En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Assembly Of Ladies

In Septembre, at the falling of the leef,
The fressh sesoun was al-togider doon,
And of the corn was gadered in the sheef;
In a gardyn, about twayn after noon,
Ther were ladyes walking, as was her wone,
Foure in nombre, as to my mynd doth falle,
And I the fifte, the simplest of hem alle.

Of gentilwomen fayre ther were also,
Disporting hem, everiche after her gyse,
In crosse-aleys walking, by two and two,
And some alone, after her fantasyes.
Thus occupyed we were in dyvers wyse;
And yet, in trouthe, we were not al alone;
Ther were knightës and squyers many one.

'Wherof I served?' oon of hem asked me;
I sayde ayein, as it fel in my thought,
'To walke about the mase, in certayntè,
As a woman that [of] nothing rought.'
He asked me ayein—'whom that I sought,
And of my colour why I was so pale?'
'Forsothe,' quod I, 'and therby lyth a tale.'

'That must me wite,' quod he, 'and that anon;
Tel on, let see, and make no tarying.'
'Abyd,' quod I, 'ye been a hasty oon,
I let you wite it is no litel thing.
But, for bicause ye have a greet longing
In your desyr, this proces for to here,
I shal you tel the playn of this matere.—

It happed thus, that, in an after-noon,
My felawship and I, by oon assent,
Whan al our other besinesse was doon,
To passe our tyme, into this mase we went,
And toke our wayes, eche after our entent;
Some went inward, and wend they had gon out,
Some stode amid, and loked al about.

And, sooth to say, some were ful fer behind,
And right anon as ferforth as the best;
Other ther were, so mased in her mind,
Al wayes were good for hem, bothe eest and west.
Thus went they forth, and had but litel rest;
And some, her corage did hem sore assayle,
For very wrath, they did step over the rayle!

And as they sought hem-self thus to and fro,
I gat myself a litel avauntage;
Al for-weried, I might no further go,
Though I had won right greet, for my viage.
So com I forth into a strait passage,
Which brought me to an herber fair and grene,
Mad with benches, ful craftily and clene,

That, as me thought, ther might no crëature
Devyse a better, by dew proporcioun;
Safe it was closed wel, I you ensure,
With masonry of compas enviroun,
Ful secretly, with stayres going doun
Inmiddes the place, with turning wheel, certayn;
And upon that, a pot of marjolain;

With margarettes growing in ordinaunce,
To shewe hemself, as folk went to and fro,
That to beholde it was a greet plesaunce,
And how they were acompanyed with mo
Ne-m'oublie-mies and sovenez also;
The povre pensees were not disloged there;
No, no! god wot, her place was every-where!

The flore beneth was paved faire and smothe
With stones square, of many dyvers hew,
So wel joynëd that, for to say the sothe,
Al semed oon (who that non other knew);
And underneth, the stremës new and new,
As silver bright, springing in suche a wyse
That, whence it cam, ye coude it not devyse.

A litel whyle thus was I al alone,
Beholding wel this délectable place;
My felawship were coming everichone,
So must me nedes abyde, as for a space.
Rememb[e]ring of many dyvers cace
Of tyme passed, musing with sighes depe,
I set me doun, and ther I fel a-slepe.

And, as I slept, me thought ther com to me
A gentilwoman, metely of stature;
Of greet worship she semed for to be,
Atyred wel, not high, but by mesure;
Her countenaunce ful sad and ful demure;
Her colours blewe, al that she had upon;
Ther com no mo [there] but herself aloon.

Her gown was wel embrouded, certainly,
With sovenez, after her own devyse;
On her purfyl her word [was] by and by
Bien et loyalment, as I coud devyse.
Than prayde I her, in every maner wyse
That of her name I might have remembraunce;
She sayd, she called was Perséveraunce.

So furthermore to speke than was I bold,
Where she dwelled, I prayed her for to say;
And she again ful curteysly me told,
'My dwelling is, and hath ben many a day
With a lady.'—'What lady, I you pray?'
'Of greet estate, thus warne I you,' quod she;
'What cal ye her?'—'Her name is Loyaltè.'

'In what offyce stand ye, or in what degrè?'
Quod I to her, 'that wolde I wit right fayn.'
'I am,' quod she, 'unworthy though I be,
Of her chambre her ussher, in certayn;
This rod I bere, as for a token playn,
Lyke as ye know the rule in such servyce
Pertayning is unto the same offyce.

She charged me, by her commaundëment,
To warn you and your felawes everichon,
That ye shuld come there as she is present,
For a counsayl, which shal be now anon,
Or seven dayës be comen and gon.
And furthermore, she bad that I shuld say
Excuse there might be non, nor [no] delay.

Another thing was nigh forget behind
Whiche in no wyse I wolde but ye it knew;
Remembre wel, and bere it in your mind,
Al your felawes and ye must come in blew,
Every liche able your maters for to sew;
With more, which I pray you thinke upon,
Your wordës on your slevës everichon.

And be not ye abasshed in no wyse,
As many been in suche an high presence;
Mak your request as ye can best devyse,
And she gladly wol yeve you audience.
There is no greef, ne no maner offence,
Wherin ye fele that your herte is displesed,
But with her help right sone ye shul be esed.'

'I am right glad,' quod I, 'ye tel me this,
But there is non of us that knoweth the way.'
'As of your way,' quod she, 'ye shul not mis,
Ye shul have oon to gyde you, day by day,
Of my felawes (I can no better say)
Suche oon as shal tel you the way ful right;
And Diligence this gentilwoman hight.

A woman of right famous governaunce,
And wel cherisshed, I tel you in certayn;
Her felawship shal do you greet plesaunce.
Her port is suche, her maners trewe and playn;
She with glad chere wol do her besy payn
To bring you there; now farwel, I have don.'
'Abyde,' sayd I, 'ye may not go so sone.'

'Why so?' quod she, 'and I have fer to go
To yeve warning in many dyvers place
To your felawes, and so to other mo;
And wel ye wot, I have but litel space.'
'Now yet,' quod I, 'ye must tel me this cace,
If we shal any man unto us cal?'
'Not oon,' quod she, 'may come among you al.'

'Not oon,' quod I, 'ey! benedicite!
What have they don? I pray you tel me that!'
'Now, by my lyf, I trow but wel,' quod she;
'But ever I can bileve there is somwhat,
And, for to say you trouth, more can I nat;
In questiouns I may nothing be large,
I medle no further than is my charge.'

'Than thus,' quod I, 'do me to understand,
What place is there this lady is dwelling?'
'Forsothe,' quod she, 'and oon sought al this land,
Fairer is noon, though it were for a king
Devysed wel, and that in every thing.
The toures hy ful plesaunt shul ye find,
With fanes fressh, turning with every wind.

The chambres and parlours both of oo sort,
With bay-windowes, goodly as may be thought,
As for daunsing and other wyse disport;
The galeryes right wonder wel y-wrought,
That I wel wot, if ye were thider brought.
And took good hede therof in every wyse,
Ye wold it thinke a very paradyse.'

'What hight this place?' quod I; 'now say me that.'
'Plesaunt Regard,' quod she, 'to tel you playn.'
'Of verray trouth,' quod I, 'and, wot ye what,
It may right wel be called so, certayn;
But furthermore, this wold I wit ful fayn,
What shulde I do as sone as I come there,
And after whom that I may best enquere?'

'A gentilwoman, a porter at the yate
There shal ye find; her name is Countenaunce;
If it so hap ye come erly or late,
Of her were good to have som acquaintaunce.
She can tel how ye shal you best avaunce,
And how to come to her ladyes presence;
To her wordës I rede you yeve credence.

Now it is tyme that I depart you fro;
For, in good sooth, I have gret businesse.'
'I wot right wel,' quod I, 'that it is so;
And I thank you of your gret gentilnesse.
Your comfort hath yeven me suche hardinesse
That now I shal be bold, withouten fayl,
To do after your ávyse and counsayl.'

Thus parted she, and I lefte al aloon;
With that I saw, as I beheld asyde,
A woman come, a verray goodly oon;
And forth withal, as I had her aspyed,
Me thought anon, [that] it shuld be the gyde;
And of her name anon I did enquere.
Ful womanly she yave me this answere.

'I am,' quod she, 'a simple crëature
Sent from the court; my name is Diligence.
As sone as I might come, I you ensure,
I taried not, after I had licence;
And now that I am come to your presence,
Look, what servyce that I can do or may,
Commaundë me; I can no further say.'

I thanked her, and prayed her to come nere,
Because I wold see how she were arayed;
Her gown was blew, dressed in good manere
With her devyse, her word also, that sayd
Tant que je puis; and I was wel apayd;
For than wist I, withouten any more,
It was ful trew, that I had herd before.

'Though we took now before a litel space,
It were ful good,' quod she, 'as I coud gesse.'
'How fer,' quod I, 'have we unto that place?'
'A dayes journey,' quod she, 'but litel lesse;
Wherfore I redë that we onward dresse;
For, I suppose, our felawship is past,
And for nothing I wold that we were last.'

Than parted we, at springing of the day,
And forth we wente [a] soft and esy pace,
Til, at the last, we were on our journey
So fer onward, that we might see the place.
'Now let us rest,' quod I, 'a litel space,
And say we, as devoutly as we can,
A pater-noster for saint Julian.'

'With al my herte, I assent with good wil;
Much better shul we spede, whan we have don.'
Than taried we, and sayd it every del.
And whan the day was fer gon after noon,
We saw a place, and thider cam we sone,
Which rounde about was closed with a wal,
Seming to me ful lyke an hospital.

Ther found I oon, had brought al myn aray,
A gentilwoman of myn aquaintaunce.
'I have mervayl,' quod I, 'what maner way
Ye had knowlege of al this ordenaunce.'
'Yis, yis,' quod she, 'I herd Perséveraunce,
How she warned your felawes everichon,
And what aray that ye shulde have upon.'

'Now, for my love,' quod I, 'this I you pray,
Sith ye have take upon you al the payn,
That ye wold helpe me on with myn aray;
For wit ye wel, I wold be gon ful fayn.'
'Al this prayer nedeth not, certayn;'
Quod she agayn; 'com of, and hy you sone,
And ye shal see how wel it shal be doon.'

'But this I dout me greetly, wot ye what,
That my felawes ben passed by and gon.'
'I warant you,' quod she, 'that ar they nat;
For here they shul assemble everichon.
Notwithstanding, I counsail you anon;
Mak you redy, and tary ye no more,
It is no harm, though ye be there afore.'

So than I dressed me in myn aray,
And asked her, whether it were wel or no?
'It is right wel,' quod she, 'unto my pay;
Ye nede not care to what place ever ye go.'
And whyl that she and I debated so,
Cam Diligence, and saw me al in blew:
'Sister,' quod she, 'right wel brouk ye your new!'

Than went we forth, and met at aventure
A yong woman, an officer seming:
'What is your name,' quod I, 'good crëature?'
'Discrecioun,' quod she, 'without lesing.'
'And where,' quod I, 'is your most abyding?'
'I have,' quod she, 'this office of purchace,
Cheef purveyour, that longeth to this place.'

'Fair love,' quod I, 'in al your ordenaunce,
What is her name that is the herbegere?'
'For sothe,' quod she, 'her name is Acquaintaunce,
A woman of right gracious manere.'
Than thus quod I, 'What straungers have ye here?'
'But few,' quod she, 'of high degree ne low;
Ye be the first, as ferforth as I know.'

Thus with talës we cam streight to the yate;
This yong woman departed was and gon;
Cam Diligence, and knokked fast therat;
'Who is without?' quod Countenaunce anon.
'Trewly,' quod I, 'fair sister, here is oon!'
'Which oon?' quod she, and therwithal she lough;
'I, Diligence! ye know me wel ynough.'

Than opened she the yate, and in we go;
With wordës fair she sayd ful gentilly,
'Ye are welcome, ywis! are ye no mo?'
'Nat oon,' quod she, 'save this woman and I.'
'Now than,' quod she, 'I pray yow hertely,
Tak my chambre, as for a whyl, to rest
Til your felawës come, I holde it best.'

I thanked her, and forth we gon echon
Til her chambre, without[en] wordës mo.
Cam Diligence, and took her leve anon;
'Wher-ever you list,' quod I, 'now may ye go;
And I thank you right hertely also
Of your labour, for which god do you meed;
I can no more, but Jesu be your speed!'

Than Countenauncë asked me anon,
'Your felawship, where ben they now?' quod she.
'For sothe,' quod I, 'they be coming echon;
But in certayn, I know nat wher they be,
Without I may hem at this window see.
Here wil I stande, awaytinge ever among,
For, wel I wot, they wil nat now be long.'

Thus as I stood musing ful busily,
I thought to take good hede of her aray,
Her gown was blew, this wot I verely,
Of good fasoun, and furred wel with gray;
Upon her sleve her word (this is no nay),
Which sayd thus, as my pennë can endyte,
A moi que je voy, writen with lettres whyte.

Than forth withal she cam streight unto me,
'Your word,' quod she, 'fayn wold I that I knew.'
'Forsothe,' quod I, 'ye shal wel knowe and see,
And for my word, I have non; this is trew.
It is ynough that my clothing be blew,
As here-before I had commaundëment;
And so to do I am right wel content.

But tel me this, I pray you hertely,
The steward here, say me, what is her name?'
'She hight Largesse, I say you suërly;
A fair lady, and of right noble fame.
Whan ye her see, ye wil report the same.
And under her, to bid you welcome al,
There is Belchere, the marshal of the hall.

Now al this whyle that ye here tary stil,
Your own maters ye may wel have in mind.
But tel me this, have ye brought any bil?'
'Ye, ye,' quod I, 'or els I were behind.
Where is there oon, tel me, that I may find
To whom that I may shewe my matters playn?'
'Surely,' quod she, 'unto the chamberlayn.'

'The chamberlayn?' quod I, '[now] say ye trew?'
'Ye, verely,' sayd she, 'by myne advyse;
Be nat aferd; unto her lowly sew.'
'It shal be don,' quod I, 'as ye devyse;
But ye must knowe her name in any wyse?'
'Trewly,' quod she, 'to tell you in substaunce,
Without fayning, her name is Remembraunce.

The secretary yit may not be forget;
For she may do right moche in every thing.
Wherfore I rede, whan ye have with her met,
Your mater hool tel her, without fayning;
Ye shal her finde ful good and ful loving.'
'Tel me her name,' quod I, 'of gentilnesse.'
'By my good sooth,' quod she, 'Avysënesse.'

'That name,' quod I, 'for her is passing good;
For every bil and cedule she must see;
Now good,' quod I, 'com, stand there-as I stood;
My felawes be coming; yonder they be.'
'Is it [a] jape, or say ye sooth?' quod she.
'In jape? nay, nay; I say you for certain;
See how they come togider, twain and twain!'

'Ye say ful sooth,' quod she, 'that is no nay;
I see coming a goodly company.'
'They been such folk,' quod I, 'I dar wel say,
That list to love; thinke it ful verily.
And, for my love, I pray you faithfully,
At any tyme, whan they upon you cal,
That ye wol be good frend unto hem al.'

'Of my frendship,' quod she, 'they shal nat mis,
And for their ese, to put therto my payn.'
'God yelde it you!' quod I; 'but tel me this,
How shal we know who is the chamberlayn?'
'That shal ye wel know by her word, certayn.'
'What is her word? Sister, I pray you say.'
'Plus ne purroy; thus wryteth she alway.'

Thus as we stood togider, she and I,
Even at the yate my felawes were echon.
So met I hem, as me thought was goodly,
And bad hem welcome al, by on and on.
Than forth cam [lady] Countenaunce anon;
'Ful hertely, fair sisters al,' quod she,
'Ye be right welcome into this countree.

I counsail you to take a litel rest
In my chambre, if it be your plesaunce.
Whan ye be there, me thinketh for the best
That I go in, and cal Perséveraunce,
Because she is oon of your aquaintaunce;
And she also wil tel you every thing
How ye shal be ruled of your coming.'

My felawes al and I, by oon avyse,
Were wel agreed to do lyke as she sayd.
Than we began to dresse us in our gyse,
That folk shuld see we were nat unpurvayd;
And good wageours among us there we layd,
Which of us was atyred goodliest,
And of us al which shuld be praysed best.

The porter cam, and brought Perséveraunce;
She welcomed us in ful curteys manere:
'Think ye nat long,' quod she, 'your attendaunce;
I wil go speke unto the herbergere,
That she may purvey for your logging here.
Than wil I go unto the chamberlayn
To speke for you, and come anon agayn.'

And whan [that] she departed was and gon,
We saw folkës coming without the wal,
So greet people, that nombre coud we non;
Ladyes they were and gentilwomen al,
Clothed in blew, echon her word withal;
But for to knowe her word or her devyse,
They cam so thikke, that I might in no wyse.

With that anon cam in Perséveraunce,
And where I stood, she cam streight [un]to me.
'Ye been,' quod she, 'of myne olde acquaintaunce;
You to enquere, the bolder wolde I be;
What word they bere, eche after her degree,
I pray you, tel it me in secret wyse;
And I shal kepe it close, on warantyse.'

'We been,' quod I, 'fyve ladies al in-fere,
And gentilwomen foure in company;
Whan they begin to open hir matere,
Than shal ye knowe hir wordës by and by;
But as for me, I have non verely,
And so I told Countenaunce here-before;
Al myne aray is blew; what nedeth more?'

'Now than,' quod she, 'I wol go in agayn,
That ye may have knowlege, what ye shuld do.'
'In sooth,' quod I, 'if ye wold take the payn,
Ye did right moch for us, if ye did so.
The rather sped, the soner may we go.
Gret cost alway ther is in tarying;
And long to sewe, it is a wery thing.'

Than parted she, and cam again anon;
'Ye must,' quod she, 'come to the chamberlayn.'
'We been,' quod I, 'now redy everichon
To folowe you whan-ever ye list, certayn.
We have non eloquence, to tel you playn;
Beseching you we may be so excused,
Our trew mening, that it be not refused.'

Than went we forth, after Perséveraunce,
To see the prees; it was a wonder cace;
There for to passe it was greet comb[e]raunce,
The people stood so thikke in every place.
'Now stand ye stil,' quod she, 'a litel space;
And for your ese somwhat I shal assay,
If I can make you any better way.'

And forth she goth among hem everichon,
Making a way, that we might thorugh pas
More at our ese; and whan she had so don,
She beckned us to come where-as she was;
So after her we folowed, more and las.
She brought us streight unto the chamberlayn;
There left she us, and than she went agayn.

We salued her, as reson wolde it so,
Ful humb[el]ly beseching her goodnesse,
In our maters that we had for to do
That she wold be good lady and maistresse.
'Ye be welcome,' quod she, 'in sothfastnesse,
And see, what I can do you for to plese,
I am redy, that may be to your ese.'

We folowed her unto the chambre-dore,
'Sisters,' quod she, 'come ye in after me.'
But wite ye wel, there was a paved flore,
The goodliest that any wight might see;
And furthermore, about than loked we
On eche corner, and upon every wal,
The which was mad of berel and cristal;

Wherein was graven of stories many oon;
First how Phyllis, of womanly pitè,
Deyd pitously, for love of Demophoon.
Nexte after was the story of Tisbee,
How she slew her-self under a tree.
Yet saw I more, how in right pitous cas
For Antony was slayn Cleopatras.

That other syde was, how Hawes the shene
Untrewly was disceyved in her bayn.
There was also Annelida the quene,
Upon Arcyte how sore she did complayn.
Al these stories were graved there, certayn;
And many mo than I reherce you here;
It were to long to tel you al in-fere.

And, bicause the wallës shone so bright,
With fyne umple they were al over-sprad,
To that intent, folk shuld nat hurte hir sight;
And thorugh it the stories might be rad.
Than furthermore I went, as I was lad;
And there I saw, without[en] any fayl,
A chayrë set, with ful riche aparayl.

And fyve stages it was set fro the ground,
Of cassidony ful curiously wrought;
With four pomelles of golde, and very round,
Set with saphyrs, as good as coud be thought;
That, wot ye what, if it were thorugh sought,
As I suppose, fro this countrey til Inde,
Another suche it were right fer to finde!

For, wite ye wel, I was right nere that,
So as I durst, beholding by and by;
Above ther was a riche cloth of estate,
Wrought with the nedle ful straungëly,
Her word thereon; and thus it said trewly,
A endurer, to tel you in wordës few,
With grete letters, the better I hem knew.

Thus as we stode, a dore opened anon;
A gentilwoman, semely of stature,
Beringe a mace, cam out, her-selfe aloon;
Sothly, me thought, a goodly crëature!
She spak nothing to lowde, I you ensure,
Nor hastily, but with goodly warning:
'Mak room,' quod she, 'my lady is coming!'

With that anon I saw Perséveraunce,
How she held up the tapet in her hand.
I saw also, in right good ordinaunce,
This greet lady within the tapet stand,
Coming outward, I wol ye understand;
And after her a noble company,
I coud nat tel the nombre sikerly.

Of their namës I wold nothing enquere
Further than suche as we wold sewe unto,
Sauf oo lady, which was the chauncellere,
Attemperaunce; sothly her name was so.
For us nedeth with her have moch to do
In our maters, and alway more and more.
And, so forth, to tel you furthermore,

Of this lady her beautè to discryve,
My conning is to simple, verely;
For never yet, the dayës of my lyve,
So inly fair I have non seen, trewly.
In her estate, assured utterly,
There wanted naught, I dare you wel assure,
That longed to a goodly crëature.

And furthermore, to speke of her aray,
I shal you tel the maner of her gown;
Of clothe of gold ful riche, it is no nay;
The colour blew, of a right good fasoun;
In tabard-wyse the slevës hanging doun;
And what purfyl there was, and in what wyse,
So as I can, I shal it you devyse.

After a sort the coller and the vent,
Lyk as ermyne is mad in purfeling;
With grete perlës, ful fyne and orient,
They were couchèd, al after oon worching,
With dyamonds in stede of powdering;
The slevës and purfilles of assyse;
They were [y-]mad [ful] lyke, in every wyse.

Aboute her nekke a sort of fair rubyes,
In whyte floures of right fyne enamayl;
Upon her heed, set in the freshest wyse,
A cercle with gret balays of entayl;
That, in ernest to speke, withouten fayl,
For yonge and olde, and every maner age,
It was a world to loke on her visage.

Thus coming forth, to sit in her estat,
In her presence we kneled down echon,
Presentinge up our billes, and, wot ye what,
Ful humb[el]ly she took hem, by on and on;
When we had don, than cam they al anon,
And did the same, eche after her manere,
Knelinge at ones, and rysinge al in-fere.

Whan this was don, and she set in her place,
The chamberlayn she did unto her cal;
And she, goodly coming til her a-pace,
Of her entent knowing nothing at al,
'Voyd bak the prees,' quod she, 'up to the wal;
Mak larger roum, but look ye do not tary,
And tak these billës to the secretary.'

The chamberlayn did her commaundëment,
And cam agayn, as she was bid to do;
The secretary there being present,
The billës were delivered her also,
Not only ours, but many other mo.
Than the lady, with good advyce, agayn
Anon withal called her chamberlayn.

'We wol,' quod she, 'the first thing that ye do,
The secretary, make her come anon
With her billës; and thus we wil also,
In our presence she rede hem everichon,
That we may takë good advyce theron
Of the ladyes, that been of our counsayl;
Look this be don, withouten any fayl.'

The chamberlayn, whan she wiste her entent,
Anon she did the secretary cal:
'Let your billës,' quod she, 'be here present,
My lady it wil.' 'Madame,' quod she, 'I shal.'
'And in presence she wil ye rede hem al.'
'With good wil; I am redy,' quod she,
'At her plesure, whan she commaundeth me.'

And upon that was mad an ordinaunce,
They that cam first, hir billës shuld be red.
Ful gentelly than sayd Perséveraunce,
'Resoun it wold that they were sonest sped.'
Anon withal, upon a tapet spred,
The secretary layde hem doun echon;
Our billës first she redde hem on by on.

The first lady, bering in her devyse
Sans que jamais, thus wroot she in her bil;
Complayning sore and in ful pitous wyse
Of promesse mad with faithful hert and wil
And so broken, ayenst al maner skil,
Without desert alwayes on her party;
In this mater desyring remedy.

Her next felawës word was in this wyse,
Une sanz chaungier; and thus she did complayn,
Though she had been guerdoned for her servyce,
Yet nothing lyke as she that took the payn;
Wherfore she coude in no wyse her restrayn,
But in this cas sewe until her presence,
As reson woldë, to have recompence.

So furthermore, to speke of other twayn,
Oon of hem wroot, after her fantasy,
Oncques puis lever; and, for to tel you plain,
Her complaynt was ful pitous, verely,
For, as she sayd, ther was gret reson why;
And, as I can remembre this matere,
I shal you tel the proces, al in-fere.

Her bil was mad, complayninge in her gyse,
That of her joy, her comfort and gladnesse
Was no suretee; for in no maner wyse
She fond therin no point of stablenesse,
Now il, now wel, out of al sikernesse;
Ful humbelly desyringe, of her grace,
Som remedy to shewe her in this cace.

