Date: 0101-01-01 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Year 7; Literature

The Canterbury Tales

Geoffrey Chaucer

Selections from the
Complete Translation into Modern English
by

Ronald L. Ecker
and

Eugene Crook

General Prologue

When April’s gentle rains have pierced the drought

Of March right to the root, and bathed each sprout

Through every vein with liquid of such power

It brings forth the engendering of the flower;

When Zephyrus too with his sweet breath has blown

Through every field and forest, urging on

The tender shoots, and there’s a youthful sun,

His second half course through the Ram now run,

And little birds are making melody

And sleep all night, eyes open as can be

(So Nature pricks them in each little heart),

On pilgrimage then folks desire to start.

The palmers long to travel foreign strands

To distant shrines renowned in sundry lands;

And specially, from every shire’s end

In England, folks to Canterbury wend:

To seek the blissful martyr is their will,

The one who gave such help when they were ill.

Now in that season it befell one day

In Southwark at the Tabard where I lay,

As I was all prepared for setting out

To Canterbury with a heart devout,

That there had come into that hostelry

At night some twenty-nine, a company

Of sundry folk whom chance had brought to fall

In fellowship, for pilgrims were they all

And onward to Canterbury would ride.

The chambers and the stables there were wide,

We had it easy, served with all the best;

And by the time the sun had gone to rest

I’d spoken with each one about the trip

And was a member of the fellowship.

We made agreement, early to arise

To take our way, of which I shall advise.

But nonetheless, while I have time and space,

Before proceeding further here’s the place

Where I believe it reasonable to state

Something about these pilgrims—to relate

Their circumstances as they seemed to me,

Just who they were and each of what degree

And also what array they all were in.

And with a Knight I therefore will begin.

There with us was a Knight, a worthy man

Who, from the very first time he began

To ride about, loved honor, chivalry,

The spirit of giving, truth and courtesy.

He was a valiant warrior for his lord;

No man had ridden farther with the sword

Through Christendom and lands of heathen creeds,

And always he was praised for worthy deeds.

He helped win Alexandria in the East,

And often sat at table’s head to feast

With knights of all the nations when in Prussia.

In Lithuania as well as Russia

No other noble Christian fought so well.

When Algeciras in Granada fell,

When Ayas and Attalia were won,

This Knight was there. Hard riding he had done

At Benmarin. Along the Great Sea coast

He’d made his strikes with many a noble host.

His mortal battles numbered then fifteen,

And for our faith he’d fought at Tramissene

Three tournaments and always killed his foe.

This worthy Knight was ally, briefly so,

Of the lord of Palathia (in work

Performed against a fellow heathen Turk).

He found the highest favor in all eyes,

A valiant warrior who was also wise

And in deportment meek as any maid.

He never spoke unkindly, never played

The villain’s part, but always did the right.

He truly was a perfect, gentle knight.

But now to tell of his array, he had

Good horses but he wasn’t richly clad;

His fustian tunic was a rusty sight

Where he had worn his hauberk, for the Knight

Was just back from an expedition when

His pilgrimage he hastened to begin.

There with him was his son, a youthful Squire,

A lover and knight bachelor to admire.

His locks were curled as if set by a press.

His age was twenty years or so, I guess.

In stature he was of an average height

And blest with great agility and might.

He’d ridden for a time with cavalry

In Flanders and Artois and Picardy,

Performing well in such a little space

In hopes of standing in his lady’s grace.

He was embroidered like a flowerbed

Or meadow, full of flowers white and red.

He sang or else he fluted all the day;

He was as fresh as is the month of May.

His gown was short, his sleeves were long and wide.

And well upon a horse the lad could ride;

Good verse and songs he had composed, and he

Could joust and dance, drew well, wrote gracefully.

At night he’d love so hotly, without fail,

He slept no more than does a nightingale.

He was a courteous, humble lad and able,

And carved meat for his father at the table.

Now he had brought one servant by his side,

A Yeoman—with no more he chose to ride.

This Yeoman wore a coat and hood of green.

He had a sheaf of arrows, bright and keen,

Beneath his belt positioned handily—

He tended to his gear most yeomanly,

His arrow feathers never drooped too low—

And in his hand he bore a mighty bow.

His head was closely cropped, his face was brown.

The fellow knew his woodcraft up and down.

He wore a bracer on his arm to wield

His bolts. By one side were his sword and shield,

And on the other, mounted at the hip,

A dagger sharply pointed at the tip.

A Christopher of silver sheen was worn

Upon his breast; a green strap held his horn.

He must have been a forester, I guess.

There also was a Nun, a Prioress,

Her smile a very simple one and coy.

Her greatest oath was only “By Saint Loy!”

Called Madam Eglantine, this Nun excelled

At singing when church services were held,

Intoning through her nose melodiously.

And she could speak in French quite fluently,

After the school of Stratford at the Bow

(The French of Paris wasn’t hers to know).

Of table manners she had learnt it all,

For from her lips she’d let no morsel fall

Nor deeply in her sauce her fingers wet;

She’d lift her food so well she’d never get

A single drop or crumb upon her breast.

At courtesy she really did her best.

Her upper lip she wiped so very clean

That not one bit of grease was ever seen

Upon her drinking cup. She was discreet

And never reached unseemly for the meat.

And certainly she was good company,

So pleasant and so amiable, while she

Would in her mien take pains to imitate

The ways of court, the dignity of state,

That all might praise her for her worthiness.

To tell you of her moral consciousness,

Her charity was so great that to see

A little mouse caught in a trap would be

Enough to make her cry, if dead or bleeding.

She had some little dogs that she was feeding

With roasted meat or milk and fine white bread;

And sorely she would weep if one were dead

Or if someone should smite it with a stick.

She was all tender heart right to the quick.

Her pleated wimple was of seemly class,

She had a well formed nose, eyes gray as glass,

A little mouth, one that was soft and red.

And it’s for sure she had a fair forehead—

It must have been a handbreadth wide, I own,

For hardly was the lady undergrown.

The beauty of her cloak I hadn’t missed.

She wore a rosary around her wrist

Made out of coral beads all colored green,

And from it hung a brooch of golden sheen

On which there was an A crowned with a wreath,

With Amor vincit omnia beneath.

She brought along another Nun, to be

Her chaplain, and her Priest, who made it three.

A Monk there was, a fine outrider of

Monastic lands, with venery his love;

A manly man, to be an abbot able.

He had some dainty horses in the stable,

And when he rode, his bridle might you hear

Go jingling in the whistling wind as clear

And loud as might you hear the chapel bell

Where this lord not too often kept his cell.

Because Saint Maurus and Saint Benedict

Had rules he thought were old and rather strict,

This mounted Monk let old things pass away

So that the modern world might have its day.

That text he valued less than a plucked hen

Which says that hunters are not holy men,

Or that a monk ignoring rules and order

Is like a flapping fish out of the water

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

He held that text not worth a single oyster,

And his opinion, I declared, was good.

Why should he study till he’s mad? Why should

He pore through books day after day indoors,

Or labor with his hands at all the chores

That Austin bids?  How shall the world be served?

Let such works be to Austin then reserved!

And so he was a pricker and aright;

Greyhounds he had as swift as birds in flight,

For tracking and the hunting of the hare

Were all his pleasure, no cost would he spare.

His sleeves, I saw, were fur-lined at the hand

With gray fur of the finest in the land,

And fastening his hood beneath his chin

There was a golden, finely crafted pin,

A love knot in the greater end for class.

His head was bald and shinier than glass.

His face was shiny, too, as if anointed.

He was a husky lord, one well appointed.

His eyes were bright, rolled in his head and glowed

Just like the coals beneath a pot. He rode

In supple boots, his horse in great estate.

Now certainly he was a fine prelate,

He wasn’t pale like some poor wasted ghost.

Fat swan he loved the best of any roast.

His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.

A Friar there was, a wanton one and merry,

Who begged within a certain limit. None

In all four orders was a better one

At idle talk, or speaking with a flair.

And many a marriage he’d arranged for fair

And youthful women, paying all he could.

He was a pillar of his brotherhood.

Well loved he was, a most familiar Friar

To many franklins living in his shire

And to the worthy women of the town;

For he could hear confessions and played down

The parish priest. To shrive in every quarter

He had been given license by his order.

He’d sweetly listen to confession, then

As pleasantly absolve one of his sin.

He easily gave penance when he knew

Some nice gift he’d receive when he was through.

For when to a poor order something’s given,

It is a sign the man is truly shriven.

If someone gave, the Friar made it clear,

He knew the man’s repentance was sincere.

For many men are so hard of the heart

They cannot weep, though grievous be the smart;

Instead of tears and prayers, they might therefore

Give silver to the friars who are poor.

He kept his cape all packed with pins and knives

That he would give away to pretty wives.

At merriment he surely wasn’t middling;

He sang quite well and also did some fiddling,

And took the prize with all his balladry.

His neck was white as any fleur-de-lis,

His strength like any wrestler’s of renown.

He knew the taverns well in every town,

Each hosteler and barmaid, moreso than

He knew the leper and the beggarman.

For anyone as worthy as the Friar

Had faculties that called for something higher

Than dealing with those sick with leprosy.

It wasn’t dignified, nor could it be

Of profit, to be dealing with the poor,

What with the rich and merchants at the store.

Above all where some profit might arise

Was where he’d be, in courteous, humble guise.

No man had greater virtue than did he,

The finest beggar in the friary.

(He paid a fee for his exclusive right:

No brethren might invade his begging site.)

And though a widow shoeless had to go,

So pleasant was his “In principio”

He’d have a farthing when he went away.

He gained much more than what he had to pay,

And he could be as wanton as a pup.

He’d arbitrate on days to settle up

In law disputes, not like a cloisterer

Dressed in a threadbare cope as students were,

But rather like a master or a pope.

He wore a double-worsted semicope

As rounded as a church bell newly pressed.

He lisped somewhat when he was at his best,

To make his English sweet upon his tongue.

And when he fiddled and his songs were sung,

His eyes would twinkle in his head as might

The stars themselves on any frosty night.

Now Hubert was this worthy Friar’s name.

A Merchant with a forked beard also came,

Dressed in a motley. Tall and proud he sat

Upon his horse. A Flemish beaver hat

He wore, and boots most elegantly wrought.

He spoke with pomp on everything he thought,

And boasted of the earnings he’d collected.

He felt the trade route had to be protected

Twixt Middleburgh and Orwell by the sea.

He speculated in French currency.

He used his wits so well, with such finesse,

That no one guessed the man’s indebtedness,

So dignified he was at managing

All of his bargains and his borrowing.

He was a worthy fellow all the same;

To tell the truth, I do not know his name.

There also was an Oxford Student, one

Whose logic studies long since had begun.

The horse he rode was leaner than a rake,

And he was hardly fat, I undertake,

But looked quite hollow, far from debonair.

And threadbare was the cloak he had to wear;

He had no benefice as yet and, most

Unworldly, wouldn’t take a secular post.

For he would rather have at his bed’s head

Some twenty books, all bound in black or red,

Of Aristotle and his philosophy

Than finest robes, fiddle or psaltery.

Philosopher he was, and yet his coffer

Had little of the gold that it should offer.

But all that from his friends he could acquire

He spent on books and learning, didn’t tire

Of praying for the souls of all those who

Would give to help him see his schooling through,

For study was the foremost thing he heeded.

He never spoke one word more than was needed,

And then he spoke with formal reverence;

He’d make it short but make a lot of sense.

Of highest moral virtue was his speech,

And gladly he would learn and gladly teach.

A wise and prudent Sergeant of the Law,

One who at Saint Paul’s porch one often saw,

Was with us too, a man of excellence.

Discreet he was, deserving reverence

(Or so it seemed, his sayings were so wise).

He often was a judge in the assize

By virtue of his patent and commission.

He had with his renown and erudition

Gained many fees and robes in his career.

A purchaser of land without a peer,

His holdings were fee simple in effect;

No one could prove one purchase incorrect.

Nowhere was there a busier man, yet he

Seemed busier than even he could be.

He knew each court decision, every crime

Adjudicated from King William’s time.

He’d execute a deed with such perfection

No man could call its writing into question,

And every statute he could state by rote.

He wore a simple multicolored coat

Girt by a striped silk belt. Enough to tell,

On what he wore I will no longer dwell.

There was a Franklin in his company

Whose beard was lily-white as it could be,

Though his complexion was a healthy red.

In wine he loved to sop his morning bread;

A devotee of all delights that lure us,

He truly was a son of Epicurus

(Who thought the life that’s pleasure-filled to be

The only one of true felicity).

He was a great householder, and his bounty

Made him Saint Julian to those in his county.

His bread and ale were always fresh and fine,

And no one had a better stock of wine.

Baked meat was always in his house, the best

Of fish and flesh, so much that to each guest

It almost seemed to snow with meat and drink

And all the dainties of which one could think.

His meals would always vary, to adhere

To all the changing seasons of the year.

The coop was partridge-filled, birds fat as any,

And in the pond the breams and pikes were many.

Woe to the cook unless his sauce was tart

And he had all utensils set to start!

His table would stay mounted in the hall

All set and ready at a moment’s call.

In county sessions he was lord and sire,

And often he had been Knight of the Shire.

A dagger and a purse made out of silk

Hung from his belt, as white as morning milk.

A sheriff he’d been, and county auditor.

There wasn’t a more worthy vavasor.

A Haberdasher, Dyer, Carpenter,

Tapestry Maker, and a Weaver were

All there as well, clothed in the livery

Of guildsmen, of one great fraternity.

Their gear was polished up till it would pass

For new. Their knives were mounted not with brass

But all with silver. Finely wrought array

Their belts and pouches were in every way.

Each one looked like a burgess, one whose place

Would be before the whole guild on a dais.

They had the means and wits, were it their plan,

Each of them to have been an alderman;

They had enough income and property

And wives who would to such a plan agree,

Or else they’d have to blame themselves alone.

It’s very nice as “Madam” to be known,

And lead processions on a holy day

And have one’s train borne in a royal way.

They brought along a Cook with them to fix

Their meals. He boiled their chicken in a mix

Of marrowbones, tart herbs and galingale.

He knew right off a draught of London ale,

Knew how to boil and roast and broil and fry,

Whip up a stew as well as bake a pie.

It seemed a shame, and caused me some chagrin,

To see he had an ulcer on his shin.

He made blancmange that I’d rank with the best.

There was a Skipper hailing from the west,

As far away as Dartmouth, I’d allow.

He rode a nag as best as he knew how.

A woolen gown down to his knees he wore,

And round his neck and neath his arm he bore

A strap from which a dagger dangled down.

The summer sun had turned his color brown.

He surely was a festive sort of fellow;

Many a pilfered wine draught made him mellow

While sailing from Bordeaux, the merchant snoring.

He had no use for conscience, thought it boring.

In battle, when he gained the upper hand,

By plank he’d send them home to every land.

As for his skill in reckoning the tides

And all the dangers of the sea besides,

By zodiac and moon to navigate,

From Hull to Carthage there was none as great.

Hardy and shrewd in all he’d undertaken,

His beard by many tempests had been shaken;

And he knew well the havens everywhere

From Gotland to the Cape of Finisterre,

And every creek in Brittany and Spain.

The Skipper’s ship was called the Maudelayne.

There also was among us a Physician,

None like him in this world, no competition,

To speak of medicine and surgery.

He was well grounded in astrology:

He tended patients specially in hours

When natural magic had its greatest powers,

For he could tell by which stars would ascend

What talisman would help his patient mend.

He knew the cause of every malady

Whether from hot, cold, wet, or dry it be,

And of each humor what the symptoms were.

He truly was a fine practitioner.

And once he knew a malady’s root cause

He’d give the cure without a further pause,

For readily apothecaries heeded

When there were drugs or medicines he needed,

That profit might be shared by everyone

(Their fellowship not recently begun).

The ancient Aesculapius he knew,

And Dioscorides and Rufus too,

Hali and Galen, old Hippocrates,

Serapion, Avicenna, Rhazes,

Gaddesden, Damascenus, Constantine,

Bernard and Averroes and Gilbertine.

His diet was as measured as could be,

Being not one of superfluity

But greatly nourishing as well as prudent.

He hardly could be called a Bible student.

He decked himself in scarlet and in azure,

With taffeta and silk. Yet he’d demure

If something might necessitate expense;

He saved his gains from times of pestilence,

For gold’s a cordial, so the doctors say.

That’s why he loved gold in a special way.

From near the town of Bath a good Wife came;

She was a little deaf, which was a shame.

She was a clothier, so excellent

Her work surpassed that of Ypres and Ghent.

When parish wives their gifts would forward bring,

None dared precede her to the offering—

And if they did, her wrath would surely be

So mighty she’d lose all her charity.

The kerchiefs all were of the finest texture

(And must have weighed ten pounds, that’s no conjecture)

That every Sunday she had on her head.

The fine hose that she wore were scarlet red

And tightly laced, she had a nice new pair

Of shoes. Her face was ruddy, bold and fair.

She was a worthy woman all her life:

At church door with five men she’d been a wife,

Not counting all the company of her youth.

(No need to treat that now, but it’s the truth.)

She’d journeyed to Jerusalem three times;

Strange rivers she had crossed in foreign climes;

She’d been to Rome and also to Boulogne,

To Galicia for Saint James and to Cologne,

And she knew much of wandering by the way.

She had the lover’s gap teeth, I must say.

With ease upon an ambling horse she sat,

Well wimpled, while upon her head her hat

Was broad as any buckler to be found.

About her ample hips a mantle wound,

And on her feet the spurs she wore were sharp.

In fellowship she well could laugh and carp.

Of remedies of love she had good notions,

For of that art’s old dance she knew the motions.

There was a good man of religion, too,

A Parson of a certain township who

Was poor, but rich in holy thought and work.

He also was a learned man, a clerk;

The Christian gospel he would truly preach,

Devoutly his parishioners to teach.

Benign he was, in diligence a wonder,

And patient in adversity, as under

Such he’d proven many times. And loath

He was to get his tithes by threatening oath;

For he would rather give, without a doubt,

To all the poor parishioners about

From his own substance and the offerings.

Sufficiency he found in little things.

His parish wide, with houses wide asunder,

He’d never fail in either rain or thunder,

Though sick or vexed, to make his visitations

With those remote, regardless of their stations.

On foot he traveled, in his hand a stave.

This fine example to his sheep he gave:

He always did good works before he taught them.

His words were from the gospel as he caught them,

And this good saying he would add thereto:

“If gold should rust, then what will iron do?”

For if a priest be foul in whom we trust,

No wonder that the ignorant goes to rust.

And it’s a shame (as every priest should keep

In mind), a dirty shepherd and clean sheep.

For every priest should an example give,

By his own cleanness, how his sheep should live.

He never set his benefice for hire,

To leave his sheep encumbered in the mire

While he ran off to London and Saint Paul’s

To seek a chantry, singing in the stalls,

Or be supported by a guild. Instead

He dwelt at home, and he securely led

His fold, so that the wolf might never harry.

He was a shepherd and no mercenary.

A holy, virtuous man he was, and right

In showing to the sinner no despite.

His speech was never haughty or indignant,

He was a teacher modest and benignant;

To draw folks heavenward to life forever,

By good example, was his great endeavor.

But if some person were too obstinate,

Whether he be of high or low estate,

He would be sharply chided on the spot.

A better priest, I wager, there is not.

He didn’t look for pomp or reverence

Nor feign a too self-righteous moral sense;

What Christ and his apostles had to tell

He taught, and he would follow it as well.

With him his brother came, a Plowman who

Had carted many a load of dung. A true

And well-intentioned laborer was he,

Who lived in peace and perfect charity.

The Lord his God with whole heart he loved best,

When times were good as well as when distressed,

And loved his neighbor as himself, for which

He’d gladly thresh, or dig to make a ditch,

For love of Christ, to help the poor in plight

Without a wage, if it lay in his might.

He paid his proper tithes religiously,

Both of his labor and his property.

He wore a tunic and he rode a mare.

A Miller and a Reeve also were there,

A Summoner, also a Pardoner,

A Manciple and me, no more there were.

The Miller was as stout as any known,

A fellow big in brawn as well as bone.

It served him well, for everywhere he’d go

He’d win the ram at every wrestling show.

Short-shouldered, broad he was, a husky knave;

No door could keep its hinges once he gave

A heave or ran and broke it with his head.

His beard like any sow or fox was red,

And broad as any spade it was, at that.

He had a wart upon his nose, right at

The tip, from which a tuft of hairs was spread

Like bristles on a sow’s ears, just as red;

The nostrils on the man were black and wide.

He had a sword and buckler at his side.

Great as a furnace was his mouth. And he

Could tell some jokes and stories, though they’d be

Mostly of sin and lechery. He stole

Much corn, charged three times over for a toll;

Yet he’d a golden thumb, I do declare.

A white coat and a blue hood were his wear.

He blew the bagpipe, knew it up and down,

And played it as he brought us out of town.

From an Inn of Court a gentle Manciple

Was with us, one who set a fine example

In buying victuals wisely. Whether he

Would buy with credit or with currency,

He took such care in purchases he made

He’d come out well ahead for what he paid.

Now is that not a sign of God’s fair grace,

That such a simple man’s wit can displace

The wisdom of a heap of learned men?

His masters numbered more than three times ten,

All lawyers of a very skillful sort;

A dozen of them in that Inn of Court

Were worthy to be stewards of the treasure

Of any lord in England, that in pleasure

He might live, enjoying all that he had

Without a debt (unless he had gone mad),

Or live as simply as he might desire;

If need be, they could help an entire shire

Through any circumstance that might befall.

And yet this Manciple could shame them all.

The Reeve was a slender, choleric man.

He shaved his beard as closely as one can;

His hair was shortly clipped around the ears

And cropped in front just like a priest’s appears.

The fellow’s legs were very long and lean,

Each like a staff, no calf was to be seen.

Well could he keep a granary and bin

(No auditor could challenge that and win),

And he could augur by the drought and rain

The true yield of his seed and of his grain.

His master’s sheep, his cattle, milk cows, horses,

His poultry, swine, and all his stored resources

Were wholly left to this Reeve’s governing,

For by contract his was the reckoning

Since first his lord had grown to twenty years.

No man could ever put him in arrears;

There was no bailiff, herdsman, not one servant

With sleight unknown—the Reeve was too observant,

And feared like death itself by all beneath.

He had a lovely dwelling on a heath

Where green trees stood to shade it from the sun.

In gaining goods his lord he had outdone,

He stored up many riches privately.

To please his lord, he’d give him subtly

A gift or loan out of the lord’s own goods,

Receiving thanks and things like coats and hoods.

He’d learnt a good trade as a youth, for he

Was quite a gifted man at carpentry.

He rode a steed with quite a sturdy frame,

A dapple gray (the horse was Scot by name).

He wore a long surcoat of bluish shade,

And at his side he had a rusty blade.

From Norfolk was this Reeve of whom I tell,

Nearby a town that’s known as Bawdeswell.

His coat was tucked up like a friar’s. He

Rode always last among our company.

A Summoner was with us in the place

Who like a cherub had a fire-red face,

So pimply was the skin, eyes puffed and narrow.

He was as hot and lecherous as a sparrow.

With black and scabby brows and scanty beard,

He had a face that all the children feared;

There’s no quicksilver, litharge or brimstone,

Borax, ceruse, no tartar oil that’s known—

No ointment that could cleanse, to keep it simple,

And rid his face of even one white pimple

Among the whelks that sat upon his cheeks.

He loved his garlic, onions and his leeks,

And strong wine red as blood once he had eaten.

Then he would speak and cry out like a cretin,

And when with wine he was quite well infused,

Some Latin words were all the words he used.

He knew a few good phrases, two or three,

Which he had learnt to say from some decree.

(No wonder, what with hearing it all day;

And after all, as you well know, a jay

Can call out “Walt!” as well as any pope.)

But once a question came to test his scope,

He had no learning left to make reply,

So “Questio quid juris!” was his cry.

He was a gentle, kindly rascal, though;

A better fellow men may never know.

Why, he’d be willing, for a quart of wine,

To let some rascal have his concubine

For one whole year, excusing him completely.

He well could “pluck a bird” (always discreetly),

And if he found a fellow rogue wherever

He’d teach him that he should in his endeavor

Not be afraid of the archdeacon’s curse—

Unless the fellow’s soul was in his purse,

For that is where his punishment would be.

“The purse is the archdeacon’s hell,” said he.

(I know that was a lie; a guilty man

Should be in dread of Holy Church’s ban,

It slays as absolution saves. He best

Beware also a writ for his arrest.)

The Summoner controlled, himself to please,

All of the young girls of the diocese;

He knew their secrets, counseled them and led.

A garland he had set upon his head

As great as any ale sign on a stake.

He’d made himself a buckler out of cake.

With him there rode a gentle Pardoner

Of Rouncivalle (comrades and friends they were),

Who’d come straight from the court of Rome. And he

Would loudly sing “Come hither, love, to me!”

The Summoner bore him a stiff bass staff;

No trumpet ever sounded so by half.

The Pardoner’s hair was as yellow as wax,

But hung as smoothly as a hank of flax;

In little strands the locks ran from his head

Till over both his shoulders they were spread

And thinly lay, one here, another there.

In jolly spirit, he chose not to wear

His hood but kept it packed away. He rode

(Or so he thought) all in the latest mode;

But for a cap his long loose hair was bare.

Such glaring eyes he had, just like a hare!

A veronica was sewn upon his cap.

He had his bag before him in his lap,

Brimming with pardons hot from Rome. He’d speak

In voice as dainty as a goat’s. From cheek

To cheek he had no beard and never would,

So smooth his face you’d think he’d shaved it good.

I think he was a gelding or a mare.

But speaking of his craft, Berwick to Ware

There was no pardoner could take his place.

For in his bag he had a pillowcase

That used to be, he said, Our Lady’s veil;

He claimed he had a fragment of the sail

That took Saint Peter out upon the sea

Before Christ called him to his ministry;

He had a cross of latten set with stones,

And in a glass he had some old pig’s bones;

And with these relics, when he saw at hand

A simple parson from the hinterland,

He’d make more money in one day alone

Than would the parson two months come and gone.

So he made apes, with all the tricks he’d do,

Of parson and of congregation too.

And yet I should conclude, for all his tactic,

In church he was a fine ecclesiastic,

So well he read a lesson or a story,

And best of all intoned the offertory.

For well he knew that when the song was sung,

He then must preach, and not with awkward tongue.

He knew how one gets silver from the crowd;

That’s why he sang so merrily and loud.

As briefly as I could I’ve told you now

Degree, array, and number, and of how

This company of pilgrims came to be

In Southwark at that pleasant hostelry

Known as the Tabard, which is near the Bell.

And so with that, it’s time for me to tell

Exactly what we did that very night

When at this inn we’d all come to alight;

And after that I’ll tell you of our trip,

Of all that’s left about our fellowship.

But first I pray that by your courtesy

You will not judge it my vulgarity

If I should plainly speak of this assortment,

To tell you all their words and their deportment,

Though not a word of theirs I modify.

For this I’m sure you know as well as I:

Who tells the tale of any other man

Should render it as nearly as he can,

If it be in his power, word for word,

Though from him such rude speech was never heard.

If he does not, his tale will be untrue,

The words will be invented, they’ll be new.

One shouldn’t spare the words of his own brother,

He ought to say one word just like another.

Christ spoke broad words himself in Holy Writ,

And you know well no villainy’s in it.

And Plato says, to all those who can read

Him, that words must be cousin to the deed.

I also pray that you’ll forgive the fact

That in my tale I haven’t been exact

To set folks in their order of degree;

My wit is short, as clearly you may see.

Our Host made welcome each and every one,

And right away our supper was begun.

He served us with the finest in good food;

The wine was strong to fit our festive mood.

Our Host performed, so it seemed to us all,

As well as any marshal in a hall.

A robust man he was, and twinkle-eyed,

As fine as any burgess in Cheapside,

Bold in his speech, one wise and educated,

A man whose manhood could not be debated.

He also was a merry sort of bloke,

As after supper he began to joke

And spoke to us of mirth and other things

When we had finished with our reckonings.

“My lords,” he then addressed us, “from the start

You’ve been most welcome here, that’s from the heart.

In faith, this year I’ve truly yet to see

Here at this inn another company

As merry as the one that’s gathered now.

I’d entertain you more if I knew how.

Say, here’s a thought that just occurred to me,

A way to entertain you, and it’s free.

“You go to Canterbury—may God speed,

The blissful martyr bless you for the deed!

And well I know as you go on your way,

You plan to tell some tales, to have some play.

There won’t be much amusement going on

If everybody rides dumb as a stone.

So as I said, I would propose a game

To give you some diversion, that’s the aim.

If it’s agreed, by everyone’s assent,

That you’ll stand by the judgment I present,

And strive to do exactly as I say

Tomorrow when you’re riding on your way,

Then by my father’s soul, who now is dead,

You’ll have some fun or you can have my head!

Let’s have a show of hands, no more to say.”

We let our will be known then right away;

We didn’t think it worth deliberation

And gave him leave without a hesitation

To tell us what his verdict was to be.

“My lords,” he said, “then listen well to me,

And may this not, I pray, meet your disdain.

Now here’s the point, speaking short and plain:

Each one of you, to pass the time of day,

Shall tell two tales while you are on the way

To Canterbury; then each one of you

On the return shall tell another two,

About adventures said once to befall.

And he who bears himself the best of all—

That is to say, the one who’s judged to tell

The tales that in both aim and wit excel—

Shall win a supper paid for by the lot,

Here in this place, right at this very spot,

When we return again from Canterbury.

For in my wish to make your journey merry,

I will myself most gladly with you ride—

And at my own expense—to be your guide;

And if my judgment one disputes, he’ll pay

For all that we shall spend along the way.

If you will grant me that it’s to be so,

Then tell me in a word that I may know

To make my preparations for the start.”

It was so granted, each with happy heart

Gave him his oath. We therefore asked our Host

To vouchsafe that indeed he’d take the post

And function as our governor, to hear

Our tales and judge, and make his judgment clear,

And set the supper at a certain price;

Then we would all be ruled by his device,

Come high or low. And so it was agreed

By one assent, his judgment we would heed.

With that, more wine was fetched for every guest.

We drank it, then were ready for some rest

And went to bed with no more tarrying.

Next morning, when the day began to spring,

Up rose our Host and roused us like a cock.

He gathered us together in a flock,

Then forth we rode at but a walking pace

Out to Saint Thomas’s watering place.

Our Host there checked his horse and said to all:

“My lords, now listen, if you will. Recall

The pact, as I remind you, made with me.

If evensong and matins both agree,

Let’s see now who shall tell us the first tale.

And if I’ve ever drunk of wine or ale,

Whoso resists the judgment I present

Shall pay along the way all that is spent.

Draw lots before we travel farther, then,

And he who draws the shortest shall begin.

Sir Knight,” he said, “my master and my lord,

Now draw a lot, to keep with our accord.

Come here,” said he, “my Lady Prioress,

And you, Sir Student—quit your bashfulness

And studies too. Lay hand to, everyone!”

And so the drawing was at once begun.

I’ll keep it short and tell you how it went:

Whether by chance or fate or accident,

The truth is that the lot fell to the Knight—

A fact in which the rest all took delight.

As was required, then tell his tale he must,

By the agreement that was made in trust

As you have heard. What more is there to know?

And when this good man saw that it was so,

As one with wisdom and obedient

To that to which he’d given free assent,

He said, “Since I’m the one to start the game,

The lot I drew is welcome, in God’s name!

Now let us ride, and hear what I’ve to say.”

And with that word we rode forth on our way,

As he began at once with merry cheer

To tell his tale, and spoke as you may hear.

The Knight’s Tale

PART I

Once upon a time, old stories tell us,

There was a duke whose name was Theseus.

Of Athens he was lord and governor,

And in his time was such a conqueror

That none was greater underneath the sun,

So many wealthy countries he had won.

What with his wisdom and his chivalry,

He conquered all the realm of Femeny,

Which then was known as Scythia, and married

The queen named Hippolyta, whom he carried

Back home with him amid much pageantry

And glorious ceremony. Emily,

Her younger sister, also went along.

And so in victory and glorious song

I leave this noble duke as he is bound

For Athens, with his warriors all around.

And if there weren’t so much to hear, I now

Would fully have related for you how

That land was won, the realm of Femeny,

By Theseus and by his chivalry;

I’d tell you of the battle that was waged

As Athens and the Amazons engaged,

And of the siege in which was finally seen

Defeat for Scythia’s fair and hardy queen,

And of the feast upon their wedding day

And the rousing welcome home. But as I say,

I must forbear describing all that now.

I have, God knows, a lot of field to plow,

The oxen in my yoke have got it rough.

And since the rest of my tale’s long enough,

Not holding back the group is my concern;

Let every fellow tell his tale in turn

And let us see who shall the supper win.

Where I left off, then, I’ll once more begin.

This duke of whom I spoke, when he almost

Had reached the gates of town with all his host,

In such high spirits and so full of pride,

Became aware, as he looked to the side,

That kneeling by the road there was in rue

A company of ladies, two by two,

One pair behind another, in black dress.

So woeful were the cries of their distress

No living creature ever heard before

Such lamentation uttered. Furthermore

They did not cease until his horse was idle,

For they had grabbed the reins upon its bridle.

“What folk are you, against our joy vying,

Disturbing our homecoming with your crying?”

Said Theseus. “So envious can you be

That you protest the honor given me?

Or who mistreated you, who has offended?

And tell me if the damage can be mended,

And why it is in black you are arrayed.”

The eldest lady answered, though she swayed

Half in a swoon of such deathlike degree

It was a pity both to hear and see.

“My lord,” she said, “whom Fortune chose to give

The victory, as conqueror to live,

Your glory and honor are not our grief,

It’s mercy that we’re seeking and relief.

Have mercy on our woe and our distress!

Some drop of pity, through your gentleness,

Upon us wretched women please let fall.

In truth, my lord, there’s none among us all

Who hasn’t been a duchess or a queen;

Now we are wretches. As may well be seen,

Thanks be to Fortune’s faithless wheel, there’s no

One whose well-being is assured. And so,

My lord, that in your presence we might be,

The temple of the goddess Clemency

Is where we’ve waited for a whole fortnight.

Help us, my lord, if it be in your might.

“The wretch I am, now weeping, wailing thus,

Was once the wife of King Capaneus,

Who died at Thebes—and curséd be that day!

And all of us you see in this array

Are crying so, our spirits beaten down,

Because we lost our husbands in that town

During the time that under siege it lay.

And yet this old Creon—ah, wellaway!—

Who is in Thebes, now lord of all the city,

Iniquitous and ireful, without pity,

Has for despite and by his tyranny

Inflicted on their bodies villainy:

The corpses of our lords, all of them slain,

He threw into a heap where they have lain,

For he gives no assent, will not allow

That they be burnt or buried, rather now

He makes hounds eat them, such is his despite.”

And with that word, they cried without respite

And then they groveled, weeping piteously.

“Have mercy for us wretched,” was their plea,

“Your heart be open to our grief today.”

This gentle duke dismounted right away

With pitying heart when hearing these words spoken.

He felt as if his heart were nearly broken,

To see so pitiful, in such a strait,

Those who had once been of such great estate.

He took them in his arms then and consoled them;

He comforted as best he could, and told them

That by his oath, that of a faithful knight,

He would do all that lay within his might

Upon this tyrant vengefulness to wreak,

That afterwards all those in Greece might speak

Of how Creon by Theseus was served

His just deserts, the death he so deserved.

Immediately, without the least delay,

His banner he displayed and rode away

For Thebes, with all his host on every side;

No nearer Athens did he choose to ride

Nor take his ease for even half a day,

But slept that night somewhere along the way.

The queen was not among his company,

But with her fair young sister Emily

Was sent forth into Athens, there to dwell

While he rode on his way. No more to tell.

The red image of Mars with spear and targe

So shone upon his banner white and large

That up and down the meadows seemed to glitter;

A pennon by his banner was aflitter

In richest gold, upon it, as was meet,

The Minotaur that he had slain in Crete.

Thus rode this duke, this conqueror, in power,

The men with him of chivalry the flower,

Until he came to Thebes, there to alight

Upon a field where he was set to fight.

But only speaking briefly of this thing,

He fought and slew Creon, the Theban king,

In open battle, as befits a knight

So manly. Creon’s men he put to flight.

The city by assault he won thereafter

And tore it down, each wall and beam and rafter;

And to the ladies he restored again

The bones of all their kinsmen who’d been slain,

For obsequies then custom of the day.

But it would take too long here to delay

By telling of the din, the lamentation

Made by these ladies during the cremation,

And honor paid, all that one could confer,

By Theseus, the noble conqueror,

To the ladies when on their way they went.

To speak with brevity is my intent.

This worthy Theseus, when he had slain

Creon and captured Thebes, chose to remain

Upon the field that night to take his rest,

With all that country under his behest.

To rummage through the heap of Theban slain,

The corpses’ clothes and armor to retain,

The pillagers worked hard and carefully

After the battle and the victory.

It so befell that in the heap they found,

With grievous wounds there lying on the ground,

Two youthful knights who side by side had fought,

Identical their arms and richly wrought.

As for their names, Arcite was that of one,

The other knight was known as Palamon;

Not yet alive nor dead did they appear,

But by their coat of arms and by their gear

The heralds knew that these two specially

Were members of the royal family

Of Thebes, two sisters’ sons. Their finders then

Removed them from the heap where they had been,

And had them carried gently to the tent

Of Theseus, who promptly had them sent

To Athens, there to dwell perpetually

In prison—to no ransom he’d agree.

And when this worthy duke thus held his sway,

He took his host and rode home straightaway.

As conqueror with laurel he was crowned,

And lived in joy and honor, much renowned

Throughout his life. What more is there to know?

And in a tower, in anguish and woe,

Are Palamon and his good friend Arcite

Forevermore. No gold could end their plight.

So year by year it went, and day by day,

Until one morning it befell in May

That Emily, a fairer sight to see

Than lilies on a stalk of green could be,

And fresher than the flowers May discloses—

Her hue strove with the color of the roses

Till I know not the fairer of the two—

Before daylight, as she was wont to do,

Had roused herself and was already dressed.

For May will leave no sluggard nightly rest;

The season seems to prick each gentle heart,

It causes one out of his sleep to start

And says, “Arise, it’s time to pay respect!”

And this caused Emily to recollect

The honor due to May and to arise.

She brightly dressed, a pleasure to the eyes.

Her hair was braided in one yellow tress

A good yard down her back, so I would guess.

And in the garden, as the sun arose,

She wandered up and down, and, as she chose,

She gathered flowers, white as well as red,

To make a dainty garland for her head;

And like that of an angel was her song.

The tower, of great size and thick and strong,

Which was the castle’s major dungeon—there

The knights were held in prison and despair,

As I have said, though more will soon befall—

Was built adjacent to the garden wall

Where Emily was then about her play.

The sun was bright, and clear the early day,

As Palamon, in woe with no reprieve,

As was his wont—the jailer gave him leave—

Was roaming in a chamber of great height

From which all of the city was in sight,

As was the green-branched garden near the tower

Where Emily, as radiant as a flower,

Was in her walk and roaming here and there.

So Palamon, this captive in despair,

Was pacing in this chamber to and fro,

And to himself complaining of his woe.

That he was born he often said “Alas!”

And then by chance or fate it came to pass

That through the window (thick with many a bar

Of iron, as great and squared as girders are)

He cast his eyes upon fair Emily.

He blanched and cried an “Ah!” of such degree

It was as if he’d been pierced through the heart.

And at this cry Arcite rose with a start

And said, “My cousin, what is ailing you

That you’re so pale, a deathlike thing to view?

Why did you cry? Has someone done you wrong?

For God’s love, it’s the patient gets along

In prison, that’s the way it has to be.

We owe to Fortune this adversity.

Some wicked aspect or configuration

Of Saturn with some certain constellation

Gave this to us, for all we might have sworn.

So stood the heavens when we two were born;

We must endure it, to be short and plain.”

But Palamon replied, “You have a vain

Imagination, cousin, truthfully,

To be expressing such a thought to me.

It wasn’t prison that caused me to cry.

I just received a shot, struck through my eye

Right to my heart, and it will finish me.

The fairness of that lady that I see

In yonder garden, roaming to and fro,

Is cause of all my crying and my woe.

I don’t know if she’s woman or a goddess,

But truly it is Venus, I would guess.”

Then Palamon fell down upon his knees

And said this prayer: “Dear Venus, if you please

To be transfigured so, to be seen by

A woeful, wretched creature such as I,

Out of this prison help us to escape.

But if it is my fate, one taken shape

By eternal word, to die in this fashion,

Upon our royal house have some compassion,

For we are brought so low by tyranny.”

And with that word, Arcite then chanced to see

This lady who was roaming to and fro;

And at the sight, her beauty hurt him so

That if the wound to Palamon was sore,

Arcite himself was hurt as much or more.

And with a sigh he then said piteously,

“By such fresh beauty I’m slain suddenly,

The beauty of her roaming in that place!

Unless I have her mercy by her grace

That I at least may see her in some way,

I am but dead, there is no more to say.”

When Palamon heard this, with angry eye

He turned to look at Arcite and reply,

“You speak such words in earnest or in play?”

“In earnest,” Arcite said, “is what I say!

God help me, I’ve no mind for joking now.”

And Palamon at this then knit his brow.

“It does you little honor,” he replied,

“To be a traitor to me, to have lied

To me, as I’m your cousin and your brother;

For we have sworn, each of us to the other,

That never we, on pain of death—until

Death do us part—would do each other ill,

In love one to be hindrance to the other

Or in whatever case, beloved brother;

That you would further me in what I do

In every case, and I would further you;

This was your oath, as well as mine. I know

That you would never dare deny it’s so.

You then are in my counsel, there’s no doubt,

And yet now falsely you would go about

To love my lady, whom I love and serve

And always will until I die. What nerve!

False Arcite, you would surely not do so;

I loved her first, and told you of my woe

As to my counsel, to the one who swore

To further me, as I have said before.

And so, my cousin, you’re bound as a knight

To help me, if it lies within your might,

Or else be false, and such I dare to say.”

But Arcite proudly answered in this way:

“It’s you instead who would be false to me,

And false you are, I tell you utterly.

For par amour, I loved her first, not you.

What can you say? You don’t know which is true,

She’s ‘woman or a goddess’! You profess

Affection felt in terms of holiness,

But I feel love that’s for a creature, such

That I’ve already said to you as much,

As to my brother, one who to me swore.

But let’s suppose you did love her before:

Have you not heard the learned man’s old saw

That ‘Who shall give a lover any law’?

Love, by my crown, is law that’s greater than

All law that Nature gives to earthly man;

That’s why, for love, decrees or laws men pass

Are broken every day in every class.

A man must love despite himself; albeit

His death may be the cost, he cannot flee it,

Be she a maiden, widow, or a wife.

But it’s not likely that in all your life

You’ll stand once in her grace, nor myself either;

You know as well as I it shall be neither,

For you and I have been forever damned

To prison without ransom. We have shammed,

We strive just as the hounds did for the bone:

They fought all day to find the prize was gone,

For while they fought a kite came winging through

And bore away the bone from twixt the two.

And therefore at the royal court, my brother,

It’s each man for himself and not another.

Love if you like, I love and always will,

And truly, brother, that is that. Be still;

Here in this prison we must not succumb

But each take his own chances as they come.”

The strife between the two was long and great;

Had I the time, more of it I’d relate.

But to the point. It happened that one day

(To tell it all as briefly as I may)

Perotheus, a worthy duke who’d been

A friend of Theseus since way back when

The two of them were children, came to pay

His friend a visit and to have some play

In Athens, as he’d often done before.

In all this world he loved no fellow more

Than Theseus, who cherished him the same;

They loved so greatly, so the old books claim,

That when one died, as truthfully they tell,

The other went to look for him in hell—

But that’s a tale I don’t wish to recite.

Duke Perotheus also loved Arcite,

Whom he’d known in Thebes for many a year.

At last, when Perotheus had bent his ear

With the request, Duke Theseus agreed

To free Arcite from prison; he was freed

Without a ransom and allowed to go

Where he desired—on one condition, though.

The understanding, plainly to relate,

With Theseus regarding Arcite’s fate

Was that if Arcite ever should be found,

By day or night or any time, on ground

Of any country ruled by Theseus,

And he were caught, it was accorded thus:

He was to lose his head then by the sword.

There was no action Arcite could afford

Except to make for home a speedy trek;

One must beware when he must pledge his neck.

How great a sorrow Arcite had to bear!

His heart was smitten with deathlike despair;

He wept and wailed, and pitifully he cried,

And even contemplated suicide.

He said, “Alas, the day that I was born!

Worse than before in prison I’m forlorn.

It’s now my fate eternally to dwell

Not as in purgatory but in hell.

I wish I’d never known Perotheus!

I’d still be dwelling with Duke Theseus,

Be fettered in his prison—not like this,

Not in this woe. Then I would be in bliss;

The sight of her, the lady whom I serve,

Although her grace I never may deserve,

Would have sufficed and been enough for me.

O my dear cousin Palamon,” said he,

“You’ve won in this adventure, that’s for sure.

