,

Shall God destroye both, as Paulus saith.

Alas! a foul thing is it, by my faith,

To say this word, and fouler is the deed,

When man so drinketh of the white and red,

That of his throat he maketh his privy

Through thilke cursed superfluity

The apostle saith, weeping full piteously,

There walk many, of which you told have I, —

I say it now weeping with piteous voice, —

That they be enemies of Christe’s crois;

Of which the end is death; womb is their God.

O womb, O belly, stinking is thy cod,

Full fill’d of dung and of corruptioun;

At either end of thee foul is the soun.

How great labour and cost is thee to find!

These cookes how they stamp, and strain, and grind,

And turne substance into accident,

To fulfill all thy likerous talent!

Out of the harde bones knocke they

The marrow, for they caste naught away

That may go through the gullet soft and swoot

Of spicery and leaves, of bark and root,

Shall be his sauce y-maked by delight,

To make him have a newer appetite.

But, certes, he that haunteth such delices

Is dead while that he liveth in those vices.

A lecherous thing is wine, and drunkenness

Is full of striving and of wretchedness.

O drunken man! disfgur’d is thy face,

Sour is thy breath, foul art thou to embrace:

And through thy drunken nose sowneth the soun’,

As though thous saidest aye, Samsoun! Samsoun!

And yet, God wot, Samson drank never wine.

Thou fallest as it were a sticked swine;

Thy tongue is lost, and all thine honest cure;

For drunkenness is very sepulture

Of manne’s wit and his discretion.

In whom that drink hath domination,

He can no counsel keep, it is no dread.

Now keep you from the white and from the red,

And namely from the white wine of Lepe,

That is to sell in Fish Street and in Cheap.

This wine of Spaine creepeth subtilly —

In other wines growing faste by,

Of which there riseth such fumosity,

That when a man hath drunken draughtes three,

And weeneth that he be at home in Cheap,

He is in Spain, right at the town of Lepe,

Not at the Rochelle, nor at Bourdeaux town;

And thenne will he say, Samsoun! Samsoun!

But hearken, lordings, one word, I you pray,

That all the sovreign actes, dare I say,

Of victories in the Old Testament,

Through very God that is omnipotent,

Were done in abstinence and in prayere:

Look in the Bible, and there ye may it lear.

Look, Attila, the greate conqueror,

Died in his sleep, with shame and dishonour,

Bleeding aye at his nose in drunkenness:

A captain should aye live in soberness

And o’er all this, advise you right well

What was commanded unto Lemuel;

Not Samuel, but Lemuel, say I.

Reade the Bible, and find it expressly

Of wine giving to them that have justice.

No more of this, for it may well suffice.

And, now that I have spoke of gluttony,

Now will I you defende hazardry.

Hazard is very mother of leasings,

And of deceit, and cursed forswearings:

Blasphem’ of Christ, manslaughter, and waste also

Of chattel and of time; and furthermo’

It is repreve, and contrar’ of honour,

For to be held a common hazardour.

And ever the higher he is of estate,

The more he is holden desolate.

If that a prince use hazardry,

In alle governance and policy

He is, as by common opinion,

Y-hold the less in reputation.

Chilon, that was a wise ambassador,

Was sent to Corinth with full great honor

From Lacedemon, to make alliance;

And when he came, it happen’d him, by chance,

That all the greatest that were of that land,

Y-playing atte hazard he them fand.

For which, as soon as that it mighte be,

He stole him home again to his country

And saide there, “I will not lose my name,

Nor will I take on me so great diffame,

You to ally unto no hazardors.

Sende some other wise ambassadors,

For, by my troth, me were lever die,

Than I should you to hazardors ally.

For ye, that be so glorious in honours,

Shall not ally you to no hazardours,

As by my will, nor as by my treaty.”

This wise philosopher thus said he.

Look eke how to the King Demetrius

The King of Parthes, as the book saith us,

Sent him a pair of dice of gold in scorn,

For he had used hazard therebeforn:

For which he held his glory and renown

At no value or reputatioun.