Her felawe made her bil, and thus she sayd,
In playning wyse; there-as she loved best,
Whether she were wroth or wel apayd
She might nat see, whan [that] she wold faynest;
And wroth she was, in very ernest;
To tel her word, as ferforth as I wot,
Entierment vostre, right thus she wroot.

And upon that she made a greet request
With herte and wil, and al that might be don
As until her that might redresse it best;
For in her mind thus might she finde it sone,
The remedy of that, which was her boon;
Rehersing [that] that she had sayd before,
Beseching her it might be so no more.

And in lyk wyse as they had don before,
The gentilwomen of our company
Put up hir billës; and, for to tel you more,
Oon of hem wroot cest sanz dire, verily;
And her matere hool to specify,
With-in her bil she put it in wryting;
And what it sayd, ye shal have knowleching.

It sayd, god wot, and that ful pitously,
Lyke as she was disposed in her hert,
No misfortune that she took grevously;
Al oon to her it was, the joy and smert,
Somtyme no thank for al her good desert.
Other comfort she wanted non coming,
And so used, it greved her nothing.

Desyringe her, and lowly béseching,
That she for her wold seke a better way,
As she that had ben, al her dayes living,
Stedfast and trew, and so wil be alway.
Of her felawe somwhat I shal you say,
Whos bil was red next after forth, withal;
And what it ment rehersen you I shal.

En dieu est, she wroot in her devyse;
And thus she sayd, withouten any fayl,
Her trouthë might be taken in no wyse
Lyke as she thought, wherfore she had mervayl;
For trouth somtyme was wont to take avayl
In every matere; but al that is ago;
The more pitè, that it is suffred so.

Moch more there was, whereof she shuld complayn,
But she thought it to greet encomb[e]raunce
So moch to wryte; and therfore, in certayn,
In god and her she put her affiaunce
As in her worde is mad a remembraunce;
Beseching her that she wolde, in this cace,
Shewe unto her the favour of her grace.

The third, she wroot, rehersing her grevaunce,
Ye! wot ye what, a pitous thing to here;
For, as me thought, she felt gret displesaunce,
Oon might right wel perceyve it by her chere,
And no wonder; it sat her passing nere.
Yet loth she was to put it in wryting,
But nede wol have his cours in every thing.

Soyes en sure, this was her word, certayn,
And thus she wroot, but in a litel space;
There she lovëd, her labour was in vayn,
For he was set al in another place;
Ful humblely desyring, in that cace,
Som good comfort, her sorow to appese,
That she might livë more at hertes ese.

The fourth surely, me thought, she liked wele,
As in her porte and in her behaving;
And Bien moneste, as fer as I coud fele,
That was her word, til her wel belonging.
Wherfore to her she prayed, above al thing,
Ful hertely (to say you in substaunce)
That she wold sende her good continuaunce.

'Ye have rehersed me these billës al,
But now, let see somwhat of your entent.'
'It may so hap, paraventure, ye shal.
Now I pray you, whyle I am here present,
Ye shal, pardè, have knowlege, what I ment.
But thus I say in trouthe, and make no fable,
The case itself is inly lamentable.

And wel I wot, that ye wol think the same,
Lyke as I say, whan ye have herd my bil.'
'Now good, tel on, I hate you, by saynt Jame!'
'Abyde a whyle; it is nat yet my wil.
Yet must ye wite, by reson and by skil,
Sith ye know al that hath be don before:—'
And thus it sayd, without[en] wordes more.

'Nothing so leef as deth to come to me
For fynal ende of my sorowes and payn;
What shulde I more desyre, as semë ye?
And ye knewe al aforn it for certayn,
I wot ye wolde; and, for to tel you playn,
Without her help that hath al thing in cure
I can nat think that I may longe endure.

As for my trouthe, it hath be proved wele,
To say the sothe, I can [you] say no more,
Of ful long tyme, and suffred every dele
In pacience, and kepe it al in store;
Of her goodnesse besechinge her therfore
That I might have my thank in suche [a] wyse
As my desert deserveth of justyse.'

Whan these billës were rad everichon,
This lady took a good advysement;
And hem to answere, ech by on and on,
She thought it was to moche in her entent;
Wherfore she yaf hem in commaundëment,
In her presence to come, bothe oon and al,
To yeve hem there her answer general.

What did she than, suppose ye verely?
She spak herself, and sayd in this manere,
'We have wel seen your billës by and by,
And some of hem ful pitous for to here.
We wol therfore ye knowe al this in-fere,
Within short tyme our court of parliment
Here shal be holde, in our palays present;

And in al this wherin ye find you greved,
Ther shal ye finde an open remedy
In suche [a] wyse, as ye shul be releved
Of al that ye reherce here, thoroughly.
As for the date, ye shul know verily,
That ye may have a space in your coming;
For Diligence shal it tel you by wryting.'

We thanked her in our most humble wyse,
Our felauship, echon by oon assent,
Submitting us lowly til her servyse.
For, as we thought, we had our travayl spent
In suche [a] wyse as we helde us content.
Than eche of us took other by the sleve,
And forth withal, as we shuld take our leve.

Al sodainly the water sprang anon
In my visage, and therwithal I wook:—
'Where am I now?' thought I; 'al this is gon;'
And al amased, up I gan to look.
With that, anon I went and made this book,
Thus simplely rehersing the substaunce,
Bicause it shuld not out of remembraunce.'—

'Now verily, your dreem is passing good,
And worthy to be had in rémembraunce;
For, though I stande here as longe as I stood,
It shuld to me be non encomb[e]raunce;
I took therin so inly greet plesaunce.
But tel me now, what ye the book do cal?
For I must wite.' 'With right good wil ye shal:

As for this book, to say you very right,
And of the name to tel the certeyntè,
L'assemblè de Dames, thus it hight;
How think ye?' 'That the name is good, pardè!'
'Now go, farwel! for they cal after me,
My felawes al, and I must after sone;
Rede wel my dreem; for now my tale is doon.'

Here endeth the Book of Assemble de Damys.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Canterbury Tales; The Shipmannes Tale

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.

poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Onn Oure Ladies Chyrche

AS onn a hylle one eve sittynge,
At oure Ladie's Chyrche mouche wonderynge,
The counynge handieworke so fyne,
Han well nighe dazeled mine eyne;
Quod I; some counynge fairie hande
Yreer'd this chapelle in this lande;
Full well I wote so fine a syghte
Was ne yreer'd of mortall wighte.
Quod Trouthe; thou lackest knowlachynge;
Thou forsoth ne wotteth of the thynge.
A Rev'rend Fadre, William Canynge hight,
Yreered uppe this chapelle brighte;
And eke another in the Towne,
Where glassie bubblynge Trymme doth roun.
Quod I; ne doubte for all he's given
His sowle will certes goe to heaven.
Yea, quod Trouthe; than goe thou home,
And see thou doe as hee hath donne.
Quod I; I doubt; that can ne bee;
I have ne gotten markes three.
Quod Trouthe; as thou hast got, give almes-dedes soe;
Canynges and Gaunts culde doe ne moe.

poem by Thomas Chatterton
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The Canterbury Tales; Epilogue

The wordes of the Hoost to the Phisicien and the Pardoner.

Oure Hooste gan to swere as he were wood;
'Harrow!' quod he, 'by nayles and by blood!
This was a fals cherl and a fals justice!
As shameful deeth as herte may devyse
Come to thise juges and hire advocatz!

Algate this sely mayde is slayn, allas!
Allas! to deere boughte she beautee!
Wherfore I seye al day, as men may see
That yiftes of Fortune and of Nature
Been cause of deeth to many a creature.

(Hir beautee was hir deeth, I dar wel sayn;
Allas, so pitously as she was slayn!)
Of bothe yiftes that I speke of now
Men han ful ofte moore harm than prow.
But trewely, myn owene maister deere,

This is a pitous tale for to heere.
But nathelees, passe over is no fors;
I pray to God so save thy gentil cors,
And eek thyne urynals and thy jurdanes,
Thyn ypocras and eek thy Galianes

And every boyste ful of thy letuarie,
God blesse hem, and oure lady Seinte Marie!
So moot I theen, thou art a propre man,
And lyk a prelat, by Seint Ronyan.
Seyde I nat wel? I kan nat speke in terme;

But wel I woot thou doost myn herte to erme,
That I almoost have caught a cardyacle.
By corpus bones, but I have triacle,
Or elles a draughte of moyste and corny ale,
Or but I heere anon a myrie tale,

Myn herte is lost, for pitee of this mayde!
Thou beelamy, thou Pardoner,' he sayde,
'Telle us som myrthe or japes right anon.'
'It shal be doon,' quod he, 'by Seint Ronyon;
But first,' quod he, 'heere at this ale-stake,

I wol bothe drynke and eten of a cake.'
And right anon the gentils gonne to crye,
'Nay, lat hym telle us of no ribaudye!
Telle us som moral thyng that we may leere
Som wit, and thanne wol we gladly heere!'

'I graunte, ywis,' quod he, 'but I moot thynke
Upon som honeste thyng, while that I drynke.'

poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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The Canterbury Tales; The Persouns Tale

PROLOGUE TO THE PERSOUNS TALE

Heere folweth the Prologe of the Persouns tale.

By that the Maunciple hadde his tale al ended,
The sonne fro the south lyne was descended
So lowe, that he nas nat to my sighte
Degrees nyne and twenty as in highte.
Ten of the clokke it was tho, as I gesse,

For ellevene foot, or litel moore or lesse,
My shadwe was at thilke tyme as there,
Of swiche feet as my lengthe parted were
In sixe feet equal of proporcioun.
Therwith the moones exaltacioun,

I meene Libra, alwey gan ascende,
As we were entryng at a thropes ende.
For which our Hoost, as he was wont to gye,
As in this caas, oure joly compaignye,
Seyde in this wise, 'Lordynges everichoon,

Now lakketh us no tales mo than oon,
Fulfilled is my sentence and my decree;
I trowe that we han herd of ech degree.
Almoost fulfild is al myn ordinaunce,
I pray to God, so yeve hym right good chaunce

That telleth this tale to us lustily!
'Sire preest,' quod he, 'artow a vicary,
Or arte a person? sey sooth by thy fey.
Be what thou be, ne breke thou nat oure pley;
For every man save thou hath toold his tale.

Unbokele and shewe us what is in thy male,
For trewely, me thynketh by thy cheere
Thou sholdest knytte up wel a greet mateere.
Telle us a fable anon, for Cokkes bones.'
This Persoun him answerede, al atones,

'Thou getest fable noon ytoold for me,
For Paul, that writeth unto Thymothee,
Repreveth hem that weyveth soothfastnesse,
And tellen fables, and swich wrecchednesse.
Why sholde I sowen draf out of my fest

Whan I may sowen whete, if that me lest?
For which I seye, if that yow list to heere,
Moralitee and vertuous mateere;
And thanne that ye wol yeve me audience,
I wol ful fayn, at Cristes reverence,

Do yow plesaunce leefful, as I kan.
But trusteth wel I am a southren man,
I kan nat geeste Rum, Ram, Ruf by lettre,
Ne, God woot, rym holde I but litel bettre,
And therfore if yow list, I wol nat glose,

I wol yow telle a myrie tale in prose
To knytte up al this feeste, and make an ende,
And Jesu, for his grace, wit me sende
To shewe yow the wey, in this viage,
Of thilke parfit glorious pilgrymage

That highte Jerusalem celestial.
And if ye vouchesauf, anon I shal
Bigynne upon my tale, for which I preye,
Telle youre avys, I kan no bettre seye.
But nathelees, this meditacioun

I putte it ay under correccioun
Of clerkes, for I am nat textueel;
I take but sentence, trusteth weel.
Therfore I make a protestacioun
That I wol stonde to correccioun.'

Upon this word we han assented soone;
For, as us semed, it was for to doone
To enden in som vertuous sentence,
And for to yeve hym space and audience;
Adn bede oure Hoost he sholde to hym seye

That alle we to telle his tale hym preye.
Oure Hoost hadde the wordes for us alle:
'Sire preest,' quod he, 'now faire yow bifalle,
Sey what yow list, and we wol gladly heere.'
And with that word he seyde in this manere,

'Telleth,' quod he, 'youre meditacioun;
But hasteth yow, the sonne wole adoun.
Beth fructuous, and that in litel space,
And to do wel God sende yow his grace.'

poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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At Beauty's Bar As I Did Stand

AT Beauty's bar as I did stand,
When False Suspect accused,
``George,'' quod the judge, ``hold up thy hand;
Thou art arraigned of flattery.
Tell therefore how thou wilt be tried.
Whose judgment here wilt thou abide?''

``My lord,'' quod I, ``this lady here,
Whom I esteem above the rest,
Doth know my guilt, if any were,
Wherefore her doom shall please me best;
Let her be judge and juror both,
To try me, guiltless by mine oath.''

Quod Beauty, ``No, it fitteth not,
A Prince herself to judge the cause;
Will is our Justice, well you wot,
Appointed to discuss our laws;
If you will guiltless seem to go,
God and your country quit you so.''

Then Craft, the crier, called a quest,
Of whom was Falsehood foremost fere;
A pack of pickthanks were the rest,
Which came fale witness for to bear;
The jury such, the judge unjust,
Sentence was said I should be trussed.

Jealous, the jailer, bound me fast,
To hear the verdict of the bill;
``George,'' quod the judge, ``now thou art cast,
Thou must go hence to Heavy Hill,
And there be hanged, all but the head;
God rest thy soul when thou art dead.''

Down fell I thn upon my knee,
All flat before Dame Beauty's face,
And cried, ``Good Lady, pardon me,
Which here appeal unto your Grace;
You know if I have been untrue,
It was in too much praising you.

``And though this judge do make such haste
To shed with shame my guiltless blood,
Yet let your pity first be placed,
To save the man that meant you good;
So shall you show yourself a queen,
And I may be your servant seen.''

Quod Beauty, ``Well; because I guess
What thou dost mean henceforth to be,
Although thy faults deserve no less
Than Justice here hath judged thee,
Wilt thou be bound to stint all strife,
And be true prisoner all thy life?''

``Yea, madam,'' quod I, ``that I shall;
Lo, Faith and Truth, my sureties.''
``Why, then,'' quod she, ``come when I call,
I ask no better warrantise.''
Thus am I Beauty's bounden thrall,
At her command when she doth call.

poem by George Gascoigne
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The Flower And The Leaf

When that Phebus his chaire of gold so hy
Had whirled up the sterry sky aloft,
And in the Bole was entred certainly;
Whan shoures swete of rain discended soft,
Causing the ground, felë tymes and oft,
Up for to give many an hoolsom air,
And every plain was [eek y-]clothed fair

With newe grene, and maketh smalë floures
To springen here and there in feld and mede;
So very good and hoolsom be the shoures
That it reneweth, that was old and deede
In winter-tyme; and out of every seede
Springeth the herbë, so that every wight
Of this sesoun wexeth [ful] glad and light.

And I, só glad of the seson swete,
Was happed thus upon a certain night;
As I lay in my bed, sleep ful unmete
Was unto me; but, why that I ne might
Rest, I ne wist; for there nas erthly wight,
As I suppose, had more hertës ese
Than I, for I n'ad siknesse nor disese.

Wherfore I mervail gretly of my-selve,
That I so long, withouten sleepë lay;
And up I roos, three houres after twelve,
About the [very] springing of the day,
And on I put my gere and myn array;
And to a plesaunt grovë I gan passe,
Long or the brightë sonne uprisen was,

In which were okës grete, streight as a lyne,
Under the which the gras, so fresh of hew,
Was newly spronge; and an eight foot or nyne
Every tree wel fro his felawe grew,
With braunches brode, laden with leves new,
That sprongen out ayein the sonnë shene,
Som very rede, and som a glad light grene;

Which, as me thought, was right a plesaunt sight.
And eek the briddes song[ës] for to here
Would have rejoised any erthly wight.
And I, that couth not yet, in no manere,
Here the nightingale of al the yere,
Ful busily herkned, with herte and ere,
If I her voice perceive coud any-where.

And at the last, a path of litel brede
I found, that gretly had not used be,
For it forgrowen was with gras and weede,
That wel unneth a wight [ther] might it see.
Thought I, this path som whider goth, pardè,
And so I folowèd, til it me brought
To right a plesaunt herber, wel y-wrought,

That benched was, and [al] with turves new
Freshly turved, wherof the grenë gras
So small, so thik, so short, so fresh of hew,
That most lyk to grene wol, wot I, it was.
The hegge also, that yede [as] in compas
And closed in al the grene herbere,
With sicamour was set and eglantere,

Writhen in-fere so wel and cunningly
That every braunch and leef grew by mesure,
Plain as a bord, of on height, by and by,
[That] I sy never thing, I you ensure,
So wel [y-]don; for he that took the cure
It [for] to make, I trow, did al his peyn
To make it passe al tho that men have seyn.

And shapen was this herber, roof and al,
As [is] a prety parlour, and also
The hegge as thik as [is] a castle-wal,
That, who that list without to stond or go,
Though he wold al-day pryen to and fro,
He shuld not see if there were any wight
Within or no; but oon within wel might

Perceive al tho that yeden there-without
In the feld, that was on every syde
Covered with corn and gras, that, out of dout,
Though oon wold seeken al the world wyde,
So rich a feld [ne] coud not be espyed
[Up]on no cost, as of the quantitee,
For of al good thing ther was [greet] plentee.

And I, that al this plesaunt sight [than] sy,
Thought sodainly I felt so sweet an air
[Come] of the eglantere, that certainly,
Ther is no hert, I deme, in such despair,
Ne with [no] thoughtës froward and contrair
So overlaid, but it shuld soone have bote,
If it had onës felt this savour sote.

And as I stood and cast asyde myn y,
I was ware of the fairest medle-tree
That ever yet in al my lyf I sy,
As full of blossomës as it might be.
Therin a goldfinch leping pretily
Fro bough to bough, and, as him list, he eet
Here and there, of buddes and floures sweet.

And to the herber-sydë was joining
This fairë tree, of which I have you told;
And, at the last, the brid began to sing,
Whan he had eten what he etë wold,
So passing sweetly, that, by manifold,
It was more plesaunt than I coud devyse;
And whan his song was ended in this wyse,

The nightingale with so mery a note
Answéred him, that al the wodë rong
So sodainly, that, as it were a sot,
I stood astonied; so was I with the song
Through ravishèd, that, [un]til late and long
Ne wist I in what place I was, ne where;
And ay, me thought, she song even by myn ere.

Wherfore about I waited busily
On every syde, if I her mightë see;
And, at the last, I gan ful wel aspy
Wher she sat in a fresh green laurer-tree
On the further syde, even right by me,
That gave so passing a delicious smel
According to the eglantere ful wel.

Wherof I had so inly greet plesyr
That, as me thought, I surely ravished was
Into Paradyse, where my desyr
Was for to be, and no ferther [to] passe
As for that day, and on the sotë gras
I sat me doun; for, as for myn entent,
The birdës song was more convenient,

And more plesaunt to me, by many fold,
Than mete or drink, or any other thing;
Thereto the herber was so fresh and cold,
The hoolsom savours eek so comforting
That, as I demed, sith the beginning
Of the world, was never seen, or than,
So plesaunt a ground of non erthly man.

And as I sat, the briddës herkning thus,
Me thought that I herd voices sodainly,
The most sweetest and most delicious
That ever any wight, I trow trewly,
Herde in his lyf, for [that] the armony
And sweet accord was in so good musyk,
Thát the voice to angels most was lyk.

At the last, out of a grove even by,
That was right goodly and plesaunt to sight,
I sy where there cam singing lustily
A world of ladies; but to tell aright
Their greet beautè, it lyth not in my might,
Ne their array; nevertheless, I shal
Tell you a part, though I speke not of al.

In surcotes whyte, of veluet wel sitting,
They were [y-]clad; and the semes echoon,
As it were a maner garnishing,
Was set with emeraudës, oon and oon,
By and by; but many a richë stoon
Was set [up-]on the purfils, out of dout,
Of colors, sleves, and trainës round about;

As gret[e] perlës, round and orient,
Diamondës fyne and rubies rede,
And many another stoon, of which I want
The namës now; and everich on her hede
A richë fret of gold, which, without drede,
Was ful of statly richë stonës set;
And every lady had a chapëlet

On her hede, of [leves] fresh and grene,
So wel [y-]wrought, and so mervéilously,
Thát it was a noble sight to sene;
Some of laurer, and some ful plesauntly
Had chapëlets of woodbind, and sadly
Some of agnus-castus ware also
Chápëlets fresh; but there were many tho

That daunced and eek song ful soberly;
But al they yede in maner of compas.
But oon ther yede in-mid the company.
Sole by her-self; but al folowed the pace
[Which] that she kept, whos hevenly-figured face
So plesaunt was, and her wel-shape persòn,
That of beautè she past hem everichon.

And more richly beseen, by manifold,
She was also, in every maner thing;
On her heed, ful plesaunt to behold,
A crowne of gold, rich for any king;
A braunch of agnus-castus eek bering
In her hand; and, to my sight, trewly,
She lady was of [al] the company.

And she began a roundel lustily,
That Sus le foyl de vert moy men call,
Seen, et mon joly cuer endormi;
And than the company answéred all
With voice[s] swete entuned and so small,
That me thought it the sweetest melody
That ever I herdë in my lyf, soothly.

And thus they came[n], dauncing and singing,
Into the middes of the mede echone,
Before the herber, where I was sitting,
And, god wot, me thought I was wel bigon;
For than I might avyse hem, on by on,
Who fairest was, who coud best dance or sing,
Or who most womanly was in al thing.

They had not daunced but a litel throw
When that I herd, not fer of, sodainly
So greet a noise of thundring trumpës blow,
As though it shuld have départed the sky;
And, after that, within a whyle I sy
From the same grove, where the ladyes come out,
Of men of armës coming such a rout

As al the men on erth had been assembled
In that place, wel horsed for the nones,
Stering so fast, that al the erth[ë] trembled;
But for to speke of riches and [of] stones,
And men and hors, I trow, the largë wones
Of Prester John, ne al his tresory
Might not unneth have bought the tenth party!

Of their array who-so list herë more,
I shal reherse, so as I can, a lyte.
Out of the grove, that I spak of before,
I sy come first, al in their clokes whyte,
A company, that ware, for their delyt,
Chapëlets fresh of okës cereal
Newly spronge, and trumpets they were al.

On every trumpe hanging a brood banere
Of fyn tartarium, were ful richly bete;
Every trumpet his lordës armës bere;
About their nekkës, with gret perlës set,
Colers brode; for cost they would not lete,
As it would seme; for their scochones echoon
Were set about with many a precious stoon.

Their hors-harneys was al whyte also;
And after hem next, in on company,
Cámë kingës of armës, and no mo,
In clokës of whyte cloth of gold, richly;
Chapelets of greene on their hedes on hy,
The crownës that they on their scochones bere
Were set with perlë, ruby, and saphere,

And eek gret diamondës many on;
But al their hors-harneys and other gere
Was in a sute according, everichon,
As ye have herd the foresayd trumpets were;
And, by seeming, they were nothing to lere;
And their gyding they did so manerly.
And after hem cam a greet company

Of heraudës and pursevauntës eke
Arrayed in clothës of whyt veluët;
And hardily, they were nothing to seke
How they [up]on hem shuld the harneys set;
And every man had on a chapëlet;
Scóchones and eke hors-harneys, indede,
They had in sute of hem that before hem yede.

Next after hem, came in armour bright,
Al save their hedes, seemely knightës nyne;
And every clasp and nail, as to my sight,
Of their harneys, were of red gold fyne;
With cloth of gold, and furred with ermyne
Were the trappurës of their stedës strong,
Wyde and large, that to the ground did hong;

And every bosse of brydel and peitrel
That they had, was worth, as I would wene,
A thousand pound; and on their hedës, wel
Dressed, were crownës [al] of laurer grene,
The best [y-]mad that ever I had seen;
And every knight had after him ryding
Three henshmen, [up]on him awaiting;

Of whiche the first, upon a short tronchoun,
His lordës helme[t] bar, so richly dight,
That the worst was worth[y] the raunsoun
Of a[ny] king; the second a sheld bright
Bar at his nekke; the thridde bar upright
A mighty spere, ful sharpe [y-]ground and kene;
And every child ware, of leves grene,

A fresh chapelet upon his heres bright;
And clokes whyte, of fyn veluet they ware;
Their stedës trapped and [a]rayed right
Without[en] difference, as their lordës were.
And after hem, on many a fresh co[u]rsere,
There came of armed knightës such a rout
That they besprad the largë feld about.

And al they ware[n], after their degrees,
Chapëlets new, made of laurer grene,
Some of oke, and some of other trees;
Some in their handës berë boughës shene,
Some of laurer, and some of okës kene,
Some of hawthorn, and some of woodbind,
And many mo, which I had not in mind.

And so they came, their hors freshly stering
With bloody sownës of hir trompës loud;
Ther sy I many an uncouth disgysing
In the array of these knightës proud;
And at the last, as evenly as they coud,
They took their places in-middes of the mede,
And every knight turned his horse[s] hede

To his felawe, and lightly laid a spere
In the [a]rest, and so justës began
On every part about[en], here and there;
Som brak his spere, som drew down hors and man;
About the feld astray the stedës ran;
And, to behold their rule and governaunce,
I you ensure, it was a greet plesaunce.