In prison blissfully you may endure—

In prison? Surely not! In paradise!

Fate’s passed to you the dice to seek the prize,

You have her sight, which I no more shall see.

Since you’re so near her presence, it may be,

As you’re a knight, a worthy one and able,

That by some chance—as Fortune’s so unstable—

You may attain your great desire in time.

But I, who am exiled to other clime

And barren of all grace, in such despair

That neither earth nor water, fire nor air,

Nor any creature that is made of these,

Can ever give me any help or ease—

Well should I die without a hope, in sadness.

Farewell my life, my pleasure, and my gladness!

“Alas, why do folks so complain about

The providence of God or feel put out

By Fortune, when they’re often given more

In many ways than they could bargain for

Themselves? A man’s desire for wealth may well

Leave that man sick or murdered. From his cell

A prisoner may long for freedom, then

At home have his own servants do him in.

So many ills befall us in this way,

We don’t know really that for which we pray.

We fare as one who’s drunken as a mouse:

Although a drunkard knows he has a house,

He doesn’t know the right way there. The road

Is slippery for a man who drinks his load.

So fare we in this world, most certainly;

We search with vigor for felicity,

But it’s so true we often go awry.

We all can vouch for that, and namely I,

Who had this great opinion overall

That if I could escape that prison wall

I then could live in perfect health and bliss—

From which I have been exiled now for this.

Since I may never see you, Emily,

I’m good as dead, there is no remedy.”

Now Palamon, meanwhile, was still confined,

And when he learnt Arcite was gone, he whined

And wailed with so much sorrow it resounded

Throughout the tower. Utterly confounded,

He wet the mighty fetters round each shin

With bitter, salty tears in his chagrin.

“Alas,” said he, “my cousin, dear Arcite,

The fruit is yours, God knows, you’ve won the fight!

To walk at large in Thebes now you may go

And give but little thought to all my woe;

And you may, in your wise and knightly manner,

Assemble all your kinsmen to your banner

And on this city make a sharp attack,

By treaty or by Fortune to go back

To Thebes with her, your lady and your wife,

For whom I now must forfeit here my life.

When one weighs every possibility—

Since you are now at large, from prison free,

And are a lord—you have a great advantage.

I’m dying in a cage, what can I manage?

Here I must weep and wail long as I live

With all the woe that prison has to give,

And with the heartache love has given me

That doubles my torment and misery.”

The fire of jealousy with sudden start

Was raging in his breast, and caught his heart

So madly he was whiter to behold

Than box-tree or the ashes dead and cold.

He said then, “O cruel gods, eternal tribe

Who rule us by your word, and who inscribe

Upon a tablet made of adamant

Your every judgment and eternal grant!

Why is it mankind in esteem you hold

More than the sheep that cowers in the fold?

For man is slain like any other beast,

Or dwells in prison, not to be released,

Confronted with adversity and illness—

And often, by my faith, when he is guiltless.

“What is the reason in your prescience

That torment’s the reward for innocence?

And only adding more to all my strife

Is that a man must live a moral life

In God’s name, and keep rein upon his will,

While every beast may all his lust fulfill.

And when a beast is dead, he has no pain,

While man in death must still weep and complain

Though in this world he had his share of woe.

Without a doubt that’s how it stands, although

I’ll leave it to the clergy to explain.

How well I know this world is full of pain.

Alas, I see a serpent or a thief,

From whose deceit the righteous seek relief,

Go freely as he pleases on his way;

Yet I’m a captive, under Saturn’s sway

And that of Juno, who in jealousy

And wrath has well nigh cut off totally

The blood of Thebes, laid waste the walls once grand.

And Venus slays me, on the other hand,

With jealousy and fear of this Arcite.”

On Palamon I’ll cease now if I might

And leave him in his prison still to dwell,

That further word on Arcite I may tell.

The summer passed. The winter nights so long

Increased twofold the pains that were so strong

In both lover and prisoner. I know

Not which one had to bear the greater woe:

For Palamon, with brevity to tell,

Was damned to life inside a prison cell,

In iron fetters until he be dead;

Yet banishment had fallen on the head

Of Arcite, from that land he had to flee

And nevermore might he his lady see.

I now will ask you lovers, who’s the one

Who has it worse, Arcite or Palamon?

For one may see his lady day by day

But must in prison waste his life away;

The other may go riding where he please,

But now his lady nevermore he sees.

Make your own judgment on it, if you can.

I will go on, meanwhile, as I began.

PART II

When back to Thebes Arcite had made his way,

With many an “Alas!” he pined each day,

For nevermore his lady might he see.

To summarize his woe with brevity,

No creature’s had such sorrow, to be sure,

Nor will as long as this world may endure.

Of sleep and meat and drink he had so little

That lean and dry he grew, shaftlike and brittle;

His eyes were hollow, ghastly to behold,

His sallow skin like ashes pale and cold.

And he kept to himself, always alone,

And all through every night he’d wail and moan.

And when he heard a song or instrument,

He wept, shed tears that nothing could prevent.

So feeble were his spirits and so low

That, if he spoke, no man would ever know

Him by his speech or voice, he had so changed.

He moodily behaved, as if deranged

Not only by lovesickness (hereos

Is what it’s called) but mania that grows

From melancholic humor that arises

From that front brain cell where one fantasizes.

In short, all was in overturned position

In both the habit and the disposition

Of this despairing lover, Sir Arcite.

Should I go on all day about his plight?

Now when he had endured a year or so

This cruel torment, all this pain and woe

At home in Thebes (as you have heard me say),

One night he dreamt while in the bed he lay

That winged Mercury came to appear

Before him, bidding him to be of cheer.

His sleep inducing wand he held upright,

A hat was on his head, his hair was bright;

As Arcite noticed, Mercury was dressed

Just as when Argus he induced to rest.

The god said this: “To Athens you shall go,

Where destined is an end to all your woe.”

With that, Arcite woke with a start and said,

“No matter what sore pain may lie ahead,

Right now to Athens truly I must fare;

Though death be dreaded, I’ll be seeing there

My lady whom I love and serve, and I

Shall not, in her dear presence, fear to die.”

He picked up a large mirror then to see

The great change in his color, the degree

To which his face looked like another kind.

Immediately the thought ran through his mind

That since his face had been disfigured so

By all that he had suffered, he could go

And live in Athens, in some lowly guise,

And who he was no one would realize;

Then he could see his lady every day.

And so at once he changed his knight’s array

For that of a poor laborer for hire;

Then all alone (save only for a squire

Who knew his secret, all there was to know,

And was disguised in poverty also),

He went to Athens by the shortest way.

Then to the royal court he went one day

And offered at the gate his worker’s hands,

To drag and draw, to follow all commands.

To tell you what occurred without ado,

He got a job with an attendant who

Was dwelling in the house of Emily;

For he was shrewd and very quick to see

Which of them served his lady there. Well could

He bear the water and he hewed as well the wood,

For he was young and equal to the task,

Big-boned and strong. What any man might ask,

Whatever one devised, Arcite could do.

He served in this way for a year or two,

The chamber-page of lovely Emily,

And said his name was Philostrate. And he

Was twice as loved as any other man

Of equal rank at court, for in this span

His character was of such noble sort

That he won quite a name throughout the court.

As charity, they said, it would be noted

If Theseus would have the man promoted

To higher station, so that servicewise

His virtue he might fully exercise.

And so it was in time his fame had sprung

Out of his gentle deeds and pleasant tongue

Until the duke took him and set him higher,

To serve him in his chamber as a squire,

And gave him gold to keep himself in style.

From his own country, too, from while to while

Men brought to him a secret increment

That honestly and slyly would be spent,

That none might wonder how he had so much.

He lived this way three years, his bearing such,

In time of peace as well as time of war,

That there was none whom Theseus loved more.

I now leave Arcite in this blissful state

That more on Palamon I may relate.

In dark and solid prison, horrid, drear,

Now Palamon endures a seventh year

And pines away in sorrow and distress.

Who feels such double wounds, such heaviness,

As Palamon whom love destroys so,

Almost out of his wits through all his woe?

And Palamon’s a captive, be it clear,

Perpetually, not only for a year.

O who could rhyme in English properly

His martyrdom? It’s not I truthfully,

So I’ll pass on as briefly as I may.

Now in the seventh year (the old books say,

With more detail, it was the third night in

The month of May), the time came finally when,

Whether it was by chance or destiny—

As when a thing’s determined, it shall be—

With a friend’s help, soon after midnight fell,

Palamon escaped from his prison cell

And fled the town as fast as he could go.

He’d given his jailer drink, and it was so

Well mixed—a honeyed wine, along with some

Narcotics, like fine Theban opium—

That all that night, as hard as men could shake him,

The jailer slept and no one could awake him,

While Palamon fled swiftly as he may.

The night was short, and fast would come the day,

When at all costs he knew he’d have to hide.

And so a grove that stood off to the side

He fearfully approached. It was his plan,

Which I will tell as briefly as I can,

Inside that grove to hide himself all day,

Then at the fall of night to make his way

To Thebes. There all his friends he would implore

To help him march on Theseus in war,

And, to be brief, unless he lose his life,

To win the lovely Emily as wife.

That was his whole intention, short and plain.

And now to Arcite I’ll return again,

Who little knew how nigh had grown his care

Till Fortune was to catch him in her snare.

The busy lark, the messenger of day,

Salutes now with her song the morning gray,

And fiery Phoebus rises up so bright

Till all the east is laughing in his light,

The beams of which dry every bush where cleaves

The silver droplets, hanging on the leaves.

And Arcite, who is in the royal court

As Theseus’s squire of good report,

Has risen and looks on the merry day.

To give the honor that was due to May

(Recalling, too, his object of desire),

He set out on a courser quick as fire

Into the fields to have a little play.

A mile or two from court he rode his way

Till he came to the grove of which I spoke.

By chance along that grove his course he broke

To make himself a garland from the growth,

With woodbine or with hawthorn leaf or both,

While in the sunshine singing heartily:

“O May, with flowers and with greenery,

You are so welcome, fresh and fairest May!

I hope that I may get some green today!”

Down from his courser, with a lusty heart

Into the grove he promptly made his start

And roamed a path wherever it would chance.

Now Palamon, as was the happenstance,

Was hidden in a bush where none could see,

As fearful for his life as he could be.

He’d no idea that this could be Arcite;

God knows, he had no cause to think it might,

But it’s been truly said down through the years,

“The field is blest with eyes, the wood has ears.”

It’s best a fellow always be discreet,

For when they least expect men often meet.

Little did Arcite know that near him there

Was his old friend to hear him sing his air,

For he sat in the bush completely still.

When of his roaming Arcite had his fill

And he had sung his rondel lustily,

Into a muse he fell then suddenly

As lovers do, so variable their mood—

First treetop high, then in the briers they brood,

Now up, now down, like buckets in a well;

Like on a Friday, truly I can tell,

At first it shines, then rains start coming fast.

Just so can fickle Venus overcast

The hearts of lovers; Friday is her day,

And just as she keeps changing her array

Few Fridays are like other days, for sure.

When he had sung, Arcite became demure,

He sighed and sat down without further song.

“Alas,” said he, “the day I came along!

O Juno, how much longer will it be

That you wage war on Thebes with cruelty?

Alas! so much confusion is brought on

The royal blood of Cadmus, Amphion—

Of Cadmus, who’s the one who first began

To build the town of Thebes, and he’s the man

Who was the first the city crowned as king;

I’m one of his descendants, his offspring,

By true descent I’m of the royal stock;

Yet I’m just like a slave sold on the block,

For he who is my mortal enemy

Is whom I serve as squire so wretchedly.

And evermore does Juno cause me shame,

For I dare not to tell them my own name;

For whereas I was once known as Arcite,

I now am Philostrate, not worth a mite.

Alas, you evil Mars! Juno, alas!

Your wrath has caused our house to all but pass,

There’s left but me and Palamon (in woe,

As in the dungeon he’s still martyred so).

And more than that, to slay me utterly,

Love with his fiery dart so burningly

Has struck my loving heart with such a hurt,

My death was knit before this very shirt.

You’ve slain me with your eyes, fair Emily,

You are the cause I die, that’s all there be.

And for the rest of all my earthly care

I wouldn’t give one weed the field may bear

If but to please you I could have a chance.”

And with that word he fell down in a trance

Where long he lay, till rising with a start.

This Palamon, who felt that through his heart

A cold sword suddenly had glided, shook

With anger, not much time at all he took,

For when he finished hearing Arcite’s tale,

He leapt as if gone mad, face deathly pale,

Out of the thicket not one second later,

And said, “Arcite, you false and wicked traitor!

Now you are caught who loves my lady so,

She for whom I have had such pain and woe;

You’re of my blood, and to my counsel swore,

As I have often said to you before.

So you have fooled Duke Theseus, you claim,

And also you have falsely changed your name,

But you shall die, or else it shall be me:

You shall not love my lady Emily.

For I and I alone shall love her so;

I’m Palamon himself, your mortal foe.

And though I have no weapon in this place

(I just escaped from prison, by God’s grace),

You’ll either die—of that there’s no mistake—

Or else not love my Emily. So make

The choice you will, you’ll not escape from me.”

Now when Arcite had heard and turned to see

That it was Palamon, as spite coursed through

His heart he fiercely as a lion drew

His sword and said, “By God who sits above,

If you were not so sick and crazed with love,

And if you had a weapon at your side,

You’d not walk from this grove a single stride,

For by my hand you would be lying dead.

The pledge, the guarantee that you have said

I gave you, I renounce. Why, you must be

A perfect fool, I tell you love is free,

And I will love her, try all that you might!

But inasmuch as you’re a worthy knight

Who’d wager her to see who should prevail,

Here is my oath: tomorrow without fail,

In secret, known to no one else around,

It’s right here as a knight that I’ll be found,

With arms for you as well—and you be first

To choose the best ones, leave for me the worst.

Some meat and drink tonight I’ll bring to you,

All that you need; I’ll bring some bedding too.

And if it be my lady you shall win

And slay me in this wood that we are in,

You well may have her, nothing more from me.”

And Palamon then answered, “I agree.”

And so till then they parted, when they both

Had pledged in all good faith with solemn oath.

O Cupid, so devoid of charity!

O rule where no compeer’s allowed to be!

It truly has been said that love or power

Won’t willingly give fellowship an hour;

So Palamon has found, as has Arcite.

The latter rode at once to town that night,

Then in the morning, just before the sun,

Sneaked out the armor he and Palamon

Would need; he brought enough to more than do

For battle in the field between the two.

So as alone as he was born he rode

His horse, with all this armor as his load,

And at the time and place that had seen set,

There in the grove, the two of them were met.

The hue began to change in each’s face,

Like in the hunter’s who in distant Thrace

Stands in the gap with spear in hand, as there

He’s hunting for the lion and the bear;

He hears it coming, rushing through the branches

And breaking boughs asunder; then he blanches:

“Here comes,” he thinks, “my mortal enemy!

Without fail one must die, it’s him or me,

For either I will slay him at the gap

Or he slay me, if that be my mishap.”

That’s how they were in changing of their hue

As soon as each one had his foe in view.

There was no “Good day,” not one salutation.

Without a word before the confrontation

Each of the two first helped to arm the other

As courteously as if he were his brother.

And then, with sharpened spears of sturdy strength,

They plunged into a fight of wondrous length.

To watch this Palamon you might have thought

He was a maddened lion, the way he fought,

And like a cruel tiger was Arcite.

They smote each other as wild boars would fight

When frothing white with foam, so mad each one.

They fought till ankle deep the blood had run.

I’ll leave them, on their fight no more to dwell,

Now something more of Theseus to tell.

That minister general, Destiny,

Who executes all that must come to be

(The providence foreseen by God on high),

Is so strong that although the world deny

A thing shall be, by vow, by “yea” or “nay,”

It still will come to pass upon its day,

Though not again till pass a thousand years;

Each appetite that in this world appears,

Be it for war or peace or hate or love,

Is governed by this providence above.

Of mighty Theseus I say the same,

For he had such desire for hunting game,

Especially the great hart, all that May

There didn’t dawn on him a single day

That didn’t find him clad and set to ride

With hunters, horns, hounds running at his side;

For in his hunting he took such delight

That it was all his joy and appetite

To be the great hart’s mighty bane and dread;

He served Diana after Mars the Red.

Clear was the day, as I’ve said prior to this,

As Theseus—all joyful, full of bliss,

Along with Hippolyta, his fair queen,

And Emily, clothed all in lovely green—

Was out upon a royal hunting ride;

And to the grove that stood so near beside,

In which there was a hart (so men had said),

Duke Theseus directly turned and sped.

He rode straight for the glade, which was the place

To which the hart was wont to go, to race

Across the brook and flee as harts will do;

The duke would have a run at him or two

With hounds such as it pleased him to command.

But when the duke had reached this open land,

There in the glaring sun he caught the sight

At once of Palamon and of Arcite,

Still fighting like two boars. It seemed as though

The two bright swords, there flashing to and fro

So hideously, could with the lightest stroke

Be either one enough to fell an oak.

Now who these people were he didn’t know;

The duke at once then spurred his courser, though,

And in a trice he was between the two,

Pulled out his sword, and said, “Halt! That will do!

No more, on pain of parting with your head!

By mighty Mars, he’ll be as good as dead

Who strikes another blow that I may see.

Tell me what sort of men you two must be,

In such a hardy fight here as you were

Without a judge or other officer

Though as if in a tournament today.”

Then Palamon responded right away:

“Sire, there are no more words that need be said,

We both are quite deserving to be dead.

Two woeful wretches, prisoners are we,

Both weary of our lives, that’s him and me.

And as you are a righteous judge and lord,

No mercy nor refuge for us afford,

But slay me first, in saintly charity.

But slay this fellow here as well as me—

Or slay him first, when you have seen him right:

This is your mortal foe, this is Arcite,

Whom you have banished or would have his head,

For which he’s now deserving to be dead.

This is the one who came up to your gate

And told them that his name was Philostrate,

The one who’s made a fool of you for years—

You made him your chief squire, from all his peers.

And he’s in love with Emily. And I,

Since now has come the day that I shall die,

Shall plainly here confess and have it done

That I am that same woeful Palamon

Who broke out of your prison wickedly;

I am your mortal foe, and I am he

Who loves so hotly Emily the Bright

I’d die for it here in my lady’s sight.

I therefore ask for death, for it is just.

But you will slay this fellow too, I trust,

For both of us deserve to die, not one.”

This worthy duke then answered Palamon

At once. He said, “Then here’s the long and short:

The confession from your mouth, your own report

Has damned you, so I’ll thereby note the fact

That there’s no need to flog or have you racked.

By mighty Mars the Red, you’ll die and should!”

But then the queen, in all her womanhood,

Began to weep, and so did Emily

And all the ladies in their company.

They thought it such a pity, one and all,

That ever such misfortune should befall;

For gentlemen these were, of great estate,

And nothing but of love was their debate.

To see the two men’s bloody wounds so wide,

Both young and old among the women cried,

“Have mercy, lord, upon us women all!”

And on their bare knees they began to fall,

And would have kissed his feet there as he stood.

At last, as pity rises in a good

And gentle heart, his anger finally slaked;

For though the duke at first with ire quaked,

He gave consideration with a pause

To what had been their trespass and the cause.

Though, to his mind, of guilt they stood accused,

His reason said that they should be excused;

He settled on the thought that every man

Will help himself in love all that he can,

And free himself from jail in any fashion.

And also in his heart he had compassion

For all these women who were still in tears.

He gently took to heart the women’s fears,

Then softly told himself, “Fie on a lord

Who has no whit of mercy to afford,

Who’s lionlike in all that’s done and said

To those who are repentant and in dread,

As well as to a proud, defiant man

Who aims to finish that which he began.

That lord has no discriminating vision

Who can’t in such a case make some division

But weighs pride and humility as one.”

So when its course his wrath had shortly run,

Duke Theseus looked up toward the skies

And spoke aloud, a sparkling in his eyes:

“The god of love! Ah, benedicite!

How great a lord, how mighty is his sway!

Against his might there are no obstacles;

Call him a god for all his miracles.

For he can mold according to his muse

All of our hearts however he may choose.

This Palamon, this Arcite whom you see,

Were from my prison both completely free;

They might have lived in Thebes and royally so,

For they both know I am their mortal foe

And death for both within my power lies;

Yet love, in spite of all before their eyes,

Brought them back here to die, back to the brink.

Now this is some high folly, don’t you think?

Who else may be a fool but one in love!

Look, for the sake of God who sits above,

See how they bleed! Are they not well arrayed?

Thus by their lord, the god of love, they’re paid

For serving him, they have their fee and wage.

Yet they think they are wise who so engage

In serving love, whatever may befall.

But this is yet the biggest joke of all,

That she for whom they passionately vie

Can give them thanks about as much as I—

She knew no more about this whole affair

Than knew, by God, a cuckoo or a hare!

But all must be assayed, both hot and cold,

A man must be a fool, though young or old.

From long ago I know myself it’s true,

For in my time I was love’s servant too.

And therefore, since I recognize love’s pain

And know full well love’s power to constrain

(As one so often captured in his net),

This trespass I’ll forgive and I’ll forget,

As my queen has requested, kneeling here

Along with Emily, my sister dear.

But both of you shall swear to me: my land

Shall nevermore be threatened by your hand,

You shan’t make war against me day or night;

You’ll be my friends in every way you might,

Then I’ll forgive this trespass as I may.”

And they swore as he asked in every way,

And for his lordship’s mercy then they prayed.

He granted grace, and then this speech he made:

“Regarding royal blood and riches too,

Were she a queen or princess, each of you,

I have no doubt at all, has worthiness

To marry her in time; but nonetheless

I speak now for my sister Emily

For whom you’ve had this strife and jealousy.

You know that two at once she cannot marry

No matter how this fight you choose to carry.

No, one of you, no matter what the grief,

Must go and ‘whistle with an ivy leaf’;

She cannot have you both, that is to say,

Be you as mad and jealous as you may.

This proposition, then, I put to you:

Each one shall have his destiny, his due,

However it’s been shaped—and listen how,

For here’s your end as I devise it now.

“My will is this (this matter to conclude

Once and for all, no protest to intrude,

So if you like it, make of it the best):

Where you may wish to go, by me you’re blest,

Go freely, there’s no danger in your way;

But after fifty weeks right to the day,

Each of you shall bring back one hundred knights,

Armed for the lists to represent your rights,

All set to fight for her. For here’s an oath

That this is what shall be, I tell you both

Upon my word and as I am a knight:

When we have seen which has the greater might—

That is to say, whichever of the two

With his one hundred (as I’ve said to you)

Shall slay or from the lists the other drive—

To him I shall give Emily to wive,

To him who Fortune gives so fair a grace.

I’ll have the lists built in this very place,

And—God bestow my soul with wisdom’s order—

I’ll be a true judge on the battle’s border.

With me you have no other way to go,

One of you shall be killed or taken. So

If you believe this judgment is well said,

Advise me now and count yourselves ahead.

That is your end, that’s how it shall be done.”

Who looks as happy now as Palamon?

And who but Arcite springs with such delight?

Who could explain, who has the skill to write

About the joy witnessed in the place

That Theseus has granted such a grace?

Then everyone went down on bended knee

And gave him thanks in most heartfelt degree—

Especially the Thebans, more than once.

And so, with high hopes and ebullience,

The two then took their leave, they were to ride

Back home to Thebes, to walls so old and wide.

PART III

I know that men would deem it negligence

If I forgot to tell of the expense

To which Duke Theseus went busily

To build the lists. He built them royally,

A theatre so noble standing there

I daresay none was finer anywhere.

Its circuit measured one full mile about,

Its wall of stone, a circling moat without.

As surely as a compass it was round,

And sixty rows it stood above the ground,

So that a man on one row wouldn’t be

The reason that another couldn’t see.

On the east stood a great, white marble gate,

Another on the west. I’ll briefly state,

Concluding, there was no such other place

In all the earth that took so little space.

For there was not one craftsman in the land

With math and his geometry in hand,

No single sculptor or one painter, who

Duke Theseus did not hire for the crew

That worked on this theatre. So that he

Might sacrifice, do all rites properly,

At the eastern gate he had built above,

In honor of Venus, goddess of love,

An altar and an oratory. Then,

Above the west gate, he constructed in

The memory of Mars the very same;

A cart of gold was spent in Mars’s name.

In a turret, built on the northern wall

In coral and white alabaster all,

The duke had nobly wrought an oratory

Magnificent see, built for the glory

Of Diana, most chaste of deities.

Yet I’ve forgotten to describe with these

The sculptures, paintings, noble works of art,

The shapes and figures that were all a part

Of the work in these oratories three.

In the temple of Venus you could see

(Wrought on the wall, and piteous to behold)

The broken sleep, the lonely sighs, the cold

And sacred tears, the sad laments; the burning,

The fiery strokes of all desire and yearning

That servants of love in this life endure;

The oaths by which covenants they assure;

Pleasure and Hope, Desire, Foolhardiness,

Beauty and Youth and Riches, Bawdiness,

Seduction, Force, Falsehood and Flattery,

Extravagance, Ado and Jealousy

(Who wears a garland, yellow marigolds,

And in her hand a bird, the cuckoo, holds);

The banquets, instruments, the carols, dances,

Lust and array. All of the circumstances

Of love that I’m recounting here were all

In proper order painted on the wall—

And more than I’d be able to recount,

For truly all the Cytherean mount,

The place where Venus has her major dwelling,

Was in the scenes on that wall for the telling

With all its gardens and its lustfulness.

Nor was forgotten the porter Idleness,

Nor Narcissus, that ancient, fairest one,

Nor all the folly of King Solomon,

Nor yet the mighty strength of Hercules,

Medea’s enchanting power nor Circe’s,

Nor Turnus with a heart so fierce and bold,

Nor Croesus, rich but captive with his gold.

So you can see that neither wisdom, wealth,

Nor beauty, sleight, nor strength nor hardy health

Can hold with Venus an equality,

For as she wills she guides the world to be.

Look how these people, caught up in her snare,

So often cried “Alas!” in their despair.

Suffice here these examples one or two,

Though I could tell a thousand more to you.

Venus’s statue, glorious to behold,

Was naked, and the sea about her rolled,

As from her navel down were shown to pass

Green waves that were as bright as any glass.

She had a harp in her right hand, and she

Had on her head, a seemly sight to see,

A fresh rose garland, fragrant as the spring.

Above her head her doves were flickering.

Before her Cupid stood, who is her son;

He had two wings and was superbly done,

And blind he was, as is so often seen.

He held a bow, and arrows bright and keen.

Why should I not as well tell you of all

The paintings that appeared upon the wall

In the temple of mighty Mars the Red?

From roof to floor the wall was overspread

With painted scenes like in that grisly place

That’s known as his great temple back in Thrace—

That cold and frosty region where, I’m told,

He has his sovereign mansion from of old.

A forest, first, was painted on the wall

In which there dwelt no man nor beast at all.

Its knotty, knarled trees were bare and old,

The stubs were sharp and hideous to behold;

And through it ran a rumble and a sough

As if a storm would break off every bough.

And downward from a hill, below the bent,

Stood the temple of Mars of Armament,

Made all of burnished steel. The entrance there

Was long and straight, indeed a sight to scare,

And out of it came such a raging wind

The very gate was made to shake and bend.

In through the doors there shone the northern light

(No window being in that temple’s height

Through which to see a single light). Each door

Was of eternal adamant and, more,

Was reinforced as wide as well as long

With toughest iron. To make the temple strong,

Each pillar had the girth of any cask,

Each of bright shiny iron fit for the task.

There I first saw the dark imagination

Of Felony, the scheme of its creation;

Cruel Ire that burns till like a coal it’s red;

The pickpurse and the pallidness of Dread;

The smiler with the knife beneath his cloak;

The stable burning up with blackest smoke;

The treachery of murder in the bed;

The wounds of open Warfare as they bled;

Strife with its threats and with its bloody knife.

With frightful sounds that sorry place was rife.

The suicide I saw, too, lying there,

The blood of his own heart had bathed his hair;

The driven nail in someone’s head by night;

Cold Death laid out, his mouth a gaping sight;

Right in the temple’s center sat Mischance,

Uncomforted, and sad his countenance;

There I saw Madness laughing in his rage,

And armed Complaint, Outcry and fierce Outrage;

The carrion found in the bush (throat slit),

A thousand slain, no plague the cause of it;

The tyrant with his booty, battle’s gains;

The town laid waste till nothing now remains.

I saw the burning ships dance on the tide;

The hunter strangled by wild bears; I spied

The sow devour the child right in the cradle;

The scalded cook despite his lengthy ladle.

Not one misfortune that Mars could impart

Was overlooked; the carter by his cart

Run over, underneath the wheel laid low.

Of those who follow Mars, there were also

The barber and the butcher, and the smith

Who forges at the anvil, busy with

Sharp swords. Above, where seated in his tower,

I saw Conquest depicted in his power;

There was a sharpened sword above his head

That hung there by the thinnest simple thread.

The killing, too, was shown of Julius,

Of mighty Nero, of Antonius—

Though at that time they all were still unborn,

Their deaths appeared upon that wall forlorn

By threat of Mars and by prefiguration.

So it was shown in that wall’s illustration

As is depicted in the stars above:

Who shall be slain and who shall die for love.

(Old stories tell it; one example’s good,

I can’t recount them all, although I would.)

His statue on its chariot, lifelike

In arms and grim, looked mad enough to strike.

Two starry figures shone above his head,

Puella one (as in the old books read),

The other one as Rubeus was known.

That’s how this god of armament was shown.

There was a wolf  before him at his feet

With red eyes, as a man he set to eat.

With subtle brush depicted was the story

Of Mars, redoubtable in all his glory.

Now to the temple of Diana chaste

As briefly as I can I’ll turn with haste

To give you a description that’s complete.

The walls all up and down were made replete

With scenes of hunting and of chastity.

I saw how sad Callisto came to be

(When she had caused Diana some despair)

Changed from a woman first into a bear

And then into the lodestar. (That’s the way

That it was painted, what more can I say?)

Her son’s also a star, as men may see.

There I saw Daphne turned into a tree.

(Diana I don’t mean, she’s not the same;

Peneus’s daughter, Daphne her name.)

I saw Actaeon turned into a hart

(He saw Diana nude, which wasn’t smart),

And then I saw his hounds run and surprise him

And eat him up (they didn’t recognize him).

And painted on the wall was furthermore

How Atalanta hunted after boar,

As did Meleager and some others (though

For this Diana brought Meleager woe).

I also saw there many a wondrous tale

On which I’d rather let my memory fail.

This goddess on a hart had taken seat,

And there were slender hounds about her feet,

And underneath her feet there was a moon

(One that was waxing, to be waning soon).

Her statue was arrayed in green; she wore

A quiver filled, her bow in hand she bore.

Her eyes were looking down, extremely so,

Toward Pluto’s dark region far below.

Before her was a woman in travail,

Trying to have her child to no avail

As to Lucina she began to call,

“Please help me, for your help’s the best of all!”

How lifelike were these scenes the artist wrought!

The paint cost many a florin that he bought.

Now when these lists were finished, Theseus,

Who’d gone to great expense in building thus

The theatre and temples, was elated

With all of it as finally consummated.

On Theseus I’ll cease now if I might,

Of Palamon to speak and of Arcite.

The day of their return was drawing nigh,

When each should bring one hundred knights to vie

For Emily in battle, as I’ve told.

To Athens, their covenants to uphold,

Each one of them thus brought one hundred knights,

Well armed and set for battle by all rights.

And certainly, as thought then many a man,

Not once before since this world first began

(Regarding knighthood, deeds of gallant hand),

As surely as God made the sea and land,

Had there been such a noble company.

For every man with love of chivalry

And who desired to make himself a name

Had prayed that he might take part in the game.

The chosen surely had no cause for sorrow;

If such a thing were taking place tomorrow,

You know right well that every lusty knight

Who loves his paramours and has some might,

Whether it were in England or elsewhere,

Would thankfully and willingly be there.

To fight for a lady, benedicite!

It was a lusty sight, this whole array.

The many knights who rode with Palamon

Were of that lusty spirit, every one.

Now some of these had chosen to be dressed

In hauberk, breastplate, and a simple vest;

Some wore two plates (both front and black, and large),

While some preferred a Prussian shield or targe;

Some liked to arm their legs against attacks

And have a mace of steel or else an ax.

There’s no new armored style that isn’t old,

They all were armed, as I have briefly told,

According to the liking of each one.

There you may see approach with Palamon

Lycurgus, who’s the mighty king of Thrace.

His beard was black, and manly was his face.

The fellow’s eyes were glowing in his head

With light that was half yellow and half red,

And like a griffin he would look about

From neath two shaggy brows. The man was stout;

He had great limbs, with muscles hard and strong,

His shoulders broad, arms barrel like and long.

As was the custom in his land, he rolled

Along upon a chariot of gold,

Four white bulls in the traces at the fore.

Instead of coat of arms Lycurgus wore

A bearskin that was coal black, very old,

Its yellow claws as bright as any gold.

His hair shone, long and combed behind his back,

Bright as a raven’s feather, and as black.

His strong and shaggy head was underneath

A mighty weight, an arm-sized golden wreath,

Inlaid with bright and precious stones in plenty.

White wolfhounds were around him, more than twenty,

Each one of them as big as any steer,

That he would use to hunt for lion or deer.

They followed him with muzzles tightly bound,

Their collars gold with collar rings filed round.

He had a hundred lords there in his rout,

All fully armed. Their hearts were stern and stout.

With Arcite, as we find old tales relate,

The Indian king, Emetrius the Great—

His bay steed with steel trappings, covered by

A motley cloth of gold—came riding. Why,

The god of arms, new Mars he looked to be.

His surcoat was of cloth from Tartary,

With all the large white pearls that it could hold.

His saddle, newly forged, was burnished gold.

A mantle from his shoulders hung, attire

Brimful of rubies sparkling red as fire.

His crisp hair into ringlets seemed to run,

So yellow it would glitter like the sun.

His nose was high, his eyes bright and citrine;

He had full lips, and skin that had a fine

Sanguinity, with freckles on his face

From black to yellow and from place to place.

And like that of a lion was his gaze.

His age was twenty-five, I would appraise.

His beard had very well begun to grow;

His voice thundered like a trumpet’s blow.

He wore a garland made of laurel, green

And freshly picked and pleasant to be seen.

Upon his hand he bore, to his delight,

An eagle that was tame and lily white.

He had a hundred nobles with him there,

Armed to the teeth with all a warrior’s wear,

Fully equipped with all that battle brings.

For take my word that earls, dukes, and kings

Were gathered in this noble company

For love of and the growth of chivalry.

Around this king, among this noble tide,

Tame lions and leopards ran on every side.

And in this manner nobles all and some

Had on that Sunday to the city come,

There in the early morning to alight.

Now Theseus, this duke and worthy knight,

When he had brought them all into the town

To inns where they would all be bedded down

According to their rank, gave them a feast.

He honored all, ignoring not the least.

It still is said that none, however great,

Could have done better. Here I could relate

The music and the service at the feast,

The gifts both to the highest and the least;

The rich array with which he decked the place,

And who sat first and last upon the dais;

Which ladies were the fairest, danced the best,

Or which of them sang better than the rest;

Or who could speak most feelingly of love;

What hawks were sitting on the perch above,

What hounds were lying on the floor below—

Of all this I will make no mention, though.

To tell what followed seems the best to me,

So let’s get to the point, if you agree.

That Sunday night, before day came along,

When Palamon had heard the lark in song—

It was two hours till day would begin,

And yet the lark sang—Palamon right then

In hopeful spirit and with holy heart

Arose, then as a pilgrim to depart

To Cytherea, blissful and benign

(That is, to Venus, honored and divine);

For in her hour he walked out to where

Her temple stood in the theatre. There

He knelt down with a humble, aching heart

And prayed, as you shall hear me now impart.

“O lady Venus, fairest of the fair,

Jove’s daughter, wife of Vulcan, hear my prayer!

O gladness of the Cytherean mount!

By your love for Adonis—such amount!—

Have pity on my tears, their bitter smart,

And take my humble prayer into your heart.

Alas! I have no language that can tell

The ravages and torments of my hell,

The many ills my heart cannot convey;

I’m so confused there’s nothing I can say

But ‘Mercy, lady bright, who, as I kneel,

Knows all my thought and sees what woe I feel!’

Consider all and rue me, I implore,

As surely as I shall forevermore

(Give me the might!) your truest servant be

And always be at war with chastity.

I give to you my vow, give me your aid.

For I don’t care to boast of arms displayed

Nor ask that mine shall be the victory

And fame; I do not seek the vanity

Of warriors’ glory, praised both far and wide;

I wish but full possession as my bride

Of Emily, and death in serving you.

Determine now the way, what’s best to do.

I do not care, whichever’s best to be—

To vanquish them or have them vanquish me—

That I might hold my lady safe from harms.

For though it’s true that Mars is god of arms,

Your virtue, Venus, is so great above,

If you but will it I shall have my love.

I’ll worship at your temple ever biding;

At every altar where I may go riding

My sacrifice will be with fiery heat.

But if you will it not, my lady sweet,

I pray tomorrow, when we’re fighting here,

Arcite will run my heart through with a spear;

Then I won’t care, when I have lost my life,

Though he indeed should win her as his wife.

This is my prayer, it all concludes in this:

Give me my love, dear lady of all bliss.”

When the prayer of Palamon was done,

He gave a sacrifice, and it was one

Of all good form and fullest piety.

(I won’t go into all the liturgy.)

Then at the last the Venus statue shook

And made a sign to him, which he then took

To mean acceptance of his prayer that day;

For though the sign had come with some delay,

He well knew she had granted his request.

He hurried home with gladness in his breast.

Three hours after he had made his way

Out to the temple of Venus to pray,

The sun arose and so did Emily.

She started for Diana’s temple, she

And all the maidens in her following

Who brought the fire to burn the offering,

The incense, clothes, all the accoutrements

Required for sacrificial sacraments;

As was the custom, horns were full of mead;

They brought all things that sacrificers need.

The temple smoked, the vestments all were fair,

As Emily, with heart so debonair,

Her body washed with water from a well.

How she performed the rite I dare not tell

Unless it’s in a very general way.

(A pleasure it would be were I to say,

And, meaning well, there’s nothing I could lose,

But it’s good for a man to pick and choose.)

She combed her loose bright hair, smooth to the stroke.

A crown of green leaves taken from the oak

Was on her head, the arrangement meet and fair.

Two fires she kindled at the altar there

And then performed the rites (as men may note

In old books like the Theban Statius wrote).

The fire once lit, she in a piteous way

Addressed Diana, as you’ll hear me say.

“O most chaste goddess of the woods so green,

By whom all heaven, earth, and sea are seen!

Queen of the realm of Pluto dark below!

Goddess of maidens! My heart you well know

And have for years, you’ve known what I desire.

O keep me from your vengeance and your ire,

For which Actaeon paid so brutally!

You’ve seen, chaste goddess, one desire in me:

I long to be a maiden all my life,

Not ever to be lover or a wife.

You know that I’m yet of your company,

A maiden who’s in love with venery,

One who desires to walk the woods so wild

And not be someone’s wife and be with child

Or have to know the company of man.

Now help me, lady, since you may and can,

By these three forms that you possess. I see

That Palamon has such a love for me,

And Arcite too, and for them I implore,

One grace I ask, and pray for nothing more:

That love and peace between the two you’ll send

And turn their hearts from me, to such an end

That all their burning love and their desire,

That all their busy torment and their fire

Be quenched, or else turned to another place.

But if you will not grant me such a grace,

Or destiny is shaped in such a way

That I must have one of the two, I pray

You’ll send me him with most desire for me.

Behold, O goddess of pure chastity,

Upon my cheeks the bitter tears that fall.

You are a maiden, keeper of us all;

My maidenhood now keep and well conserve,

And you, while I’m a maiden, I will serve.”

The fires burnt clearly on the altar there

While Emily was kneeling in her prayer.

Then suddenly so strange a sight she flinched,

For all at once one of the fires was quenched,

Then lit again; and after that the other

Was gone as quickly, as if in a smother—

And as it went, it made a whistling noise

Like firebrands when they’re wet. She lost all poise

When from the firebrand’s end began to run

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

Poor Emily, aghast at such a sight,

Began to cry, half maddened in her fright,

Not knowing what this all might signify;

It was pure fear alone that made her cry,

And cry she did, a woeful sound to hear.

Just then Diana seemed there to appear,

Like any huntress, in her hand a bow.

“Daughter,” she said, “put off your heavy woe.

Among the gods on high it is affirmed

By word eternal, written and confirmed:

You shall be wedded to one of the two

Who have endured such care and woe for you.

But as to which of them, I may not tell.

No longer may I tarry, so farewell.

The fires that here upon my altar burn

Shall say to you, before away you turn,

What in this case shall be your fate in love.”

With that, the arrows in the quiver of

The goddess rang with noisy clattering,

Then she was gone. Upon this vanishing,

Astonished by the things that she had seen,

Emily said, “Alas, what can it mean?

I put myself now under your protection,

Diana, I shall follow your direction.”

She then at once went home the nearest way,

And that was that, there is no more to say.

The next hour of Mars to follow this,

Arcite went to the temple in the lists

To offer fiery Mars his sacrifice

With all the rites that such a god suffice.

With piteous heart and very high devotion

He said to Mars the following orison.

“O god of strength, who in cold Thracian regions

Is honored as a lord by all your legions;

Who has in every realm and every land

All arms as but a bridle in your hand,

Whose fortunes are your pleasure, your device;

Accept, I pray, my humble sacrifice.

If it be by my youth I might deserve,

And by my strength have worthiness, to serve

Your godhead and to be among your train,

I pray that you’ll have pity on my pain.

By that same pain, that same hot, blazing fire

In which you too were burning with desire,

When you once had the fair, the fresh young beauty

Of Venus—when you had her in your duty,

When in your arms you had her at your will

(Although there was a time it brought you ill,

The time when Vulcan caught you in his net

And found you with his wife, to your regret)—

By that same sorrow that was in your heart,

Now rue my pains as well, for how they smart!

I’m young, unknowing, as you are aware;

By love I’m hurt, and have much more despair

Than any creature ever drawing breath.

For she, for whom I must endure to death

This woe, cares not if I should sink or swim—

No mercy from her, not a trace or whim,

Unless by strength I win her in this place.

And well I know, without your help or grace,

My strength will not avail me in my plight.

So help me, lord, tomorrow in my fight.

By that same fire that once caused you to burn

(Those flames that now cause me as well to yearn),

Let victory tomorrow be my story;

Let mine be all the trial, yours the glory.

Your temple I will honor without measure,

Above all places; always at your leisure

And in your crafts I’ll work in mighty manner.

And in your temple I will hang my banner,

And all the arms of all my company,

And henceforth, till the day I die, I’ll see

That there’s eternal fire before you found.

And also to this oath I will be bound:

My beard and hair, that now hang down so long

And never yet have suffered any wrong

From razor or from shear, I’ll give to you,

And be long as I live your servant true.

Now, lord, look on my sorrow ruefully;

I ask for nothing more than victory.”

Now when this prayer of strong Arcite was ended,

The rings that on the doors had hung suspended,

And then the doors themselves, began to clatter

(With Arcite somewhat frightened by the matter).

The altar fires began to burn so bright

That Mars’s temple soon was all alight.

The floor gave up an odor sweet and grand.

Immediately Arcite raised up his hand,

As more incense into the fire he cast,

With other rites as well, when at the last

The statue’s hauberk then began to ring,

And with the sound was heard a murmuring:

Though low and dim, and word was “Victory!”

Then Mars he praised and honored joyfully;

His hopes were high as to how well he’d fare

As to his inn he then went to repair,

As happy as a bird to see the sun.

And right away such strife was then begun,

By these accords, in the heavens above

Between fair Venus, goddess of all love,

And Mars, stern god of every sword and plate,

That Jupiter could hardly arbitrate—

Until his father Saturn, pale and cold,

Well taught by many fortunes from of old,

Recalled from his experience an art

By which they were appeased for each’s part.

It’s truly said the elder has advantage,

On wisdom and on life he has the vantage;

Men may outrun but not outsmart the old.

At once to end this strife he’d seen unfold,

Old Saturn (though it wasn’t like himself)

Sought ways to put this quarrel on the shelf.

“Dear daughter Venus,” Saturn said, “my course

Must take a lengthy turn, yet it’s a force

And power like no man can bring to be.

Mine is the drowning in the pallid sea;

Mine is the prison cell where shines no speck

Of light; the strangling, hanging by the neck,

The murmur and rebellion of the throng,

The secret poison, and complaints of wrong;

I take revenge, complete correction’s mine,

While I am dwelling in the Lion’s sign.

Mine’s the ruin of many high built halls,

The falling of the towers and the walls

On carpenter and miner. I’m the killer

Of Samson as he shook the mighty pillar;

And mine are all the maladies so cold,

The plans of all dark treasons from of old;

My glance is father of all pestilence.

Now weep no more, for by my diligence

This Palamon, who is your worthy knight,

Shall have her as you promised him tonight.

Though Mars shall help his knight, this has to cease,

Between you once again must be some peace,

Although you’re not the same in temperament

(Which causes all the day such argument).