Lordes may finden other manner play

Honest enough to drive the day away.

Now will I speak of oathes false and great

A word or two, as olde bookes treat.

Great swearing is a thing abominable,

And false swearing is more reprovable.

The highe God forbade swearing at all;

Witness on Matthew: but in special

Of swearing saith the holy Jeremie,

Thou thalt swear sooth thine oathes, and not lie:

And swear in doom and eke in righteousness;

But idle swearing is a cursedness.

Behold and see, there in the firste table

Of highe Godde’s hestes honourable,

How that the second best of him is this,

Take not my name in idle or amiss.

Lo, rather he forbiddeth such swearing,

Than homicide, or many a cursed thing;

I say that as by order thus it standeth;

This knoweth he that his hests understandeth,

How that the second hest of God is that.

And farthermore, I will thee tell all plat,

That vengeance shall not parte from his house,

That of his oathes is outrageous.

“By Godde’s precious heart, and by his nails,

And by the blood of Christ, that is in Hailes,

Seven is my chance, and thine is cinque and trey:

By Godde’s armes, if thou falsely play,

This dagger shall throughout thine hearte go.”

This fruit comes of the bicched bones two,

Forswearing, ire, falseness, and homicide.

Now, for the love of Christ that for us died,

Leave your oathes, bothe great and smale.

But, Sirs, now will I ell you forth my tale.

These riotoures three, of which I tell,

Long erst than prime rang of any bell,

Were set them in a tavern for to drink;

And as they sat, they heard a belle clink

Before a corpse, was carried to the grave.

That one of them gan calle to his knave,

“Go bet,” quoth he, “and aske readily

What corpse is this, that passeth here forth by;

And look that thou report his name well.”

“Sir,” quoth the boy, “it needeth never a deal;

It was me told ere ye came here two hours;

He was, pardie, an old fellow of yours,

And suddenly he was y-slain to-night;

Fordrunk as he sat on his bench upright,

There came a privy thief, men clepe Death,

That in this country all the people slay’th,

And with his spear he smote his heart in two,

And went his way withoute wordes mo’.

He hath a thousand slain this pestilence;

And, master, ere you come in his presence,

Me thinketh that it were full necessary

For to beware of such an adversary;

Be ready for to meet him evermore.

Thus taughte me my dame; I say no more.”

“By Sainte Mary,” said the tavernere,

“The child saith sooth, for he hath slain this year,

Hence ov’r a mile, within a great village,

Both man and woman, child, and hind, and page;

I trow his habitation be there;

To be advised great wisdom it were,

Ere that he did a man a dishonour.”

“Yea, Godde’s armes,” quoth this riotour,

“Is it such peril with him for to meet?

I shall him seek, by stile and eke by street.

I make a vow, by Godde’s digne bones.”

Hearken, fellows, we three be alle ones:

Let each of us hold up his hand to other,

And each of us become the other’s brother,

And we will slay this false traitor Death;

He shall be slain, he that so many slay’th,

By Godde’s dignity, ere it be night.”

Together have these three their trothe plight

To live and die each one of them for other

As though he were his owen sworen brother.

And up they start, all drunken, in this rage,

And forth they go towardes that village

Of which the taverner had spoke beforn,

And many a grisly oathe have they sworn,

And Christe’s blessed body they to-rent;

“Death shall be dead, if that we may him hent.”

When they had gone not fully half a mile,

Right as they would have trodden o’er a stile,

An old man and a poore with them met.

This olde man full meekely them gret,

And saide thus; “Now, lordes, God you see!”

The proudest of these riotoures three

Answer’d again; “What? churl, with sorry grace,

Why art thou all forwrapped save thy face?

Why livest thou so long in so great age?”

This olde man gan look on his visage,

And saide thus; “For that I cannot find

A man, though that I walked unto Ind,

Neither in city, nor in no village,

That woulde change his youthe for mine age;

And therefore must I have mine age still

As longe time as it is Godde’s will.

And Death, alas! he will not have my life.