And so the justës last an houre and more;
But tho that crowned were in laurer grene
Wan the pryse; their dintës were so sore
That ther was non ayenst hem might sustene;
And [than] the justing al was left of clene;
And fro their hors the nine alight anon;
And so did al the remnant everichon.

And forth they yede togider, twain and twain,
That to behold, it was a worldly sight,
Toward the ladies on the grenë plain,
That song and daunced, as I sayd now right.
The ladies, as soone as they goodly might,
They breke[n] of both the song and dance,
And yede to mete hem, with ful glad semblance.

And every lady took, ful womanly,
Bý the hond a knight, and forth they yede
Unto a fair laurer that stood fast by,
With levës lade, the boughës of gret brede;
And to my dome, there never was, indede,
[A] man that had seen half so fair a tree;
For underneth it there might wel have be

An hundred persons, at their own plesaunce,
Shadowed fro the hete of Phebus bright
So that they shuld have felt no [greet] grevaunce
Of rain, ne hail, that hem hurt[ë] might.
The savour eek rejoice would any wight
That had be sick or melancolious,
It was so very good and vertuous.

And with gret reverence they enclyned low
[Un]to the tree, so sote and fair of hew;
And after that, within a litel throw,
Bigonne they to sing and daunce of-new;
Some song of love, some playning of untrew,
Environing the tree that stood upright;
And ever yede a lady and a knight.

And at the last I cast myn eye asyde,
And was ware of a lusty company
That came, roming out of the feld wyde,
Hond in hond, a knight and a lady;
The ladies alle in surcotes, that richly
Purfyled were with many a riche stoon;
And every knight of greene ware mantles on,

Embrouded wel, so as the surcotes were,
And everich had a chapelet on her hede;
Which did right wel upon the shyning here,
Made of goodly floures, whyte and rede.
The knightës eke, that they in hond lede,
In sute of hem, ware chapelets everichon;
And hem before went minstrels many on,

As harpës, pypës, lutës, and sautry,
Al in greene; and on their hedës bare
Of dyvers flourës, mad ful craftily,
Al in a sute, goodly chapelets they ware;
And so, dauncing, into the mede they fare,
In-mid the which they found a tuft that was
Al oversprad with flourës in compas.

Where[un]to they enclyned everichon
With greet reverence, and that ful humblely;
And, at the last[ë], there began anon
A lady for to sing right womanly
A bargaret in praising the daisy;
For, as me thought, among her notës swete,
She sayd, 'Si doucë est la Margarete.'

Thén they al answéred her infere,
So passingly wel, and so plesauntly,
Thát it was a blisful noise to here.
But I not [how], it happed sodainly,
As, about noon, the sonne so fervently
Wex hoot, that [al] the prety tender floures
Had lost the beautè of hir fresh coloures,

For-shronk with hete; the ladies eek to-brent,
That they ne wist where they hem might bestow.
The knightës swelt, for lak of shade ny shent;
And after that, within a litel throw,
The wind began so sturdily to blow,
That down goth al the flourës everichon
So that in al the mede there laft not on,

Save suche as socoured were, among the leves,
Fro every storme, that might hem assail,
Growing under hegges and thikke greves;
And after that, there came a storm of hail
And rain in-fere, so that, withouten fail,
The ladies ne the knightës n'ade o threed
Drye [up]on hem, so dropping was hir weed.

And when the storm was clene passed away,
Tho [clad] in whyte, that stood under the tree,
They felt[ë] nothing of the grete affray,
That they in greene without had in y-be.
To hem they yedë for routh and pitè,
Hem to comfort after their greet disese;
So fain they were the helpless for to ese.

Then was I ware how oon of hem in grene
Had on a crown[ë], rich and wel sitting;
Wherfore I demed wel she was a quene,
And tho in greene on her were awaiting.
The ladies then in whyte that were coming
Toward[ës] hem, and the knightës in-fere
Began to comfort hem and make hem chere.

The quene in whyte, that was of grete beautè,
Took by the hond the queen that was in grene,
And said, 'Suster, I have right greet pitè
Of your annoy, and of the troublous tene
Wherein ye and your company have been
So long, alas! and, if that it you plese
To go with me, I shal do you the ese

In al the pleisir that I can or may.'
Wherof the tother, humbly as she might,
Thanked her; for in right ill aray
She was, with storm and hete, I you behight.
And every lady then, anon-right,
That were in whyte, oon of hem took in grene
By the hond; which when the knightes had seen,

In lyke wyse, ech of hem took a knight
Clad in grene, and forth with hem they fare
[Un]to an heggë, where they, anon-right,
To make their justës, [lo!] they would not spare
Boughës to hew down, and eek treës square,
Wherewith they made hem stately fyres grete
To dry their clothës that were wringing wete.

And after that, of herbës that there grew,
They made, for blisters of the sonne brenning,
Very good and hoolsom ointments new,
Where that they yede, the sick fast anointing;
And after that, they yede about gadring
Plesaunt saladës, which they made hem ete,
For to refresh their greet unkindly hete.

The lady of the Leef then gan to pray
Her of the Flour, (for so to my seeming
They should[ë] be, as by their [quaint] array),
To soupe with her; and eek, for any thing,
That she should with her al her people bring.
And she ayein, in right goodly manere,
Thanketh her of her most freendly chere,

Saying plainly, that she would obey
With al her hert al her commaundëment.
And then anon, without lenger delay,
The lady of the Leef hath oon y-sent
For a palfray, [as] after her intent,
Arayed wel and fair in harneys of gold,
For nothing lakked, that to him long shold.

And after that, to al her company
She made to purvey hors and every thing
That they needed; and then, ful lustily,
Even by the herber where I was sitting,
They passed al, so plesantly singing,
That it would have comfórted any wight;
But then I sy a passing wonder sight:—

For then the nightingale, that al the day
Had in the laurer sete, and did her might
The hool servyse to sing longing to May,
Al sodainly [be]gan to take her flight;
And to the lady of the Leef forthright
She flew, and set her on her hond softly,
Which was a thing I marveled of gretly.

The goldfinch eek, that fro the medle-tree
Was fled, for hete, into the bushes cold,
Unto the lady of the Flour gan flee,
And on her hond he set him, as he wold,
And plesantly his wingës gan to fold;
And for to sing they pained hem both as sore
As they had do of al the day before.

And so these ladies rood forth a gret pace,
And al the rout of knightës eek in-fere;
And I, that had seen al this wonder case,
Thought [that] I would assay, in some manere,
To know fully the trouth of this matere,
And what they were that rood so plesantly.
And, when they were the herber passed by,

I drest me forth, and happed to mete anon
Right a fair lady, I you ensure;
And she cam ryding by herself aloon,
Al in whyte, with semblance ful demure.
I salued her, and bad good aventure
Might her befall, as I coud most humbly;
And she answered, 'My doughter, gramercy!'

'Madam,' quod I, 'if that I durst enquere
Of you, I wold fain, of that company,
Wit what they be that past by this herbere?'
And she ayein answéred right freendly:
'My fair daughter, al tho that passed hereby
In whyte clothing, be servants everichoon
Unto the Leef, and I my-self am oon.

See ye not her that crowned is,' quod she,
'Al in whyte?' 'Madamë,' quod I, 'yis!'
'That is Diane, goddesse of chastitè;
And, for bicause that she a maiden is,
In her hond the braunch she bereth, this
That agnus-castus men call properly;
And alle the ladies in her company

Which ye see of that herb[ë] chaplets were,
Be such as han kept ay hir maidenhede;
And al they that of laurer chaplets bere
Be such as hardy were and wan, indede,
Victorious name which never may be dede.
And al they were so worthy of hir hond,
[As] in hir tyme, that non might hem withstond.

And tho that werë chapelets on hir hede
Of fresh woodbind, be such as never were
To love untrew in word, [ne] thought, ne dede,
But ay stedfast; ne for plesaunce, ne fere,
Though that they shuld hir hertës al to-tere,
Would never flit, but ever were stedfast,
Til that their lyves there asunder brast.'

'Now, fair madam,' quod I, 'yet I would pray
Your ladiship, if that it might be,
That I might know[ë], by some maner way,
Sith that it hath [y-]lyked your beautè,
The trouth of these ladies for to tel me;
What that these knightës be, in rich armour;
And what tho be in grene, and were the flour;

And why that some did reverence to the tree,
And some unto the plot of flourës fair?'
'With right good wil, my fair doughter,' quod she,
'Sith your desyr is good and debonair.
Tho nine, crownèd, be very exemplair
Of all honour longing to chivalry,
And those, certain, be called the Nine Worthy,

Which ye may see [here] ryding al before,
That in hir tyme did many a noble dede,
And, for their worthines, ful oft have bore
The crowne of laurer-leves on their hede,
As ye may in your old[ë] bokes rede;
And how that he, that was a conquerour,
Had by laurer alway his most honour.

And tho that bere boughës in their hond
Of the precious laurer so notáble,
Be such as were, I wol ye understond,
Noble knightës of the Round[ë] Table,
And eek the Douseperes honourable;
Which they bere in signe of victory,
As witness of their dedes mightily.

Eek there be knightës olde of the Garter,
That in hir tyme did right worthily;
And the honour they did to the laurer
Is, for by [it] they have their laud hoolly,
Their triumph eek, and martial glory;
Which unto hem is more parfyt richesse
Than any wight imagine can or gesse.

For oon leef given of that noble tree
To any wight that hath don worthily,
And it be doon so as it ought to be,
Is more honour then any thing erthly.
Witnesse of Rome that founder was, truly,
Of all knighthood and dedës marvelous;
Record I take of Titus Livius.

And as for her that crowned is in greene,
It is Flora, of these flourës goddesse;
And al that here on her awaiting been,
It are such [folk] that loved idlenes,
And not delyte [had] of no busines
But for to hunt and hauke, and pley in medes,
And many other such [lyk] idle dedes.

And for the greet delyt and [the] plesaunce
They have [un]to the flour, so reverently
They unto it do such [gret] obeisaunce,
As ye may see.' 'Now, fair madame,' quod I,
'If I durst ask what is the cause and why
That knightës have the signe of [al] honour
Rather by the Leef than by the Flour?'

'Sothly, doughter,' quod she, 'this is the trouth:
For knightës ever should be persévering,
To seeke honour without feintyse or slouth,
Fro wele to better, in al maner thing;
In signe of which, with Levës ay lasting
They be rewarded after their degree,
Whos lusty grene may not appeired be,

But ay keping hir beautè fresh and greene;
For there nis storm [non] that may hem deface,
Hail nor snow, wind nor frostës kene;
Wherfore they have this propertè and grace.
And for the Flour within a litel space
Wol be [y-]lost, so simple of nature
They be, that they no grevance may endure,

And every storm wil blow hem sone away,
Ne they last not but [as] for a sesoun,
That is the cause, the very trouth to say,
That they may not, by no way of resoun,
Be put to no such occupacioun.'
'Madame,' quod I, 'with al my hool servyse
I thank you now, in my most humble wyse.

For now I am acértainèd throughly
Of every thing I désired to know.'
'I am right glad that I have said, sothly,
Ought to your pleysir, if ye wil me trow,'
Quod she ayein, 'but to whom do ye ow
Your servyce? and which wil ye honour,
Tel me, I pray, this yeer, the Leef or Flour?'

'Madame,' quod I, 'though I [be] leest worthy,
Unto the Leef I ow myn observaunce.'
'That is,' quod she, 'right wel don, certainly,
And I pray god to honour you avaunce,
And kepe you fro the wikked rémembraunce
Of Male-Bouche, and al his crueltè;
And alle that good and wel-condicioned be.

For here may I no lenger now abyde,
I must folowe the gret[ë] company
That ye may see yonder before you ryde.'
And forth[right], as I couth, most humblely,
I took my leve of her as she gan hy
After hem, as fast as ever she might;
And I drow hoomward, for it was nigh night;

And put al that I had seen in wryting,
Under support of hem that lust it rede.
O litel book, thou art so unconning,
How darst thou put thy-self in prees for drede?
It is wonder that thou wexest not rede,
Sith that thou wost ful lyte who shal behold
Thy rude langage, ful boistously unfold.

Explicit

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Canterbury Tales; The Reves Tale

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.)

poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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The Canterbury Tales; The Chanouns Yemannes Tale

The prologe of the Chanouns yemannes tale.

Whan ended was the lyf of seinte Cecile,
Er we hadde riden fully fyve mile,
At Boghtoun under Blee us gan atake
A man, that clothed was in clothes blake,
And undernethe he wered a whyt surplys.

His hakeney, which that was al pomely grys,
So swatte, that it wonder was to see,
It wemed as he had priked miles thre.
The hors eek that his yeman rood upon
So swatte, that unnethe myghte it gon.

Aboute the peytrel stood the foom ful hye,
He was of fome al flekked as a pye.
A male tweyfoold upon his croper lay,
It semed that he caried lite array.
Al light for somer rood this worthy man,

And in myn herte wondren I bigan
What that he was, til that I understood
How that his cloke was sowed to his hood;
For which, whan I hadde longe avysed me,
I demed hym som Chanoun for to be.

His hat heeng at his bak doun by a laas,
For he hadde riden moore than trot or paas;
He hadde ay priked lik as he were wood.
A clote-leef he hadde under his hood
For swoot, and for to kepe his heed from heete.

But it was joye for to seen hym swete!
His forheed dropped as a stillatorie
Were ful of plantayne and of paritorie.
And whan that he was come, he gan to crye,
'God save,' quod he, 'this joly compaignye!

Faste have I priked,' quod he, 'for youre sake,
By cause that I wolde yow atake,
To riden in this myrie compaignye.'
His Yeman eek was ful of curteisye,
And seyde, 'Sires, now in the morwe tyde

Out of youre hostelrie I saugh yow ryde,
And warned heer my lord and my soverayn
Which that to ryden with yow is ful fayn
For his desport; he loveth daliaunce.'
'Freend, for thy warnyng God yeve thee good chaunce,'

Thanne seyde oure Hoost, 'for certein, it wolde seme
Thy lord were wys, and so I may wel deme.
He is ful jocunde also, dar I leye.
Can he oght telle a myrie tale or tweye
With which he glade may this compaignye?'

'Who, sire, my lord? ye, ye, with-outen lye!
He kan of murthe and eek of jolitee
Nat but ynough, also, sire, trusteth me.
And ye hym knewen as wel as do I,
Ye wolde wondre how wel and craftily

He koude werke, and that in sondry wise.
He hath take on hym many a greet emprise,
Which were ful hard for any that is heere
To brynge aboute, but they of hym it leere.
As hoomly as he rit amonges yow,

If ye hym knewe, it wolde be for youre prow,
Ye wolde nat forgoon his aqueyntaunce
For muchel good, I dar leye in balaunce
Al that I have in my possessioun.
He is a man of heigh discrecioun,

I warne yow wel, he is a passyng man.'
'Wel,' quod oure Hoost, 'I pray thee, tel em than,
Is he a clerk, or noon? telle what he is?'
'Nay, he is gretter than a clerk, ywis,'
Seyde this Yeman, 'and in wordes fewe,

Hoost, of his craft somwhat I wol yow shewe.
I seye my lord kan swich subtilitee-
But al his craft ye may nat wite for me,
And somwhat helpe I yet to his wirkyng-
That al this ground on which we been rydyng

Til that we come to Caunterbury toun,
He koude al clene turne it up so doun
And pave ti al of silver and of gold.'
And whan this Yeman hadde this tale ytold
Unto oure Hoost, he seyde, 'Benedicitee,

This thyng is wonder merveillous to me,
Syn that thy lord is of so heigh prudence,
By cause of which men sholde hym reverence,
That of his worship rekketh he so lite.
His overslope nys nat worth a myte

As in effect to hym, so moot I go.
It is al baudy and to-tore also,
Why is thy lord so sluttissh, I the preye,
And is of power bettre clooth to beye,
If that his dede accorde with thy speche?

Telle me that, and that I thee biseche.'
'Why,' quod this Yeman, 'wherto axe ye me?
God help me so, for he shal nevere thee!
But I wol nat avowe that I seye,
And therfore keepe it secree, I yow preye;

He is to wys, in feith, as I bileeve!
That that is overdoon, it wol nat preeve
Aright; as clerkes seyn, it is a vice.
Wherfore in that I holde hym lewed and nyce;
For whan a man hath over-greet a wit,

Ful oft hym happeth to mysusen it.
So dooth my lord, and that me greveth soore.
God it amende, I kan sey yow namoore.'
'Therof no fors, good Yeman,' quod oure Hoost,
'Syn of the konnyng of thy lord thow woost,

Telle how he dooth, I pray thee hertely,
Syn that he is so crafty and so sly.
Wher dwelle ye, if it to telle be?'
'In the suburbes of a toun,' quod he,
'Lurkynge in hernes and in lanes blynde,

Where as thise robbours and thise theves by kynde
Holden hir pryvee fereful residence,
As they that dar nat shewen hir presence.
So faren we if I shal seye the sothe.'
'Now,' quod oure Hoost, 'yit lat me talke to the,

Why artow so discoloured of thy face?'
'Peter,' quod he, 'God yeve it harde grace,
I am so used in the fyr to blowe,
That it hath chaunged my colour, I trowe.
I am nat wont in no mirrour to prie,

But swynke soore, and lerne multiplie.
We blondren evere, and pouren in the fir,
And, for al that, we faille of oure desir.
For evere we lakke of oure conclusioun;
To muchel folk we doon illusioun,

And borwe gold, be it a pound or two,
Or ten, or twelve, or manye sommes mo,
And make hem wenen at the leeste weye
That of a pound we koude make tweye.
Yet is it fals, but ay we han good hope

It for to doon, and after it we grope.
But that science is so fer us biforn,
We mowen nat, although we hadden sworn,
It over-take, it slit awey so faste.
It wole us maken beggars atte laste.'

Whil this yeman was thus in his talkyng,
This Chanoun drough hym neer, and herde al thyng
Which this Yeman spak, for suspecioun
Of mennes speche evere hadde this Chanoun.
For Catoun seith, that he that gilty is

Demeth alle thyng be spoke of hym, ywis.
That was the cause he gan so ny hym drawe
To his yeman, to herknen al his sawe.
And thus he seyde unto his yeman tho,
'Hoold thou thy pees, and spek no wordes mo,

For it thou do, thou shalt it deere abye.
Thou sclaundrest me heere in this compaignye,
And eek discoverest that thou sholdest hyde.'
'Ye,' quod oure Hoost, 'telle on, what so bityde,
Of al his thretyng rekke nat a myte.'

'In feith,' quod he, 'namoore I do but lyte.'
And whan this Chanoun saugh it wolde nat bee,
But his Yeman wolde telle his pryvetee,
He fledde awey for verray sorwe and shame.
'A!' quod the Yeman, 'heere shal arise game.

Al that I kan, anon now wol I telle,
Syn he is goon, the foule feend hym quelle!
For nevere heer after wol I with hym meete,
For peny ne for pound, I yow biheete.
He that me broghte first unto that game,

Er that he dye, sorwe have he and shame.
For it is ernest to me, by my feith,
That feele I wel, what so any man seith.
And yet, for al my smert and al my grief,
For al my sorwe, labour, and meschief,

I koude never leve it in no wise.
Now wolde God, my wit myghte suffise
To tellen al that longeth to that art,
And nathelees yow wol I tellen part.
Syn that my lord is goon, I wol nat spare,
Swich thyng as that I knowe, I wol declare.

Heere endeth the prologe of the Chanouns yemannes tale.

(After a lengthy account of the practice of alchemy by
his master, the yeoman tells how a priest is beguiled of
his money by a certain canon through trickery of a hollow
rod.)

poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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The Canterbury Tales; The Milleres Tale

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.)

poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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The Canterbury Tales; Chaucer's Tale of Sir Thopas

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.)

poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Mart. Lib. I. Epi. 14.

MART. LIB. I. EPI. 14.

Casta suo gladium cum traderet Arria Paeto,
Quem de visceribus traxerat ipsa suis;
Si qua fides, vulnus quod feci non dolet, inquit:
Sed quod tu facies, hoc mihi, Paete, dolet.

ENGLISHED.

When brave chast Arria to her Poetus gave
The sword from her own breast did bleeding wave:
If there be faith, this wound smarts not, said she;
But what you'l make, ah, that will murder me.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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The Nut-Brown Maid. A Poem.

Written three hundred years since.

Be it right or wrong, these men among
On women do complayne;
Affyrmynge this, how that it is
A labour spent in vaine
To love them wele; for never a dele
They love a man againe:
For lete a man do what he can
Ther favour to attayne,
Yet yf a new do them pursue,
Ther furst trew lover than
Laboureth for nought; for from her thought
He is a banishyd man.
I say not nay, but that all day
It is bothe writ and sayde
That woman's fayth is as who saythe,
All utterly decayed.
But nevertheless right good witness
I' this case might be layde,
That they love trewe, and continew,
Record the Nut-brown Mayde;
Which from her love (whan her to prove
He came to make his mone)
Wold not depart, for in her herte
She lovyd but him alone.
Than betweene us lettens discusse,
What was all the maner
Between them two: we wyl also
Telle all the peyne and fere
That she was in. Now I begynne,
So that ye me answere.
Wherefore all ye that present be
I pray ye give an eare.

Man.
I am the knyght, I come by nyght
As secret as I can,
Saying, alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banishyd man.

Woman.
And I your wylle, for to fulfylle
In this wyl not refuse,
Trusting to show, in wordis fewe,
That men have an ill use,
(To ther own shame) women to blame,
And causelese them accuse:
Therefore to you I answere now,
Alle women to excuse.
Myn own herte dere, with you what chere,
I pray you telle anone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.

Man.
It stondeth so; a dede is do,
Wherefore moche harm shall growe;
My desteny is for to-dey
A shameful deth I trowe;
Or ellis to flee: the one must be,
None other way I knowe,
But to withdrawe, as an outlawe,
And take me to my bowe.
Wherefore adew, my owne herte trewe,
None other red I can;
For I must to the grene wode goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.

Woman.
O Lord! what is this worldis blysse,
That chaungeth as the mone?
My somer's day, in lusty May,
Is derked before the none.
I here you saye farewell: nay, nay,
We departe not soo sone.
Why say ye so? wheder wyl ye goe?
Alas! what have ye done?
Alle my welfare to sorrow and care
Shulde chaung yf ye were gone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.

Man.
I can beleve it shall you greeve,
And shomwhat you distrayne,
But aftyrwarde your paynes harde,
Within a day or tweyne,
Shal sone aslake, and ye shal take
Comfort to you agayne.
Why shuld ye nought? for to make thought
Your labur were in vayne,
And thus I do, and pray you too,
As hertely as I can;
For I muste to the greene wode goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.

Woman.
Now sythe that ye have showed to me
The secret of your mynde,
I shal be plaine to you againe,
Lyke as ye shal me fynde.
Sythe it is so that ye wyl goe,
I wol not leve behynde:
Shal never be sayd the Nut-Brown Mayde
Was to her love unkynde.
Make you redy, for so am I,
Although it were agone;
For in my mynd, of all mankynde,
I love but you alone.

Man.
Yet I you rede to take good hede
What men wyl think and sey;
Of yonge and olde it shall be tolde
That ye be gone away;
Your wanton wylle for to fulfylle
In grene wode you to play;
And that ye myght from your delyte
Noo longer make delay.
Rather than ye shuld thus for me
Be called an ylle woman,
Yet wold I to the grene wode goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.

Woman.
Though it be songe of olde and yonge
That I shuld be to blame,
Thers be the charge that speke so large
In hurting of my name:
For I wyll prove that feythful love
It is devoyd of shame;
In your distress and hevyness
To parte wyth you the same.
And sure all thoo that doo not so
Trewe lovers are they none;
But in my mynde of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.

Man.
I counsel you, remember how
It is noo mayden's lawe
Nothing to dought, but to renne out
To wode with an outlawe:
For ye must there in your hand bere
O bowe redy to drawe;
And as a theef, thus must ye lyve,
Ever in drede and awe.
Whereby to you gret harme myght growe
Yet I had lever than
That I had to the grene wode goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.

Woman.
I think not nay; but as ye saye,
It is noo mayden's lore;
But love may make me for your sake,
To com on fote to hunte and shote,
To get us mete in store:
For so that I your company
May have, I ask noo more:
From whiche to parte, it makith myn herte
As colde as ony stone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.

Man.
For an outlawe, this is the lawe,
That men hym take and binde,
Wythout pytee, hanged to bee,
And waver with the wynde.
Yf I had neede, as God forbede,
What resons coude ye finde?
For sothe I trowe, ye and your bowe
Shuld drawe for fere behynde.
And noo merveyle; for lytel avayle
Were in your council than:
Wherefore I to the wode wyl goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.

Woman.
Full well knowe ye that women be
But febyl for to fyght:
Noo woman hede it is in deede
To be bold as a knyght:
Yet in suche fere yf that ye were
With enemys day and nyght,
I wolde withstonde wyth bowe in honde
To greve them as I myght;
And you to save as women have
From dethe many one;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.

Man.
Yet take gude hede! for ever I drede
That ye coude not sustein
The thorney-weyes, the depe valeis,
The snowe, the frost, the reyn;
The cold, the hete: for drye, or wete,
We must lodge on the playn,
And us above noon other rofe,
But a brake, bush, or twaine,
Whiche sone shuld greve you, I beleve;
And ye wolde gladely than,
That I had to the grene wode goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.