I’m your grandfather, ready at your will;

No longer weep, your wish I shall fulfill.”

Now I will cease to speak of gods above,

Of Mars and Venus, gods of war and love,

And tell you now, as plainly as I can,

The end result for which I first began.

PART IV

Great was the feast in Athens on that day,

And such a lusty season was that May

That everyone took pleasure at the chance

To joust all of that Monday and to dance

And serve fair Venus as he might devise.

But by the fact that they would have to rise

Up early if they were to see the fight,

They finally went to bed that Monday night.

Next morning, when the day began to spring,

Of horse and harness, noise and clattering,

The sounds were heard in all the inns about.

Then to the palace rode a mighty rout

Of lords upon their steeds and palfreys. There

One might see many styles of knightly wear,

Exotic, rich, all wrought with great appeal,

Combining gold, embroidery, and steel;

Bright shields, headpieces, gear for all alarms,

Gold-tinted helmets, hauberks, coats of arms;

Lords robed on mounts, with knights in retinue

Attending to their needs; and squires too

Were in attendance, buckling up headgear

And strapping shields and nailing every spear

(The needs were such these squires were never idle).

The foaming steeds gnawed at the golden bridle,

While through the throng ran armorers also,

With file and hammer, pricking to and fro;

Yeomen on foot, and many commoners too,

With short staves, were as thick as could get through;

The pipe, the trumpet, clarion, kettledrum,

From which in battle bloody sounds would come;

The palace full of people wall to wall,

Three here, ten there, discussing one and all

The question of these two young Theban knights,

Some saying this, some that; as for the fights,

Some favored yon black-headed, some the bald,

While triumph for that thick-haired others called;

Some said, “He has a grim look, he can fight;

His ax weighs twenty pounds, that isn’t light.”

And so the hall was filled with such divining,

The sun long since arisen, brightly shining.

Great Theseus, now from his sleep awaking

To minstrelsy and noise they were making,

Within his splendid palace chamber stayed

Until the Theban knights, who both were paid

The honor due, were fetched. The duke with that

Made his appearance, at a window sat,

And like a god enthroned the duke was dressed.

At once all of the people forward pressed

To see him and to pay high reverence

And hear what judgments he might then dispense.

A herald on a scaffold bellowed “Hear ye!”

Until the noise quieted down; then he,

On seeing that the crowd below was still,

Disclosed to them Duke Theseus’s will:

“Our lord discreet, upon deliberation,

Considers it would be a desolation

Of gentle blood here in this enterprise

To fight a mortal battle for the prize.

Wherefore, to see that no one here should die,

His former purpose he will modify.

No man, on pain of forfeiture of life,

Shall send a missile, poleax, or a knife

Into the lists, nor bring such weapons there;

No short, well-sharpened sword shall anywhere

Be drawn, nor shall one bear it by his side;

And no man shall against his fellow ride

With finely sharpened spear more than a course

(But may defend with it if off his horse).

And anyone in trouble they shall take—

That there should be no slaying—to a stake

That shall be ordered, one on either side,

Where he’ll be put by force and there abide.

And if one of the chieftains, once we start,

Is taken, or has slain his counterpart,

The tournament is over, come and gone.

And so Godspeed! Go forward and lay on!

With long sword and with maces fight your fill.

Go on your way now, this is our lord’s will.”

High as the heavens rose the people’s voice,

So merrily and loud did they rejoice.

“God save a lord so noble!” was the cry.

“He wills no blood be shed, that none should die!”

The trumpets blew, then with much melody

Toward the lists rode all this company

In order down the city’s thoroughfare,

Where cloth of gold, no serge, hung everywhere.

This noble duke was lordlike on the ride,

With these two Theban knights on either side;

And after rode the queen and Emily,

And after that a mighty company

In groups that were arranged by social order.

They passed through all the city to its border,

Out to the lists, with none arriving late.

The hour of day was sometime after eight

When Theseus sat high and regally,

And Hippolyta and fair Emily,

With other ladies of degree about.

Then to the seats went pressing all the rout.

Then through the west gates under Mars the Red

Arcite immediately his hundred led,

His banner bright and red beneath the sun.

In that same moment entered Palamon

Under Venus on the east. His banner

Was white, and there was boldness in his manner.

In all the world, were you to seek throughout,

You’d find no other two such groups without

A difference, well matched in every way

Till there was no one wise enough to say

If either of the two had any edge

In worthiness or age or heritage,

So evenly, it seemed, the Thebans chose.

They lined up fairly, two opposing rows.

And when the name of everyone was read,

That in their numbers no one be misled,

The gates were shut, and this cry rang aloud:

“Now do your duty, knights so young and proud!”

The heralds cease their pricking to and fro;

Now trumpets and the clarion loudly blow;

There is no more to say but east and west

The spear now steady goes into its rest,

And sharpened spur into the courser’s side.

They see now who can joust and who can ride:

Shafts splinter on the stout shields tough and thick;

Right through the breastbone one now feels the prick;

Up spring the spears some twenty feet in height,

Out come the swords all sharp and silver bright;

The helmets they begin to hew and shred,

Out bursts the blood in sternest streams of red;

With mighty maces bones they break and bust;

Right through the thickest throng one rides to thrust;

Strong steeds begin to stumble, there’s a fall,

The rider underfoot rolls like a ball;

He parries with his shaft against a thrust,

Another with his horse now hits the dust—

He’s wounded, so here’s one whom they must take,

Despite his protests, over to the stake

Where by the ruling he will have to stay;

Another knight is led across the way.

At times Duke Theseus will have them rest,

Refresh themselves, and drink if they request.

And these two Theban knights time and again

Have clashed together, brought each other pain,

Each twice unhorsed now in their rivalry.

No tiger in the vale of Gargaphy

Whose young whelp has been stolen in the night

Is so cruel to the hunter as Arcite,

So jealous, is to Palamon; and there

Is not a hunted lion anywhere

In Benmarin, though crazed with hunger, so

Intent to slay, to spill blood of its foe,

As is fierce Palamon against Arcite.

The jealous strokes into their helmets bite,

Out runs the blood, down both their sides they bleed.

In time there comes an end to every deed,

As when that day, before the sun had set,

Strong King Emetrius charged forth to get

At Palamon as he fought with Arcite;

His sword out of his flesh took quite a bite,

Then twenty men grabbed Palamon, to take

Him, though he struggled, over to the stake.

Strong King Lycurgus moved with the intent

To rescue him, but down Lycurgus went,

While King Emetrius, for all his strength,

Got knocked from his saddle by a sword’s length,

From Palamon receiving such a blow.

But to the stake now Palamon must go;

His hardiness of heart went all for naught,

He had to stay right there once he was caught,

By force and rules by which the jousts were run.

Who sorrows now but woeful Palamon,

Unable to return again to fight?

When Theseus had witnessed such a sight,

To those who fought, to each and every one,

He cried, “Hear ye! No more, for it is done!

As true impartial judge I now decree

Arcite the Theban shall have Emily,

For by his fortune he has fairly won.”

Such noise by the crowd was then begun

In joy at this, so loud and high the sound,

It seemed the lists would fall right to the ground.

And what now can fair Venus do above?

What can she say or do, this queen of love?

She weeps at this denial of her will

Till with her tears the lists begin to fill.

“Without a doubt I’m put to shame,” she cried.

“Be still, my daughter!” Saturn then replied.

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

But, by my head, you’ll have your pleasure soon.”

The trumpeteers, musicians playing loud,

And heralds loudly crying to the crowd

Were all in utter joy for Sir Arcite.

But stop and hear me now as I recite

A miracle that suddenly took place.

Fierce Arcite, to reveal his joyous face,

Had taken off his helmet. On his horse

He then set out across the lengthy course

While gazing up at Emily on high;

And she in turn cast him a friendly eye—

For womenfolk in general, I must say,

Will follow Fortune’s favor all the way—

And she was all his joy, his heart’s delight.

A Fury sent from Pluto bounded right

Out of the ground (sent by request, of course,

Of Saturn), which so frightened Arcite’s horse

It turned and reared, and foundered in the act,

So quickly that before he could react

Arcite was thrown and landed on his head,

And lay there as if likely he were dead;

His breast was shattered by his saddlebow.

He lay as black as any coal or crow,

The blood rushed so profusely to his face.

Arcite at once was borne out of the place,

With aching heart, back to the palace. There

They cut him out of all his armored wear,

Then quickly but with care put him to bed;

For he was still alive and in his head

And crying evermore for Emily.

Duke Theseus, with all his company,

As he returned to Athens, made his way

With all the usual pageant and display;

For though mischance had surely cast a pall,

He didn’t want to disconcert them all.

And men were saying, “Arcite shall not die,

His wounds shall all be healed.” And they could sigh

As well in the relief that, though it thrilled,

The tourney ended up with no one killed—

Though some were badly hurt, and namely one

Who’d caught a spear, which through his heart had run.

For other wounds and for the broken arms,

Some had some salves and some had magic charms;

They drank of sage, all herbal remedies

Designed to save them their extremities.

This noble duke, as such a noble can,

Both comforted and honored every man,

And gave a revel lasting all the night

For all these foreign nobles, as was right.

For there was held to have been no defeat

Save what in jousts and tourneys one may meet;

Defeat was truly no one’s circumstance.

To take a fall is nothing more than chance,

As to be led by force out to the stake,

With protest it takes twenty knights to break—

One man all by himself with twenty foes

And carried by his arms and feet and toes,

His courser being driven forth with staves

By footmen (some were yeomen, some were knaves).

No man could be maligned because of this;

There is no man could call it cowardice.

So Theseus at once gave the decree,

To stop all rancor and all enmity,

That one side’s strength did not exceed the other’s,

That both sides were alike, as if all brothers.

By rank he gave them gifts as well as praise,

Gave them a feast that lasted three whole days;

Then all the kings who had been at the tourney

He rode with from his town a lengthy journey,

And every man went home his proper way,

And that was that, with “Farewell!” and “Good day!”

So of this battle no more I’ll recite,

But speak of Palamon and of Arcite.

The breast of Arcite swelled, the pain and sore

About his heart increasing more and more.

The clotting blood, despite physicians’ art,

Corrupted as it spread out from his heart,

So that no bleedings nor the cuppings made,

Nor drinking herbal mixtures, were of aid.

The expulsive power (being the “animal”)

From that one that is known as “natural”

Could not void all the venom nor expel.

The pipes within his lungs began to swell,

And every muscle that was in his chest

With venom and corruption filled his breast.

And there was nothing gained, that he might live,

By upward vomit, downward laxative,

For all had been so shattered in his breast

That Nature had no power to arrest.

And certainly if Nature won’t work, tote

The man to church, farewell to antidote.

Arcite would die and that’s the summary.

And so he sent for lovely Emily

And Palamon, his cousin once so dear,

And then he spoke as you will promptly hear.

“The woeful spirit that is in my heart

Cannot describe my sorrows, all the smart,

O lady whom I love, that you might hear it.

But I bequeath the service of my spirit

To you above all creatures on the earth,

Since now my life must end, for what it’s worth.

Alas, the woe, alas, the pain so strong

That for you I have suffered for so long!

Alas, now death! Alas, my Emily,

Alas, bereft of your sweet company!

Alas, queen of my heart! Alas, my wife,

My heart’s own lady, ender of my life!

What is this world? What is it men so crave?

Now with his love, now in his frigid grave

Where he’s alone with none for company.

Farewell, my sweetest foe, my Emily!

Now softly take me in your arms, I pray,

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

“I have here with my cousin Palamon

Had strife and rancor many days, not one,

For love of you and in my jealousy.

O Jupiter so wise, be guide to me

To speak now of a servant as I should—

That is to say, of virtues like knighthood,

Like wisdom, honor, truth, humility,

High birth and rank, like generosity,

And all the things that are to these akin.

As Jupiter may take my spirit in,

In all this world right now I know of none

So worthy to be loved as Palamon,

Who serves you and will do so all his life.

And if you ever would become a wife,

Forget not Palamon, this gentle man.”

And with those words, failing of speech began,

As from his feet up to his breast had come

The cold of death, which had him overcome;

In his once mighty arms the vital strength

Began to wane, till finally lost at length;

And then the intellect, all that remained

And dwelt within his heart so sick and pained,

Began to fail. The heart was feeling death;

His eyes were glazed, and failing was his breath.

His lady was the last thing he could see,

And his last words were, “Mercy, Emily!”

His spirit left its house and went to where

I cannot say, I’ve never journeyed there—

I’ll stop, for I’m no good at divination;

This tale is not of souls for registration

Nor do I wish opinions here to tell

Of those who write of where a soul may dwell.

Arcite is cold, Mars guide his spirit free!

Now I will speak again of Emily.

She shrieked; Palamon howled, such was his plaint;

So Theseus then took his sister, faint,

And from the corpse at once bore her away.

But would it help were I to take all day

To tell how she wept day and night? For in

Such cases women have such sorrow (when,

That is to say, their husbands from them go)

They usually will grieve exactly so,

Or else fall sick with such a malady

That death comes to them too with certainty.

Unending were the sorrow and the tears

Of elders and of those of tender years

In all the town because of his demise;

For him both child and man had tearful eyes.

So great a weeping surely wasn’t heard

When they brought Hector, slain, to be interred

At Troy. Alas, the mourning that was there,

Gashing of cheeks and pulling out of hair.

“Why dead?” the women cry. “Why should you be,

Who had both gold enough and Emily?”

No man could bring some cheer to Theseus

Except for his old father Aegeus,

Who knew this world with all its transmutation

As he had seen it change with alternation,

Joy after woe, and more woe after joy.

Then cases and examples he’d employ:

“Just as there’s never died a man,” said he,

“Who didn’t live on earth to some degree,

So there’s no man who’s ever drawn a breath

In all this world whose time won’t come for death.

This world is but a thoroughfare of woe

And we are pilgrims passing to and fro.

Death is an end to every worldly care.”

And he had many other words to share

In this regard, that people might be taught

To take more comfort, not be so distraught.

Duke Theseus then took the greatest care

In looking for a proper setting where

They’d build for good Arcite a sepulchre

That most deserving honor would confer.

At last the duke decided on the one

Where at the first Arcite and Palamon

For love in battle with each other strove;

There in that very same green, fragrant grove

Where Arcite spoke his amorous desires,

Where he complained of love’s hot burning fires,

For services a fire the duke would light

And at the pyre perform the funeral rite.

He gave command at once for them to mow

The ancient oaks and lay them in a row

Of fagots set for burning. Rapidly

His officers would run, immediately

To mount and ride away at his command.

And after this, the duke dispatched a band

To go and bring a bier, one fully clad

With cloth of gold, the richest that he had,

And with a matching suit he clad Arcite.

On Arcite’s hands were fitted gloves of white,

Upon his head a laurel crown of green,

And in his hand a sword both bright and keen.

The duke then laid him barefaced on the bier

And wept till it was pitiful to hear;

And so that Arcite might be seen by all,

When it was day he brought him to the hall,

Which roared with all the crying and the din.

The woeful Theban Palamon came in

With frowsy beard and rough ash-covered hair,

His clothing black and stained with tears. And there,

Surpassing all who wept, came Emily,

The one most grieved of all the company.

Because he thought the services should be

Noble and rich for one of such degree,

Three steeds Duke Theseus then had them bring,

With trappings made of steel, all glittering,

And covered with the arms of Sir Arcite.

Upon these steeds, which all were large and white,

Were mounted men—one Arcite’s shield to bear,

Another with his spear high in the air,

His Turkish bow the third one proud to hold,

With quiver and with trim of burnished gold.

And forth they sadly rode at mourners’ gait

Toward the grove as you’ll hear me relate.

The noblest of the Greeks from far and near

Upon their shoulders carried Arcite’s bier

At slackened pace, their eyes a tearful red,

Along the city’s main street. They had spread

Black cloth along the street, and from great height

The same hung on each side. Upon the right

Hand there came next the old man Aegeus

And on the other side Duke Theseus,

In hand fine golden vessels, which had in

Them milk and honey, blood and wine; and then

Came Palamon with a great company,

And after that came woeful Emily

With fire in hand (the custom of the day,

That all the rites be done the proper way).

Much labor and the greatest preparation

Were spent upon the pyre and ministration—

A pyre so high its top the heavens fetched,

And in its breadth some twenty fathoms stretched

(So broad were all the boughs, that is to say).

First there was many a load of straw to lay.

But how the pyre was made so high to reach,

And names of trees like alder, maple, beech,

Fir, laurel, plane, birch, poplar, aspen too,

Elm, willow, hazel, chestnut, aspen, yew,

Box, dogwood, ash, and oak, as well as how

They felled them all, I won’t go telling now;

Nor how the deities ran to and fro

(The dryads, nymphs, and fauns), all forced to go,

Abandoning the habitations where

They’d known such rest and peace without a care;

Nor how the beasts and birds in those woods all

Began to flee as trees began to fall;

Nor how the ground was fearful of the light,

Not ever having seen the sun so bright;

Nor how with straw they first began the fire,

Then dry sticks split in threes to build it higher;

Then spices, then wood hewn from greenest limbs,

Then cloth of gold, along with precious gems

And many flowered garlands, myrrh, incense,

With odor great and pleasant to the sense;

Nor how among all this Arcite lay there

With riches all about him; nor how fair

And mournful Emily went to the pyre,

As was the custom, with the funeral fire;

Nor how she swooned as flames began to start,

Nor what she spoke, nor what was in her heart;

Nor what jewels into the fire were cast

When it was leaping high and burning fast;

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

And some parts of their clothes, about the bier;

Nor how the wine and milk and blood were poured

Into the fire, nor how it wildly soared;

Nor how the Greeks in one huge mounted rout

Three times from left to right then rode about

The fire with mighty shouts, and three times more

Gave out a clatter with their lances; nor

How thrice the ladies cried out piteously,

Nor how led home at last was Emily;

Nor how to ashes cold had burnt Arcite,

Nor how for him a wake was held that night,

Nor how the Greeks performed each funeral game—

To speak of such as that is not my aim

(Who wrestled best while nude and well anointed

And never got in trouble or disjointed);

I also shall not tell how everyone

Went home to Athens when the games were done.

To get right to the point I intend,

To bring my lengthy story to an end.

In course of time, the length of certain years,

There ended all the mourning and the tears

Among the Greeks by popular assent.

I think that there was then a parliament

In Athens to discuss affairs of state.

Among the things decided in debate

Was to ally themselves with certain lands

And also govern Thebes with firmer hands.

And so this noble Theseus decreed

That Palamon appear, as was agreed—

The reason why unknown to Palamon,

Who still in black, still as a mourning one,

Came at the duke’s commandment hastily.

And Theseus then sent for Emily.

When they had sat, and hushed was all the place,

Duke Theseus was silent for a space;

Before a word came from the wise duke’s breast,

He looked about, then his eyes came to rest.

His face was sad, he sighed as all was still,

Then he began to speak to them his will:

“When the Prime Mover, that First Cause above,

First made the chain so fair that’s known as love,

The effect was great, and high was his intent—

He knew the why’s and wherefore’s, what he meant.

For with that chain of love the Mover bound

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

To certain bounds from which they may not flee.

And that same Prince and Mover,” then said he,

“Established in this wretched world below

The days of the duration they may know,

All those who are engendered in this place,

Beyond which days they cannot take a pace

But which may well be shortened. Here we see

There is no need for an authority,

For it is proven by experience.

I want you to be clear as to my sense:

By this Prime Mover’s order men are able

To see that he’s eternal, always stable;

For every man should know, unless a fool,

Each part comes from the whole (a simple rule),

For Nature has not taken its beginning

From any part or portion of a thing

But from a thing that’s perfect, without change,

Corrupted only in this lower range.

And so he has, in his wise providence,

Established without flaw his ordinance

That kinds of things in all of their progressions

Shall have endurance only by successions

And shall not be eternal. This is seen

With but a glance, you follow what I mean.

“Look at the oak, how long its flourishing

Since way back when it first began to spring;

It has so long a life, as men may see,

Yet wasted at the last is every tree.

“Consider, too, the hardness of each stone

Beneath our feet: each one we’re treading on

Will finally waste away where it may lie.

The broadest river someday will be dry,

We see great cities wane till they have passed.

And so we see that nothing’s born to last.

“Of men and women, we can also see

That in whichever term of life we be

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

We all must die, the king just like the page,

Some in the sea, some in the bed serene,

Some on the battlefield, as men have seen.

There is no help, we all wind up one way.

So everything must die, well I can say.

“And who does this but Jupiter the king

Who is the prince and cause of everything,

Converting all that is back to the well

From which it sprung, as truly we can tell?

And here again no creature that’s alive

Will find avail, however one may strive.

“Then it is wisdom, it appears to me,

To make a virtue of necessity

And take well that which we cannot eschew,

Especially that which is all our due.

Complaint is folly, whoso has decried

Resists the very one who is our guide.

And surely one’s most honored if his time

Has come while in his excellence and prime,

When he can die still sure of his good name.

He’s done to friend and to himself no shame;

Then should his friend be gladder at his death,

When it’s with honor he yields up his breath,

Than when his name is faded later on

And he’s forgotten, youth and glory gone.

So it is best, in terms of lasting fame,

To die while at the height of one’s acclaim.

“To be opposed to this is willfulness.

Why do we groan, or let it so depress,

That Arcite in the flower of chivalry

Has passed away, with honor, dutifully,

Departing the foul prison of this life?

Why grieving are his cousin and his wife—

Whom Arcite loved so much—for his well being?

Can Arcite thank them? No, God knows, when seeing

How they offend themselves, not just his soul.

Yet these are feelings they cannot control.

“How shall I end this lengthy argument

Save after woe let there be merriment,

With thanks to Jupiter for all his grace?

And I advise before we leave this place

We take two sorrows and with them endeavor

To make one perfect joy to last forever.

Let’s look to where most sorrow lies herein,

Where we can help amend and so begin.”

He said, “My sister, this is my intent,

With the advice here of my parliament:

This gentle Palamon who is your knight,

Who serves you with his will and heart and might

(And always has since you first saw his face),

You shall have pity on, and by your grace

Shall take him as your husband and your lord.

Lend me your hand, for this is our accord,

And, as a woman should, show sympathy.

He’s nephew of a king, and yet if he

Were nothing but a poor knight bachelor,

So many years he’s served you, as it were,

And has for you known such adversity,

I’d still consider him most favorably,

For mercy should transcend one’s social station.”

To Palamon he said then in summation:

“I don’t think there’s a sermon I need bring

To get you to assent to such a thing;

Come here and take your lady by the hand.”

The two at once were joined in the grand

And holy union that is known as marriage

Before the council and the baronage.

And so amid much bliss and melody

Has Palamon been wed to Emily;

So God on high, who all this world has wrought,

Has sent to him his love so dearly bought.

Now Palamon had all that’s known as wealth,

To live in bliss, in richness and in health;

And Emily loved him so tenderly,

And he served her with such nobility,

That not one word between this man and wife

Would ever be of jealousy or strife.

So ended Palamon and Emily,

And God save all this lovely company! Amen.

The Lawyer’s Tale

INTRODUCTION

Words of the Host to the Company

Our Host saw that the brightly shining sun

Through artificial day’s arc then had run

One-fourth the way plus half an hour or more;

And though he wasn’t deeply into lore,

He knew quite well it was the eighteenth day

Of April, which is messenger of May.

He saw too that the shadow of each tree

Was in its length of the same quantity

As was the tree that stood producing it;

And by that shadow he judged by his wit

That Phoebus, who was shining clear and bright,

Had climbed then forty-five degrees in height;

The hour for that day and latitude

Was ten o’clock, our Host had to conclude.

He stopped and quickly reined his horse about.

“My lords,” said he, “I warn you all the rout,

A fourth part of the day’s already gone.

Now for the love of God and of Saint John,

Let’s lose as little time now as we may.

My lords, it’s time that wastes both night and day,

That robs us while we sleep without defense,

And while awake, through our own negligence.

It’s like a stream returning not again,

Descending from the mountain to the plain.

Well Seneca, like others of his measure,

Bewails the loss of time more than of treasure:

‘Of chattels there may be recovery,

But we are ruined by loss of time,’ said he.

It will not come again, that’s safely said,

No more than may come Malkin’s maidenhead

Once she has lost it in her wantonness.

Let’s not grow moldy, then, through idleness.

“Sir Lawyer,” said our Host, “God grant you bliss,

Tell us a tale now; you’ve agreed to this.

You’ve been committed by your free assent,

As I may judge the case, without dissent.

Acquit your promise, then you’ll be released;

You will have done your duty at the least.”

“Host,” he replied, “depardieux, I assent,

To break agreements is not my intent.

A promise is a debt, and I will pay

What I have promised—what more can I say?

Laws he would give another man one should

Obey himself, it’s only right, our good

Text so requires. But I know very well

There’s not one worthy tale that I could tell

That Chaucer (though he’s not too good at meter,

And not too skillful in his rhyming either)

Has not been telling folks as best he can

For quite a while, as known to any man.

And if he hasn’t told them, my dear brother,

In one book then he’s told them in another.

He’s told of lovers, paid them much attention,

Much more than Ovid ever made a mention

In his Epistles that are very old.

Why should I tell what’s been already told?

“In youth, of Ceyx and Alcyone he wrote,

And since then has of everyone made note

Among the noblest wives, their lovers too.

Whoever reads his lengthy volume through,

The one called The Legend of Cupid’s Saints,

Will find therein the great wounds and complaints:

Lucretia’s; those of Babylonian Thisbe,

The sword of Dido (false Aeneas!); tree

Of Phyllis, who for Demophon would die;

Hermione’s and Dejanira’s cry,

Hypsipyle’s, and that of Ariadne

(Left on that barren island in the sea);

Leander drowning for his love of Hero;

The tears of Helen, and also the woe

Of you, Briseis, and you, Laodamia;

The cruelty of you, O Queen Medea,

To hang your children, all for hatred of

Your Jason who was faithless in his love;

Alcestis, Hypermnestra, Penelope,

Your wifehood with the best commended he.

“But certainly no word he ever wrote

Of Canace, that wicked case of note

In which she loved her brother sinfully—

Fie on such curséd stories, I agree!

Or of the case of Apollonius,

In which the curséd king Antiochus

Bereft his daughter of her maidenhead—

So horrible a story to be read—

When he had thrown her upon the pavement.

He’s never written (and for good intent),

Not in a single one of his narrations,

Of such unnatural abominations.

I won’t relate them now for all I may.

“But for a tale what shall I do today?

I’d surely not be likened to the Muses

(Or the Pierides if one so chooses,

The Metamorphoses tells what I mean).

But nonetheless why should I care a bean

Though after him I’ve only haw to bake?

I’ll speak in prose, his rhymes he’s free to make.”

And with that word, he with a sober cheer

Began his tale, as you’re about to hear.

PROLOGUE

O hateful harm, you state of poverty,

Where thirst and cold and hunger so confound!

You feel ashamed to ask for charity,

But, asking not, your need will be profound,

Unwrapping every hidden wound you’ve bound;

Your head will bow as in your indigence

You steal or beg or borrow for expense.

You blame Lord Jesus, saying bitterly

His temporal blessings aren’t proportional;

You also blame your neighbor wrongfully,

You say that you have little, he has all.

You say, “He’ll pay, by faith, it shall befall

That his tail will be burning in the coals

Because he doesn’t help us needy souls.”

And listen to the sayings of the wise:

“Better to die than live in indigence”;

“Your very neighbor soon will you despise.”

If you are poor, farewell to reverence!

And from the wise man too this sapience:

“All poor men’s days are evil.” So beware

Lest you should sink to such point of despair!

If you are poor, you’ll have your brother’s spite,

And all your friends, alas, will flee from you.

O merchants rich, well being’s your delight,

O noble, prudent folk, we see it’s true!

Your bags have not been filled with aces two,

You’re running six-and-five with every chance.

How merrily at Christmas you may dance!

You earn by land and sea, your wealth accrues,

While also you gain knowledge of the state

Of kingdoms; you’ve been bearers, too, of news,

Of tales of peace and war. And desolate

I’d be right now for stories to relate

Had not a merchant taught me, many a year

Ago, a tale, and one that you shall hear.

PART I

In Syria once dwelt a company

Of wealthy merchants, dignified and true;

And everywhere they sent their spicery

And cloth of gold and satins rich in hue.

Their wares were all so popular and new

That everyone was pleased at bargains made

With them, and sold to them his stock in trade.

The leaders of this company one day

Decided that to Rome they were to wend.

Be it for business or for pleasure, they

Did not desire a messenger to send

But went in person, for whatever end.

As for a place to lodge, they chose to rent

One that they thought the best for their intent.

And so these merchants sojourned in that town

A certain time, as it was to their pleasure;

And it befell that of the great renown

Of Constance, daughter of the Emperor,

They had report. All things concerning her

These Syrian merchants heard from day to day.

I’ll tell you what they heard the people say.

This was the voiced opinion to a man:

“Our Emperor of Rome—blest may he be!—

A daughter has, and since the world began

(To rank her worth and beauty equally)

There’s never been another such as she.

Sustain her, Lord, I pray with humble mien,

And would that of all Europe she were queen.

“In her there is high beauty without pride,

Youth not with folly but maturity;

In all her works her virtue is her guide,

Her humbleness supplanting tyranny.

She is the mirror of all courtesy,

Her heart a chamber of true holiness,

Her hand a ministration of largess.”

This common voice was right, as God is true.

Let’s go back to our tale. These merchants, when

Their ships had been reloaded, and a view

They’d had of this so blissful maiden, then

Went home to Syria as happy men.

They plied their trade as they had done before

And prospered there. I cannot tell you more.

These merchants, it befell, stood in the grace

Of him who held the sultanate; and he,

When they returned from any foreign place,

Invited them in kindest courtesy

To entertainment, asking busily

For news of sundry realms, for any word

Of wonders seen or of which they had heard.

Of things they told about, especially

They told of Lady Constance, in great measure

Spoke earnestly of her nobility,

Till for the Sultan it was such a pleasure,

The very thought of having such a treasure,

That his desire, each effort he expended,

Was for her love until his life be ended.

It’s possible that in that same large book

That men call heaven what would come to pass

With stars was written when first breath he took:

That love would be the death of him, alas!

For in the stars is written, clear as glass,

There to be read, God knows, by all who can,

Without a doubt the death of every man.

In stars, for many a winter here on earth,

Was written death for Hector, Achilles,

Pompey, and Caesar, before each’s birth;

The strife of Thebes; as well of Hercules

And Samson, of Turnus and Socrates,

The deaths. But so dull are the wits of men,

Not one can read the full of what’s therein.

This Sultan for his privy council sent

And, that the matter be dealt with apace,

Declared to them that which was his intent.

He told them, “Surely now, without the grace

Of having Constance, in but little space

I’m good as dead.” He charged them hastily,

For his life’s sake, to plan some remedy.

Now different men had different things to say;

They argued, casting round for a solution,

And many a subtle plan proposed to lay;

They spoke of magic arts and of delusion,

But at the last, by way of a conclusion,

They found no one best plan that might be carried

Forth, except that he and she be married.

But therein lay the problem, they could see,

To speak quite plainly and with level head,

Because there was so much diversity

Between their two religions. As they said,

“We don’t believe a Christian prince would wed

His daughter under the law of Mahomet,

Which is the law taught to us by our prophet.”

But he replied, “Rather than have to lose

My Constance, I’ll be Christianized, don’t doubt it.

I must be hers, no other way to choose.

In peace, I pray, deliberate about it;

Take care to save my life ere I’m without it,

And bring her. My life’s in her custody,

And in this woe I can no longer be.”

What need is there to treat in greater scope?

By pacts, I’ll say, and by diplomacy

And by the mediation of the Pope,

Of all the church and of all chivalry,

For the destruction of idolatry

And the increase of Christian law so dear,

At last they reached accord as you shall hear:

The Sultan would with all his baronage

And lieges embrace Christianity,

And Lady Constance he would have in marriage,

And gold (I know not what the quantity);

Therein was found sufficient surety.

And this accord was sworn on either side.

May mighty God, fair Constance, be your guide!

Now some men will be waiting, as I guess,

For me to tell of all that then was planned

By the Emperor in his great nobleness

For his daughter Constance; one can understand,

However, that provisions all so grand

No man can tell, in but a little pause,

As was arranged then for so high a cause.

It was arranged that bishops with her wend

Along with ladies, lords, knights of renown,

And other folks; in brief that was the end.

And notice was given throughout the town

That everyone devoutly, kneeling down,

Pray Christ receive this marriage on its day

In his good grace and speed them on their way.

The day arrived when they were to depart;

That woeful, fateful day, I say, had come,

And there was nothing could delay the start

But forward they must journey, all and some.

So Constance, by great sorrow overcome,

With patience rose, preparing then to wend,

For well she saw there was no other end.

Alas! is it a wonder that she wept,

One being sent now to a foreign nation,

Away from friends who tenderly had kept

And cared for her, bound now for subjugation

To one about whom she’d no information?

But husbands all are good; from times of yore

This wives have known, and I’ll dare say no more.

“Father, your Constance, wretched child,” said she,

“Your daughter, young and gently reared, and you,

My mother—of my pleasure you would be

The best except for Christ on high—in rue

Constance your child, always commended to

Your grace, shall for the Syrian domain

Depart, and not set eyes on you again.

“Alas! for it is to the Barbary nation

That I must go at once, as is your will;

I pray that Christ, who died for our salvation,

Gives me the grace his precepts to fulfill.

Though I’m a wretched woman, come to ill,

Women are born to thralldom and to penance,

And to be under manhood’s governance.”

At Troy, I think, when Pyrrhus broke the wall

And Ilium burnt; at Thebes, and equally

At Rome for all the harm through Hannibal

Who smote the Romans not one time but three,

Such weeping wasn’t heard as came to be

Inside that place when time for her to leave;

She had to go although she sing or grieve.

O primum mobile! Cruel firmament

That always crowds with your diurnal sway,

Hurling all from the East to Occident

That naturally would go the other way;

In crowding so, you set in such array

The heavens, when began this fateful train,

By cruel Mars the marriage would be slain.

O tortuous ascendancy, by force

Of which now Mars the lord falls helplessly

Into the darkest house out of his course!

O atazir of Mars’s cruelty!

O feeble moon who moves unhappily!

You’re in conjunction where not kindly taken,

Your new position leaves you now forsaken.

Alas, imprudent Emperor of Rome!

In all your town not one philosopher?

There’s no propitious time to leave one’s home?

Of times to journey, none you might prefer

For people who of high position were

And all with times of birth exactly known?

Alas, too slow or ignorant you’ve grown!

To ship was brought this fair and woeful maid

With ceremony, every circumstance.

“Now Jesus Christ be with you all,” she prayed.

They said but “Farewell, lovely Lady Constance!”

She tried to show a cheerful countenance;

Forth in this manner I will let her sail,

As I shall now again resume my tale.

The Sultan’s mother (evil well of vices)

Had seen that which was her son’s full intent,

To leave his old religion’s sacrifices.

So for her council right away she sent;

They came to find out what this summons meant,

And when there was assembled all this folk,

She sat down and, as you shall hear, she spoke.

“As you are well aware, lords,” she began,

“My son is at the point he would forget

The holy laws contained in our Koran

As given by God’s messenger Mahomet.

But to great God I make this promise yet:

The very life shall from my body start

Before Mahomet’s law shall leave my heart!

“What should betide us with this brand-new law

But thralldom for our bodies, penance, grief?

And afterwards to hell we would withdraw,

Having denied Mahomet our belief.

Will you assure me, lords, for our relief,

Of your assent to what I’ll say before

You here, to make us safe forevermore?”

Each one assented, each swore that he would

Both live and die for her, and by her stand,

That each would try the best way that he could

To get his friends’ support for what she planned.

And she then took this enterprise in hand

As you shall hear, for I shall now explain;

Just in this way she spoke to them again:

“Christianity we’ll first feign to embrace;

Cold water’s all it is, we’ll suffer light.

I’ll have a feast and revel then take place,

And you’ve my word the Sultan I’ll requite.

For though his wife be baptized purest white,

A fountain full of water will not do

To wash away the red when I am through.”

O Sultaness, root of iniquity!

Virago, second Semiramis found!

Serpent disguised in femininity,

You’re like the one that deep in hell is bound;

False woman, of all things that may confound

Virtue and innocence, all that suffice

Are bred in you, the nest of every vice!

O Satan, full of envy since the day

They chased you from your heritage, pursued!

To women you know well the ancient way,

As you made Eve bring us to servitude;

This Christian marriage you would now preclude.

Your instrument—and wellaway the while!—

You make of women when you would beguile.

This sinful Sultaness at whom I rail

Then let her secret council go their way.

Why should I tarry longer with my tale?

She went to see the Sultan then one day

To say that she’d renounce their law, to say

From priestly hands she’d welcome Christendom,

Repenting all her time in heathendom.

She asked if, as an honor, she could hold

A feast, with every Christian as a guest;

“I’ll labor much to please them,” he was told.

The Sultan answered, “I’m at your behest.”

He knelt and thanked her then for the request,

So happy that he knew not what to say.

She kissed her son and homeward took her way.

PART II

Now when this Christian folk had come to land

In Syria—a great distinguished train—

A herald rushed, at the Sultan’s command,

First to his mother, then through the domain,

To say his wife had come, and, to sustain

The honor of his realm, pray all convene,

That everyone might ride to meet the queen.

Great was the throng and rich was the array

Of Syrians and Romans come to meet;

The Sultan’s mother, richly clad, that day

Met Constance with good cheer, both glad and sweet,

As any mother might her daughter greet.

Then to the nearest city to the side

At slow and stately pace they turned to ride.

Not Julius Caesar’s triumph, I would say,

Of which the author Lucan makes such boast,

Had so much royalty or rich display

As the assembly of this blissful host.

But this scorpion like some wicked ghost,

The Sultaness, for all her flattering,

Was then contriving mortally to sting.

The Sultan came himself soon after this

(so royally a wonder it’s to tell),

To welcome her with joy, in total bliss.

And so in mirth and joy I let them dwell;

The fruit of this is what I have to tell.

For when the time had come, men thought it best

That revel cease and men go to their rest.

Then came the time when this old Sultaness

Ordered the feast be held of which I’ve told.

Then to this feast the Christians all progress,

They come in general, young as well as old.

Here one may feast and royalty behold,

And dainties more than my words may devise—

But all too dearly bought, none were to rise.

O sudden woe that ever is successor

To worldly bliss, so sprayed with bitterness!

Of all our labors’ joy, the end, oppressor!

Woe occupies the end of happiness.

Hark to this counsel with assuredness:

Upon your day of gladness, keep in mind

The unseen woe or harm that comes behind.

To tell you in a word (if one is able),

The Sultan and each Christian who had gone

Were stabbed and cut to pieces at the table—

Each one, that is, but Constance, she alone.

This Sultaness, that old and curséd crone,

Had with her friends performed this curséd deed,

That she herself might all the country lead.

Not one converted Syrian in the scrape,

Not one who held the Sultan’s counsel true,

Was not dismembered ere he could escape.

And Constance then they put without ado

Aboard a ship—God knows, without a crew—

And bade her learn to sail upon the sea

From Syria back home to Italy.

Some treasure that she’d taken with her there,

And, be it said, food in great quantity,

Were given her, and also clothes to wear;

Then forth she sailed upon the salty sea.

O Constance, young, full of benignity,

Dear daughter of the Emperor of the realm,

The Lord of Fortune steer you at the helm!

She crossed herself, and with a piteous voice

Prayed to the cross of Christ and made this plea:

“O holy cross, altar where we rejoice,

Red from the Lamb’s blood, shed so pityingly,

That cleansed the world of old iniquity;

I pray, from the fiend and his claws please keep

Me, on that day when I drown in the deep.

“Victorious tree, protection of the true,

The only tree so worthy that you held

The King of heaven with his wounds anew,

The white Lamb who was speared; you have expelled

Demons from man and woman, all those who

Above them see your faithful limbs extend;

Now keep me that my life I might amend.”

For days and years afloat she had to go,

Throughout the Sea of Greece and to the Strait

Of Morocco, as fate would have it so.

And many a sorry meal the lady ate,

And frequently her death she would await

Before the waves so wild would ever drive

Her to the place where she longed to arrive.

Now men may ask why Constance wasn’t slain,

Or who was at the feast, her life to save;

I’ll answer that by asking them again:

Who saved young Daniel in that horrid cave,

That all but he—the master, every knave—

Be eaten by the lion, torn apart?

No one but God, whom he bore in his heart.

God wished to show his wondrous sovereignty

In her, that we should see his mighty work;

For Christ, of every harm the remedy,

Will often by some means (ask any clerk)

Do things for certain ends, though it seem murk

Surrounds it in man’s mind, which cannot sense

The prudence that is in his providence.

Now since she wasn’t murdered, as we saw,

Who kept the maid from drowning in the sea?

Well, who kept Jonah in the fish’s maw

Till spouted up at Nineveh? You see,

Men well may know it was no one but he

Who saved the Hebrews from a drowning too

When with dry feet they passed the Red Sea through.

Who bade the four spirits of the tempest

(With power to annoy land and sea

Both north and south, as well as east and west)

To bother neither sea nor land nor tree?

In truth, the one commanding this was he,

Who from the tempest too this woman kept

When she awoke as well as when she slept.

Where might she get her meat and drink? How save

The food she had, three years and more to sail?

Who fed Saint Mary of Egypt in the cave

Or desert? None but Christ, and without fail.

Five thousand people—marvelous the tale!—

With five loaves and two fishes he would feed;

God sent his plenty in their greatest need.

She drove forth in our ocean without aim,

Throughout our wild sea, till by waves at last

Beneath a castle that I cannot name,

Far in Northumberland, she had been cast;

And in the sand her vessel struck so fast,

From there it wouldn’t budge against the tide;

The will of Christ was that she should abide.

The castle’s constable had hurried there

To see the wreck. Survivors then he sought,

And found this weary woman full of care;

He also found the treasure she had brought.

In her own language mercy she besought,

That life out of her weary body go

And thereby bring deliverance from her woe.

A corrupted form of Latin was her speech,

But still a kind that one could understand.

The constable, his search done, to the beach

This woeful woman took. When on the land,

She knelt and thanked God for his guiding hand;

But who she was to no man she would say,

For foul or fair, though death she have to pay.

She claimed that she had lost her memory

While on the sea with such a muddled mind.

Both constable and wife had sympathy

For her to such degree they wept. So kind

She was as well, so diligent to find

Ways she might serve and please all in the place,

That she was loved by all who saw her face.

This constable and Hermengild, his wife,

Were pagan, like that country everywhere.

But Hermengild loved her as much as life,

And Constance was so long sojourning there,

With orisons and tears of such despair,

That Jesus Christ converted, through his grace,

Dame Hermengild, governess of the place.

No Christian in that land dared move about;

The Christian folk had all been forced to flee

Because of pagans, conquering with a rout

The regions of the North by land and sea.

To Wales had fled the Christianity

Among old Britons dwelling in the isle;

That was their refuge for a goodly while.

But Christian Britons were not so exiled

That there were not a few who privately

Would honor Christ (the heathen folk beguiled),

And near the castle there were dwelling three.

Now one of them was blind—he couldn’t see,

That is, except for eyes within the mind

With which men see when otherwise they’re blind.

Bright was the sun when on one summer’s day

The constable and his wife chose to go,

Along with Constance, down the quickest way

Toward the sea, a furlong way or so,

To frolic on the seashore to and fro.

They chanced to meet this blind man as they strolled;

His eyes were shut, hunchbacked he was and old.

“In Christ’s sweet name,” this sightless Briton cried,

“Dame Hermengild, give me my sight again!”

The woman feared, when so identified,

That by her husband (briefly to explain)

For loving Jesus she would there be slain—

Till Constance gave her strength, to work in search

Of Christ’s own will as daughter of his church.

The constable, abashed at such a sight,

Said, “What’s the meaning of this whole affair?”

And Constance answered, “Sir, it is the might

Of Christ, that helps folks out of Satan’s snare.”

And she began our law then to declare

Until she had the constable by eve

Converted, and on Christ made him believe.

This constable was not lord of the place

Of which I speak (where Constance chanced to land),

But strongly kept it many a winter’s space

For Alla, king of all Northumberland—

A wise king, one who held a worthy hand

Against the Scots, as men may hear and learn.

But to my story I’ll again return.

Now Satan, ever watching to beguile,

At once (on seeing Constance’s perfection)

Looked for a way to foil her with his wile;

He made a young knight dwelling in that section

Love her so hotly, with such foul affection,

The knight thought that by passion he’d be killed

If with her once he had not what he willed.

He wooed her but his efforts were for naught,

She would commit no sin in any way.

Then for despite he entertained the thought

That shameful death would be the price she’d pay.

He waited; with the constable away,

One evening late, with stealthiness he crept

Into the room where Hermengild then slept.

There weary from their prayerful wakefulness,

Both Hermengild and Constance were asleep.

This knight whom Satan tempted to transgress

Then softly managed to the bed to creep.

He cut the throat of Hermengild, and deep;

He left by Constance then the bloody knife

And went his way. God’s vengeance on his life!