Thus walk I like a resteless caitife,

And on the ground, which is my mother’s gate,

I knocke with my staff, early and late,

And say to her, ‘Leve mother, let me in.

Lo, how I wane, flesh, and blood, and skin;

Alas! when shall my bones be at rest?

Mother, with you I woulde change my chest,

That in my chamber longe time hath be,

Yea, for an hairy clout to wrap in me.’

But yet to me she will not do that grace,

For which fall pale and welked is my face.

But, Sirs, to you it is no courtesy

To speak unto an old man villainy,

But he trespass in word or else in deed.

In Holy Writ ye may yourselves read;

‘Against an old man, hoar upon his head,

Ye should arise:’ therefore I you rede,

Ne do unto an old man no harm now,

No more than ye would a man did you

In age, if that ye may so long abide.

And God be with you, whether ye go or ride

I must go thither as I have to go.”

“Nay, olde churl, by God thou shalt not so,”

Saide this other hazardor anon;

“Thou partest not so lightly, by Saint John.

Thou spakest right now of that traitor Death,

That in this country all our friendes slay’th;

Have here my troth, as thou art his espy;

Tell where he is, or thou shalt it abie,

By God and by the holy sacrament;

For soothly thou art one of his assent

To slay us younge folk, thou false thief.”

“Now, Sirs,” quoth he, “if it be you so lief

To finde Death, turn up this crooked way,

For in that grove I left him, by my fay,

Under a tree, and there he will abide;

Nor for your boast he will him nothing hide.

See ye that oak? right there ye shall him find.

God save you, that bought again mankind,

And you amend!” Thus said this olde man;

And evereach of these riotoures ran,

Till they came to the tree, and there they found

Of florins fine, of gold y-coined round,

Well nigh a seven bushels, as them thought.

No longer as then after Death they sought;

But each of them so glad was of the sight,

For that the florins were so fair and bright,

That down they sat them by the precious hoard.

The youngest of them spake the firste word:

“Brethren,” quoth he, “take keep what I shall say;

My wit is great, though that I bourde and play

This treasure hath Fortune unto us given

In mirth and jollity our life to liven;

And lightly as it comes, so will we spend.

Hey! Godde’s precious dignity! who wend

Today that we should have so fair a grace?

But might this gold he carried from this place

Home to my house, or elles unto yours

(For well I wot that all this gold is ours),

Then were we in high felicity.

But truely by day it may not be;

Men woulde say that we were thieves strong,

And for our owen treasure do us hong.

This treasure muste carried be by night,

As wisely and as slily as it might.

Wherefore I rede, that cut among us all

We draw, and let see where the cut will fall:

And he that hath the cut, with hearte blithe

Shall run unto the town, and that full swithe,

And bring us bread and wine full privily:

And two of us shall keepe subtilly

This treasure well: and if he will not tarry,

When it is night, we will this treasure carry,

By one assent, where as us thinketh best.”

Then one of them the cut brought in his fist,

And bade them draw, and look where it would fall;

And it fell on the youngest of them all;

And forth toward the town he went anon.

And all so soon as that he was y-gone,

The one of them spake thus unto the other;

“Thou knowest well that thou art my sworn brother,

Thy profit will I tell thee right anon.

Thou knowest well that our fellow is gone,

And here is gold, and that full great plenty,

That shall departed he among us three.

But natheless, if I could shape it so

That it departed were among us two,

Had I not done a friende’s turn to thee?”

Th’ other answer’d, “I n’ot how that may be;

He knows well that the gold is with us tway.

What shall we do? what shall we to him say?”

“Shall it be counsel?” said the firste shrew;

“And I shall tell to thee in wordes few

What we shall do, and bring it well about.”

“I grante,” quoth the other, “out of doubt,

That by my truth I will thee not bewray.”

“Now,” quoth the first, “thou know’st well we be tway,

And two of us shall stronger be than one.

Look; when that he is set, thou right anon

Arise, as though thou wouldest with him play;

And I shall rive him through the sides tway,

While that thou strugglest with him as in game;

And with thy dagger look thou do the same.