Woman.
Sythe I have here been partynere
With you of joy and blysse,
I must also parte of your woo
Endure, as reson is:
Yet am I sure of one pleasure,
And, shortly, it is this,
That where ye bee, me seemeth, par-dy
I could not fare amyss.
Without more speche I you beseche
That we were soon a gone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.

Man.
Yf ye goo thedyr, ye must consyder,
Whan ye have lust to dyne,
Ther shal no mete be for to gete,
Nor drink, bere, ale, ne wine;
Ne shetis clean, to lye betwene,
Made of thred and twyne;
Noon other house but levys and bowes,
To kever your head and myn.
O myn herte swete, this ylle dyet
Shuld make you pale and wan;
Wherefore I to the wode wyl goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.

Woman.
Among the wylde dere, such an archier,
As men say that ye bee,
We may not fayle of good vitayle,
Where is so grete plente:
And watir cleere of the ryvere
Shal be full swete to me,
With whiche in hele, I shal right wele
Endure, as ye shal see.
And er we goe, a bed or two
I can provide anone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.

Man.
Loo! yet before, ye must do more
Yf ye wyl go with me;
As cute your here up by your ere,
Your curtel by the kneel:
Wyth bowe in honde, for to wythstonde
Your enemys yf nede be;
And this same nyght, before daylyght,
To wode-ward wyl I flee.
And yf ye wylle al this fulfylle,
Do it shortly as ye can;
Ellis wyl I to the grene wode goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.

Woman.
I shall as now do more for you
Than longeth to womanhede;
To short my here, a bow to bere,
To shote in tyme of nede.
O my sweet moder, before al other,
For you have I most drede;
But now adew, I must ensue
Where Fortune duth me lede.
All this make ye, and lete us flee,
The day run fast upon;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.

Man.
Nay, nay, not so: ye shal not goe,
And I shal telle ye why;
Your appetyte is to be light
Of love I wele espie;
For right as ye have sayde to me
In lykewise hardely
Ye wolde answere, whosoever it were,
In way of company.
It is sayd of olde, Sone hote, sone colde,
And so is a woman;
Wherefore I to the wode wyl goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.

Woman.
Yf ye take hede yt is noo nede
Such wordis to say bee me;
For ofte ye prey'd, and longe assay'd,
Er I you lovid, par-dy;
And though that I of auncestry
A baron's daughter bee,
Yet have you proved how I you loved,
A squyer of low degree;
And ever shal, what so befalle,
To dey therefore anone:
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.

Man.
A baron's childe to be begyled,
It were a cursed dede:
To be felawe with an outlawe
Almighty God forbede!
Yt bettyr were the pore squyer
Alone to forrest spede,
Than ye shal saye another daye,
That by that wycked dede
Ye were betrayed. Wherefore good mayde,
The best rede that I can,
Is that I to the grene wode goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.

Woman.
Whatsoever befalle, I never shale
Of this thing you upbraid;
But yf ye go and leve me so,
Then have ye me betraid.
Remember ye wele how that ye dele;
For yf ye, as ye sayde,
Be so unkynde to leve behynde
Your love, the Nut-brown Mayde,
Trust me truely, that I shal dey
Some after ye be gone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.

Man.
Yf that ye went ye shulde repent;
For in the forrest now
I have purveid me of a mayde,
Whom I love more than you.
Another fayrer than e'er ye were,
I dare it well avowe;
And of you bothe eche shude be worthe
Wyth other, as I trowe,
It were myn ese to live in pese,
So wyl I yf I can;
Wherefore I to the wode wyl goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.

Woman.
Though in the wode I understode
Ye had a paramour,
All this may nought remove my thought,
But that I will be your:
And she shall fynde me soft and kynde,
And curteis every hour,
Glad to fulfylle all that she wylle
Commaunde me to my power.
For had ye loo an hundred moo,
Yet wolde I be that one;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.

Man.
Myne own dere love, I see the prove,
That ye be kynde and trewe;
Of mayde and wyfe, in al my lyfe,
The best that ever I knewe.
Be merey and glad, be no more sad,
The case is chaunged newe;
For it were ruthe, that for your trouth,
Ye shulde have cause to rewe.
Be not dismay'd whatsoever I sayd
To you whan I began:
I wyl not to the grene wode goe,
I am no banishyd man.

Woman.
Theis tydingis be more glad to me
Than to be made a quene,
Yf I were sure they shulde endure;
But it is often seene,
When men wyle breke promyse, they speke
The wordis on the splene.
Ye shape some wyle, me to begyle,
And stele fro me, I wene.
Then were the case wurs than it was,
And I more woo begone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.

Man.
Ye shal not nede further to drede;
I wyl not disparage
You. God defend, syth you descend
Of so grete a lynage.
Now understonde, to Westmerlande,
Which is my herytage
I wyl you bringe, and with a rynge,
By way of maryage,
I wyl you take, and lady make,
As shortly as I can.
Thus have ye wone an erlie's sone,
And not a banishyd man.

poem by Matthew Prior
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Pilgrimage In Search Of Do-Well

Thus y-robed in russet . romed I aboute
Al in a somer seson . for to seke Do-wel;
And frayned full ofte . of folk that I mette
If any wight wiste . wher Do-wel was at inne;
And what man he myghte be . of many man I asked.
Was nevere wight, as I wente . that me wisse kouthe
Where this leode lenged, . lasse ne moore.
Til it bifel on a Friday . two freres I mette
Maisters of the Menours . men of grete witte.
I hailsed them hendely, . as I hadde y-lerned.
And preede them par charite, . er thei passed ferther,
If thei knew any contree . or costes as thei wente,
'Where that Do-wel dwelleth . dooth me to witene'.
For thei be men of this moolde . that moost wide walken,
And knowen contrees and courtes, . and many kynnes places,
Bothe princes paleises . and povere mennes cotes,
And Do-wel and Do-yvele . where thei dwelle bothe.
'Amonges us' quod the Menours, . 'that man is dwellynge,
And evere hath as I hope, . and evere shal herafter.'
'_Contra_', quod I as a clerc, . and comsed to disputen,
And seide hem soothly, . '_Septies in die cadit justus_'.
'Sevene sithes, seeth the book . synneth the rightfulle;
And who so synneth,' I seide, . 'dooth yvele, as me thynketh;
And Do-wel and Do-yvele . mowe noght dwelle togideres.
Ergo he nis noght alway . among you freres:
He is outher while ellis where . to wisse the peple.'
'I shal seye thee, my sone' . seide the frere thanne,
'How seven sithes the sadde man, . on a day synneth;
By a forbisne' quod the frere, . 'I shal thee faire showe.
Lat brynge a man in a boot, . amydde the brode watre;
The wynd and the water . and the boot waggyng,
Maketh the man many a tyme . to falle and to stonde;
For stonde he never so stif, . he stumbleth if he meve,
Ac yet is he saaf and sound, . and so hym bihoveth;
For if he ne arise the rather, . and raughte to the steere,
The wynd wolde with the water . the boot over throwe;
And thanne were his lif lost, . thorough lackesse of hymselve.
And thus it falleth,' quod the frere, . 'by folk here on erthe;
The water is likned to the world . that wanyeth and wexeth;
The goodes of this grounde arn like . to the grete wawes,
That as wyndes and wedres . walketh aboute;
The boot is likned to oure body . that brotel is of kynde,
That thorough the fend and the flesshe . and the frele worlde
Synneth the sadde man . a day seven sithes.
Ac dedly synne doth he noght, . for Do-wel hym kepeth;
And that is Charite the champion, . chief help ayein Synne;
For he strengtheth men to stonde, . and steereth mannes soule,
And though the body bowe . as boot dooth in the watre,
Ay is thi soul saaf, . but if thou wole thiselve
Do a deedly synne, . and drenche so thi soule,
God wole suffre wel thi sleuthe . if thiself liketh.
For he yaf thee a yeres-gyve, . to yeme wel thiselve,
And that is wit and free-wil, . to every wight a porcion,
To fleynge foweles, . to fisshes and to beastes:
Ac man hath moost thereof, . and moost is to blame,
But if he werch wel therwith, . as Do-wel hym techeth.'
'I have no kynde knowyng,' quod I, . 'to conceyven alle your wordes:
Ac if I may lyve and loke, . I shall go lerne bettre.'
'I bikenne thee Christ,' quod he, . 'that on cros deyde!'
And I seide 'the same . save you fro myschaunce,
And gyve you grace on this grounde . goode men to worthe!'
And thus I wente wide wher . walkyng myn one,
By a wilderness, . and by a wodes side:
Blisse of the briddes. . Broughte me a-slepe,
And under a lynde upon a launde . lened I a stounde,
To lythe the layes . the lovely foweles made,
Murthe of hire mowthes . made me ther to slepe;
The merveillouseste metels . mette me thanne
That ever dremed wight . in worlde, as I wene.
A muche man, as me thoughte . and like to myselve,
Cam and called me . by my kynde name.
'What artow,' quod I tho, . 'that thow my name knowest.'
'That woost wel,' quod he, . 'and no wight bettre.'
'Woot I what thou art?' . 'Thought,' seide he thanne;
'I have sued thee this seven yeer, . seye thou me no rather.'
'Artow Thought,' quod I thoo, . 'thow koudest me wisse,
Where that Do-wel dwelleth, . and do me that to knowe.'
'Do-wel and Do-bet, . and Do-best the thridde,' quod he,
'Arn thre fair vertues, . and ben noght fer to fynde.
Who so is trewe of his tunge, . and of his two handes,
And thorugh his labour or thorugh his land, . his liflode wynneth,
And is trusty of his tailende, . taketh but his owene,
And is noght dronklewe ne dedeynous, . Do-wel hym folweth.
Do-bet dooth ryght thus; . ac he dooth much more;
He is as lowe as a lomb, . and lovelich of speche,
And helpeth alle men . after that hem nedeth.
The bagges and the bigirdles, . he hath to-broke hem alle
That the Erl Avarous . heeld and hise heires.
And thus with Mammonaes moneie . he hath maad hym frendes,
And is ronne to religion, . and hath rendred the Bible,
And precheth to the peple . Seint Poules wordes:
_Libenter suffertis insipientes, cum sitis ipsi sapientes_:
'And suffreth the unwise' . with you for to libbe
And with glad will dooth hem good . and so God you hoteth.
Do-best is above bothe, . and bereth a bisshopes crosse,
Is hoked on that oon ende . to halie men fro helle;
A pik is on that potente, . to putte a-down the wikked
That waiten any wikkednesse . Do-wel to tene.
And Do-wel and Do-bet . amonges hem han ordeyned,
To crowne oon to be kyng . to rulen hem bothe;
That if Do-wel or Do-bet . dide ayein Do-best,
Thanne shal the kyng come . and casten hem in irens,
And but if Do-best bede for hem, . thei to be there for evere.
Thus Do-wel and Do-bet, . and Do-best the thridde,
Crouned oon to the kyng . to kepen hem alle,
And to rule the reme . by hire thre wittes,
And noon oother wise, . but as thei thre assented.'
I thonked Thoght tho, . that he me thus taughte.
'Ac yet savoreth me noght thi seying. . I coveit to lerne
How Do-wel, Do-bet, and Do-best . doon among the peple.'
'But Wit konne wisse thee,' quod Thoght, . 'Where tho thre dwelle,
Ellis woot I noon that kan . that now is alyve.'
Thoght and I thus . thre daies we yeden,
Disputyng upon Do-wel . day after oother;
And er we were war, . with Wit gonne we mete.
He was long and lene, . lik to noon other;
Was no pride on his apparaille . ne poverte neither;
Sad of his semblaunt, . and of softe chere,
I dorste meve no matere . to maken hym to jangle,
But as I bad Thoght thoo . be mene bitwene,
And pute forth som purpos . to preven his wittes,
What was Do-wel fro Do-bet, . and Do-best from hem bothe.
Thanne Thoght in that tyme . seide these wordes:
'Where Do-wel, Do-bet, . and Do-best ben in londe,
Here is Wil wolde wite, . if Wit koude teche him;
And whether he be man or woman . this man fayn wolde aspie,
And werchen as thei thre wolde, . thus is his entente'

poem by William Langland
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The Canterbury Tales; 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
To seme wys, but after hir degree
She spak, and alle hir wordes, moore and lesse,
Sownynge in vertu and in gentillesse.
Shamefast she was in maydens shamefastnesse,

Constant in herte, and evere in bisynesse
To dryve hir out of ydel slogardye.
Bacus hadde of hire mouth right no maistrie;
For wyn and youthe dooth Venus encresse,
As man in fyr wol casten oille or greesse.

And of hir owene vertu unconstreyned,
She hath ful ofte tyme syk hir feyned,
For that she wolde fleen the compaignye
Wher likly was to treten of folye,
As is at feestes, revels, and at daunces

That been occasions of daliaunces.
Swich thynges maken children for to be
To soone rype and boold, as men may se,
Which is ful perilous, and hath been yoore;
For al to soone may they lerne loore

Of booldnesse, whan she woxen is a wyf.
And ye maistresses, in youre olde lyf,
That lordes doghtres han in governaunce,
Ne taketh of my wordes no displesaunce;
Thenketh that ye been set in governynges

Of lordes doghtres, oonly for two thynges;
Outher for ye han kept youre honestee,
Or elles ye han falle in freletee,
And knowen wel ynough the olde daunce,
And han forsaken fully swich meschaunce

For everemo; therfore for Cristes sake,
To teche hem vertu looke that ye ne slake.
A theef of venysoun, that hath forlaft
His likerousnesse, and al his olde craft,
Kan kepe a forest best of any man.

Now kepeth wel, for if ye wole, ye kan.
Looke wel that ye unto no vice assente,
Lest ye be dampned for your wikke entente.
For who so dooth, a traitour is, certeyn;
And taketh kepe of that that I shal seyn,

Of alle tresons, sovereyn pestilence
Is whan a wight bitrayseth innocence.
Ye fadres and ye moodres, eek also,
Though ye han children, be it oon or two,
Youre is the charge of al hir surveiaunce

Whil that they been under youre governaunce.
Beth war, if by ensample of youre lyvynge,
Or by youre necligence in chastisynge,
That they perisse, for I dar wel seye,
If that they doon ye shul it deere abeye;

Under a shepherde softe and necligent
The wolf hath many a sheep and lamb to-rent.
Suffyseth oon ensample now as here,
For I moot turne agayn to my mateere.
This mayde, of which I wol this tale expresse,

So kepte hirself, hir neded no maistresse.
For in hir lyvyng maydens myghten rede,
As in a book, every good word or dede
That longeth to a mayden vertuous,
She was so prudent and so bountevous.

For which the fame out-sprong on every syde
Bothe of hir beautee and hir bountee wyde,
That thurgh that land they preised hire echone
That loved vertu; save encye allone,
That sory is of oother mennes wele,

And glad is of his sorwe and his unheele-
The doctour maketh this descripcioun.
This mayde upon a day wente in the toun
Toward a temple, with hir mooder deere,
As is of yonge maydens the namere.

Now was ther thanne a justice in that toun,
That governour was of that regioun,

And so bifel this juge hise eyen caste
Upon this mayde, avysynge hym ful faste
As she cam forby, ther as this juge stood.

Anon his herte chaunged and his mood,
So was he caught with beautee of this mayde,
And to hymself ful pryvely he sayde,
'This mayde shal be myn, for any man.'
Anon the feend into his herte ran,

And taughte hym sodeynly, that he by slyghte
The mayden to his purpos wynne myghte.
For certes, by no force, ne by no meede,
Hym thoughte he was nat able for to speede;
For she was strong of freends, and eek she

Confermed was in swich soverayn bountee,
That wel he wiste he myghte hir nevere wynne,
As for to maken hir with hir body synne.
For which, by greet deliberacioun,
He sente after a cherl, was in the toun,

Which that he knew for subtil and for boold.
This Juge unto this cherl his tale hath toold
In secree wise, and made hym to ensure
He sholde telle it to no creature,
And if he dide, he sholde lese his heed.

Whan that assented was this cursed reed,
Glad was this juge, and maked him greet cheere,
And yaf hym yiftes preciouse and deere.
Whan shapen was al hir conspiracie
Fro point to point, how that his lecherie

Parfourned sholde been ful subtilly,
(As ye shul heere it after openly)
Hoom gooth the cherl, that highte Claudius.
This false juge, that highte Apius,
So was his name-for this is no fable,

But knowen for historial thyng notable;
The sentence of it sooth is out of doute-
This false juge gooth now faste aboute
To hasten his delit al that he may.
And so bifel soone after on a day,

This false juge, as telleth us the storie,
As he was wont, sat in his consistorie,
And yaf his doomes upon sondry cas.
This false cherl cam forth a ful greet pas
And seyde, 'Lord, if that it be youre wille,

As dooth me right upon this pitous bille
In which I pleyne upon Virginius;
And if that he wol seyn it is nat thus,
I wol it preeve, and fynde good witnesse
That sooth is, that my bille wol expresse.'

The juge answerde, 'Of this in his absence,
I may nat yeve diffynytyve sentence.
Lat do hym calle, and I wol gladly heere.
Thou shalt have al right and no wrong heere.'
Virginius cam to wite the juges wille,

And right anon was rad this cursed bille.
The sentence of it was, as ye shul heere:
'To yow, my lord, Sire Apius so deere,
Sheweth youre povre servant Claudius,
How that a knyght called Virginius

Agayns the lawe, agayn al equitee,
Holdeth expres agayn the wyl of me
My servant, which that is my thral by right,
Which fro myn hous was stole upon a nyght,
Whil that she was ful yong; this wol I preeve

By witnesse, lord, so that it nat yow greeve.
She nys his doghter, nat what so he seye.
Wherfore to yow, my lord the Juge, I preye
Yeld me my thral, if that it be youre wille.'
Lo, this was al the sentence of his bille.

Virginius gan upon the cherl biholde,
But hastily, er he his tale tolde,
And wolde have preeved it as sholde a knyght,
And eek by witnessyng of many a wight,
That it was fals, that seyde his adversarie,

This cursed juge wolde no thyng tarie,
Ne heere a word moore of Virginius,
But yaf his juggement and seyde thus:
'I deeme anon this cherl his servant have,
Thou shalt no lenger in thyn hous hir save.

Go, bryng hir forth, and put hir in our warde.
The cherl shal have his thral, this I awarde.'
And whan this worthy knyght Virginius,
Thurgh sentence of this justice Apius,
Moste by force his deere doghter yeven

Unto the juge in lecherie to lyven,
He gooth hym hoom, and sette him in his halle,
And leet anon his deere doghter calle,
And with a face deed as asshen colde,
Upon hir humble face he gan biholde

With fadres pitee stikynge thurgh his herte,
Al wolde he from his purpos nat converte.
'Doghter,' quod he, 'Virginia, by thy name,
Ther been two weyes, outher deeth or shame
That thou most suffre, allas, that I was bore!

For nevere thou deservedest wherfore
To dyen with a swerd, or with a knyf.
O deere doghter, ender of my lyf,
Which I have fostred up with swich plesaunce,
That thou were nevere out of my remembraunce.

O doghter, which that art my laste wo,
And in my lyf my laste joye also,
O gemme of chastitee, in pacience
Take thou thy deeth, for this is my sentence,
For love and nat for hate, thou most be deed;

My pitous hand moot smyten of thyn heed.
Allas, that evere Apius the say!
Thus hath he falsly jugged the to day.'
And tolde hir al the cas, as ye bifore
Han herd, nat nedeth for to telle it moore.

'O mercy, deere fader,' quod this mayde,
And with that word she bothe hir armes layde
About his nekke, as she was wont to do.
The teeris bruste out of hir eyen two,
And seyde, 'Goode fader, shal I dye?

Is ther no grace? is ther no remedye?'
'No certes, deere doghter myn,' quod he.
'Thanne yif me leyser, fader myn,' quod she,
'My deeth for to compleyne a litel space,
For, pardee, Jepte yaf his doghter grace

For to compleyne, er he hir slow, allas!
And God it woot, no thyng was hir trespas
But for she ran hir fader for to see
To welcome hym with greet solempnitee.'
And with that word she fil aswowne anon;

And after whan hir swownyng is agon
She riseth up and to hir fader sayde,
'Blissed be God that I shal dye a mayde;
Yif me my deeth, er that I have a shame.
Dooth with youre child youre wyl, a Goddes name.'

And with that word she preyed hym ful ofte
That with his swerd he wolde smyte softe,
And with that word aswowne doun she fil.
Hir fader with ful sorweful herte and wil
Hir heed of smoot, and by the top it hente,

And to the juge he gan it to presente
As he sat yet in doom, in consistorie.
And whan the juge it saugh, as seith the storie,
He bad to take hym and anhange hym faste.
But right anon a thousand peple in thraste

To save the knyght for routhe and for pitee;
For knowen was the false iniquitee.
The peple anon hath suspect of this thyng,
By manere of the cherles chalangyng,
That it was by the assent of Apius-

They wisten wel that he was lecherus;
For which unto this Apius they gon
And caste hym in a prisoun right anon,
Ther as he slow hymself, and Claudius
That servant was unto this Apius,

Was demed for to hange upon a tree,
But that Virginius, of his pitee,
So preyde for hym, that he was exiled;
And elles, certes, he had been bigyled.
The remenant were anhanged, moore and lesse,

That were consentant of this cursednesse.
Heere men may seen, how synne hath his merite.
Beth war, for no man woot whom God wol smyte
In no degree, ne in which manere wyse
The worm of conscience may agryse

Of wikked lyf, though it so pryvee be
That no man woot therof but God and he.
For be he lewed man, or ellis lered,
He noot how soone that he shal been afered.
Therfore I rede yow this conseil take,
Forsaketh synne, er synne yow forsake.

Heere endeth the Phisiciens tale.

poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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The Vision Of Piers Plowman - Part 08

Thus yrobed in russet I romed aboute
Al a somer seson for to seke Dowel,
And frayned ful ofte of folk that I mette
If any wight wiste wher Dowel was at inne,
And what man he myghte be of many man I asked.
Was nevere wight as I wente that me wisse kouthe
Where this leode lenged, lasse ne moore -
Til it bifel on a Friday two freres I mette,
Maistres of the Menours, men of grete witte.
I hailsed hem hendely, as I hadde ylerned,
And preide hem, pur churite, er thei passed ferther,
If they knewe any contree or costes [aboute]
Where that Dowel dwelieth - 'Dooth me to witene;
For [ye] be men of this moolde that moost wide walken,
And knowen contrees and courtes and many kynnes places -
Bothe princes paleises and povere mennes cotes,
And Dowel and Do-yvele, wher thei dwelle bothe.'
'[Marie!]', quod the Menours, ' [amonges us he dwelleth],
And evere hath, as I hope, and evere shal herafter.'
'Contra!' quod I as a clerc, and comsed to disputen,
And seide, 'Soothly, Sepcies in die cadit iustus.
Sevene sithes, seith the Book, synneth the rightfulle,
And whoso synneth,' I seide, ' [certes] dooth yvele, as me thynketh,
And Dowel and Do-yvele mowe noght dwelle togideres.
Ergo he nys noght alwey at hoom amonges yow freres
He is outhemhile elliswhere to wisse the peple.'
' I shal seye thee, my sone,' seide the frere thanne,

'How seven sithes the sadde man synneth on the day.
By a forbisne,' quod the frere, 'I shal thee faire shewe.
'Lat brynge a man in a boot amydde a brode watre
The wynd and the water and the [waggyng of the boot]
Maketh the man many tyme to falle and to stonde.
For stonde he never so stif, he stumbleth if he meve -
Ac yet is he saaf and sound, and so hym bihoveth;
For if he ne arise the rather and raughte to the steere,
The wynd wolde with the water the boot overthrowe,
And thanne were his lif lost thorugh lachesse of hymselve.
' Right thus it fareth,' quod the frere, ' by folk here on erthe.
The water is Iikned to the world, that wanyeth and wexeth;
The goodes of this grounde arn lik the grete wawes
That as wyndes and wedres walweth aboute;
The boot is likned to oure body that brotel is of kynde,
That thorugh the fend and the flessh and the frele worlde
Synneth the sadde man [seven sithes a day].
'Ac dedly synne doth he noght, for Dowel hym kepeth,
And that is charite the champion, chief help ayein synne;
For he strengtheth man to stonde, and steereth mannes soule
That, though thi body bowe as boot dooth in the watre,
Ay is thi soule saaf but thow thiselve wole
Folwe thi flessh and the fend after-
Do a deedly synne and drenche so thiselve.