The constable had soon come home again,

With Alla, king of all the land around,

To see his wife had been so cruelly slain;

He wrung his hands and wept, by sorrow bound,

Then in the bed the bloody knife he found

By Constance. O alas! what could she say,

In woe her very senses gone away?

To Alla then was told all this mischance—

The time, the place as well, how it occurred

Constance was shipwrecked there by happenstance

As I’ve explained. And when the king had heard,

His heart quaked, so much pity in him stirred,

To see a creature so benign to be

In this distress, in such adversity.

For as the lamb is to the slaughter brought,

So stood this innocent before the king.

The lying knight who had this treason wrought

Bore witness that indeed she’d done the thing.

But mighty grief all this then came to bring

Among the people, saying, “How can they

Suppose she’d act in such an evil way?”

They’d always found her virtuous; what’s more,

She had loved Hermengild as much as life,

As everyone there in the household swore,

Except the one who’d killed her with his knife.

Suspicion in this gentle king grew rife

About the knight; King Alla thought to sleuth

More deeply into this, to learn the truth.

Constance, alas! no champion, it’s seemed,

Wills to defend, you cannot fight your way.

But he who died that we might be redeemed,

Who Satan bound (who lies still where he lay),

May he be your strong champion today!

Unless Christ brings miraculous event,

You quickly shall be slain though innocent.

She got down on her knees then and she prayed:

“Immortal God, the one who saved Susanna

From false complaint; and thou, merciful maid

(Mary I mean, the daughter of Saint Anna)

Before whose child the angels sing ‘Hosanna’—

If I am guiltless of this felony,

Lest I shall perish, my salvation be!”

Before have you not seen the pallid face,

Among a crowd, of someone who was led

Toward his death (one who was shown no grace),

And in his face the color had so fled

That men might know his face was one of dread

Among all of the faces in the rout?

So Constance stood and palely looked about.

O queens, living in your prosperity,

O duchesses, you ladies so well known,

Please have some ruth for her adversity!

The daughter of an emperor stands alone,

She has no one now who would hear her moan.

O royal blood, standing in dread today,

In your great need your friends are far away!

So much compassion had Alla the king

(As pity-filled a gentle heart will be)

That tears were running down his cheeks. “Now bring

Without delay a book to us,” said he,

“And if this knight will swear to us how she

This woman slew, we after will decide

Whom we shall choose as judge when she is tried.”

A British book was fetched, one that contained

The Gospels; on this book at once he swore

Her guilt. In that same instant that obtained,

A hand did smite his neck, the wound so sore

He fell down like a boulder to the floor,

And both his eyes burst right out of his face

In sight of everybody in the place.

A voice was heard by all the audience:

“You’ve spoken slander of the innocent,

This Holy Church’s child, and in high presence;

So you have done, yet wrath I do not vent.”

Bewildered by this marvelous event,

Each person stood aghast and like a stone,

In fear of vengeance—save Constance alone.

Great was the fear and also the repentance

Of those who had suspected, in delusion,

This holy innocent Lady Constance;

This miracle brought many, in conclusion

(With Constance mediating), absolution,

The king and many others in the place

Being converted, thanks to our Lord’s grace.

This lying knight was slain for his untruth,

By judgment of King Alla, hastily;

Yet Constance had upon his death great ruth.

And after this Christ Jesus graciously

Had Alla wed with full solemnity

This holy maid who was so bright and sheen;

And thus had Jesus made Constance a queen.

But who had woe, if truth I shall impart,

To see them wed? None but Donegild who

Was Alla’s mother, she with tyrant’s heart.

She thought her curséd heart would break in two;

She wouldn’t have him wed as he would do—

She thought it a disgrace that he arrange

To marry such a creature, one so strange.

I do not wish with either chaff or straw

To stretch the tale, I’ll get right to the wheat.

What should I tell of royalty one saw

There at the rites, what course came first to eat,

Who blew a trumpet or a horn? The meat

Or fruit of every tale is what to say:

They eat and drink, they dance and sing and play.

To bed they went, by reason and by right;

For although wives be truly holy things,

They have to take with patience in the night

What’s necessary for the pleasurings

Of those folks who have wedded them with rings,

And lay some of their holiness aside

At such a time. No better may betide.

The king begat a manchild right away;

He took his wife and left her in the care

Of constable and bishop on the day

He left for Scotland, hunting foemen there.

Now Constance, she so humble, meek, and fair,

So long had been with child, she stayed inside

Her chamber, ever Christ’s will to abide.

The time then came, the child was borne by her,

Beside the font Maurice his christened name;

The constable then called a messenger,

As he wrote to King Alla to proclaim

The blissful tidings, how the manchild came

(And other tidings briefly to relay);

He sped him with this letter on his way.

This messenger, to suit his own advantage,

To the king’s mother first was swift to ride,

Saluting her in best words he could manage.

“You may,” said he, “be glad and full of pride!

Thank God one hundred thousand times! His bride,

My lady queen, has borne a child. No doubt

Both joy and bliss will sweep the realm throughout.

“Here are the letters, sealed, about the thing,

Which I must bear with all the haste I may.

If you’d send others to your son the king,

I am your humble servant night and day.”

“I’ve nothing,” answered Donegild, “to say

Right now. Here you will take your rest tonight,

Tomorrow I’ll instruct you as I might.”

This messenger consumed much ale and wine,

And stolen were his letters stealthily

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

And then was forged (and with great subtlety)

Another letter, written evilly,

Directed to the king as to appear

From his own constable, as you shall hear.

The queen had borne, so this forged letter said,

So horrible a creature, to be plain,

That none within the castle, out of dread,

Dared with this fiendish creature to remain.

The mother was an elf, an evil bane

Who’d come by charms or by some sorcery,

And everyone now loathed her company.

How grieved the king when he this letter read!

Yet he disclosed to none this wound so sore,

As in his own hand he replied instead:

“What Christ ordains is welcome evermore

To me, as one who’s learned in his lore.

Lord, welcome is thy will and all thy pleasance,

My will I yield to thine in goverance.

“Care for this child, though it be foul or fair,

My wife as well, until I’m home again.

Christ, when he wills, will send to me an heir

More to my liking, heir to my domain.”

He sealed the letter, weeping in his pain;

The messenger received it, no delay

As forth he went. There is no more to say.

O messenger, so full of drunkenness!

Strong breathed, with limbs that falter, you betray

All that is told to you in secretness;

Your mind is lost, you chatter like a jay,

Your face begins to look a whole new way.

Wherever drunkenness reigns in a rout

There is no hidden counsel, do not doubt.

O Donegild, my English can’t begin

To treat your malice and your tyranny!

I’ll leave you to the devil—let him then

Become the judge of all your treachery.

Fie, manlike—no, by God, I lie, let’s see—

Fie on your fiendish spirit! I dare tell,

Though here you walk, your spirit is in hell.

The messenger came from the king once more,

At court of the king’s mother to alight.

She entertained him as she’d done before,

She pleased him in each manner that she might;

He drank until his belt was good and tight,

And then he slept (and snored in usual wise)

All night until the sun was to arise.

Then stolen were his letters once again,

Replaced with further forgeries that went:

“The king commands his constable, on pain

Of being hanged, strict justice the intent,

That he should suffer now in no event

That Constance for one quarter-hour remain

Beyond three days within King Alla’s reign;

“Rather, in that same ship where she was found

Let her and her young son with all their gear

Be placed and then be pushed away from ground

And ordered not to be returning here.”

O Constance, there’s no wonder at the fear

Of woeful spirit as you sleep and dream,

With Donegild concocting such a scheme!

This messenger at morning did awake

And to the castle went by shortest way,

The letter to the constable to take.

When he saw what the letter had to say,

The constable cried “Woe!” and “Wellaway!

Lord Christ,” said he, “how may this world endure,

So full of sin, of creatures so impure?

“O mighty God, if it should be thy will,

As thou art rightful judge, how may it be

That thou shouldst let the guiltless die and still

Let wicked folk reign in prosperity?

O good Constance! Alas, so woe is me,

I’m to be your tormenter—else I die

A shameful death! No other way I spy.”

Both young and old wept all throughout the place,

This curséd letter Alla having sent,

As Constance with a deathly pallid face

Upon the fourth day to the vessel went.

But nonetheless she took for good intent

The will of Christ and, kneeling on the strand,

Said, “Welcome, Lord, all that is thy command.

“The one who has sustained me in false blame

While here on land among you won’t allow

That I should suffer harm or come to shame

Upon the sea, though I may see not how.

As strong as he has been he still is now;

In him I trust, and in his mother dear,

And this will be my sail and help me steer.”

Her little child lay weeping in her arms

As, kneeling, piteously to him she said,

“Peace, little son, I’ll do to you no harms.”

Then over the eyes of her child she spread

A kerchief she had taken from her head,

And lulled him gently in her arms. At last

Her eyes toward the heavens Constance cast.

“O mother Mary, maiden bright,” said she,

“It’s true that through woman’s encouragement

Mankind was lost, with death the penalty,

For which thy child was crucified and rent.

Thy blessed eyes saw all of his torment,

So there is no comparing, to be sure,

Thy woe with any woe man may endure.

“Thou sawest thy child slain before thine eyes,

Yet, by my faith, my child still lives somehow!

O lady bright, who hears our woeful cries,

Glory of woman, maiden fair, O thou

Bright star of day, haven of refuge, now

Rue on my child as in thy gentleness

Thou rueth on all rueful in distress.

“O little child, alas! what is your guilt,

You who have yet to sin? What could you do

That your hard father wills your life be spilt?

Mercy, dear constable,” she said in rue,

“And let my little child dwell here with you.

But if you dare not save him, risking blame,

Give him a last kiss in his father’s name.”

She took a backward look then to the land,

And said, “O ruthless husband, farewell, sir!”

Then she arose and walked down on the strand

Toward the ship (the crowd all followed her),

Praying her child would not cry out or stir.

Taking her leave, and with holy intent

Crossing herself, into the ship she went.

The ship was victualed, no need there for dread,

Abundant stores filled each and every space;

Of all necessities, so be it said,

She had enough, praise be to God’s good grace.

Almighty God, give wind and weather place

And bring her home! There’s no more I can say

Except that on the sea she sailed away.

PART III

King Alla came, soon after this was done,

Home to his castle of which I have told,

And asked then where had gone his wife and son.

The constable then felt his blood run cold,

And plainly to the king the tale he told

As you have heard (I cannot tell it better),

And showed the king his seal, also his letter;

He said, “My lord, as you commanded me,

On pain of death, is what I’ve done, no less.”

The messenger was tortured then till he

Had but one choice, openly to confess

Where he had slept each night. So one could guess,

When wits were used and subtle questioning,

From where this evil work had come to spring.

They recognized which hand the letter wrote,

Exposed the venom of this curséd deed;

I don’t know how, so more I cannot note

Except to say that Alla then indeed

His mother slew (as men may plainly read)

For being a traitor. In great dishonor

Thus ends old Donegild. A curse upon her!

What sorrow this King Alla night and day

Felt for his wife, and for his child also,

There is no tongue so eloquent to say.

So now again to Constance I will go,

Who floats out on the sea in pain and woe,

As Jesus wills, forlorn five years or more

Until her ship at last approaches shore.

Beneath a heathen castle finally

(Its name within my text I fail to find)

She and her child were cast up by the sea.

Almighty God, who rescues all mankind,

Have Constance and her little child in mind

Who in a heathen land now fall again,

Near point of death as I shall soon explain.

Down from the castle many to the site

Had come, to gaze upon the ship and Constance;

Then shortly from the castle, late one night,

The lord’s own steward—God give him mischance,

A thief who spurned our faith—made an advance

Alone onto the ship, and said he ought

To have her love no matter what she thought.

This woman—woebegone, in wretched way,

With crying child—then cried out piteously.

But blessed Mary helped her right away:

As Constance struggled well and mightily,

The thief fell overboard quite suddenly

And in the sea as he deserved was finished.

So by our Lord is Constance left unblemished.

Such is your end, O foul lust, lechery!

For you not only weaken a man’s mind

But you will ruin his body certainly;

The end of all your work, your lust so blind,

Is grief. How many times that men may find

That not just sinful work but the intent

Can lead to shame or death as punishment.

And how could this weak woman have the strength

For such defense against this renegade?

O Goliath, immeasurable in length,

By David how could you so low be laid,

By one so young, no armor and no blade?

How dared he look upon your dreadful face?

Well men may see that it was by God’s grace.

Who gave to Judith such brave hardiness

That she slew Holofernes in his tent,

That she delivered out of wretchedness

God’s people? This I say as my intent,

That just as God a vigorous spirit sent

To them, thereby to save them from their plight,

He sent to Constance too the will and might.

Her ship went forth into the narrow mouth

Of Ceuta and Gibraltar, making way

First to the west, then sometimes north and south

And sometimes east, for many a weary day,

Until Christ’s mother—bless her, as we pray!—

Prepared through her eternal graciousness

A plan to end poor Constance’s distress.

Of the Roman Emperor now a word,

And then right back to Constance where we’ve brought her.

Through letters brought from Syria he heard

About the Christian folks who’d gone to slaughter,

The traitorous dishonor done his daughter

By that most wicked, curséd Sultaness

Who at the feast had slain with thoroughness.

The Emperor of Rome at once sent out

A senator, armed with a royal order,

And other lords—God knows, a mighty rout—

To seek revenge across the Syrian border.

They burnt and slew and razed, giving no quarter

As they spread havoc there for many a day;

Then, briefly, home to Rome they took their way.

This senator, thus heading in his glory

For Rome, while sailing royally

Soon chanced upon the ship (so says the story)

In which was seated Constance piteously.

He had no inkling of whom she might be,

And she refused to speak a single breath

About herself, were it on pain of death.

He brought her then to Rome, and to his wife

He gave her and her little manchild too;

So with this senator she led her life.

(And thus from woe Our Lady can rescue,

Besides poor Constance, many more in rue.)

A lengthy time she dwelt there in that place,

Always in holy works as was her grace.

The senator’s wife was in fact her aunt,

But Constance still she didn’t recognize.

To tarry longer at this point I shan’t,

But of King Alla I’ll again advise,

Still weeping for his wife with mournful sighs;

To him I shall return now, leaving Constance

There under the senator’s governance.

King Alla, who had had his mother slain,

Came one day to be filled with such repentance

That, if I might relate it short and plain,

He went to Rome, that he might have his penance

Completely under papal governance

From high to low. From Jesus Christ he sought

Forgiveness for the wicked works he wrought.

The word in Rome at once went door to door

(“King Alla comes, a pilgrim in contrition”)

By harbingers whom he sent out before.

And so the senator, as was tradition,

Rode out to meet him (kinsmen in addition

Rode out), displaying high magnificence

As well as showing royal reverence.

This senator gave Alla gracious greeting,

And he in turn then greeted him as well,

Each honoring the other at their meeting.

A day or two thereafter it befell

That to King Alla’s inn, I’ll briefly tell,

This senator went for a feast, and he

Took Constance’s young son in company.

Now to the feast some men would doubtless say

He took her son at Constance’s request;

I cannot tell it all in every way,

Be as it may he took him as a guest.

It was indeed, though, Constance’s behest

That this young fellow, while the meal took place,

Be standing, looking Alla in the face.

The king was filled with wonder. Curiously

The senator he questioned, promptly so:

“That fair child over there—who might he be?”

“By God and by Saint John, I do not know.

He has a mother but no father, though,

Of whom I know.” Then he set to expound

To Alla briefly how the child was found.

“But God knows,” said the senator when done,

“Not one as virtuous in all my life

I’ve ever seen as she, nor heard of one,

Count every worldly woman, maid or wife.

I daresay she would rather have a knife

Plunge through her heart than have a wicked name.

There is no man could bring her to that shame.”

In looks the child was as alike to Constance

As any creature possibly could be.

Alla recalled to mind her countenance

And he began to wonder musingly

If this child’s mother could be none but she

Who was his wife. Then inwardly he sighed,

And quickly from the table Alla hied.

“By faith,” he thought, “a phantom’s in my head!

I have to think, if logic’s any judgment,”

But then he gave himself this argument:

“How do I know Christ Jesus hasn’t sent

Her here by sea, just as she came before

To my own land before she left its shore?”

That afternoon, home with the senator

King Alla went to see if it was true.

His host great honor to him did confer,

Then sent for Constance with no more ado.

She didn’t feel like dancing once she knew

The reason he had issued such a call—

In fact she scarcely could stand up at all.

When Alla saw her, greeting her with honor,

He wept, a truly ruthful sight to see;

For just as soon as he laid eyes upon her

He knew without a doubt that it was she.

In sorrow Constance stood dumb as a tree,

Her heart so shut because of her distress

When she remembered his unkindliness.

Then twice she swooned right there in Alla’s sight;

He wept, in self-defense said piteously,

“As God and all his saints and angels bright

May surely on my soul have lenity,

Of your harm I’m as guiltless as would be

Maurice my son—so like you in the face—

Or may the devil haul me from this place!”

Long was the sobbing and the bitter pain

Before the woe within their hearts had ceased;

Great was the pity, hearing them complain

With plaints by which their woe was just increased.

I pray that from my labor I’m released,

No more about their woe, until tomorrow;

I am so weary speaking of such sorrow.

But when the truth then finally was known

(Of what she suffered through, his guiltlessness),

They kissed at least a hundred times, I own,

And twixt the two there was such happiness

That, save the joy of everlastingness,

No creature’s ever seen the like, for sure,

Nor ever shall while this world may endure.

She asked her husband with humility

If for relief—so long she’d had to pine—

He would request her father specially

To be, for all his majesty, benign

Enough that someday he might with him dine.

She also prayed that of her in no way

One word would Alla to her father say.

It was the child Maurice, some men believe,

Who to the Emperor took the request;

But I would not think Alla so naive

That to so great a sovereign—one blest

As being of all Christian folk the best—

He’d send a child. It’s better then to deem

That Alla went himself, as it would seem.

The Emperor accepted graciously

The dinner invitation Alla brought;

And I can say he looked distractedly

At Alla’s child and of his daughter thought.

Alla went to his inn and, as he ought,

Prepared for this great feast in every wise

As far as royal cunning could devise.

The next day came and Alla rose to dress,

As did his wife, this Emperor to meet;

And forth they rode in joy and blissfulness.

And when she saw her father in the street,

Constance, alighting, fell down at his feet.

“Father, your young child Constance,” then she cried,

“From your remembrance has been swept aside.

“I am your daughter Constance,” stated she,

“Whom you once sent to Syria. It’s I,

Dear Father, I who on the salty sea

Was put alone and left, condemned to die.

For mercy now, good Father, is my cry!

Send me not out again among the Godless,

But thank my lord here for his kindliness.”

Who could describe the sweet joy that arose

Among those three when they had come to meet?

But I shall bring my story to a close,

No longer I’ll delay, the day is fleet.

These happy people all sat down to eat;

I leave them at their feast—their joy, I hold,

Beyond my words at least a thousandfold.

This child Maurice was later by the Pope

Made Emperor, and he lived righteously;

The respect he paid the Church was great in scope.

I’ll let his story pass if you agree,

For my tale is of Constance specially.

In histories of Rome is where you’ll find

Maurice’s life, I’ll pay it here no mind.

King Alla, when there came the proper day,

Then went with Constance, his sweet, holy wife,

Back home to England by the shortest way;

There they enjoyed a blissful, quiet life.

But I can well assure you, woe or strife

Soon follows worldly joy; time won’t abide,

From day to night it changes like the tide.

Who’s ever lived one day of full delight

Who has not still been moved by conscience, ire,

By envy, pride, by tragedy or fright,

By some effrontery or by desire?

I say this only as it would transpire

That joy and bliss for Alla on this isle

With Constance was to last but little while.

For death, which takes its toll from high to low,

After about a year, as I would guess,

Had taken Alla from this world. Such woe

Did Constance feel, she grieved with heaviness.

Now let us pray that God his soul will bless!

Dame Constance, in conclusion I will say,

Toward the town of Rome then made her way.

In Rome this holy creature has arrived

To find that all her friends are whole and sound.

All her adventure Constance has survived;

And when her father she at last has found,

She falls down to her knees upon the ground

And there she weeps, so tender in her ways,

A hundred thousand times our Lord to praise.

In virtue and in holy Christian deed

They live, and never from each other wend;

Till death should part, such is the life they lead.

And so farewell! my tale is at an end.

Now Jesus Christ, who in his might may send

Joy after woe, govern us by his grace

And keep each one of us who’s in this place! Amen.

The Friar’s Tale

In my part of the land there used to be

An archdeacon, a man of high degree,

Who’d execute with bold determination

The punishment for acts of fornication,

Of pandering, also of sorcery,

Of defamation and adultery,

Of errant churchmen, of false testaments

And contracts and of lack of sacraments,

Of usury and simony also.

To lechers, though, for sure the greatest woe

He dealt, they’d have to sing when they were caught.

Small tithers, too, to foulest shame he brought

If any parson made complaint of them.

No sort of fine was overlooked by him.

For meager tithe, for too small offering,

He made the people piteously to sing.

Before the bishop caught them with his hook,

Their names were down in this archdeacon’s book.

So he possessed by way of jurisdiction

The power to correct them with affliction.

He had a summoner ready at hand,

No slyer boy in England, for a band

Of spies the fellow craftily maintained

To let him know where something might be gained.

One lecher he’d abide, or two or more,

If they could lead the way to twenty-four.

This summoner was as mad as a hare,

Yet none of his rascality I’ll spare,

For we’re beyond the reach of his correction.

They’ve no rule over friars, no direction,

Nor will they ever have their whole lives through—”

“By Peter! so are women of a stew,”

The Summoner exclaimed, “beyond our care!”

“Peace now! Misfortune to you, I declare!”

Then said our Host. “Now let him tell his tale.

I pray, continue, though the Summoner rail,

And, my dear master, leave out nothing, sir.”

This false thief (said the Friar), this summoner,

Always had bawds at hand to do his stalking;

Like to the lure in England used in hawking,

To him they brought all secrets they’d accrue;

The relationship they had was nothing new.

They were his agents, working on the sly,

And he was greatly profiting thereby

(His master didn’t always know the take).

Without a legal summons many a rake

He’d summon, and, when threatened with Christ’s curse,

Each would be more than glad to fill his purse

And hold a feast, with lots of ale to swill.

As Judas had a little purse to fill

And was a thief, that’s just what he was too;

His master got but half what he was due.

He was, if in my praise I’m not to skimp,

A thief, also a summoner and pimp.

And he had wenches in his retinue

By whom—be it Sir Robert or Sir Hugh

Or any Jack or Ralph they lured to bed—

Into his ear all dutifully was said.

Each wench and he were of a single mind:

He’d fetch a summons (counterfeit in kind)

To summon both offenders to the bench,

Then fleece the man while setting free the wench.

“My friend, I shall, for your sake,” he would say,

“Strike her out of the record all the way;

In this case there’s no need to be dismayed.

I am your friend and I can be of aid.”

He knew for certain more on being bribed

Than in two years could ever be described.

No archer’s hound in all this world can tell

An injured from a healthy deer as well

As knew this summoner a crafty lecher,

A paramour, or an adulterer;

For therein lay the bulk of what he earned,

And that’s where his intent was fully turned.

It so befell that on a certain day

This summoner, forever after prey,

Rode out to summon some old widowed hag

Whom he could rob, false summons in his bag.

It happened that he saw before him ride

A carefree yeoman by a forest side.

Bearing a bow, with arrows bright and keen,

This yeoman wore a short coat, colored green,

And had a black-fringed hat upon his head.

“Hail and well met, sir!” the summoner said.

“Welcome to you and every man who’s good!

Where are you riding under this green wood?”

The yeoman asked. “Do you have far to go?”

The summoner replied by saying, “No,

Right here close by. The reason I have come

Is that I might collect a certain sum

That’s overdue and to my lord is pledged.”

“You are a bailiff, then?” “Yes,” he alleged.

He didn’t dare to put himself to shame

With “I’m a summoner,”  by the very name.

“Depardieux,” said the yeoman, “my dear brother,

You are a bailiff and I am another.

As I’m a stranger in this region, pray

Let us become acquainted if we may

And be sworn brothers too if you agree.

My chest holds gold and silver; if it be

That you should ever come into our shire,

All shall be yours, as much as you desire.”

“In faith,” the summoner said, “my thanks to you!”

At once their hands were joined, as the two

Swore to be brothers till their dying day.

Then sociably they rode upon their way.

This summoner, as full of idle words

As full of venom are the butcher-birds,

And always asking this and that, said, “Tell

Me now, dear brother, where it is you dwell,

If looking for you I should ever ride.”

To which the yeoman quietly replied:

“In the north country, brother, far away,

And I shall hope to see you there someday.

Before we part, I’ll tell you in detail

About my house, you’ll know it without fail.”

“Now, brother,” said the summoner, “I pray,

Teach to me, as we’re riding on our way

(Since you’re a bailiff just the same as me),

Some craftiness, instruct me faithfully

How in my office I the most may win;

And do not spare for conscience or for sin,

But as a brother tell me what you do.”

“Dear brother,” he replied, “I swear to you

That I shall tell a truthful tale. Too small

Have been my wages, not enough at all;

My lord is hard, he’s difficult to please,

My office is but labor without ease,

And so it’s by extortion that I live.

It’s true, for I take all that men will give.

Each year by sleight if not by violence

I take in all I need for my expense,

And that’s the truth as best I know to tell.”

The summoner said, “That’s what I do as well.

God knows, I won’t spare anything they’ve got

Unless it be too heavy or too hot.

What I can get, however stealthily,

On that no bit of conscience bothers me;

But for extortion I’d not be alive,

And for such ruses never will I shrive,

No bleeding heart or conscience have I got.

As for father-confessors, curse the lot.

How good, by God and by Saint James, that we

Have met! Dear brother, tell your name to me,”

The summoner said. This yeoman all the while

Had growing on his face a little smile.

“Brother,” he said, “your wish is that I tell?

I am a fiend, my dwelling is in hell.

And here I ride about soliciting

To see if men will give me anything.

What I pick up is what I earn, the sum.

And see how for the same intent you’ve come:

To profit well, not ever caring how.

I do the same, for I would ride right now

To this world’s end if there I’d find some prey.”

“Ah, benedicite! what’s that you say?”

The summoner said. “I truly figured you

A yeoman. You’ve a man’s shape as I do.

Do you have a definite form as well

When you are back in Hades where you dwell?”

“No, surely not,” said he, “there we have none.

But when it pleases us, we take us one

(Or make it seem to you we have a shape),

Sometimes one like a man, sometimes an ape,

Or like an angel I can walk or ride.

It is no wonder, this which I confide;

A lousy juggler fools you, and, pardie,

My craft is more than his will ever be.”

The summoner asked, “Why is your wandering done

In many shapes and not always in one?”

He answered, “We take on such shapes as may

Allow us best to capture all our prey.”

“What makes you go to all this labor, though?”

“Dear summoner, the reasons why it’s so

Are many,” said the fiend. “But all in time;

The day is short, it’s after nine, and I’m

Still looking for my first gain of the day.

My aim’s to get some earnings, if I may,

And not to give away all that’s at hand.

You wouldn’t have the wits to understand,

Brother of mine, were I to let you know.

But as you ask me why we labor so,

We sometimes serve as God’s own instruments,

The means by which his will he implements

When he desires, in dealing with his creatures,

In diverse ways with divers forms and features.

Without him we’ve no might, of that no doubt,

When he opposes what we’d bring about.

At our request we sometimes have a leave

Only the body, not the soul, to grieve,

As witness Job, how we tormented him.

Sometimes we’ve power over both of them

(That is to say, body and soul as well),

And sometimes we have leave to come from hell

To bring to someone’s soul alone unrest,

Not to the body. All is for the best.

Whenever one withstands all our temptation,

That stand becomes a cause for his salvation,

Although it isn’t our intent or thought

That he be saved—we’d rather he be caught.

We’re servants, too, of man; as an example

The archbishop Saint Dunstan should be ample.

To the apostles I was servant too.”

“Yet tell me,” said the summoner, “if true:

Do you make your new bodies always so,

Out of the elements?” The fiend said, “No,

Sometimes it’s only some form of disguise;

Dead bodies we may enter that arise

To speak with all the reason and as well

As to the Endor witch spoke Samuel.

(And yet some men will say it wasn’t he;

I have no use for your theology.)

But I’ll warn you of this, I do not jape:

You’ll know in any case our form and shape,

For later, my dear brother, you will be

Where you will have no need to learn from me;

Experience shall give you your own chair

To lecture better on this whole affair

Than Virgil did right up until he died,

Or Dante too. Now quickly let us ride,

For gladly I will keep you company

Until the time you’d be forsaking me.”

“No, that won’t be!” the summoner replied.

“I am a yeoman, known both far and wide;

I’ll always keep my word, as I do now.

Were you the devil Satan, yet my vow

I’d keep that I have made to you my brother;

For we have sworn, each of us to the other,

To be true brothers, that’s the sworn condition

As we both go about our acquisition.

So take your part of what to you they give

And I’ll take mine, that both of us may live;

And if one of us has more than the other,

Let him be true and share it with his brother.”

“I grant it, by my faith,” the devil said.

And with that word upon their way they sped.

Just as they reached the town that on his ride

Had been the summoner’s object, they espied

A cart on which there was a load of hay.

The carter strove to drive it on its way

But it was bogged too deeply in the mire;

He lashed, cried like a madman in his ire,

“Hie, Brock! Hie, Scot! You’re stymied by the stones?

The fiend fetch you,” he said, “body and bones,

As certainly as ever you were foaled,

For all you’ve made me suffer, woe untold!

The devil take all—horses, cart, and hay!”

The summoner said, “Here we’ll have some play.”

He neared the fiend, casual to appear,

And privately he whispered in his ear:

“My brother, listen, by your faith! Hear what

The carter has to say? Take what he’s got,

Seize it at once, he’s given it to you—

Both cart and hay, and his three horses too.”

“No,” said the fiend, “God knows, in no event.

For trust me well, that wasn’t his intent.

Ask him yourself, if you are doubting me,

Or wait but for a while and you will see.”

The carter whacked his horses’ rumps, and all

Forward began, with that, to lean and haul.

“Hie now!”  said he. “By Jesus be you blest,

You and his handiwork, from least to best!

That was a hardy pull, my dappled boy!

I pray you’re saved by God and by Saint Loy!

Out of the slough, pardie, my cart’s been led!”

“See, brother,” said the devil, “what I said?

You are a witness to the fact, dear brother,

The fellow said one thing but thought another.

Let’s carry on our journey as we rode,

For there is nothing here that I am owed.”

When they had gone a short way out of town,

The summoner informed him, voice down,

“Here, brother, dwells a crone, a whining fiddle,

Who’d rather lose her neck than give a little,

A single penny, of her goods. I’ll gain

Twelve pence at least, although she go insane,

Or have her summoned—though, God knows, admitted,

I don’t know of one wrong that she’s committed.

But since here in this land you fail to earn

Enough for your expense, watch me and learn.”

The summoner knocked at the widow’s gate.

“Come out, old hag,” he said, “don’t make me wait!

Some friar or priest is with you, I would say.”

“Who knocks?” the wife asked. “Benedicite!

God save you, dear sir, what is your kind will?”

The summoner replied, “I’ve here a bill

Of summons. See tomorrow that you be,

On pain of curse, at the archdeacon’s knee

To answer to the court for certain things.”

“Now, Lord,” said she, “Christ Jesus, King of kings,

In wisdom help me, I’m in such a way.

For I’ve been sick, and that for many a day;

I cannot go so far,” she said, “or ride

Or I’ll be dead, such pain is in my side.

May I not ask a copy, sir, that I

Might send someone in my name to reply

To what it is they bring accusing me?”

“Yes,” said the summoner, “pay now—let’s see—

Twelve pence to me, and you I shall acquit.

My profit from it’s just a little bit;

My master gets the most, it isn’t me.

Come bring it now, let me ride hastily.

Give me twelve pence, I may no longer tarry.”

“Twelve pence!” she said. “Dear Lady now, Saint Mary,

In wisdom lead me out of care and sin!

Although this whole wide world were I to win,

I’d not have twelve pence in my whole household.

You’re well aware that I am poor and old;

For this poor wretch please show some charity.”

“No, may the fiend come fetch me,” answered he,

“If I’ll excuse you, though you up and die!”

“Alas!”  she said, “no guilt, God knows, have I.”

“Pay me,” said he, “or by the sweet Saint Anne,

I’ll take away with me your brand-new pan

For debt you’ve owed me for so long a time.

When you made your husband a cuckold, I’m

The one who paid the fine, your penalty.”

“You lie, by my salvation!” then said she.

“For never I as widow or as wife

Was summoned to your court in all my life,

And never with my body was untrue.

Now may the devil, black, rough-hided too,

Take both your body and that pan from me!”

And when the devil heard her curse as she

Was kneeling there, he spoke as you shall hear:

“Now tell me, Mabel, my own mother dear,

Is this your real desire, what you have said?”

She said, “The devil fetch him ere he’s dead,

And pan and all, if he does not repent!”

“No, you old cow, it isn’t my intent,”

The summoner said, “to have regret or rue

About whatever I may get from you.

Would that your old chemise, each thread, I had!”

“Now, brother,” said the devil, “don’t be mad;

Your body and this pan are mine by right.

To hell is where you’ll go with me tonight,

Where you’ll be more into our privity

Than any master of divinity.”

This foul fiend grabbed him, no more words were spent;

Body and soul he with the devil went

To where their due these summoners all find.

May God, who in his image made mankind,

Now be our guide and save us, all and some,

And grant these summoners good men become!

My lords, I could have told you (said the Friar),

Had I the leisure now, about the fire

As spoken of by Christ, by Paul and John

And other holy doctors, many a one;

About such pains your hearts would really shudder,

Though they are worse than any tongue may utter,

Were I to have a thousand years to tell

The pains down in that curséd house of hell.

But to protect us from that curséd place,

Be watchful, and pray Jesus by his grace

Keep us from Satan, from temptation’s snare.

Heed this word and example, and beware:

“The lion ever sits in wait, to slay

The innocent by any means he may.”

Have your hearts ever ready to elude

The devil, lest he bind in servitude.

He may not tempt you, lords, beyond your might,

For Christ will be your champion and knight.

And pray these summoners of all they’ve wrought

Repent, ere by the devil they are caught!

The Student’s Tale

PROLOGUE

“Sir Oxford Student,” said our Host, “you ride

As still and quiet as a brand-new bride

Who’s sitting at the table. I have heard

Throughout this day from your tongue not a word.

Some sophism, I think, you’re pondering;

But Solomon said, ‘A time for everything.’

“For God’s sake, can’t you be of better cheer?

Now’s not the time to do your studies here.

Tell us a story, by your faith, that’s merry!

When one joins in a game, he mustn’t vary

From that game’s rules, to which he gave assent.

But don’t preach like the friars during Lent

Who over our old sins would make us weep,

Nor tell a tale that puts us all to sleep.

“Tell of adventures, have a merry say;

Your colors, terms, and figures store away

Until you need them for composing things

In lofty style, as when men write to kings.

For now use only your plain words, we pray,

That we may understand all that you say.”

This worthy Student answered courteously:

“I am under your rule, Sir Host,” said he,

“You have us all under your governance,

And therefore I will show obedience,

Within the bounds of reason, certainly.

I’ll tell a story that was taught to me

By a scholar of Padua rightly known

As worthy, as his words and works have shown.

He’s dead now, nailed inside his coffin. May

The Lord grant that his soul’s at rest, I pray!

“Named Francis Petrarch, poet laureate,

This scholar’s sweetest rhetoric has set

All Italy alight by poetry,

As did Legnano with philosophy

And law and certain other arts as well.

But death, that won’t allow us here to dwell

For longer than the twinkling of an eye,

Has slain them both, and all of us must die.

“But telling further of this worthy man

Who taught to me this tale, as I began:

He first composed in high style, I should note,

Before the body of his tale he wrote,

An introduction in which Petrarch speaks

Of Piedmont, of Saluzzo, and those peaks

The Appenines, which so majestically

Comprise the border of West Lombardy;

Especially he speaks of Mount Viso,

The place at which the river known as Po

Originates, a little spring its source,

And keeps on going on its eastward course:

Emilia, Ferrera, Venice too—

It would take too long to describe to you.

And truthfully to speak, I do not sense

That it’s a matter that’s of relevance

Save that he had to preface things somehow.

But here’s his tale and you may hear it now.”

PART I

There’s found along the west of Italy,

Below Mount Viso with its summit cold,

A pleasant plain of great fertility

With many towns and towers to behold

That forebears founded in the days of old,

And other sights as grand to see are legion.

Saluzzo it is called, this noble region.

A marquis once was lord of all the land

As all his worthy forebears were before;

Obedient to all that he’d command

Were all his subjects, both the rich and poor.

So he lived well, much happiness in store,

Both loved and feared by lord and commoner

Through all the favor Fortune may confer.

As for the lineage from which he sprung,

It was the noblest in all Lombardy.

He was a handsome fellow, strong and young,

One full of honor and of courtesy

And quite discreet as such a lord should be,

Save for some things for which he was to blame;

And Walter was this youthful ruler’s name.

I blame him in that he would give no thought

To what the future held, what may betide;

His pleasure was in what the present brought,

Like hawking and the hunt, on every side.

He’d tend to let all other matters slide;

And he refused—and this was worst of all—

To take a wife, whatever may befall.

That one thing caused his people such despair

That one day as a flock to him they went,

And one of them, the one most learned there—

Or else who best could gain this lord’s consent

To speak for all, conveying their intent,

Or else who best could make such matters clear—

Spoke to the marquis as you’re now to hear:

“O noble marquis, your benignity

Assures us, it allows our forwardness,

As often as it’s of necessity,

To come to you to tell you our distress.

Now grant, lord, through your gentle nobleness,

That we with piteous heart tell our dismay.

Let not your ears disdain what we’ve to say.

“I am not more involved in this affair

Than any other person in the place;

But seeing, my dear lord, how you’ve been fair

With me before and favored me with grace,

I’ve dared to ask that I might have this space

Of audience, to tell you our request;

Then you, my lord, do what you think is best.

“For certainly, my lord, you please us now—

You and your works—and always have, till we

Cannot in any way imagine how

We might could live in more felicity,

Except, my lord, that you might will to be

A wedded man. If marriage might you please,

Then would your people’s hearts be set at ease.

“So bow your neck beneath this yoke of bliss,

Of sovereignty (not servitude), that’s known

As marriage or wedlock. Consider this,

My lord, in your wise thoughts: our days pass on,

In many ways we spend them and they’re gone;

For though we sleep or wake or walk or ride,

Time’s fleeting, for no man it will abide.

“And though you’re young, still in life’s greenest flower,

Age stilly as a stone creeps day to day;

Death threatens every age and wields its power

In each estate and no one gets away;

And just as we are certain when we say

That we must die, uncertain are we all

About the day when death will come to call.

“Accept, then, what we say with true intent

Who never have refused what you command,

And we will, lord, if you will give assent,

Choose you a wife, she’ll quickly be at hand,

Born of the noblest family in the land,

That it may be, as we would so apprize,

An honor both to you and in God’s eyes.

“From all this fear now save us one and all

And take yourself a wife, for heaven’s sake!

For, God forbid, if it should so befall

That through your death—your lineage at stake—

A stranger should succeed you, free to take

Your heritage, woe to us left alive!

Therefore we pray that quickly you will wive.”

Their meek prayer and the sadness in each look

Filled the marquis’s heart with sympathy.

He said, “Dear people, that of which I took

No thought at all you now require of me.

I always have enjoyed my liberty;

That’s hard to find once marriage shall intrude.

Where I was free I’ll be in servitude.

“Yet I see how sincere is your intent,

And will as always trust in what you say;

Of my free will I therefore will assent

To take a wife as quickly as I may.

But though you’ve made the offer here today

To choose her for me, I’ll not hold you to it

And ask that you no further will pursue it.

“For God knows, children often aren’t the same

As all their worthy forebears were before;

Good comes from God, not from the family name,

Not from whatever lineage that bore.

My trust is in God’s goodness, and therefore

My marriage and my office and my ease

I leave to him; may he do as he please.

“So let me be the one to choose my wife,

That burden I will shoulder. But I pray

And give to you this charge upon your life:

Assure me, when I’ve chosen as I may,

In word and deed until her dying day,

Both here and everywhere you’ll honor her

As if the daughter of an emperor.

“And furthermore, this you will swear to me:

Against my choice you’ll not complain or strive;

For since I’m to forgo my liberty

At your request, if ever I may thrive,

How my heart may be set is how I’ll wive;

And if you don’t agree it’s to be so,

I pray you speak no further, let it go.”

With hardy will they swore, gave their assent

To all of this, not one of them said “Nay”;

They asked the marquis then, before they went,

If in his grace he’d set a certain day

To marry, one as early as he may;

For still the people were somewhat in dread,

Still fearing that the marquis wouldn’t wed.

He set a day—one suiting him the best—

When he would marry, gave them surety,

And said that this was all at their request.

With humbleness they all obediently

Then knelt before him, and respectfully

They thanked him. In pursuing their intent

They had what they desired, and home they went.

And thereupon he calls his officers,

Gives orders how the feast they’re to purvey;

He with each squire and trusty knight confers,

Such charges as he will on them to lay;

And all that he commands them they obey,

Each one intent to do all that he can

To see the feast so forth with proper plan.

PART II

Not very far from that fine palace where

This marquis was arranging how he’d wed,

A village stood, the region truly fair;

There villagers, as humble lives they led,

Had homes and beasts, and all these folks were fed

By their own labor spent upon the land,

Work that the earth repaid with open hand.

Among the poor folks there did dwell a man

Who was considered poorest of them all;

But God will often send, as well he can,

His grace into an ox’s little stall.

Janicula’s the name that folks would call

Him by. He had a daughter, fair the same,

Griselda was this youthful maiden’s name.

To speak of virtuous beauty, clearly she

Was of the fairest underneath the sun;

For she had been brought up in poverty,

No ill desire in her heart’s blood would run.

She drank more from the well than from the tun;

And inasmuch as virtue was her pleasure,

She knew about hard work, not idle leisure.

For though this maiden was so young and pure,

Inside her virgin breast was found to be

A heart that was both sober and mature.

She cared, with great respect and charity,

For her poor aged father, and while she

Was spinning, their few sheep in field she kept;

She never quit her labor till she slept.

When she came home she’d often bring along

Some roots or herbs, which shredded with a knife

She boiled to make their meal. She labored long,

Hard was the bed she made. But through her strife

She ever would preserve her father’s life,

With all the diligent obedience

That any child can give in reverence.

Upon this poor Griselda frequently

The marquis would in passing cast his eye

As he was riding to his venery;

And when this maiden he would so espy,

No wanton look of folly he thereby

Would give her, but a look of grave respect;

On her behavior often he’d reflect,

Commending in his heart her womanhood

And virtue, like no other one possessed

So young, in thought and deed so full of good.

Though virtue is not readily assessed

By common people, he was so impressed

By her that he decided that he would

Wed only her, if wed he ever should.

The wedding day arrived, yet none could say

Which of the district’s women it would be;

This started many wondering that day,

And saying, when they were in privacy,

“Will our lord yet not quit his vanity?

Will he not wed? Alas, if it be thus!

Why should he so deceive himself and us?”

This marquis, though, had had his craftsmen make

Of gems, in gold and azure set, a treasure

Of rings and brooches for Griselda’s sake;

To fit her for new clothes, he had them measure

A maiden of like build; they had no leisure,

That his bride be adorned in such a way

As would befit so grand a wedding day.

By nine upon that morn anticipated,

The day on which the wedding would take place,

The palace had been finely decorated,

Each hall or room according to its space,

The kitchen storerooms stuffed in every case

With luscious food, as much as one might see

Throughout the length and breadth of Italy.

This marquis—royally dressed, with every lord

And every lady in his company

Whom he had asked to come and share the board,

And with his retinue, his chivalry,

While music played, such sounds of melody—

Toward the village that I’ve told about

Now takes the nearest way with all the rout.

Griselda—who had no idea, God knows,

That for her sake was meant all this array—

Out to a well to fetch some water goes,

Then hurries home as quickly as she may;

For she had heard that on that very day

The marquis would be wed, and if she might

She’d love to catch a glimpse of such a sight.

She thought, “With other maidens I will stand,

Who are my friends, and from the door I’ll see

The marchioness. So I’ll go take in hand

The work at home as soon as it may be,

The labor always waiting there for me;

Then I’ll be free to watch if she today

Toward her castle passes by this way.”

And as she was about to step inside,

The marquis came. Her name she heard him call;

Her water pot at once she set aside

(Beside the threshold in an ox’s stall),

And down upon her knees was quick to fall;

There soberly she knelt, completely still,

Till she had heard her lord express his will.

This thoughtful marquis spoke then quietly,

Addressing her as gently as he may:

“Griselda, where’s your father?” Reverently,

With humble mien, the girl was quick to say,

“My lord, he’s here right now.” Without delay

Griselda went inside the house and sought

Her father, whom she to the marquis brought.

Then by the hand he took this aged man,

And said, when he had taken him aside,

“Janicula, I neither may nor can

For any longer my heart’s pleasure hide.