And then shall all this gold departed be,

My deare friend, betwixte thee and me:

Then may we both our lustes all fulfil,

And play at dice right at our owen will.”

And thus accorded be these shrewes tway

To slay the third, as ye have heard me say.

The youngest, which that wente to the town,

Full oft in heart he rolled up and down

The beauty of these florins new and bright.

“O Lord!” quoth he, “if so were that I might

Have all this treasure to myself alone,

There is no man that lives under the throne

Of God, that shoulde have so merry as I.”

And at the last the fiend our enemy

Put in his thought, that he should poison buy,

With which he mighte slay his fellows twy.

For why, the fiend found him in such living,

That he had leave to sorrow him to bring.

For this was utterly his full intent

To slay them both, and never to repent.

And forth he went, no longer would he tarry,

Into the town to an apothecary,

And prayed him that he him woulde sell

Some poison, that he might his rattes quell,

And eke there was a polecat in his haw,

That, as he said, his eapons had y-slaw:

And fain he would him wreak, if that he might,

Of vermin that destroyed him by night.

Th’apothecary answer’d, “Thou shalt have

A thing, as wisly God my soule save,

In all this world there is no creature

That eat or drank hath of this confecture,

Not but the mountance of a corn of wheat,

That he shall not his life anon forlete;

Yea, sterve he shall, and that in lesse while

Than thou wilt go apace nought but a mile:

This poison is so strong and violent.”

This cursed man hath in his hand y-hent

This poison in a box, and swift he ran

Into the nexte street, unto a man,

And borrow’d of him large bottles three;

And in the two the poison poured he;

The third he kepte clean for his own drink,

For all the night he shope him for to swink

In carrying off the gold out of that place.

And when this riotour, with sorry grace,

Had fill’d with wine his greate bottles three,

To his fellows again repaired he.

What needeth it thereof to sermon more?

For, right as they had cast his death before,

Right so they have him slain, and that anon.

And when that this was done, thus spake the one;

“Now let us sit and drink, and make us merry,

And afterward we will his body bury.”

And with that word it happen’d him par cas

To take the bottle where the poison was,

And drank, and gave his fellow drink also,

For which anon they sterved both the two.

But certes I suppose that Avicen

Wrote never in no canon, nor no fen,

More wondrous signes of empoisoning,

Than had these wretches two ere their ending.

Thus ended be these homicides two,

And eke the false empoisoner also.

O cursed sin, full of all cursedness!

O trait’rous homicide! O wickedness!

O glutt’ny, luxury, and hazardry!

Thou blasphemer of Christ with villany,

And oathes great, of usage and of pride!

Alas! mankinde, how may it betide,

That to thy Creator, which that thee wrought,

And with his precious hearte-blood thee bought,

Thou art so false and so unkind, alas!

Now, good men, God forgive you your trespass,

And ware you from the sin of avarice.

Mine holy pardon may you all warice,

So that ye offer nobles or sterlings,

Or elles silver brooches, spoons, or rings.

Bowe your head under this holy bull.

Come up, ye wives, and offer of your will;

Your names I enter in my roll anon;

Into the bliss of heaven shall ye gon;

I you assoil by mine high powere,

You that will offer, as clean and eke as clear

As ye were born. Lo, Sires, thus I preach;

And Jesus Christ, that is our soules’ leech,

So grante you his pardon to receive;

For that is best, I will not deceive.

But, Sirs, one word forgot I in my tale;

I have relics and pardon in my mail,

As fair as any man in Engleland,

Which were me given by the Pope’s hand.

If any of you will of devotion

Offer, and have mine absolution,

Come forth anon, and kneele here adown

And meekely receive my pardoun.

Or elles take pardon, as ye wend,

All new and fresh at every towne’s end,

So that ye offer, always new and new,

Nobles or pence which that be good and true.

’Tis an honour to evereach that is here,

That ye have a suffisant pardonere

T’assoile you in country as ye ride,

For aventures which that may betide.