God wole suffre wel thi sleuthe, if thiself liketh;
For he yaf thee to yeresyyve to yeme wel thiselve -
And that is wit and free will, to every wight a porcion,
To fleynge foweles, to fisshes and to beestes;
Ac man hath moost therof, and moost is to blame
But if he werche wel therwith, as Dowel hym techeth.'
I have no kynde knowyng,' quod I, 'to conceyve alle thi wordes,
Ac if I may lyve and loke, I shal go lerne bettre.'
'I bikenne thee Crist,' quod he, that on the cros deyde.'
And I seide,-The same save yow fro myschaunce,
And yyve yow grace on this grounde goode men to worthe!'
And thus I wente widewher, walkyng myn one,
By a wilde wildernesse, and by a wodes side;
Blisse of the briddes abide me made,
And under a lynde upon a launde lened I a stounde
To lythe the layes tho lovely foweles made.
Murthe of hire mouthes made me ther to slepe;
The merveillouseste metels mette me thanne
That ever dremed [dr]ight in [doute], as I wene.
A muche man, as me thoughte, lik to myselve,
Cam and called me by my kynde name.
' What art thow?' quod I tho, ' that thow my name knowest?'
'That thow woost wel,' quod he, 'and no wight bettre.'
'Woot I,' [quod I, 'who art thow?'] 'Thought,' seide he thanne.
'I have sued thee this seven yeer; seye thow me no rather?'
'Art thow Thought?' quod I, 'thoo thow koudest me wisse
Where that Dowel dwelleth, and do me to knowe.'

'Dowel,' quod he, 'and Dobet and Dobest the thridde
Arn thre faire vertues, and ben noght fer to fynde.
Whoso is trewe of his tunge and of his two handes,
And thorugh his labour or thorugh his land his liflode wynneth,
And is trusty of his tailende, taketh but his owene,
And is noght dronkelewe ne dedeynous - Dowel hym folweth.
'Dobet dooth right thus, ac he dooth muche moore;
He is as lowe as a lomb and lovelich of speche,
And helpeth alle men after that hem nedeth.
The bagges and the bigirdles, he hath tobroke hem alle
That the Erl Avarous heeld, and hise heires;
And with Mammonaes moneie he hath maad hym frendes,
And is ronne into Religion, and hath rendred the Bible,
And precheth to the peple Seint Poules wordes -
Libenter suffertis insipientes cum sitis ipsi sapientes.
[Ye wise], suffreth the unwise with yow to libbe,
And with glad wille dooth hem good, for so God yow hoteth.
'Dobest is above bothe and bereth a bisshopes cro[c]e,
is hoked on that oon ende to halie men fro helle.
A pik is on that potente, to pulte adown the wikked
That waiten any wikkednesse Dowel to tene.
And Dowel and Dobet amonges hem ordeyned
To crowne oon to be kyng to [kepen] hem bothe,
That if Dowel or Dobet dide ayein Dobest,
Thanne shal the kyng come and casten hem in irens,
And but if Dobest bede for hem, thei to be ther for evere.

Thus Dowel and Dobet and Dobest the thridde
Crowned oon to be kyng to kepen hem alle
And rule the reme by [rede of hire] wittes,
And ootherwise [ne ellis noght], but as thei thre assented.'
I thonked Thoght tho that he me [so] taughte.
'Ac yet savoreth me noght thi seying, so me Crist helpe!
For more kynde knowynge I coveite to lerne -
How Dowel, Dobet and Dobest doon among the peple.'
'But Wit konne wisse thee.' quod Thoght, ' where tho thre dwelle;
Ellis [n]oot I noon that kan, that now is alyve.'
Thoght and I thus thre daies we yeden
Disputyng upon Dowel day after oother -
And er we war were, with Wit gonne we mete.
He was long and lene, lik to noon oother;
Was no pride on his apparaille, ne poverte neither;
Sad of his semblaunt and of [a] softe [speche].
I dorste meve no matere to maken hym to jangle
But as I bad Thoght thoo be mene bitwene
And pute forth som purpos to preven hise wittes,
What was Dowel fro Dobet, and Dobest from hem bothe.
Thanne Thoght in that tyme seide thise wordes
' Wher Dowel and Dobet and Dobest ben in londe
Here is Wil wolde wite if Wit koude teche;
And wheither he be man or no manthis man wolde as
And werchen as thei thre wolde - this is his entente.'

poem by William Langland
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Book Of The Duchesse

THE PROEM

I have gret wonder, be this lighte,
How that I live, for day ne nighte
I may nat slepe wel nigh noght,
I have so many an ydel thoght
Purely for defaute of slepe
That, by my trouthe, I take no kepe
Of no-thing, how hit cometh or goth,
Ne me nis no-thing leef nor loth.
Al is y-liche good to me --
Ioye or sorowe, wherso hyt be --
For I have feling in no-thinge,
But, as it were, a mased thing,
Alway in point to falle a-doun;
For sorwful imaginacioun
Is alway hoolly in my minde.
And wel ye wite, agaynes kynde
Hit were to liven in this wyse;
For nature wolde nat suffyse
To noon erthely creature
Not longe tyme to endure
Withoute slepe, and been in sorwe;
And I ne may, ne night ne morwe,
Slepe; and thus melancolye
And dreed I have for to dye,
Defaute of slepe and hevinesse
Hath sleyn my spirit of quiknesse,
That I have lost al lustihede.
Suche fantasies ben in myn hede
So I not what is best to do.
But men myght axe me, why soo
I may not slepe, and what me is?
But natheles, who aske this
Leseth his asking trewely.
My-selven can not telle why
The sooth; but trewely, as I gesse,
I holde hit be a siknesse
That I have suffred this eight yere,
And yet my bote is never the nere;
For ther is phisicien but oon,
That may me hele; but that is doon.
Passe we over until eft;
That wil not be, moot nede be left;
Our first matere is good to kepe.
So whan I saw I might not slepe,
Til now late, this other night,
Upon my bedde I sat upright
And bad oon reche me a book,
A romaunce, and he hit me took
To rede and dryve the night away;
For me thoghte it better play
Then playen either at chesse or tables.
And in this boke were writen fables
That clerkes hadde, in olde tyme,
And other poets, put in ryme
To rede, and for to be in minde
Whyl men loved the lawe of kinde.
This book ne spak but of such thinges,
Of quenes lyves, and of kinges,
And many othere thinges smale.
Amonge al this I fond a tale
That me thoughte a wonder thing.
This was the tale: There was a king
That hight Seys, and hadde a wyf,
The beste that mighte bere lyf;
And this quene hight Alcyone.
So hit befel, therafter sone,
This king wolde wenden over see.
To tellen shortly, whan that he
Was in the see, thus in this wyse,
Soche a tempest gan to ryse
That brak hir mast, and made it falle,
And clefte her ship, and dreinte hem alle,
That never was founden, as it telles,
Bord ne man, ne nothing elles.
Right thus this king Seys loste his lyf.
Now for to speken of his wife: --
This lady, that was left at home,
Hath wonder, that the king ne come
Hoom, for hit was a longe terme.
Anon her herte gan to erme;
And for that hir thoughte evermo
Hit was not wel he dwelte so,
She longed so after the king
That certes, hit were a pitous thing
To telle hir hertely sorwful lyf
That hadde, alas! this noble wyfe;
For him she loved alderbest.
Anon she sente bothe eest and west
To seke him, but they founde nought.
`Alas!' quoth she, `that I was wrought!
And wher my lord, my love, be deed?
Certes, I nil never ete breed,
I make a-vowe to my god here,
But I mowe of my lord here!'
Such sorwe this lady to her took
That trewely I, which made this book,
Had swich pite and swich rowthe
To rede hir sorwe, that, by my trowthe,
I ferde the worse al the morwe
After, to thenken on her sorwe.
So whan she coude here no word
That no man mighte fynde hir lord,
Ful ofte she swouned, and saide `Alas!'
For sorwe ful nigh wood she was,
Ne she coude no reed but oon;
But doun on knees she sat anoon,
And weep, that pite was to here.
`A! mercy! swete lady dere!'
Quod she to Iuno, hir goddesse;
`Help me out of this distresse,
And yeve me grace my lord to see
Sone, or wite wher-so he be,
Or how he fareth, or in what wyse,
And I shal make you sacrifyse,
And hoolly youres become I shal
With good wil, body, herte, and al;
And but thou wilt this, lady swete,
Send me grace to slepe, and mete
In my slepe som certeyn sweven,
Wher-through that I may knowen even
Whether my lord be quik or deed.'
With that word she heng doun the heed,
And fil a-swown as cold as ston;
Hir women caught her up anon,
And broghten hir in bed al naked,
And she, forweped and forwaked,
Was wery, and thus the dede sleep
Fil on hir, or she toke keep,
Through Iuno, that had herd hir bone,
That made hir to slepe sone;
For as she prayde, so was don,
In dede; for Iuno, right anon,
Called thus her messagere
To do her erande, and he com nere.
Whan he was come, she bad him thus:
`Go bet,' quod Iuno, `to Morpheus,
Thou knowest hym wel, the god of sleep;
Now understond wel, and tak keep.
Sey thus on my halfe, that he
Go faste into the grete see,
And bid him that, on alle thing,
He take up Seys body the king,
That lyth ful pale and no-thing rody.
Bid him crepe into the body,
Aud do it goon to Alcyone
The quene, ther she lyth alone,
And shewe hir shortly, hit is no nay,
How hit was dreynt this other day;
And do the body speke so
Right as hit was wont to do,
The whyles that hit was on lyve.
Go now faste, and hy thee blyve!'
This messager took leve and wente
Upon his wey, and never ne stente
Til he com to the derke valeye
That stant bytwene roches tweye,
Ther never yet grew corn ne gras,
Ne tree, ne nothing that ought was,
Beste, ne man, ne nothing elles,
Save ther were a fewe welles
Came renning fro the cliffes adoun,
That made a deedly sleping soun,
And ronnen doun right by a cave
That was under a rokke y-grave
Amid the valey, wonder depe.
Ther thise goddes laye and slepe,
Morpheus, and Eclympasteyre,
That was the god of slepes heyre,
That slepe and did non other werk.
This cave was also as derk
As helle pit over-al aboute;
They had good leyser for to route
To envye, who might slepe beste;
Some henge hir chin upon hir breste
And slepe upright, hir heed y-hed,
And some laye naked in hir bed,
And slepe whyles the dayes laste.
This messager come flying faste,
And cryed, `O ho! awake anon!'
Hit was for noght; ther herde him non.
`Awak!' quod he, `who is, lyth there?'
And blew his horn right in hir ere,
And cryed `awaketh!' wonder hye.
This god of slepe, with his oon ye
Cast up, axed, `who clepeth there?'
`Hit am I,' quod this messagere;
`Iuno bad thou shuldest goon' --
And tolde him what he shulde doon
As I have told yow here-tofore;
Hit is no need reherse hit more;
And wente his wey, whan he had sayd.
Anon this god of slepe a-brayd
Out of his slepe, and gan to goon,
And did as he had bede him doon;
Took up the dreynte body sone,
And bar hit forth to Alcyone,
His wif the quene, ther-as she lay,
Right even a quarter before day,
And stood right at hir beddes fete,
And called hir, right as she hete,
By name, and sayde, `my swete wyf,
Awak! let be your sorwful lyf!
For in your sorwe there lyth no reed;
For certes, swete, I nam but deed;
Ye shul me never on lyve y-see.
But good swete herte, look that ye
Bury my body, at whiche a tyde
Ye mowe hit finde the see besyde;
And far-wel, swete, my worldes blisse!
I praye god your sorwe lisse;
To litel whyl our blisse lasteth!'
With that hir eyen up she casteth,
And saw noght; `A!' quod she, `for sorwe!'
And deyed within the thridde morwe.
But what she sayde more in that swow
I may not telle yow as now,
Hit were to longe for to dwelle;
My first matere I wil yow telle,
Wherfor I have told this thing
Of Alcione and Seys the king.
For thus moche dar I saye wel,
I had be dolven everydel,
And deed, right through defaute of sleep,
If I nad red and taken keep
Of this tale next before:
And I wol telle yow wherfore:
For I ne might, for bote ne bale,
Slepe, or I had red this tale
Of this dreynte Seys the king,
And of the goddes of sleping.
Whan I had red this tale wel
And over-loked hit everydel,
Me thoughte wonder if hit were so;
For I had never herd speke, or tho,
Of no goddes that coude make
Men for to slepe, ne for to wake;
For I ne knew never god but oon.
And in my game I sayde anoon --
And yet me list right evel to pleye --
`Rather then that I shulde deye
Through defaute of sleping thus,
I wolde yive thilke Morpheus,
Or his goddesse, dame Iuno,
Or som wight elles, I ne roghte who --
To make me slepe and have som reste --
I wil yive him the alder-beste
Yift that ever he aboode his lyve,
And here on warde, right now, as blyve;
If he wol make me slepe a lyte,
Of downe of pure dowves whyte
I wil yive him a fether-bed,
Rayed with golde, and right wel cled
In fyn blak satin doutremere,
And many a pilow, and every bere
Of clothe of Reynes, to slepe softe;
Him thar not nede to turnen ofte.
And I wol yive him al that falles
To a chambre; and al his halles
I wol do peynte with pure golde,
And tapite hem ful many folde
Of oo sute; this shal he have,
Yf I wiste wher were his cave,
If he can make me slepe sone,
As did the goddesse Alcione.
And thus this ilke god, Morpheus,
May winne of me mo fees thus
Than ever he wan; and to Iuno,
That is his goddesse, I shal so do,
I trow that she shal holde her payd.'
I hadde unneth that word y-sayd
Right thus as I have told hit yow,
That sodeynly, I niste how,
Swich a lust anoon me took
To slepe, that right upon my book
I fil aslepe, and therwith even
Me mette so inly swete a sweven,
So wonderful, that never yit
I trowe no man hadde the wit
To conne wel my sweven rede;
No, not Ioseph, withoute drede,
Of Egipte, he that redde so
The kinges meting Pharao,
No more than coude the leste of us;
Ne nat scarsly Macrobeus,
(He that wroot al thavisioun
That he mette, Kyng Scipioun,
The noble man, the Affrican --
Swiche marvayles fortuned than)
I trowe, a-rede my dremes even.
Lo, thus hit was, this was my sweven.