If you consent, whatever may betide,

Your daughter I will take to be my wife

Before I go, and she’ll be so for life.

“You love me, that I surely know, and you

Were born my faithful liege. And furthermore,

What pleases me—I daresay that it’s true—

Is that which pleases you. Tell me therefore

Upon this special matter raised before,

If from you your agreement I may draw,

If you will take me as your son-in-law.”

This was so sudden and astonishing

The man stood shaking, turned completely red,

Abashed till he could scarcely say a thing

Except for this: “My lord, my will,” he said,

“Is as you will, and I’d will naught instead

Against your liking; so, my lord so dear,

As you may please, rule in this matter here.”

To this the marquis gently said, “Yet I

Desire that in your dwelling you and she

And I should meet and talk. Do you know why?

I want to ask her if her will it be

To be my wife, obedient to me.

And in your presence all this shall be done,

No words out of your hearing, not a one.”

While in the dwelling they negotiated

To such an end as after you will hear,

Outside the house the people congregated,

Amazed by her virtue, for it was clear

How well she cared there for her father dear.

And she should be amazed if any might,

For never had she witnessed such a sight.

No wonder she was so surprised to see

So great a guest come in that humble place;

She wasn’t used to such grand company,

And, watching, she became quite pale of face.

But to the matter’s heart let’s go apace;

These are the words the marquis chose to speak

To this kind maiden, faithful, true, and meek:

“Griselda, you can surely understand

The wish now that your father shares with me

That we should wed, and also may it stand,

As I suppose, that it’s your will it be.

But I must ask some questions first,” said he.

“Since with the utmost haste it should be wrought,

Do you assent, or wish some time for thought?

“Would you agree to all by me desired,

And that, when I think best, I freely may

Cause pain or pleasure as may be required

And you would not begrudge it night or day?

When I say ‘yea,’ you will not answer ‘nay’

By word or frown? Swear this, and you’ve my oath

That we shall be allied, here I’ll betroth.”

Marveling at his words and trembling so

From fear, she said, “My lord, I shouldn’t be

Held worthy of this honor you’d bestow,

But that which you may will is right with me.

And here I swear that never willingly,

In thought or action, you I shall defy,

On pain of death, though I were loath to die.”

“That’s good enough, Griselda,” answered he.

At once he went outside with sober cheer,

And out the door behind him followed she,

And to the gathered folks he made it clear:

“This is my wife,” said he, “who’s standing here.

So honor her, give her your love, I pray,

All those with love for me; no more to say.”

That none of the old clothes she had to wear

Be brought into his house, the marquis had

Some women come to strip her then and there.

These ladies, be it said, were less than glad

To touch the garments in which she was clad,

But nonetheless they clothed from head to toes

This maiden of bright hue in brand-new clothes.

They combed her hair that, worn without a braid,

Had been unkempt; with dainty hands they set

A garland on her head; she was arrayed

With jewels of every size. Why should I let

Her clothing grow into a tale? And yet

The people hardly knew who she might be,

So fairly changed in such rich finery.

The marquis married her then with a ring

That he had brought, then placed her on that day

Upon an ambling, snow-white horse, to bring

Her to his palace—no more he’d delay—

With joyful people out to lead the way.

That’s how the day in revelry was spent

Until the sun was low in its descent.

To chase this tale and move it forth apace,

I’ll say that to this brand-new marchioness

God granted so much favor, by his grace,

That by appearance one would never guess

That she’d been born and bred with so much less

(Indeed inside a cote or ox’s stall)

Rather than nurtured in an emperor’s hall.

To everyone she grew to be so dear

And reverenced that folks who’d known her for

The length of her whole life, from year to year,

Could scarcely now believe—if any swore—

That of Janicula (of whom before

I spoke) she was indeed the daughter, seeing

How she appeared to be another being.

Though virtuous she’d been for all her days,

She showed such increase in her excellence

Of mind and habits, held in highest praise,

Was so discreet, so fair in eloquence,

So kind and deserving of reverence,

And won the people’s hearts with so much grace,

That she was loved by all who saw her face.

Not only in Saluzzo could be found

The highest public praise for her good name,

But also in the regions all around;

If one spoke well, another said the same.

Of her high excellence so spread the fame

That men and women, young as well as old,

Went to that town, this lady to behold.

Thus Walter humbly—royally, I should say—

Was wed with fortunate honor, and he

In God’s peace lived then in an easy way

At home, he seemed as blest as one could be.

And as he saw that under low degree

Is virtue often hidden, folks opined

He was a prudent man of rarest kind.

Not only did Griselda through her wit

Know how to do the things a housewife should,

But when the situation called for it

She could as well tend to the common good.

No angry strife or disagreement stood

In all that land that she could not resolve,

Restoring peace to those it might involve.

Though her husband be absent, rapidly

When nobles or when others in the land

Were feuding, she would bring them to agree.

Such eloquence she had at her command

And rendered judgment with such even hand,

She was heaven-sent in the people’s sight,

To save them and to turn each wrong to right.

Now not too long after Griselda wed,

The day arrived when she a daughter bore.

Although they would have liked a son instead,

Glad were the marquis and the people, for

Although a little girl had come before,

Griselda wasn’t barren, so she could

Still bear a manchild in all likelihood.

PART III

It happened, as so often will transpire,

That while this child still sucked the mother’s breast,

The marquis in his heart had the desire

To put his wife’s steadfastness to the test.

Out of his heart this marquis couldn’t wrest

This urge to see how constant she would be;

God knows, he thought to scare her needlessly.

He’d put her to the test enough before

And always found her true; what was the need

To test her now, to do so more and more,

Though some men praise it as a clever deed?

As for myself, I say it’s cruel indeed

To test a wife when there’s no reason clear,

To put her through such anguish and such fear.

The marquis now proceeded in this wise:

He came alone at night to where she lay,

And with stern eye, with very troubled guise,

Said this to her: “Griselda, on that day

When from your poor life I took you away

For this high, noble state to which you rose—

You haven’t now forgotten, I suppose?

“I say, Griselda, this new dignity

In which I’ve put you has (I trust it’s so)

Not left you now forgetting the degree

In which I found you, poverty so low,

For all the comfort you have come to know.

Now listen to each word I say to you;

There is no one to hear it but we two.

“You know full well yourself how you came here

Into this house not very long ago;

And though to me you are belov’d and dear,

To all my gentlefolk you are not so.

They say that it’s to their great shame and woe

To have to serve you, to be subject to

One from a little village as are you.

“Especially since you your daughter bore

There is no doubt about their grumbling.

Now I desire as I have done before

To live in peace with those I’m governing.

I can’t be careless in this sort of thing;

I must do with your daughter what is best,

Not as I will but as they may request.

“God knows, this is a loathsome thing to me,

And yet without your knowledge and consent

It won’t be done. But it’s my will,” said he,

“That in this case you give me your assent.

Now show your patience, act with the intent

That on that day you pledged and so have sworn,

When in that village wed where you were born.”

When she had heard all this, no change it brought

In her in either word or look; thereby

It seemed that she was not at all distraught.

She said, “Lord, in your pleasure’s where we lie.

Truly obedient, my child and I

Are yours to save or to destroy, each one

Belongs to you; and so your will be done.

“There’s not a thing, as God my soul may save,

That pleases you that would displeasure me.

There’s nothing in this whole world that I crave,

Or fear to lose, but you. This will shall be

Here in my heart, as now, eternally;

Nor death nor length of time shall it deface

Or turn my heart toward another place.”

Glad was the marquis, hearing her reply,

Yet he pretended that he wasn’t so;

A sad and dreary look was in his eye

As he then from the chamber turned to go.

Soon after this, he let a fellow know

In privacy about his whole intent,

Then to his wife this man the marquis sent.

This fellow was a kind of sergeant, one

His lord would often trust and send to do

Important things; such people, too, get done

Things that are shady, and without ado.

The marquis knew he loved and feared him too;

And when this sergeant knew his master’s need,

He crept into the bedroom to proceed.

“Madam,” he said, “you must forgive me though

I now do something that I can’t evade.

As you’re so very wise, you surely know

That lords’ commands cannot be disobeyed;

They well may be bewailed, and plaint be made,

But that which lords desire must men obey,

And so shall I; there is no more to say.

“That child I am commanded now to take”—

He spoke no more, as if with worst intent

He grabbed the child, such gestures then to make

As though he’d slay it there before he went.

Griselda had to suffer this, consent;

Just like a lamb she sat there meek and still

And let this cruel sergeant do his will.

Of evil reputation was this man,

Suspicious, too, in look, in what he’d say,

And in that it was night when he began.

The child she loved—alas and wellaway!—

She thought he’d slay right there without delay.

But nonetheless she neither sighed nor wept,

Consenting that her lord’s command be kept.

But then to speak she finally began:

She meekly asked, appealing to his pride,

As he was such a worthy gentleman,

If she might kiss her child before it died.

This little child Griselda laid beside

Her breast; with sorrow in her face she blest it,

And then gave it a kiss as she caressed it.

Here’s what she uttered in her voice benign:

“Farewell, my child, whom nevermore I’ll see!

Since of his cross I’ve marked you with the sign,

That of the Father who—blest may he be!—

Died for us on a cross made from a tree,

Your soul to him, my child, I now commit;

Tonight you die, and I’m the cause of it.”

I think that any nurse, such come to pass,

Would find it hard, a painful thing to see;

Then well might any mother cry “Alas!”

But nonetheless Griselda quietly,

With steadfastness, endured adversity,

And told the sergeant, meekly as before,

“Here, you may have your little girl once more.

“Go now,” she said, “and do my lord’s behest;

There’s just one thing I pray: that in your grace,

Unless my lord forbid, you’ll lay to rest

My little daughter’s body in some place

Where beasts or birds can’t tear it or deface.”

But not a word in that regard he’d say,

He took the child and went upon his way.

This sergeant came then to his lord again,

And of her words and how she did appear

He told him point by point, short and plain,

Presenting him then with his daughter dear.

The marquis seemed a little rueful here,

But nonetheless held to his purpose still,

As such lords do when they would have their will.

He told the sergeant then to go in stealth

And wind the child in nursery clothes with care,

To carry it, while mindful of its health,

Inside a chest or wrap; and to beware,

If from the block his head he wished to spare,

That his intent not one man come to know,

Not whence he came nor whither he may go.

To his dear sister in Bologna, who

Was Countess of Panik, he was to take

The child, and give her all the details too,

And ask that she herself might undertake

To raise the child, and nobly, for his sake;

And also that whose child it was she hide

From everyone, no matter what betide.

The sergeant did his duty. Let’s return

Now to this marquis, as he busily

Involved himself in what he wished to learn:

If by Griselda’s manner he might see,

Or by her words determine, whether she

Had changed at all; and yet he’d ever find

That she was still the same, steadfast and kind.

As glad, as meek, as anxious to display

Her love and service as she’d shown to be,

So was she now, he saw, in every way;

Not one word of her daughter uttered she.

No sign of change or of adversity

Was ever seen in her; her daughter’s name

She never spoke in earnest or in game.

PART IV

Now in this way four years had passed before

She was again with child; God willed it, though,

That now a manchild she by Walter bore,

One fair and gracious to behold. And so,

When people came to let the father know,

Not only he but all the land rejoiced,

They thanked God for the child, his praises voiced.

When it was two years old and was removed

Then from its nurse’s breast, there came a day

When by another urge this lord was moved

To test his wife again if that he may.

How needless he should test her anyway!

But married men like this one know no bound

When such a patient creature they have found.

“Wife,” said the marquis, “you have heard before,

My people bear it ill that we were married;

Especially now that my son you bore,

It’s grown much worse than ever. It’s so carried,

The murmur wounds my heart, my soul is harried;

The voice assails my ears with such a smart

That it’s well nigh destroyed me in heart.

“For they’re now saying this: ‘When Walter’s gone,

The blood of Janicula will succeed

And be our lord, we’ve none but him alone.’

Such words my people utter, and indeed

A murmur such as this I ought to heed;

For surely such opinion I am fearing,

Though they don’t plainly speak within my hearing.

“I want to live in peace if that I might,

And therefore I’ve decided what’s to be:

Just as I with his sister dealt by night,

So with him now I’ll deal in secrecy.

I warn you so you won’t be suddenly

Beside yourself, for that you shouldn’t do;

Be patient, that is what I ask of you.”

“I’ve said this and I ever shall again,”

She answered, “I wish nothing, in no way,

But what you will. It causes me no pain,

Although my son and daughter they may slay—

If it’s at your commandment, that’s to say.

For from the two all that I’ve come to know

Was illness first, and after, pain and woe.

“You are my lord; with that which you possess

Do as you will, ask no advice of me.

For as I left at home my former dress

When I first came to you, just so,” said she,

“I left my will and all my liberty

And took your clothing. Therefore now I pray,

Do as you please, your wish I shall obey.

“And certainly if I had prescience,

Your will to know before you’ve ever told,

I’d go and do it without negligence;

But now I know your wish, what shall unfold,

And firmly to your pleasure I will hold.

If I knew that my death would bring you ease,

Then gladly I would die, my lord to please.

“With your love there’s no way death can compare.”

And when this lord had heard what she’d to say

And of her constancy was made aware,

He dropped his eyes and wondered how she may

In patience suffer such. He went away

With dreary-looking face, although his heart

With pleasure was about to burst apart.

This ugly sergeant, in that very wise

In which he’d grabbed her daughter formerly

(Or worse, if any worse men could devise),

Now grabbed her son, this child so fair to see.

Such patience still Griselda had that she

Showed no sign of the burden of distress,

But kissed her son and then began to bless;

Save only this: she prayed that, if he could,

He’d see that her small son be so interred

That his slender, delicate body should

Be safe from ravage by some beast or bird;

He gave her for his answer not a word.

He left as if not caring for one limb,

But to Bologna gently carried him.

The marquis could but wonder all the more

About her patience, thinking that if he

Had not had certain knowledge long before

That she her children loved so perfectly,

He would have thought it was some subtlety,

Some malice or cruel heartedness deep down,

By which she suffered this without a frown.

But well he knew that, next to him, no doubt

She loved her children best in every way.

From women now I’d like to find this out:

Are not these tests enough for an assay?

What more could one hard man bring into play

To test his wife’s wifehood, her steadfastness,

As he persists with his hard-heartedness?

But there are folks who are of such a bent

That once a certain cause they undertake,

From that intention they cannot relent;

They’re bound to it as if it were a stake,

From that first purpose they will never slake.

Just so this marquis fully now proposed

To test his wife as he was first disposed.

He waits to see if, by her countenance

Or words, toward him changed she now appears;

But never may he find a variance.

Her heart and looks were one, for all his fears;

The further that she grew along in years,

The truer—if such things one ever sees—

Her love would grow, more pains she took to please.

It was as though from two you might could tell

One will; as Walter wished, the lord’s behest,

So it appeared her pleasure was as well.

And, God be thanked, all happened for the best.

She showed well that a wife, for all unrest

Or worry, should will nothing but in fact

That which her husband would himself enact.

Now far and wide the Walter scandal spread,

How with a cruel heart he wickedly—

Because such a poor woman he had wed—

Had murdered both his children secretly.

Such murmuring was now heard commonly.

No wonder, since out to the common ear

Came not a word, so murdered they’d appear.

Because of this, where all the folks before

Had loved him well, his scandalous ill fame

Was something they began to hate him for.

A “murderer” bears quite a hated name;

But still in earnest, surely not for game,

From his cruel purpose he would not relent;

To test his wife remained his whole intent.

Now when his daughter fair was twelve years old,

He sent a legate to the court of Rome

(Which of his will already had been told)

Commanding them such bulls to send him home

As would befit his cause; read like a tome,

They’d say the pope, so that the land be stilled,

Bade him to wed another if he willed.

I say, he bade them counterfeit, of course,

These papal bulls, therein the declaration

That he might leave his first wife by divorce

As if it were by papal dispensation,

To still the rancor and the disputation

Between him and his people. That’s the bull

That then was published everywhere in full.

No wonder that the ignorant in their way

Believed just what it said, that it was so;

But when Griselda heard the news, I’d say

The tidings surely filled her heart with woe.

But being ever steadfast as we know,

This humble creature thereby was disposed

To take what hardship Fortune had imposed,

Abiding ever by what he desired,

The one to whom she’d given all her heart

As to that which her very life required.

But briefly if this tale I’m to impart,

This marquis wrote a letter that from start

To finish covered all of his intent,

And slyly to Bologna had it sent.

The Earl of Panik (who was married then

To his dear sister) he asked specially

To bring home his two children—bring them in

A way befitting nobles, openly.

But this one thing he prayed most stringently:

The earl, though men should ask, must not infer

Their lineage, of whom these children were,

But only say the girl was to be wed

To the Marquis of Saluzzo right away.

And as beseeched, this earl then went ahead:

He started on his way at break of day

Toward Saluzzo, lords in rich array

Along in company, this girl to guide,

Her younger brother riding by her side.

This lovely girl, arrayed to set the stage

For marriage, had on many a sparkling gem.

Her brother, who was seven years of age,

Was dressed, too, in a way befitting him.

And so this great nobility, abrim

With cheer, toward Saluzzo made their way,

Riding upon their trip from day to day.

PART V

Now during all of this, the marquis who

(As was his wicked wont) would test some more

Her constancy, for all he’d put her through,

That he might have full knowledge, might explore

If she was still as steadfast as before—

Upon a certain day, for all to hear,

The marquis made this statement loud and clear:

“Griselda, it has pleased me certainly

To have you as my wife, for worthiness,

For your obedience and honesty,

Not for your name or wealth. But nonetheless

I now have come to see in truthfulness

That with great lordship, if I well appraise,

Great obligation comes in many ways.

“I may not do as every plowman might.

My people are constraining me to take

Another wife, they cry it day and night;

The pope himself, the people’s wrath to slake,

Consents to it, and so I undertake.

And truly this much to you I will say:

My new wife is already on her way.

“Be strong of heart and vacate now her place;

As for the dowry that you brought to me,

Now take it back, I grant it by my grace.

Now to your father’s house return,” said he.

“No one may always have prosperity,

So I advise that you with even heart

Accept whatever Fortune may impart.”

And once again she answered patiently:

“My lord, I’ve known through each and every day

That no one could compare my poverty

With your magnificence; no need to say

It can’t be done, for no man ever may.

I never felt that I was of the grade

To be your wife, nor yet your chambermaid.

“And in this house, as lady, as your wife—

God be my witness, and as well may he

Gladden my soul with his eternal life—

I held myself no lady, I could be

But humble servant to your majesty,

And such I’ll be as long as I’m alive,

To you above all creatures who may thrive.

“Since you so long a time, through kindliness,

Held me in honor, in a noble way,

When I did not possess the worthiness,

I thank both you and God, to whom I pray

That he’ll requite you; there’s no more to say.

Now to my father gladly I will wend

And with him dwell until my life should end.

“There I was fostered as a child and small,

And there I’ll lead my life until I’m dead,

A widow pure in body, heart and all.

For as I gave to you my maidenhead

And am your faithful wife (it’s safely said),

May God forbid that such a lord’s wife may

Again espouse, or mate some other way.

“And as for your new wife, God in his grace

Grant joy to you and, too, prosperity!

For I will gladly yield to her my place

In which so blissful I was wont to be.

For since it pleases you, my lord,” said she,

“In whom my heart awhile enjoyed its rest,

That I should go, I’ll go when you request.

“As for the dowry that you’d offer me

Such as I brought, it clearly comes to mind

It was my wretched clothes, no finery,

And which would now be hard for me to find.

O gracious God! how gentle and how kind

You seemed to be in speech and in your look

When on that day our marriage vows we took!

“It’s truly said—I find, at least, it’s true,

For in effect it’s proven here to me—

Love’s not the same when old as when it’s new.

But truly, lord, by no adversity,

On pain of death itself, could it so be

That in one word or deed I might repent

For giving you my heart with whole intent.

“My lord, you know that in my father’s place

You had them strip me of my ragged dress

And clad me in rich clothing by your grace.

But surely all I brought you more or less

Were maidenhead and faith and nakedness;

And here again your clothing I restore,

Also your wedding ring, forevermore.

“Your other jewels you can now reclaim

Inside your bedroom as I’m sure you’ll see.

Naked out of my father’s house I came,

And naked I must now return,” said she.

“I’ll gladly do all you may ask of me;

I hope that it’s not your intention, though,

That I be smockless when from here I go.

“A thing so shameful you would never do,

That this same body that your children bore,

Since I must walk out in the people’s view,

Be seen all bare; and therefore I implore,

Don’t make me go out like a worm, no more.

Remember, my own lord and dearest sir,

I was your wife, though I unworthy were.

“So in return for my virginity,

Which I brought here and can’t now with me bear,

As my reward grant there be given me

A smock such as the kind I used to wear,

My body to be covered when they stare

Upon your former wife. I take my leave

Of you, my lord, before I may aggrieve.”

“The smock that you have on your back,” said he,

“May be retained and taken home with you.”

The lord could scarcely speak; immediately

He turned and left in pity and in rue.

She stripped herself then in the people’s view

Down to her smock; in bare feet, with head bared,

Toward her father’s house Griselda fared.

The people followed, weeping as they went,

And there was many a curse of Fortune heard.

Griselda’s eyes showed not one teary glint,

And during this she didn’t speak a word.

Her father, learning soon what had occurred,

Then curst the day and time when Nature’s plan

Had molded him into a living man.

This poor old man had doubted from the start,

Suspecting that the two were ill allied;

For from the first he felt within his heart

That when his lord’s desire was satisfied,

He’d then believe it was undignified

For his estate so lowly to descend,

He’d quickly bring their marriage to an end.

To meet his daughter now he went with haste,

The people’s cries had told him she was near.

With her old coat, now all but gone to waste,

He covered her, with many a piteous tear.

He couldn’t wrap it round her, so severe

Had time been on the cloth, much older now

Than on the day she’d made her marriage vow.

So for a time in her old father’s place

This flower of wifely patience came to dwell,

And neither by her words nor by her face,

In public or in private, one could tell

That she’d been treated any way but well;

And of her high estate no memory

She seemed to have, as far as one could see.

No wonder, for when in her high estate

Her spirit was filled with humility;

No tender mouth, delicate heart, no great

And pompous show, no air of royalty,

But full of patience and benignity,

Discreet, always with honor, without pride,

And meek and steadfast at her husband’s side.

Men speak of Job and praise his humbleness;

So scholars, when they wish, can well indite,

Especially of men; in truthfulness,

Though scholars’ praise of women is so light,

There’s no man who in humbleness can quite

Compare to woman, or be half as true

As woman can, unless it’s something new.

PART VI

Bologna’s Earl of Panik has come,

The news of which went spreading, and no less

There soon had reached the people, all and some,

The tidings, too, that a new marchioness

He’d brought, and in such pomp and regalness

That none in West Lombardy till that day

Had laid eyes on so noble an array.

The marquis, who’d arranged this from the start,

Before the earl came, a fellow sent

For poor Griselda; she with humble heart

And cheerful countenance, without a hint

Of any wound in mind or spirit, went

At his behest and knelt upon their meeting,

And reverently, politely gave him greeting.

He said, “Griselda, my firm will today

Is that this maiden who’s to marry me

Be met tomorrow with such grand array

As in my house there possibly could be;

And also that according to degree

Each shall be served and seated at the table

And entertained, as best as I am able.

“I do not have sufficient women for

Arranging all the rooms as would befit

My liking; it is my desire therefore

That you should be in charge of all of it.

You know from old my pleasure every bit.

Although your clothing is a ragged sight,

Perform your duty still as best you might.”

“Not only, lord, will I be glad,” said she,

“To do your will, but I desire also

To serve you and to please in my degree

Forevermore; I’ll never tire or slow,

Not ever, whether in good health or woe,

Nor shall my spirit ever take a rest

From my heart’s true intent: to love you best.”

With that, she worked to get the house prepared,

Set tables, made the beds, such pains to take

That she did all she could, no effort spared,

While begging all the chambermaids to make

More haste, to sweep and clean, for heaven’s sake;

And she, the hardest working of them all,

Had every bedroom ready and the hall.

The next day the earl around nine o’clock

Arrived, these noble children at his side;

And all the people ran there in a flock,

And when such rich array they had espied,

Among themselves they quickly would decide

That Walter was no fool to have expressed

The will to change his wives, for it was best.

For she was fairer, so thought one and all,

Than was Griselda, and much younger too,

And from between them fairer fruit would fall

(More pleasing too), from noble tree she grew.

Her brother also was so fair to view

That when the people saw him they took pleasure,

Commending now their lord, his every measure.

“O stormy people! fickle, never true!

As changeable as is a weather vane!

In rumors you delight, whatever’s new,

Just like the moon you ever wax and wane!

You’re full of chatter, never worth a jane!

Your judgment’s false, your constancy will cool,

Whoever trusts you is an utter fool.”

Thus said more sober-minded folks, to see

All of the people gaping up and down,

So very glad just for the novelty

Of having a new lady for their town.

I’ll speak no more right now of her renown,

But to Griselda I’ll return, the one

So constant, with her duties to be done.

Griselda was still hard at work at all

That to the feast was to be pertinent;

Nor did her clothes abash her, though withal

They certainly were crude and rather rent;

Out to the gate with cheerfulness she went

With other folks to greet the marchioness,

And after that, back to her busyness.

So cheerfully her lord’s guests she received,

And wisely, each according to degree,

That not one fault in her the guests perceived,

But all kept wondering who she might be;

For though she wore such ragged clothing, she

Was so refined and worthy that in fact

They praised her, as deserved, for all her tact.

In all this time Griselda never ceased

This maiden and her brother to commend

With all her heart, so well that at the feast

No one had cause her praises to amend.

At last, when all the lords there to attend

Were set to eat, the marquis chose to call

Griselda, who was busy in the hall.

“Griselda, what do you think of my wife

And her good looks?” he asked her jokingly.

And she replied, “My lord, upon my life,

I’ve never seen one who’s as fair as she.

I pray that God gives her prosperity;

To you I also hope that he will send

All happiness till your life’s very end.

“One thing I beg and warn you of as well:

That you’ll not torment this young girl the way

That you have done to others; I can tell

That she was nurtured, reared from day to day

More tenderly, and I would dare to say

She could not well endure adversity

As could a creature raised in poverty.”

When Walter saw her patience still so strong,

Her cheerfulness, no malice shown at all,

And even though he’d often done her wrong

She ever was as constant as a wall,

Continuing so blameless overall,

This marquis in his heart felt the distress

Of pity for her wifely steadfastness.

“This is enough, Griselda mine,” said he,

“Now be no more displeased, no more afraid.

For of your faith and your benignity,

In high estate and low, the test I’ve made,

As ever any woman’s been assayed.

I know, dear wife, your steadfastness.” With this,

He took her in his arms and gave a kiss.

In wonderment, she didn’t hear a word,

Of what he said no heed she seemed to take,

Until from her amazement, as if stirred

Out of a sleep, she was once more awake.

He said, “By God who perished for our sake,

You are and you’ll remain my only wife,

As God may grant me the eternal life!

“This is your daughter, whom you thought so fair

To be my wife; the other truthfully,

As always I have planned, shall be my heir;

It’s you who gave him birth, that’s certainty.

Bologna’s where I kept them secretly;

Now take them back, for now you see your son

And daughter, you have lost them neither one.

“And folks that otherwise have said of me

I now warn well that I did what I did

Not out of malice nor for cruelty

But to assay and of all doubt be rid,

And not to slay my children—God forbid!—

But to preserve them secretly until

I knew your every purpose, all your will.”

When she had heard all this, she fainted then

For piteous joy, then, rising, to her side

She called her son and daughter, took them in

Her loving arms while piteously she cried,

Embracing them with kisses and the pride

Of any mother, salty tears she shed

Bathing each face, the hair on each’s head.

O what a piteous thing it was to see

Her fainting, and her humble voice to hear!

“O thank you, lord, and God reward,” said she,

“That you have saved my children young and dear!

I wouldn’t care were I to die right here;

As I stand in your love and grace, believe,

Death matters not, nor when my soul may leave.

“O dear, young, tender children, how in woe

Your mother always thought undoubtedly

Cruel hounds or some foul vermin long ago

Had eaten you! But God so mercifully

And your kind, loving father tenderly

Have kept you safe”—that very moment found

Her swooning of a sudden to the ground.

And in her swoon so tightly she held on

To her two children, still in her embrace,

It took more than a little force alone

To pry the children loose. And in the place

Were many tears on many a piteous face,

As folks stood by where she lay on the ground;

Some couldn’t even bear to be around.

But Walter cheered her, made her sorrow slake;

Then she arose, embarrassed, from her trance,

And cheerful comments all began to make,

And she regained her former countenance.

Her pleasure Walter tried so to enhance

That it was truly a delight to view

The happiness restored between the two.

The ladies, when the proper time they chose,

Then took her, to the bedroom they were gone;

They stripped her of her torn and tattered clothes,

And in a cloth of gold that brightly shone,

And with a crown of many a richest stone

Upon her head, they brought her to the hall,

Where she was honored rightfully by all.

This piteous day thus had a blissful end,

As men and women both did all they might

This day in mirth and revelry to spend

Till in the sky there shone the starry light.

Indeed the feast in every fellow’s sight

Was far more splendorous in every way

Than was the feast upon their wedding day.

For many years in high prosperity

He and Griselda lived, at peace and blest;

He had his daughter married regally

To a fine lord, one of the worthiest

In Italy; and, too, in peace and rest

His wife’s old father in his court he kept

Until his soul out of his body crept.

His son succeeded to his heritage

In rest and peace after his father’s day,

And fortunate as well he was in marriage,

Although his wife not greatly to assay.

This world is not so tough, it’s safe to say,

As it was known to be in days of yore;

Pay heed to what this author says therefore:

This story’s told not so that women should

Be like Griselda in humility—

It couldn’t be endured although they would;

It’s so that everyone in his degree

Should be steadfast when in adversity

As was Griselda; therefore Petrarch writes

This story, which in high style he endites.

So patient was a woman to the end

Toward a mortal man, the more we ought

To take without complaint what God may send;

It’s reasonable that he test what he wrought,

Though he will tempt no man his blood has bought,

As Saint James says if you will read him out.

He tests folks every day, there’s not a doubt,

And so that discipline in us arise

He with sharp scourges of adversity

Lets us be often whipped in sundry wise;

It’s not to know our will, for surely he

Before our birth knew all our frailty.

For our own good is all his governance,

So let us live in worthy sufferance.

One word, my lords, now hear before I’m through:

It would be hard to locate nowadays

In any town Griseldas three or two;

For if they all were put to such assays,

Their gold is so diluted by their ways

With brass that though the coin look good, my friend,

It’s likely it will break instead of bend.

Now for the Wife of Bath and in her name—

Her life and all her sex may God preserve

In mastery, or it would be a shame—

With young and lusty heart I now will serve

You with a song to gladden you, with verve,

And let’s leave off this heavy stuff I chose.

Now listen to my song, here’s how it goes:

Griselda’s dead, her patience, too, long since

Both buried in some far Italian vale.

And so I cry in open audience:

No husband should so hardily assail

His spouse’s patience, trusting he will find

Griselda’s, for he certainly will fail.

O noble wives, in all your sapience,

Don’t meekly hold your tongue as with a nail,

Nor give a scholar reason to commence

To write of you as marvelous a tale

As that about Griselda, patient, kind—

Lest Chichevache’s innards be your bale!

Like Echo be, who from no word relents,

Who answers back as if to countervail.

Do not be hoodwinked in your innocence,

Take matters in your hands and do not pale.

Engrave this lesson well within your mind,

That for the common good it may avail.

Archwives, stand up and be your own defense,

You’re strong as are big camels and as hale,

Don’t suffer that to you men do offense.

You slender wives who are in battle frail,

Be fierce as India’s tiger. Ever grind

And clatter like a mill and you’ll prevail.

Don’t fear them, show for men no reverence,

For though your husband arm himself in mail,

The arrows of your crabbéd eloquence

Will go right through his breastplate and ventail.

With jealousy keep him all in a bind

And you will make him cower like a quail.

If you are fair, show folks as evidence

Your face and dress; if ugly, leave a trail

Of generosity, don’t spare expense;

Let winning friends be always your travail.

Like a linden leaf be sprightly, unconfined,

And let him worry, wring his hands and wail!

The Franklin’s Tale

These old and noble Bretons in their days

Would turn diverse adventures into lays

That, rhymed in the original Breton tongue,

Accompanied by instruments were sung

Or else they would be read at people’s leisure.

There’s one I still remember, and with pleasure

I’ll tell it for you now as best I can.

But, sirs, because I am a simple man,

Right at the very start I would beseech

That you excuse my ignorant form of speech.

I’ve never studied rhetoric, no way,

So plain and bare must be what I’ve to say.

I’ve never slept on Mount Parnassus, no,

Nor studied Marcus Tullius Cicero.

I don’t know any colors, none indeed,

Except the colors growing on the mead

Or used by men to dye or paint; to me

Colors of rhetoric are a mystery,

My spirit simply has no feel for such.

But if you’d hear my tale, you’ll hear as much.

In Armorica, now called Brittany,

A knight once lived and served laboriously

A lady in the best way that he could.

At many undertakings great and good

He for his lady worked ere she was won;

As lovely as any under the sun

This lady was, and of high birth as well,

So that for fear this knight scarce dared to tell

His woe to her, his pain and his distress.

But she at last, seeing his worthiness,

Especially the reverence he’d shown,

Such pity felt at all he’d undergone

That privately she made with him accord

To take him as her husband and her lord,

To grant lordship as men have over wives.

That they the more in bliss might lead their lives,

He freely gave his promise as a knight

That never in his life by day or night

He’d take upon himself the mastery

Against her will nor show her jealousy;

He’d be obedient, will what she would,

As every lover to his lady should,

Save that he’d keep in name the sovereignty

Lest he be shamed in light of his degree.

She thanked him, and with utmost humbleness

She told him, “Sire, since in your nobleness

So free a rein you offer, may God grant

That twixt us two through guilt of mine there shan’t

Be ever once a case of war or strife.

Sir, I will be your true and humble wife;

Till my heart break, here is my pledge to you.”

Relieved and put at ease then were the two.

For one thing, sires, I safely dare to say,

And that is, friends each other must obey

If long they wish their friendship be sustained.

Love will not be by mastership constrained;

When mastery comes, the God of Love will on

The instant beat his wings—farewell, he’s gone!

Love is a thing like any spirit free,

And women want by nature liberty,

Not hindrance like a thrall. If I shall tell

The total truth, that’s what men want as well.

He who in love maintains his patience best

Has the advantage over all the rest;

For patience is a virtue, to be sure,

And vanquishes—these students will assure—

More than do rigorous ways. At every word

Men shouldn’t chide, complaint should not be heard;

Learn sufferance or, as surely as I

May walk, you’ll learn whether or not you try.

There’s no man in this world, I’m sure of this,

Who doesn’t sometimes err or speak amiss;

For anger, woe, some starry constellation,

Wine, sickness, or a humor alteration

Can often cause wrong word or deed. But still

A man can’t be avenged for every ill,

So moderation has to be the goal

Of each who knows the art of self-control.

This wise and worthy knight, that they therefore

Might live in ease, his sufferance to her swore,

And she then surely swore to him in kind

That in her not one fault he’d ever find.

Here may men see a humble, wise accord,

She takes him as her servant and her lord

(Servant in love, in marriage lord). So viewed,

He was in both lordship and servitude.

In servitude? No, he was lord above,

As he had both his lady and his love—

His lady, surely, and his wife as well,

Consenting under law of love to dwell.

And when he had this happiness in hand,

He took his wife home to his native land,

Not far from Penmarch, that is where he’d live,

In all the bliss that life had come to give.

Who could relate, unless he wedded be,

The joy, the comfort, and prosperity

That is between a husband and his wife?

A year and more would last this blissful life,

Until this knight—Arveragus by name,

His home Kayrrud—in hope of gaining fame

Left on a trip, a year or two to dwell

In England (known as Britain then as well),

In arms renown and honor to acquire,

The labor in which lay his heart’s desire.

He dwelt two years, the book says, on that isle.

Arveragus I now will leave awhile

And speak instead of Dorigen his wife,

Who loved him in her heart as much as life.

His absence made her weep, she sighed and pined,

As do these noble wives when so inclined.

She mourned and wailed, she fasted, lost her rest,

By longing for his presence so distressed

That all this world she looked upon as naught.

Her friends, who knew the burden of her thought,

Would comfort her in every way they might.

They preached to her, they told her day and night

She’d grieve herself to death, no cause, alas!

Each comfort they could hope to bring to pass

They offered her in all their busyness

To make her leave her burden of distress.

In time, as by each one of you is known,

Men may engrave so long upon a stone

Some form’s imprint at last will be perceived.

So long they had consoled her, she received

Both by their hope and reasoning’s dictation

At last the imprint of their consolation

And her great sorrow started to subside;

Such pain much longer she could not abide.

Also Arveragus, in all this care,

Sent letters home to tell of his welfare

And that he’d soon be coming back again;

If not, for grieving heart she’d have been slain.

Her friends observed her sorrow start to ease

And begged her for God’s sake, upon their knees,

To take a walk with them, to drive away

The last of heavy thoughts, her dark dismay.

And she at last then granted their request,

For well she saw that it was for the best.

Their castle where it stood was by the sea,

And often with her friends she playfully

Would walk upon the bank. It was so high

That many a vessel she saw sailing by,

Their courses set for where they wished to go.

Yet this was part and parcel of her woe,

For to herself she often said, “Alas!

Is there no ship, of all that I see pass,

That will bring home my lord? Then would my heart

Be cured of bitter pain, of all its smart.”

At other times there too she’d sit and think,

And cast her eyes far downward from the brink;

She’d see the black and grisly rocks below,

Her heart for fear then quaking in her so

She couldn’t stand up on her feet. Then she

Would sit down on the green, and piteously

Toward the waters she would cast her eyes

And speak this way with cold and mournful sighs:

“Eternal God who through thy providence

Doth lead the world and govern its events,

Thou shan’t create in vain, as men well know.

But, Lord, these black and grisly rocks below,

So fiendish, seem to me foul aberration

Of labor and not any fair creation

Of such a perfect, wise, and stable Lord.

Why hast thou wrought this work that’s so untoward?

For by these rocks not south, north, west nor east

Has help been given man nor bird nor beast;

I know no good they do, they but annoy.

Dost thou not see how mankind they destroy?

By rocks a hundred thousand have been slain,

Though of it men no thought might entertain,

While of thy labor man’s so fair a part,

Created in thy image. At the start

It seemed therefore thou hadst great charity

Toward mankind, and how then can it be

That mankind thou wouldst by such means destroy

That mean no good but ever shall annoy?

I’m well aware that students will contest

By arguments that all is for the best,

Although the causes I can never know.

May that same God who causes wind to blow

Protect my lord! And that is my summation,

To students I will leave all disputation.

But these black rocks if only God would make

Sink into hell, for his own mercy’s sake!

They’re slaying me, my heart so full of fear.”

So would she speak with many a piteous tear.

Her friends saw that it soothed her not a bit

To roam the bank, the effect was opposite;

And so they made arrangements that instead

By rivers and by streams she then be led

To many another place of pleasantness;

They danced, they played backgammon, too, and chess.

Now one fine day, not too long after dawn,

Into a nearby garden they had gone,

In which they had arranged to be provided

With victuals and such else as they’d decided,

And there they frolicked all the livelong day.

This happened on the sixth morning of May,

May having painted with its tender showers

This garden full of many leaves and flowers;

And man’s hand with its craft so skillfully

This garden had arranged that truthfully

There’d never grown one like it, such a prize,

Unless you count the one of Paradise;

So fresh the smell of flowers and the sight,

There’s not a heart that wouldn’t there be light

Unless some illness had it in distress

Or some great sorrow held it in duress.

Amid this pleasant beauty they had soon

Begun to dance (the time was nearly noon)

And sang as well—save Dorigen alone,

Who’d still speak of her woe and ever moan,

Not there among the dancers in her view

The one who was her love and husband too.

For longer time she nonetheless must wait

In all good hope, and let her grief abate.

During this dance, there was among the men

A squire before the eyes of Dorigen,

One livelier and brighter in array,

If I can judge, than is the month of May.

He better sang and danced than any man

Who is or was since this whole world began.

If one were to describe him, he’d belong

Among the fairest men alive; a strong

Young man, right virtuous, one rich and wise,

One loved and well esteemed in others’ eyes.

And shortly, if the truth I shall declare

(Though Dorigen of this was unaware),

This lusty squire, this servitor of Venus—

Who, by the way, was named Aurelius—

Loved her above all others, such his fate

For longer than two years, while all the wait

He never dared his longing to confess.

Without a cup he drank of deep distress;

Despairing, not a thing he dared to say,

Save that he in a very general way

Would sing about the woe that made him yearn,

To love and not to be loved in return.

Upon the subject he wrote many lays,

Sad songs of love, roundels and virelays,

On how his sorrow he dared not to tell

But languished like a Fury does in hell;

And die he must, he said, as did Echo

For Narcissus (she couldn’t tell her woe).

But in no other manner, as I say,

He’d ever dare his woe to her betray,

Except perhaps that sometimes at a dance

Where folks observe the rituals of romance

It may well be he looked upon her face

In such a way as one might ask for grace;

But still she’d no idea of his intent.

It happened, though, as from this place they went,

By reason of the fact he was her neighbor—

One folks respected, looked upon with favor—

And as she’d known this squire since long before,

The two began conversing; and the more

They talked the closer would Aurelius draw

Toward his aim, until his time he saw:

“Madam, by God who made this world,” said he,

“If I knew that your heart would brighter be,

I wish that day when your Arveragus

Went overseas that I, Aurelius,

Had gone somewhere whence I’d not come again.

For well I know my service is in vain,

My love’s reward a broken heart. Have rue,

My lady, on my smarting pain, for you

Have with a word the power to slay or save.

Would God that at your feet might be my grave!

I’ve no time now to spare that more be said;

Have mercy, sweet, unless you’d have me dead!”

Then at Aurelius the lady stared.

“Is this your will,” she said, “what you’ve declared?

I never knew before just what you meant.

Now that I know, Aurelie, your intent,

By that same God who gave me soul and life,

I never shall be so untrue a wife

In word or deed, as long as I’ve the wit.

I always will be his to whom I’m knit,

And you can take that as my final say.”

But after that she spoke to him in play:

“Aurelius,” said she, “by God above,

Yet I would grant you that I’d be your love,

Since I see you complain so piteously.

That day when from the coast of Brittany

You’ve taken all the rocks, stone after stone,

Till ship and boat have freely come and gone—

I say, when you have made the coast so clean,

So clear of rocks, that not a stone is seen,

I’ll love you more than any other man,

You have my oath, as fully as I can.”

“No other way to win your grace?” asked he.

“No, by that Lord who made me,” answered she.

“I know it can’t be done, so from the start

Dismiss such foolish notions from your heart.

What man should have such pleasure in his life

As to go love another fellow’s wife

Who has her body anytime he please?”

Many a sigh the squire now sadly breathes,

So filled with woe when she had had her say.

With saddened heart he answered in this way:

“Madam, the task is one impossible!

Quick death be mine, however horrible.”

With that he turned away. There followed then

Her many other friends, together in

A group as they were strolling here and there,

Of this discussion wholly unaware;

The revel then at once began anew

And lasted till the bright sun lost its hue,

Till the horizon robbed the sun of light—

Which is the same as saying it was night—

And home they went, the night in joy to pass,

Except for poor Aurelius, alas!

For he went home with sorrow in his breast,

Saw no escape from his eternal rest,

So cold, he felt, his heart already grown.

He raised his hands toward the heavens, on

His two bare knees got down and said a prayer

As if gone raving mad from pure despair,

So urgent in the way he started praying

He didn’t even know what he was saying.

With piteous heart this plaint he had begun

To all the gods, and first of all the sun:

He said, “Apollo, god and source of power

Of every plant and herb, each tree and flower,

Who gives to each its season of the year

Depending on how distant you appear,

Your house forever moving, low and high—

Lord Phoebus, cast your sympathetic eye

On poor Aurelius who’s simply lost.

See how my lady’s sworn, my death the cost

Though I am guiltless. Lord, benignity!

My heart is all but dead inside of me.

If you but will, I know without a doubt,

Save only her you best can help me out.

Allow me to describe for you the way

In which you might assist me, if I may.

“Your blissful sister, Lucina the Sheen,

Is of the sea chief goddess and the queen

(Though Neptune is the deity of the sea,

As empress she is higher ranked than he);

And well you know that just as her desire

Is to be lit and quickened by your fire,

For which she follows you so busily,

To follow her as well is naturally

The sea’s desire—she’s goddess, after all,

Of both the sea and rivers big and small.

This miracle, Lord Phoebus, I request

(Or else my heart now burst within my breast):

When next in Leo’s sign is your position,

You and Lucina then in opposition,

I pray she’ll bring so great a flood to sweep

This Breton coast, at least five fathoms deep

Shall lie the highest rock that now appears;

And let that flood endure for two whole years.