Paraventure there may fall one or two

Down of his horse, and break his neck in two.

Look, what a surety is it to you all,

That I am in your fellowship y-fall,

That may assoil you bothe more and lass,

When that the soul shall from the body pass.

I rede that our Hoste shall begin,

For he is most enveloped in sin.

Come forth, Sir Host, and offer first anon,

And thou shalt kiss; the relics every one,

Yea, for a groat; unbuckle anon thy purse.

“Nay, nay,” quoth he, “then have I Christe’s curse!

Let be,” quoth he, “it shall not be, so the’ch.

Thou wouldest make me kiss thine olde breech,

And swear it were a relic of a saint,

Though it were with thy fundament depaint’.

But, by the cross which that Saint Helen fand,

I would I had thy coilons in mine hand,

Instead of relics, or of sanctuary.

Let cut them off, I will thee help them carry;

They shall be shrined in a hogge’s turd.”

The Pardoner answered not one word;

So wroth he was, no worde would he say.

“Now,” quoth our Host, “I will no longer play

With thee, nor with none other angry man.”

But right anon the worthy Knight began

(When that he saw that all the people lough),

“No more of this, for it is right enough.

Sir Pardoner, be merry and glad of cheer;

And ye, Sir Host, that be to me so dear,

I pray you that ye kiss the Pardoner;

And, Pardoner, I pray thee draw thee ner,

And as we didde, let us laugh and play.”

Anon they kiss’d, and rode forth their way.

Prayer of Chaucer

Now pray I to you all that hear this little treatise or read it, that if there be anything in it that likes them, that thereof they thank our Lord Jesus Christ, of whom proceedeth all wit and all goodness; and if there be anything that displeaseth them, I pray them also that they arette [impute] it to the default of mine unconning [unskilfulness], and not to my will, that would fain have said better if I had had conning; for the book saith, all that is written for our doctrine is written. Wherefore I beseech you meekly for the mercy of God that ye pray for me, that God have mercy on me and forgive me my guilts, and namely [specially] my translations and of inditing in worldly vanities, which I revoke in my Retractions, as is the Book of Troilus, the Book also of Fame, the Book of Twenty-five Ladies, the Book of the Duchess, the Book of Saint Valentine’s Day and of the Parliament of Birds, the Tales of Canterbury, all those that sounen unto sin [are sinful, tend towards sin], the Book of the Lion, and many other books, if they were in my mind or remembrance, and many a song and many a lecherous lay, of the which Christ for his great mercy forgive me the sins. But of the translation of Boece de Consolatione, and other books of consolation and of legend of lives of saints, and homilies, and moralities, and devotion, that thank I our Lord Jesus Christ, and his mother, and all the saints in heaven, beseeching them that they from henceforth unto my life’s end send me grace to bewail my guilts, and to study to the salvation of my soul, and grant me grace and space of very repentance, penitence, confession, and satisfaction, to do in this present life, through the benign grace of Him that is King of kings and Priest of all priests, that bought us with his precious blood of his heart, so that I may be one of them at the day of doom that shall be saved: Qui cum Patre et Spiritu Sancto vivis et regnas Deus per omnia secula. Amen.

1.13.4 Reading and Review Questions

1. In Parlement of Fowles, how does Chaucer address courtly love? What do you think about the resolution of the story (in particular, Nature’s judgment)?

2. In both Parlement of Fowles and the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, how does Chaucer present the various social classes? What kind of commentary does he appear to be offering about social class?

3. In the Canterbury Tales, how does the frame (the General Prologue, the pilgrims’ self-descriptions and commentary between tales) affect the way that we read the individual tales?

4. In the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, the narrator withholds direct judgment of the other pilgrims, but gives the reader enough evidence to make their own judgments. How would you rank the pilgrims on a scale from Good to Evil? Be sure to use categories that allow for a range of answers (such as Ok, Neutral, or even Iffy—be inventive).

5. Chaucer uses humor very deliberately: not just to entertain, but also as a form of commentary. What are some examples of humor being used to comment on an issue, a behavior, or a character?