THE DREAM

Me thoughte thus: -- that hit was May,
And in the dawning ther I lay,
Me mette thus, in my bed al naked: --
I loked forth, for I was waked
With smale foules a gret hepe,
That had affrayed me out of slepe
Through noyse and swetnesse of hir song;
And, as me mette, they sate among,
Upon my chambre-roof withoute,
Upon the tyles, al a-boute,
And songen, everich in his wise,
The moste solempne servyse
By note, that ever man, I trowe,
Had herd; for som of hem song lowe,
Som hye, and al of oon acorde.
To telle shortly, at oo worde,
Was never y-herd so swete a steven,
But hit had be a thing of heven; --
So mery a soun, so swete entunes,
That certes, for the toune of Tewnes,
I nolde but I had herd hem singe,
For al my chambre gan to ringe
Through singing of hir armonye.
For instrument nor melodye
Was nowher herd yet half so swete,
Nor of acorde half so mete;
For ther was noon of hem that feyned
To singe, for ech of hem him peyned
To finde out mery crafty notes;
They ne spared not hir throtes.
And, sooth to seyn, my chambre was
Ful wel depeynted, and with glas
Were al the windowes wel y-glased,
Ful clere, and nat an hole y-crased,
That to beholde hit was gret Ioye.
For hoolly al the storie of Troye
Was in the glasing y-wroght thus,
Of Ector and of king Priamus,
Of Achilles and king Lamedon,
Of Medea and of Iason,
Of Paris, Eleyne, and Lavyne.
And alle the walles with colours fyne
Were peynted, bothe text and glose,
Of al the Romaunce of the Rose.
My windowes weren shet echon,
And through the glas the sunne shon
Upon my bed with brighte bemes,
With many glade gilden stremes;
And eek the welken was so fair,
Blew, bright, clere was the air,
And ful atempre, for sothe, hit was;
For nother cold nor hoot hit nas,
Ne in al the welken was a cloude.
And as I lay thus, wonder loude
Me thoughte I herde an hunte blowe
Tassaye his horn, and for to knowe
Whether hit were clere or hors of soune.
I herde goinge, up and doune,
Men, hors, houndes, and other thing;
And al men speken of hunting,
How they wolde slee the hert with strengthe,
And how the hert had, upon lengthe,
So moche embosed,I not now what.
Anon-right, whan I herde that,
How that they wolde on hunting goon,
I was right glad, and up anoon;
I took my hors, and forth I wente
Out of my chambre; I never stente
Til I com to the feld withoute.
Ther overtook I a gret route
Of huntes and eek of foresteres,
With many relayes and lymeres,
And hyed hem to the forest faste,
And I with hem; -- so at the laste
I asked oon, ladde a lymere: --
`Say, felow, who shal hunten here'
Quod I, and he answerde ageyn,
`Sir, themperour Octovien,'
Quod he, `and is heer faste by.'
`A goddes halfe, in good tyme,' quod I,
`Go we faste!' and gan to ryde.
Whan we came to the forest-syde,
Every man dide, right anoon,
As to hunting fil to doon.
The mayster-hunte anoon, fot-hoot,
With a gret horne blew three moot
At the uncoupling of his houndes.
Within a whyl the hert y-founde is,
Y-halowed, and rechased faste
Longe tyme; and so at the laste,
This hert rused and stal away
Fro alle the houndes a prevy way.
The houndes had overshote hem alle,
And were on a defaute y-falle;
Therwith the hunte wonder faste
Blew a forloyn at the laste.
I was go walked fro my tree,
And as I wente, ther cam by me
A whelp, that fauned me as I stood,
That hadde y-folowed, and coude no good.
Hit com and creep to me as lowe,
Right as hit hadde me y-knowe,
Hild doun his heed and Ioyned his eres,
And leyde al smothe doun his heres.
I wolde han caught hit, and anoon
Hit fledde, and was fro me goon;
And I him folwed, and hit forth wente
Doun by a floury grene wente
Ful thikke of gras, ful softe and swete,
With floures fele, faire under fete,
And litel used, hit seemed thus;
For bothe Flora and Zephirus,
They two that make floures growe,
Had mad hir dwelling ther, I trowe;
For hit was, on to beholde,
As thogh the erthe envye wolde
To be gayer than the heven,
To have mo floures, swiche seven
As in the welken sterres be.
Hit had forgete the povertee
That winter, through his colde morwes,
Had mad hit suffren, and his sorwes;
Al was forgeten, and that was sene.
For al the wode was waxen grene,
Swetnesse of dewe had mad it waxe.
Hit is no need eek for to axe
Wher ther were many grene greves,
Or thikke of trees, so ful of leves;
And every tree stood by him-selve
Fro other wel ten foot or twelve.
So grete trees, so huge of strengthe,
Of fourty or fifty fadme lengthe,
Clene withoute bough or stikke,
With croppes brode, and eek as thikke --
They were nat an inche a-sonder --
That hit was shadwe over-al under;
And many an hert and many an hinde
Was both before me and bihinde.
Of founes, soures, bukkes, does
Was ful the wode, and many roes,
And many squirelles that sete
Ful hye upon the trees, and ete,
And in hir maner made festes.
Shortly, hit was so ful of bestes,
That thogh Argus, the noble countour,
Sete to rekene in his countour,
And rekened with his figures ten --
For by tho figures mowe al ken,
If they be crafty, rekene and noumbre,
And telle of every thing the noumbre --
Yet shulde he fayle to rekene even
The wondres, me mette in my sweven.
But forth they romed wonder faste
Doun the wode; so at the laste
I was war of a man in blak,
That sat and had y-turned his bak
To an oke, an huge tree.
`Lord,' thoghte I, `who may that be?
What ayleth him to sitten here?'
Anoon-right I wente nere;
Than fond I sitte even upright
A wonder wel-faringe knight --
By the maner me thoughte so --
Of good mochel, and yong therto,
Of the age of four and twenty yeer.
Upon his berde but litel heer,
And he was clothed al in blakke.
I stalked even unto his bakke,
And ther I stood as stille as ought,
That, sooth to saye, he saw me nought,
For-why he heng his heed adoune.
And with a deedly sorwful soune
He made of ryme ten vers or twelve
Of a compleynt to him-selve,
The moste pite, the moste rowthe,
That ever I herde; for, by my trowthe,
Hit was gret wonder that nature
Might suffren any creature
To have swich sorwe, and be not deed.
Ful pitous, pale, and nothing reed,
He sayde a lay, a maner song,
Withoute note, withoute song,
And hit was this; for wel I can
Reherse hit; right thus hit began. --
`I have of sorwe so grete woon,
That Ioye gete I never noon,
Now that I see my lady bright,
Which I have loved with al my might,
Is fro me dedd, and is a-goon.
And thus in sorwe lefte me alone.
`Allas, o deeth! what ayleth thee,
That thou noldest have taken me,
`Whan that thou toke my lady swete?
That was so fayr, so fresh, so free,
So good, that men may wel y-see
`Of al goodnesse she had no mete!' --
Whan he had mad thus his complaynte,
His sorowful herte gan faste faynte,
And his spirites wexen dede;
The blood was fled, for pure drede,
Doun to his herte, to make him warm --
For wel hit feled the herte had harm --
To wite eek why hit was a-drad,
By kinde, and for to make hit glad;
For hit is membre principal
Of the body; and that made al
His hewe chaunge and wexe grene
And pale, for no blood was sene
In no maner lime of his.
Anoon therwith whan I saw this,
He ferde thus evel ther he sete,
I wente and stood right at his fete,
And grette him, but he spak noght,
But argued with his owne thoght,
And in his witte disputed faste
Why and how his lyf might laste;
Him thoughte his sorwes were so smerte
And lay so colde upon his herte;
So, through his sorwe and hevy thoght,
Made him that he ne herde me noght;
For he had wel nigh lost his minde,
Thogh Pan, that men clepe god of kinde,
Were for his sorwes never so wrooth.
But at the laste, to sayn right sooth,
He was war of me, how I stood
Before him, and dide of myn hood,
And grette him, as I best coude.
Debonairly, and no-thing loude,
He sayde, `I prey thee, be not wrooth,
I herde thee not, to sayn the sooth,
Ne I saw thee not, sir, trewely.'
`A! goode sir, no fors,' quod I,
`I am right sory if I have ought
Destroubled yow out of your thought;
For-yive me if I have mis-take.'
`Yis, thamendes is light to make,'
Quod he, `for ther lyth noon ther-to;
Ther is no-thing missayd nor do,'
Lo! how goodly spak this knight,
As it had been another wight;
He made it nouther tough ne queynte
And I saw that, and gan me aqueynte
With him, and fond him so tretable,
Right wonder skilful and resonable,
As me thoghte, for al his bale.
Anoon-right I gan finde a tale
To him, to loke wher I might ought
Have more knowing of his thought.
`Sir,' quod I, `this game is doon;
I holde that this hert be goon;
Thise huntes conne him nowher see.'
`I do no fors therof,' quod he,
`My thought is ther-on never a del.'
`By our lord,' quod I, `I trow yow wel,
Right so me thinketh by your chere.
But, sir, oo thing wol ye here?
Me thinketh, in gret sorwe I yow see;
But certes, good sir, yif that ye
Wolde ought discure me your wo,
I wolde, as wis god help me so,
Amende hit, yif I can or may;
Ye mowe preve hit by assay.
For, by my trouthe, to make yow hool,
I wol do al my power hool;
And telleth me of your sorwes smerte,
Paraventure hit may ese your herte,
That semeth ful seke under your syde.'
With that he loked on me asyde,
As who sayth, `Nay, that wol not be.'
`Graunt mercy, goode frend,' quod he,
`I thanke thee that thou woldest so,
But hit may never the rather be do,
No man may my sorwe glade,
That maketh my hewe to falle and fade,
And hath myn understonding lorn,
That me is wo that I was born!
May noght make my sorwes slyde,
Nought the remedies of Ovyde;
Ne Orpheus, god of melodye,
Ne Dedalus, with playes slye;
Ne hele me may phisicien,
Noght Ypocras, ne Galien;
Me is wo that I live houres twelve;
But who so wol assaye him-selve
Whether his herte can have pite
Of any sorwe, lat him see me.
I wrecche, that deeth hath mad al naked
Of alle blisse that ever was maked,
Y-worthe worste of alle wightes,
That hate my dayes and my nightes;
My lyf, my lustes be me lothe,
For al welfare and I be wrothe.
The pure deeth is so my fo
Thogh I wolde deye, hit wolde not so;
For whan I folwe hit, hit wol flee;
I wolde have hit, hit nil not me.
This is my peyne withoute reed,
Alway deinge and be not deed,
That Sesiphus, that lyth in helle,
May not of more sorwe telle.
And who so wiste al, be my trouthe,
My sorwe, but he hadde routhe
And pite of my sorwes smerte,
That man hath a feendly herte.
For who so seeth me first on morwe
May seyn, he hath y-met with sorwe;
For I am sorwe and sorwe is I.
`Allas! and I wol telle the why;
My song is turned to pleyning,
And al my laughter to weping,
My glade thoghtes to hevinesse,
In travaile is myn ydelnesse
And eek my reste; my wele is wo,
My goode is harm, and ever-mo
In wrathe is turned my pleying,
And my delyt in-to sorwing.
Myn hele is turned into seeknesse,
In drede is al my sikernesse.
To derke is turned al my light,
My wit is foly, my day is night,
My love is hate, my sleep waking,
My mirthe and meles is fasting,
My countenaunce is nycete,
And al abaved wher-so I be,
My pees, in pleding and in werre;
Allas! how mighte I fare werre?
`My boldnesse is turned to shame,
For fals Fortune hath pleyd a game
Atte ches with me, allas! the whyle!
The trayteresse fals and ful of gyle,
That al behoteth and no-thing halt,
She goth upryght and yet she halt,
That baggeth foule and loketh faire,
The dispitouse debonaire,
That scorneth many a creature!
An ydole of fals portraiture
Is she, for she wil sone wryen;
She is the monstres heed y-wryen,
As filth over y-strawed with floures;
Hir moste worship and hir flour is
To lyen, for that is hir nature;
Withoute feyth, lawe, or mesure.
She is fals; and ever laughinge
With oon eye, and that other wepinge.
That is broght up, she set al doun.
I lykne hir to the scorpioun,
That is a fals, flateringe beste;
For with his hede he maketh feste,
But al amid his flateringe
With his tayle he wol stinge,
And envenyme; and so wol she.
She is thenvyouse charite
That is ay fals, and seemeth wele,
So turneth she hir false whele
Aboute, for it is no-thing stable,
Now by the fyre, now at table;
Ful many oon hath she thus y-blent;
She is pley of enchauntement,
That semeth oon and is not so,
The false theef! what hath she do,
Trowest thou? By our lord, I wol thee seye.
Atte ches with me she gan to pleye;
With hir false draughtes divers
She stal on me, and took my fers.
And whan I saw my fers aweye,
Alas! I couthe no lenger playe,
But seyde, 'Farewel, swete, y-wis,
And farwel al that ever ther is!'
Therwith Fortune seyde, 'Chek here!'
And 'Mate!' in mid pointe of the chekkere
With a poune erraunt, allas!
Ful craftier to pley she was
Than Athalus, that made the game
First of the ches: so was his name.
But God wolde I had ones or twyes
Y-koud and knowe the Ieupardyes
That coude the Grek Pithagores!
I shulde have pleyd the bet at ches,
And kept my fers the bet therby;
And thogh wherto? for trewely,
I hold that wish nat worth a stree!
Hit had be never the bet for me.
For Fortune can so many a wyle,
Ther be but fewe can hir begyle,
And eek she is the las to blame;
My-self I wolde have do the same,
Before god, hadde I been as she;
She oghte the more excused be.
For this I say yet more therto,
Hadde I be god and mighte have do
My wille, whan she my fers caughte,
I wolde have drawe the same draughte.
For, also wis god yive me reste,
I dar wel swere she took the beste!
`But through that draughte I have lorn
My blisse; allas! that I was born!
For evermore, I trowe trewly,
For al my wil, my lust hoolly
Is turned; but yet what to done?
Be oure lord, hit is to deye sone;
For no-thing I ne leve it noght,
But live and deye right in this thoght.
There nis planete in firmament,
Ne in air, ne in erthe, noon element,
That they ne yive me a yift echoon
Of weping, whan I am aloon.
For whan that I avyse me wel,
And bethenke me every-del,
How that ther lyth in rekening,
In my sorwe for no-thing;
And how ther leveth no gladnesse
May gladde me of my distresse,
And how I have lost suffisance,
And therto I have no plesance,
Than may I say, I have right noght.
And whan al this falleth in my thoght,
Allas! than am I overcome!
For that is doon is not to come!
I have more sorowe than Tantale.'
And whan I herde him telle this tale
Thus pitously, as I yow telle,
Unnethe mighte I lenger dwelle,
Hit dide myn hert so moche wo.
`A! good sir!' quod I, `say not so!
Have som pite on your nature
That formed yow to creature,
Remembre yow of Socrates;
For he ne counted nat three strees
Of noght that Fortune coude do.`
`No,' quod he, `I can not so.'
`Why so? good sir! parde!' quod I;
`Ne say noght so, for trewely,
Thogh ye had lost the ferses twelve,
And ye for sorwe mordred your-selve,
Ye sholde be dampned in this cas
By as good right as Medea was,
That slow hir children for Iason;
And Phyllis als for Demophon
Heng hir-self, so weylaway!
For he had broke his terme-day
To come to hir. Another rage
Had Dydo, quene eek of Cartage,
That slow hir-self for Eneas
Was fals; a whiche a fool she was!
And Ecquo dyed for Narcisus.
Nolde nat love hir; and right thus
Hath many another foly don.
And for Dalida died Sampson,
That slow him-self with a pilere.
But ther is noon a-lyve here
Wolde for a fers make this wo!'
`Why so?' quod he; `hit is nat so,
Thou woste ful litel what thou menest;
I have lost more than thow wenest.'
`Lo, sir, how may that be?' quod I;
`Good sir, tel me al hoolly
In what wyse, how, why, and wherfore
That ye have thus your blisse lore,'
`Blythly,' quod he, `com sit adoun,
I telle thee up condicioun
That thou hoolly, with al thy wit,
Do thyn entent to herkene hit.'
`Yis, sir.' `Swere thy trouthe ther-to.'
`Gladly.' `Do than holde her-to!'
`I shal right blythly, so god me save,
Hoolly, with al the witte I have,
Here yow, as wel as I can,'
`A goddes half!' quod he, and began: --
`Sir,' quod he, `sith first I couthe
Have any maner wit fro youthe,
Or kyndely understonding
To comprehende, in any thing,
What love was, in myn owne wit,
Dredeles, I have ever yit
Be tributary, and yiven rente
To love hoolly with goode entente,
And through plesaunce become his thral,
With good wil, body, herte, and al.
Al this I putte in his servage,
As to my lorde, and dide homage;
And ful devoutly prayde him to,
He shulde besette myn herte so,
That it plesaunce to him were,
And worship to my lady dere.
`And this was longe, and many a yeer
Or that myn herte was set o-wher,
That I did thus, and niste why;
I trowe hit cam me kindely.
Paraunter I was therto most able
As a whyt wal or a table;
For hit is redy to cacche and take
Al that men wil therin make,
Wher-so so men wol portreye or peynte,
Be the werkes never so queynte.
`And thilke tyme I ferde so
I was able to have lerned tho,
And to have coud as wel or better,
Paraunter, other art or letter.
But for love cam first in my thought,
Therfore I forgat hit nought.
I chees love to my firste craft,
Therfor hit is with me y-laft.
Forwhy I took hit of so yong age,
That malice hadde my corage
Nat that tyme turned to no-thing
Through to mochel knowleching.
For that tyme youthe, my maistresse,
Governed me in ydelnesse;
For hit was in my firste youthe,
And tho ful litel good I couthe,
For al my werkes were flittinge,
And al my thoghtes varyinge;
Al were to me y-liche good,
That I knew tho; but thus hit stood.
`Hit happed that I cam on a day
Into a place, ther I say,
Trewly, the fayrest companye
Of ladies that ever man with ye
Had seen togedres in oo place.
Shal I clepe hit hap other grace
That broght me ther? nay, but Fortune,
That is to lyen ful comune,
The false trayteresse, pervers,
God wolde I coude clepe hir wers!
For now she worcheth me ful wo,
And I wol telle sone why so.
`Among thise ladies thus echoon,
Soth to seyn, I saw ther oon
That was lyk noon of al the route;
For I dar swere, withoute doute,
That as the someres sonne bright
Is fairer, clere, and hath more light
Than any planete, is in heven,
The mone, or the sterres seven,
For al the worlde so had she
Surmounted hem alle of beaute,
Of maner and of comlinesse,
Of stature and wel set gladnesse,
Of goodlihede so wel beseye --
Shortly, what shal I more seye?
By god, and by his halwes twelve,
It was my swete, right al hir-selve!
She had so stedfast countenaunce,
So noble port and meyntenaunce.
And Love, that had herd my bone,
Had espyed me thus sone,
That she ful sone, in my thoght,
As helpe me god, so was y-caught
So sodenly, that I ne took
No maner reed but at hir look
And at myn herte; for-why hir eyen
So gladly, I trow, myn herte seyen,
That purely tho myn owne thoght
Seyde hit were bet serve hir for noght
Than with another to be wel.
And hit was sooth, for, everydel,
I wil anoon-right telle thee why.
I saw hir daunce so comlily,
Carole and singe so swetely,
Laughe and pleye so womanly,
And loke so debonairly,
So goodly speke and so frendly,
That certes, I trow, that evermore
Nas seyn so blisful a tresore.
For every heer upon hir hede,
Soth to seyn, hit was not rede,
Ne nouther yelw, ne broun hit nas;
Me thoghte, most lyk gold hit was.
And whiche eyen my lady hadde!
Debonair, goode, glade, and sadde,
Simple, of good mochel, noght to wyde;
Therto hir look nas not a-syde,
Ne overthwert, but beset so wel,
Hit drew and took up, everydel,
Alle that on hir gan beholde.
Hir eyen semed anoon she wolde
Have mercy; fooles wenden so;
But hit was never the rather do.
Hit nas no countrefeted thing,
It was hir owne pure loking,
That the goddesse, dame Nature,
Had made hem opene by mesure,
And close; for, were she never so glad,
Hir loking was not foly sprad,
Ne wildely, thogh that she pleyde;
But ever, me thoght, hir eyen seyde,
'By god, my wrathe is al for-yive!'
`Therwith hir liste so wel to live,
That dulnesse was of hir a-drad.
She nas to sobre ne to glad;
In alle thinges more mesure
Had never, I trowe, creature.
But many oon with hir loke she herte,
And that sat hir ful lyte at herte,
For she knew no-thing of her thoght;
But whether she knew, or knew hit noght,
Algate she ne roghte of hem a stree!
To gete hir love no ner was he
That woned at home, than he in Inde;
The formest was alway behinde.
But goode folk, over al other,
She loved as man may do his brother;
Of whiche love she was wonder large,
In skilful places that bere charge.
`Which a visage had she ther-to!
Allas! myn herte is wonder wo
That I ne can discryven hit!
Me lakketh bothe English and wit
For to undo hit at the fulle;
And eek my spirits be so dulle
So greet a thing for to devyse.
I have no wit that can suffyse
To comprehenden hir beaute;
But thus moche dar I seyn, that she
Was rody, fresh, and lyvely hewed;
And every day hir beaute newed.
And negh hir face was alder-best;
For certes, Nature had swich lest
To make that fair, that trewly she
Was hir cheef patron of beautee,
And cheef ensample of al hir werke,
And moustre; for, be hit never so derke,
Me thinketh I see hir ever-mo.
And yet more-over, thogh alle tho
That ever lived were not a-lyve,
They ne sholde have founde to discryve
In al hir face a wikked signe;
For hit was sad, simple, and benigne.
`And which a goodly, softe speche
Had that swete, my lyves leche!
So frendly, and so wel y-grounded,
Up al resoun so wel y-founded,
And so tretable to alle gode,
That I dar swere by the rode,
Of eloquence was never founde
So swete a sowninge facounde,
Ne trewer tonged, ne scorned lasse,
Ne bet coude hele; that, by the masse,
I durste swere, thogh the pope hit songe,
That ther was never yet through hir tonge
Man ne woman gretly harmed;
As for hir, ther was al harm hid;
Ne lasse flatering in hir worde,
That purely, hir simple recorde
Was founde as trewe as any bonde,
Or trouthe of any mannes honde.
Ne chyde she coude never a del,
That knoweth al the world ful wel.
`But swich a fairnesse of a nekke
Had that swete that boon nor brekke
Nas ther non sene, that mis-sat.
Hit was whyt, smothe, streght, and flat,
Withouten hole; and canel-boon,
As by seming, had she noon.
Hir throte, as I have now memoire,
Semed a round tour of yvoire,
Of good gretnesse, and noght to grete.
`And gode faire Whyte she hete,
That was my lady name right.
She was bothe fair and bright,
She hadde not hir name wrong.
Right faire shuldres, and body long
She hadde, and armes; every lith
Fattish, flesshy, not greet therwith;
Right whyte handes, and nayles rede,
Rounde brestes; and of good brede
Hyr hippes were, a streight flat bake.
I knew on hir non other lak
That al hir limmes nere sewing,
In as fer as I had knowing.
`Therto she coude so wel pleye,
Whan that hir liste, that I dar seye,
That she was lyk to torche bright,
That every man may take of light
Ynogh, and hit hath never the lesse.
`Of maner and of comlinesse
Right so ferde my lady dere;
For every wight of hir manere
Might cacche ynogh, if that he wolde,
If he had eyen hir to beholde.
For I dar sweren, if that she
Had among ten thousand be,
She wolde have be, at the leste,
A cheef mirour of al the feste,
Thogh they had stonden in a rowe,
To mennes eyen coude have knowe.
For wher-so men had pleyd or waked,
Me thoghte the felawship as naked
Withouten hir, that saw I ones,
As a coroune withoute stones.
Trewly she was, to myn ye,
The soleyn fenix of Arabye,
For ther liveth never but oon;
Ne swich as she ne know I noon.
`To speke of goodnesse; trewly she
Had as moche debonairte
As ever had Hester in the bible
And more, if more were possible.
And, soth to seyne, therwith-al
She had a wit so general,
So hool enclyned to alle gode,
That al hir wit was set, by the rode,
Withoute malice, upon gladnesse;
Therto I saw never yet a lesse
Harmul, than she was in doing.
I sey nat that she ne had knowing
What harm was; or elles she
Had coud no good, so thinketh me.
`And trewly, for to speke of trouthe,
But she had had, hit had be routhe.
Therof she had so moche hir del --
And I dar seyn and swere hit wel --
That Trouthe him-self, over al and al,
Had chose his maner principal
In hir, that was his resting-place.
Ther-to she hadde the moste grace,
To have stedfast perseveraunce,
And esy, atempre governaunce,
That ever I knew or wiste yit;
So pure suffraunt was hir wit.
And reson gladly she understood,
Hit folowed wel she coude good.
She used gladly to do wel;
These were hir maners every-del.
`Therwith she loved so wel right,
She wrong do wolde to no wight;
No wight might do hir no shame,
She loved so wel hir owne name.
Hir luste to holde no wight in honde;
Ne, be thou siker, she nolde fonde
To holde no wight in balaunce,
By half word ne by countenaunce,
But-if men wolde upon hir lye;
Ne sende men in-to Walakye,
To Pruyse, and in-to Tartarye,
To Alisaundre, ne in-to Turkye,
And bidde him faste, anoon that he
Go hoodles to the drye see,
And come hoom by the Carrenare;
And seye, 'Sir, be now right ware
That I may of yow here seyn
Worship, or that ye come ageyn!'
She ne used no suche knakkes smale.
`But wherfor that I telle my tale?
Right on this same, as I have seyd,
Was hoolly al my love leyd;
For certes, she was, that swete wyf,
My suffisaunce, my lust, my lyf,
Myn hap, myn hele, and al my blisse,
My worldes welfare, and my lisse,
And I hires hoolly, everydel.'
`By our lord,' quod I, `I trowe yow wel!
Hardely, your love was wel beset,
I not how ye mighte have do bet.'
`Bet? ne no wight so wel!' quod he.
`I trowe hit, sir,' quod I, `parde!'
`Nay, leve hit wel!' `Sir, so do I;
I leve yow wel, that trewely
Yow thoghte, that she was the beste,
And to beholde the alderfaireste,
Who so had loked hir with your eyen.'
`With myn? Nay, alle that hir seyen
Seyde and sworen hit was so.
And thogh they ne hadde, I wolde tho
Have loved best my lady fre,
Thogh I had had al the beautee
That ever had Alcipyades,
And al the strengthe of Ercules,
And therto had the worthinesse
Of Alisaundre, and al the richesse
That ever was in Babiloyne,
In Cartage, or in Macedoyne,
Or in Rome, or in Ninive;
And therto al-so hardy be
As was Ector, so have I Ioye,
That Achilles slow at Troye --
And therfor was he slayn also
In a temple, for bothe two
Were slayn, he and Antilegius,
And so seyth Dares Frigius,
For love of hir Polixena --
Or ben as wys as Minerva,
I wolde ever, withoute drede,
Have loved hir, for I moste nede!
'Nede!' nay, I gabbe now,
Noght 'nede', and I wol telle how,
For of good wille myn herte hit wolde,
And eek to love hir I was holde
As for the fairest and the beste.
`She was as good, so have I reste,
As ever was Penelope of Grece,
Or as the noble wyf Lucrece,
That was the beste -- he telleth thus,
The Romayn Tytus Livius --
She was as good, and no-thing lyke,
Thogh hir stories be autentyke;
Algate she was as trewe as she.
`But wherfor that I telle thee
Whan I first my lady say?
I was right yong, the sooth to sey,
And ful gret need I hadde to lerne;
Whan my herte wolde yerne
To love, it was a greet empryse.
But as my wit coude best suffyse,
After my yonge childly wit,
Withoute drede, I besette hit
To love hir in my beste wise,
To do hir worship and servyse
That I tho coude, be my trouthe,
Withoute feyning outher slouthe;
For wonder fayn I wolde hir see.
So mochel hit amended me,
That, whan I saw hir first a-morwe,
I was warished of al my sorwe
Of al day after, til hit were eve;
Me thoghte no-thing mighte me greve,
Were my sorwes never so smerte.
And yit she sit so in myn herte,
That, by my trouthe, I nolde noghte,
For al this worlde, out of my thoght
Leve my lady; no, trewly!'
`Now, by my trouthe, sir,' quod I,
`Me thinketh ye have such a chaunce
As shrift withoute repentaunce.'
`Repentaunce! nay, fy,' quod he;
`Shulde I now repente me
To love? nay, certes, than were I wel
Wers than was Achitofel,
Or Anthenor, so have I Ioye,
The traytour that betraysed Troye,
Or the false Genelon,
He that purchased the treson
Of Rowland and of Olivere.
Nay, why! I am a-lyve here
I nil foryete hir never-mo.'
`Now, goode sir,' quod I right tho,
`Ye han wel told me her-before.
It is no need reherse hit more
How ye sawe hir first, and where;
But wolde ye telle me the manere,
To hir which was your firste speche --
Therof I wolde yow be-seche --
And how she knewe first your thoght,
Whether ye loved hir or noght,
And telleth me eek what ye have lore;
I herde yow telle her-before.'
`Ye,' seyde he,`thow nost what thou menest;
I have lost more than thou wenest.'
`What los is that, sir?' quod I tho;
`Nil she not love yow? Is hit so?
Or have ye oght y-doon amis,
That she hath left yow? is hit this?
For goddes love, telle me al.'
`Before god,' quod he, `and I shal.
I saye right as I have seyd,
On hir was al my love leyd;
And yet she niste hit never a del
Noght longe tyme, leve hit wel.
For be right siker, I durste noght
For al this worlde telle hir my thoght,
Ne I wolde have wratthed hir, trewely.
For wostow why? she was lady
Of the body; she had the herte,
And who hath that, may not asterte.
`But, for to kepe me fro ydelnesse,
Trewly I did my besinesse
To make songes, as I best coude,
And ofte tyme I song hem loude;
And made songes a gret del,
Al-thogh I coude not make so wel
Songes, ne knowe the art al,
As coude Lamekes sone Tubal,
That fond out first the art of songe;
For, as his brothers hamers ronge
Upon his anvelt up and doun,
Therof he took the firste soun;
But Grekes seyn, Pictagoras,
That he the firste finder was
Of the art; Aurora telleth so,
But therof no fors, of hem two.
Algates songes thus I made
Of my feling, myn herte to glade;
And lo! this was the alther-firste,
I not wher that hit were the werst. --
'Lord, hit maketh myn herte light,
Whan I thenke on that swete wight
That is so semely on to see;
And wisshe to god hit might so be,
That she wolde holde me for hir knight,
My lady, that is so fair and bright!' --
`Now have I told thee, sooth to saye,
My firste song. Upon a daye
I bethoghte me what wo
And sorwe that I suffred tho
For hir, and yet she wiste hit noght,
Ne telle hir durste I nat my thoght.
`Allas!' thoghte I, `I can no reed;
And, but I telle hir, I nam but deed;
And if I telle hir, to seye sooth,
I am a-dred she wol be wrooth;
Allas! what shal I thanne do?'
`In this debat I was so wo,
Me thoghte myn herte braste a-tweyn!
So atte laste, soth to sayn,
I me bethoghte that nature
Ne formed never in creature
So moche beaute, trewely,
And bounte, withouten mercy.
`In hope of that, my tale I tolde,
With sorwe, as that I never sholde;
For nedes, and, maugree my heed,
I moste have told hir or be deed.
I not wel how that I began,
Ful evel rehersen hit I can;
And eek, as helpe me god with-al,
I trowe hit was in the dismal,
That was the ten woundes of Egipte;
For many a word I over-skipte
In my tale, for pure fere
Lest my wordes mis-set were.
With sorweful herte, and woundes dede,
Softe and quaking for pure drede
And shame, and stinting in my tale
For ferde, and myn hewe al pale,
Ful ofte I wex bothe pale and reed;
Bowing to hir, I heng the heed;
I durste nat ones loke hir on,
For wit, manere, and al was gon.
I seyde 'mercy!' and no more;
Hit nas no game, hit sat me sore.
`So atte laste, sooth to seyn,
Whan that myn herte was come ageyn,
To telle shortly al my speche,
With hool herte I gan hir beseche
That she wolde be my lady swete;
And swor, and gan hir hertely hete
Ever to be stedfast and trewe,
And love hir alwey freshly newe,
And never other lady have,
And al hir worship for to save
As I best coude; I swor hir this --
'For youres is al that ever ther is
For evermore, myn herte swete!
And never false yow, but I mete,
I nil, as wis god helpe me so!'
`And whan I had my tale y-do,
God wot, she acounted nat a stree
Of al my tale, so thoghte me.
To telle shortly as hit is,
Trewly hir answere, hit was this;
I can not now wel counterfete
Hir wordes, but this was the grete
Of hir answere: she sayde, 'nay'
Al-outerly. Allas! that day
The sorwe I suffred, and the wo!
That trewly Cassandra, that so
Bewayled the destruccioun.
Of Troye and of Ilioun,
Had never swich sorwe as I tho.
I durste no more say therto
For pure fere, but stal away;
And thus I lived ful many a day;
That trewely, I hadde no need
Ferther than my beddes heed
Never a day to seche sorwe;
I fond hit redy every morwe,
For-why I loved hir in no gere.
`So hit befel, another yere,
I thoughte ones I wolde fonde
To do hir knowe and understonde
My wo; and she wel understood
That I ne wilned thing but good,
And worship, and to kepe hir name
Over al thing, and drede hir shame,
And was so besy hir to serve; --
And pite were I shulde sterve,
Sith that I wilned noon harm, y-wis.
So whan my lady knew al this,
My lady yaf me al hoolly
The noble yift of hir mercy,
Saving hir worship, by al weyes;
Dredles, I mene noon other weyes.
And therwith she yaf me a ring;
I trowe hit was the firste thing;
But if myn herte was y-waxe
Glad, that is no need to axe!
As helpe me god, I was as blyve,
Reysed, as fro dethe to lyve,
Of alle happes the alder-beste,
The gladdest and the moste at reste.
For trewely, that swete wight,
Whan I had wrong and she the right,
She wolde alwey so goodely
For-yeve me so debonairly.
In alle my youthe, in alle chaunce,
She took me in hir governaunce.
`Therwith she was alway so trewe,
Our Ioye was ever y-liche newe;
Our hertes wern so even a payre,
That never nas that oon contrayre
To that other, for no wo.
For sothe, y-liche they suffred tho
Oo blisse and eek oo sorwe bothe;
Y-liche they were bothe gladde and wrothe;
Al was us oon, withoute were.
And thus we lived ful many a yere
So wel, I can nat telle how.'
`Sir,' quod I, `where is she now?'
`Now!' quod he, and stinte anoon.
Therwith he wex as deed as stoon,
And seyde, `allas! that I was bore,
That was the los, that her-before
I tolde thee, that I had lorn.
Bethenk how I seyde her-beforn,
'Thou wost ful litel what thou menest;
I have lost more than thou wenest' --
God wot, allas! right that was she!'
`Allas! sir, how? what may that be?'
`She is deed!' `Nay!' `Yis, by my trouthe!'
`Is that your los? By god, hit is routhe!'
And with that worde, right anoon,
They gan to strake forth; al was doon,
For that tyme, the hert-hunting.
With that, me thoghte, that this king
Gan quikly hoomward for to ryde
Unto a place ther besyde,
Which was from us but a lyte,
A long castel with walles whyte,
Be seynt Iohan! on a riche hil,
As me mette; but thus it fil.
Right thus me mette, as I yow telle,
That in the castel was a belle,
As hit had smiten houres twelve. --

Therwith I awook my-selve,
And fond me lying in my bed;
And the book that I had red,
Of Alcyone and Seys the king,
And of the goddes of sleping,
I fond it in myn honde ful even.
Thoghte I, `this is so queynt a sweven,
That I wol, be processe of tyme,
Fonde to putte this sweven in ryme
As I can best'; and that anoon. --
This was my sweven; now hit is doon.