Then surely to my lady I can say,

‘Now keep your word, the rocks have gone away.’

“This miracle, Lord Phoebus, do for me.

And pray the course she runs no faster be

Than yours; I say, pray that your sister run

No faster course than yours, till two years done.

Then always at the fullest she will stay,

The flood of spring will last both night and day.

If she will thus consent and grant to me

My lady sovereign and dear, may she

Sink every rock, each one that’s to be found,

Into her own dark region underground

Where Pluto dwells, or nevermore shall I

My lady win. Your temple in Delphi

Both humbly and barefooted I will seek.

Lord Phoebus, see the tears upon my cheek,

Have for me some compassion.” And as soon

As he was through he fell down in a swoon,

Lay in a trance wherein he’d long remain.

His brother, who was privy to his pain,

Then picked him up and carried him to bed.

In this despair, with his tormented head,

I’ll leave this woeful creature, let him lie,

The choice be his to live or else to die.

Arveragus in honor, health, and power,

As one who is of chivalry the flower,

Came home again with other worthy men.

O blissful may you be now, Dorigen,

To hold your lusty husband in your arms,

This worthy knight, returned from war’s alarms,

Who loves you as his own heart’s blood. No word

Of love did he suspect she might have heard

From someone else while he was gone, no fear

He had of that. To share with her good cheer,

To dance and joust, was all he had in mind,

He entertained no doubts of any kind.

And so in bliss I leave these two to dwell,

And of the sick Aurelius I’ll tell.

The wretch in languor, torment, awful anguish,

For more than two years lay in bed to languish

Before again he set foot on the ground.

And in this time no comforter he found

Save for his brother, who was then a student

And knew his woe and work; for he was prudent

And to no other soul, no need to doubt,

He dared to let one word of it get out.

His secret in his breast he better hid

Than Pamphilus for Galatea did;

Though in his breast no wound was to be seen,

The arrow in his heart was ever keen.

As you well know, a wound healed outwardly

Is hardly cured unless the surgery

Includes the arrow having been withdrawn.

In private would his brother weep and moan,

Until the thought occurred to him by chance

That while he’d been at Orleans in France

(As all young students read so eagerly

Of the occult, and search incessantly,

Turn every nook and cranny inside out,

For esoteric arts to learn about)—

At Orleans, he happened to recall,

One day he’d seen a book in study hall

On natural magic, one which, as he saw,

A friend of his, a student of the law

(Though learning craft of quite another kind),

Had hidden at his desk and left behind.

This book had much to say on operations

Touching on the eight and twenty stations

Or mansions of the moon—which is to say

It dealt with stuff not worth a fly today;

For Holy Church’s faith, as we believe,

Guards us from all that’s practiced to deceive.

And when this book had come again to mind,

His heart began to dance, such joy to find.

“My brother right away shall have his cure,”

He thought, “for there are sciences, I’m sure,

By which men may deceive with apparitions,

Diverse illusions, much as these magicians

So subtly perform though all in play.

Magicians, I have often heard them say

At feasts, can in a large hall make appear

Both water and a boat in which to steer,

And in the hall go rowing all about.

Sometimes a lion comes, or flowers sprout,

It seems, as in a mead; sometimes instead

They make appear a vine, grapes white and red,

Sometimes a castle made of lime and stone;

And then at once, when they so please, it’s gone.

So it would seem to every fellow’s sight.

“Now here’s what I conclude: if but I might

At Orleans in France some old friend find

Who has these lunar mansions well in mind,

Or natural magic even higher, then

His lady he should make my brother win.

Illusion such a man can so devise

That here in Brittany, before one’s eyes,

All black rocks he can make to disappear,

And to and from the shore have vessels steer,

And make such ruse endure a week or so.

And that would cure my brother of his woe;

She’d have to keep her promise as she swore,

Or else he’d have her shamed if nothing more.”

Why should I make a longer tale of this?

He goes back to his brother’s bed, such bliss

To give him by the notion they depart

For Orleans, he jumped up with a start;

Now forward with his brother he would fare

In hope of finding easement from his care.

When to that city they had nearly come

(They lacked a furlong, two or three or some),

They met a strolling scholar who was young;

He gave them greeting in the Latin tongue

With all respect, then said a wondrous thing:

“I know,” said he, “why you’ve come journeying.”

And then before another foot they went,

He told them what in fact was their intent.

This Breton student asked what he might know

About some friends he’d had there long ago,

And he replied that all of them were dead;

Then many a tear the Breton student shed.

Aurelius dismounted, no delay,

And went with this magician straightaway

Home to his house, and there they took their leisure;

There was no lack of victuals for their pleasure.

No other house like this, so well supplied,

In all his life Aurelie ever spied.

Before they supped this fellow showed to him

Some forests, parks, with wild deer to the brim;

There he saw harts, their antlers standing high,

The greatest ever seen by human eye;

He saw a hundred slain with hounds, and more

That bled with bitter wounds as arrows bore.

He saw, when these wild deer no more were there,

Some falconers along a river fair,

As with their hawks the herons they had slain.

Then he saw knights out jousting on a plain;

And after this, he gave him such delight,

Showed him his lady dancing; at the sight,

He danced right there beside her, so he thought.

And when this master who this magic wrought

Saw it was time, he clapt his hands—farewell!

The revelry was gone, no more to tell.

And yet out of the house they never went

While seeing all these sights of wonderment,

But in his study, by his books and shelves,

The three of them still sat all by themselves.

This master called his squire then to inquire

About their supper. “Is it ready, squire?

It’s been almost an hour, I declare,

Since I bid you our supper to prepare,

Back when these worthy fellows came to me

Here to my study where my volumes be.”

“Sir,” said the squire, “when it so pleases you,

It’s ready, you can eat without ado.”

“Then let us sup,” said he, “it’s for the best,

For folks in love must sometimes have their rest.”

When they had supped, they then negotiated

About what sum he should be compensated,

From Brittany all rocks should he dispel

From the Gironde up to the Seine as well.

He made it hard: God save him, so he swore,

A thousand pounds he’d want, if not some more,

And even then not gladly he would start.

Aurelius at once, with blissful heart,

Replied, “Fie on it to the thousandth pound!

This whole wide world, which men have said is round,

I’d gladly give if of it I were lord.

The bargain’s made, for we are in accord.

You truly shall be paid, I swear it! See

That by no sloth or negligence, though, we

Shall have to wait here longer than tomorrow.”

“You won’t,” said he, “you have my word to borrow.”

Aurelius to bed went when he pleased,

And well nigh all that night he rested, eased;

What with his toil and hope of bliss, that night

His woeful heart at last had some respite.

When morning came, as soon as it was day,

For Brittany Aurelie right away

Departed, this magician by his side,

And on arrival they would there abide.

And this was, in the books as I remember,

The cold and frosty season of December.

Now Phoebus waned, like latten was his hue,

For his hot declination now was through.

Like burnished gold he’d shone, his beaming bright;

In Capricorn now faded was his light

And palely did he shine, I dare to tell.

From bitter frosts, from sleet and rain as well,

The green from every yard has disappeared;

Sits Janus by the fire with double beard

And drinks out of his bugle horn the wine;

Before him stands the meat of tusky swine,

“Noel” is every lusty fellow’s cry.

Aurelius did all that he could try

To show this master cheer and reverence,

And prayed that he perform with diligence

To bring him out of his pain’s bitter smart,

Or with a sword he then would split his heart.

This scholar felt such pity for the man

That day and night he worked upon his plan,

To spot the time propitious for conclusion—

That is, when best to create the illusion,

By some appearance or by jugglery

(I don’t know terms used in astrology),

Till she and every man would have to say

That all the Breton rocks were gone away

Or at the least were sunken underground.

And so at last the proper time he found

To perpetrate his tricks, the wickedness

Of all such superstitious cursedness.

He had Toledo tables, well corrected,

And brought them out, and tables he’d collected

To calculate each planetary year;

He had his list of roots and other gear

Such as his centers and his arguments,

His tables on proportions, elements,

On everything of use for his equations.

And in the eighth sphere, by his calculations,

He knew where Alnath moved, how far away

From that fixed head of Aries, which they say

Can always in the ninth sphere be located.

With shrewdness all of this he calculated.

On finding his first lunar mansion, he

Could figure out the rest proportionally;

He knew the rising of his moon, where at

And in whose face, which term, and all of that;

And he knew well which mansion would be best

For putting his proposal to the test,

And knew as well his other calculations

For such illusions and abominations

As heathen folk were using in that day.

No longer this magician would delay,

But through his magic for a week or more

It seemed like all the rocks had left the shore.

Aurelius, still wondering in despair

If he would have his love or badly fare,

Awaited day and night this miracle;

And when he knew there was no obstacle,

That every rock was gone, without delay

He fell down at his master’s feet to say,

“I, woeful wretch Aurelius, to you

Give all my thanks, to Lady Venus too,

For helping me out of my cold dismay.”

He went then to the temple right away

Where he knew that his lady he would see;

And when he saw his time, immediately,

With fearful heart and full of humble cheer,

He greeted there his sovereign lady dear.

“My righteous lady,” said this woeful man,

“Whom I must fear and love as best I can,

For all this world I’d bring you no dismay;

And were I not for you in such a way

That I may die right here before I’m through,

Of all my woe I’d not be telling you.

But either I must die or else complain;

You’re killing me, though guiltless, by the pain.

Though you’ll not mourn my death, think carefully

Before you break the promise made to me;

You should repent, by that same God above,

Before you kill me. For it’s you I love,

And, madam, you well know your promise, too,

Though nothing may I claim by right from you

Except, my sovereign lady, by your grace.

Out yonder in a garden—blesséd place—

You know right well that you made me a vow:

You put your hand in mine and promised how

You’d love me best. God knows, you told me so,

Though I may be unworthy, well I know.

I say this, madam, for your honor’s sake

More than to save my life, right here at stake.

For I have done as you commanded me;

If you desire, then go yourself and see.

Do as you like, remember what you said,

Right there’s where I’ll be found, alive or dead.

My life or death, on that you have the say,

But well I know the rocks have gone away.”

She stood astounded as he took his leave;

Her face was bloodless, she could not believe

She’d fallen into such a trap. “Alas,”

She said, “that this could ever come to pass!

I never saw the possibility

That such a monstrous thing could ever be!

It’s something that’s against all natural law.”

The saddest creature that you ever saw,

She scarcely made it home, so great her woe.

She wept and wailed then for a day or so,

With fainting spells heartrending to behold.

To no one, though, the cause she ever told,

For out of town Arveragus had gone.

She spoke to no one but herself alone,

With pallid face and total lack of cheer,

And in her plaint she spoke as you shall hear:

“Alas! to you, O Fortune, I complain,

For by surprise you’ve wrapped me in your chain;

I’ve no escape, no help to bring me through

But death or else dishonor. Of the two,

I must decide which one is best to choose.

But nonetheless my life I’d rather lose

Than bring upon my body such a shame,

To know I am untrue, lose my good name;

I know I’ll be at peace when gone is life.

Have many a maiden, many a noble wife,

Before not slain themselves—ah welladay!—

Rather than with their bodies go astray?

“Indeed these stories illustrate the facts:

When thirty tyrants, full of wicked acts,

Slew Phidon the Athenian while he dined,

They ordered that his daughters be confined,

Then had them all paraded, for despite,

Before them naked, for their foul delight,

And on the pavement made them dance about

In their own father’s blood. God curse the rout!

And then these woeful maidens, full of dread,

Rather than lose each one her maidenhead,

Went secretly and jumped into a well

And drowned themselves, as these old stories tell.

“The Messenians, too, a favor sought

From Sparta: fifty virgins to be brought,

On whom they might perform their lechery.

There wasn’t one in all that company

Who didn’t kill herself, with good intent:

Each chose to die before she’d give assent

To be defiled and lose her maidenhead.

And so to die why should I be in dread?

Behold the tyrant Aristoclides

Who loved a maiden named Stymphalides;

Upon her father’s murder late one night,

Straight to Diana’s temple she took flight;

She grabbed hold of the image where it stood

And wouldn’t leave, indeed she never would:

No one could pry her loose from it again

Till in that very temple she was slain.

“Now as these maidens had such great despite

For men who would befoul them for delight,

So should a wife choose rather suicide

Than be defiled, of that I’m satisfied.

What shall I tell you of Hasdrubal’s wife,

Who at the fall of Carthage took her life?

For when she saw that Rome had won the town,

She took all of her children and leapt down

Into the fire, for dead she’d rather be

Than suffer any Roman’s villainy.

Did not Lucretia kill herself? Alas,

When ravishment by Tarquin came to pass

At Rome, did she not think it then a shame

To go on living, perished her good name?

The seven maidens of Miletus, too,

Destroyed themselves, their dread and anguish through,

Before the Gauls could do them wickedness.

More than a thousand stories, I would guess,

Upon this matter I could now relate.

When slain was Abradates, his dear mate

Took her own life, mixed her own blood inside

Of Abradates’ wounds so deep and wide;

‘At least,’ she said, ‘I’ve done all that I can

To see my body’s ravished by no man.’

“Why should I more examples here provide,

So many by their own hands having died

Rather than be defiled? And so I say

That suicide’s for me the better way,

To kill myself before I’m ravished too.

For I will to Arveragus be true

Or somehow slay myself. So, too, in strife

Demotion’s daughter took her own dear life

Rather than have to face such ravishing.

O Scedasus, how pitiful a thing

To read of how your daughters died, alas!

They slew themselves in similar morass.

I judge as great a pity, if not more,

The Theban maiden, fearing Nicanor,

Who took her life, so similar her woe.

Another Theban maiden did just so;

Raped by a Macedonian, for dread

She with her death avenged her maidenhead.

Shall I speak of Niceratus’s wife,

Who for such woe bereft herself of life?

To Alcibiades how faithful, too,

His lover was: she chose, though death her due,

Not to allow his corpse to go unburied.

How great Alcestis was among all married.

And what says Homer of Penelope?

All Greece knew of her blesséd chastity.

And of Laodamia old books tell

That when at Troy Protesilaus fell,

She’d live no longer than his dying day.

The same of noble Portia I can say;

She couldn’t live when Brutus lost his life,

Her heart his so completely. As a wife

Artemisia was beyond compare,

She’s honored by the heathen everywhere.

O Tauta, queen! your wifely chastity

May to all other wives a mirror be.

The same thing I can say of Bilia,

Of Rhodogune, and of Valeria.”

A day or two thus Dorigen would cry,

Proposing all the while that she must die.

However, on the third night of her plight

Arveragus came home, this worthy knight,

And asked her what she wept so strongly for,

And she began to weep then all the more.

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

For here’s what I have said, here’s what I’ve sworn”—

She told him all that you’ve already heard,

There’s no need to repeat a single word.

Her husband like a friend and in good cheer

Then answered her as you’re about to hear:

“Now, Dorigen, there’s nothing else but this?”

“No,” she replied, “may God bring me to bliss!

And this is too much, even if God’s will.”

“Ah, wife,” said he, “leave sleeping what is still.

Perhaps things soon will all be well. But now,

Upon my faith, you’ll be true to your vow!

As surely as may God be kind to me,

Dead from a stabbing I would rather be,

Because of this deep love I have for you,

Than see you to your promise be untrue.

A vow’s the highest thing that one may keep”—

Then he broke down at once, began to weep,

And said, “I now forbid on pain of death

That you should ever while you’ve life or breath

Tell anyone of this in any way—

My woe I’ll have to bear as best I may—

Or in your countenance show a distress

By which folks might divine the harm or guess.”

He called a squire and maiden to him then

And said, “Now go at once with Dorigen,

Escort her to a place without delay.”

They took their leave and went upon their way

But didn’t know why to this place she went.

He didn’t tell a soul of the intent.

Now there may be a heap of you, I know,

Who think this man a fool for doing so,

That willingly his wife he’d jeopardize.

But hear the tale before you criticize;

She may have better fortune than you’ve guessed,

And you may judge when you have heard the rest.

It happened that Aurelius, the squire

Who for her was so amorously afire,

Right in the heart of town she chanced to meet;

For she along the town’s most crowded street

Was headed straight toward the garden where

She’d keep the promise she had made. And there

Aurelius was on his way as well;

For he had watched her house so he could tell

When she might leave to head for any place.

And so they met, by accident or grace,

And cheerfully he gave her salutation

And asked her what might be her destination.

She answered as if half out of her head:

“Out to the garden, as my husband said,

To keep my vow. Alas, I’m so distraught!”

Aurelius then gave this matter thought,

As in his heart he had such great compassion

For Dorigen, lamenting in this fashion,

And for Arveragus, this worthy knight

Who bade that she be faithful to her plight,

So loath to see his wife break any vow.

And in his heart he had great pity now;

Looking for what was best from every side,

He’d rather leave his lust unsatisfied

Than do this churlish deed, so wretchedly

To act against such fine nobility;

These were the few words of Aurelius:

“Now, Madam, tell your lord Arveragus

That since I see this man’s great nobleness

Toward you, and I see, too, your distress,

That rather he’d have shame—sad that would be—

Than have you break the vow you made to me,

I’d rather suffer woe my whole life through

Than to divide the love between you two.

So, madam, I release you here and now,

Returning to your hand each oath and vow

That you have ever made to me or sworn

Back to the very day that you were born.

I pledge my word, you I will never grieve

For any promise. Here I take my leave,

And of the truest and most perfect wife

That I have ever met in all my life.”

In what you promise, every wife, take care!

At least remember Dorigen, beware.

So can a squire perform a noble act

As well as can a knight, and that’s a fact.

On her bare knees she thanked Aurelius,

Then went home to her mate Arveragus

And told him all as you’ve already heard.

He was so satisfied, upon my word,

It’s more than I could possibly relate.

Why should I more upon this matter state?

Arveragus and Dorigen his wife

In sovereign bliss were then to share their life,

Not once did any anger come between.

He cherished her as if she were a queen,

And she was true to him eternally.

On these two folks you’ll get no more from me.

Aurelius, by his expense forlorn,

Now curst the time that ever he was born.

“Alas,” said he, “I pledged, I can’t withhold,

A thousand pounds by weight of finest gold

To this philosopher! What shall I do?

There’s nothing I can say but that I’m through.

My heritage I now will have to sell

And be a beggar; here I cannot dwell

And shame all of my kindred in this place,

Unless from him I get some better grace.

But still I’ll try to set with him a way

Whereby on certain days I yearly pay,

And thank him, too, for his great courtesy.

I’ll keep my word, I’ll speak no falsity.”

With heavy heart he goes into his coffer

And brings to this magician gold to offer,

Five hundred pounds (so I guess it would be),

And asked if out of generosity

He’d grant him time, the rest of it to pay;

He told him, “Master, I am proud to say

I’ve never failed to keep a promise yet.

For certainly I’ll satisfy the debt

I owe to you, however I may fare,

Though I go begging in my girdle bare.

But if you’ll grant me, on this surety,

Extended time, two years or maybe three,

Then I’ll be well; if not, I’ll have to sell

My heritage; there is no more to tell.”

Then this magician answered in this way,

On hearing what the fellow had to say:

“Have I not kept my covenant with you?”

“Yes, certainly,” he answered, “well and true.”

“Have you not had your lady, your desire?”

“No, no,” with woeful sigh replied the squire.

“What was the reason? Tell me if you can.”

Aurelius his tale at once began

And told him all as you have heard before;

There is no need to tell you any more.

He said, “Arveragus, through nobleness,

Would rather be in sorrow and distress

Than have his wife be to her vow untrue.”

Of Dorigen’s great woe he told him, too,

How loath she was to be a wicked wife

And that she’d rather lose that day her life,

And that her vow through innocence she swore,

For of such magic she’d not heard before.

“I had such pity on her then,” said he,

“As freely as he had her sent to me

I freely sent her back to him again.

And that’s the whole, there’s no more to explain.”

Then this magician answered, “My dear brother,

Each of you acted nobly to the other.

You are a squire, Arveragus a knight;

But God forbid, in all his blissful might,

That any scholar could not bring about

A deed that’s just as noble. Never doubt!

“Sir, I release you from the thousand pound

As if right now you’d crept out of the ground

And never once till now of me you knew.

For not a penny will I take from you

For all my craft or for my labor. Sire,

You’ve paid me well, I’ve all that I require.

And that’s enough, so farewell and good day!”

And on his horse he went forth on his way.

To you this question, lords, I now address:

Which one of them showed greatest nobleness?

Give me your thoughts before we further wend.

That’s all I have, my tale is at an end.

The Pardoner’s Tale

“My lords,” said he, “in churches when I preach

I take great pains to have a haughty speech

And ring it out as roundly as a bell;

I know it all by heart, what I’ve to tell.

My theme’s always the same and ever was:

Radix malorum est Cupiditas.

“First I announce from where it is I come

And then show all my bulls, not only some.

My patent with the bishop’s seal I show

To help safeguard my person as I go,

That no man be so bold, though priest or clerk,

As to obstruct me in Christ’s holy work.

And after that my tales I start to tell,

And bulls of popes, of cardinals as well,

Of patriarchs and bishops, I display.

A few words in the Latin tongue I say

To add a little spice to what I preach

And stir men to devotion as I teach.

“And then I show to them like precious stones

My long glass cases crammed with rags and bones,

For these are relics (so they think). And set

In metal I’ve a shoulderbone I let

Them see, from the sheep of a holy Jew.

‘Good men,’ say I, ‘pay heed to me. When you

Shall take this bone and wash it in a well,

If cow or calf or sheep or ox should swell

Because it ate a worm or it’s been stung,

Take water from that well and wash its tongue

And right away it’s whole. And furthermore,

From pox and scab and every other sore

Shall every sheep be whole that of this well

Drinks but a draught. Pay heed to what I tell.

If every farmer owning stock will go

Each week before the cock’s had time to crow

And, fasting, from this well will take a drink

(This Jew once taught our elders so to think),

His beasts will be assured of progeny.

And, sirs, it also heals of jealousy;

For though a man by jealousy be wroth,

Use water from this well to make his broth

And nevermore shall he mistrust his wife,

Despite the truth about her sinful life,

With even priests as lovers, two or three.

“‘Here also is a mitten you may see.

Whose hand goes in this mitten will thereby

Find that his grain will greatly multiply

When he has sown, whether it’s wheat or oats

(Provided he has offered pence or groats).

“‘Good men and women, of one thing I warn:

If in this church there’s any fellow born

Who’s done some horrid sin and who for shame

Does not dare to be shriven for the same,

Or any woman young or elderly

Who’s done her husband wrong by cuckoldry,

Such folk shall have no power and no grace

To offer to my relics in this place.

But whoso finds himself without such blame,

Let him come forth and offer in God’s name

And I’ll absolve him by authority

That has by papal bull been granted me.’

“And with this trick I’ve won each year about

A hundred marks since first I started out.

I stand there in my pulpit like a clerk,

These ignorants sit down, and right to work

I go, I preach as you have heard before

And tell a hundred silly stories more.

And I take pains to get my neck to stretch,

To nod both east and west to every wretch

Just like a dove that’s sitting on the barn.

My tongue and hands go spinning such a yarn

That it’s a joy to see my craftiness.

Of avarice and all such cursedness

I always preach, to make them ever free

To give their pence (and give only to me);

For my concern is only with collection

And not with any sin that needs correction.

Once buried, they don’t mean a thing to me

Though their souls pick blackberries. Certainly

Many a sermon seemingly well meant

Has often come from less than good intent:

To please the folks, to offer flattery,

To get promoted by hypocrisy,

Some for vainglory, some for simple hate.

For if I dare not otherwise debate,

My tongue in preaching will a sting impart

That no man can escape, he’ll feel the smart

And falsely be defamed if ever he

Has done wrong to my brethren or to me;

For though I may not call him by his name,

All men shall be aware that he’s the same

By signs or by what chances may permit.

Thus folks who wrong us I repay, I spit

My venom under holiness’s hue,

That truthful I may seem and holy too.

“But briefly my intent I’ll summarize:

It’s greed alone that makes me sermonize.

And so my theme is yet and ever was:

Radix malorum est Cupiditas.

Yes, I myself can preach against the vice

Of avarice that is my own device;

For though I’m guilty of that very sin,

These other folks I’m able still to win

From avarice and sorely they’ll repent.

But that is not my principal intent,

I only preach to satisfy my greed.

Enough of that, for more there’s not a need.

“I tell them many moral tales I know,

Old stories set in times of long ago;

The ignorant find in these tales much pleasure,

Such things as they can well repeat and treasure.

Do you believe, as long as I can preach,

Acquiring gold and silver while I teach,

That willfully I’d live in poverty?

It’s never crossed my mind, quite truthfully!

No, I will preach and beg in sundry lands

And never will I labor with my hands

Or take up basketweaving for a living.

I won’t be begging idly, they’ll be giving.

Apostles I’ll not try to counterfeit;

I’ll have my money, wool, and food, though it

Be from some page whose poverty is dire

Or from the poorest widow in the shire;

Although her kids be starving, I’ll be fine,

For I will drink the liquor of the vine

And have a jolly wench in every town.

But listen, lords, we’ll set that matter down,

Your pleasure is that I should tell a tale.

Now that I’ve had my draught of corny ale,

By God, I hope to tell you something striking

That with good reason will be to your liking.

Though I’m a man of vices through and through,

I still can tell a moral tale to you,

One that I preach to bring the money in.

Now hold your peace, my tale I will begin.”

In Flanders some time back there was a troop

Of youths who were a folly-loving group,

What with their parties, gambling, brothels, bars,

Where with their harps and lutes and their guitars

They’d dance and play at dice both day and night.

They also ate and drank beyond their might,

So that they gave the devil sacrifice

Within the devil’s temple by the vice

Of gluttony, which is abomination.

Their oaths were great, so worthy of damnation

It was a grisly thing to hear them swear;

The body of our blessed Lord they’d tear

As if the Jews had not torn him enough.

Each laughed at every other’s sinful stuff

And right away came dancing girls to boot,

All neat and trim, and young girls selling fruit,

Singers with harps, then bawds, girls selling cake—

All agents of the devil, no mistake,

All kindlers of the fire of lechery

That goes so hand in hand with gluttony.

My witness is God’s Holy Writ, no less,

That lechery’s in wine and drunkenness.

Behold how drunken Lot unnaturally

Lay with his daughters both, unwittingly,

So drunk he was unconscious of the deed.

King Herod, about whom one well should read,

When at a feast much wine he had been swilling,

Gave orders at the table for the killing

Of John the Baptist, guiltless as could be.

Seneca says good things undoubtedly;

He said that not one difference could he find

Between a man who’s gone out of his mind

And one who’s drunk (except that madness will,

In one whose nature is already ill,

Be longer lasting than will drunkenness).

O gluttony, so full of cursedness!

O first cause of our trial and tribulation,

O origin of all our souls’ damnation

Till we were purchased back by blood of Christ!

How dearly, I’ll say briefly, it was priced,

How much was paid for this depravity!

Corrupt was all the world with gluttony.

Our father Adam and his wife also

From Paradise to labor and to woe

Were driven by that vice, and do not doubt it.

While Adam fasted, as I read about it,

He was in Paradise, but then when he

Ate of the fruit forbidden on the tree

He was at once cast out to woe and pain.

O gluttony, with reason we complain!

O if one knew how many a malady

Must follow such excess and gluttony,

To eat with moderation he’d be able

Whenever he is sitting at his table.

Alas! the short throat and so tender mouth

Make men both east and west, both north and south,

In water, earth, and air, work to produce

Fine meat and beverage for a glutton’s use!

How well this matter, O Saint Paul, you treat:

“Meat’s for the belly, belly’s for the meat,

God shall destroy both”—so Paul is heard.

Alas! for by my faith it is a word

So foul to have to say (but foul’s the deed)

That so much white and red a man should need

He makes his throat his privy hole, no less,

Because of such accurst excessiveness.

The Apostle has with so much pity mourned:

“So many walk that way whom I have warned—

I say this weeping, with piteous voice—

Foes of the cross of Christ, if that’s their choice,

For which the end is death. Their god’s the belly.”

O gut, O bag, O belly foul and smelly,

So full of dung and of corruption found!

From either end of you foul is the sound.

By what great cost and labor you have dined!

These cooks, how they must pound and strain and grind,

And transform substance into accident,

Until your glutton’s appetite is spent!

From hard bones they knock marrow for one’s taste,

For there is nothing they let go to waste

That’s soft and sweet and might the gullet suit.

With spices of the leaf, the bark and root,

His sauces will be made for such delight

He’ll wind up with a whole new appetite.

But he who lets such pleasures so entice

Is dead while he is living in such vice.

A lecherous thing is wine, and drunkenness

Is full of striving and of wretchedness.

O drunken man, disfigured is your face,

Sour your breath, you’re foul to the embrace!

And through your drunken nose it seems the sound

Is “Samson, Samson” that you would expound,

Though, God knows, Samson never drank of wine.

You fall as if you were a stricken swine;

Your tongue is lost, your self-respect you gave

To drunkenness, which is the very grave

Of man’s discretion and intelligence.

When drink in him has taken dominance

One cannot keep a secret, truly said.

So keep yourself away from white and red,

Especially from Lepe white wine bought

In Cheapside or Fish Street. This wine that’s brought

From Spain is known to creep up subtly

In other wines grown in proximity,

From which there then arise such heady fumes

That when a man three draughts of it consumes,

Though he thinks he’s in Cheapside at his home,

He’ll find to Lepe, Spain, he’s come to roam

And not off to Bordeaux or La Rochelle—

And “Samson, Samson” he’ll be saying well.

But listen, lords, to this one word, I pray:

All of the sovereign actions, I daresay,

All victories in God’s Old Testament,

Through grace of him who is omnipotent,

Were all achieved in abstinence and prayer.

Look in the Bible and you’ll learn it there.

Behold Attila: that great warrior died

While in a shameful sleep, unglorified,

His nostrils pouring blood, a drunken sot.

A captain’s life should be a sober lot.

You should above all else consider well

The wise commandment given Lemuel

(Not Samuel but Lemuel I said),

Expressly in the Bible to be read,

On serving wine to justices at court.

That should suffice, no more need I report.

On gluttony I’ve said a thing or two,

And now from gambling I’d prohibit you.

For gambling is the source of every lie,

Of all deceit that curses men to die.

It’s blasphemy of Christ, manslaughter, waste

Of time and property. To be disgraced,

That’s what it is, dishonorable, defaming,

To be held one who takes to common gaming.

The higher one might be in social station

The more he’ll be accused of depravation;

If there’s a prince who gambles constantly,

On all his governance and policy

The judgment of opinion will be such

His reputation’s bound to suffer much.

A wise ambassador named Stillbon, sent

From Sparta, in great pomp to Corinth went

To arrange for an alliance. When he came,

It happened that by chance he found, for shame,

That all the greatest who were of that land

Were at the game of hazard, dice in hand.

With that, as soon as Stillbon could get started,

Back home to his own country he departed,

And said, “In Corinth I’ll not lose my name

Nor take upon myself so great a shame,

I’ll not ally you with such hazarders.

Send to them other wise ambassadors,

For on my oath I’d perish in defiance

Before I’d make for you such an alliance.

For you, with honors that have been so glorious,

Shall not ally with gamblers so notorious—

Not by my will or treaty anyway.”

That’s what this wise philosopher had to say.

At King Demetrius now take a look:

Parthia’s king, so we’re told in the book,

Sent him in scorn a pair of golden dice;

For playing hazard long had been his vice,

For which Demetrius’s fame and glory

To Parthia’s king were a worthless story.

Cannot lords find some other forms of play

Honest enough to pass the time of day?

And now on oaths, when false or indiscreet,

A word or two, such as the old books treat.

Strong swearing is an awful thing to do

And worse yet when you swear what isn’t true.

The Lord on high forbade we swear at all,

As Matthew tells. Especially recall

What holy Jeremiah says about it:

“Speak truth, not lies, in oaths, that none should doubt it;

Swear but for justice and for righteousness.”

But idle swearing is a cursedness.

Behold and see in that first table of

The worthy laws God gave us from above:

The second of these laws is very plain

To say, “Thou shalt not take my name in vain.”

The Lord forbids such swearing sooner, then,

Than homicide and many a curséd sin.

I tell it in the order that it stands—

As he who God’s commandments understands

Is well aware, the second one is that.

And furthermore I now will tell you flat

That vengeance on his house will be unsparing

When one engages in such awful swearing

As “By God’s precious heart,” and “By his nails,”

And “By the blood of Christ that is in Hales,

My chance is seven, yours is five and three!”

“By God’s arms, if you play deceitfully

You’ll see how well your heart this dagger hones!”

This is the fruit of those two curséd bones:

Forswearing, ire, deceit, and homicide.

So for the love of Christ who for us died,

Leave off your oaths, the small ones and the great.

Now, sirs, my tale I further will relate.

These three young revelers of whom I tell

Much earlier than nine by any bell

Were sitting in a tavern and were drinking.

And as they sat, they heard a bell go clinking:

A corpse was being carried to its grave.

Then one of them called over to his knave

And said, “Go quickly, ask without delay

What corpse that is that’s passing by the way,

And see that you report his name correctly.”

“No need for that,” the boy replied directly,

“Two hours before you came here, sir, they told

Me who he was. The fellow was an old

Comrade of yours, one who was slain at night

With suddenness. While he sat drunk, upright,

There came a stealthy thief that’s known as Death,

Throughout this country robbing folks of breath;

And with his spear he smote his heart in two,

Then went his way without a word. And through

This plague he’s slain a thousand. Master, ere

You come into his presence anywhere,

I think that it is very necessary

That you beware of such an adversary.

To meet him, sire, be ready evermore.

My mother taught me this. I say no more.”

“By Saint Mary,” the tavern keeper said,

“The child is right! This year he’s left for dead

In just one town (a mile from here, I’d gauge)

Both man and woman, child and knave and page—

I think his habitation must be there.

It would be very wise, then, to beware

Lest he should do a fellow a dishonor.”

“Yea, by God’s arms!” declared this rioter,

“Is he so very perilous to meet?

I’ll seek him in the by-ways and the street,

I vow it by the worthy bones of God!

My friends, are we not three peas in a pod?

Let’s each hold up a hand to one another,

Each of us will become the others’ brother.

With this false traitor Death we’ll do away;

The slayer of so many we shall slay

Before it’s night, by God’s sweet dignity!”

Together then they made their pledge, the three,

To live and die each of them for the others

As if they’d been born naturally as brothers.

Then up they jumped in drunken agitation

And headed down the road, their destination

The village they had just been told about.

And many a grisly oath they shouted out

And tore Christ’s blessed body limb from limb—

Death shall be dead if they get hold of him!

When they had gone not fully half a mile,

And were about to step across a stile,

They met a poor old man. Upon their meeting,

The old man very meekly gave them greeting:

“My lords,” he said, “may God watch over you.”

To which the proudest of this rowdy crew

Replied, “What’s that, you churl of sorry grace?

Why are you all wrapped up except your face?

Why live to be so ancient? Tell us why!”

The old man looked the fellow in the eye

And said, “Because I’d never find a man,

Were I to walk as far as Hindustan,

In any town or village, who would give

His youth for my old age. So I must live,

I’m destined to remain an old man still,

As long a time as it may be God’s will.

And Death, alas! won’t take my life, and so

I walk, a restless wretch, and as I go

I knock with this my staff early and late

Upon the ground, which is my mother’s gate,

And say, ‘Beloved Mother, let me in!

Look how I vanish, flesh and blood and skin!

Alas! when will these old bones be at rest?

How gladly, Mother, I’d exchange my chest,

Which has so long a time been on my shelf,

For haircloth in which I could wrap myself!’

And yet she won’t allow me such a grace,

That’s why so pale and withered is my face.

“But, sirs, you show a lack of courtesy

To speak to an old man so brutishly,

Unless he has trespassed in word or deed.

In Holy Writ you may yourself well read:

‘Before an old man with a hoary head

You should arise.’ I counsel as it’s said,

No harm to an old fellow you should do,

No more than you would have men do to you

When in old age, should you so long abide.

Now God be with you where you go or ride,

I must go on to where I have to go.”

“No, you old churl, by God, that isn’t so!”

The gambler said at once. “You won’t be gone

So lightly on your way, no, by Saint John!

What of that traitor Death were you just saying?

Our friends in all this country he is slaying.

I promise you—since you’re a spy of his—

You’ll pay if you don’t tell us where he is,

By God and by the holy sacrament!

For truly you and he have one intent,

To kill us who are young, you thief and liar!”

“Now, sirs,” said he, “if you have such desire

To find Death, then turn up this crooked way—

I left him in that grove. I truly say,

Beneath a tree he was; there he’ll abide,

Your boasting will not make him run and hide.

See yonder oak? He’s there, as you will find.

God save you, as he ransomed all mankind,

And mend you!” So replied this aged man.

And each of these three revelers then ran

Until he reached the tree, and there they found

Some florins, coined of gold and fine and round—

Well nigh eight bushels, that was their impression.

To seek Death was no longer their obsession,

As each of them, so gladdened by the sight

Of golden florins, all so fair and bright,

Sat down beside the hoard that they had found.

The worst of them was first to speak a sound.

He said, “My brothers, heed what I’ve to say,

My wits are keen although I joke and play.

It’s Fortune that has given us this treasure

That we may live our lives in mirth and pleasure.

As easy as it comes we’ll spend it. Aye!

Who would have thought this very morning, by

God’s dignity, we’d have so fair a grace?

And if this gold be carried from this place

Home to my house, or else to yours—be it

Well understood, it’s our gold every bit—

Then we’ll be in a high and happy way.

But truly it cannot be done by day,

We’d be accused of brazen thievery

And for our gold they’d hang us from a tree.

This treasure we must carry home by night,

As cleverly and slyly as we might.

So I advise that lots among us all

Be drawn, and let’s see where the lot will fall;

And he who draws the lot then cheerfully

Shall run to town, and do that speedily,

To bring some bread and wine back on the sly,

While two of us shall carefully stand by

To guard this treasure. If he doesn’t tarry,

When it is night this treasure we will carry

To where we all agree it would be best.”

In that one’s fist were lots held for the rest,

He bade them draw to see where it would fall.

It fell upon the youngest of them all,

Who started off to town immediately.

No sooner had he left their company

When that one of those staying told the other,

“Now you know well that you are my sworn brother;

Here’s something that will profit you to know.

Our friend back into town has had to go,

And here is gold in plentiful degree

That is to be divided by us three.

But nonetheless, if I could work it so

Between us two we split it when we go,

Would I have not done you a friendly turn?”

“But how?” the other answered with concern.

“For he will know the gold is with us two.

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

“Shall it be kept our secret?” said the first.

“Then in a few short words you shall be versed

In what we’ll do to bring it all about.”

“I grant it,” said the other, “do not doubt,

You have my oath, I’ll not be false to you.”

“Now,” said the first, “you know that we are two,

And two of us are stronger than is one.

As soon as he sits down, as if for fun

Arise as though you’d have with him some play,

Then in both sides I’ll stab him right away

While you and he are struggling as in game.

And with your dagger see you do the same.

Then all this gold, dear friend, when we are through

Shall be divided up twixt me and you;

The two of us can then our lusts fulfill

And play at dice as often as we will.”

So these two rogues agreed they would betray

And slay the third, as you have heard me say.

Meanwhile the youngest, who had gone to town,

In his mind’s eye saw rolling up and down

The beauty of those florins new and bright.

“O Lord,” said he, “if only that I might

Have all this treasure for myself alone!

There is no man who lives beneath God’s throne

Who could then live as I, so merrily!”

And then at last hell’s fiend, our enemy,

Put in his mind that poison he should buy

And give to his two mates and let them die.

The fiend had found this man’s life so profane

He used his leave to bring the man to pain,

For it was plainly this man’s full intent

To slay them both and never to repent.

So forth he went—no longer would he tarry—

Into the town to an apothecary,

Whom he asked that he sell to him if willing

Some poison: he had rats that needed killing,

And in his yard a polecat, so he said,

Was reason why his capons now were dead,

And he’d wreak eager vengeance if he might

On vermin that were ruining him by night.

The apothecary answered, “Let me tell you,

So help me God, here’s something I will sell you,

And there is not a creature anywhere

That eats or drinks this mixture I prepare,

Though in amount as little as a kernel,

That will not go at once to the eternal—

Yea, he will die, and in a shorter while

Than it would take you, sir, to walk a mile,

This poison is so strong and virulent.”

With this in hand, this curséd fellow went

(He took it in a box), and then he ran

Up the adjoining street to see a man

Who loaned him three large bottles. Of the three,

He poured his poison into two, for he

Would keep the third one clean for his own drinking.

“I’ll be at work all night,” so he was thinking,

“To carry all the gold out from that place.”

And when this ne’er do well of such disgrace

Had filled with wine three bottles to the brim,

He went back to his mates awaiting him.

What need is there to preach about it more?

For just as they had planned his death before,

So by them he was slain right on the spot.

Then that one, when they’d carried out the plot,

Said, “Let us sit and drink and make us merry,

And afterwards his body we will bury.”

It happened then by chance that with that word

He took the bottle poisoned by the third

And drank from it, then gave some to his mate,

And both of them met promptly with their fate.

But surely Avicenna, I suppose,

Did not include in all his canon’s prose

More wondrous symptoms of a poisoned state

Than these two wretches suffered in their fate.

So these two killers met with homicide,

And also their false poisoner has died.

O curséd sin, so full of wretchedness!

O homicidal traitors! Wickedness!

O gluttony! O gambling! Lechery!

You blasphemers of Christ with villainy,

With mighty oaths from habit and from pride!

Alas, mankind, how can it so betide

That to the Lord who made you, your Creator,

Who with his dear heart’s blood redeemed you later,

You are so false and so unkind? Alas!

Now, good men, God forgive you your trespass

And guard you from the sin of avarice.

My holy pardon saves you from all this;

If you will offer nobles, sterlings, rings,

Some brooches, spoons or other silver things,

Just bow your head beneath this holy bull.

Come up, you wives, and offer of your wool;

Your name I’ll here enroll, then you may know

Into the bliss of heaven you will go.

My high power will absolve you, to be sure,

If you will give. You’ll be as clean and pure

As when first born.—And, sirs, that’s how I preach.

Now Christ, physician to the soul of each

Of us, grant you his pardon to receive,

For that is best, and you I’ll not deceive.

But, sirs, one thing that slipped my memory when

I spoke my tale: I’ve relics, pardons in

My pouch, in England none could finer be,

The pope’s own hand entrusted them to me.

If anyone devoutly has resolved

To make a gift and by me be absolved,

Come forth at once and meekly on your knees

Receive my pardon. Or, if you so please,

Take for yourself a pardon as you go—

One fresh and new at every town—just so

You offer to me, all the while we ride,

Some pence and nobles that are bonafide.

It is an honor for each one who’s here

To have a competent pardoner near

To absolve you in the country as you ride,

In view of all the things that may betide.

There may be one (if not two) on the trek

Who falls down off his horse and breaks his neck;

Look what security it is for all

That in your fellowship I chanced to fall,

Who can absolve you all from first to last

Before your soul has from your body passed.

Let me advise our Host here to begin,

For he’s the one enveloped most in sin.

Come forth, Sir Host, and offer first right now,

And kiss then each and every relic. How?

For just a groat! Unbuckle now your purse.”

“Nay, nay,” said he, “then I would have Christ’s curse!

It shall not be, if I should live in bliss!

Your breeches, I am sure, you’d have me kiss

And swear they were the relic of a saint,

Though of your foul behind they bear the taint.

But by the cross that Saint Helena found,

Your balls I’d like to have my hand around

Instead of relics or a reliquary!

Let’s cut them off, I’ll even help to carry,

We’ll find a hog, enshrine them in his turd.”

The Pardoner then answered not a word,

He was too mad to have a thing to say.

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

This game with you, or any angry man.”

And right away the worthy Knight began,

When he saw all were laughing at the spat:

“Now quite enough, let’s have no more of that!

Sir Pardoner, be merry, of good cheer.

And you, Sir Host, who are to me so dear,

I pray that you will kiss the Pardoner;

And, Pardoner, I pray, draw near him, sir,

And as we did now let us laugh and play.”

They kissed at once and rode along their way.

The Monk’s Tale

PROLOGUE

Merry Words of the Host to the Monk

“Be of good cheer, my lord the Monk,” he said,

“For you shall tell a tale, I truly say.

Look, there stands Rochester close by the way!

Ride forth, my lord, and don’t break up our game.

But by my oath, I do not know your name,

If it’s Don John that you should be addressed,

Don Thomas or Don Alban—which is best?

You’re of which order, by your father’s kin?

I swear to God, you’re very fair of skin;

The pasture must be fertile you frequent,

You don’t look like some ghost or penitent.

You are, upon my faith, some officer,

Some worthy sacristan or cellarer,

For, by my father’s soul, I would surmise

At home you are a master. In no wise

Are you a novice or poor cloisterer,

Instead a wise and wily governor,

One big-boned, too, and brawny. I would say

You’re quite a handsome fellow all the way.

God give to him confusion, utter strife,

Who brought you first to the religious life!

A treading rooster you’d have been, all right;

Had you the liberty as you have might

To satisfy desire in such a way,

Then many a creature you’d have sired today.

Alas, why do you wear so wide a cope?

God give me sorrow but, if I were pope,

Not only you but every man of strength—

His head shorn to however short a length—

Would have a wife. The loss is to all earth,

Religion’s taken all the corn of worth

From treading, we’re but shrimps, we laity.

A wretched root comes from a feeble tree;

Our heirs will be so feeble, weak, and tender

They may not have the strength well to engender.

And that is why our wives are known to try

Out you religious folk: you satisfy

The debts of Venus better than we may.

By God, it’s not with counterfeit you pay!

Please don’t be angered by my playful word,

For often, sir, in game a truth is heard.”

This worthy Monk took all of this in patience,

Then said, “I’ll try with all my diligence—

Keeping within the realm of probity—

To tell for you a tale, or two or three.

If you would like to listen, I’ve some words

I could impart about a life, Saint Edward’s;

Or else, to start with, tragedies I’ll tell,

Of which I have a hundred in my cell—

Tragedy is to say a certain story,

As old books bring to mind, about the glory

Of one who stood in great prosperity,

But who then tumbled from his high degree

To wretched end, woe that was never worse.

These commonly have been set down in verse,

In six feet that men call hexameter.

In prose as well, though, many others were,

In meter too—all manner of device.

That ought to be enough words to suffice.

“Now pay attention if you’d like to hear.

But first I ask, to make this matter clear,

If out of order I should tell these things

(Be they of popes or emperors or kings)

As ages go (as written you will find),

And tell a few before and some behind

As they may come back now to my remembrance,

That you’ll excuse me for my ignorance.”

I shall bewail in form that’s tragical

The harm of them who stood in high degree

And fell, who had no remedy at all

To bring them out of their adversity.

For surely when Fortune may choose to flee,

There is no man who may her course withhold.

Let no man trust in blind prosperity;

Beware by these examples true and old.

LUCIFER

With Lucifer, though of the angelic band,

Not of the human race, I will begin.

Though Fortune cannot harm or have a hand

With angels, from on high he for his sin

Fell into hell, and he is yet therein.

O Lucifer, angel brightest of all,

Now you are Satan, who may never win

From misery, to which has been your fall.

ADAM

Lo, Adam in the field of Damascene:

By God’s own finger created was he

And not conceived by sperm of man unclean.

He ruled all Paradise, except one tree.

No man on earth has held such high degree

Since Adam, who, for his misgovernance,

Was driven from his high prosperity

To labor and to hell and to mischance.

SAMSON

Behold Samson, who was annunciated

By the angel long ere his nativity,

And was to God Almighty consecrated,

And stood in honor while he still could see.

There never was another such as he,

To speak of strength and, with it, hardiness;

But to his wives he broke his secrecy,

And slew himself thereby in wretchedness.

This noble, mighty champion without

A weapon save his bare hands still could slay

The lion, which he tore, ripped inside out,

While to his wedding he was on his way.

His false wife could so please him, so could pray,

She learnt from him his secret; she, untrue,

Went to his foes, his secret to betray,

And then forsook him, taking someone new.

Three hundred foxes Samson took in ire

And bound their tails together; once in hand,

All of the foxes’ tails he set afire

(On every fox’s tail he tied a brand);

They burnt up all the crops grown in the land,

The olive trees and vines, as they would pass.

He also slew a thousand men by hand,

No weapon save the jawbone of an ass.

When they were slain, he thirsted so that he

Was all but lost; he prayed that God on high

Might on his pain look with some clemency

And send him drink or else he’d have to die;

Then in that ass’s jawbone, which was dry,

Out of a molar sprang at once a well

From which, in short, he drank. None can deny

God was his help, as Judicum can tell.

One night in Gaza by his proven might,

In spite of all the Philistines so nigh,

The city gates he plucked up, set them right

Upon his back, and carried them up high

Onto a hill for everyone to spy.

O noble, mighty Samson, loved and dear,

Had you not let your secret be known by

Your women, you’d have been without a peer!

This Samson never touched strong drink or wine.

No razor ever touched his head, no shear,

By precept of the messenger divine,

For all his strength was in his hair. And year

By year, for twenty winters, Samson’s sphere

Was that of judge in Israel’s governance.

But soon he shall be weeping many a tear,

For women shall bring Samson to mischance!

Delilah was his lover whom he told

That in his hair was where his strength all lay,

And Samson to his enemies she sold;

While he was sleeping in her lap one day,

She had his hair all clipped and shorn away,

And let his foes observe, come for their prize;

For when they had him in this weakened way,

They bound him tightly, then put out his eyes.

Before his hair had thus been clipped away,

Men simply had no bond, this man to bind;

Now he’s imprisoned in a cave where they

Have bound him to the handmill, there to grind.

O noble Samson, strongest of mankind,

Once judge with glory, wealth, and blessedness!

Well you may weep with eyes that now are blind,

To fall from where you were to wretchedness.

This captive’s end was as I now shall state.

His foemen held a certain feast one day

In their great temple, splendid and ornate;

And there the fool for them they had him play.

But at the last he brought them disarray;

He shook two temple pillars till they fell—

Down came the temple, all, and there it lay,

He slew himself and slew his foes as well;

For each and every prince who there had gone,

And some three thousand others, too, were slain

When that great temple fell with all its stone.

From speaking more of Samson I’ll refrain.

Be warned by this example old and plain:

Men shouldn’t be confiding to their wives

Something that should in secrecy remain

If it might touch upon their limbs or lives.

HERCULES

Of Hercules, the sovereign conqueror,

His deeds sing praise, the strong, renowned and bold,

The flower of his time, none mightier.

He slew and skinned the lion; it is told

How centaurs he brought low; in days of old

He slew the harpies, cruel birds and fell;

He took from the dragon apples of gold;

He drew out Cerberus, the hound of hell;

He slew Busiris, tyrant cruel and vile,

And had his horse consume him, flesh and bone;

He slew the fiery serpent full of bile;

He broke one horn that Achelous had grown,

And Cacus he slew in a cave of stone;

He slew the giant, Antaeus the strong;

The grisly boor he slew with ease, and on

His mighty shoulders bore the heavens long.

No other being since the world began

Brought down so many monsters as did he.

This whole wide world his fame was quick to span,

His strength and worth of such immensity,

And every realm on earth he went to see.

He was too strong for any man to hold.

At earth’s each end, instead of boundary

He set a pillar (so has Trophee told).

This noble champion had a lover

Whose name was Dejanira, fresh as May;

As from these learned men you may discover,

She sent to him a shirt, bright fresh array.

Alas, that shirt, alas and wellaway!

So poison soaked it was, he put it on

And, when he’d worn it less than half a day,

It caused his flesh to fall right off the bone.

But still some learned men will her excuse

And say that one called Nessus was to blame;

Be as it may, I will not her accuse,

On his bare back he wore it just the same.

His flesh the venom blackened, overcame;

And when he saw no other remedy,

He raked hot coals about himself: by flame,

Not poison, he preferred his death to be.

So died this worthy, mighty Hercules.

Who may in Fortune trust a single throw?

Who travels through this dangerous world with ease?

Ere one’s aware he’s laid so often low.

The wisest man is he who comes to know

Himself; be wary, for when Fortune goes

To flatter, it’s so she may overthrow

In such a way as man may least suppose.

NEBUCHADNEZZAR

The great and mighty throne, the precious treasure,

The glorious scepter, royal majesty

Belonging to the king Nebuchadnezzar,

The tongue can scarcely utter. Twice did he

Against Jerusalem win victory

And vessels of the temple bear away.

In Babylon, seat of his sovereignty,

In glory and delight he held his sway.

The fairest children of the royalty

Of Israel he had gelded, quickly done,

And took each of them into slavery.

Now Daniel of these Israelites was one;

The wisest child of all, he had begun

To serve as dream interpreter of the king.

(Among Chaldean sages there was none

Who from his dreams could prophecy a thing.)

This proud king had a statue made of gold,

Sixty by seven cubits; he decreed

This golden image by both young and old

Be feared and worshipped. Those who wouldn’t heed

To red flames of a furnace he would feed,

He’d order burnt all those who disobeyed.

Daniel would not assent to such a deed,

Nor would his two young comrades so be swayed.

This king of kings was arrogant and vain;

He thought that God who sits in majesty

Would never take from him his great domain.

But he lost that dominion suddenly,

And after like a beast he came to be:

He ate hay like an ox and lay about

Right in the rain, wild beasts his company,

Until a certain time had run its route;

Like eagle feathers grew his hair; as well,

His nails grew out, like bird claws to appear;

Then God relieved him for a few years’ spell

And gave him sense. With that and many a tear

He thanked God and was evermore in fear

Of doing wrong or being out of place,

And till the time that he lay on his bier

He knew that God was full of might and grace.

BELSHAZZAR

His son and heir—Belshazzar was his name—

Held power after Nebuchadnezzar’s day

But took no warning from his father’s shame;

He was so proud of heart and in array,

And lived in so idolatrous a way,

And on his high estate himself so prided,

That Fortune cast him down and there he lay

And suddenly his kingdom was divided.

For all his lords he gave a feast one day

And bade them be as merry as could be;

And then he called his officers to say,

“Go now and bring the vessels all to me,

The ones my father in prosperity

Took from the temple of Jerusalem;

For prizes left us by our elders, we

Give thanks to our high gods and honor them.”

His wife, his lords, and all his concubines

Then drank, as long as appetite would last,

Out of these noble vessels sundry wines;

Then on a wall his eyes Belshazzar cast

And saw an armless hand inscribing fast,

Which made him quake in fear. Upon the wall

This hand, which had Belshazzar so aghast,

Wrote Mane, techel, phares, that was all.

There wasn’t one magician in the land

Who could interpret what this writing meant,

But Daniel then at once explained the hand.

He said, “My king, God to your father lent

Glory and honor, kingdom opulent;

But he was proud, of God he showed no dread,

And therefore God great woe upon him sent

And took from him the kingdom he had led.

“Then he was banished from man’s company,

With asses dwelt, ate hay as his reward,

Just like a beast, though wet or dry it be,

Till grace and reason would to him afford

The knowledge that dominion’s of the Lord

Over every kingdom and creature;

Then God had pity on him and restored

To him his kingdom and his human feature.

“And you, who are his son, are proud also,

And know all these things as a verity;

A rebel to the Lord, you are his foe

And from his vessels drink so brazenly;

Your wife, your wenches too drink sinfully

Mixed wine from those same vessels, while you pray

To your false gods in curst idolatry.

For such, your retribution’s on the way.

“This hand was sent from God that on the wall

Wrote Mane, techel, phares, trust in me;

Your reign is done, you count for naught at all;

Your kingdom is divided, it shall be

Given to Medes and Persians,” augured he.

This king was slain upon that very night;

Darius then replaced him in degree

Although he had no lawful means or right.

My lords, examples hereby you may take:

Security is not a lord’s to know;

Whenever Fortune chooses to forsake,

She takes away one’s reign, one’s wealth also,

And friends as well, though they be high or low.

If it’s to Fortune that friendships are due,

Mishap, I guess, will turn a friend to foe;

This is a common proverb and it’s true.

ZENOBIA

Zenobia, once of Palmyra queen,

As Persians wrote of her nobility,

So worthy was in armaments, so keen,

For hardiness she had no rivalry,

For lineage, for all gentility;

From royal Persian blood she was descended.

I won’t say none was lovelier than she,

Yet her looks had no need to be amended.

I find that from her childhood on she fled

The role of women; to the woods she went,

Where blood of many wild harts she would shed

With arrows broad, which to the mark she sent

To quickly land her game. And by her bent

She later on in life would also kill

Lions, leopards, bears, all torn and rent,

In her strong arms she had them at her will.

She dared to seek the wild beast in its den

And run along the mountains all the night

And sleep beneath a bush; and she would win

In wrestling, by her very force and might,

From any youth though strong he be to fight;

Against her not a thing could hold its ground.

She kept her maidenhood with all her might,

For to no man would she deign to be bound.

Some friends of hers at last, though, got her married

To Odenathus, prince of that same land,

Though she had long resisted them and tarried.

And he, my lords, as you should understand,

Felt much the same as she. But when her hand

He’d taken, very close the couple grew;

They lived in joy, their life together grand,

They held each other dear, their love was true.

Except one thing: she never would assent

In any way that he should by her lie

More than one time; it was her sole intent

To have a child, the world to multiply.

But just as soon as she might then espy

That by the deed she’d still failed to conceive,

At once she’d let him give it one more try—

But only once, that much you can believe.

And if she bore a child from that event,

She wouldn’t let him have back at the game

Till after forty full weeks came and went,

Then once more she would tolerate the same.

Though he go wild or manage to be tame,

He’d get no more from her; she said to him

That wives thought it but lechery and shame

If otherwise their husbands play with them.

Two sons by Odenathus she would bear

And rear to virtue and good education.

But let’s get back now to our tale. I swear,

She was so worthy of one’s admiration,

So wise, so giving with due moderation,

In war untiring, and so courteous too,

None had in war a greater dedication

To work, though men may search this whole world through.

Her wealth of goods was more than can be told,

In vessels as well as in what she wore

(For she would dress in precious stones and gold).

And when not on the hunt, she’d not ignore

Her study of foreign tongues; she’d master more

When she had leisure time, for her intent

Was to be educated in all lore

So that her life in virtue might be spent.

But that we might deal briefly with the story,

So doughty was her husband as was she

That they had conquered many a realm of glory

Within the East, fair towns that formerly

Had been possessions of the majesty

Of Rome. In their strong grip they held them fast,

As there was not one foe could make them flee

As long as Odenathus was to last.

Whoso would read of battles that she fought

Against Shapur the king and others too,

And how all of her works came to be wrought

And why she won, what titles then her due,

And after, all the woes she suffered through,

How she would be besieged and hauled away—

Let him go to my master Petrarch, who

Wrote quite enough about it, I daresay.

When Odenathus died, she mightily

Held to the realms, for with her own strong hand

She fought against her foes so brutally

That not one king or prince in all the land

Was less than glad when brought to understand

That she, through grace, his realm would not invade.

They made with her peace treaties long to stand,

And let her be where she rode forth and played.

Not Claudius, the Roman emperor,

Nor Gallienus, Rome’s prior sovereign,

Was brave enough to make a single stir;

Not one Egyptian or Armenian,

No Syrian, not one Arabian,

Upon a field of battle dared to fight,

Lest by her hand they wind up carrion

Or by her many warriors put to flight.

In kingly habit too her sons would go,

Heirs to their father’s kingdoms one and all;

Their names were Thymalao and Hermanno

(The forms, at least, by which the Persians call

The two). But Fortune puts in honey gall,

Not long endures this mighty governess;

Out of her queendom Fortune made her fall

To misadventure and to wretchedness.

Aurelianus, when administration

Of Rome fell to his hands, without delay

Made plans against her for retaliation;

With all his legions he marched on his way

Against Zenobia. Let’s briefly say

He made her flee and finally captured her;

He fettered her, with her two sons, that day

And won the land, and went home conqueror.

Her chariot of priceless gems and gold,

Among the things taken in victory

By this Aurelianus great and bold,

He had them haul in front for all to see;

But walking first in that parade was she,

With gilded chains hung from her neck, upon

Her head a crown, befitting her degree,

Her clothing all decked out with precious stone.

Alas, Fortune! she who put fear into

Kings, emperors, and other worldly powers,

Is gaped at by the crowd, alas! She who

Once donned a helmet through war’s darkest hours,

And won by force the strongest towns and towers,

Now bears upon her head a crown so cheap;

Now she who bore the scepter decked with flowers

Shall work with a distaff to earn her keep.

PETER, KING OF SPAIN

O Peter, noble, worthy pride of Spain,

Whom Fortune held so high in majesty,

Well should men of your piteous death complain!

Out of your land your brother made you flee,

And after, at a siege, by treachery

You were betrayed; he led you to his tent

And by his own hand slew you, so that he

Might then usurp your powers of government.

A shield of snow, eagle of black therein

(Crossed by a lime-rod emberlike, aglow)

This cursedness concocted, all this sin;

A wicked nest brought violence and woe—

Not Charlemagne’s Oliver (one, we know,

Of truth and honor), but from Brittany

A “Ganelon,” by bribe corrupted so

He brought this worthy king to treachery.

PETER, KING OF CYPRUS

O worthy Peter, Cypriot king who fought

At Alexandria masterfully

And captured it, who many a heathen brought

To woe! Your lieges in their jealousy,

For naught but envy of your chivalry,

Have slain you in your sleep before the morrow.

So Fortune’s wheel can govern what shall be

And out of gladness bring mankind to sorrow.

BARNABO OF LOMBARDY

O Barnabo Visconti, Milan’s great

God of delight, scourge of Lombardy, why

Should not all your misfortunes I relate

Once you had climbed to an estate so high?

Your brother’s son, in double sense ally

(Your nephew and your son-in-law as well),

Put you inside his prison, there to die,

Though why or how I do not know to tell.

COUNT UGOLINO OF PISA

Now of Count Ugolino’s darkest hour

No tongue can tell without great sympathy.

Not far outside of Pisa stands a tower

In which he was imprisoned—not just he

But with him there his little children three,

The eldest being just five years of age.

Alas, O Fortune, what great cruelty,

Such birds as these put into such a cage!

The reason that he’d been condemned to die

Was the bishop of Pisa (in that day

Ruggieri), who had told of him a lie;

The people then rose up against his sway

And had him put in prison, in the way

That you have heard. The food and drink he had

Was not at all sufficient, safe to say;

What little bit he had was poor and bad.

It happened that one day upon the hour

When food to him had usually been brought,

The jailer locked all doors about the tower.

He heard it well although he uttered naught,

Till soon there fell upon his heart the thought

That by starvation they planned his demise.

“Alas that I was born!” he cried, distraught,

Then tears began to flow from both his eyes.

His youngest son, whose age was only three,

Then asked him, “Father, why is it you weep?

When will the jailer bring our food? Have we

No single crumb of bread that you could keep?

I am so hungry I can’t even sleep.

Would God that I might always sleep, instead

Of feeling in me hunger’s gnawing creep!

There’s nothing I would rather have than bread.”

So day by day this child began to cry,

Till in his father’s lap he finally lay

And said, “Farewell, my father, I must die!”

He kissed his father, died that very day.

And when his father saw he’d passed away,

His grief was such he bit his own two arms

And cried, “Alas, O Fortune! Well I may

On your false wheel lay blame for all my harms!”

It was for hunger, so his sons believed,

That he had gnawed his arms and not for woe.

“No, Father, don’t do that,” they said, aggrieved,

“But eat our flesh instead. Not long ago

Our flesh you gave us; take it back just so,

And eat enough.” That’s what they had to say,

And in a day or two both were to go

Lay in their father’s lap and pass away.

And he, too, in despair died of starvation,

This Count of Pisa. Such was his demise,

Cut down by Fortune from so high a station.

No more on this tragedy I’ll advise;

If you would hear it in more lengthy wise,

Then read in that great poet of Italy

Called Dante, for so well he does devise

It word for word and tells it totally.

NERO

Though Nero was as vile and villainous

As any fiend that ever lay in hell,

This whole wide world (as writes Suetonius)

Both east and west, from north to south as well,

Was subject to his rule, albeit fell.

With rubies, sapphires, pearls of purest white

Were all his clothes embroidered; one could tell

In precious stones he took a great delight.

More pompous, proud, fastidious in array

No other Roman emperor was than he;

Whichever robe he’d choose to wear one day

No day thereafter he desired to see.

Gold-threaded nets were brought in quantity

When he desired to fish a Tiber bend.

His every wish acquired legality,

For Fortune would obey him like a friend.

He had Rome burnt for his delight, a whim,

And senators he ordered slain one day

That he might hear the cries that came from them.

He slew his brother, by his sister lay,

And mangled his own mother—that’s to say,

He slit his mother’s womb that he might see

Where he had been conceived. O wellaway

That he held her no worthier to be!

Not one tear from his eye fell at the sight,

He simply said, “A woman fair was she.”

The wonder is how Nero could or might

Be any judge of her late beauty. He

Then ordered wine be brought, which instantly

He drank—he gave no other sign of woe.

When power has been joined to cruelty,

Alas, how deeply will the venom flow!

This Nero had a master in his youth

To teach to him the arts and courtesy,

This master being the flower of moral truth

In his own time, if books speak truthfully;

And while this master held authority,

So wise he made him in both word and thought

That it would be much time ere tyranny

Or any vice against him would be brought.

This master Seneca of whom I’ve spoken

To Nero had become a cause of dread,

Chastising him for every good rule broken,

By word, not deed. As he discreetly said,

“An emperor, sir, must always be well bred,

Of virtue, hating tyranny.” Defied,

He wound up in a bath where he was bled

From both his arms, and that’s the way he died.

This Nero as a youth was also taught

Before his master always to arise,

Which afterwards was great insult, he thought,

For which he had him sent to such demise.

But nonetheless this Seneca the wise

Chose in a bath to die in just that way

Rather than in some torture they’d devise.

So his dear master Nero chose to slay.

Now it befell that Fortune wished no longer

To suffer Nero’s pride, such haughtiness;

For although he was strong, she was the stronger.

She thought, “By God! I am a fool, no less,

To set a man so full of wickedness

In high degree, an emperor to call.

By God, I’ll pluck him from his loftiness;

When he may least expect, soon he shall fall.”

The people rose against him then one night

For his misdeeds; and when he so espied,

He sneaked outside as quickly as he might

And went to where he thought he’d be allied.

But as he knocked, and all the more he cried,

The faster would the doors shut one and all;

Himself, he knew, he’d thus come to misguide.

He went his way, no longer dared he call.

The people shouted, rumbling to and fro,

With his own ears he heard the cry they made:

“Where is this traitorous tyrant, this Nero?”

He went half crazy, he was so afraid,

As to his gods then pitifully he prayed

For help, though none would come. So terrified

That he felt on his bier already laid,

He ran into a garden, there to hide.

And in this garden he two fellows found

Who sat beside a bonfire great and red;

These churls he begged, he asked that they be bound

To slay him, that they then chop off his head,

That with his body, after he was dead,

Spite not be made because of his ill fame.

But Nero had to slay himself instead,

Upon which Fortune laughed as if in game.

HOLOFERNES

There was no other captain of a king

Who brought more kingdoms under subjugation,

None stronger in the field in everything

In his own time, of greater reputation,

Not one more arrogant in his high station,

Than Holofernes. Fortune kissed him to it

With wantonness, led him through every nation,

Until he lost his head before he knew it.

Not only did this world stand thus in awe

For fear of losing goods and liberty,

But he made every man renounce his law;

“Nebuchadnezzar is our god,” said he,

“No other god on earth shall worshipped be.”

Against him only one town made a case:

Bethulia, a strong community,

Eliachim the high priest of the place.

Take notice of how Holofernes died:

Amid his soldiers he lay drunk one night

Within his barnlike tent so large and wide;

And yet for all his pomp and all his might,

Judith, a woman (as he lay upright,

Asleep), cut off his head. Then from his tent

She stole, evading every soldier’s sight,

And with his head back to her town she went.

KING ANTIOCHUS THE ILLUSTRIOUS

What need to tell of King Antiochus,

Of all his high and royal majesty,

His lofty pride, his works so venomous?

Another such a one was not to be.

Go read of who he was in Maccabee,

Read there the words he spoke so full of pride,

And why he fell from high prosperity,

And on a hill how wretchedly he died.

Fortune had so ensconced him in his pride

That truly he believed he might attain

The very stars that shone on every side,

Weigh in the scales each mountain of the chain,

And every flood-tide of the sea constrain.

God’s people he especially would hate,

Brought death to them in torment and in pain,

Believing God might not his pride abate.

When Nicanor and Timotheus too

Had by the Jews been vanquished totally,

He had so great a hatred for the Jew

That he ordered his chariot to be

Prepared at once, and swore avengingly

That right away upon Jerusalem

He’d wreak his ire with utmost cruelty;

But his objective soon eluded him.

God for his threat so sorely had him smitten

With an internal wound that had no cure,

Inside his gut he felt so cut and bitten

That it was pain he hardly could endure.

This vengeance was a just one, to be sure,

For many a fellow’s gut had felt his blow;

But still, his evil purpose to secure,

He wouldn’t be deterred despite his woe,

He ordered armed immediately his host.

But then, before he knew it, God once more

Had moved against his pride and haughty boast:

He fell out of his chariot as it bore.

His skin and limbs the tumble scraped and tore

Till he could neither walk nor mount to ride;

Upon a chair men carried off the floor

He had to sit, bruised over back and side.

The wrath of God had smitten him so cruelly

That evil worms all through his body crept,

By cause of which he stank so horribly

That none within the household where he kept,

Whether he be awake or when he slept,

Could long endure his smell. In this abhorred

Condition, this mischance, he wailed and wept,

And knew of every creature God is Lord.

To all his host and to himself also

The way his carcass stank would sicken till

No one could even bear him to and fro.

And in this stink, this horrid painful ill,

He died a wretched death upon a hill.

And so this evil thief and homicide

Who caused so many others tears to spill

Has the reward that goes to those of pride.

ALEXANDER

The story of Alexander is so well known

That part if not the tale’s entirety

Has been heard once by everyone who’s grown.

This whole wide world, to speak with brevity,

He won by strength (or by celebrity,

As for him towns in peace would gladly send).

The pride of man and beast wherever he

Would go he toppled, to this world’s far end.

There’s no comparison that one can make,

Above all other conquerors he’d tower;

For all this world in dread of him would quake,

Of knighthood, of nobility the flower,

As Fortune made him heir to fame and power.

Save wine and women, nothing might arrest

His zeal, in arms and labor, to devour;

The courage of a lion filled his breast.

Would it add to his glory if I told

Of Darius and a hundred thousand more—

The kings, the princes, dukes and earls bold

Whom he fought and brought under heel in war?

As far as man had ever gone before

The world was his. What more need I recall?

Were I to write or tell you evermore

Of his knighthood, I couldn’t tell it all.

Twelve years, says Maccabees, he reigned, this son

Of Phillip of the Macedonian race,

As king of Greece, its first and greatest one.

O worthy Alexander, of noble grace,

Alas, such sad events as in your case!

By your own men poisoned, the six you threw

Has Fortune turned instead into an ace.

And yet she hasn’t shed one tear for you.

Who’ll give me tears sufficient to complain

Of nobleness’s death, of the demise

Of one who held the world as his domain

Yet thought it still not large enough in size,

His heart always so full of enterprise?

Alas! who now shall help me as I name

False Fortune and that poison I despise

As two things that for all this woe I blame?

JULIUS CAESAR

Through wisdom, manhood, and great labor’s throes,

From humble bed to royal majesty

This Julius as a conqueror arose.

For he won all the West by land and sea,

By strength of hand and by diplomacy,

And made each realm to Rome a tributary;

And then of Rome the emperor was he,

Till Fortune would become his adversary.

O mighty Caesar, who in Thessaly

Faced Pompey, your own father-in-law, who drew

About him in the East all chivalry

As far as where each day dawn breaks anew,

Through your knighthood that host you took and slew

(Except the few who then with Pompey fled),

The East thereby put in such awe of you.

Thank Fortune that so well you marched ahead!

Here I’ll bewail a little, if I might,

Pompey the Great, this noble governor

Of Rome who from the fray had taken flight.

One of his men, a false and traitorous cur,

Beheaded him that he might win the favor

Of Julius, who received the severed head.

Alas, Pompey the Eastern conqueror,

That to such end by Fortune you were led!

To Rome again repaired this Julius,

With laurel crowned, upon his victory.

Then came the time when Brutus Cassius,

Who envied Caesar’s high prosperity,

Began conspiring in full secrecy

Against his life. With subtlety he chose

The place of death, and planned that it should be

By way of daggers as I shall disclose.

This Julius to the Capitol one day

Had made his way, as frequently he chose;

There fell upon him then without delay

This traitor Brutus and his other foes,

Who with their daggers gave him several blows

And left him there to die when they were through.

He groaned at but one stroke for all his throes,

Or else at two, if all his tale is true.

This Julius Caesar was so manly hearted

And had such love for stately probity

That, even as his wounds so sorely smarted,

He drew his mantle over hip and knee,

So that his private parts no one could see;

As he lay in a daze, the deathly kind,

And knew that he was wounded mortally,

Thoughts of decorum still were in his mind.

Lucan, you’re one authority I’ll note,

Suetonius, Valerius also,

The story’s fully there in what you wrote

Of these two conquerors; to them we know

That Fortune first was friend and later foe.

No man can put trust in her favor long,

We must keep both eyes on her as we go;

These conquerors bear witness who were strong.

CROESUS

This wealthy Croesus, once the Lydian king

Whom even Persia’s Cyrus held in dread,

Was caught in pride until men said to bring

Him to the fire, and that’s where he was led.

But such a rain the clouds above then shed,

The fire was quenched and he was to escape.

This was a lesson, though, he left unread,

Till Fortune on the gallows made him gape.

When he escaped, the urge he couldn’t stem

To go and start a whole new war again.

And well he might, as Fortune sent to him

Such good luck that he’d made off through the rain

Before he by his foes could there be slain.

There also was a dream he dreamt one night

That made him feel so eager, proud, and vain,

On vengeance he set all his heart and might.

He was upon a tree, in dream he thought,

Where Jupiter bathed him down every side,

And Phoebus a fair towel to him brought

To dry himself. This added to his pride,

And of his daughter standing there beside

Him—she in whom, he knew, was to be found

Great insight—he asked what it signified,

And she at once his dream set to expound:

“The tree,” she said, “the gallows signifies,

And Jupiter betokens snow and rain,

And Phoebus, with his towel so clean, implies

Beams of the sun, as best I can explain.

By hanging, Father, surely you’ll be slain;

Washed by the rain, by sun you shall be dried.”

Such was the warning given, short and plain,

By Phania, his daughter at his side.

And hanged indeed was Croesus, that proud king,

His royal throne to him was no avail.

No tragedies may signify a thing,

There’s naught in song to cry out and bewail,

Except that Fortune always will assail

With sudden stroke the kingdom of the proud;

For when men trust her, that’s when she will fail

And cover her bright visage with a cloud.

Here the Knight stops the Monk in his tale

The Nun’s Priest’s Tale

“Whoa!” said the Knight, “good sir, that’s quite enough!

You’ve said what there’s to say about such stuff

And even more—a little of distress

Is quite enough for most folks, I would guess.

As for myself, it’s worse than a disease

To speak of those who had great wealth and ease,

Then hear about their sudden fall and grief.

The opposite is joy and great relief,

As when a man who is in poorest state

Climbs upward, Fortune lessening the weight,

Till he’s abiding in prosperity—

A thing for gladness, so it seems to me,

And of such things it would be good to tell.”

“Aye,” said our Host, “by Saint Paul and his bell,

You speak the truth. This Monk, he chatters loud.

He tells how Fortune covered with a cloud

I know not what, and, too, of tragedy,

As you have heard. It is no remedy

For one to be bewailing, to complain

That such and such is done. It’s all a pain,

Just as you say, to hear of such distress.

“Sir Monk, no more of this, God may you bless;

Your tale’s a nuisance, you annoy us by

Such talk, it isn’t worth a butterfly,

For in it we can find no sport or game.

And so, Sir Monk—or Sir Piers by your name—

I pray that something else you might expound.

But for your bells with all their clanging sound

(Those bells hung on your bridle), I confide,

By heaven’s King who for all of us died,

I would have fallen long ago asleep

Although the mire might be so ever deep;

Then would your tale have all been told in vain.

For certainly, as clerks can well explain,

If there’s a man who has no audience,

It doesn’t help if he makes any sense—

Yet I know well there’s sense enough in me

If anything’s reported sensibly.

Say something of your hunting, sir, I pray.”

“No,” said the Monk, “I’ve no desire to play.

Let’s have another tale, as I have told.”

Then spoke our Host, his speech both rude and bold,

Without delay to the Nun’s Priest. He said,

“Come forth, you priest—Sir John, now come ahead!

Tell something that will gladden us inside,

Be blissful, though a nag you have to ride.

So what if you’ve a horse both foul and lean?

If he will serve you, should you care a bean?

Be merry in your heart and always so.”

“Yes, sir,” said he, “yes, Host, so may I go,

If I’m not merry I know I’ll be blamed.”

To tell his tale at once the fellow aimed,

And here is what he said as he went on,

This gentle priest, this kindly man Sir John.

A widow who was rather old and poor

In a small cottage dwelt in days of yore,

Beside a grove that stood within a dale.

This widow whom I tell of in my tale

Had from the day that she was last a wife

In patience led a very simple life,

So little were her gain and property.

With what God gave her, though, she thriftily

Cared for her daughters and herself. Three cows

She had, no more, along with three big sows,

And but one sheep named Molly—that was all.

And sooty were the bedroom and the hall

In which she’d eaten many a scanty meal.

With pungent sauce she never had to deal.

No dainty morsel passed her throat, it’s not

A fancy diet found in such a cot,

So overeating never caused her qualm.

A temperate diet was her only balm,

With exercise and a contented heart;

The gout did not stop dancing on her part,

And apoplexy never hurt her head.

She had no wine to drink, nor white nor red,

Her board was mostly served with white and black

(Milk and brown bread, of which she found no lack),

Broiled bacon, and sometimes an egg or two.

Her work was much like dairywomen do.

She had a yard that was enclosed about

By paling and a dried up ditch without,

In which she had a cock named Chanticleer,

In all the realm of crowing without peer.

His voice was merrier than the play

Of the church’s organ each holy day.

And surer was his crowing than a clock

(Even that of the abbey), for this cock

By instinct knew each move of the equator

As it progressed, that none too soon nor later

But on the dot, fifteen degrees ascended,

He crowed the hour no clock so well attended.

His comb was finest coral red and tall,

And battlemented like a castle wall.

His bill was black and like the jet it glowed,

His legs and toes like azure when he strode.

His nails were whiter than the lilies bloom,

Like burnished gold the color of his plume.

This gentle cock commanded at his leisure

A flock of seven hens to do his pleasure,

His paramours and sisters, each of whom

Like him had wondrous coloring in her plume.

But she with fairest coloring on her throat

Was that one called fair damsel Pertelote;

Discreet and gentle, showing courtesy,

She was so gracious, such nice company,

Right from the day she was seven nights old,

That she had Chanticleer’s heart in her hold

Completely, as if under lock and key.

He loved her, that was his felicity.

And such a joy it was to hear them sing,

At morning when the sun would brightly spring,

In sweet accord, “My Love’s Gone Far Away.”

(For in those days, so I have heard men say,

The beasts and birds alike could speak and sing.)

It so befell, as day began to spring,

That Chanticleer was on his perch, with all

His seven wives there with him in the hall,

Beside him being fairest Pertelote,

When he began to groan down in his throat

As men in troubled dreams have done before.

And when fair Pertelote thus heard him roar,

She was aghast and said to him, “Dear heart,

What’s ailing you that makes this groaning start?

For shame, so sound a sleeper to complain!”

“My lady,” Chanticleer sought to explain,

“I pray, don’t take me wrong in my distress.

By God, I dreamt I was in such a mess

That even now my heart is full of fright.

May God,” he said, “help me divine it right

Lest into foul captivity I go.

I dreamt that I was roaming to and fro

Here in our yard when I espied a beast

Much like a hound, who would have at the least

Laid hold of me and left me cold and dead.

His color was betwixt yellow and red;

His tail as well as both his ears had hair

With tips of black, unlike his coat elsewhere.

His snout was small, a glow was in each eye.

Still of that look I fear that I could die,

And this has caused my groaning, there’s no doubt.”

“Oh fie,” she said, “faint-hearted you’ve turned out!

Alas,” said she, “for by the Lord above,

Now you have lost my heart and all my love.

I cannot love a coward, there’s no way!

For certainly, whatever women say,

We all desire, if heaven let it be,

Wise, hardy men of generosity,

Husbands discreet—not niggards, fools aghast,

Afraid of every weapon that comes past,

Nor haughty boasters. By that God above,

How dare you say, for shame, to your true love

That anything can make you so afeard!

Have you no manly heart to match your beard?

Alas! can you be so afraid of dreams?

Illusion’s all it is, not what it seems.

Such dreams from overeating come to pass,

Or else from humors (if not simply gas)

When they get too abundant as they might.

For sure this dream that you have had tonight

Resulted from there being great excess

In your red bile—the very thing, God bless,

That makes folks when they’re dreaming have such dread

Of arrows or of fire that’s flaming red,

Of red beasts that pursue to bite and maul,

Of strife and of fierce dogs both great and small;

Like melancholy’s humor comes about

To make so many sleeping men cry out

For fear of big black bears, and bulls to boot,

Or else black devils that are in pursuit.

Of other humors I could tell also

That torture many a sleeping man with woe,

But I will pass as lightly as I can.

“Look at Cato, who was so wise a man:

Did he not say to ‘pay no mind to dreams’?

Now, sire,” she said, “when we fly from the beams,

For love of God please take a laxative.

On peril of my soul, as I may live,

This counsel is the best, I will not lie:

Of choler and of melancholy hie

To purge yourself. And there’s no need to tarry

Though in this town there’s no apothecary,

For I myself will teach you of the herbs

That aid your health when choler so disturbs;

And in our yard these very herbs I’ll find,

And these will by their property and kind

Purge you beneath as well as purge above.

For this do not forget, for God’s own love:

You have a very choleric temperament.

Beware unless the sun in its ascent

Should find you with hot humors so intense;

For if it does, then I would bet a fourpence

You’ll have a tertian fever or an ague,

And either one could be a bane to you.

A day or two you’ll have some worm digestives,

Then after that you’ll take your laxatives—

Some laurel, fumitory, centaury,

Or hellebore, that grows here as you see;

Or else the caper and the dogwood berry,

Or ivy growing in our yard so merry.

Go pick them where they grow and take them in.

Be merry, husband, by your father’s kin,

And do not dread a dream. I say no more.”

“Madam,” said he, “I thank you for your lore.

But nonetheless, concerning Master Cato

(So much renowned for all his wisdom, though

He said that dreams are not a thing to dread),

By God, in many old books it is read

That many a man of more authority

Than ever Cato was—or woe is me—

Says the exact reverse of Cato’s sentence,

And has discovered by experience

That dreams have often been significations

Of joy as well as tribulations

That folks endure as this life may present.

Of this there is no need for argument,

Experience is proof enough indeed.

“One of the greatest authors men may read

Says once upon a time two fellows went

Upon a pilgrimage with good intent,

And came upon a town wherein they found

Such people congregated all around

That there was lack of lodging. Up and down

They couldn’t find one cottage in the town

In which they both might be accommodated.

And so it was, as circumstance dictated,

That for the night they parted company

And each of them sought his own hostelry

And took his lodging as it might befall.

So one of them was lodged inside a stall

In a barnyard with oxen of the plow;

The other one lodged well enough somehow,

Whether it was by fate or by the fortune

That governs each of us in equal portion.

“It so befell that long before the day,

This man dreamt in his bed there as he lay

That he could hear his friend begin to call,

Saying, ‘Alas! for in an ox’s stall

Tonight I will be murdered where I lie.

Dear brother, come and help me or I die.

Come here,’ said he, ‘as quickly as you can!’

Out of his sleep with fright uprose the man;

But once awake, he was not overwrought

And lay back down without a further thought—

He felt such dreams were only fantasy.

Twice in his sleep this vision came to be,

And then he thought his friend had come again

For yet a third time, saying, ‘I am slain!

Behold my bloody wounds so wide and deep!

Rise early in the morning from your sleep

And at the west gate of the town,’ said he,

‘A cart that’s full of dung there you shall see,

In which my hidden body is contained.

Now boldly see that this cart be detained.

They murdered me, in truth, to get my gold.’

Then each detail of how he died he told

With such a piteous face, so pale of hue.

And you can trust he found the dream was true;

For in the morning, at the break of day,

To his friend’s lodging place he took his way;

And when he came upon the ox’s stall

For his companion he began to call.

“Here’s what at once he heard the hosteler

Reply: ‘Your friend is gone. The fellow, sir,

Went out of town as soon as it was day.’

The man became suspicious right away,

Recalling what he dreamt. He didn’t wait

A minute more, but to the western gate

Out of the town he went, and saw at hand

A dung cart headed out to dung some land

(At least it so appeared), and its array

Was just as you have heard the dead man say.

Then he began to cry out heartily

For justice to avenge this felony:

‘My friend last night was murdered, here to lie

Flat on his back inside this cart! I cry

Out to you ministries, all you,’ said he,

‘Who in this town are in authority,

For help! Alas, my friend is lying slain!’

What more about the tale need I explain?

The people cast the cart then to the ground,

And in the midst of all the dung they found

The dead man who so lately had been slain.

“O blessed God, so just and true, again

As always murder is revealed by thee!

Murder will out, as day by day we see;

It’s loathsome and abominable to God,

Who, just and reasonable, spares not the rod,

Will not allow that murder hidden be.

Though it abide a year, or two or three,

Murder will out, that’s all I have to say.

The officials of the town without delay

Commanded that the carter then be racked;

The hosteler was tortured, too, in fact,

And soon they both confessed to their misdeed,

And hanging by the neck was then decreed.

“Here men may see that dreams are things to dread.

And truthfully in that same book I read,

In the very next chapter after this

(I speak the truth, or banish me from bliss),

Of two who would have sailed the ocean for

A certain cause upon some foreign shore,

Had not the wind developed so contrary

That in a city they were forced to tarry—

A merry city on the harborside.

But then one day, when it was eventide,

The wind began to change to suit them best;

Jolly and glad the two went to their rest,

That early they might sail when day began.

But then great marvel fell upon one man;

It happened as he slept, for as he lay

He dreamt a wondrous thing toward the day.

He thought a man was standing at his side,

One who commanded that he should abide.

‘Tomorrow if you sail as you intend,

You shall be drowned. My tale is at an end.’

He woke and told his friend the dream and prayed

That he’d agree his voyage be delayed.

One day, at least, he begged him to abide.

His friend, though, from his bed nearby his side

Began to laugh, and scorn upon him cast.

‘No dream,’ said he, ‘makes my heart so aghast

That I’ll delay to do as best it seems.

I do not give a straw for all your dreams.

For dreams are just illusions, only japes.

Men always dream of owls or else of apes,

Of things amazing to absurd degree,

Things that have not, and will not, come to be.

But as I see that here you will abide,

Thereby forsaking willfully the tide,

God knows I’m sorry and I say “Good day.”’

And so he took his leave and went his way.

But half his course the fellow hadn’t sailed

When—I don’t know by what mischance it failed—

Quite suddenly the vessel’s bottom rent

And ship and man beneath the waters went,

In sight of other ships that were beside,

That sailed with him upon that very tide.

And so, my dear and fairest Pertelote,

Of old examples such as this take note.

No man should act so carelessly about

His dreams. I say to you without a doubt

That many a dream is one to sorely dread.

“Look, in the life of Saint Kenelm I’ve read

(His father was Kenulphus, noble king

Of Mercia) how he dreamt a dreadful thing

A little before his death. Upon that day

He dreamt about his murder. Right away

His nurse explained it in detail, and she

Then bade him guard himself from treachery.

But as he was but seven years of age,

He put too little stock in dreams to gauge

One of them right, so holy was his heart.

By God, I’d give my shirt if, for your part,

You would have read this legend as have I!

“Dame Pertelote, I’m telling you no lie.

Macrobius says a dream came long ago

In Africa to worthy Scipio

That was affirmed, and says that dreams can mean

A warning of things men have later seen.

And furthermore, I pray you take a look

In the Old Testament. Look in the Book

Of Daniel—were his dreams all vanity?

Or read of Joseph and there you will see

That dreams are sometimes (I don’t say they’re all)

A warning of things that later befall.

Look at the king of Egypt, mighty Pharoah,

His baker and his butler—did they know

Nothing of dreams’ effects? Whoever traces

Through history the events of sundry places

May read of visions many a wondrous thing.

Did Croesus, when he was the Lydian king,

Not dream that he was sitting on a tree,

Which signified that hanged he was to be?

Look at Andromache, young Hector’s wife:

The day that Hector was to lose his life,

She had a dream that day before the dawn

Of how his life was to be lost if on

That morning he should go into the fray.

She warned him but to no avail; that day

He still went forth to fight the foe again,

And promptly by Achilles he was slain.

But that’s a story much too long to tell;

It’s almost day, on such I cannot dwell.

For my conclusion I will simply say

That from this vision I shall have someway

Adversity. And I say furthermore

That in these laxatives I put no store—

They’re venomous, I’m well aware of it.

Fie on them, for I like them not a bit!

“Now let us speak of mirth, no more of this.

Dame Pertelote, if ever I have bliss,

One thing God’s given me with special grace;

For when I see the beauty of your face,

The scarlet red you have about your eyes,

It makes my dread all wither and it dies,

As certainly as In principio,

Mulier est hominis confusio—

Madam, the meaning of this Latin is

‘A woman is man’s joy and all his bliss.’

For when I feel at nighttime your soft side

(Although, alas, upon you I can’t ride,

Because our perch is built so narrowly),

Such joy and comfort swell inside of me

That I defy nightmare as well as dream.”

And with that word he flew down from the beam,

For it was day. His hens flew to the ground,

And with a “chuck” he called them, for he found

That in the yard a bit of kernel lay.