Explicit the Boke of the Duchesse.

poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Canterbury Tales; 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.

poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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The Vision Of Piers Plowman - Part 04

' Cesseth!' seide the Kyng, ' I suffre yow no lenger.
Ye shul saughtne, forsothe, and serve me bothe.
Kis hire,' quod the Kyng, 'Conscience, I hote!'
' Nay, by Crist!' quod Conscience, ' congeye me rather!
But Reson rede me therto, rather wol I deye.'
'And I comaunde thee,' quod the Kyng to Conseience thanne,
'Rape thee to ryde, and Reson that thow fecche.
Comaunde hym that he come my counseil to here,
For he shal rule my reaume and rede me the beste
Mede and of mo othere, what man shal hire wedde,

And acounte with thee, Conscience, so me Crist helpe,
How thow lernest the peple, the lered and the lewed!'
'I am fayn of that foreward,' seide the freke thanne,
And ryt right to Reson and rouneth in his ere,
And seide hym as the Kyng seide, and sithen took his leve.
'I shal arraye me to ryde,' quod Reson,-reste thee a while,'
And called Caton his knave, curteis of speche,
And also Tomme Trewe-tonge-tel-me-no-tales
Ne lesynge-to-laughen-of-for-I-loved-hem-nevere.
' Set my sadel upon Suffre-til-I-se-my-tyme,
And lat warroke hym wel with witty-wordes gerthes.
Hange on hym the hevy brydel to holde his heed lowe,
For he wol make ''wehee'' twies er he be there.'
Thanne Conscience on his capul caireth forth faste,
And Reson with hym ryt, rownynge togideres
Whiche maistries Mede maketh on this erthe.
Oon Waryn Wisdom and Witty his fere
Folwed hem faste, for thei hadde to doone
In th'Eseheker and in the Chauncerye, to ben descharged of thynges,
And riden faste for Reson sholde rede hem the beste
For to save hem for silver from shame and from harmes.
A[c] Conscience knew hem wel, thei loved coveitise,
And bad Reson ryde faste and recche of hir neither
'Ther are wiles in hire wordes, and with Mede thei dweneth -
Ther as wrathe and wranglynge is, ther wynne thei silver;
Ac there is love and leautee, thei wol noght come there
Contricio et infelicitas in viis eorum &c.
Thei ne gyveth noght of God one goose wynge
Non est timor Dei ante oculos eorum &c.
For thei wolde do moore for a dozeyne chiknes
Than for the love of Oure Lorde or alle hise leeve seintes!

Forthi, Reson, lat hem ride, tho riche by hemselve -
For Conscience knoweth hem noght, ne Crist, as I trowe.'
And thanne Reson rood faste the righte heighe gate,
As Conscience hym kenned, til thei come to the Kynge.
Curteisly the Kyng thanne com ayeins Reson,
And bitwene hymsel and his sone sette hym on benche,
And wordeden wel wisely a gret while togideres.
And thame com Pees into parliment and putte up a bill-
How Wrong ayeins his wille hadde his wif taken,
And how he ravysshede Rose, Reignaldes loove,
And Margrete of hir maydenhede maugree hire chekes.
' Bothe my gees and my grys hise gadelynges feccheth;
I dar noght for fere of hem fighte ne chide.
He borwed of me bayard and broughte hym hom nevere
Ne no ferthyng therfore, for nought I koude plede.
He maynteneth hise men to murthere myne hewen,
Forstalleth my feires and fighteth in my chepyng,
And breketh up my berne dores and bereth awey my whete,
And taketh me but a taille for ten quarters otes.
And yet he beteth me therto and lyth by my mayde;
I am noght hardy for hym unnethe to loke!'
The Kyng knew he seide sooth. for Conscience hym tolde
That Wrong was a wikked luft and wroghte muche sorwe.
Wrong was afered thanne, and Wisdom he soughte
To maken pees with hise pens, and profred hym manye,
And seide, 'Hadde I love of my lord the Kyng, litel wolde I recche
Theigh Pees and his power pleyned hym evere!'
Tho wan Wisdom and Sire Waryn the Witty,
For that Wrong hadde ywroght so wikked a dede,
And warnede Wrong tho with swich a wis tale -
'Whoso wereheth by wille, writhe maketh ofte.

I seye it by myself - thow shalt it wel fynde
But if Mede it make, thi meschief is uppe;
For bothe thi lif and thi lond lyth in his grace.'
Thanne wowede Wrong Wisdom ful yerne
To maken his pees with his pens, handy dandy payed.
Wisdom and Wit thanne wenten togidres,
And token Mede myd hem mercy to wynne.
Pees putte forth his heed and his panne blody
'Withouten gilt, God woot, gat I this seathe.'
Conseicnce and the commune knowen wel the sothe,
Ac Wisdom and Wit were aboute faste
To overcomen the Kyng with catel, if thei myghte.
The Kyng swor by Crist and by his crowne bothe
That Wrong for hise werkes sholde wo tholie,
And combundede a eonstable to casten hym in irens,
'And lete hym noght this seven yer seen his feet ones.
'God woot,' quod Wisdom, 'that were noght the beste!
And he amendes mowe make, Iat Maynprise hym have
And be borgh for his bale, and buggen hym boote,
And so amenden that is mysdo, and everemoore the bettre.'
Wit acorded therwith, and seide the same,
'Bettre is that boote bale adoun brynge
Than bale be ybet, and boote nevere the bettre!'
Thanne gan Mede to meken hire, and mercy bisoughte,
And profrede Pees a present al of pure golde.
'Have this, man, of me,' quod she, 'to amenden thi scathe,
For I wol wage for Wrong, he wol do so na moore.'
Pitously Pees thanne preyde to the Kynge
To have mercy on that man that mysdide hym so ofte.
'For he hath waged me wel, as Wisdom hym taughte,
And I forgyve hym that gilt with a good wille.
So that the Kyng assente, I kan seye no bettre,

For Mede hath maad myne amendes - I may na moore axe.'
'Nay', quod the Kyng tho, 'so me Crist helpe!
Wrong wendeth noghtawey er I wite more.
Lope he so lightly, laughen he wolde,
And eft the boldere be to bete myne hewen.
But Reson have ruthe on hym, he shal reste in my stokkes
As longe as [I] lyve, but lowenesse hym borwe.'
Somme radde Reson tho to have ruthe on that shrewe,
And for to counseille the Kyng and Conscience after
That Mede moste be maynpernour, Reson thei bisoughte.
' Reed me noght,' quod Reson, 'no ruthe to have
Til lordes and ladies loven alle truthe
And haten alle harlotrie, to heren or to mouthen it;
Til Pernelles purfill be put in hire hucche
And childrene cherissynge be chastised with yerdes,
And harlottes holynesse be holden for an hyne;
Til clerkene coveitise be to clothe the povere and fede,
And religiouse romeris Recordare in hir cloistres
As Seynt Beneyt hem bad, Bernard and Fraunceis;
And til prechours prechynge be preved on hemselve;
Til the Kynges counseil be the commune profit;
Til bisshopes bayardes ben beggeris chaumbres,
Hire haukes and hire houndes help to povere religious;
And til Seint James be sought there I shal assigne -
That no man go to Galis but if he go for evere;
And alle Rome renneres for robberes of biyonde

Bere no silver over see that signe of kyng sheweth -
Neither grave ne ungrave, gold neither silver -
Upon forfeture of that fee, who fynt hym at Dovere,
But if it be marchaunt or his man, or messager with lettres,
Provysour or preest, or penaunt for hise synnes.
'And yet,' quod Reson, 'by the Rode! I shal no ruthe have
Whiff Mede hath the maistrie in this moot-halle.
Ac I may shewe ensamples as I se outher.
I seye it by myself,' quod he, 'and it so were
That I were kyng with coroune to kepen a reaume,
Sholde nevere Wrong in this world that I wite myghte
Ben unpunysshed in my power, for peril of my soule,
Ne gete my grace thorugh giftes, so me God save!
Ne for no mede have mercy, but mekenesse it made;
For ''Nullum molum the man mette with inpunitum
And bad Nullum bonum be irremuneratum.''
Lat thi confessour, sire Kyng, construe this [E]ngl[ys]sed,
And if ye werchen it in werk, I wedde myne eris
That Lawe shal ben a laborer and lede afeld donge
And Love shal lede thi lond as the leef liketh.'
Clerkes that were confessours coupled hem togideres
Al to construe this clause, and for the Kynges profit,
Ac noght for confort of the cornmune, ne for the Kynges soule,
For I seigh Mede in the moot-halle on men of lawe wynke,
And thei laughynge lope to hire and lefte Reson manye.
Waryn Wisdom wynked upon Mede
And seide, ' Madame, I am youre man, what so my mouth jangle;
I falle in floryns,' quod that freke, 'and faile speche ofte.'
Alle rightfulle recorded that Reson truthe tolde.
[Kynde] Wit acorded therwith and comendede hise wordes,
And the mooste peple in the halle and manye of the grete,
And leten Mekenesse a maister and Mede a mansed sherewe.
Love leet of hire light, and Leaute yet lasse,
And seide it so heighc that all the halle it herde

'Whoso wilneth hire to wyve, For welthe of hire goodes -
But he be knowe for a cokewold, kut of my nose!'
Mede mornede tho, and made hevy chere,
For the mooste commune of that court called hire an hore.
Ac a sisour and a somonour sued hire faste,
And a sherreves clerk bisherewed al the route
' For ofte have I,' quod he, 'holpen yow at the barre,
And yet yeve ye me nevere the worth of a risshe!'
The Kyng callede Conseience and afterward Reson,
And recordede that Reson hadde rightfully shewed ;
And modiliche upon Mede with myght the Kyng loked,
And gan wexe wroth with Lawe, for Mede almoost hadde shent it,
And seide,-Thorugh youre lawe, as I leve, I lese manye chetes;
Mede overmaistreth Lawe and muche truthe letteth.
Ac Reson shal rekene with yow, if I regne any while, -
And deme yow, bi this day, as ye han deserved.
Mede shal noght maynprise yow, by the Marie of hevene!
I wole have leaute in lawe, and lete be al youre jangling,
And as moost folk witnesseth wel, Wrong shal be demed.'
Quod Conscience to the Kyng, 'But the commune wole assente,-
It is ful hard, by myn heed, herto to brynge it,
[And] alle youre lige leodes to lede thus evene.'
'By Hym that raughte on the Rood!' quod Reson to the Kynge,
But if I rule thus youre reaume, rende out my guttes -
If ye bidden buxomnesse be of myn assent.'
'And I assente,' seith the Kyng, ' by Seinte Marie my lady,
Be my Counseil comen of clerkes and of erles.
Ac redily, Reson, thow shalt noght ride hennes;
For as longe as I lyve, lete thee I nelle.'
'I am al redy.' quod Reson, 'to reste with yow evere;
So Conscience be of oure counceil, I kepe no bettre.'
'And I graunte,' quod the Kyng, 'Goddes forbode he faile!
Als longe as oure lyf lasteth, lyve we togideres!'

poem by William Langland
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The Canterbury Tales; The Maunciples Tale

PROLOGUE TO THE MAUNCIPLES TALE

Heere folweth the Prologe of the Maunciples tale.

Woot ye nat where ther stant a litel toun,
Which that ycleped is Bobbe-up-and-doun
Under the Blee, in Caunterbury weye?
Ther gan oure Hooste for to jape and pleye,
And seyde, 'Sires, what, Dun is in the Myre!

Is ther no man for preyere ne for hyre,
That wole awake oure felawe al bihynde?
A theef myghte hym ful lightly robbe and bynde.
See how he nappeth, see how for Cokkes bones,
That he wol falle fro his hors atones.

Is that a Cook of London, with meschaunce?
Do hym com forth, he knoweth his penaunce,
For he shal telle a tale, by my fey,
Although it be nat worth a botel hey.
Awake, thou Cook,' quod he, 'God yeve thee sorwe,

What eyleth thee, to slepe by the morwe?
Hastow had fleen al nyght, or artow dronke?
Or hastow with som quene al nyght yswonke
So that thow mayst nat holden up thyn heed?'
This Cook that was ful pale, and no thyng reed,

Seyde to oure Hoost, 'So God my soule blesse,
As ther is falle on me swich hevynesse,
Noot I nat why, that me were levere slepe
Than the beste galon wyn in Chepe.'
'Wel,' quod the Maunciple, 'if it may doon ese

To thee, Sire Cook, and to no wight displese
Which that heere rideth in this compaignye,
And that oure Hoost wole of his curteisye,
I wol as now excuse thee of thy tale,
For, in good feith, thy visage is ful pale.

Thyne eyen daswen eek, as that me thynketh,
And wel I woot, thy breeth ful soure stynketh.
That sheweth wel thou art nat wel disposed,
Of me, certeyn, thou shalt nat been yglosed.
See how he ganeth, lo, this dronken wight!

As though he wolde swolwe us anonright.
Hoold cloos thy mouth, man, by thy fader kyn,
The devel of helle sette his foot therin.
Thy cursed breeth infecte wole us alle,
Fy, stynkyng swyn! fy, foule moothe thou falle!

A, taketh heede, sires, of this lusty man!
Now, sweete sire, wol ye justen atte fan?
Therto me thynketh ye been wel yshape,
I trowe that ye dronken han wyn-ape,
And that is, whan men pleyen with a straw.'

And with this speche the Cook wax wrooth and wraw,
And on the Manciple he gan nodde faste,
For lakke of speche, and doun the hors hym caste,
Where as he lay til that men up hym took;
This was a fair chyvachee of a Cook!

Allas, he nadde holde hym by his ladel!
And er that he agayn were in his sadel
Ther was greet showvyng bothe to and fro,
To lifte hym up, and muchel care and wo,
So unweeldy was this sory palled goost.

And to the Manciple thanne spak oure hoost,
'By cause drynke hath dominacioun,
Upon this man, by my savacioun,
I trowe he lewedly wolde telle his tale.
For were it wyn, or oold or moysty ale,

That he hath dronke, he speketh in his nose,
And fneseth faste, and eek he hath the pose.
He hath also to do moore than ynough
To kepen hym and his capul out of slough,
And if he falle from his capul eftsoone,

Thanne shal we alle have ynogh to doone
In liftyng up his hevy dronken cors.
Telle on thy tale, of hym make I no fors;
But yet, Manciple, in feith thou art to nyce,
Thus openly repreve hym of his vice.

Another day he wole peraventure
Reclayme thee and brynge thee to lure.
I meene he speke wole of smale thynges,
As for to pynchen at thy rekenynges,
That were nat honeste, if it cam to preef.'

'No,' quod the Manciple, 'that were a greet mescheef,
So myghte he lightly brynge me in the snare;
Yet hadde I levere payen for the mare,
Which that he rit on, than he sholde with me stryve
I wol nat wratthen hym, al so moot I thryve;

That that I speke, I seyde it in my bourde.
And wite ye what, I have heer in a gourde
A draghte of wyn, ye, of a ripe grape,
And right anon ye shul seen a good jape.
This Cook shal drynke therof if that I may,

Up peyne of deeth, he wol nat seye me nat.'
And certeynly, to tellen as it was,
Of this vessel the Cook drank faste; allas,
What neded hym? he drank ynough biforn!
And whan he hadde pouped in this horn,

To the Manciple he took the gourde agayn,
And of that drynke the Cook was wonder fayn,
And thanked hym in swich wise as he koude.
Thanne gan oure Hoost to laughen wonder loude,
And seyde, 'I se wel it is necessarie

Where that we goon, that drynke we with us carie.
For that wol turne rancour and disese
Tacord and love and many a wrong apese.
O thou Bacus, yblessed be thy name,
That so kanst turnen ernest into game!

Worship and thank be to thy deitee!
Of that mateere ye gete namoore of me,
Telle on thy tale, Manciple, I thee preye.'
'Wel, sire,' quod he, 'now herkneth what I seye.'

THE MAUNCIPLES TALE

Heere bigynneth the Maunciples tale of the Crowe.

Whan Phebus dwelled heere in this world adoun,
As olde bookes maken mencioun,
He was the mooste lusty bachiler
In al this world, and eek the beste archer.
He slow Phitoun the serpent, as he lay

Slepynge agayn the sonne upon a day;
And many another noble worthy dede
He with his bowe wroghte, as men may rede.
Pleyen he koude on every mynstralcie,
And syngen, that it was a melodie

To heeren of his cleere voys the soun.
Certes, the kyng of Thebes, Amphioun,
That with his syngyng walled that citee,
Koude nevere syngen half so wel as hee.
Therto he was the semelieste man,

That is or was sith that the world bigan.
What nedeth it hise fetures to discryve?
For in this world was noon so fair on lyve.
He was therwith fulfild of gentillesse,
Of honour, and of parfit worthynesse.

This Phebus that was flour of bachilrie,
As wel in fredom as in chivalrie,
For his desport, in signe eek of victorie
Of Phitoun, so as telleth us the storie,
Was wont to beren in his hand a bowe.

Now hadde this Phebus in his hous a crowe,
Which in a cage he fostred many a day,
And taughte it speken as men teche a jay.
Whit was this crowe, as is a snow-whit swan,
And countrefete the speche of every man

He koude, whan he sholde telle a tale.
Therwith in al this world no nyghtngale
Ne koude, by an hondred thousand deel,
Syngen so wonder myrily and weel.
Now hadde this Phebus in his hous a wyf

Which that he lovede moore than his lyf;
And nyght and day dide evere his diligence
Hir for to plese and doon hire reverence.
Save oonly, if the sothe that I shal sayn,
Jalous he was, and wolde have kept hire fayn,

For hym were looth byjaped for to be-
And so is every wight in swich degree;
But al in ydel, for it availleth noght.
A good wyf that is clene of werk and thoght
Sholde nat been kept in noon awayt, certayn.

And trewely the labour is in vayn
To kepe a shrewe, for it wol nat bee.
This holde I for a verray nycetee,
To spille labour for to kepe wyves,
Thus writen olde clerkes in hir lyves.

But now to purpos, as I first bigan:
This worthy Phebus dooth al that he kan
To plesen hir, wenynge that swich plesaunce,
And for his manhede and his governaunce,
That no man sholde han put hym from hire grace.

But God it woot, ther may no man embrace
As to destreyne a thyng, which that nature
Hath natureelly set in a creature.
Taak any bryd, and put it in a cage,
And do al thyn entente and thy corage

To fostre it tendrely with mete and drynke,
Of alle deyntees that thou kanst bithynke;
And keepe it al so clenly as thou may,
Al though his cage of gold be nevere so gay,
Yet hath this bryd, by twenty thousand foold,

Levere in a forest that is rude and coold
Goon ete wormes, and swich wrecchednesse;
For evere this bryd wol doon his bisynesse
To escape out of his cage, whan he may.
His libertee this bryd desireth ay.

Lat take a cat, and fostre hym wel with milk,
And tendre flessh, and make his couche of silk,
And lat hym seen a mous go by the wal,
Anon he weyveth milk and flessh and al,
And every deyntee that is in that hous,

Swich appetit he hath to ete a mous.
Lo, heere hath lust his dominacioun,
And appetit fleemeth discrecioun.
A she wolf hath also a vileyns kynde,
The lewedeste wolf that she may fynde,

Or leest of reputacioun wol she take,
In tyme whan hir lust to han a make.
Alle thise ensamples speke I by thise men,
That been untrewe, and no thyng by wommen,
For men han evere a likerous appetit

On lower thyng to parfourne hire delit,
Than on hire wyves, be they nevere so faire,
Ne nevere so trewe, ne so debonaire.
Flessh is so newefangel, with meschaunce,
That we ne konne in no thyng han plesaunce

That sowneth into vertu any while.
This Phebus, which that thoghte upon no gile,
Deceyved was, for al his jolitee;
For under hym another hadde shee,
A man of litel reputacioun,

Nat worth to Phebus in comparisoun.
The moore harm is, it happeth ofte so,
Of which ther cometh muchel harm and wo.
And so bifel, whan Phebus was absent,
His wyf anon hath for hir lemman sent;

Hir lemman? certes, this is a knavyssh speche,
Foryeveth it me, and that I yow biseche.
The wise Plato seith, as ye may rede,
'The word moot nede accorde with the dede.'
If men shal telle proprely a thyng,

The word moot cosyn be to the werkyng.
I am a boystous man, right thus seye I.
Ther nys no difference trewely
Bitwixe a wyf that is of heigh degree-
If of hire body dishoneste she bee-

And a povre wenche, oother than this,
If it so be they werke bothe amys,
But that the gentile in hire estaat above,
She shal be cleped his lady as in love,
And for that oother is a povre womman,

She shal be cleped his wenche, or his lemman;
And God it woot, myn owene deere brother,
Men leyn that oon as lowe as lith that oother.
Right so bitwixe a titlelees tiraunt
And an outlawe, or a theef erraunt,

The same I seye, ther is no difference.
To Alisaundre was toold this sentence,
That for the tiraunt is of gretter myght,
By force of meynee for to sleen dounright,
And brennen hous and hoom, and make al playn,

Lo, therfore is he cleped a capitayn!
And for the outlawe hath but smal meynee,
And may nat doon so greet an harm as he,
Ne brynge a contree to so greet mescheef,
Men clepen hym an outlawe or a theef.

But for I am a man noght textueel,
I wol noght telle of textes nevere a deel;
I wol go to my tale as I bigan.
Whan Phebus wyf had sente for hir lemman,
Anon they wroghten al hir lust volage.

The white crowe that heeng ay in the cage
Biheeld hire werk, and seyde nevere a word,
And whan that hoom was com Phebus the lord,
This crowe sang, 'Cokkow! Cokkow! Cokkow!'
'What bryd!' quod Phebus, 'what song syngestow?

Ne were thow wont so myrily to synge
That to myn herte it was a rejoysynge
To heere thy voys? allas, what song is this?'
'By God,' quod he, 'I synge nat amys.
Phebus,' quod he, 'for al thy worthynesse,

For al thy beautee and thy gentillesse,
For al thy song and al thy mynstralcye,
For al thy waityng, blered is thyn eye
With oon of litel reputacioun
Noght worth to thee, as in comparisoun

The montance of a gnat, so moote I thryve,
For on thy bed thy wyf I saugh hym swyve.'
What wol ye moore? the crowe anon hym tolde,
By sadde tokenes and by wordes bolde,
How that his wyf han doon hire lecherye,

Hym to greet shame and to greet vileynye,
And tolde hym ofte, he asugh it with hise eyen.
This Phebus gan aweyward for to wryen,
And thoughte his sorweful herte brast atwo,
His bowe he bente and sette ther inne a flo,

And in his ire his wyf thanne hath he slayn.
This is theffect, ther is namoore to sayn,
For sorwe of which he brak his mynstralcie,
Bothe harpe, and lute, and gyterne, and sautrie,
And eek he brak hise arwes and his bowe,

And after that thus spak he to the crowe.
'Traitour,' quod he, 'with tonge of scorpioun,
Thou hast me broght to my confusioun,
Allas, that I was wroght! why nere I deed?
O deere wyf, O gemme of lustiheed,

That were to me so sad and eek so trewe,
Now listow deed with face pale of hewe,
Ful giltelees, that dorste I swere, ywys.
O rakel hand, to doon so foule amys!
O trouble wit, O ire recchelees!

That unavysed smyteth gilteles.
O wantrust, ful of fals suspecioun,
Where was thy wit and thy discrecioun?
O, every man, be war of rakelnesse,
Ne trowe no thyng withouten strong witnesse.

Smyt nat to soone, er that ye witen why,
And beeth avysed wel and sobrely,
Er ye doon any execucioun
Upon youre ire for suspecioun.
Allas, a thousand folk hath rakel ire

Fully fordoon, and broght hem in the mire!
Allas, for sorwe I wol myselven slee!'
And to the crowe, 'O false theef,' seyde he,
'I wol thee quite anon thy false tale;
Thou songe whilom lyk a nyghtngale,

Now shaltow, false theef, thy song forgon,
And eek thy white fetheres everichon.
Ne nevere in al thy lyf ne shaltou speke,
Thus shal men on a traytour been awreke.
Thou and thyn ofspryng evere shul be blake,

Ne nevere sweete noyse shul ye make,
But evere crie agayn tempest and rayn,
In tokenynge that thurgh thee my wyf is slayn.'
And to the crowe he stirte, and that anon,
And pulled hise white fetheres everychon,

And made hym blak, and refte hym al his song,
And eek his speche, and out at dore hym slong,
Unto the devel-which I hym bitake!-
And for this caas been alle Crowes blake.
Lordynges, by this ensample I yow preye,

Beth war and taketh kepe what I seye:
Ne telleth nevere no man in youre lyf
How that another man hath dight his wyf;
He wol yow haten mortally, certeyn.
Daun Salomon, as wise clerkes seyn,

Techeth a man to kepen his tonge weel.
But as I seyde, I am noght textueel;
But nathelees, thus taughte me my dame;
'My sone, thenk on the crowe, on Goddes name.
My sone, keepe wel thy tonge and keepe thy freend,

A wikked tonge is worse than a feend.
My sone, from a feend men may hem blesse.
My sone, God of his endelees goodnesse
Walled a tonge with teeth and lippes eke,
For man sholde hym avyse what he speeke.

My sone, ful ofte for to muche speche
Hath many a man been spilt, as clerkes teche.
But for litel speche, avysely,
Is no man shent, to speke generally.
My sone, thy tonge sholdestow restreyne

At alle tymes, but whan thou doost thy peyne
To speke of God in honour and in preyere;
The firste vertu sone, if thou wolt leere,
Is to restreyne and kepe wel thy tonge.
Thus lerne children, whan that they been yonge,

My sone, of muchel spekyng yvele avysed,
Ther lasse spekyng hadde ynough suffised,
Comth muchel harm-thus was me toold and taught.-
In muchel speche synne wanteth naught.
Wostow wherof a rakel tonge serveth?

Right as a swerd forkutteth and forkerveth
An arme atwo, my deere sone, right so
A tonge kutteth freendshipe al atwo.
A jangler is to God abhomynable;
Reed Salomon, so wys and honurable,

Reed David in hise psalmes, reed Senekke!
My sone, spek nat, but with thyn heed thou bekke;
Dissimule as thou were deef, it that thou heere
A jangler speke of perilous mateere.
The Flemyng seith, and lerne it if thee leste,

That litel janglyng causeth muchel reste.
My sone, if thou no wikked word hast seyd,
Thee thar nat drede for to be biwreyd;
But he that hath mysseyd, I dar wel sayn,
He may by no wey clepe his word agayn.

Thyng that is seyd is seyd, and forth it gooth;
Though hym repente, or be hym leef or looth,
He is his thral to whom that he hath sayd
A tale, of which he is now yvele apayd.
My sone, be war, and be noon auctour newe

Of tidynyges, wheither they been false or trewe,
Wherso thou com, amonges hye or lowe,
Kepe wel thy tonge, and thenk upon the Crowe.'

Heere is ended the Maunciples tale of the Crowe.

poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Canterbury Tales; the Seconde Nonnes Tale

The Prologe of the Seconde Nonnes Tale.

The ministre and the norice unto vices,
Which that men clepe in Englissh ydelnesse,
That porter of the gate is of delices,
To eschue, and by hir contrarie hir oppresse,
(That is to seyn by leveful bisynesse),
Wel oghten we to doon al oure entente,
Lest that the feend thurgh ydelnesse us shente.

For he, that with hise thousand cordes slye
Continuelly us waiteth to biclappe,
Whan he may man in ydelnesse espye,
He kan so lightly cacche hym in his trappe,
Til that a man be hent right by the lappe,
He nys nat war the feend hath hym in honde.
Wel oghte us werche, and ydelnesse withstonde.

And though men dradden nevere for to dye,
Yet seen men wel by resoun, doutelees,
That ydelnesse is roten slogardye,
Of which ther nevere comth no good encrees;
And seen that slouthe hir holdeth in a lees,
Oonly to slepe, and for to ete and drynke,
And to devouren al that othere swynke.

And for to putte us fro swich ydelnesse,
That cause is of so greet confusioun,
I have heer doon my feithful bisynesse,
After the legende, in translacioun
Right of thy glorious lyf and passioun,
Thou with thy gerland wroght with rose and lilie,
Thee meene I, mayde and martir, seint Cecilie.

Invocacio ad Mariam.

And thow that flour of virgines art alle,
Of whom that Bernard list so wel to write,
To thee at my bigynnyng first I calle,
Thou confort of us wrecches, do me endite
Thy maydens deeth, that wan thurgh hir merite

The eterneel lyf, and of the feend victorie,
As man may after reden in hir storie.

Thow mayde and mooder, doghter of thy sone,
Thow welle of mercy, synful soules cure,
In whom that God for bountee chees to wone,
Thow humble and heigh, over every creature
Thow nobledest so ferforth oure nature,
That no desdeyn the makere hadde of kynde,
His sone in blood and flessh to clothe and wynde,

Withinne the cloistre blisful of thy sydis
Took mannes shape the eterneel love and pees,
That of the tryne compas lord and gyde is,
Whom erthe and see and hevene out of relees
Ay heryen, and thou, virgine wemmelees,
Baar of thy body, and dweltest mayden pure,
The creatour of every creature.

Assembled is in thee magnificence
With mercy, goodnesse, and with swich pitee
That thou, that art the sonne of excellence,
Nat oonly helpest hem that preyen thee,
But oftentyme, of thy benygnytee,
Ful frely, er that men thyn help biseche,
Thou goost biforn, and art hir lyves leche.

Now help, thow meeke and blisful faire mayde,
Me, flemed wrecche in this desert of galle;
Thynk on the womman Cananee, that sayde
That whelpes eten somme of the crommes alle,
That from hir lordes table been yfalle,
And though that I, unworthy sone of Eve,
Be synful, yet accepte my bileve.

And for that feith is deed withouten werkis,
So for to werken yif me wit and space,
That I be quit fro thennes that moost derk is.
O thou, that art so fair and ful of grace,
Be myn advocat in that heighe place
Ther as withouten ende is songe Osanne,
Thow Cristes mooder, doghter deere of Anne!

And of thy light my soule in prison lighte,
That troubled is by the contagioun
Of my body, and also by the wighte
Of erthely lust and fals affeccioun,
O havene of refut, O salvacioune
Of hem that been in sorwe and in distresse,
Now help, for to my werk I wol me dresse.

Yet preye I yow that reden that I write,
Foryeve me, that I do no diligence
This ilke storie subtilly to endite,
For bothe have I the wordes and sentence
Of hym that at the seintes reverence
The storie wroot, and folwe hir legende.
I pray yow, that ye wole my werk amende.

First wolde I yow the name of seinte Cecile
Expowne, as men may in hir storie see.
It is to seye in Englissh, `hevenes lilie'
For pure chaastnesse of virginitee,
Or for she whitnesse hadde of honestee
And grene of conscience, and of good fame
The soote savour, lilie was hir name.

Or Cecilie is to seye, `the wey to blynde,'
For she ensample was by good techynge;
Or elles, Cecile, as I writen fynde
Is joyned by a manere conjoynynge
Of `hevene' and `lia,' and heere in figurynge
The `hevene' is set for thoght of hoolynesse,
And `lia' for hir lastynge bisynesse.

Cecile may eek be seyd, in this manere,
`Wantynge of blyndnesse,' for hir grete light
Of sapience, and for hire thewes cleere
Or elles, loo, this maydens name bright
Of `hevene' and `leos' comth, for which by right
Men myghte hir wel `the hevene of peple' calle,
Ensample of goode and wise werkes alle.

For `leos' `peple' in Englissh is to seye,
And right as men may in the hevene see
The sonne and moone and sterres every weye,
Right so men goostly, in this mayden free,
Syen of feith the magnanymytee,
And eek the cleernesse hool of sapience,
And sondry werkes, brighte of excellence.

And right so as thise philosophres write
That hevene is swift and round and eek brennynge,
Right so was faire Cecilie the white
Ful swift and bisy evere in good werkynge,
And round and hool in good perseverynge,
And brennynge evere in charite ful brighte.
Now have I yow declared what she highte.

Here bigynneth the Seconde Nonnes tale of the lyf of Seinte Cecile.

This mayden, bright Cecilie, as hir lyf seith,
Was comen of Romayns, and of noble kynde,
And from hir cradel up fostred in the feith
Of Crist, and bar his gospel in hir mynde.
She nevere cessed, as I writen fynde,
Of hir preyere, and God to love and drede,
Bisekynge hym to kepe hir maydenhede.

And whan this mayden sholde unto a man
Ywedded be, that was ful yong of age,
Which that ycleped was Valerian,
And day was comen of hir mariage,
She, ful devout and humble in hir corage,
Under hir robe of gold, that sat ful faire,
Hadde next hir flessh yclad hir in an haire.

And whil the orgnes maden melodie,
To God allone in herte thus sang she:
'O Lord, my soule and eek my body gye
Unwemmed, lest that I confounded be.'
And for his love that dyde upon a tree,
Every seconde and thridde day she faste,
Ay biddynge in hir orisons ful faste.

The nyght cam, and to bedde moste she gon
With hir housbonde, as ofte is the manere,
And pryvely to hym she seyde anon,
'O sweete and wel biloved spouse deere,
Ther is a conseil, and ye wolde it heere,
Which that right fayn I wolde unto yow seye,
So that ye swere ye shul me nat biwreye.'

Valerian gan faste unto hire swere
That for no cas, ne thyng that myghte be,
He sholde nevere mo biwreyen here,
And thanne at erst to hym thus seyde she,
'I have an Aungel which that loveth me,
That with greet love, wher so I wake or sleepe,
Is redy ay my body for to kepe.

And if that he may feelen out of drede
That ye me touche, or love in vileynye,
He right anon wol sle yow with the dede,
And in youre yowthe thus ye sholden dye.
And if that ye in clene love me gye,
He wol yow loven as me for youre clennesse,
And shewen yow his joye and his brightnesse.'

Valerian, corrected as God wolde,
Answerde agayn, 'If I shal trusten thee,
Lat me that aungel se, and hym biholde,
And if that it a verray aungel bee,
Thanne wol I doon as thou hast prayed me;
And if thou love another man, forsothe
Right with this swerd thanne wol I sle yow bothe.'

Cecile answerde anon right in this wise,
'If that yow list, the aungel shul ye see,
So that ye trowe in Crist, and yow baptize.
Gooth forth to Via Apia,' quod she,
'That fro this toun ne stant but miles thre;
And to the povre folkes that ther dwelle
Sey hem right thus as that I shal yow telle.

Telle hem, that I Cecile yow to hem sente,
To shewen yow the goode Urban the olde,
For secree thynges and for good entente;
And whan that ye Seint Urban han biholde,
Telle hym the wordes whiche that I to yow tolde,
And whan that he hath purged yow fro synne,
Thanne shul ye se that aungel er ye twynne.'

Valerian is to the place ygon,
And right as hym was taught by his lernynge,
He foond this hooly olde Urban anon
Among the seintes buryeles lotynge.
And he anon, withouten tariynge,
Dide his message, and whan that he it tolde,
Urban for joye his handes gan up holde.

The teeris from hise eyen leet he falle.
'Almyghty lord, O Jesu Crist,' quod he,
'Sower of chaast conseil, hierde of us alle,
The fruyt of thilke seed of chastitee
That thou hast sowe in Cecile, taak to thee.
Lo, lyk a bisy bee, withouten gile,
Thee serveth ay thyn owene thral Cecile!

For thilke spouse that she took but now
Ful lyk a fiers leoun, she sendeth heere
As meke as evere was any lomb, to yow.'
And with that word anon ther gan appeere
An oold man clad in white clothes cleere,
That hadde a book with lettre of gold in honde,
And gan bifore Valerian to stonde.

Valerian as deed fil doun for drede
Whan he hym saugh, and he up hente hym tho,
And on his book right thus he gan to rede,
'O lord, o feith, o god, withouten mo,
O Cristendom, and fader of alle also,
Aboven alle, and over alle, everywhere.-'
Thise wordes al with gold ywriten were.

Whan this was rad, thanne seyde this olde man,
'Leevestow this thyng or no? sey ye or nay?'
'I leeve al this thyng,' quod Valerian,
'For oother thyng than this, I dar wel say,
Under the hevene no wight thynke may.'
Tho vanysshed this olde man, he nyste where;
And Pope Urban hym cristned right there.

Valerian gooth hoom, and fynt Cecile
Withinne his chambre with an aungel stonde.
This aungel hadde of roses and of lilie
Corones two, the whiche he bar in honde;
And first to Cecile, as I understonde,
He yaf that oon, and after gan he take
That oother to Valerian hir make.

'With body clene and with unwemmed thoght
Kepeth ay wel thise corones,' quod he,
'Fro Paradys to yow have I hem broght,
Ne nevere mo ne shal they roten bee,
Ne lese hir soote savour, trusteth me,
Ne nevere wight shal seen hem with his eye
But he be chaast and hate vileynye.

And thow Valerian, for thow so soone
Assentedest to good conseil also,
Sey what thee list, and thou shalt han thy boone.'
'I have a brother,' quod Valerian tho,
'That in this world I love no man so.
I pray yow that my brother may han grace,
To knowe the trouthe, as I do in this place.'

The aungel seyde, 'God liketh thy requeste,
And bothe with the palm of martirdom
Ye shullen com unto his blisful feste.'
And with that word Tiburce his brother coom;
And whan that he the savour undernoom,
Which that the roses and the lilies caste,
Withinne his herte he gan to wondre faste,

And seyde, 'I wondre, this tyme of the yeer,
Whennes that soote savour cometh so
Of rose and lilies that I smelle heer.
For though I hadde hem in myne handes two,
The savour myghte in me no depper go,
The sweete smel that in myn herte I fynde
Hath chaunged me al in another kynde.'

Valerian seyde, 'Two corones han we,
Snow-white and rose-reed that shynen cleere,
Whiche that thyne eyen han no myght to see,
And as thou smellest hem thurgh my preyere,
So shaltow seen hem, leeve brother deere,
If it so be thou wolt, withouten slouthe,
Bileve aright and knowen verray trouthe.'

Tiburce answerde, 'Seistow this to me?
In soothnesse or in dreem I herkne this?'
'In dremes,' quod Valerian, 'han we be
Unto this tyme, brother myn, ywes;
But now at erst in trouthe oure dwellyng is.'
'How woostow this,' quod Tiburce, 'in what wyse?'
Quod Valerian, 'That shal I thee devyse.

The aungel of God hath me the trouthe ytaught
Which thou shalt seen, if that thou wolt reneye
The ydoles and be clene, and elles naught.'
And of the myracle of thise corones tweye
Seint Ambrose in his preface list to seye.
Solempnely this noble doctour deere
Commendeth it, and seith in this manere;

The palm of martirdom for to receyve
Seinte Cecile, fulfild of Goddes yifte,
The world and eek hire chambre gan she weyve,
Witnesse Tyburces and Valerians shrifte,
To whiche God of his bountee wolde shifte
Corones two, of floures wel smellynge,
And made his aungel hem the corones brynge.

The mayde hath broght thise men to blisse above;
The world hath wist what it is worth, certeyn,
Devocioun of chastitee to love. . . .
Tho shewed hym Cecile, al open and pleyn,
That alle ydoles nys but a thyng in veyn,
For they been dombe and therto they been deve,
And charged hym hise ydoles for to leve.

'Whoso that troweth, nat this, a beest he is,'
Quod tho Tiburce, 'if that I shal nat lye.'
And she gan kisse his brest, that herde this,
And was ful glad he koude trouthe espye.
'This day I take thee for myn allye,'
Seyde this blisful faire mayde deere,
And after that she seyde as ye may heere.

'Lo, right so as the love of Crist,' quod she,
'Made me thy brotheres wyf, right in that wise
Anon for myn allyee heer take I thee,

Syn that thou wolt thyne ydoles despise.
Go with thy brother now, and thee baptise,
And make thee clene, so that thou mowe biholde
The aungels face of which thy brother tolde.'

Tiburce answerde and seyde, 'Brother deere,
First tel me whider I shal, and to what man?'
'To whom?' quod he, 'com forth with right good cheere,
I wol thee lede unto the Pope Urban.'
'Til Urban? brother myn Valerian,'
Quod tho Tiburce, 'woltow me thider lede?
Me thynketh that it were a wonder dede.'

'Ne menestow nat Urban,' quod he tho,
'That is so ofte dampned to be deed,
And woneth in halkes alwey to and fro,
And dar nat ones putte forth his heed;
Men sholde hym brennen in a fyr so reed,
If he were founde, or that men myghte hym spye;
And we also, to bere hym compaignye,

And whil we seken thilke divinitee,
That is yhid in hevene pryvely,
Algate ybrend in this world shul we be!'
To whom Cecile answerde boldely,
'Men myghten dreden wel and skilfully
This lyf to lese, myn owene deere brother,
If this were lyvynge oonly and noon oother.

But ther is bettre lyf in oother place,
That nevere shal be lost, ne drede thee noght,
Which Goddes sone us tolde thurgh his grace.
That fadres sone hath alle thyng ywroght,
And al that wroght is with a skilful thoght,
The goost, that fro the fader gan procede,
Hath sowled hem, withouten any drede.

By word and by myracel Goddes Sone,
Whan he was in this world, declared heere
That ther was oother lyf ther men may wone.'
To whom answerde Tiburce, 'O suster deere,
Ne seydestow right now in this manere,
Ther nys but o God, lord in soothfastnesse,
And now of thre how maystow bere witnesse?'

'That shal I telle,' quod she, 'er I go.
Right as a man hath sapiences thre,
Memorie, engyn, and intellect also,
So, in o beynge of divinitee
Thre persones may ther right wel bee.'
Tho gan she hym ful bisily to preche
Of Cristes come, and of hise peynes teche,

And many pointes of his passioun;
How Goddes sone in this world was withholde
To doon mankynde pleyn remissioun,
That was ybounde in synne and cares colde . . .
Al this thyng she unto Tiburce tolde;
And after this, Tiburce in good entente
With Valerian to Pope Urban he wente;

That thanked God, and with glad herte and light
He cristned hym, and made hym in that place
Parfit in his lernynge, Goddes knyght.
And after this Tiburce gat swich grace
That every day he saugh in tyme and space
The aungel of God, and every maner boone
That he God axed, it was sped ful soone.

It were ful hard by ordre for to seyn
How manye wondres Jesu for hem wroghte.
But atte laste, to tellen short and pleyn,
The sergeantz of the toun of Rome hem soghte,
And hem biforn Almache the Prefect broghte,
Which hem opposed, and knew al hire entente,
And to the ymage of Juppiter hem sente,

And seyde, 'Whoso wol nat sacrifise,
Swap of his heed, this my sentence heer.'
Anon thise martirs that I yow devyse,
Oon Maximus, that was an officer
Of the prefectes, and his corniculer,
Hem hente, and whan he forth the seintes ladde,
Hymself he weepe, for pitee that he hadde.

Whan Maximus had herd the seintes loore,
He gat hym of the tormentoures leve,
And ladde hem to his hous withoute moore.
And with hir prechyng, er that it were eve,
They gonnen fro the tormentours to reve,
And fro Maxime, and fro his folk echone
The fals feith, to trowe in God allone.

Cecile cam whan it was woxen nyght,
With preestes that hem cristned alle yfeere,
And afterward, whan day was woxen light,
Cecile hem seyde, with a ful stedefast cheere,
'Now Cristes owene knyghtes, leeve and deere,
Cast alle awey the werkes of derkness
And armeth yow in armure of brightnesse.

Ye han forsothe ydoon a greet bataille,
Youre cours is doon, youre feith han ye conserved,
Gooth to the corone of lyf that may nat faille.
The rightful juge which that ye han served
Shal yeve it yow as ye han it deserved.'
And whan this thyng was seyd as I devyse,
Men ledde hem forth to doon the sacrifise.

But whan they weren to the place broght,
To tellen shortly the conclusioun,
They nolde encense ne sacrifise right noght,
But on hir knees they setten hem adoun
With humble herte and sad devocioun,
And losten bothe hir hevedes in the place.
Her soules wenten to the kyng of grace.

This Maximus that saugh this thyng bityde,
With pitous teeris tolde it anon-right,
That he hir soules saugh to hevene glyde,
With aungels ful of cleernesse and of light;
And with this word converted many a wight.
For which Almachius dide hym so bete
With whippe of leed, til he the lyf gan lete.

Cecile hym took, and buryed hym anon
By Tiburce and Valerian softely,
Withinne hir buriyng place under the stoon,
And after this Almachius hastily
Bad hise ministres fecchen openly
Cecile, so that she myghte in his presence
Doon sacrifice, and Juppiter encense.

But they, converted at hir wise loore,
Wepten ful soore, and yaven ful credence
Unto hire word, and cryden moore and moore,
'Crist, Goddes sone, withouten difference,
Is verray God, this is al oure sentence,
That hath so good a servant hym to serve
This with o voys we trowen, thogh we sterve.'

Almachius, that herde of this doynge,
Bad fecchen Cecile, that he myghte hir see,
And alderfirst, lo, this was his axynge:
'What maner womman artow?' tho quod he.
'I am a gentil womman born,' quod she.
'I axe thee,' quod he, 'though it thee greeve,
Of thy religioun and of thy bileeve.'

'Ye han bigonne youre question folily,'
Quod she, 'that wolden two answeres conclude
In o demande; ye axed lewedly.'
Almache answerde unto that similitude,
'Of whennes comth thyn answeryng so rude?'
'Of whennes?' quod she, whan that she was freyned,
'Of conscience and of good feith unfeyned.'

Almachius seyde, 'Ne takestow noon heede
Of my power?' and she answerde hym,
'Youre myght,' quod she, 'ful litel is to dreede,
For every mortal mannes power nys
But lyke a bladdre ful of wynd, ywys;
For with a nedles poynt, whan it is blowe,
May al the boost of it be leyd ful lowe.'

'Ful wrongfully bigonne thow,' quod he,
'And yet in wrong is thy perseveraunce;
Wostow nat how oure myghty princes free
Han thus comanded and maad ordinaunce
That every cristen wight shal han penaunce,
But if that he his cristendom withseye-
And goon al quit, if he wole it reneye?'

'Youre princes erren, as youre nobleye dooth,'
Quod tho Cecile, 'and with a wood sentence
Ye make us gilty, and it is nat sooth,
For ye, that knowen wel oure innocence,
For as muche as we doon a reverence
To Crist, and for we bere a cristen name,
Ye putte on us a cryme, and eek a blame.

But we that knowen thilke name so
For vertuous, we may it nat withseye.'
Almache answerde, 'Chees oon of thise two,
Do sacrifise, or cristendom reneye,
That thou mowe now escapen by that weye.'
At which the hooly blisful faire mayde
Gan for to laughe, and to the juge sayde,

'O Juge, confus in thy nycetee,
Woltow that I reneye innocence,
To make me a wikked wight,' quod shee;
'Lo, he dissymuleth heere in audience,
He stareth, and woodeth in his advertence.'
To whom Almachius, 'Unsely wrecche,
Ne woostow nat how far my myght may strecche?

Han noght oure myghty princes to me yeven
Ye, bothe power and auctoritee
To maken folk to dyen or to lyven?
Why spekestow so proudly thanne to me?'
'I speke noght but stedfastly,' quod she,
'Nat proudly, for I speke as for my syde,
We haten deedly thilke vice of pryde.

And if thou drede nat a sooth to heere,
Thanne wol I shewe al openly by right
That thou hast maad a ful grete lesyng heere,
Thou seyst, thy princes han thee yeven myght
Bothe for to sleen, and for to quyken a wight.
Thou that ne mayst but oonly lyf bireve,
Thou hast noon oother power, ne no leve!

But thou mayst seyn thy princes han thee maked
Ministre of deeth, for if thou speke of mo,
Thou lyest, for thy power is ful naked.'
'Do wey thy booldnesse,' seyde Almachius tho,
'And sacrifise to oure goddes er thou go.
I recche na twhat wrong that thou me profre,
For I can suffre it as a philosophre.

But thilke wronges may I nat endure
That thou spekest of oure goddes heere,' quod he.
Cecile answerde, 'O nyce creature,
Thou seydest no word, syn thou spak to me,
That I ne knew therwith thy nycetee,
And that thou were in every maner wise
A lewed officer and a veyn justise.

Ther lakketh no thyng to thyne outter eyen
That thou nart blynd, for thyng that we seen alle
That it is stoon, that men may wel espyen,
That ilke stoon a god thow wolt it calle.
I rede thee lat thyn hand upon it falle,
And taste it wel, and stoon thou shalt it fynde,

Syn that thou seest nat with thyne eyen blynde.

It is a shame that the peple shal
So scorne thee, and laughe at thy folye,
For communly men woot it wel overal
That myghty God is in hise hevenes hye,
And thise ymages, wel thou mayst espye,
To thee ne to hemself mowen noght profite,
For in effect they been nat worth a myte.'

Thise wordes and swiche othere seyde she,
And he weex wrooth, and bad men sholde hir lede
Hom til hir hous, and 'in hire hous,' quod he,
'Brenne hire right in a bath of flambes rede.'
And as he bad, right so was doon in dede,
For in a bath they gonne hire faste shetten,
And nyght and day greet fyre they underbetten.

The longe nyght and eek a day also
For al the fyr and eek the bathes heete
She sat al coold, and feelede no wo;
It made hir nat a drope for to sweete.
But in that bath hir lyf she moste lete,
For he Almachius, with a ful wikke entente,
To sleen hir in the bath his sonde sente.

Thre strokes in the nekke he smoot hir tho,
The tormentour, but for no maner chaunce
He myghte noght smyte al hir nekke atwo.
And for ther was that tyme an ordinaunce
That no man sholde doon men swich penaunce
The ferthe strook to smyten, softe or soore,
This tormentour ne dorste do namoore.

But half deed, with hir nekke ycorven there,
He lefte hir lye, and on his wey is went.
The cristen folk, which that aboute hir were,
With sheetes han the blood ful faire yhent.
Thre dayes lyved she in this torment,
And nevere cessed hem the feith to teche;
That she hadde fostred, hem she gan to preche.

And hem she yaf hir moebles, and hir thyng,
And to the Pope Urban bitook hem tho,
And seyde, 'I axed this at hevene kyng
To han respit thre dayes, and namo,
To recomende to yow er that I go
Thise soules, lo, and that I myghte do werche
Heere of myn hous perpetuelly a chirche.'

Seint Urban with hise deknes prively
This body fette, and buryed it by nyghte,
Among hise othere seintes, honestly.
Hir hous the chirche of seinte Cecilie highte;
Seint Urban halwed it, as he wel myghte,
In which, into this day, in noble wyse
Men doon to Crist and to his seinte servyse.

Heere is ended the Seconde Nonnes tale.

poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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