Royal he was, his fear had gone away.

Dame Pertelote was feathered by this cock

And trodden twenty times ere nine o’clock.

Then, with a grim look like a lion’s frown,

Upon his toes he wandered up and down,

Not deigning to set foot upon the ground.

He chucked each time another corn he found,

And all his wives came running to his call.

Thus royal as a prince within his hall

I leave this Chanticleer there in his yard.

To his adventure next I’ll give regard.

Now when the month in which the world began

(The month of March, when God created man)

Was over and indeed had been exceeded

(The days were thirty-two that were completed),

It happened that this cock in all his pride,

His seven wives all walking by his side,

Cast eyes up to the brightly shining sun

That in the sign of Taurus then had run

Some twenty-one degrees and even more.

He knew by nature and no other lore

That it was nine, and blissfully he crew.

“The sun,” he said, “has climbed the heavens through

More than forty and one degrees, no less.

Now Madam Pertelote, my happiness

On earth, hear how these blissful birds all sing,

And see the newborn flowers, how they spring;

My heart is full of solace, revelry!”

But sad fate then befell him suddenly;

The latter end of joy is always woe.

God knows how worldly joy will quickly go;

A rhetorician who can well indite

Might safely in his chronicle so write,

For it’s a royal notability.

Let every wise man listen now to me——

This story is as true, I undertake,

As the book of Lancelot of the Lake

That women hold so much in great esteem.

And so I’ll turn again now to my theme.

A black-marked fox, iniquitous and sly,

Who’d lived for three years in the grove nearby

(By heaven’s high design right from the first),

That very night had through the hedges burst

Into the yard where Chanticleer the Fair

And all his wives were accustomed to repair.

There in a bed of cabbages he lay

Completely still till well into the day,

Waiting his time on Chanticleer to fall,

As gladly do homicides one and all

Who wait to ambush and to murder men.

O false murderer, lurking in your den!

O new Iscariot, new Ganelon!

O false dissembler, like the Greek Sinon

Who brought the Trojans sorrow so severe!

A curse upon that day, O Chanticleer,

When to that yard you flew down from the beams!

Full warning you were given by your dreams,

That very day would bring adversity.

But that which God foreknows is what must be,

Or so, at least, some learned men contest.

As any worthy scholar will attest,

In schools there is a lot of altercation

About the matter, mighty disputation

(A hundred thousand men are in the rift).

In this the grain from chaff I cannot sift

As can the holy doctor Augustine,

Boethius, or Bishop Bradwardine,

Whether God’s knowing what our futures bring

Constrains me so that I must do a thing

(By which I mean simple necessity),

Or whether there’s free choice granted me

To do the thing or not (though there is naught

That God does not foreknow before it’s wrought),

Or if his knowing constrains not one degree

Beyond conditional necessity.

But I will have no part of such debate;

My tale is of a cock, as I’ll relate,

Who took his wife’s advice, to his dismay,

And walked within the yard that very day

Despite what he had dreamt, as I have told.

How often women’s counsels prove so cold;

A woman’s counsel brought us first to woe,

From Paradise poor Adam had to go,

From where he’d been so merry and at ease.

But as I don’t know whom it might displease

If I should give to women’s counsel blame,

Please let it pass, I’m only making game.

Read authors where such stuff is their concern,

And what they say of women you may learn.

These words have been a cock’s, they are not mine;

No harm in any woman I divine.

Sunbathing in the sand, fair Pertelote

Lay blithely by her sisters, while the throat

Of Chanticleer made song as merrily

As that of any mermaid in the sea.

(The Physiologus, with truth to tell,

Says mermaids sing both merrily and well.)

It so befell that as he cast his eye

On the cabbage bed, to catch a butterfly,

He caught sight of the fox there lying low.

He didn’t have the least desire to crow—

He cried at once “Cock, cock!” with quite a start,

As any man fear-stricken in his heart.

By instinct every beast desires to flee

When he has seen his natural enemy,

Though never laying eyes on him before.

This Chanticleer would not have tarried more

Once he espied the fox, had not the latter

Said, “Gentle sir, alas! what is the matter?

I am your friend—are you afraid of me?

I’d be worse than a fiend, most certainly,

To do you harm. And please don’t think that I

Come here upon your privacy to spy;

The reason that I’ve come is not a thing

Except that I might listen to you sing.

For truly you’ve a voice as merry, sire,

As any angel’s up in heaven’s choir.

Because of this, in music you’ve more feeling

Than had Boethius, or all who sing.

My lord, your father (his soul blessed be)

And mother (she of such gentility)

Have both been in my house, to my great pleasure.

To have you, sir, I’d love in equal measure.

For when men speak of singing, I must say—

As may my eyes see well the light of day—

Till you, I never heard a mortal sing

As did your father when the day would spring.

And all he sang was surely from the heart;

That more strength to his voice he might impart,

He used to strain himself until his eyes

He’d have to blink, so loud were all his cries;

And he would have to stand up straight on tiptoe

And stretch his neck as far as it would go.

And he was one of such discretion, sire,

No man was to be found in any shire

Who could in song and wisdom him surpass.

I’ve read the story Sir Burnel the Ass,

Wherein it’s said that there was once a cock

Who from a priest’s son suffered quite a knock

Upon his leg (a foolish lad’s caprice),

For which he made him lose his benefice.

But there is no comparing to be based

Upon your father’s wisdom, his good taste,

And a wounded cock’s avenging subtlety.

Now, sir, please sing, for holy charity;

Let’s see how well your father you repeat.”

Then Chanticleer his wings began to beat,

As one who’d been betrayed but couldn’t see,

So ravished was he by such flattery.

Alas! my lords, there are within your courts

False flatterers and other lying sorts

Who please you, by my faith, more than the man

Who speaks to you the truth as best he can.

In Ecclesiastes read of flattery;

Beware, my lords, of all their treachery.

This Chanticleer stood high upon his toes;

Stretching his neck, he let his two eyes close

And loudly he began to crow. Apace

The fox Sir Russell sprang out from his place

And by the throat grabbed Chanticleer. He bore

Him on his back toward the woodland, for

The fox as yet by no one was pursued.

O Destiny, you cannot be eschewed!

Alas, that Chanticleer flew from the beams!

Alas, his wife did not believe in dreams!

And on a Friday fell all this distress.

O Venus, goddess of all pleasantness,

Since servant you have had in Chanticleer,

Who used his powers in your service here

More for delight than world to multiply,

Why would you suffer him this day to die?

O Geoffrey, sovereign master, when was shot

And slain your worthy Richard, did you not

Complain so sorely of his death? O would

I had your gift and lore, so that I could

Chide Friday as you did! (For it was on

A Friday Richard died, as is well known.)

Then I would show you how I could complain

For Chanticleer, for all his fear and pain.

Surely not such a cry or lamentation

Did ladies make at Troy’s devastation—

When Pyrrhus seized King Priam by the beard

And with his straight, unsparing sword then speared

And slew him (so relates the Aeneid’s bard)—

As made all of the hens there in the yard

When they had seen the plight of Chanticleer.

Shrieked Pertelote so loudly all could hear,

More loudly than did King Hasdrubal’s wife

When her husband at Carthage lost his life

And Romans made the town a conflagration.

(So filled with torment and with indignation,

The queen jumped willfully into the fire

And burnt to death, as death was her desire.)

O woeful hens, your crying is the same

As when by Nero Rome was set aflame

And tears were shed by senators’ wives

Because their husbands all then lost their lives.

(They had no guilt but Nero had them slain.)

Now to my tale I will return again.

This simple widow and her daughters heard

The woeful crying of the hens. They stirred

Themselves at once, leapt up and ran outside;

The fox toward the grove they then espied,

Bearing away the cock upon his back.

They cried out “Help!” and “Mercy!” and “Alack!

Hey, hey, the fox!” And after him they ran,

And joining in with staves came many a man,

And our dog Collie, Talbot too, and Garland,

And Malkin with a distaff in her hand.

Ran cow and calf and even all the hogs,

So frightened by the barking of the dogs

And shouting of each woman, every man.

They thought their hearts would burst, so hard they ran.

They yelled like fiends in hell, such was the cry;

The ducks all quacked as if about to die;

The geese in fear flew up above the trees;

Out of the hive there came a swarm of bees.

God knows, the noise was hideous and loud!

I’m certain that Jack Straw and all his crowd

Did not produce a shouting half as shrill

(When they had found a Fleming they could kill)

As all the noise directed at the fox.

They brought out trumpets made of brass and box,

Of horns and bone, on which they blew and tooted;

They also shrieked, they whooped as well as hooted,

Until it seemed that heaven itself would fall.

Good men, I pray, please listen one and all,

For see how Fortune upsets suddenly

The hope and pride now of her enemy!

This cock, who on the fox’s back still lay,

Despite his fear said to the fox, “I say,

What I would do, my lord, if I were you,

So help me God, is tell those who pursue,

‘Turn back, you fools, you haughty churls all,

And may a pestilence upon you fall!

For now that I have reached the woodland’s side,

In spite of you this cock shall here abide—

I’ll eat him up right now in front of you!’”

The fox replied, “In faith, that’s what I’ll do.”

But as he spoke those words, without a pause

The cock broke nimbly from the fox’s jaws

And immediately flew high up in a tree.

And when the fox had seen his captive flee,

“Alas,” he said, “O Chanticleer, alas!

Against you I am guilty of trespass.

I made you fear what it was all about,

To grab you in the yard and bring you out.

But, sir, I did it with no ill intent.

Come down, and I will tell you what I meant—

The truth, so help me God! You have my oath.”

“Nay,” said the cock, “a curse upon us both.

And first I curse myself, by blood and bone,

If more than once I let you lead me on.

You shall no more, with words so flattering,

Inveigle me to close my eyes and sing.

For him who wills to blink when he should see,

God never let there be prosperity!”

“No,” said the fox, “but God bring to defeat

One whose demeanor is so indiscreet

That when he ought to hold his peace he chatters.”

Lo, such it is to trust in one who flatters,

Be negligent, and act so carelessly.

But you who judge this tale frivolity

(As it’s about a fox, or cock and hen),

Take seriously the moral, gentlemen.

For all that has been written, says Saint Paul,

Is written so that we might learn it all.

So take the fruit and let the chaff be still.

Now, gracious God, if it should be thy will,

As says my lord, make all of us good men

And bring us to high heaven’s bliss! Amen.

The Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale

PROLOGUE

When the previous tale was finished, we

Had ridden less than five miles—we would be

At Boughton under Blean—when from the back

A fellow overtook us clothed in black,

Though white his surplice underneath. He rode

A hackney, dappled gray, with such a load

Of sweat it was astonishing to see;

He must have ridden hard, two miles or three.

His Yeoman’s horse as well was sweating so

It looked like it could scarcely even go.

The harness round its breast was soaking wet;

A magpie it appeared, such spots of sweat.

One doubled bag upon its crupper lay,

So he’d brought little clothing, safe to say.

This worthy man, dressed light for summer’s start,

Made me begin to wonder in my heart

What he might be, until I understood

The way in which his cloak was sewn to hood,

And thinking on it finally came to see

That some sort of a Canon he must be.

His hat hung at his back, kept by a knot,

For he had ridden more than at a trot—

He’d spurred, in fact, as if a fellow mad.

A burdock leaf beneath his hood he had

To fight the sweat and cool his head. And yet

It was a joy to see the fellow sweat!

His forehead dripped just like a still will do,

One filled with plantain, pellitory too.

When he’d caught up with us, then bellowed he,

“May God preserve this jolly company!

I’ve ridden hard and for no other sake

Than that you people I might overtake,

To ride with such a merry company.”

His Yeoman, too, was full of courtesy,

And said, “I saw you, sirs, at early day

As from your hostelry you rode away.

I warned my lord and master here, as he

Would eagerly enjoy your company

While riding, for he likes to joke and play.”

“God bless you, friend, for warning him that way!”

Then said our Host. “For surely I surmise,

As far as I can judge, your lord is wise.

He’s jolly, too, I’d wager that it’s true!

Can he relate a merry tale or two

To gladden all this company as well?”

“Who, sirs? My lord? Indeed, no lie I tell,

Of merriment and all such jollity

He knows more than enough. And, trust in me,

If you knew him as well as I do now,

You’d marvel at his cunning, wonder how

His work in many ways can be so clever.

He’s undertaken many a great endeavor

That any here would find too hard for them

To bring about, unless they learnt from him.

As humbly as he rides here, if you got

To know him it would profit you a lot;

Then his acquaintance you’d not trade away

For quite a tidy sum—-on that I’d lay

My money down, all that’s in my possession.

I warn you, he’s a man of high discretion,

One as surpassing as has ever been.”

“Well,” said our Host, “I pray you’ll tell us, then,

Is he a cleric? Say what he may be.”

“Nay, greater than a cleric, certainly,”

This Yeoman said. “In words, Host, that are few

I’ll tell you something of what he can do.

“I say, he knows such arts of subtlety—

But you won’t learn of all his craft from me,

Though in his work I sometimes help him still—

That all this ground on which we ride, until

We’ve gone from here to Canterbury town,

My lord could turn completely upside down

And pave it all with silver and with gold.”

And when this Yeoman had this story told,

Our Host responded, “Benedicite!

This thing’s a marvel—what more can I say?—

To see the way your lord, so wise and clever

That all men should respect him, should, however,

Pay little mind to his own dignity.

The coat he’s wearing isn’t worth a flea

And shouldn’t be by such a fellow worn.

As I may walk, it’s filthy and it’s torn!

Pray tell me why so sloppily he goes.

Can’t he afford to buy some better clothes

If his deeds match your words? Now tell me more,

Explain this matter to me, I implore.”

“Why?” said the Yeoman. “Why ask that of me?

God help me, he’ll find no prosperity!

(I wouldn’t want to swear to what I say,

So keep it as a secret, sir, I pray.)

I think that he’s too wise for his own good;

What’s overdone won’t turn out as it should,

For it is then a vice, clerks rightly say.

I think he’s dumb and foolish in that way.

For when a fellow has too great a wit,

It often happens he misuses it;

So does my lord, for which my grief is sore.

May God amend it! I can’t tell you more.”

“No matter, my good Yeoman,” said our Host.

“But since about his art you know the most,

Tell how he does it, I sincerely pray,

Since he’s as sly and crafty as you say.

Where do you dwell, if that you may confide?”

“In the outskirts of a city,” he replied.

“In corners and blind alleyways we lurk

Where all your thieves by nature do their work,

Reside in secrecy and fear, from where

They dare not show their faces. So we fare,

If I should speak the truth, my lord and I.”

“Now,” said our Host, “permit me asking why

You’ve such discoloration in your face.”

“Saint Peter,” he replied, “it’s a disgrace!

I’m so accustomed on the fire to blow

I think my whole complexion’s changed, although

I don’t go looking into mirrors—I

Stay hard at work, to learn to multiply.

We blunder right along, stare in the fire,

And for all that we fail in our desire,

We never have results when we conclude.

A lot of folks, however, we delude

And borrow gold—be it a pound or so,

Or ten or twelve, as high as we can go—

And make them think, at least, that we can take

A pound of gold and two pounds from it make.

It’s false, but still we always have good hope

It can be done, and after it we grope.

But it’s a science that’s so far ahead

That though we vow, no matter what is said,

It can’t be caught, it slips away so fast,

And it will make us beggars at the last.”

Now while this Yeoman said this, there drew near

His lord the Canon, close enough to hear

All that was said. For always when he’d see

Men talking, he’d react suspiciously;

As Cato says, “The guilty without doubt

Will alway think he’s being talked about.”

That’s why he drew so near him, that he may

Hear everything the Yeoman had to say.

Here’s what he told his Yeoman when he’d heard:

“Now hold your tongue, don’t speak another word,

For if you do you’ll dearly pay! For me

You slander here before this company,

And tell things, too, that you should keep concealed.”

“Tell,” said our Host, “no matter what’s revealed!

His threats aren’t worth a mite, don’t give ’em store.”

“In faith,” said he, “I don’t much anymore.”

And when this Canon saw no other way—

His Yeoman would his secrets give away—

He turned and fled in sorrow and in shame.

“Ah,” said the Yeoman, “now for fun and game!

All that I know I’ll tell you on the level.

He’s gone, and may he run into the devil!

For henceforth I will never meet him now,

For penny or for pound, and that’s a vow.

Before he dies may he be brought to shame

And grief for dragging me into his game!

For by my faith, it’s been hard work and tough;

Say what you will, I feel it well enough,

And yet for all my pain and all my grief,

My woe and labor, trial without relief,

To leave it I could never find a way.

I wish to God I’d wits enough today

To tell you all that figures in that art!

But nonetheless at least I’ll tell you part.

And since my lord is gone, I’ll nothing spare;

Such things as those I know I will declare.”

PART I

Though with this Canon I’ve dwelt seven years,

For all his science I’m still in arrears;

For everything I had I’ve lost thereby,

And, God knows, so have many more than I.

Though fresh and bright I once was wont to be

In clothing and in other finery,

Now I must wear a stocking on my head.

And though my color once was healthy red,

It now is wan and has a leaden hue—

Whoever tries this art will sorely rue!—

My eyes so bleared they still can hardly see.

Lo, what advantage lies in alchemy!

That slippery science has so stripped me bare

That I have nothing, here or anywhere;

And I’m still so indebted by the gold

That I have borrowed—let the truth be told—

That while I live I can’t repay it ever.

Let every man be warned by me forever!

Whoso takes up this science, for my part,

If he persists, is done in from the start.

So help me God, there’s nothing he can gain

Except an empty purse and addled brain.

And when he by his crazy foolishness

Has lost his goods through all this risky mess,

He then entices others with their pelf

To lose it all as he has done himself.

For rascals find their comfort and delight

In seeing fellow men in pain and blight—

Or so a scholar taught me once. But out

With that, for it’s our work I’ll tell about.

When in the place where we’re to exercise

Our elvish craft, we seem to be so wise,

The terms we use so technical and quaint.

I blow the fire until my heart is faint.

Why should I tell you the exact proportions

Of things we work with, measured out in portions—

Five ounces, maybe six (all which would be

Of silver), or some other quantity?

And why should all the names be duly stated

Of arsenic, burnt bones, iron fragmentated

And ground to finest powder? Why recall

How in an earthen pot we put it all,

How we put salt into it, paper too,

Before the powders as I’ve said to you,

How with a plate of glass the pot is covered,

With other things such as may be discovered?

Why tell how we will seal both pot and glass

So that no bit of air might ever pass,

And of the fires—some warm and others hot—

And of the care and woe that is our lot

In trying as we do to sublimate,

Which is to calcine or amalgamate

Quicksilver (also called crude mercury)?

Results from all these tricks we never see.

Our arsenic, our mercury sublimate,

Lead oxide ground on porphyry (the weight

Of each of these to certain ounces brought)—

None of it helps, our labor is for naught.

Nor rising gases that evaporate

Nor all the matter left in solid state

Can in our work be of the least avail;

We’ve wasted all our labor and travail,

And all that we’ve spent on it, for our cost,

By twenty devils, is all money lost.

Now there are many other things as well

Pertaining to our craft that I can tell.

I can’t say in what order they should fall,

For I am not a learned man at all,

But I’ll relate them as they come to mind,

Though not arranged according to their kind:

Armenian clay, borax and verdigris,

And vessels made of glass and earth; with these,

Our urinals, retorts for distillation,

Assaying vessels, flasks for sublimation,

Our vials and our alembics—all such stuff

As that, all of it costing quite enough.

There is no need for me to list them all—

Like waters used for reddening, bull’s gall,

Arsenic, brimstone, sal ammoniac;

Of herbs, too, I could tell without a slack,

Herbs like valerian or like moonwort

Or agrimony. I could long report

On how our lamps keep burning day and night,

Our purpose to accomplish, if we might;

Or of our furnaces for calcining,

Of water that we use for whitening;

Chalk, unslaked lime, egg white, a whole array

Of powders, ashes, droppings, piss, and clay,

Wax-coated bags, saltpeter, vitriol,

And various kinds of fires from wood and coal;

Some salt of tartar, table salt, potash,

Stuff burnt, congealed; of clay made with a dash

Of horse’s hair (or else the human sort);

Rock alum, yeast, some tartar oil and wort,

Ratsbane and argol; other things we use

That will absorb, and things that interfuse;

Our work with silver, too, its citronation,

And our cementing and our fermentation;

Our ingots, crucibles, and so much more.

I’ll teach you now, as I’ve been taught before,

The seven bodies and four spirits, all

In order as I’ve often heard him call.

For the first spirit, quicksilver’s the word;

The second, arsenic; of course, the third

Is sal ammoniac; the fourth, brimstone.

The seven bodies? Listen how they’re known:

Gold’s Sol and silver’s Luna, so say we,

And iron is Mars, quicksilver Mercury,

While lead is Saturn, Jupiter is tin,

And Venus copper, by my father’s kin!

But by this curséd craft no man alive

Can gain enough out of it to survive;

For all he spends to bring such things about

Is money lost, of that I’ve not a doubt.

Come forth, if it’s a fool you’d like to be,

And learn about the art of alchemy;

If you have money, then step forward, sir,

And you too can become philosopher.

You think it’s knowledge easy to acquire?

Nay, nay, God knows! Be he a monk or friar,

A canon, priest, or any we might say,

Though he sit at his books both night and day

To learn this elvish and this foolish lore,

It’s all in vain—God knows, it’s even more!

To teach an ignorant man this subtlety—

O fie! don’t speak of such, it cannot be!

For whether he’s a learned man or not,

Both kinds will find they share a common lot;

For both will in the end, by my salvation,

Find in this art of multiplication

The very same result for their travail;

That is, in what they try they both will fail.

Yet I forgot to mention these to you:

Corrosive waters, metal filings too,

The softening of substances, as well

As how to make them hard; I didn’t tell

Of oils, ablutions, metals we can fuse—

It’s more than any book you can peruse,

No matter where. And so it’s for the best

That I don’t bother naming all the rest.

I think already I’ve told you enough

To raise a devil looking mighty rough.

Aye, let it be! The philosophers’ stone,

Elixir called, we search for on and on,

For if we had it we’d be safe and sound.

I swear to God who’s up in heaven found,

For all our craft and all our tricky gear,

When we are finished, it still won’t appear.

It’s made us spend much money, which is sad—

Indeed for sorrow we’ve gone nearly mad.

But that good hope still creeps into our heart;

We keep supposing, though we ache and smart,

That in the end we’ll find it, have relief.

But that’s a nagging hope, a hard belief;

I warn you well, the search is never-ending.

That hoped-for time has led men into spending,

Who trusted in it, all they ever had.

And yet it’s never made them really sad,

For it’s an art that’s to them bittersweet,

Or so it seems—if they had but a sheet

With which they could enwrap themselves at night,

One ragged coat to walk in by daylight,

They’d sell them, that in this they might persist;

Till everything is gone they can’t desist.

And they are marked wherever they have gone,

For by the smell of brimstone they are known.

They stink, for all the world, just like a goat;

It’s such a strong and rammish smell to note

That though a fellow be a mile away

He’ll be infected by it, safe to say.

So if you wish, by smell and threadbare clothes

An alchemist you’ll know each place he goes.

And if someone should ask him privately

The reason why he’s clothed so raggedly,

At once he’ll whisper in the fellow’s ear,

“If they knew who I am, these people here,

To slay me for my science they’d assent.”

See how these folks take in the innocent!

But let’s pass on now to the tale I’ve got.

Before upon the fire we put the pot,

My lord will add thereto a certain weight

Of metals—he and no one else (I’ll state

This openly, now that the fellow’s gone)—

For as a crafty man he’s surely known.

I know at least that he’s had such a name,

Yet he can seldom live up to his fame.

Do you know why? In frequent episodes

It bids us all goodbye, the pot explodes!

These metals have such volatility

That our walls are not strong enough to be

Resistant unless made of lime or stone;

These metals pierce, right through the walls they hone

Or some go plunging right into the ground

(That way we’ve often lost more than a pound),

Across the floor some others scatter out,

Some shoot right through the roof. Without a doubt,

Although the devil never shows his face,

He must be right there with us in the place!

In hell itself where he is lord and sire

There couldn’t be more turbulence and ire.

For when our pot explodes, as I have told,

Each man in his chagrin will start to scold.

One blames it on the way the fire was built,

A second claims the blower bears the guilt—

Since I’m the blower, I get scared at once.

“Straw!” says the third, “you’re everyone a dunce.

The whole thing wasn’t mixed right anyhow.”

“Nay,” says the fourth, “shut up and listen now.

We didn’t burn beech wood and that’s the story,

No other cause, if I may go to glory!”

For me, I can’t say why it went so wrong,

But well I know we argue hard and long.

“Well,” says my lord, “it can’t be helped for now;

Next time I’ll be more wary. Anyhow

I’m sure the pot was cracked. Be as it may,

Don’t take it all in so confused a way.

Get busy and as usual sweep the floor;

Take heart, be glad and cheerful as before.”

The rubbish then is swept into a mound,

Then canvas on the floor is spread around,

And as this trash is thrown into a sieve

We sift and poke with all we have to give.

“By God,” says one, “there’s still some metal here,

Though we don’t have it all. It would appear

That even though this went awry somehow,

The next time may go better. We must now

Invest our goods in this. Upon my creed,

There’s never been a merchant guaranteed

Success in every venture, trust in me.

Sometimes his goods are lost upon the sea,

And sometimes they’re transported safe to land.”

“Peace!” says my lord. “Next time I’ll have in hand

The way to bring our craft more to its aim,

And if I don’t, sirs, give me all the blame.

There was a fault somewhere, that much is known.”

Another says the fire too hot had grown;

But be it hot or cold, I dare to say

That in our quest we never find the way.

We always fail to reach our aspiration

And madly rage in our exasperation.

And when we’re there together, everyone

Among us seems to be a Solomon.

But everything that glitters is not gold,

As often I have heard the saying told;

Not every apple pleasing to the eye

Is good, though men may praise it to the sky.

That’s how it is with me, right by the rule:

Who seems the wisest is the biggest fool,

By Jesus! When it comes time for belief,

Who seems the truest is the biggest thief.

That much you’ll know before I part from you;

You’ll know it by the time my tale is through.

PART II

Among us a religious canon goes

Who could infect a whole town if he chose

Though great as Rome and Troy and Nineveh,

Another three plus Alexandria.

His tricks and his deceit so limitless

No man could put in writing, I would guess,

Though he should live to see a thousand years.

In all this world for lies he has no peers;

For he gets so wound up in what he’ll say

And speaks his words all in so sly a way

Whenever he converses with someone,

He’ll make the man a fool before he’s done—

Unless, like him, the man’s a devil too.

He’s hoodwinked many a man and isn’t through,

Long as he lives he’ll do it all the while.

And yet men ride and walk mile after mile

To seek him, make acquaintance, none of them

Aware of the deceit that governs him.

And if it’s your desire to hear me out,

Right here and now that’s what I’ll tell about.

But you religious canons, honors due,

Please do not think that I would slander you

Though I tell of a canon. There’s no doubt

That every order has some rogue about,

And God forbid a whole group be maligned

Because of one man’s folly. I’ve no mind

To slander you at all; it’s to amend

A certain wrong, that’s all that I intend.

It’s not for only you this tale is told

But others too. You well know how of old

Among Christ’s twelve apostles there were none

But Judas who betrayed, the only one.

So why should all the rest be given blame

When guiltless? As for you I say the same,

Except for this—pay heed to what I say:

If there’s one Judas in your house today,

Then throw him out at once, that’s my advice,

If you fear any taint of shame or vice.

And do not be displeased by this, I pray,

But in this matter hear what I’ve to say.

In London was a priest who sang the mass

For those deceased; and years had come to pass

In which such pleasant service he’d afforded

To his landlady where he roomed and boarded

That she’d not suffer him to pay a thing

For board or clothes though he dress like a king,

And he had lots of silver in his purse.

But that’s for neither better nor for worse,

I’ll go on with my tale to its conclusion

On how a canon brought him to confusion.

This canon so deceitful came one day

To see this priest where in his room he lay

And asked him for a loan, a quantity

Of gold, for which he’d pay him back. “Lend me

A mark,” he said, “till just three days are through

And at that time I’ll bring it back to you.

And if you find I’m telling you a lie,

Have me hung by the neck next time I’m by.”

This priest gave him a mark right on the spot,

For which this canon thanked the priest a lot

And took his leave, went right off on his way.

He brought the money back right to the day

And gave it to the priest, all he had lent,

Which made the priest delighted and content.

“For sure,” he said, “it doesn’t bother me

To lend a man a noble, two or three,

Or anything I have in my possession,

Whenever he is of such true discretion

He keeps the time appointed to repay;

And such a man I cannot turn away.”

“What!” said the canon, “I would be untrue?

For me that would be really something new.

My word’s a thing that always I will keep

Until that very day when I shall creep

Into my grave, so help me God. Indeed

Of that you can be sure as of your creed.

Thank God, and in good time may it be said,

There’s never been a man who’s been misled

For having gold or silver to me lent;

No falsehood in my heart I’ve ever meant.

And, sir, since you have been so good to me

In showing me such generosity,

For being kind I’ll tell you in return

About my secret. If you wish to learn,

I’ll teach you plainly how,” as he went on,

“My works I have performed, as yet unknown,

What I’ve accomplished in philosophy.

Watch closely and with your own eyes you’ll see

A master stroke by me before I’ve ceased.”

“Yes, will you, sire? Saint Mary!” said the priest.

“Then so perform, I humbly beg of you.”

“As you command, sir, faithfully I’ll do,”

The canon said, “or God bring me to grief.”

See how he offered services, this thief!

Such proffered service stinks, old wise men say,

And certainly it’s true, as right away

I’ll by this canon verify. For he,

Being the very root of treachery,

Takes great delight in seeing for his part—

Such fiendish thoughts are gathered in his heart—

How many Christians he can bring to grief.

From his dissembling ways God grant relief!

This priest had no idea with whom he dealt,

Of his impending harm he nothing felt.

O simple priest! O foolish innocent,

Soon hoodwinked by your greed! Unlucky gent,

In judgment you’re so blind you cannot see,

You’ve no awareness of the treachery

This fox has shaped for you! From all his tricks

You cannot flee, you’ll soon be in a fix.

And so that I might draw to the conclusion

That deals, unhappy man, with your confusion,

I’ll hasten now to tell immediately

About your folly, your stupidity,

And the deceit, too, of that other wretch,

As far as I can get my wits to stretch.

You think, Sir Host, this canon was my lord?

By faith and heaven’s queen whom I’ve adored,

It was another canon and not he,

One with a hundred times more subtlety.

He’s brought folks to betrayal every time;

Of his deceit it numbs my wit to rhyme.

Whenever of his falsehood I may speak,

The shame makes me turn red from cheek to cheek.

At any rate my cheeks begin to glow,

For my face has no color, well I know;

From various kinds of metals many a fume,

As you have heard, has acted to consume

And waste away my face’s ruddiness.

Now hear about this canon’s cursedness!

“Sir,” said he to the priest, “let your man go

For quicksilver and bring it, promptly so—

More than an ounce, have him bring two or three;

And when he comes, without delay you’ll see

A wondrous thing like none you’ve ever spied.”

“It surely shall be done,” the priest replied.

He bade his servant fetch it right away;

The servant, always ready to obey,

Went out at once and soon came back again

With this quicksilver (briefly to explain),

Three ounces, which he gave the canon there.

The canon laid them down with gentle care,

And then he bade the servant coals to bring,

That he might get to work, no tarrying.

The coals were fetched at once on his request,

And then this canon took out of his vest

A crucible, and to the priest said he,

“Take in your hand this instrument you see,

And then as soon as you have put therein

An ounce of this quicksilver, you’ll begin,

In Christ’s name, to become philosopher.

There are but few to whom I’d offer, sir,

To show my science to such a degree;

Here by your own experience you’ll see

How this quicksilver I’ll transmogrify

Right here before your eyes, without a lie,

And turn it into silver, just as fine

And good as any in your purse or mine

Or any other place. And I will make

It malleable—if not, call me a fake,

One who’s unfit in public to appear.

I have a powder—one that cost me dear—

To make it work, the source of all my skill,

Which I’m about to show you. If you will,

Now send away your man; let him stay out,

And shut the door, while we two are about

Our secret science, no one then to see

While we’re at work in this philosophy.”

With all that he was told the priest complied;

The servant as commanded went outside,

His master shut the door without delay,

And they began their labor right away.

Bade by this canon reprehensible,

The priest set on the fire this crucible,

Then busily into the fire he blew.

Into the crucible this canon threw

A powder—I don’t know what it contained,

If made of chalk or glass, but though obtained

Whatever way it wasn’t worth a fly

Except as means to fool the priest. Then high

He bade him pile the coals till spread above

The crucible. “As token of my love,”

The canon said, “the hands shall be your own

That bring this work to pass here, yours alone.”

“O thank you!” said the priest with happy smile,

And as the canon asked he made the pile.

And while he toiled, this fiendish, lying wretch,

This canon—may the devil come and fetch

Him!—from his coat an imitation coal

Took, made of beech, in which was drilled a hole;

Some silver filings in this hole were packed,

An ounce of them, and to conceal the fact

Were tightly sealed with wax. Now be aware

That this device was not made then and there,

The canon had prepared it long before

Just like some other things—I’ll tell you more

About them later—that this canon brought.

He’d come to cheat the priest, that was his thought,

And by the time they’d part indeed he would;

He couldn’t quit till he had skinned him good.

Just speaking of him so depresses me!

I’d have my vengeance on his falsity

If I knew how, but he flits here and there,

Too shifty to abide long anywhere.

But, sires, now pay attention, for God’s love!

He took this coal that I was speaking of

And in his hand he held it secretly.

And while the priest was working busily

To bed the coals as you have heard me say,

This canon said, “No, friend, that’s not the way,

The coals are not arranged as they should be.

But I shall soon take care of that,” said he.

“Now let me meddle for a while, for by

Saint Giles, I have compassion for you. Why,

I see that you’re so hot you’re soaking wet.

Now here’s a kerchief, wipe away the sweat.”

And while the priest stepped back to wipe his face,

This canon took his coal—such a disgrace!—

And centered it on top so that it sat

Above the crucible; he blew, with that,

Until the coals burned at a rapid rate.

“Now let us have a drink,” he said, “and wait,

For all will soon be well, as I contend.

Let’s sit a while and make us merry, friend.”

And when this canon’s imitation coal

Had burnt, all of the filings from the hole

Fell right into the crucible below—

They naturally could not help doing so

Since they were placed so evenly above it.

But still, alas! this priest knew nothing of it,

For all the coals he deemed to be the same

And had no inkling of this canon’s game.

And when his time this alchemist espied,

“Rise up, Sir Priest,” said he, “step to my side.

Now since I know that you’ve no mold around,

Go out, bring any chalkstone to be found—

If I have any luck, I’ll shape the thing

Exactly like a mold. And also bring

A bowl or pan as filled as it can be

With water. After that you’ll surely see

Our labor thrive and brought to full fruition.

And yet that you may harbor no suspicion

While you’re away, may not distrust or doubt,

I will not leave your presence, I’ll go out

With you and come right back with you again.”

The chamber door—to keep it short and plain—

They opened and then shut, then took the key

And went forth on their way in company,

Then both came back again without delay.

Why should I tarry all the livelong day?

He took the chalkstone and then like a mold

He gave it shape the way you’ll now be told.

I say, this canon took out of his sleeve

A bar of silver—evil make him grieve!—

That weighed an ounce. And listen now to me

While I recount his curséd trickery!

In length and width he used this bar to form

His mold, and yet so slyly did peform

That you can bet the priest did not perceive;

And then again he hid it up his sleeve.

From the fire the material he took

And poured it in the mold with merry look;

And then when he was set, he threw it in

The water pan, and told the priest right then,

“Now see what’s there, reach in and grope around.

I’m hoping there’s some silver to be found.

Why, what the devil else could be in there?

A silver shaving’s silver, God’s aware!”

He found a bar, when he went reaching in,

Of finest silver. Filled with joy then

This priest became on seeing it was true.

“God’s blessings on you and his Mother’s too

And all the saints’, Sir Canon!” said the priest.

“And may I have their curses at the least

If I—when you’ve agreed to teach to me

This noble craft of yours, this subtlety—

Do not then serve you every way I may.”

The canon said, “Yet first I will assay

A second time while you pay closest heed,

An expert to become, that in your need

You may perform yourself some other day

This crafty science when I’m gone away.

Another ounce of quicksilver now bring,”

The canon said, “don’t say another thing

But do with it just as you’ve done so far,

As with the first that’s now a silver bar.”

The priest went right to work, he forged ahead

To do all that this curséd canon said,

And blew hard on the fire, that hopefully

The effect that he desired would come to be.

The canon was preparing all the while

Again this foolish cleric to beguile;

For show, the canon now was holding there

A hollow stick—now listen and beware!—

The end of which contained an ounce, no more,

Of silver filings (as he’d put before

Inside his coal); and it was tightly sealed

With wax, that not one filing be revealed.

And while this priest was busy, with his stick

This canon stepped beside him and was quick

To throw once more some of his powder in.

May the devil beat him out of his skin

For all of his deceit, to God I plead!

For he was false in every thought and deed.

And with this stick, contrived as you have heard,

The coals above the crucible he stirred

Until the fire with all its heat began

To melt the seal of wax—as every man

Who’s not a fool well knows would come about.

The filings in the stick went pouring out,

And right into the crucible they fell.

What more, good sirs, would you want me to tell?

When he had been beguiled again, this priest,

Supposing all was true, to say the least

Was so delighted I cannot express

In any way his mirth and happiness.

He offered to the canon as before

His goods and services. “Yes, though I’m poor,”

The canon said, “you’ll find that I have skill.

And let me warn you, there’s more to it still.

Is any copper hereabout?” said he.

“Yes, sire,” replied the priest, “there’s bound to be.”

“If not, go buy us some, the quickest found.

Good sir, be on your way, don’t stand around.”

He went his way, and with the copper came,

And in his hand this canon took the same,

And measured just an ounce, no more, in weight.

My tongue is much too simple to relate—

I’ve not the wits—this canon’s treachery;

He was the root of all iniquity.

To those who didn’t know he seemed a friend,

Though all his works were fiendish to the end.

To tell of all his lying wears me out,

But nonetheless that’s what I’ll tell about,

That other men be made aware thereby

And for no other cause, that’s not a lie.

The crucible he put the copper in

And set it on the fire, and powder then

He threw in, too, and bade the priest to blow,

For which the priest must then stoop down as low

As he had done before. All was a jape—

As he desired, the priest he made his ape!

After he cast this copper in the mold,

He put it in the water pan I told

About before, then stuck in his own hand.

Now up his sleeve (as you well understand)

He had that silver bar that he could fetch.

He slyly took it out, this curséd wretch—

The priest did not suspect this crafty man—

And left it at the bottom of the pan,

Then felt down in the water to and fro,

Removing while he did, and deftly so,

The copper bar—the priest would never note—

And hid it, grabbed the priest then by the coat,

And said to him, in furtherance of his game,

“Stoop down, by God, or else you are to blame!

As I helped you before, help me in kind,

Reach in your hand and see what you can find.”

The priest brought up the silver bar, and then

Said to the canon, “Let’s go take them in

To a goldsmith, these bars we’ve made, and see

What they are worth. For by the Trinity,

I wouldn’t use them—I will pledge my hood—

Unless they’re really silver, fine and good.

Let’s put them to the proof without delay.”

And so with these three bars they took their way

To a goldsmith, who put them to the test

With fire and hammer. No man could contest,

Not one could say they weren’t what they should be.

This foolish priest, who’s gladder now than he?

There hasn’t been one bird at sight of day,

No nightingale in all the month of May,

Who’s ever sung to such delighted measure;

No lady’s ever been as full of pleasure

While singing songs of love and womanhood,

No hardy knight as joyous as he stood

In his dear lady’s grace, as for his part

This cleric was, to learn this sorry art.

He spoke then to the canon, saying thus:

“For love of God who died for all of us,

If I deserve to know, what price, pray tell,

Would you require, this formula to sell?”

“By Our Lady,” he said, “the price is high,

For in all England just one friar and I

And no one else alive such bars can make.”

“No matter, sire,” the priest said, “for God’s sake,

What shall I pay you? Tell me now, I pray.”

“It’s really quite expensive, as I say,”

The canon said. “So help me God, if you

Desire it, sir, then in a word or two

It’s forty pounds. It surely would be more

But for the friendship you showed me before.”

The priest at once this sum in nobles found

And took it to the canon, every pound,

This formula to have as a receipt.

The canon’s work was fraudulent deceit.

“Sir Priest,” he said, “I do not look for fame

In what I do, instead I hide the same;

And if you love me, keep my secrecy.

For if men knew of all my subtlety,

By God, they’d be so envious in view

Of what in this philosophy I do,

They’d kill me, it would end no other way.”

The priest said, “God forbid! what’s that you say?

I’d rather spend all that belongs to me—

Or else may I go crazy—than to see

You come to such an end, have such ill fortune.”

“For your good will may good luck be your portion,”

The canon said. “I thank you, sir. Good day!”

And never once, when he had gone his way,

This priest saw him again. And when he had

A chance to try this formula, too bad!

He couldn’t make it work. Well you can see

How hoodwinked and beguiled he’d come to be.

So that is how he makes his infiltration,

That he might bring such folk to ruination.

Consider, sirs, how in each rank is found

A strife twixt men and gold that’s so profound

What gold there’s left to win is all but none.

This alchemy has blinded many a one

Till in good faith I think that it must be

The greatest reason for such scarcity.

Philosophers so vaguely speak about

Their craft, it’s something folks can’t figure out

For all the wit that folks have nowadays.

But let them chatter on just like the jays

And set their hearts on terminology;

What they attempt will never come to be.

With ease a man can learn to multiply

And turn what wealth he has to naught thereby!

See, there’s such profit in this lusty game

That it will turn one’s mirth to grief and shame,

Will empty out the heaviest of purses,

And afterwards lead folks to purchase curses

On those to whom they lent what they had earned.

O fie, for shame! Those who have once been burned,

Can they not flee the fiery heat? I say

To those who use this craft, refrain today

Before you’re ruined. Better late than never,

To live unprosperously would seem forever.

Prowl all you will, your goal you’ll never find;

You’re just as bold as Bayard who, though blind,

Still blunders forth as if no danger’s known;

He’s just as apt to run into a stone

As go around it while he’s on his way.

That’s how you multipliers fare, I say.

And if your own two eyes can’t see aright,

See that your mind at least still has its sight.

Look far and wide, what alchemy will bring

Is nothing, it won’t gain for you a thing;

You’ll waste all you have managed to acquire.

Before it burns too fast, put out the fire;

Don’t meddle further in that art, I say,

Or else your thrift will all be swept away.

Right here and now to you I will impart

What philosophers have said about this art.

Now listen, here’s what Arnold of New Town

In his Rosarium has written down—

Here’s what he says, and this is not a lie:

“No man can mercury transmogrify

Without its brother knowing.” He refers

To Hermes, father of philosophers,

As who first said it. He informs us, too,

The dragon doesn’t die—no doubt it’s true—

Unless it’s by his brother he is slain.

And what’s meant by the dragon (to explain

What he has said) is mercury, none other,

And brimstone’s what is meant by saying brother,

For out of Sol and Luna come these two.

“Therefore,” he said—hear what I’m telling you—

“Let no man stir himself, this art to learn,

Unless he understands and can discern

The meanings of what say philosophers.

He’s still a foolish man if he so stirs;

This cunning science,” so his writing goes,

“Is secret of all secrets, heaven knows.”

A disciple of Plato had occasion

To speak with him about this situation

(His book called Senior tells us that it’s so),

And here is what this fellow asked to know:

“What is the name of that most secret stone?”

And Plato said, “As Titan it is known.”

He said, “What’s that? Has it another name?”

And Plato said, “Magnesia is the same.”

The fellow said, “Sir, is it to be thus?

This is ignotum per ignocius.

Good sir, what does Magnesia mean, I pray?”

“It is a water that is made, I say,

Of the four elements.” He asked him then,

“Tell me the most essential part that’s in

That water, sir, if you are willing to.”

“Nay,” Plato said, “that surely I’ll not do.

Philosophers have sworn from first to last

That to no one the secret would be passed,

And not in any book does it appear.

To Christ our Lord it is so very dear

He won’t allow that it revealed should be

Except where it may please his deity

So to inspire mankind, and to withhold

From whom he will. There’s no more to be told.”

And so I will conclude: since God up there

Wills not that the philosophers declare

How one may find the philosophers’ stone,

It’s my advice that best it’s left alone.

For whoso would make God his adversary

By doing work that’s to his will contrary

Is one who certainly will never thrive,

Though multiplying long as he’s alive.

Here’s where I stop, for ended is my tale.

May God help every true man in travail!

Table of Contents

- General Prologue
- The Knight’s Tale
- The Lawyer’s Tale
- The Friar’s Tale
- The Student’s Tale
- The Franklin’s Tale
- The Pardoner’s Tale
- The Monk’s Tale
- The Nun’s Priest’s Tale
- The Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale