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Z\)c Canterbury? {poets. 
 
 Edited by William Sharp. 
 
 CHAUCER 
 
iS^HAUCER. SELECTED 
 
 ^■^ AND EDITED BY 
 
 FREDERICK NOEL PATON. 
 
 LONDON 
 WALTER SCOTT, 24 WARWICK LANE 
 
 NEW YORK : THOMAS WHITTAKER 
 
 TORONTO : VV J GAGE AND CO 
 
 1888 
 

CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Complaint of Pi tie . I ^o.^ . i 
 
 The Booke of the Dutchess e . 6 
 
 The Assembly of Foules . . .28 
 
 Troilus and Creseide . l.^'^'i' .» 42 
 Chaucer's Words unto his own Scrivener 122 
 
 The House of Fame . ' - . . 123 
 
 The Legend of Good Women . . . 149 
 The Canterbury Tales — 
 
 The Prologue . . . . 166 
 
 The Man of Lawes Tale . ' . . 191 
 
 The Wif of Bathes Tale . . " . 225 
 
 1^90135 
 
vi CONTENTS, 
 
 The Canterbury Tales — contmued — page 
 
 The Doctoures Tale , . ' . . 228 
 
 The Nonnes Preestes Tale . . 236 
 
 The Second Nonnes Tale 1 •'1 '^^ ' "^ '■ . .251 
 
 The Chanones Yemannes Prologue . 268 
 
 Good Counsail of Chaucer , . . 274 
 
 L'Envoy de Chaucer . . . 275 
 
 L'Envoy de Chaucer X Bukton . . 277 
 
 A Ballad . . . , . ' 279 
 
 To his Empty Purse . . - . . 280 
 
 Balade sent to K. Richard .. . 281 
 
 A Ballade of the Village wi ihout Painting 282 
 
NOTE. 
 
 There are one or two peculiarities of orthography 
 and grammar which, by their frequent recurrence, 
 have largely contributed to the popular belief that 
 Chaucer is unintelligible to modern readers. The 
 idea is a most mistaken one, and may be to some 
 extent dispelled through the elucidation of a few of 
 the most prevalent difficulties. The termination 
 — eth signifies the imperative mood, and is rarely 
 used by Chaucer in any other sense. The prefix 
 y- denotes the past participle, which is also 
 sometimes indicated by the prefix /^-, implying 
 thoroughness ; as to-hewn^ to-forn. The letter Y is 
 constantly used for G, as in yeve for give, yate for 
 gate, ayen for again. The word 07te is often repre- 
 sented by the single letter o ; and heighte stands, 
 of course, for called. 
 
 It is not pretended that the glossary includes 
 every word that differs from the modern synonym, 
 but only such as an educated reader might find 
 difficulty in understanding. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 HE year 1888 seems a peculiarly 
 fitting time for the preparation of 
 a Chaucerian volume for the 
 Canterbury Poets Series. For it 
 was in the spring of 1388, on 
 the 28th of April, just half a 
 thousand years ago, that the merry company 
 of thirty-one set out from the Tabard Inn at 
 Southwark upon what surely was the blithest 
 pilgrimage on record. The war-worn Knight 
 and love-lorn broidered Squire, the mincing 
 Prioress and buxom Wife of Bath, the " dronken 
 Miller," the Monk with jingling bridle, and the 
 score and more of others, with nothing in common 
 but their destination and their hope to make the 
 time pass well — their pilgrimage is never done. 
 They are still upon the road, wrangling and 
 clattering and laughing down the centuries, as 
 
 b 
 
X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 living as they were five hundred years ago. For 
 among them rode one who does not seem to have 
 at first attracted the attention of the Master of 
 Ceremonies, but whom he at last called upon for 
 a tale. 
 
 " ' What man art thou ? ' quod he. 
 Thou lookest as thou woldest find a haro^ 
 For ever on the ground I see thee stare. 
 Approche nere and loke up merily. 
 Now ware you, sires, and let this man have place. 
 He in the waste is shapen as wel as I. 
 This were a popet in an arme to embrace 
 For any woman. Smal and fair of face — 
 He semeth elvish by his countenance ; 
 For unto no wight doth he daliance.* " 
 
 This was Chaucer, the first English humorist; 
 and the instinct of the true artist, who works to 
 please himself, comes quaintly out in his de- 
 liberately boring his company into revolt with a 
 parody of the ancient chivalrous romance. 
 
 We must all desire to believe that Chaucer 
 actually did perform the storied pilgrimage to 
 the tomb of St. Thomas, and that some, at least, of 
 the. characters in the prologue were sketched from 
 his companions. Each figure is instinct with an 
 individualism and vitality such as none before 
 Chaucer, and not everyone since, has been able to 
 impart. It is perhaps the most characteristic 
 
INTRODUCTION. xi 
 
 feature of his work, this direct perception at 
 once of a character's dramatic significance and 
 of his own artistic purpose in regard to it. There 
 is about his fiction a subtle air of realism worked 
 out even by little masterly defects ; as where he 
 says of the two clerks in the '^ Miller's Tale" — 
 
 " John highte that one, and Ailen heighte that other. 
 Of one town were they horn, that heighte Strother 
 Fer in the North, / can not tellen where." 
 
 None of his predecessors would have dreamed of 
 providing a natural hiatus as an additional sanction 
 of the evidence. Up to his time the "makers" 
 had been scarcely worthy of that cumbrous name; 
 for the thing to be told was all they cared about, 
 and the manner of the telling was apparently 
 ordained rather by convention than by genuine ap- 
 preciation of the powers of form. They had good 
 things and beautiful to tell, minds full of truth and 
 quaintest fancy, and hearts with a warmth of 
 aspiration and devotion such as occasionally 
 hurried them to almost poetic altitudes. But 
 times were against them. The circulation of their 
 poems was a process even slower than the writing 
 down thereof. These were at best severely simple 
 — not to say serious— and grace and humour had 
 to wait a lighter mood. Lowell's essay upon 
 Chaucer (in My Study Windows) should be read 
 
xii INTRODUCTION, 
 
 by everyone. It is full of the most happy com- 
 ments, among which is none more apposite than 
 his remark that the early English writers seemed 
 "to conceive of speech rather as a tool than as a 
 musical instrument." 
 
 And, curiously enough, Chaucer himself, in a 
 short essay upon style, pronounced by one of his 
 characters in *'Troilus and Creseide," likens lan- 
 guage to a harp. The whole passage is instructive, 
 as showing that Chaucer appreciated the difference 
 between the method of the master and the hap- 
 hazard of the amateur. 
 
 In reality he was the first English writer who 
 respected his art as an art ; and brought it to 
 something like fulfilment, not by granting it 
 a sterile freedom from control, but by mating 
 it with tolerably manageable matter. He con- 
 verted a dialect into a language ; and grafted 
 thereon a literature of distinctive character and 
 independent future. He set up the new target ; 
 and drove one shaft after another straight to the 
 centre of the bull, leaving his successors to beat 
 that if they could. His work is the work of a 
 master ; and its vividness even now remains in 
 some departments unexcelled. Thackeray himself 
 never sketched figures more living than are those 
 pilgrims of five hundred years ago. Fielding 
 can show nothing to rival Chaucer's treatment of 
 
INTRODUCTION, xiii 
 
 the lighter themes ; nor can his Homeric battle 
 even compare in exquisite humour with the 
 clamour of the barnyard bereft of its lord. That 
 " cok Chaunteclere " is sublime ; and " his faire 
 Partelote" is delicious. Not a word in the tale 
 ^s out of place ; and it is probable that readers, 
 on a first interview with Chaucer, will be sur- 
 prised to find how consistent and intelligible is his 
 language. 
 
 It is true, of course, that before his time the 
 English tongue had already undergone the first 
 process of development, and that his predecessors 
 had laid down the rude warp of a literature. But 
 the woof was begun by the author of the " Canter- 
 bury Tales," who also enriched the language by 
 copious importation of most needful, if foreign, 
 matter from the Norman vocabulary. 
 
 There is something ludicrous in charging 
 Chaucer, as is often done, with having corrupted 
 the English tongue. The " corrupt " element 
 had been introduced long before his birth ; and 
 the language, as a subtle vehicle of thought, 
 benefited thereby so obviously that apologetics in 
 the matter would be out of place. It may, how- 
 ever, be pointed out that Chaucer confirmed the 
 foreign words in their tenure mainly by the 
 demonstration of their value in precise significance. 
 
 One finds, here and there in Chaucer's works. 
 
xiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 little dandified indications that a knowledge of 
 French was regarded as essential to that which 
 novelists, even now, call ton ; and it must be 
 remembered that the indiscriminate infusion of 
 French words had been the vogue, not only among 
 the upper classes and the foreign missionaries, 
 whose defective knowledge of Saxon excused them, 
 but among the native priests and friars, whose lan- 
 guage and manners became more or less affected 
 by — one is half disposed to say "in consequence 
 of" — the politic patronage of the throne. Thus in 
 the Ancreu Riwle — written more than a hundred 
 years before Chaucer's birth, and in a dialect much 
 less exposed to "Court influence" than was that 
 which Chaucer took as the matrix of his works — 
 we find a great proportion of the French vo- 
 cabulary in irksome mechanical union with the 
 vernacular. But amalgamation there was none till 
 Chaucer came ; and, even then, the language of 
 the Court was French — "French of Paris," if 
 possible. 
 
 But in the country at large, the English tongue 
 and the English spirit became the rallying points 
 of a new resistance to the later immigrants from 
 France. In 1362 (when Chaucer was twenty-two 
 years old) the Courts of Law were ordered to con- 
 duct their proceedings in the native language; and 
 in the succeeding year the principle for the first 
 
INTRODUCTION, xv 
 
 time took effect in the royal speech on the opening 
 of Parliament. 
 
 Not till a hundred years later was Caxton to print 
 the *' Canterbury Tales," and give a fresh impulse to 
 the development of our country. But the reign of 
 Edward III. saw the first successful movement 
 towards the popularising of education and intelli- 
 gence. Scholarship, and even culture, had begun 
 to percolate into the lower strata ; and signatures 
 instead of crosses were affixed to documents. 
 Penmanship and the power of reading became 
 less rare ; and, as facility in those accomplish- 
 ments increased, the greatest trammel of an 
 author's fancy and the greatest obstacle to his 
 popularity dwindled in unison. 
 
 Those classes, moreover, whose training fitted 
 and disposed them to take an interest in books, 
 were in a state of inordinate and childish gaiety, at 
 once the natural sequel of protracted military glory 
 and the foster-mother of artistic productivity. 
 During war, and while political matters engross the 
 pubhc mind, art is ignored and withdraws itself. 
 But when the nation is in a flippant and prodigal 
 mood, he who can make songs and pretty things is 
 at a premium. And if ever there was a time when 
 pretty things were prized supremely, Chaucer lived 
 in it. It cannot be said that the national taste was 
 of the most refined order; for, indeed, an unclean 
 
xvi INTRO D UCTION. 
 
 and uneasy gorgeousness seems to have been the 
 highest aspiration of all classes. Luxury was a 
 word of which the country had only newly been 
 made free; and it was not as yet quite understood. 
 People wore their glories upside-down; and all the 
 ancient ceremonies of chivalry degenerated into 
 ceremonial cloyed with a clumsy and childish 
 extravagance. 
 
 Yet chivalry was not by any means dead. Purity 
 was still regarded as a highly desirable, if not the 
 least dispensable, quality in woman; and the 
 appreciation of its value among men was possibly 
 deriving new weight from the manifestation of 
 its rarity. The pantomime, if not the reality, of 
 deference to womanhood was still retained, as was 
 also the ostentation of devoutness and self-sacrifice. 
 But, as the Pardoner says, ^^ Radix malorum est 
 aipidltaSj^ and the desire of getting was rampant 
 in all classes, in the country as in the towns. The 
 old hospitality had been sapped by extravagance 
 in dress. Charity had suffered from the same 
 cause, and had paled of its graciousness at the tone 
 of demand that had crept into the petitions of the 
 "vileins." For, side by side with all this trumpery 
 and puerile magnificence of the classes, there 
 existed, in the lower grades, conditions of the 
 utmost gravity and wretchedness. In 1348-9, 
 1361-2, 1369, and 1375-6 — four times during 
 
INTRODUCTION, xvii 
 
 Chaucer's life — was England visited by pestilence, 
 till more than half its population had been swept 
 away. And when one thinks of the horrors that 
 were thus kept vivid in the minds of the people, 
 and remembers further how all the country was at 
 this time stirred by a strange upheaval of supersti- 
 tion and the first murmurs of revolt, one is amazed 
 at the fantastic merry-making that engaged the 
 attention of the upper classes. Even then, the cry 
 for protection against the resident foreign traders, 
 who had been foolishly granted a practical 
 monopoly of certain industries, was beginning to 
 be heard in the towns ; and the air was full of 
 complaints regarding the various orders of the 
 clergy, who, on their side, like the upper classes, 
 took little pains to rebut or to discredit the accusa- 
 tions. The turbulence of the nobles compelled the 
 king to conciliate the church as the best medium 
 of communication with his people; and thus were 
 ecclesiasticism and nobility brought into postures 
 of antagonism. 
 
 And although Chaucer's patron, Lancaster, was 
 for a time a supporter of Wyclif — who denied 
 primarily the moral right of obedience to an im- 
 moral ruler — there can be no doubt that the 
 personal feeling of the poet, as a gentleman, was on 
 the side of his order. So we must not take too 
 seriously his frequent sallies against monk and 
 
xviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 friar. Whatever truth there may have been in the 
 charges brought against those orders, Chaucer was 
 no more likely than his neighbours were to go 
 about crying " Ichabod," and making a spectacle 
 of himself. The ponderous ceremonies of the time 
 evidently amused him, and offended his artistic 
 instinct ; but nothing is more apparent in his work 
 than a reverent regard for that mysterious substan- 
 tive, savolr faire. His little scraps of foppery and 
 his airy evasion of anything morbid, his keen 
 satirical humour and his perfect willingness to 
 remain on good terms with that which he has 
 satirised — all contribute to his graceful charm. 
 
 It is impossible to insist too strongly on the fact 
 that Chaucer was by instinct and upbringing a 
 gentleman. The knowledge he displays in dealing 
 with certain sciences might well astonish persons 
 who have been accustomed to speak loosely of the 
 ignorance of the middle ages ; and his intimacy 
 with languages, with pohty, and with the world is 
 sufficiently evidenced by his poems and the 
 delicate nature of the diplomatic duties with which 
 he was from time to time entrusted. Ashmole 
 speaks of him as Sir Geoffrey Chaucer ; and it is 
 a thousand pities that we have no justification for 
 attaching the title permanently to his name. Our 
 modern ideas inevitably lead us to dissociate 
 gentility from parentage like Chaucer's, and to 
 
INTRODUCTION. xix 
 
 regard as menial such offices as he held about the 
 Court. So the accolade might have been useful as 
 a disinfectant of his name, and might have dis- 
 pelled the haze of misapprehension evolved by his 
 unfortunate functions. As a matter of fact, there 
 was nothing positively base about his family ; but 
 the very date of his birth is subject for conjecture. 
 
 The early biographers, subtracting an entirely 
 hypothetical number of years from 1400, the 
 authenticated date of his death, believed that he 
 was born in 1328 ; but it is now generally 
 recognised that the event should have been placed 
 some twelve years later in history. The main facts 
 for our consideration are that he wrote in the latter 
 half of the fourteenth century, and received his 
 education at a time when the conditions prevalent 
 during that period were already largely in force. 
 We have not space here to concern ourselves with 
 his character or his literary manner ; and it is 
 unnecessary to follow his surname through its 
 several stages of evolution, or his immediate 
 ancestors through the labyrinths of matrimonial 
 complexity in which they were pleased to involve 
 the line. That "John Chaucer, citizen and 
 vintner of London," emerged therefrom with 
 something like identity, and afterwards begot the 
 poet, are facts endorsed by Geoffiey himself in a 
 document by which, in middle life, he released his 
 
XX INTRODUCTION, 
 
 right to his father's house. From other sources we 
 know also that this John Chaucer was a man of 
 substance ; and when we learn that in 1338 he 
 accompanied the king and queen to Flanders, and 
 appears to have held office, ten years later, as 
 deputy king's butler in the ports of Southampton 
 and London successively, the early introduction of 
 his son to Court appears most consequent. 
 
 For Chaucer began life as a page in the house- 
 hold of Prince Lionel, second son of Edward IIL, 
 and afterwards Duke of Clarence ; and it was in 
 this capacity that the poet, in 1357, obtained 
 the first extant documentary recognition of his 
 existence. Whether he had been educated outside 
 the palace, we cannot tell ; for the obsolete theory 
 of his having attended one or both of the univer- 
 sities was based upon very ambiguous allusions, 
 contained in poems no longer attributed to him. 
 But boys of good family coveted the post of page 
 in a great house, on account of the educational 
 advantages it offered ; and we need look no further 
 for proof that Chaucer's education was that of a 
 gentleman. There used to be a refreshing tale 
 told of his having been fined at the Inner Temple 
 for thrashing a friar in Fleet Street ; but, as the 
 Inner Temple did not till some years later become 
 a nest of lawyers, we are constrained to rank this 
 incident among the products of constructive art. 
 
INTRODUCTION, xxi 
 
 He bore arms in the expedition into France in 
 1359 ; and there are several reasons for supposing 
 that he went, not in the "battle" of Prince Lionel, 
 but in that of the king. In the first place, there is 
 no record of his having subsequently received 
 payment as a member of the prince's household ; 
 and, in the second place, we know that it was 
 the king himself who, in March 1360, paid £\(i 
 for his ransom as a prisoner of war. Then, 
 in '67, we next find him, under the designation 
 of ^^ dilectus valletus 7'ioster^^ accorded a pension 
 from the king, and receiving the first payment of 
 twenty marks. Moreover, Prince Lionel was 
 engaged after '61 in the government of Ireland ; 
 and if Chaucer had followed him, we should surely 
 have heard something more of the Irish in the 
 *' Canterbury Tales." The only direct reference 
 that at the moment presents itself is one in a 
 passage where he speaks of an Irishwoman as the 
 mother of a very evil character ; but that is no 
 evidence of close personal acquaintance with the 
 race. 
 
 There seems then good reason for believing that 
 when Prince Lionel crossed St. George's Channel, 
 Chaucer stayed in England, and fell among the 
 pitfalls and quagmires of the gentle passion that 
 are digged of womankind upon the borderlands of 
 manhood. Most of his critics profess to discover 
 
xxii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 in his works a painful and recurring note of regret 
 for a disappointed love which they believe to have 
 come into existence during the unchronicled six 
 years that succeeded 1360. And, indeed, there are 
 passages that seem essentially the expression of 
 personal feeling. One of the few poems whose 
 dates we can accurately fix is " The Booke of the 
 Duchesse," written on the death of the Duchess of 
 Lancaster in 1369 ; and near the beginning of it we 
 find Chaucer declaring himself unable to rest, 
 because of— 
 
 " A sicknesse 
 That I have sufFred this eight yere, 
 And yet my hoot is never the nere. 
 And there is physicien but one 
 That may me heale — but that is donn. 
 Passe we over untill efte. 
 That will note be mote nodes be lefte." 
 
 And, unless we go out of our way to fix upon 
 this passage some connotation other than the 
 natural one, we must come to the conclusion that 
 in '61, when Chaucer had returned from camp to 
 court, he fell in love as became a page and poet of 
 twenty-one, but with an earnestness and constancy 
 quite transcending the traditions of either class. 
 
 Be that as it may, he married, and continued to 
 sing of some obdurate loved or\&— possibly his wife. 
 That he was no longer a bachelor in '74, we know 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxiii 
 
 from the fact that John of Gaunt then granted him 
 an annual pension oi £\o in consideration of good 
 service rendered by him and his wife Philippa to 
 " the said Duke, his consort, and his mother the 
 queen." This implies that Philippa had been in 
 attendance on the queen ; and it would therefore 
 seem most natural to suppose that a certain 
 Philippa Chaucer, mentioned among the ladies of 
 the chamber in '66, was the wife of the poet. It 
 has been pointed out that she may, in '66, have 
 been merely a cousin or namesake of the poet, and 
 have married him subsequently ; but Thomas 
 Chaucer, afterwards Speaker, and now beheved to 
 have been Geoffrey's son, quartered with his own 
 arms those of the Roet family, one of whom, 
 called Philippa, was certainly at Court at this 
 time. Her father, Sir Payne Roet, had come over 
 with Queen Philippa in '28 ; and her sister, 
 Katharine, the widow of Sir Hugh Swynford, 
 was for some time mistress, and afterwards third 
 wife, of John of Gaunt. So the hypothesis of 
 Chaucer's marriage with Philippa Roet goes far to 
 account for the otherwise remarkable degree of 
 friendship between him and Lancaster. 
 
 And we know of nothing opposed to the theory 
 of an early and not very successful marriage. It 
 cannot be said that Chaucer, when he persistently 
 spoke of himself as one who had read much of 
 
xxiv INTRODUCTION, 
 
 love but knew none of its happiness, and when he 
 constantly instilled into his reference to matrimony 
 a tone of bitterness not evoked by any other sub- 
 ject, created a moral atmosphere likely to mellow 
 that voice of which he complained as rousing him 
 harshly from his pillow. Then again — 
 
 " *Weping and wailing, care and other sorowe 
 I have enough on even and on morowe,' 
 Quod the marchant, ' and so have othermo 
 That wedded been.' " 
 
 So tlie Merchant begins his prologue ; and when 
 the Host presses him to give the company the 
 benefit of his experience, he consents wearily — 
 
 " * Gladly,' quod he ; ' but of min owen sore 
 For sory herte I tellen may no more :' " 
 
 a reticence the more affecting for its singularity 
 among the pilgrims ! It has been suggested that 
 Lancaster's pension was granted, in '74, as a 
 wedding gift ; but this theory is discredited by 
 the fact that from '74 to '86, while Chaucer himself 
 lived in the gate house at Aldgate, his wife was in 
 attendance upon Constance, second Duchess of 
 Lancaster. This does not look much like either 
 honeymoon or harmony ; but we must not in any 
 case lightly attach all the blame to the unfortunate 
 Philippa. The traditions of her family were not 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxv 
 
 immaculate, 'tis true : but genius is proverbially 
 difficult to live with ; and Chaucer certainly, 
 in 1380, allowed himself to get mixed up in a 
 very unpleasant case about the abduction of a 
 young woman, who, however, acquitted him of 
 responsibility. 
 
 There is, at the same time, no positive evidence 
 that in '68, when he is described as a "yeoman of 
 the king's chamber," he was even contemplating 
 matrimony. But his improvident habits had 
 evidently begun ; for in '69 we find him at the war 
 in France, and borrowing ^10 of a friend at home. 
 In '76, while enjoying a double pension of forty 
 marks (about £;i(d of ours), Gaunt's pension of ^10 
 (;£i30 of ours), the proceeds of two comptroller- 
 ships of customs in the Port of London, and the 
 funds — ;£io4 (equal to about ;£i30o of ours) — 
 accruing to him as custodian of a certain Edmond 
 Staplegate of Kent, we again find him borrowing 
 ^50 on account of the current half year's allowance. 
 But it is undesirable that space should here be 
 occupied by many such details. It will suffice to 
 state that from '74 to '89 Chaucer's position was a 
 secure one financially as well as socially. 
 
 And during that time he was repeatedly abroad 
 upon diplomatic business, occasionally of a secret 
 character, so well preserved as to confound the 
 worthy emissary's biographers. His first official 
 
 c 
 
xxvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 visit to Italy took place in the years '72 and 
 '73 ; and there seems every possibility that the 
 Italian spirit that afterwards directed his muse was 
 inspired, not merely by experience of its actuating 
 influences, but by personal intercourse with one of 
 its greatest exponents. When Chaucer was at 
 Padua, Petrarch lived at Arqua, only sixteen miles 
 away ; and it seems certain that the English poet 
 would endeavour to meet the Italian master. The 
 supposition that he succeeded in doing so is 
 endorsed by at least one direct reference — where 
 the Clerk of Oxenforde, in preluding the tale of 
 patient Grisilde (in relation to which Petrarch was, 
 about 1373, in correspondence with Boccaccio), 
 tells how it had been — 
 
 ** Learned at Padua of a worthy clerk , , . 
 Francis Petrarch, the laureate poet." 
 
 It is conceivable that Chaucer may have heard 
 Boccaccio deliver his first lecture at Florence on 
 the 3rd of August 1373 — may have even spoken 
 with him, and have thus obtained an introduction 
 to Petrarch. But this seems unlikely ; for there is 
 in all Chaucer's works no single mention of 
 Boccaccio's name. 
 
 Those visits to Italy resulted, at all events, in 
 a complete revolution in Chaucer's style. In- 
 stead of borrowing, as formerly, from the French 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxvii 
 
 trouv}re^ he afterwards took all his methods and 
 most of his material, though not his matter, from 
 the Italian sources. 
 
 He was abroad again in 1376, twice in 1377, 
 twice in 1378, and apparently once more in 1379 ; 
 but it is not to our purpose to describe the various 
 missions more specifically than by saying that 
 their nature furnishes emphatic evidence of the 
 respect and confidence in which he was held at 
 Court. The second excursion in 1378, however, 
 is interesting in the fact that Chaucer deputed 
 John Cower to act during his absence as his 
 attorney or deputy in the comptrollership of 
 customs. It is tolerably certain that Cower and 
 Chaucer were at one time intimate friends, but 
 that the marked incompatability of their natures 
 produced a rupture. Chaucer, in his " Man of 
 Lawe's Tale," says about Cower those things which 
 he clearly ought not to have said ; and Cower, in 
 his 1393 edition, pointedly leaves unsaid those 
 polite things which he had said of Chaucer in his 
 earlier issue. It has been held that Chaucer was 
 not the man to quarrel with an old friend ; but 
 intimacy with his works begets the conviction that 
 he was eminently likely to let Cower quarrel with 
 him, if the said sententious person were so 
 disposed. 
 
 Chaucer's fortunes reached their height in 1385 ; 
 
xxviii IN TROD UCTION, 
 
 for in that year he held all his old offices and a 
 second comptrollership assigned to him in 1382, 
 and was further permitted to discharge the duties 
 by permanent deputy. This last arrangement, of 
 course, left him much more freedom for his work, 
 of which a large proportion may therefore be 
 ascribed to the eighties. But the chronology of 
 his poems is a matter too abstruse to be dealt with 
 here. Between 1386 and 1389 he must have 
 had time pretty much at his own disposal ; for 
 in the end of the former year, and a few months 
 after he had entered Parliament as a knight of the 
 shire of Kent, he was suddenly deprived of both 
 his comptrollerships, and "permitted" by royal 
 license to surrender his two grants of twenty marks 
 to a John Scalby. It is a fact full of unpleasant 
 suggestion that this loss of office was synchronous 
 with the sitting of a commission which the kmg 
 had been forced in November to appoint, and 
 which expressed dissatisfaction with the working 
 of the customs offices. There is, however, no 
 positive evidence that Chaucer was morally impli- 
 cated in the scandals revealed; and most persons 
 will prefer to attribute his fall to the disfavour that 
 had overtaken his patron, Lancaster, at Court. 
 For Gloucester had triumphed for a time ; John of 
 Gaunt had entered upon a three-years' banishment ; 
 and it is possible that the raid upon the customs 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxix 
 
 ofifices was merely the prototype of such spasmodic 
 clean-sweepinj:,^ as we find affected, and at times 
 effected, by political new-brooms of the present 
 day. John Scalby — whom it is, of course, the duty 
 of everyone to detest — was probably the nominee 
 of the new reo;iine j and the better man, lacking 
 backing, was degraded to a financial position no 
 doubt stimulant of literary effort. His art lapsed, 
 or was elevated to the level of an industry ; and as 
 the Duchess of Lancaster had no further need of 
 Mistress Philippa Chaucer's services, that lady 
 returned to her husband, apparently without pro- 
 ducing any modification of his views on matrimony. 
 She seems to have died in 1387; for there is no 
 record of subsequent payment of her pension ; and 
 — possibly in consequence of this further docking 
 of his funds — Chaucer in the succeeding year 
 transferred or *' converted " his pension, and went 
 on pilgrimage to Canterbury. 
 
 There is evidence not to be blinked, that at this 
 time poor Chaucer was in deep waters, and his 
 funds in the inverse ratio of profundity ; but in 
 '89 the king reasserted his authority, and the 
 return of Gaunt in November was preluded in 
 July by the restoration of his favourite to all his 
 various posts. He was further appointed Clerk of 
 the King's Works at the Palace of Westminster, 
 the Tower of London, the Castle of Berkhampstead, 
 
XXX INTRODUCTION, 
 
 and half a score of royal manors and lodges ; and 
 was, in the succeeding year, employed in superin- 
 tending sundry repairs at St. George's Chapel, 
 Windsor, and on the Thames embankment. 
 
 The dulness of such duties was, nathless, varied 
 by sundry and diverse forms of excitation. March 
 1390 brought him an apparently insignificant but 
 quite providential appointment as forester ; and on 
 the 9th of September he was robbed at Westminster 
 and at Hatcham— twice in one day — of property, 
 amounting in all to ^20, a horse, and other valu- 
 ables. But even such vicissitudes apparently 
 failed to invest his functions with interest. He, 
 no doubt, desired to devote his time to literary 
 work, and in January '91 he appointed a deputy, to 
 whose mismanagement we must, of course, ascribe 
 the dismissal that in the autumn overtook his 
 chief. 
 
 And then came Chaucer's worst time of all. He 
 was still an esquire; he was still a forester; and 
 he still held Gaunt's pension of ten pounds. But 
 improvidence seems to have been a characteristic 
 constant in his cloudy, as in his sunny days ; and 
 even after '94, when King Richard assigned him 
 a life-pension of ^20 a-year, he regularly obtained 
 advances upon account. At last he sank so low, 
 that in '98 the king granted him letters of protec- 
 tion, guarding him for two years from all suits but 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxxi 
 
 those connected with land. And yet he went on 
 borrowing. A second tun of wine to be received 
 in the port of London from the king's chief butler 
 — Thomas Chaucer,* by-the-way — v as granted him 
 in October ; and one of the first acts of Henry IV., 
 on his accession, twelve months later, was to 
 assign the poet a pension of forty marks in 
 addition to Richard's twenty pounds. Perhaps 
 the most characteristic feature of this transaction 
 is that Chaucer contrived, within a day or two, to 
 lose the vouchers for these grants ; and so had to 
 obtain new copies. And, relying in truly pott 
 manner upon the new period of warmth, he took, 
 on Christmas Eve, a fifty-three years' lease of a 
 house in the garden of Lady Chapel, Westminster. 
 
 It is pleasant to think of him as spending here 
 at least one summer in peace, and the performance 
 of such work as pleased him. And in this house 
 he d ed on the 25th of October 1400 ; and they laid 
 him In the y oet's corner of the Abbey, hard by. 
 
 It has been thought that a degree of religious 
 excitement had resulted from or possibly /;/ his 
 taking up his quarters so near to the monks 
 of a religious house ; and it is true that, late in 
 life, he confesses, with ingenuous and unhappy 
 
 * If this Thomas Chaucer was the poet's son, his tenure of 
 the butlery would seem to ai'gue a degree of maturity con- 
 firraing the theory of his parent's early marriage. 
 
xxxii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 juxtaposition of items, that he feels his powers 
 going, and has taken to reading homilies and books 
 of morality. 
 
 And, although the devotional side of Chaucer's 
 character is not the first to present itself, one has 
 only to read such passages as his description of 
 the poor Parson, his definition of true "gentilnesse," 
 or his account of Constance's patience under 
 sorrow, to recognise that he was capable of the 
 most earnest thought. And, in spite of most of his 
 critics, who deprecate the idea that Chaucer, 
 towards the close of his life, regretted some parts of 
 his writings, a good many persons will probably 
 feel that no man with such strong sensibility as 
 permeates his work, or with so keen a diacritic 
 instinct in regard to true humour and false, could 
 possibly have failed to do so. 
 
 Chaucer is a sort of enfant terrible^ whose worst 
 sin is deficiency of reticence, which, in the form of 
 candour, is at the same time his redemption. At 
 his really terrible moments — which are few indeed 
 — he is to much of modern popular literatuie 
 what a rustic dung-hill is to the escapement of a 
 Metropolitan sewer. A whiff of it offends, but does 
 not infect ; and the air all about is so bright and 
 fresh and wholesome, so full of the song of birds, 
 and so laden with the consciousness of countless 
 flowers, that one passes the windward manure-heap 
 
INTRODUCTION, xxxiii 
 
 with resignation, and remembers it mainly by the 
 contrast its artificiahty presents to the sweetness of 
 surrounding nature. And it must be borne in mind 
 that Chaucer was a realist, and carries his own 
 justification in his hand. If he is to be accepted at 
 all as an exponent of mediaeval manners, the con- 
 versational laxity of his time is sufficiently indicated 
 by the fact that his male pilgrims, with women 
 riding beside them, say things that would nowa- 
 days be resented by a party of moderately sober 
 militiamen. 
 
 And, unfortunately, many of those nasty passages 
 are examples of his very cleverest work ; and they 
 are written with such naivete that it goes to one's 
 heart to leave them out. But that which is unfit to 
 be spoken in an assemblage of cultured men ana 
 women is obviously unfit to be thrown broadcast 
 among the readers of a popular edition. The age is 
 one of realism, no doubt ; and there used to be some 
 call for a protest against cant and artificial prudery. 
 But the modern cant of candour is but a doubtful 
 improvement. Ugliness is often to be found in 
 Realism's retinue ; but he does not always ride in 
 front as courier. The exposition of some of the 
 strongest forces in life often warrants the bold 
 handhng of subjects not elevating in themselves ; 
 and for the unregenerate human being, sound 
 humour is apt to derive a special poignancy from 
 
xxxiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 a so-called '*spice of impropriety." But harping 
 upon such manifestations of human instinct is quite 
 insufficient, by itself, to save a writer from vapid- 
 ness and fallacy. Truth is the resting point 
 between two kinds of cant — between prudery 
 and prurience ; and it may be doubted whether 
 we are not, nowadays, in danger of escaping the 
 deep sea by surrender to tlie devil. This tend- 
 ency is in great part due to the anonymous nature 
 of modern criticism, so often pronounced from 
 behind a mask by some doubly unknown writer, — 
 a disciple rather of the "good thing" than of the 
 true. It was Chaucer himself who said : — 
 
 "For wlian a man liath over-gret a'wit, 
 Full oft him liappeth to misuseu it." 
 
 It argues no nasty nicety to hold that dear old 
 Chaucer wrote things that disappoint many persons 
 who have no desiie to dissociate the true from the 
 good ; and, since it is impossible to find in so small 
 a volume as this space for more than a fraction of 
 our poet's work, it is best to give precedence to 
 passages that are sure to awaken general pleasure, 
 and a desire of greater intimacy. 
 
 Of such there, fortunately, is no lack in Chaucer; 
 and, though an enthusiastic appreciation of his 
 wonderful chrtrm has made the labour of selection 
 one of infinite interest and pie i sure, it has also 
 
INTRODUCTION, xxxv 
 
 added a keener pain to the task of excluding many 
 favourite passages, for which there was not room 
 nor adequate proof of autlieniicity. The famihar 
 "Romaunt of the Rose," for instance, the charming 
 '* Flower and the Leaf," "The Cuckow and the 
 Nightingale," "The Court of Love," "The 
 Complaint of the Black Knight," "Chaucer's 
 Dream," and others, printed in some editions, 
 are now generally ackr.owledged as spurious, 
 and are therefo:e left out of court in the present 
 volume. 
 
 The question of the genuineness of the first- 
 named work has been argued on each side with 
 much disabling of opponents' judgment. Skeat (in 
 his "Prioress's Tale, etc.;" Clarendon Press) hns 
 shown, in regard to dialect, rhyme, and vocabulary, 
 many scientific proofs of the poem's spuriousness; 
 but it is doubtful whether anyone who had read 
 much of Chaucer's undisputed works, and who 
 suddenly dipped into the "Romaunt of the Rose," 
 could fail to perceive, intuitively, and at once, the 
 difference of workmanship. The mere fact that 
 Chaucer, in his introduction to "The Legend of 
 Good Women," explicitly acknowledges having 
 translated the "Romaunt" is no proof that this 
 extant translation is by him. The original poem 
 obtained a degree of popularity certain to have 
 enlisted the interest of more than cne interpreter; 
 
xxxvi INTRODUCTION, 
 
 and it aoes not seem to have been as yet pointed 
 out that, a little further on in the same prologue, 
 the plea is put forward that "peraunter . . . him 
 was boden make thilke tway of some person, and 
 durst it not withsey." The "tway" refers to the 
 "Romaunt" and the "Troylus," and, if they were 
 actually made for a private library, the loss of one 
 of them seems quite explicable. 
 
 But though those disputed poems find no place 
 in this volume, it must not therefore be supposed 
 that they are unreadable. No greater mistake 
 could be made than to imagine that, when this 
 volume has been explored, all has been read that is 
 pre-eminently good in Chaucer. His works are an 
 inexhaustible fund of graceful thought, of varied 
 wisdom, of beautiful description ; and almost all are 
 of a freshness perfectly inimitable. His love of birds, 
 of sunshine, and of flowers, is a passion so genuine 
 and obvious that one is amazed to find learned 
 critics complacently regarding his much-loved 
 marguerite as a rumpled rag of artificiality and con- 
 vention culled from the vade mecum of the French 
 tronvere. Does it appear to those Corydons of 
 Paternoster Row impossible that any man should 
 be spontaneously moved to extravagance of 
 thought and happiness by spring-time with its 
 birds and flowers? Did they never have furtive 
 ecstasies of hope and the joy of life on the singing 
 
INTRODUCTION, xxxvii 
 
 of the throstle or the stirring of the daisy myriads 
 about their feet ? 
 
 At all events, it is precisely because Chaucer feels 
 those things truly, and awakens, when he sings of 
 them, an echo in the experience of most human 
 beings, that he has lived to sing the trouvere down. 
 And England will be a poorer and a darker place 
 when Chaucer has drifted into the region of the 
 unintelligible; for, as we read him, we experience 
 continuously the mental sensation spoken of by 
 Lowell, when he says: — "I repeat to myself a 
 thousand times" the opening of the Prologue to the 
 "Canterbury Tales;" "and still, at the thousandth 
 time, a breath of uncontaminate spring-tide seems 
 to lift the hair upon my forehead." 
 
 FREDERICK NOEL PATON. 
 
CHAUCER. 
 
CHA UCER. 
 
 XTbe Complaint of pitte. 
 
 HOW PITIE IS DEAD AND BURIED IN A GENTLE HERTE. 
 
 PiTlE that I have sought so yore agon 
 With herte sore, and full of besie paine, 
 That in this worlde was never wight so wo 
 Without deathe, and if I shall not faine, 
 My purpose was to Pitie to complaine 
 Upon the cruelty and tyranny 
 Of Love, that for my trouth doth me dye. 
 
 And that I by length of certaine yeares 
 Had ever in one sought a time to speke, 
 To Pitie ran I, all bespreint with teares, 
 To prayen her on Cruelty me awreke ; 
 But or I might with any word out breake. 
 Or tell her any of my paines smerte, 
 I found her dead and buried in an herte. 
 
 Adowne I fell, whan I saw the herse. 
 Dead as a stone, while that swoone me last, 
 Rut up I rose with colour full diverse, 
 And pitously on her mine eyen I cast, 
 And nearer the corse I gan preasen fast, 
 And for the soule I shope me for to pray, 
 I was but lorne, there was no more to say. 
 
 472 
 
' THE COMPLAINT OF PITIE, 
 
 Thus am I slaine, sith that Pitie is dead, 
 
 Alas, the day that ever it should fall ! 
 
 What maner man dare now hold up his head ? 
 
 To whom shall now any sorrowful herte call ? 
 
 Now Cruelty hath cast to slee us all 
 
 In idle hope, folke rechelesse of paine, 
 
 Sith she is dead, to whom shall we complaine ? 
 
 But yet encreaseth me this wonder new. 
 
 That no wight wote that she is dead but T, 
 
 So many men as in her time her knew, 
 
 And yet she deyde so suddainly. 
 
 For I have sought her ever full busily, 
 
 Sith I had first wit or mind, 
 
 But she was dead, ere I could her find. 
 
 About her herse there stooden lustily 
 Withouten any mo, as thoughte me. 
 Bounty, perfitely well armed and richely, 
 And fresh Beaute, Lust, and Jolite, 
 Assured-manner, Youth, and Honeste, 
 Wisedome, Estate, Drede, and Governaunce, 
 Confedred both by bond and alliaunce. 
 
 A complaint had I written in my honde, 
 To have put to Pitie, as a bill. 
 But I there all this company fonde. 
 That rather would all my cause spill, 
 Than do me helpe : I hold my plaint still 
 For to those folke withouten faile. 
 Without Pitie there may no bill avail. 
 
 Than leave all vertues, save only Pitie, 
 Keping the corse, as ye have heard me saine, 
 Confedred by honde until Crueltie, 
 
THE COMPLAINT OF PITIE. 
 
 And be assented whan I shall be slaine ; 
 And I have put my complainte up againe, 
 For to my foes my bill I dare not shewe 
 The effect, which saith thus in wordes fewe. 
 
 '* Humblest of herte, highest of reverence, 
 Benigne floure, croune of vertues all, 
 Sheweth unto your royall excellence 
 Your servaunt, if I durst me so call, 
 His mortall harme in which he is yfall. 
 And nought all only for his wofull fare, 
 But for your renome, as he shall declare. 
 
 ' ' It standeth thus, that contraire Crueltie 
 
 Allied is ayenst your regaltie 
 
 Under colour of womanly beautie, 
 
 (For men should not know her tyrannic) 
 
 With Bountie, Gentillesse, and Courtesie, 
 
 And hath deprived you of your place, 
 
 That is hie beautie, appertenaunt to your grace. 
 
 " For Kindly, by your heritage right 
 
 Ye be annexed ever unto Bountie, 
 
 And verely ye ought to doe your might 
 
 To helpe Trouth in his adversitie : 
 
 Ye be also the croune of beautie. 
 
 And certes, if ye want in these twaine 
 
 The world is lorne, there is no more to saine. 
 
 " Eke what availeth manner and gentilesse 
 Without you, benigne creature? 
 Shall Crueltie be your governeresse ? 
 Alas, what herte may it long endure ? 
 
THE COMPLAINT OF PITIE. 
 
 Wherefore, but ye rather take cure 
 
 To breake that perilous alliaunce, 
 
 Ye sleen hem that been in your obeysaunce. 
 
 " And further, if ye suffer this, 
 Your renome is fordo in a throw, 
 There shall no man wete what pitie is, 
 Alas, that ever your renome is fall so low .* 
 Ye be also fro your heritage ythrow ; 
 But Crueltie, that occupielh your place, 
 And we dispaired that secken your grace. 
 
 " Have mercy on me, thou Herenus, queene, 
 That you have sought so tenderly and sore ; 
 Let some streame of light on me be scene, 
 That love and drede you ever lenger the more ; 
 For soothly to saine, I beare so sore. 
 And though I be not conning for to plaine, 
 For Goddes love have mercy on my paine ! 
 
 ** My paine is this, that nought so I desire, 
 That have I not, ne nothing like thereto 
 And ever setteth Desire mine herte on fire. 
 Eke on that other side where that I go. 
 What maner thing that may encrease my wo, 
 That have I ready unsought every where, 
 Me lacketh but my death, and then my bere. 
 
 "What nedeth to shew parcell of my paine? 
 Sith every wo, that herte may bethinke, 
 I suffer, and yet I dare not to you plaine. 
 For well I wote, though I wake or winke, 
 Ye recke not whether I flete or sinke ; 
 And nathelesse yet my trouth I shall susteine 
 Unto my death, and that shall well be sene. 
 
THE COMPLAINT OF PITIE. 
 
 " This is to saine, I will be yours ever, 
 Though ye me slee by Cruel tie your fo, 
 Algate my spirit shall never discever 
 Fro your service, fro any paine or wo. 
 Sith ye be yet dead, alas, that it is so ! 
 Thus for your death I maye wepe and plaine 
 With herte sore, and full of busie paine." 
 
Ube JBoo^c of tbe Dutcbesse; 
 
 OR, THE DEATH OF BLANCH. 
 
 I HAVE great wonder by this light, 
 
 How I live, for day ne night 
 
 I may not sleepe welnigh nought ; 
 
 I have so many an idle thought, 
 
 Purely for default of sleepe, 
 
 That, by my trouth, I take no keepe 
 
 Of nothing, how it cpimneth or gothe, 
 
 To me n'is nothing leTe nor lothe, :. , 
 
 All is yliche good to me, 
 
 ] oy or sorrow, where so it be : 
 
 For I have feeling in nothing, 
 
 But as it were a mased thing, 
 
 All day in point to fall adoun, 
 
 For sorrowfull imaginaicoun 
 
 Is alway wholly in my minde. 
 
 And well ye wote, against kinde ^' 
 It were to liven in this wise, 
 For nature would not suffise 
 To none earthly creature, 
 Not long time to endure 
 Without sleepe, and be in sorrow : 
 And I ne may, ne night ne morrow, . 
 Sleepe, and this melancolie 
 And drede I have for to die, 
 Defaut of sleepe and heavinesse, 
 Hath slaine my spirit of quickeness^, 
 That I have lost all lustyhead ; W ■J^x 
 
BOOKE OF THE DUTCHESSE, y 
 
 Such fantasies ben in mine head, 
 So I n'ot what is best to do : 
 But men might aske me why so 
 I may not sleepe, and what me is? 
 ^ j^ But nathelesse, who aske this, 
 ^/4P^' ^Leseth his asking truely, 
 My selven cannot tell why 
 The sooth, but truly as I gesse, 
 I hold it be a sickenesse 
 That I have ^uffred,this eight yere, 
 And yet my bo6t is iiever the nere : 
 For there is phisicien but one, / 
 
 That may me heale, but that is done : (p'^^'^ 
 Passe we over untill efte, ^^^ir^k'i^^^^ \l 
 That will not be mote needs be lefte ; 
 Our first matter is good to keepe. 
 
 So whan I saw I might not sleepe. 
 Now of late this other night 
 Upon my bed I sate upright, 
 And bade one reach me a booke, 
 A romaunce, and he it me tooke 
 To rede, and drive the night away ; 
 For me thought it better play, n ^^-^^>* 
 
 Than either at chesse or tables. /k/O-'Ol^ 
 
 And in this booke were written fables, 
 That clerkes had in old time. 
 And other poets put in rime, ^^^y^x^y^^ 
 
 To rede, and for to be in mind, ^ n 
 
 While men loved the law of Kinde.^>vi***^ 
 This booke ne spake but of such things, 
 Of queenes lives, and of kings, 
 And many other things smale. 
 Among all this I found a tale, 
 That me thought a wonder thing. . . . 
 
 Whan I had red this tale wele, 
 And overlooked it everydele, \ , 
 
BOOKE OF THE DUTCHESSE. 
 
 Me thought wonder if it were so, 
 For I had never heard speake or the 
 Of no gods, that coud make 
 Men to sleepe, ne for to wake, 
 For I ne knew never God but one, 
 And in my game I said anone. 
 And yet me list right evill to pley, 
 Rather than that I should dey 
 Through defaut of sleeping thus, 
 I would give thilke Morpheus, 
 Or that goddcsse dame Juno, 
 Or some wight els, I ne rought who, 
 To make me slepe and have some rest, 
 I will give him the alther best 
 Yeft, that ever he abode his live. 
 And here onward, right now as blive. . . . 
 And to Juno, 
 That is his goddesse, I shall so do, 
 I trowe that she shall hold her paid. 
 
 I had unneth that word ysaid. 
 Right thus as I have told you, 
 That suddainly I n'ist how, 
 Such a lust anone me tooke 
 To sleepe, that right upon my booke 
 I fell a sleepe, and therewith even 
 Me mette so inly such a sweven. 
 So wonderfull, that never yet 
 I trowe no man had the wit 
 To conne well my sweven rede. 
 
 No, not Joseph without drede 
 Of Egypt, he that rad so 
 The kinges meting, Pharao, 
 No more than could the least of us. 
 
 Ne nat scarcely Macrobeus, 
 He that wrote all the avision 
 That he mette of king Scipion, 
 
BOOKE OF THE DUTCHESSE. 
 
 The noble man, the Affrican, 
 Such mervailes fortuned than, 
 I trow arecle my dreames even, 
 Lo, thus it was, this was my sweven. 
 Me thought thus, that it was May, 
 And in the dawning there I lay, 
 Me mette thus in my bed all naked, 
 And looked forth for I was waked, 
 With smale foules a great hepe, 
 That had afraied me out of my slepe, 
 Through noise and sweetnesse of hir song. 
 And as me mette, they sat among 
 Upon my chamber roofe without 
 Upon the tyles over all about. 
 And everiche song in his wise 
 The most solemne servise 
 By note, that ever man I trow 
 Had heard, for some of hem sung low, 
 Some high, and all of one accord, 
 To tell shortly at o word, 
 Was never heard so sweet steven, 
 But it had be a thing of Keven, 
 So merry a sowne, so sweet entunes, 
 That certes for the towne of Tewnes 
 I n'olde but I had heard hem sing, 
 For all my chamber gan to ring, 
 Through singing of hir ermony. 
 For instrument nor melody 
 Was no where heard yet halfe so swete, 
 Nor of accord halfe so mete, 
 For there was none of hem that fained 
 To sing, for ech of hem him pained 
 To find out many crafty notes, 
 They ne spared nat hir throtes ; 
 And, sooth to saine, my chamber was 
 Full well depainted, and with glas 
 
lO BOOKE OF THE DUTC HESSE, 
 
 Were all the windowes well yglased 
 Full clere, and nat an hole ycrased, 
 That to behold it was great joy, 
 For holy all the story of Troy 
 Was in the glaising y wrought thus, 
 Of Hector, and of king Priamus, 
 Of Achilles, and of king Laomedon, 
 And eke of Medea and Jason, 
 Of Paris, Heleine, and of Lavine, 
 And all the wals with colours fine 
 Were paint, both text and glose, 
 And all the Romaunt of the Rose ; 
 My windowes weren shit echone. 
 And through the glasse the Sunne shone 
 Upon my bed with bright hemes, 
 With many glad glidy stremes. 
 And eke the welkin was so faire. 
 Blew, bright, clere was the aire, 
 And full attempre, for sooth it was, 
 For neyther too cold ne hote it n'as, 
 Ne in all the welkin was no cloud. 
 And as I lay thus, wonder loud 
 Me thought I heard a hunte blow 
 T'assay his great home, and for to know 
 Whether it was clere, or horse of sowne. 
 And I heard going both up and downe 
 Men, horse, hounds, and other thing, 
 And all men speake of hunting. 
 How they would slee the hart with strength, 
 And how the hart had upon length, 
 So much enbosed, I n'ot now what. 
 
 Anon right whan I heard that, 
 How that they would on hunting gone, 
 I was right glad, and up anone, 
 Tooke my horse, and forth I went 
 Out of my chamber, I never stent 
 
BOOKE OF THE DUTCH ESSE. ii 
 
 Till I come to the field without, 
 
 There overtooke I a great rout 
 
 Of hunters and eke forresters, 
 
 And many relaies and limers. 
 
 And highed hem to the forrest fast, 
 
 And I with hem, so at the last 
 
 I asked one lad, a lymere, 
 
 " Say, fellow, who shall hunte here? '* 
 
 (Quod I) and he answered ayen, 
 
 *' Sir, the emperour Octavien " 
 
 (Quod he) " and is here fast by." 
 
 " A goddes halfe, in good time," (quod I) 
 Go we fast, and gan to ride ; 
 Whan we come to the forrest side, 
 Every man did right soone. 
 As to hunting fell to done. 
 
 The maister hunte, anone, fote hote 
 With his home blew three mote 
 At the uncoupling of his houndis, 
 Within a while the hart found is, 
 Yhallowed, and rechased fast 
 Long time, and so, at the last, 
 This hart rouzed and stale away 
 Fro all the hounds a previe way. 
 
 The hounds had overshot him all, 
 And were upon a default yfall. 
 Therewith the hunte wonder fast 
 Blew a forloyn at the last ; 
 I was go walked fro my tree. 
 And as I went, there came by me 
 A whelpe, that fawned me as I stood, 
 That had yfoUowed, and coud no good, 
 It came and crept to me as low. 
 Right as it had me yknow, 
 Held downe his head, and joyned his eares, 
 And laid all smooth downe his heares. 
 
12 BOOKE OF THE DUTCH ESSE. 
 
 I would have caught it anone, 
 It fled and was fro me gone, 
 As I him followed, and it forth went 
 Downe by a floury grene it went 
 Full thicke of grasse, full soft and sweet, 
 With floures fele, faire under feet. 
 And little used, it seemed thus, 
 For both Flora and Zepherus, 
 They two, that make floures grow, 
 Had made hir dwelling there I trow, 
 For it was on to behold, 
 As though the earth envye wold 
 To be gayer than the heven. 
 To have mo floures such seven 
 As in the welkin sterres be, 
 It had forgot the poverte 
 That winter, through his cold morrowes, 
 Had made it suffer, and his sorrowes ; 
 All was foryeten, and that was seene, 
 For all the wood was woxen greene, 
 Sweetnesse of dewe had made it waxe. 
 
 It is no need eke for to axe 
 Where there were many greene greves, 
 Or thicke of trees so full of leves, 
 And every tree stood by himselve 
 Fro other, well tenne foot or twelve, 
 So great trees, so huge of strength, 
 Of fortie or fiftie fadome length, 
 Cleane without bowe or sticke, 
 With croppes brode, and eke as thicke, 
 They were not an inch asunder. 
 That it was shadde over all under, 
 And many an hart and many an hind 
 Was both before me and behind, 
 Of fawnes, sowers, buckes, does. 
 Was full the wood, and many roes, 
 
BOOKE OF THE DUTCHESSE. 13 
 
 And many squirrels, that sete, 
 
 Full high upon the trees and ete. 
 
 And in hir manner made feasts : 
 
 Shortly, it was so full of beasts. 
 
 That though Argus, the noble countour, 
 
 Sate to recken in his countour, 
 
 And recken with his figures ten, 
 
 For by tho figures newe all ken 
 
 If they be craftie, recken and nombre, 
 
 And tell of every thing the nombre, 
 
 Yet should he faile to recken even 
 
 The wonders me met in my sweven : 
 
 But forth 1 romed right wonder fast 
 
 Downe the wood, so at the last 
 
 I was ware of a man in blacke, 
 
 That sate, and had yturned his backe 
 
 To an oke, an huge tree : 
 
 '* Lord," thought I, '* who may that bee ? 
 
 What eyleth him to sitten here ? " 
 
 Anon right I went nere, 
 
 Than found I sitte, even upright, 
 
 A wonder welfaring knight, 
 
 By the manner me thought so. 
 
 Of good mokel, and right yonge thereto, 
 
 Of the age of foure and twentie yeere. 
 
 Upon his beard but little heere. 
 
 And he was clothed all in blacke. 
 
 I stalked even unto his backe, 
 
 And there I stood as still as ought, 
 
 The sooth to say, he saw me nought, 
 
 For why he hing his head adowne. 
 
 And with a deadly sorrowfull sowne. 
 
 He made of rime ten verses or twelve, 
 
 Of a complaint to himselve, . . . 
 
 " I have of sorrow so great wone. 
 That joy get I never none, 
 
14 BOOKE OF THE DUTCHESSE. 
 
 Now that I see my lady bright, 
 Which I have loved with all my might, 
 Is fro me dead, and is agone, 
 And thus in sorrow left me alone. 
 Alas, Death, what eyleth thee, 
 That thou n'oldest have taken me, 
 Whan that thou tooke my lady swete ? 
 Of all goodnesse she had none mete, 
 That was so faire, so fresh, so free. 
 So good, that all men may well see." . , 
 
 But at the last, to faine right sooth. 
 He was ware of me, how I stood 
 Before him and did off my hood. 
 And had ygret him, as I best coud 
 Debonairly, and nothing loud. 
 He said, " I pray thee, be not wroth, 
 I heard thee not, to saine the sooth, 
 Ne I saw the not, sir, truly. " 
 
 ** Ah, good sir, no force," (quod I) 
 " I am right sorry, if I have ought 
 Distroubled you out of your thought, 
 Foryeve me, if I have misse-take." 
 
 " Yes, thamends is light to make'* 
 (Quod he) "for there lithe none thereto, 
 There is nothing mis-saide, nor do." . . 
 
 [The knight in black is induced to confide in Chatuer ; 
 and, after declaring himself incottsolable, proceeds : — ^] 
 
 I wretch that death hath made all naked 
 Of all the blisse that ever was maked, 
 Ywroth werste of all wights. 
 That hate my dayes and my nights, 
 My life, my lustes, be me loth, 
 
BOOKE OF THE DUTCH ESSE. iS 
 
 For all fare and I be wroth, 
 The pure death is so full my fo. 
 That I would die, it will not so, 
 For whan I follow it, it will flie, 
 I would have him, it n'ill not me, 
 This is pain without reed, 
 Alway dying, and be not deed, 
 That Tesiphus, that lieth in Hell, 
 May not of more sorrow tell : 
 And who so wist all, by my trouth, 
 My sorrow, but he had routh 
 And pitie of my sorrows smart, 
 That man hath a fiendly herte : 
 For whoso seeth me first on morrow, 
 May saine he hath met with sorrow, 
 For I am sorrow, and sorrow is I, 
 Alas, and I will tell thee why. 
 My sorrow is tourned to plaining, 
 And all my laughter to weeping, 
 My glad thoughts to heavinesse. 
 In travaile is mine idlenesse, 
 And eke my rest, my wele is wo, 
 My good is harme, and evermo 
 In wrath is tourned my playing. 
 And my delite into sorrowing, 
 Mine heale is tourned into sicknesse. 
 In dred is all my sikernesse. 
 To derke is turned all my light. 
 My witte is foly, my day is night. 
 My love is hate, my slepe wakyng. 
 My mirth and meales is fastyng. 
 My countenaunce is nicete, 
 And all abawed, where so I be, 
 My peace pleding, and in werre 
 Alas, how might I fare were? 
 
 " My boldnesse is turned to shame, 
 
i6 BOOKE OF THE DUTCHESSE. 
 
 For false Fortune hath played a game 
 
 At the chesse with me, alas the while. . . . 
 
 With her false draughtes full divers 
 
 She stale on me, and toke my fers, 
 
 And whan I sawe my fers away, 
 
 Alas, I couth no lenger play, 
 
 But said, '' Farewell sweet ywis, 
 
 And farewell all that ever there is : " 
 
 Therewith Fortune said, " Checke here," 
 
 And mate in the mid point of the checkere, 
 
 With a paune errant, alas. . . . 
 
 " Sir," (quod he) " sith first I couth 
 Have any manner wit fro youth, 
 Or kindly understanding, 
 To comprehend in any thing 
 What Love was, in mine owne wit, 
 Dredelesse I have ever yet 
 Be tributarie, and yeve rent 
 To Love holy, with good entent. 
 And through pleasaunce become his thrall, 
 With good will, body, herte, and all, 
 All this I put in his servage, 
 As to my lord, and did homage. 
 And full devoutly I praide him tho, 
 He should beset mine herte so, 
 That it pleasaunce to him were, 
 And worship to my lady dere. 
 
 " And this was long, and many a yere 
 (Ere that mine herte was set o where) 
 That I did thus, and n'ist why, 
 I trowe it came me kindely, 
 Paraunter I was thereto most able, 
 As a white wall, or a table. 
 For it is ready to catch and take 
 All that men will therein make. 
 Whether so men will portrey or paint, 
 
BOOKE OF THE DUTCHES SE. 17 
 
 Be the werkes never so queint. 
 
 ** And thilke time I fared right so, 
 I was able to have learned tho. 
 And to have conde as well or better 
 Paraunter either art or letter, 
 But for love came first in my thought, 
 Therefore I forgate it naught, 
 I chees love to my first craft. 
 Therefore it is with me laft, 
 For why, I tooke it of so yong age, 
 That malice had my courage ; 
 Not that time turned to nothing, 
 Through too mokell knowledging, 
 For that time youth my maistresse 
 Governed me in idlenesse. 
 For it was in my first youth. 
 And tho full little good I couth, 
 For all my werkes were flitting 
 That time, and all my thought varying, 
 All were to me yliche good, 
 That knew I tho, but thus it stood. 
 
 ** It happed that I came on a day 
 Into a place, there that I sey 
 Truly, the fairest companie 
 Of ladies, that ever man with eie 
 Had seene togither in o place, 
 Shall I clepe it hap either grnce, 
 That brought me there ? not luit Fortune, 
 That is to lien full commune, 
 The false tratieresse perverse, 
 God would I could clepe her werse, 
 For now she worcheth me full wo, 
 And I woll tell soone why so. 
 
 ** Amonge these ladies thus echone, 
 Sooth to saine, I saw one 
 That was like none of the rout, 
 
 473 
 
i8 BOOKE OF THE DUTC HESSE. 
 
 For I dare swere, without clout, 
 That as the summers Sunne bright 
 Is fairer, clerer, and hath more light 
 Than any other planet in Heven, 
 The Moone, or the sterres .seven, 
 For all the world so had she 
 Surmounten hem all of beaute, 
 Of maner, and of comlinesse. 
 Of stature, and of well set gladnesse, 
 Of goodly heed, and so wel besey, 
 Shortly what shall I more sey ? 
 By God and by his halowes twelve, 
 It was my swete, right all her selve, 
 She had so stedfast countenaunce, 
 So noble porte, and maintenaunce : 
 And Love, that well harde my bone, 
 Had espied me thus sone, 
 That she full soone in my thought, 
 As helpe me God, so was I cought 
 So sodainly, that I ne toke 
 No maner counsaile, but at her loke, 
 And at mine herte, for why her eyen 
 So gladly I trowe mine herte seyne. 
 That purely tho, mine owne thought. 
 Said, it were better serve her for nought, 
 . Than with another to be wele. 
 And it was soth, for every dele, 
 I will anone right tell thee why. 
 
 " I sawe her daunce so comely, 
 Carol and sing so swetely, 
 Laugh, and play so womanly, 
 And look so debonairly, 
 So goodly speke and freendly. 
 That certes I trowe that evermore, 
 Nas sene so blisfull a tresore : 
 For every heer on her heed, 
 
BOOKE OF THE DUTC HESSE. 19 
 
 Sothe to say, it was not reed, 
 
 Ne neither yelowe ne browne it nas, 
 
 Me thought most like gold it was, 
 
 And which eyen my lady had, 
 
 Debonaire, good, glad, and sad, 
 
 Simple, of good mokel, not to wide, 
 
 Thereto her loke nas not aside, 
 
 Ne overthwart, but beset so wele, 
 
 It drewe and tooke up everydele 
 
 All that on her gnn behold, 
 
 Her eyen seemed anone she wold 
 
 Have mercy, folly wenden so, 
 
 But it was never the rather do, 
 
 It nas no counterfeted thing, 
 
 It was her owne pure loking. 
 
 That the goddesse, dame Nature, 
 
 Had made hem open by measure, 
 
 And close, for were she never so glad, 
 
 Her looking was not folish sprad, 
 
 Ne wildely, though that she plaid, 
 
 But ever me thought, her eyen said, 
 
 By God my wrath is al foryeve. 
 
 Therewith her list so well to live. 
 
 That dulnesse was of her adrad, 
 
 She n'as to sobre ne to glad. 
 
 In all things more measure, 
 
 Had never I trowe creature. 
 
 But many one with her loke she herte, 
 
 And that sate her full litel at herte : 
 
 For she knew nothing of hir thought, 
 
 But whether she knew, or knew it nought, 
 
 Algate she ne rought of hem a stree, 
 
 To get her love no nere n'as he 
 
 That woned at home, than he in Inde, 
 
 The formest was alway behinde ; 
 
 But good folke over all other, 
 
20 BOOKE OF THE DUTCHESSE, 
 
 She loved as man may his brother, 
 Of which love she was wonder large. 
 In skilful! places that here charge : 
 But which a visage had she thereto, 
 Alas, my herte is wonder wo, 
 That I ne can discriven it ; 
 Me lacketh both English and wit, 
 For to undo it at the full, 
 And eke my spirites bene so dull 
 So great a thing for to devise, 
 I have not wit that can suffise 
 To comprehend her beaute, 
 But this much I dare sain, that she 
 Was white, rody, fresh, and lifely hewed. 
 And every day her beaute newed, 
 And nigh her face was alderbest, 
 For certes Nature had soch lest 
 To make that faire, that truly she 
 Was her chiefe patron of beaute. 
 And chiefe ensample of all her werke 
 And monster : for be it never so derke, 
 Me thinketh I see her ever mo, 
 And yet more over, though all tho 
 That ever lived were now a live, 
 Ne would have found to discrive 
 In all her face a wicked signe, 
 For it was sad, simple, and benigne. 
 " And soch a goodly swete speech, 
 Had that swete, my lives leech, 
 So frendely, and so well ygrounded 
 Upon all reason, so well yfounded, 
 And so tretable to all good, 
 That I dare swere well by the rood, 
 Of eloquence was never fonde 
 So swete a souning faconde, 
 Ne trewer tonged, ne scorned lasse, 
 
BOOKE OF THE DUTCH ESSE. 21 
 
 Ne bet coude heale, that by the masse, 
 I durst sweare though the pope it songe, 
 That there was never yet through her tonge, 
 Man ne woman greatly harmid, 
 As for her, was all harme hid : 
 Ne lasse flattering in her worde. 
 That purely her simple recorde, 
 Was found as trewe as any bond, 
 Or trouth of any mans hond. 
 
 " Ne chide she could never a dele. 
 That knoweth all the world ful wele. . . . 
 And soth to sayne, therewithal! 
 She had a witte so generall, 
 So whole enclined to all good, 
 That al her witte was sette by the rood, 
 Without malice upon gladnesse, 
 And thereto I sawe never yet a lesse 
 HarmefuU than she was in doyng, 
 I say not that she ne had knowyng 
 What harme was, or els she 
 Had coulde no good, so thinketh me. 
 And trewly, for to speake of trouth, 
 But she had had, it had be routh ; 
 Thereof she had so moch her dele. 
 And I dare saine, and swere it wele, 
 That Trouth himselfe, over al and al. 
 Had chose his maner principall 
 In her, that was his resting place. 
 Thereto she had the most grace, 
 To have stedfast perseveraunce. 
 And easy attempre governaunce. 
 That ever I knew, or wist yet, 
 So pure suffraunt was her wit. 
 And reason gladly she understood. 
 It folowed wel, she coulde good. 
 She used gladly to do wele. 
 
22 BOOKE OF THE DUTCHESSE. 
 
 These were her maners every dele. . . . 
 
 " But wherefore that I tell thee? 
 Whan I first my lady sey, 
 I was right yong, soth to sey, 
 And full great need I had to lerne, 
 Whan mine herte wolde yerne, 
 To love it was a great emprise, 
 But as my wit wolde best suffise, 
 After my yong childely wit, 
 Without drede I beset it, 
 To love her in my best wise 
 To do her worship and the servise 
 That I coude tho, by my trouth. 
 Without faining, eyther slouth, 
 For wonder faine I wolde her see, 
 So mokell it amended mee, 
 That whan I sawe her amorowe 
 I was warished of all my sorowe 
 Of all day after, till it were eve, 
 Me thought nothing might me greve, 
 Were my sorowes never so smert. 
 And yet she set so in mine herte, 
 That by my trouth, I n'old nought 
 For all this world, out of my thought 
 Leave my lady, no trewly. . . . 
 On her was all my love laid. 
 And yet she n'ist it not never a dele, 
 Not longe time, leve it wele, 
 For by right siker, I durst nought 
 For all this world tell her my thought, 
 Ne I wolde have trothed her trewly, 
 For wost thou why, she was lady 
 Of the body that had the herte. 
 And whoso halh that may not asterte. 
 
 " But for to kcepc me fro ydlenesse, 
 Trewly I did my businesse 
 
BOOKE OF THE DUTCHESSE. 23 
 
 To make songes, as I best coude, 
 And oft time I song hem loude, 
 And made songes, this a great dele, 
 Although I coude nat make so wele 
 Songes, ne knew the arte al, 
 As coude Lamekes son. Tubal, 
 That found out first the arte of songe, 
 For as his brothers hammers ronge. 
 Upon his anvelt, up and downe, 
 Thereof he toke the first sowne. 
 
 " But Grekes saine of Pithagoras, 
 That he the first finder was 
 Of the art, Aurora telleth so, 
 But thereof no force of hem two : 
 Algates songes thus I made, 
 Of my feling, mine herte to glade \ 
 And lo, this was alther first, 
 I n'ot where it were the werst. 
 
 *' ' Lord, it maketh mine herte light, 
 Whan I thinke on that swete wight, 
 That is so semely one to se. 
 And wish to God it might so be 
 That she wold hold me for her knight, 
 My lady, that is so fayre and bright. 
 
 *' Now have I told thee, soth to say, 
 My first song : upon a day, 
 I bethought me what wo. 
 And sorowe that I suffred tho, 
 For her, and yet she wist it nought, 
 Ne tell her durst I not my thought : 
 Alas, thought I, I can no rede. 
 And but I tell her I am but dede, 
 And if I tel her, to say right soth, 
 I am adradde she woll be wroth, 
 Alas, what shal I than do ? 
 In this debate I was so wo, 
 
24 BOOKE OF THE DUTCHESSE, 
 
 Me thought mine herte brast atwain, 
 So at the last, sothe for to saine, 
 I bethought me that Nature 
 Ne formed never in creature 
 So much beauty, trewly, 
 And bounty without mercy. 
 
 *' In hope of that, my tale I tolde, 
 With sorowe, as that I never sholde, 
 For nedes, and maugre mine heed 
 I must have tolde her, or be deed : 
 I n'ot well how that I began, 
 Full yvell reherce it I can. 
 And eke, as helpe me God withall, 
 I trow it was in the dismall. 
 That was the ten woundes of Egipt, 
 For many a word I overskipt 
 In my tale for pure fere, 
 Lest my wordes mis-set were, 
 With sorowfull herte and woundes dede. 
 Soft and quaking for pure drede, 
 And shame, and stinting in my tale, 
 For ferde, and mine hew al pale, 
 Full oft I wexte both pale and red, 
 Bowing to her I hing the hed, 
 I durst not ones loke her on, 
 For wit, manner, and all was gone ; 
 I said, * Mercy,' and no more, 
 It n'as no game, it sate me sore. 
 
 *' So at the last, soth to saine. 
 Whan that mine herte was com againe, 
 To tell shortly all my speech, 
 With hole herte I gan her beseech 
 That she wolde be my lady swete. 
 And swore, and hertely gan her hete, 
 Ever to be stedfast and trewe, 
 And love her alway freshly newe. 
 
BOOKE OF THE DUTCHESSE, 25 
 
 And never other lady have, 
 And all her worship for to save, 
 As I best coude, I sware her this, 
 * For yours is all that ever there is, 
 For evermore, mine herte swete, 
 And never to false you, but I mete 
 I n'il, as wise God helpe me so.' 
 
 ** And whan I had my tale ydo, 
 God wote, she accompted not a stre 
 Of all my tale, so thought me, 
 To tell shortly right as it is, 
 Trewly her answere it was this, 
 I can not now well countrefete 
 Her wordes, but this was the grete 
 Of her answere, she said nay 
 All utterly : alas that day ! 
 The sorow I suffered and the wo, 
 That trewly Cassandra that so 
 Bewayled the destruction 
 Of Troy, and of Illion, 
 Had never such sorow as I the ; 
 I durst no more say thereto 
 For pure feare, but stale away. 
 And thus I lived full many a day, 
 That trewly, I had no need, 
 Ferther than my beddes heed. 
 Never a day to seche sorrow, 
 I found it ready every morrow, 
 For why I loved in no gere. 
 
 " So it befell another yere, 
 I thought ones I would fonde. 
 To doe her know and understonde 
 My wo, and she well understood. 
 That I ne wilned thing but good. 
 And worship, and to keepe her name, 
 Over all things, and drede her shame, 
 
26. BOOKE OF THE DUTCHESSE. 
 
 And was so busie her to serve, 
 And pitie were that I should sterve, 
 Sith that I wilned no harme ywis. 
 
 " So whan my lady knew all this. 
 My lady yave me all holy, 
 The noble yeft of her mercy, 
 Saving her worship by all ways, 
 Dredelesse, I mene none other ways, 
 And therewith she yave me a ring, 
 I trowe it was the first thing, 
 But if mine herte was ywaxe 
 Glad that it is no need to axe. 
 
 ** As helpe me God, I was as blive 
 Raised, as from death to live, 
 Of all happes the alderbest, 
 The gladdest and the most at rest, 
 For truely that swete wight, 
 Whan I had wrong, and she the right, 
 She would alway so goodly 
 Foryeve me so debonairly, 
 In all my youth, in all chaunce, 
 She tooke in her governaunce, 
 Therewith she was alway so true. 
 Our joy was ever yliche newe, 
 Our hertes were so even a paire, 
 That never n'as that one contrarie 
 To that other, for no wo 
 For soth yliche they suffred tho. 
 O blisse, and eke o sorow bothe, 
 Yliche they were both glad and wrothc, 
 All was us one, without were. 
 And thus we lived full many a yere, 
 So well, I can not tell how." 
 
 " Sir," (quod I) " where is she now ? '' 
 *'Now ?" (quod he) and stinte anone, 
 Therewith he woxe as dedde as stone, 
 
BOOKE OF THE DUTCH ESSE, 2; 
 
 And saied, " Alas, that I was bore ! 
 That was the losse, that herebefore 
 I tolde thee that I had lorne. 
 
 *' Bethinke thee how I said here beforne, 
 Thou woste full litle what thou menest, 
 I have loste more than thou wenest. 
 
 " God wote alas, right that was she." 
 '* Alas sir, how, what may that be ? " 
 *' She is dedde : "— ** Nay?"—" Yes, by my trouth." 
 " Is that your losse ? by God it is routhe.'' 
 
 And with that worde right anone, 
 They gan to strake forth, all was done 
 For that time, the hart huntyng. 
 
 With that me thought that this kyng, 
 Gan homeward for to ride 
 Unto a place was there beside, 
 Which was from us but a lite, 
 A long castell with walles white, 
 By sainct Johan, on a rich hill. 
 As me mette, but thus it fill. 
 
 Right thus me mette, as I you tell, 
 That in the castell there was a bell, 
 As it had smitte houres twelve. 
 Therewith I awoke my selve, 
 And found me lying in my bedde, 
 And the booke that \ had redde, 
 Of Alcisne and Seis the kyng. 
 And of the goddes of sleping, 
 Yfound it in mine hond full even ; 
 Thought I, this is so queint a sweven, 
 That I would by processe of tyme, 
 P'onde to put this sweven in ryme, 
 As I can best, and that anon , 
 This was my sweven, now it is done. 
 
Zbc Hssembls of jfoules* 
 
 The lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne, 
 Th'assay so hard, so sharpe the conquering, 
 The dreadful joy alvvay that flit so yerne. 
 All this mean I by Love, that my feeling 
 Astonieth with his wonderful werkyng, 
 So sore ywis, that whan I on him think. 
 Naught wete I wel, whether I flete or sink. 
 
 For all be that I know not Love in dede, 
 
 Ne wot how that he quiteth folke hir hire, 
 
 Yet happeth me full oft in bookes rede 
 
 Of his myracles, and of his cruell ire, 
 
 There rede I well, he woll be lorde and sire : 
 
 I dare not say his strokes be sore, 
 
 But God save such a lorde, I can no more. 
 
 Of usage, what for lust and what for lore, 
 
 On bookes rede I of, as I you told, 
 
 But wherfore speake I all this ? naught yore 
 
 Agon, it happed me to behold 
 
 Upon a booke was ywritten with letters old. 
 
 And thereupon a certain thing to lerne. 
 
 The long day full fast I radde and yerne. 
 
THE ASSEMBLY OF FOULES, 29 
 
 For out of the old fieldes, as men saithe, 
 Cometh al this new come fro yere to yere, 
 And out of old bookes, in good faithe, 
 Cometh all this new science that men lere, 
 But now to purpose, as of this mattere. 
 To rede forth it gan me so delite, 
 That all that day me thought it but a lite. 
 
 This booke of which I make mencion, 
 Entitled was right thus, as I shall tell, 
 Tullius of the dreame of Scipion : 
 Chapiters seven it had, of Heaven and Hell, 
 And Earth, and soules that therein dwell. 
 Of which as shortly as I can it treate, 
 Of his sentence I woll you saine the greate. 
 
 First telleth it, when Scipion was come 
 In Affricke, how he meteth Massinisse, 
 That him for joy, in armes hath ynome, 
 Than telleth he hir speach and all the blisse, 
 That was betwixt hem til the day gan misse, 
 And how his auncester Affrikan so dere, 
 Gan in his slepe that night til him appere. . . . 
 
 The day gan failen, and the darke night 
 That reveth beastes from hir businesse, 
 Beraft me my booke for lacke of light, 
 And to my bedde I gan me for to dresse. 
 Fulfilled of thought and besie heavinesse, 
 For both I had thyng, which that I n'old. 
 And eke I ne had that thing that I wold. 
 
 But finally my spirite at last, 
 
 For weary of my labour all that day, 
 
 Tooke reste, that made me to slepe fast, 
 
30 THE ASSEMBL Y OF FO ULES. 
 
 And in my sleepe I mette, as that I say, 
 How Afirikan, right in the selfe aray 
 That Scipion him saw, before that tide, 
 Was come, and stode right at my bods side. 
 
 The wearie hunter sleeping in his bedde, 
 
 The wood ayen his mind goeth anone, 
 
 The judge dremeth how his plees be spedde, 
 
 The carter dremeth how his cartes gone, 
 
 The rich of gold, the knight fights with his fonc, 
 
 The sicke mette he drinkcth of the tonne, 
 
 The lover mette he hath his lady wonne. 
 
 Can I not saine, if that the cause were 
 
 For I had radde of Affrikan beforne, 
 
 That made me to mete that he stood there, 
 
 But thus said he : *' Thou hast thee so well borne 
 
 In looking of mine old booke all to torne. 
 
 Of which Macrobie raught not a lite, 
 
 That some dele of thy labour would I quite. " 
 
 Citherea, thou blisful lady swete, 
 
 That with thy fire brond dauntest whan thee lest, 
 
 That madest me this sweven for to mete. 
 
 Be thou my helpe in this, for thou maist best, 
 
 As wisely as I seigh the north northwest. 
 
 Whan I began my sweven foi; to write, 
 
 So yeve me might to rime it and endite. 
 
 This foresaid Affrikan me hent anone. 
 
 And forthwith him to a gate brought, 
 
 Right of a parke, walled with grene stone. 
 
 And over the gate, with letters large y wrought, 
 
 There were verse ywrittcn as me thought 
 
 On either halfe, of full great difference, 
 
 Of which I shall you say the playne sentence : 
 
THE ASSEMBLY OF FOULES, 31 
 
 *' Through me men gon into the blisful place 
 Of hertes heale and dedly woundes cure, 
 Through me men gon into the well of grace, 
 There grene and lusty May shall ever endure. 
 This is the way to all good aventure, 
 Be glad thou reader, and thy sorrow off cast, 
 All open am I, passe in and spede thee fast." 
 
 " Through me men gon" (than spake the other side) 
 '' Unto the mortall strokes of the speare, 
 Of which Disdaine and Danger is the gide ; 
 There never tree shall fruit ne leaves beare, 
 This streme you ledeth to the sorrowful were, 
 There as the fish in pry son is all dry, 
 The eschewing is onely the remedy." 
 
 These verses of gold and asure ywritten weare, 
 
 Of which I gan astonied to behold, 
 
 For with that one encreased all my feare, 
 
 And with that other gan my herte to bolde, 
 
 That one me hette, that other did me colde, 
 
 No wit had I for errour for to chese, 
 
 To enter or flie, or me to save or lese. 
 
 Right as betwene adamants two, 
 Of even weight, a peece of yron set 
 Ne hath no might to move ne to ne fro, 
 For what that one may hale that other let, 
 So fared I, that I n'ist where me was bet 
 To entre or leave, till Afifrikan my gide, 
 Me hent and shove in at the gates wide. 
 
 And said, '* It standeth written in thy face, 
 Thine errour, though thou tell it not me, 
 But dread thee not to come into this place, 
 
32 THE ASSEMBL Y OF FOULES, 
 
 For this writing is nothing meant by thee, 
 Ne by none, but he Love's ser vaunt bee, 
 For thou of love hast lost thy tast of gesse, 
 As sicke men hath, of swete and bitternesse. 
 
 '' But natheles, although thou be dull. 
 That thou canst not doe, yet mayst thou see, 
 For many a man that may not stand a pull, 
 Yet liketh it him at the wrestlyng for to be, 
 And demeth yet, whether he doe bet, or he, 
 And if thou haddest connyng for t'endite, 
 I shall thee shew matter of to write." 
 
 And with that my hand in his he toke anon, 
 Of which I comfort caught, and went in fast. 
 But Lord so I was glad, and well begon, 
 For over all, where I mine eyen cast. 
 Were trees clad with leaves, that aie shall last 
 Eche in his kind, with colour fresh and grene, 
 As emeraude, that joy it was to sene. 
 
 The bilder oke, and eke the hardy asshe, 
 The pillar elme, the coffre unto caraine, 
 The boxe pipe tree, holme to whippes lasshe. 
 The sailing firre, the cipres death to plaine. 
 The shooter ewe, the aspe for shaftes plaine. 
 The olive of peace, and eke the dronken vine. 
 The victor palme, the laurer too divine. 
 
 A gardein saw I full of blosomed bowis, 
 Upon a river in a grene mede. 
 There as sweetnesse evermore inough is, 
 With floures white, blewe, yelowe, and rede, 
 And cold welle streames, nothing dede, 
 That swommen full of smale fishes light. 
 With finnes rede, and scales silver bright. 
 
THE ASSEMBLY OF FOULES. 33 
 
 On every bough the birdes heard I sing, 
 
 With voice of angell in hir armonie, 
 
 That busied hem hir birdes forth to bring, 
 
 The little pretty conies to hir play gan hie. 
 
 And further all about I gan espie 
 
 The dredeful roe, the buck, the hart, and hind, 
 
 Squirrels, and beastes small of gentle kind. 
 
 Of instruments of stringes in accorde 
 Heard I so play a ravishing swetnesse, 
 That Go<l, that maker is of all and Lorde, 
 Ne heard never better, as I gesse, 
 Therewith a wind, unneth it might be lesse, 
 Made in the leaves grene a noise soft 
 Accordant to the foules song on loft. 
 
 The aire of the place so attempre was, 
 That never was ther grevance of hot ne cold, 
 There was eke every holsome spice and gras, 
 Ne no man may there waxe sicke ne old. 
 Yet was there more joy o thousand fold, 
 Than I can tell or ever could or might. 
 There is ever clere day, and never night. . . . 
 
 Whan I was commen ayen into the place 
 That I of spake, that was so soote and grene, 
 Forth walked I tho, my selven to solace, 
 Tho was I ware, where there sate a quene, 
 That as of light the sommer Sunne shene 
 Passeth the sterre, right so over mesure, 
 She fairer was than any creature. 
 
 And in a launde, upon an hill of floures, 
 Was set this noble goddesse Nature, 
 Of branches were her halles and here boures 
 
 474 
 
34 THE ASSEMBLY OF FOULES, 
 
 Ywrought, after her craft and her mesure, ' 
 Ne there n'as foul that cometh of engendrure, 
 That there ne were prest in her presence, 
 To take hir dome and yeve her audience. 
 
 For this was on sainct Valentines day. 
 Whan every foule cometh to chese hir make, 
 Of every kind that men thinke may, 
 And that so huge a noise gan they make, 
 That earth, sea, and tree, and every lake, 
 So full was, that unneth there was space 
 For me to stand, so full was all the place. 
 
 And right as Alain, in the Plaint ofKinde, 
 Deviseth Nature of such araie and face. 
 In suche aray men might her there finde. 
 This noble empresse full of all grace, 
 Bad every foule take hir owne place, 
 As they were wont alway, fro yere to yere, 
 On sainct Valentines day, standen there. 
 
 That is to say, the foules of ravine 
 
 Were highest set, and than the foules smale, 
 
 That eaten as that nature would encline. 
 
 As worme or thing, of which I tell no tale. 
 
 But water foule sat lowest m the dale. 
 
 And foules that liveth by seed sat on the grene, 
 
 And that so many, that wonder was to sene. 
 
 There might men the royall egle find. 
 
 That with his sharpe looke perseth the Son, 
 
 And other egles of a lower kind. 
 
 Of which that clerkes well devisen con ; 
 
 There was the tyrant with his fethers don. 
 
 And grene, I mean the goshauke that doth pine 
 
 To birdes, for his outragious ravine. 
 
THE ASSEMBLY OF FOULES, 35 
 
 The gentle faucon, that with his fete distreineth 
 The kings hand, the hardy sperhauke eke, 
 The quailes foe, the merlion that peineth 
 Himself full oft the larke for to seke, 
 There was the dove, with her eyen meke, 
 The jelous swan, ayenst his deth that singeth, 
 The oul eke, that of deth the bode bringeth. 
 
 The crane, the geaunt, with his trompes soune, 
 The thief the chough, and the chattring pie, 
 The scorning jaye, the eles foe the heroune, 
 The false lapwing, full of trecherie, 
 The stare, that the counsaile can bewrie, 
 The tame ruddocke, and the coward kite. 
 The cocke, that horiloge is of thorpes lite. 
 
 The sparowe Venus' son, and the nightingale 
 That clepeth forth the fres'h leaves new, 
 The swalowe, murdrer of the bees smale 
 That maken honie of floures fresh of hew, 
 The wedded turtell, with his herte true, 
 The pecocke, with his angel fethers bright, 
 The fesaunt, scorner of the cocke by night. 
 
 The waker gose, the cuckowe ever unkind, 
 
 The popingey, full of delicasy, 
 
 The drake, stroier of his owne kind, 
 
 The storke, wreker of aduoutry, 
 
 The bote cormeraunt, ful of glotony, 
 
 The ravin and the crowe, with her voice of care, 
 
 The throstell olde, and the frostie feldefare. 
 
 What should I say ? of foules of every kind, 
 That in this world have fethers and stature, 
 Men might in that place assembled find, 
 
36 THE A SSEMBL V OF FO ULES. 
 
 Before that noble goddesse of Nature, 
 And echo of them did his busie cure, 
 Benignely to chese, or for to take 
 By her accorde, his formell or his make. 
 
 But to the point : Nature held on her hond, 
 A formell egle, of shape the gentillest, 
 That ever she among her workes fond, 
 The most benigne, and eke the goodliest, 
 In her was every vertue, at his rest 
 So farforth, that Nature her selfe had blisse, 
 To looke on her, and oft her beeke to kisse. 
 
 [Three eagles become rivals for the formelPs favour.'] 
 
 Of a! my life, sith that day I was borne, 
 
 So gentle plee in love or other thing, 
 
 Ne herde never no man me beforne. 
 
 Who so that had leiser and conning 
 
 For to rehearse their chere, and there speaking ; 
 
 And from the morrow gan this spech last, 
 
 Till downward went the Sunne wonder fast. 
 
 The noyse of foules for to be delivered. 
 
 So loude rang, " Have don and let us wend," 
 
 That well weend I, the wood had al to shiverd : 
 
 " Come off," they cryd, *' alas, ye will us shend, 
 
 Whan shal your cursed pleding have an end ? 
 
 How should a judge either party leve. 
 
 For ye or nay, without any preve ? " 
 
 The goos, the duck, and the cuckowe also, 
 
 So cried " Keke, keke, Cuckow, Queke, queke, hie," 
 
THE ASSEMBL Y OF FO ULES, 37 
 
 Through mine eares the noise went tho. 
 The goos said than *' Al this n'is worth a flie, 
 But I can shape hereof a remedie, 
 And will say my verdite, faire and swithe, 
 For water foule, whoso be wroth or blithe," 
 
 *' And I for worm foule," said the fole cuckow, 
 
 " For I will of mine own authorite, 
 
 For common spede, take on me the charge now, 
 
 For to deliver us it is great charite." 
 
 *' Ye may abide a while, yet perde," 
 
 (Quod the turtel) '* if it be your will, 
 
 A wight may speak> it were as good be still. 
 
 '* I am a sede foule, one the unworthiest, 
 
 That wote I well, and leest of conning, 
 
 But better is that a wights tonge rest. 
 
 Than entremete him of such doing 
 
 Of which he neither rede can nor sing. 
 
 And who so it doth, full foule himself acloyeth, 
 
 For office uncommitted oft annoyeth." 
 
 Nature, which that alway had an eare 
 
 To murmure of the lewdenesse behind, 
 
 With facond voice said, ** Hold your tongues there 
 
 And I shall soone, I hope, a counsaile find, 
 
 You for to deliver, and fro this noyse unbind : 
 
 I charge of every flock ye shall one call, 
 
 To say the verdite of you foules all." , , , 
 
 The water foules have their heads laid 
 Togider, and of short avisement, 
 Whan everiche had this verdite said, 
 
38 THE ASSEMBLY OF FOULES, 
 
 They said soothly all by one assent, 
 How that the goos, with the facond gent, 
 That so desireth to pronounce our nede, 
 Shal tel her tale, and praid to God her spede. 
 
 And for these water foules tho began 
 
 The goose to speake, and in her cakeling 
 
 She said, ** Peace now, take keep every man, 
 
 And herken which a reason I shall forth bring, 
 
 My witte is sharpe, I love no tarrying, 
 
 I say, I rede him, tho he were my brother, 
 
 But she will love him, let him love another.'' 
 
 *' Lo, here a parfite reason of a goose" 
 (Quod the sperhauke) " never mote she the, 
 Lo, such a thing it is to have a tongue lose : 
 Now parde foole, yet were it better for the 
 Have held thy peace than shewd thy nicete ; 
 It lieth nat in his wit, nor in his will, 
 But sooth is said, a fole cannot be still." 
 
 The laughter arose of gentill foules all, 
 And right anone the seed foules chosen had 
 The turtle true, and gan her to hem call, 
 And preyed her to say the sooth sad 
 Of this matter, and asked what she rad ? 
 And she answered, that plainly her entent 
 She would shew, and soothly what she ment. 
 
 ** Nay, God forbede a lover should chaunge," 
 The turtle said (and wex for shame all red) 
 *' Though that his lady evermore be straunge. 
 
THE ASSEMBL V OF FO ULES, 39 
 
 Yet let him serve her alway, till he be deed. 
 Forsooth, I praise not the gooses reed, 
 For tho she died, I would none other make, 
 I will be hers, till that the death me take." 
 
 " Well ybourded " (quod the duck) ** by my hat. 
 
 That men should love alway causelesse, 
 
 Who can a reason find, or wit in that ? 
 
 Daunceth he merry that is mirthlesse? 
 
 Who should recke of that is retchlesse? 
 
 Ye queke yet," quod the duck, ** full well and fair, 
 
 There be mo sterres in the skie than a pair." 
 
 " Now fie churle," quod the gentle tercelet, 
 
 ** Out of the dunghill came that word aright, 
 
 Thou canst not see which thing is well beset, 
 
 Thou farest by love as owles do by light, 
 
 The day hem blindeth, full well they see by night, 
 
 Thy kind is of so low wretchedness, 
 
 That what love is thou canst not see nor gess."' 
 
 Tho gan the cuckow put him forth in preace, 
 
 For foule that eateth worme, and said blive : 
 
 '* So I," quod he, " may have my make in peace, 
 
 I retch not how long that ye strive. 
 
 Let ech of hem be soleine all hir live. 
 
 This is my rede, sens they may nat accord, 
 
 This short lesson needeth not record," 
 
 "Ye, have the glutton filde his paunch 
 
 Than are we well," said the emerlon, 
 
 ** Thou murdrer of the heysugge on the braunch 
 
40 THE ASSEMBL V OF FO ULES, 
 
 That brought thee forth, thou ruful glutton, 
 
 Live thou solein, wormes corruption, 
 
 For no force is of lack of thy nature, 
 
 Go, leude be thou while the world may dure." . 
 
 \The formell is referred to for a decision ; hut dooms her 
 suitors to a yearns suspense."] 
 
 " To you speke I, ye tercelets," (quod Nature) 
 " Beth of good herte, and serveth all three, 
 A yeare is not so long to endure, 
 And ech of you paine him in his degree. 
 For to do well, for God wote quit is she 
 Fro you this year, what after so befall. 
 This entremes is dressed for you all." 
 
 And whan this werk brought was to an end, 
 To every foule Nature yave his make, 
 By even accord, and on hir way they wend, 
 And Lord the blisse and joy that they make, 
 For ech of hem gan other in his wings take, 
 And with hir neckes ech gan other winde, 
 Thanking alway the noble goddess of kinde. 
 
 But first were chosen foules for to sing, 
 As yere by yere was alway his usaunce, 
 To sing a roundel at hir departing, 
 To do Nature honour and pleasaunce ; 
 The note I trow maked was in PVaunce, 
 The words were such as ye may here find, 
 The next verse as I now have in mind. 
 
 Qui bien ayme tard oublyc. 
 
THE ASSEMBLY OF FOULES. 41 
 
 *'Now welcome summer, with thy simnes soft. 
 That hast this winter weathers overshake, 
 Saint Valentine, thou art full high on loft. 
 Which drivest away the long nights blake ; 
 Thus singen smale foules for thy sake, 
 Well have they cause for to gladen oft. 
 Sens each of hem recovered hath his make. 
 Full blisful may they sing whan they awake." 
 
 And with the shouting whan hir song was do, 
 That the foules made at hir flight away, 
 I woke, and other bookes took me to 
 To rede upon and yet I rede alway, 
 I hope ywis to rede so some day, 
 That I shall mete something for to fare 
 The bet, and thus to rede I nill not spare. 
 
XTtoilus anJ) Cresei&e* 
 
 INCIPIT LIBER PRIMUS. 
 
 \_Creseides father, CaJcaSy has left Troy and gone over fo 
 the Gi'Ccks. Crtseiiie, deserted, lives in retirement 
 with Hector'' s promise of protcction.'\ 
 
 And so befell, whan comen was the time 
 
 Of Aprill, whan clothed is the mede, 
 
 With new grene, of lustie veer the prime, 
 
 And with sweet-smelling floures white and rede 
 
 In sundrie wise shewed, as I rede, 
 
 The folke of Troie, their observances old, 
 
 Palladions feast went for to hold. 
 
 Unto the temple in all their best wise, 
 
 Generally there went many a wight^ 
 
 To hearken to Palladions servise, 
 
 And namely many a lustie knight, 
 
 And many a ladie fresh, and maiden bright, 
 
 Full well arraied bothe most and least, 
 
 Both for the season and the high feast. 
 
 Among these other folke was Crescida, 
 In widdowes habite blacke : but natheles 
 Right as our first letter is now an a, 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 43 
 
 In beautie first so stood she mak.eles, 
 Her goodly looking gladed afl the prees, 
 Nas never scene thing to be praised so derre, 
 Nor under cloiide blacke so bright a sterre, 
 
 As was Creseide, they sayden everichone, 
 That her behelden in her blacke wede, 
 And yet she stood full lowe and still alone 
 Behinde other folke in little brede, 
 And nie the dore under shames drede, 
 Simple of attire, and debonaire of chere, 
 With full assured looking and mancre. 
 
 This Troilus, as he was wont to guide 
 His yonge knightes, lad hem up and doune, 
 In ihilke large temple on every side, 
 Beholding aie the ladies of the toune, 
 Now here now there, for no devotioune 
 Had he to none, to reven him his rest, 
 But gan to praise and lacke whom him lest. 
 
 And in his walk full fast he gan to waiten, 
 
 If knight or squier of his companie, 
 
 Gan for to sike, or let his eyen baiten 
 
 On any woman, that he coud espie. 
 
 He would smile, and hold it a follie. 
 
 And say hem thus : '* O Lord she sleepeth soft 
 
 For love of thee, whan thou turnest full oft. 
 
 '* I have heard tell pardieux of your living, 
 Ye lovers, and eke your lewde observances, 
 And which a labour folke have in winning 
 Of love, and in keeping such doutaunces. 
 And whan your pray is lost, wo and penaunces: 
 O, very fooles, blinde and nice be ye, 
 There is not one can ware by another be." 
 
44 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 
 
 And with that word he gan cast up the brow, 
 Ascaunces, lo, is this not well yspoken, 
 At which the god of love gan looken low, 
 Right for dispite, and shope him to be wroken. 
 He kidde anone his bowe was not broken ; 
 For sodainly he hitte him at the full, 
 And yet as proude a peacocke gan he pull, 
 
 blinde world, o blind entention, 
 How often falleth all the effect contraire 
 Of surquedrie and foule presumption. 
 
 For caught is proud, and caught is debonaire ; 
 This Troilus is clomben on the staire, 
 And little weneth that he mote descenden, 
 But all day it faileth that fooles wenden. 
 
 As proud Bayard beginneth for to skippe 
 Out of the way, so pricketh him his come, 
 Till he a lash have of the longe whippe, 
 Than thinketh he, *'Tho I praunce all beforne 
 First in the traise, full fat and new yshorne. 
 Yet am I but an horse, and horses law 
 
 1 must endure, and with my feeres draw." 
 
 So fared it by this fiers and proud knight, 
 Though he a worthy kinges sonne were, 
 And wende nothing had had suche might, 
 Ayenst his will, that should his herte stere, 
 Yet with a looke his herte woxe on fire. 
 That he that now was most in pride above, 
 Woxe sodainly most subject unto love. 
 
 Forthy ensample taketh of this man, 
 Ye wise, proud, and worthy folkes all. 
 To scornen Love, which that so soone can 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 45 
 
 The freedome of your hertes to him thrall, 
 For ever it was, and ever it be shall, 
 That Love is he that all thinges may bind, 
 For no man may fordo the law of kind. 
 
 That this be sooth hath preved and doth yet, 
 For this (I trowe) ye know all and some. 
 Men reden not that folke han greater wit 
 Than they that han ben most with love ynome, 
 And strengest folk been therewith overcome. 
 The worthyest and greatest of degree, 
 This was and is, and yet man shall it see. 
 
 And trueliche that sitte well to be so. 
 For alderwisest han therewith ben pleased, 
 And they that han ben aldermost in wo, 
 With love han ben comforted and most eased, 
 And oft it hath the cruell herte appeased, 
 And worthy folke made worthier of name, 
 And causeth most to dreden vice and shame. 
 
 Now sith it may nat goodly be withstond, 
 And is a thing so vertuous and kind, 
 Refuseth nought to love for to ben bond, 
 Sith as him selven list he may you bind ; 
 The yerde is bette that bowen woll and wind 
 Than that that brest, and therefore I you rede, 
 Now foUoweth him, that so well can you lede. 
 
 But for to tellen forth in speciall. 
 As of this kinges sonne, of which I told, 
 And leven other thing coUaterall, 
 Of him thinke I my tale forth to hold. 
 Both of his joy, and of his cares cold, 
 And his werke, as touching this matere, 
 For I it gan, I woll thereto refere. 
 
46 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 Within the temple he went him forth playing 
 
 This Troilus, of every wight about, 
 
 Now on this lady, and now on that looking, 
 
 Where so she were of toune, or of without : 
 
 And upon case befell, that through a rout 
 
 His eye pierced, and so deepe it went 
 
 Till on Creseide it smote, and there it stent. 
 
 And sodainely for wonder wext astonned, 
 
 And gan her bet behold in thrifty wise : 
 
 '*0 very God," thought he, *'wher hast thou 
 
 wonned, 
 That art so faire and goodly to devise ? " 
 Therewith his herte gan to spread and rise, 
 And softe sighed, least men might him here, 
 And caught ayen his firste playing chere. 
 
 She n'as nat with the most of her stature, 
 But all her limmes so well answering 
 Weren to womanhood, that creature 
 Was never lasse mannish in seeming. 
 And eke the pure wise of her meaning 
 Shewed well, that men might in her gesse 
 Honour, estate, and womanly noblesse. 
 
 Tho Troilus, right wonder well withall, 
 Gan for to like her meaning and her chere, 
 Which somdele deignous was, for she let fall 
 Her looke a little aside, in such manere 
 Ascaunces, what may I not stonden here, 
 And after that her looking gan she light, 
 That never thought him seen so good a sight. 
 
 And of her looke in him there gan to quicken 
 So great desire, and such affection, 
 That in his hertes bottome gan to sticken 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 47 
 
 Of her his fixe, and deepe impression : 
 And though he earst had pored up and doun, 
 Than was he glad his homes in to shrinke, 
 Unnethes wist he how to looke or winke. 
 
 Lo, he that lete him selven so cunning, 
 And scorned hem that loves paines drien, 
 Was full unware that Love had his dwelling 
 Within the subtill streames of her eyen, 
 That sodainely him thought he felte dyen, 
 Right with her looke, the spirite in his hert, 
 Blessed be Love, that thus can folke convert. 
 
 She thus in blacke, liking to Troilus, 
 Over all thing he stood for to behold : 
 But his desire, ne wherefore he stood thus. 
 He neither chere made, ne worde told, 
 But from aferre, his manner for to hold, 
 On other thing sometime his looke he cast, 
 And eft on her, while that the service last : 
 
 And after this, nat fulliche all awhaped. 
 
 Out of the temple, eselich he went, 
 
 Repenting him that ever he had japed 
 
 Of Loves folke, least fully the discent 
 
 Of scorne fell on himselfe, but what he ment, 
 
 Lest it were wist on any manner side, 
 
 His woe he gan dissimulen and hide. 
 
 Whan he was fro the temple thus departed. 
 He straight anone unto his pallace turneth, 
 Right with her loke through shotten and darted, 
 All faineth he in lust that he sojourneth, 
 And all his chere and speech also he bourneth, 
 And aie of Loves servaunts every while 
 Him selfe to wrie, at hem he gan to smile, 
 
48 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 And saied, ** Lord, so they live all in lust. 
 Ye lovers, for the cunningest of you, 
 That serveth most ententifelich and best 
 Him tite as often harme thereof as prow, 
 Your hire is quit ayen, ye, God wote how, 
 Not wele for wele, but scorne for good servise, 
 In faith your order is ruled in good wise. 
 
 " In no certaine been your observaunces, 
 But it onely a sely few points be, 
 Ne nothing asketh so great attendaunces, 
 As doth your laie, and that know all ye : 
 But that is not the worst, as mote I the, 
 But told I you the worst point, I leve. 
 All sayd I sooth, ye woulden at me greve. 
 
 " But take this : that ye lovers oft eschew, 
 
 Or else done of good entention. 
 
 Full oft thy ladie woU it misse constrew, 
 
 And deeme it harme in her opinion, 
 
 And yet if she for other encheson 
 
 Be wroth, than shalt thou have a groin anon : 
 
 Lord, well is him that may been of you one." 
 
 But for all this, whan that he seeth his time 
 He held his peace, none other bote him gained, 
 For Love began his feathers so to lime. 
 That well unneth unto his folke he fained, 
 That other busie needes him distrained. 
 So woe was him, that what to done he n'ist. 
 But bad his folke to gon where as hem list. 
 
 And whan that he in chamber was alone, 
 He doune upon his beddes feet him set, 
 And first he gan to sike, and eft to grone, 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 49 
 
 And thought aie on her so withouten let, 
 That as he sate and woke, his spirit met 
 That he her saw and temple, and all the wise 
 Right of her looke, and gan it new avise. 
 
 Thus gan he make a mirrour of his mind, 
 In which he saw all wholy her figure, 
 And that he well coud in his herte find 
 It was to him a right good aventure 
 To love such one, and if he did his cure 
 To serven her, yet might he fall in grace, 
 Or else, for one of her servantes pace. 
 
 Imagining, that travaile nor grame 
 Ne might for so goodly one he. lorne 
 As she, ne him for his desire no shame 
 All were it wist, but in prise and up borne 
 Of all lovers, well more than beforne. 
 Thus argumented he, in his ginning, 
 Full unavised of his wo comming. 
 
 Thus took he purpose Loves craft to sewe 
 
 And thought he would worken privily 
 
 First for to hide his desire in mewe 
 
 From everie wight iborne, all overly. 
 
 But he might ought recovered been thereby, 
 
 Remembring him, that love too wide yblowe 
 
 Yelte bitter fruite, though sweet seed be sowe. 
 
 And over all this, full mokell more he thought 
 What for to speake, and what to holdon inne 
 And what to arten, er to love he sought. 
 And on a song anone right to beginne. 
 And gan loude on his sorrow for to winne : 
 For with good hope he gan fully assent, 
 Creseide for to love, and nought repent . 
 
 475 
 
so TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 
 
 And of his song not onely his sentence, 
 As write mine authour called Lolius, 
 But plainely save our tongues difference, 
 I dare well say, in all that Troilus 
 Sayed in his song, lo every word right thus, 
 As I shall saine, and who so list it heare 
 Lo this next verse, he may it finde there. 
 
 THE SONG OF TROILUS. 
 
 ** If no love is, O God, what feele I so? 
 And if love is, what thing and which is he ? 
 If love be good, from whence cometh my wo ? 
 If it be wicke, a wonder thinketh me. 
 Whan every torment and adversite 
 That cometh of him, may to me savery think : 
 \\ ^ ^ For aie thurst I the more that iche it drinke. 
 
 ** And if that at mine owne lust I brenne, 
 From whence cometh my wailing and my plaint 
 If harme agree me, whereto plaine I thenne, 
 I n'ot, ne why unwery that I feint. 
 O quicke death, o sweete harme so queint, 
 How may of thee in me be such quantite, 
 But if that I consent that it so be ? 
 
 ** And if that I consent, I wrongfully 
 Complaine y wis : thus possed to and fro. 
 All sterelesse within a bote am I 
 Amidde the sea, atwixen windes two, 
 That in contrary stonden ever mo. 
 Alas, what is this wonder maladie ? 
 For heat of cold, for cold of heat I die." 
 
 And to the god of love thus sayed he 
 With pitous voice, ** O lord, now yours is 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 51 
 
 My spirite, which that oughten yours to be, 
 You thank I, lord, that han me brought to this : 
 But whether goddesse or woman ywis 
 She be, I n'ot, which that ye do me serve, 
 But as her man I woll aie live and sterve. 
 
 " Ye stonden in her eyen mightily, 
 
 As in a place to your vertue digne : 
 
 Wherefore, lord, if my servise or I 
 
 May liken you, so beth to me benigne, 
 
 For mine estate royall here I resigne 
 
 Into her honde, and with full humble cheer, 
 
 Become her man, as to my lady deer." 
 
 In him ne deigned sparen blood royall 
 The fire of love wherefro God me blesse, 
 Ne him for bare in no degree, for all 
 His vertue, or his excellent prowesse, 
 But held him as his thrall lowe in distresse, 
 And brend him so in sundry wise aie newe, 
 That sixty times a day he lost his hewe. 
 
 So mochell day fro day his owne thought 
 For lust to her gan quicken and encrease, 
 That everiche other charge he set at nought, 
 Forthy full oft, his hot fire to cease, 
 To seen her goodly looke he gan to prease, 
 For thereby to ben eased well he wend. 
 And aie the nere he was, the more he brend. 
 
 For aie the nere the fire the hotter is, 
 This (trow I) knoweth all this companie : 
 But were he ferre or nere, I dare say this, 
 By night or day, for wisedome or follie, 
 
52 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 His herte, which that is his brestes eie, 
 Was aie on her, that fairer was to seene 
 Than ever was Heleine, or Polixene. 
 
 Eke of the day there passed not an hour, 
 That to himselfe a thousand times he sayd, 
 ** God goodly, to whome I serve and labour 
 As I best can, now would to God Creseide 
 Ye woulden on me rue, er that I deide : 
 My dere herte alas, mine hele and my hew, 
 And life is lost, but ye woll on me rew." 
 
 All other dredes weren from him fled, 
 
 Both of th'assiege, and his savation, 
 
 Ne in desire none other formes bred, 
 
 But arguments to his conclusion, 
 
 That she on him would have compassion 
 
 And he to ben her man, while he may dure, 
 
 Lo here his life, and from his death his cure. 
 
 The sharpe showers fell of armes preve 
 That Hector or his other brethren didden 
 Ne made him onely therefore ones meve, 
 And yet was he, where so men went or ridden, 
 Found one the best, and lengest time abiden 
 There perill was, and eke did such travaile 
 In armes, that to thinke it was a marvaile. 
 
 But for none hate he to the Greekes had, 
 
 Ne also for the rescous of the toun, 
 
 Ne made him thus in armes for to mad. 
 
 But onely lo, for this conclusion, 
 
 To liken her the bet for his renoun : 
 
 Fro day to day in armes so he sped. 
 
 That all the Greekes as the death him dred. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 53 
 
 " But now help God, and ye my sweet, for whom 
 I plaine, ycaught ye never wight so fast : 
 O mercie, deare herte, and helpe me from 
 The death, for I, while that my life may last, 
 More than my selfe woll love you to my last, 
 And with some frendly look gladeth me swete, 
 Though never more thing ye to me behete.*' 
 
 These wordes, and full many another mo 
 He spake, and called ever in his compleint 
 Her name, for to tellen her his wo, 
 Til nigh that he in salte teares was dreint, 
 All was for nought, she heard nat his pleint : 
 And whan that he bethought on that foUie, 
 A thousand fold his woe gan multiplie. 
 
 Bewailing in his chamber thus alone, 
 A friend of his, that called was Pandare, 
 Came ones in unware, and heard him grone, 
 And saw his friend in such distresse and care. 
 "Alas," (quod he) *' who causeth all this fare? 
 O mercy God, what unhappe may this mene? 
 Han now thus sone the Greeks made you lene ? 
 
 **0r hast thou some remorse of conscience? 
 And art now fall in some devotion. 
 And wailest for thy sinne and thine offence, 
 And hast for ferde caught contrition ? 
 God save hem, that besieged han our toun, 
 That so can laie our jollitie on presse, 
 And bring our lustie folke to holynesse." 
 
 These wordes said he for the nones all, 
 
 That with such thing he might him angry maken, 
 
 And with his ancer done his sorrow fall, 
 
54 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 As for a time, and his courage awaken : 
 But well wist he, as far as tongues speaken, 
 Ther nas a man of greater hardinesse 
 Than he, ne more desired worthinesse. . . . 
 
 [Troilus at last confesses that his malady is — 
 
 *' Love, ayenst the which who so defendeth 
 Hun selven most, him alderlest availeth."] 
 
 " How hast thou thus unkindly and long 
 Hid this fro me, thou fool ? " (quod Pandarus) 
 " Pera venture thou maist after such one long, 
 That mine avise anone may helpen us :'* 
 "This were a wonder thing," (quod Troilus) 
 ** Thou couldest never in love thy selfen wisse. 
 How divell maiest thou bringen me to blisse ? " 
 
 ** Ye Troilus, now hearken," (quod Pandare) 
 ** Though I be nice, it happeth often so, 
 That one that of axes doeth full evil fare. 
 By good counsail can keep his frend ther fro : 
 I have my selfe seen a blinde man go 
 There as he fell, that could looken wide, 
 A foole may eke a wise man oft guide. 
 
 " A whetstone is no carving instrument, 
 
 But yet it maketh sharpe kerving tolls, 
 
 And after thou wost that I have aught miswent, 
 
 Eschue thou that, for such thing to schole is, 
 
 Thus often wise men bewaren by foolis : 
 
 If thou so doe, thy wit is well bewared, 
 
 By his contrarie is everie thing declared. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 55 
 
 \Pandarus^ after much discussion and disquisition^ de~ 
 mands the final confidence,'] 
 
 ** Looke up, I say, and tell me what she is 
 
 Anone, that I may gone about thy need : 
 
 Know ich her aught, for my love tell me this ; 
 
 Than would I hope rather for to speed." 
 
 Tho gan the veine of Troilus to bleed, 
 
 For he was hit, and woxe all redde for shame, 
 
 ** Aha," (quod Pandare) "here beginneth game." 
 
 And with that word, he gan him for to shake, 
 
 And sayd him thus, " Thou shalt her name tell : " 
 
 But tho gan sely Troilus for to quake. 
 
 As though men should han had him into Hell, 
 
 And sayed, "Alas, of all my woe the well, 
 
 Than is my sweete foe called Creseide," 
 
 And well nigh with that word for feare he deide. 
 
 And whan that Pandare herd her name neven, 
 Lord, he was glad, and saied, ** Friend so deere. 
 Now fare a right, for Joves name in Heaven, 
 Love hath beset thee well, be of good chcere, 
 For of good name, and wisdom, and manere 
 She hath inough, and eke of gentlenesse : 
 If she be faire, thou west thy selfe, I gesse. . . . 
 
 [Pandarus undertakes to plead his friend's cause with 
 Creseide ; and in the second book we find him playing 
 the envoy to such good effect thai his niece^ without 
 pledging herself to love, promises to be kind to Troilus, ] 
 
 With this he toke his leave, and home he went, 
 Ye, Lord, how he was glad, and well bigon : 
 Creseide arose, no lenger she ne stent. 
 But streight into her closet went anon, 
 
56 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 
 
 And set her doune, as still as any stone, 
 And every word gan up and doune to wind, 
 That he had said as it came her to mind. 
 
 And woxe somdele astonied in her thought, 
 Right for the newe case, but whan that she 
 Was full avised, tho found she right nought, 
 Of perill, why that she ought aferde be : 
 For man may love of possibilitie 
 A woman so, his herte may to brest, 
 And she nat love ayen, but if her lest. 
 
 But as she sat alone, and thought thus, 
 Th'ascrie arose at skarmoch all without. 
 And men cried in the strete, ** Se Troilus 
 Hath right now put to flight the Grekes rout." 
 With that gonne all her meine for to shout : 
 " A, go we se, cast up the gates wide, 
 For through this strete he mote to paleis ride." 
 
 For other waie is fro the gates none, 
 Of Dardanus, there open is the cheine : 
 With that come he, and all his folke anone 
 And easie pace riding, in routes tweine. 
 Right as his happy day was, soth to seine : 
 For which men saith, may not distourbed be 
 That shall betide of necessitie. 
 
 This Troilus sat on his bale stede 
 
 All armed save his head full richely, 
 
 And wounded was his horse, and gan to blede, 
 
 On which he rode a pace full softely : 
 
 But such a knightly sight truely 
 
 As was on him, was nat withouten faile 
 
 To loke on Mars, that e:od is of battaile. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 57 
 
 So like a man of armes, and a knight J 
 
 He was to seen, fulfilled of high prowesse, \ 
 
 For both he had a body, and might 1 
 
 To doen that thing, as well as hardinesse, \ 
 
 And eke to seen him in his geare dresse 
 So freshe, so yong, so weldy semed he, 
 It was an heaven upon him for to se. 
 
 His helme to hewen was in twenty places, | 
 
 That by a tissue hong, his backe behind, \ 
 
 His shelde to dashed with swerds and with maces, 
 
 In which men might many an arowe find, 
 
 That thirled had both horn, nerfe, and rind : ' 
 
 And aie the people cried, " Here cometh our joie, \ 
 
 And next his brother, holder up of Troie." f 
 
 For which he wext a little redde for shame i 
 
 Whan he so heard the people upon him crien, 
 
 That to behold it was a noble game. 
 
 How soberliche he cast adoune his eyen : 
 
 Creseide anon gan all his chere espien, 
 
 And let it so soft in hir herte sinke, 
 
 That to her self she said, *' Who yave me drinke ? ' 
 
 For all her own thought, she woxe all redde, 
 Remembring her right thus, ** Lo this is he. 
 Which that mine uncle swereth he mote dedde, 
 But I on him have mercie and pite : " 
 And with that thought, for pure ashamed she, 
 Gan in her hedde to pull, and that as fast, 
 While he and all the people forth by past. 
 
 And gan to cast, and rollen up and doun 
 Within her thought his excellent prowesse, 
 And his estate, and also his renoun, 
 
S8 TROILUS AND CRESETDE. 
 
 His witte, his shape, and eke his gentilnesse, 
 But most her favour was, for his distresse 
 Was all for her, and thought it were a routh, 
 To slaen soche one, if that he meant trouth. 
 
 Now might some envious jangle thus, 
 " This was a sodain love, how might it be, 
 That she so lightly loved Troilus ? 
 Right for the first sight : ye, parde ? " 
 Now whoso saied so, mote he never the : 
 For every thing a ginning hath it nede 
 Er all be wrought, withouten any drede. 
 
 For I said nat that she so sodainly 
 
 Yafe him her love, but that she gan encline 
 
 To liken him tho, and I have told you why : 
 
 And after that, his manhode, and his pine, 
 
 Made that love within her gan to mine : 
 
 For which by processe, and by good service 
 
 He wanne her love, and in no sodain wise. . . , 
 
 And after that her thought gan for to clere 
 And saied, " He which that nothing undertaketh 
 Nothing achieveth, be him loth or dere ; " 
 And with another thought her herte quaketh 
 Than slepeth hope, and after drede awaketh. 
 Now bote, now cold, but thus bitwixen twey 
 She rist her up, and went hir for to pley. 
 
 Adoune the staire anon right tho she went 
 Into her gardine, with her neces three, 
 And up and doun, they maden many a went 
 Flexippe and she, Tarbe, and Antigone, 
 To plaien, that to joie was to see, 
 And other of her women a great rout 
 Her foUoweth in the gardaine all about. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 59 
 
 This yerde was large, and railed al the alies 
 And shadowed wel, with blosomy bowes grene, 
 And benched newe, and sonded all the waies 
 In which she walketh arme in arme betwene, 
 Till at the last Antigone the shene 
 Gan on a Troian song to singen clere, 
 That it an Heven was her voice to here. 
 
 She saied, " O Love, to whom I have, and shall 
 
 Been humble subject, true in mine entent 
 
 As I best can, to you, lorde, yeve iche all 
 
 For evermore mine hertes lust to rent : 
 
 For never yet thy grace to no wight sent 
 
 So blisfuU cause as me, my life to lede 
 
 In all joie and suretie, out of drede. 
 
 " The blisfull god, hath me so well beset 
 
 In love ywis, that all that beareth life 
 
 Imaginen ne could how to be bet, 
 
 For, lorde, withouten jelousie or strife 
 
 I love one, which that moste is ententife 
 
 To serven well, unwerily or unfained. 
 
 That ever was, and lest with harme distained, 
 
 " As he that is the well of worthinesse, 
 
 Of trouth ground, mirrour of goodlihedde, 
 
 Of wit Apollo, stone of silkernesse, 
 
 Of vertue roote, of luste finder and hedde, 
 
 Through whiche is all sorrowe fro me dedde : 
 
 Ywis I love him best, so doeth he me. 
 
 Now good thrift have he, where so ever he be. 
 
 ** Whom should I thanken but you, god of love, 
 Of all this blisse, in which to bathe I ginne. 
 And thanked be ye, lorde, for that I love. 
 This is the right life that I am inne, 
 
6o TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 To flemen all maner vice and sinne : 
 This doeth me so to vertue for to entende 
 That daie by daie I in my will amende. 
 
 " And who that saieth that for to love is vice, 
 Or thraldome, though he fele it in distresse, 
 He either is envious, or right nice, 
 Or is unmightie for his shreudnesse, 
 To loven, for soch maner folke I gesse 
 Diffamen Love, as nothing of him know 
 They speaken, but they bent never his bowe. 
 
 '* What is the Sunne worse of his kind right, 
 Though that a man, for feblenesse of his eyen 
 Male not endure on it to se for bright ? 
 Or love the worst, that wretches on it crien ? 
 No wele is worth, that may no sorrowe drien : 
 And forthy, who that hath an hedde of verre 
 Fro cast of stones ware him in the werre. 
 
 ** But I with all mine herte and all my might, 
 
 As I have saied, woll love unto my last 
 
 My owne dere herte and all mine owne knight. 
 
 In whiche mine herte growen is so fast 
 
 And his in me, that it shall ever last : 
 
 All dredde I first love \ 'x) begin, 
 
 Now wote I well there is no perill in." 
 
 And of her song right with that word she stent, 
 And therewithall, " Now nece " (quod Creseide) 
 " Who made this song now with so good enteat ? ' 
 Antigone answerede anon and saide, 
 '* Madame ywis the goodliest maide 
 Of great estate in all the toune of Troie 
 And led her life in most honour and joie." 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 6i 
 
 " Forsothe so semeth it by her song," 
 
 Quod tho Creseide, and gan therewith to sike, 
 
 And saied : *' Lorde, is there soche blisse emong 
 
 These lovers, as they can faire endite : " 
 
 ** Ye, wisse," quod fresh Antigone the white, 
 
 ** For all the folke that have or been on live 
 
 Ne con well the blisse of love descrive. 
 
 " But wene ye that every wretche wote 
 
 The parfite blisse of love ? why naie y wis : 
 
 They wenen all be love, if one be bote : 
 
 Do waie do waie, they wote nothing of this. 
 
 Men mote asken of sainctes, if it is 
 
 Ought faire in Heven, and why ? for they can tell, 
 
 And aske fendes, if it be foule in Hell." 
 
 Creseide unto the purpose naught answerde, 
 But saied, " Ywis it woU be night as fast," 
 But every worde, which that she of her herde, 
 She gan to printen in her herte fast. 
 And aie gan love her lasse for to agast 
 Than it did erst, and sinken into her herte, 
 That she waxe somewhat able to convarte. 
 
 The dales honour, and the Heavens eye, 
 The nightes foe, all this clepe I thee Sonne, 
 Gan westren fast, and dounward for to wrie, 
 As he that had his dales course yronne, 
 For lacke of light, and sterres for to apere, 
 That she and all her folke in went yfere. 
 
 So whan it liked her to gon to rest. 
 
 And voided weren they that voiden ought, 
 
 She saied, that to slepen well her leste : 
 
62 TROILUS AND C RES EWE. 
 
 Her women sone till her bedde her brought : 
 Whan al was hust, than lay she still and thought 
 Of all this thing the maner and the wise, 
 Rehearce it needeth not, for ye been wise. 
 
 A nightingale upon a cedre grene 
 
 Under the chamber wall, there as she laie. 
 
 Full loude song ayen the Mone shene 
 
 Paraventure, in his birdes wise, a laie 
 
 Of love, that made her herte freshe and gale, 
 
 That herkened she so long in good entent, 
 
 Till at the last the dedde sleepe her hent. 
 
 And as she slept, anon right tho her met, 
 
 How that an egle fethered white as bone, 
 
 Under her brest his longe clawes yset, 
 
 And out her herte he rent, and that anon, 
 
 And did his herte into her brest to gon, 
 
 Of which she nought agrose, ne nothing smart, 
 
 And forth he flieth, with herte left for herte. . . . 
 
 [Pandarus meantime induces Troilus to write to his 
 mistress ; and furnishes full instructions. '\ 
 
 "Touching thy letter, thou art wise inough, 
 I wot thou n'ilte it deigneliche endite. 
 As make it with these argumentes tough, 
 Ne scriveinishe or craftely thou it write, 
 Beblotte it with thy teares eke alite. 
 And if thou write a goodly word all soft, 
 Though it be good, rehearse it not too oft. 
 
 ** For though the best harpour upon live 
 Would on the best souned jolly harpe 
 That ever was, with all his fingers five 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 63 
 
 Touch aye o string, or aye o warble harpe, 
 Where his nailes pointed never so sharpe. 
 It should make every wight to dull, 
 To heare his glee, and of his strokes full. 
 
 " Ne j ombre eke no discordaunt thing yfere, 
 
 As thus, to usen tearmes of phisicke, 
 
 In loves tearmes hold of thy matere 
 
 The forme alway, and doe that it be like. 
 
 For if a painter would paint a pike. 
 
 With asses feet, and headed as an ape, 
 
 It cordeth not, so were it but a jape." . . • 
 
 [Fandarus becomes the bearer of the letter , and procures a 
 reply from his niece^ whom he rebukes for supposed 
 insensibility. "X 
 
 And right as they declared this matere, 
 
 Lo Troilus, right at the stretes end 
 
 Came riding with his tenth somme yfere 
 
 All softely, and thiderward gan bend 
 
 There as they sate, as was his way to wend 
 
 To paleis ward, and Pandare him aspide, 
 
 And said, " Nece, ysee who commeth here ride." 
 
 '* O flie not in, he seeth us I suppose, 
 
 Least he may thinken that ye him eschue." 
 
 " Nay, nay " (quod she) and woxe as red as rose, 
 
 With that he gan her humbly salue 
 
 With dredeful chere, and oft his hewes mue. 
 
 And up his looke debonairely he cast, 
 
 And becked on Pandare, and forth by past. 
 
 God wot if he sat on his horse aright, 
 Or goodly was beseene that ilke day, 
 God wot where he were like a manly knight, 
 
64 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 What should I dretche, or tell of his array : 
 Creseide, which that all those thinges sey ; 
 To tell in short, her liked all yfere, 
 His person, his aray, his looke, his chere. 
 
 His goodly manner, and his gentillesse, 
 So well, that never sith that she was borne, 
 Ne had she suche routh of his distresse. 
 And how so, she hath hard ben here beforne, 
 To God hope I, she hath now caught a thorn, 
 She shall nat pull it out this next wike, 
 God send her mo such thornes on to pike. 
 
 Pandare, which that stood her faste by, 
 Felt iron hot, aud he began to smite, 
 And said, '* Nece, I pray you heartely, 
 Tell me that I shall asken you alite, 
 A woman that were of his death to wite 
 Withouten his gilt, but for her lack of routh, 
 Were it well done ? '* (quod she) " Nay by my 
 trouth." 
 
 ** God help me so " (quod he) ** ye say me sooth, 
 
 Ye feelen well your selfe that I nought lie, 
 
 Lo, yonde he rideth : " (quod she) '*Ye so he 
 
 dooth : " 
 ** Well " (quod Pandare) "as I have told you thrie, 
 Let be your nice shame, and your follie, 
 And speake with him in easing of his herte, 
 Let nicete nat do you bothe smert. " 
 
 But thereon was to heaven and to done, 
 Considering all thing, it may nat be, 
 And why ? for shame, and it were eke too scone, 
 To graunten him so great a liberte : 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 65 
 
 For plainly her entent, as (said she) 
 Was for to love him unwist, if she might, 
 And guerdon him with nothing but with sight. 
 
 But Pandare thought, it shall nat be so, 
 
 If that I may, this nice opinion 
 
 Shall nat ben holden fully yeares two. 
 
 What should I make of this a long sermon ? 
 
 He must assent on that conclusion, 
 
 As for the time, and whan that it was eve, 
 
 And all was well, he rose and tooke his leve. 
 
 And on his way fast homeward he spedde, 
 
 And right for joy he felt his herte daunce, 
 
 And Troilus he found alone abedde, 
 
 That lay, as done these lovers in a traunce, 
 
 Betwixen hope and derke desperaunce, 
 
 But Pandare, right at his incomming, 
 
 He song, as who saith, '' Lo, somevvhat I bring." 
 
 And said, " Who is in his bedde so soone 
 Yburied thus? " " It am I friend : " (quod he) 
 ** Who, Troilus? nay, help me so the Moone " 
 (Quod Pandarus) *' thou shalt up rise and see 
 A charme that was sent right now to thee, 
 The which can healen thee of thine accesse, 
 If thou do forthwith all thy businesse." 
 
 ** Ye, through the might of God : " (quod Troilus) 
 
 And Pandarus gan him the letter take, 
 
 And said, •' Parde God hath holpen us, 
 
 Have here a light, and look on all these blake." 
 
 But often gan the herte glad and quake 
 
 Of Troilus, while he it gan to rede, 
 
 So as the wordes yave him hope or drede. 
 
 476 
 
66 TROILUS AND CRESEWE. 
 
 But finally he tooke all for the best 
 That she him wrote, for somewhat he beheld, 
 On which he thought he might his herte rest, 
 All covered she the wordes under sheld. 
 Thus to the more worthy part he held, 
 That what for hope, and Pandarus behest, 
 His greate wo foryede he at the lest. 
 
 [Pandarus by stratagem brings Troilus to speech with 
 his lady ; and the lover pleads so well that a degree 
 of love is granted him. The mediator fields recom- 
 pense in the happiness of his friend^ in his gratitude 
 and patient hearing of good counsel. "l 
 
 Thus held hem ech of other well apaied, 
 That all the world ne might it bet amend, 
 And on the morrow when they were araied, 
 Ech to his owne needs gan to entend : 
 But Troilus, though as the fire he brend, 
 For sharpe desire of hope, and of pleasaunce. 
 He not forgate his good governaunce. 
 
 But in himself, with manhood gan restrain 
 Ech rakell deed, and ech unbridled chere. 
 That all that liven soothe for to saine, 
 Ne should have wist by word or by manere 
 What that he ment, as touching this matere. 
 From every wight, as ferre as is the cloud, 
 He was so wise, and well dissimulen coud. 
 
 And all the while which that I now devise. 
 This was his life, with all his full might : 
 By dav he was in Martes high servise, 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 67 
 
 That is to saine, in armes as a knight, 
 And for the more part all the long night, 
 He lay and thought how that he might serve 
 His lady best, her thanke for to deserve, 
 
 N'ill I not sweare, although he lay soft, 
 That in his thought n'as somewhat diseased, 
 Ne that he tourned on his pillowes oft. 
 And would of that him missed have ben eased, 
 But in such case men be nat alway pleased, 
 For naught I wote, no more than was he, 
 That can I deeme of possibilitie. 
 
 But certaine is, to purpose for to go. 
 
 That in this while, as written is in geste, 
 
 He saw his lady sometime, and also 
 
 She with him spake, whan that she durst and leste, 
 
 A nd by hir both avise, as was the best, 
 
 Appointeden full warely in this need, 
 
 So as they durst, how they would proceed, 
 
 But it was spoken in so short a wise, 
 In such awaite alway, and in such feare. 
 Least any wight divinen or devise 
 Would of hem two, or to it lay an eare. 
 That all this world so lefe to hem ne were. 
 As that Cupid e would hem his grace send, 
 To maken of her speech right an end. 
 
 But thilke little that they spake or wrought. 
 His wise ghost tooke aye of all such hede. 
 It seemed her he wiste what she thought, 
 Withouten word, so that it was no nede, 
 To bid him aught to doen, or aught forbede, 
 For which she thought that love, all come it late 
 Of all joy had opened her the yate. 
 
68 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 And shortly of this processe for to pace, 
 So well his werke and wordes he beset, 
 That he so full stood in his ladies grace. 
 That twenty thousand times ere she let, 
 She thonked God she ever with him met, 
 So could he him governe in such servise. 
 That all the world ne might it bet devise. 
 
 For she found him so discreet in all. 
 
 So secret, and of such obeisaunce, 
 
 That well she felt he was to her a wall 
 
 Of steel, and shield of every displeasaunce, 
 
 That to been in his good governaunce, 
 
 So wise he was, she was no more afered, 
 
 I meane as ferre as aught ben requered. . . . 
 
 But to the great effect, then say I thus, 
 That stonden in concord and in quiete 
 This ilke two, Creseide and Troilus, 
 As I have told, and in this time swete, 
 Save onely often might they not mete, 
 Ne leisure have, hir speeches to fulfell, 
 That it befell right as I shall you tell, 
 
 That Pandarus, that ever did his might, 
 Right for the fine that I shall speake of here, 
 As for to bringen to his house some night 
 His faire nece, and Troilus yfere, 
 Where as at leiser all this high matere 
 Touching hir love were at the full up bound, 
 Had out of doubt a time to it found. . . . 
 
 ]^Fandarus resolves to bring the lovers secretly together at 
 his house.'] 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEWE. 69 
 
 Now is there litell more for to done, 
 But Pandare up, and shortly for to saine, 
 Right sone upon the chaunging of the Mone, 
 Whan lightlesse is the world a night or twaine, 
 And that the welkin shope him for to raine. 
 He streight a morrow unto his nece went, 
 Ye have well herde the fine of his entent. 
 
 Whan he was comen, he gan anon to play, 
 As he was wont, and of himselfe to jape, 
 And finally he swore, and gan her say, 
 By this and that, she should him not escape, 
 No lenger done him after her to gape : 
 But certainly, she must, by her leve, 
 Come soupen in his house with him at eve. 
 
 At which she lough, and gan her first excuse, 
 And said : " It raineth : lo, how should I gone," 
 ** Let be," (quod he) '* ne stonde not thus to muse, 
 This mote be don, ye shal come there anone," 
 So at the last, hereof they fell at one : 
 Or eles fast he swore her in her eere. 
 He nolde never comen there she were. 
 
 Sone after this, she to him gan rowne, 
 
 And asked him if Troilus were there. 
 
 He swore her nay, for he was out of towne : 
 
 And said, *' Nece, I suppose that he were there, 
 
 You durst never thereof have the more fere ? 
 
 For rather than men might him there aspie, 
 
 Me were lever a thousand folde to die." 
 
 Naught list mine auctour fully to declare, 
 What that she thought, whan as he said so, 
 That Troilus was out of towne yfare, 
 
70 TROILUS AND CRESETDE. 
 
 And if he said thereof soth or no, 
 But that withouten awaite with him to go, 
 She graimted him, sith he her that besought, 
 And as his nece obeyed as her ought. 
 
 But nathelesse, yet gan she him besech, 
 (Although with him to gone it was no fere) 
 For to beware of gofisshe peoples spech, 
 That dremen thinges, which that never were, 
 And wel avise him whom he brought there : 
 And said him, ** Eme, sens I must on you trist, 
 Loke al be wel, and do now as you list." 
 
 He swore her this by stockes and by stones, 
 And by the Goddes that in Heven dwell, 
 Or eles were him lever soule and bones. 
 With Pluto king, as depe ben in Hell 
 As Tantalus : what should I more tell ? 
 When al was well, he rose and toke his leve. 
 And she to souper came whan it was eve. 
 
 With a certaine number of her own men, 
 And with her faire nece Antigone, 
 And other of her women nine or ten. 
 But who was glad now, who, as trowe yee? 
 But Troilus, that stode and might it see 
 Throughout a litel window in a stewe, 
 Ther he beshet, sith midnight, was in mewe, 
 
 Unwist of every wight, but of Pandare. 
 
 But to the point, now whan that she was come, 
 
 With al joy, and al her frendes in fare, 
 
 Here eme anon in armes hath her nome. 
 
 And than to the souper al and some, 
 
 Whan as time was, full softe they hem set, 
 
 God wot there was no deinte ferre to fet. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 71 
 
 And after souper gonnen they to rise, 
 
 At ease well, with herte full fresh and glade, 
 
 And wel was him that coude best devise 
 
 To liken her, or that her laughen made, 
 
 He songe, she plaide, he told a tale of Wade : 
 
 But at the last, as every thing hath end, 
 
 She toke her leave, and nedes would thence wend. 
 
 But O Fortune, executrice af wierdes, 
 
 O influences of these hevens hie, 
 
 Soth is, that under God ye ben our hierdes, 
 
 Though to us beestes ben the causes wrie ; 
 
 This mene I now, for she gan homeward hie ; 
 
 But execute was all beside hir leve, 
 
 At the goddes wil, for which she must bleve. 
 
 The bente Mone with her homes all pale, 
 Saturnus and Jove, in Cancro joyned were, 
 That such a raine from Heven gan availe. 
 That every maner woman that was there, 
 Had of that smoky raine a very feere ; 
 At which Pandare tho lough, and said thenne, 
 ** Now were it time a lady to go henne. 
 
 •* But good nece, if I might ever please 
 You any thing, than pray I you," (quod he) 
 ** To don mine herte as now so great an ease, 
 As for to dwell here al this night with me, 
 For why ? this is your owne house parde : 
 For by my trouth, I say it nat in game, 
 To wende as now, it were to me a shame. " 
 
 Creseide, which that could as much good 
 As halfe a world, toke hede of his praire, 
 And sens it rained, and al was in a flode, 
 
72 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 
 
 She thought, ** As good chepe may I dwel here 
 And graunt it gladly with a frendes chere, 
 And have a thonk, as grutch and than abide, 
 For home to go it may nat well betide," 
 
 '* I wol," (quod she) " mine uncle liefe and dere, 
 
 Sens that you list, it skill is to be so, 
 
 I am right glad with you to dwellen here, 
 
 I said but agame that I would go." 
 
 " Ywis graunt mercy nece," (quod he) ** tho : 
 
 Were it agame or no, sothe to tell, 
 
 Now am I glad, sens that you list to dwel." 
 
 Thus al is wel, but tho began aright 
 The newe joy, and al the fest againe, 
 But Pandarus, if goodly had he might, 
 He would have hied her to bedde full faine, 
 And said, *' O Lord, this is an huge raine, 
 This were a wether for to sleepen in. 
 And that I rede us soone to begin. 
 
 ** And nece, wote ye where I woll you lay, 
 For what we shul not Hggen ferre a sonder, 
 And for ye neither shullen, dare I say, 
 Here noise of raine, ne yet of thonder ? 
 By God right in my closet yonder, 
 And I wol in that utter house alone, 
 Ben wardain of your women everichone. 
 
 ** And in this middle chambre that ye se, 
 Shal your women slepen, wel and soft, 
 And there I said, shal your selven be : 
 And if ye liggen wel to night, come oft, 
 And careth not what wether is aloft. 
 The wine anone, and whan so you lest, 
 Go we to slepe, I trowe it be the best." 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 73 
 
 There n'is no more, but hereafter sone 
 They voide, dronke, and travers draw anone, 
 Gan every wight that hath nought to done 
 More in the place, out of the chambre gone. 
 And ever more so stereliche it rone, 
 And blewe therwith so wonderHche loude, 
 That wel nigh no man heren other coude. 
 
 Tho Pandarus her eme, right as him ought 
 With women, such as were her most about, 
 Ful glad unto her beddes side her brought, 
 And toke his leave, and gan ful lowe lout. 
 And said, ** Here is this closet dore without, 
 Right overtwhart, your women liggen all. 
 That whom ye list of hem, ye may sone call." 
 
 Lo, whan that she was in the closet laid, 
 
 And al her women forth by ordinaunce, 
 
 A bedde weren, there as I have said. 
 
 There n'as no more to skippen nor to praunce. 
 
 But boden go to bedde with mischaunce, 
 
 If any wight stering were any where. 
 
 And lett hem slepen, that abedde were. . , . 
 
 Tho Troilus gan sorrowfully to sike 
 
 Lest she be wroth, him thought his herte deide, 
 
 And saied, " Alas, upon my sorrow^es sike, 
 
 Have mercy, O swete herte mine Creseide : 
 
 And if that in tho wordes that I seide. 
 
 Be any wrong, I woll no more trespace, 
 
 Doeth what you list, I am all in your grace.*' 
 
 And she answerde, ** Of gilt misericorde. 
 That is to saine, that I foryeve all this, 
 And evermore on this night you recorde, 
 And bethe well ware ye do no more amis : '* 
 
74 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 
 
 ** Nay, dere herte mine, no more" (quod he) "ywis." 
 '* And now " (quod she) " that I have you do smart, 
 Foryeve it to me, mine own swete herte." 
 
 This Troilus with blisse of that surprised, 
 Put all in Goddes hand, as he that ment 
 Nothing but well, and sodainly avised 
 He her in his armes fast to him hent : 
 And Pandarus, with a full good entent, 
 Laied him to slepe, and saied, ' * If ye be wise, 
 Sweveneth not now, lest more folk arise." 
 
 What might or may the sely larke say, 
 Whan that the sparhauke hath him in his fote, 
 I can no more, but of these ilke tway, 
 (To whom this tale sugre be or sote) 
 Though I tary a yeer*?, sometime I mote, 
 After mine aucthour tellen hir gladnesse, 
 As well as I have told hir hevinesse. 
 
 Creseide, which that felt her thus ytake, 
 
 (As writen clerkes in hir bokes old) 
 
 Right as an aspen lefe she gan to quake. 
 
 Whan she him felt her in his armes fold : 
 
 But Troilus all hole of cares cold, 
 
 Gan thanken tho the blisfuU goddes seven, 
 
 Through sondry pains to bring folk to Haven. 
 
 This Troilus in armes gan her straine, 
 And saied ** Swete, as ever mote I gone. 
 Now be ye caught, here is but we twaine, 
 Now yeldeth you, for other boote is none : " 
 To that Creseide answerde thus anone, 
 ** Ne had I er now, my sweet herte dere, 
 Been yolde ywis, I were not here." 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 75 
 
 soth is saied, that healed for to be 
 As of a fever, or other great sicknesse, 
 Men must drinken as we often se, 
 
 Full bitter drinke : and for to have gladnesse 
 Men drinken of pain, and great distresse : 
 
 1 meane it here by, as for this aventure, 
 That through a pain hath founden al his cure. 
 
 And now swetnesse semeth far more swete, 
 That bitternesse assaied was biforne, 
 For out of wo in blisse now they flete, 
 Non soch they felten sens they were borne, 
 Now is this bet, than both two be lorne : 
 For love of God, take every woman hede, 
 To werken thus, if it come to the nede. 
 
 Creseide all quite from every drede and tene, 
 As she that just cause had him to trist, 
 Made him soche feast, it joy was to sene, 
 Whan she his trouth and clene entent wist : 
 And as about a tree with many a twist 
 Bitrent and writhe the swete wodbinde, 
 Can eche of hem in armes other winde. 
 
 And as the newe abashed nightingale, 
 That stinteth first, whan she beginneth sing, 
 Whan that she heareth any heerdes tale, 
 Or in the hedges any wight stearing, 
 And after siker doeth her voice outring : 
 Right so Creseide, whan that her drede stent. 
 Opened her herte, and told him her entent. 
 
 And right as he that seeth his death yshapen, 
 And dien mote, in aught that he may gesse. 
 And sodainly rescuous doeth hem escapen, 
 And from his death is brought in sikernesse : 
 
76 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 For all this world, in soche present gladnesse, 
 Was Troilus, and hath his lady swete : 
 With worse hap God let us never mete. . , . 
 
 These ilke two that ben in armes laft, 
 
 So lothe to hem a sender gon it were, 
 
 That eche from other wenden been biraft, 
 
 Or eles lo, this was her moste fere, 
 
 That all this thing but nice dreames were, 
 
 For which full oft eche of hem saied, " O swete, 
 
 Clepe I you thus, or els doe I it mete." 
 
 And lord so he gan goodly on her se. 
 That never his loke ne blent fram her face, 
 And saied, *' O my dere herte, may it be 
 That it be soth, that ye beene in this place? " 
 *' Ye herte mine, God thanke I of his grace." 
 (Quod tho Creseide) and therwithall him kist, 
 That where her spirite was, for joy she n'ist. 
 
 This Troilus full often her eyen two 
 
 Gan for to kisse, and saied : " O eyen clere, 
 
 It weren ye that wrought me soche wo. 
 
 Ye humble nettes of my lady dere : 
 
 Tho there be mercy written in your chere, 
 
 God wote the text full harde is for to find. 
 
 How coud ye withouten bonde me bind ? '* 
 
 Therwith he gan her fast in armes take, 
 And well an hundred times gan he sike, 
 Not such sorrowfull sighes as men make 
 For wo, or eles whan that folke be sike : 
 y^ut easie sighes, soche as been to like, 
 That shewed his affection within, 
 Of soche maner sighes could he not blin. • • • 
 
TROILUS AND C RES E IDE. 77 
 
 Retourned to his roiall paleis sone, 
 
 He soft unto his bedde gan for to sinke 
 
 To slepe long, as he was wont to doen, 
 
 But all for naught, he may well ligge and winke, 
 
 But slepe may there none in his herte sinke. 
 
 Thinking how she, for whom desire him brend, 
 
 A thousand folde was worth more than he wend. 
 
 And in his thought, gan up and doun to wind 
 
 Her wordes all, and every countenaunce, 
 
 And fermely impressen in his mind 
 
 The lest pointe that to him was pleasaunce, 
 
 And verely of thilke remembraunce, 
 
 Desire al newe him brende, and lust to brede, 
 
 Gan more than erst, and yet toke he none hede. 
 
 Creseide also, right in the same wise, 
 
 Of Troilus gan in her herte shet 
 
 His worthinesse, his lust, his dedes wise, 
 
 His gentilnesse, and how she with him met ; 
 
 Thonking love, he so well her beset, 
 
 Desiring oft to have her herte dere, 
 
 In soche a place as she durst make him chere. . . 
 
 \^They meet again and again in the same manner.'] 
 
 But nedes day departe hem must sone. 
 
 And whan hir speech done was, and hir chere, 
 
 They twin anon, as they were wont to done. 
 
 And setten time of meting eft yfere : 
 
 And many a night they wrought in this manere, 
 
 And thus fortune a time ladde in joie 
 
 Creseide, and eke this kinges son of Troie. 
 
78 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 
 
 In suffisaunce, in bliss, and in singings, 
 This Troilus gan all his life to lede, 
 He spendeth, justeth, and maketh feestings, 
 He geveth freely oft, and chaungeth wede, 
 He helde about him alway out of drede 
 A world of folke, as come him well of kind, 
 The freshest and the best he coulde find. 
 
 That such a voice was of him, and a steven, 
 Throughout the world, of honour and largesse. 
 That it up ronge unto the yate of Heven, 
 And as in love he was in such gladnesse, 
 That in his herte he demed, as I gesse, 
 That there n'is lover in this world at ease, 
 So wel as he, and thus gan love him please. 
 
 The goodlihede or beaute, which the kind, 
 
 In any other lady had ysette, 
 
 Can not the mountenaunce of a gnat unbind, 
 
 About his herte, of all Creseides nette : 
 
 He was so narrow ymasked, and yknette, 
 
 That is undon in any maner side. 
 
 That n'il nat ben, for ought that may betide. 
 
 And by the hond full ofte he would take 
 This Pandarus, and into gardin lede, 
 And such a feest, and such a processe make 
 Him of Creseide, and of her womanhede, 
 And of her beaute, that withouten drede, 
 It was an Heven his wordes for to here, 
 And than he woulde sing in this manere : 
 
 ** Love, that of erth and sea hath governaunce. 
 Love, that his heestes hath in Heven hie, 
 Love, that with an holsome aliaunce, 
 I lake people joyned, as him list hem gie, 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 79 
 
 Love, that knitteth law and companie, 
 And couples doth in vertue for to dwell, 
 Binde this accord, that I have told and tell. 
 
 "That, that the world with faith, which that is 
 
 stable, 
 Diverseth so his staundes according, 
 That elements that bethe discordable, 
 Holden a bonde, perpetually during, 
 That Phebus mote his rosy day forth bring, 
 And that the Mone hath lordship over the nights, 
 Al this doeth Love, aie heried be his mights. 
 
 '* That, that the sea, that greedy is to flowen, 
 Constraineth to a certaine ende so 
 His floodes, that so fiercely they ne growen 
 To drenchen earth and all for evermo. 
 And if that Love aught let his bridle go. 
 And all that now loveth asunder should lepe. 
 And lost were all, that Love halt now to hepe, 
 
 * ' So would to God, that authour is of kind, 
 That with his bond, Love of his vertue list 
 To searchen hertes all, and fast bind, 
 That from his bond no wight the wey out wist, 
 And hertes cold, hem would I that hem twij,t. 
 To maken hem love, and that list hem aie rew 
 On hertes sore, and keep hem that ben trew." 
 
 In all needes for the townes werre 
 He was, and aye the first in armes dight, 
 And certainely, but if that bookes erre. 
 Save Hector, most ydradde of any wight, 
 And this encrease of hardinesse and might 
 Come him of love, his ladies thanke to willi 
 That altered his spirit so within. 
 
8o TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 
 
 In time of truce on hanking would he ride, 
 
 Or els hunt bore, beare, or lioun, 
 
 The small beastes let he gon beside, 
 
 And whan that he come riding into the toun, 
 
 Full oft his lady from her window doun, 
 
 As fresh as faucon, comen out of mue, 
 
 Full redely was him goodly to salue. 
 
 And most of love and vertue was his speech, 
 And in dispite had all wretchednesse, 
 And doubtlesse no need was him beseech 
 To honouren hem that had worthinesse. 
 And easen hem that weren in distresse, 
 And glad was he, if any wight well ferde 
 That lover was, whan he it wist or herde. 
 
 For sooth to saine, he lost held every wight, 
 But if he were in Loves high servise, 
 I meane folke that aught it ben of right. 
 And over all this, so well could he devise 
 Of sentement, and in so uncouth wise 
 All his array, that every lover thought, 
 That al was wel, what so he said or wrought. 
 
 And though that he be come of blood roiall. 
 Him list of pride at no wight for to chace, 
 Benigne he was to ech in generall, 
 For which he gate him thank in every place r 
 Thus wolde Love, yheried by his grace, 
 That pride, and ire, envie, and avarice, 
 He gan to flie, and every other vice. . . . 
 
 [^Antenor is taken by the Greeks in battle ; and Cakas 
 l,e<^s in the council that the prisoner may be ex- 
 champed for Cieseide. This is granted, and envoys 
 cot7ie i7ito the Trojan parliament to arrange the 
 transfer,^ 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 81 
 
 This Troilus was present in the place, 
 When asked was for Antenor Creseide, 
 For which full sone chaungen gan his face, 
 As he that with tho wordes well nigh deide, 
 But nathelesse he no word to it seide, 
 Lest men should his affection espie, 
 With mannes herte he gan his sorowes drie. 
 
 And full of anguish and of gresly drede, 
 Abode what other lords would to it sey, 
 And if they would graunt, as God forbede, 
 Th'eschange of her, than thought he thinges twey; 
 First, how to save her honour, and what wey 
 He might best th'eschaunge of her withstond. 
 Full fast he cast how all this might stond. 
 
 Love him made all prest to done her bide^ 
 And rather dien than she should go, 
 But Reason said him on that other side, 
 ** Withouten assent of her do nat so, 
 Lest for thy werke she would be thy fo. 
 And saine, that through thy medling is yblow 
 Your brother love, there it was not erst know." 
 
 For which he gan deliberen for the best. 
 And though the lordes would that she went. 
 He would let hem graunt what hem lest, 
 And tell his lady first what that they ment. 
 And whan that she had said him her entent, 
 Thereafter would he worken also blive, 
 Tho all the world ayen it wolde strive. 
 
 Hector, which that well the Greekes herd, 
 For Antenor how they would have Creseide, 
 Gan it withstond, and soberly answered : 
 '* Sirs, she n'is no prisoner," (he seide) 
 
82 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 ** I n'ot on you who that this charge leide, 
 But on my part, ye may eftsoones hem tell, 
 We usen here no women for to sell. " 
 
 The noise of people up stert than atones, 
 
 As brimme as blase of straw yset on fire, 
 
 For infortune it would for the nones, 
 
 They shoulden hir confusion desire : 
 
 ** Hector," (quod they) ** what ghost may you 
 
 enspire 
 This woman thus to shild, and done us lese 
 Dan Antenore, a wrong way now ye chese. 
 
 " That is so wise, and eke so bold baroun, 
 
 And we have need of folke, as men may see, 
 
 He is one of the greatest of this toun : 
 
 O Hector, lette, thy fantasies bee, 
 
 O king Priam," (quod they) " thus segge wee, 
 
 That all our voice is to forgone Creseide," 
 
 And to deliver Antenor they preide. 
 
 O Juvenall lord, true is thy sentence. 
 That little wenen folke what is to yerne, 
 That they ne finden in hir desire offence. 
 For cloud of errour ne lette hem discerne 
 What best is, and lo, here ensample as yerne : 
 These folke desiren now deliverance 
 Of Antenor, that brought hem to mischaunce. 
 
 For he was after traitour to the toun 
 Of Troy alas, they quitte him out to rathe, 
 O nice world, so thy discretioun, 
 Creseide, which that never did hem scathe, 
 Shall now no lenger in her blisse bathe, 
 But Antenor, he shall come home to toun. 
 And she shall out, thus said heere and houn. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 83 
 
 For which delibered was by parliment, 
 For Antenor to yeelden out Creseide, 
 And it pronounced by the president, 
 Though that Hector nay full oft praid, 
 And finally, what wight that it withsaid, 
 It was for naught, it must ben, and should, 
 For substaunce of the parliment it would. 
 
 Departed out of the parliment echone, 
 This Troilus, without wordes mo, 
 Unto his chamber spedde him fast alone, 
 But if it were a man of his or two, 
 The which he bad out faste for to go, 
 Because he would slepen, as he said, 
 And hastely upon his bedde him laid. 
 
 And as in winter, leaves ben biraft 
 
 Ech after other, till trees be bare, 
 
 So that there n'is but barke and branch ylaft, 
 
 Lithe Troilus, biraft of ech welfare, 
 
 Ybounden in the blacke barke of care, 
 
 Disposed wode out of his witte to breide, 
 
 So sore him sate the chaunging of Creseide. 
 
 He rist him up, and every dore he shelte. 
 And window eke, and tho this sorrowfull man 
 Upon his beddes side doune him sette, 
 Full like a dead image, pale and wan, 
 And in his breast the heaped wo began 
 Out brust, and he to worken in this wise 
 In his woodnesse, as I shall you devise. . . . 
 
 "O wery ghost, that errest to and fro, 
 Why nilt thou flien out of the wofullest 
 Body, that ever might on grounde go ? 
 O soule, lurking in this wofuU neste. 
 
84 TROILUS AND C RES EWE. 
 
 Fly forthout mine herte, and let it breste, 
 And follow alway Creseide thy lady dere, 
 Thy right place is now no lenger here. 
 
 " O wofull eien two, sens your disport 
 Was all to seene Creseides eyen bright, 
 What shall ye done, but for my discomfort 
 Stoden for naught, and wepen out your sic^ht, 
 Sens she is queint, that wont was you to Hi^ht, 
 In veine from this forth have I eyen twey 
 Yformed, sens your vertue is awey. 
 
 " O my Creseide, O lady soveraine 
 
 Of this wofull soule that thus crieth. 
 
 Who shall now yeven comfort to thy paine ? 
 
 Alas, no wight, but whan mine herte dieth, 
 
 My spirit, which that so unto you hieth. 
 
 Receive in gree, for that shall aye you serve, 
 
 Forthy no force is, though the body sterve. . . 
 
 A thousand sighes hotter than the glede, 
 Out of his breast, each after other went, 
 Medled with plaint new, his wo to fede. 
 For which his wofull teares never stent. 
 And shortly so his sorowes him to rent, 
 And woxe so mate, that joy or pennaunce 
 He feeleth none, but lieth in a tiaunce. 
 
 Pandare, which that in the parliment 
 
 Had heard what every lord and burgess seid, 
 
 And how full graunted was by one assent, 
 
 For Antenor to yelden out Creseid : 
 
 Gan well nigh wood out of his wit to breid, 
 
 So that for wo he niste what he ment, 
 
 But ;o a rage to Troilus he went. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 8$ 
 
 A certaine knight, that for the time kept 
 The chamber dore, undid it him anone, 
 And Pandare, that full tenderly wept, 
 Into the derke chamber as still as stone, 
 Toward the bedde gan softly to gone, 
 So confuse, that he n'ist what to say, 
 For very wo, his wit was nigh away. 
 
 And with chere and looking all to tome, 
 
 For sorow of this, and with his armes folden, 
 
 He stood this wofull Troilus beforne, 
 
 And on his pitous face he gan beholden, 
 
 But so oft gan his herte colden. 
 
 Seeing his friend in wo, whose heavinesse 
 
 His herte slough, as thought him for distresse. 
 
 This wofull wight, this Troilus that felt 
 His friend Pandare yeomen him to see, 
 Gan as the snow ayenst the Sunne melt, 
 For which this wofull Pandare of pite 
 Gan for to weepe as tenderly as he : 
 And speechlesse thus ben these ilke twey, 
 That neither might for sorow o word sey. 
 
 But at the last, this, wofull Troilus, 
 
 Nigh dead for smert, gan breslen out to rorCj 
 
 And with a sorrowfull noise he said thus 
 
 Among his sobbes and his sighes sore, 
 
 *' Lo, Pandare I am dead withouten more, 
 
 Hast thou not heard at parliament," he seide, 
 
 ** For Antenor how lost is my Creseide ? " 
 
 This Pandare full dead and pale of hew, 
 Full pitously answerde, and said, * * Yes, 
 As wisely were it false as it is trew. 
 That I have heard, and wote all how it is, 
 
86 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 O mercy God, who would have trowed this, 
 Who would have wend, that in so little a throw 
 Fortune our joy would have overthrow. 
 
 ** For in this world there is no creature, 
 As to my dome, that ever saw ruine 
 Straunger than this, through case or aventure, 
 But who may all eschue or all devine, 
 Such is this world, forthy I thus define : 
 Ne trust no wight to find in Fortune 
 Aye property, her yeftes ben commune. 
 
 ** But tell me this, why thou art now so mad 
 To sorrowen thus, why list thou in this wise. 
 Sens thy desire all holy hast thou had. 
 So that by right it ought inough suffise. 
 But I that never felt in my servise 
 A friendly chere or looking of an eie, 
 Let me thus wepe and wailen till I die. 
 
 ' * And over al this, as thou wel wost thy selve, 
 This toune is full of ladies all about, 
 And to my dome, fairer than such twelve 
 As ever she was, shal I finden in some rout, 
 Ye one or twey, withouten any dout : 
 Forthy be glade mine owne dere brother. 
 If she be lost, we shall recover another. 
 
 " What God forbid alway that ech pleasaunce 
 In o thing were, and in none other wight, 
 If one can sing, another can well daunce. 
 If this be goodly, she is glad and light, 
 And this is faire, and that can good aright, 
 Ech for his vertue holden is for dere, 
 Both heroner and faucon for rivere. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 87 
 
 '* And eke as writ Zansis, that was full wise, 
 The new love out chaseth oft the old : 
 And upon new case lieth new avise, 
 Thinke eke thy selfe to saven art thou hold. 
 Such fire by processe shall of kind cold, 
 For sens it is but casuell pleasaunce, 
 Some case shall put it out of remembraunce. 
 
 " For also sure as day commeth after night, 
 
 The newe love, labour or other wo, 
 
 Or eles selde seeing of a wight, 
 
 Done old affections all overgo. 
 
 And for thy part, thou shalt have one of tho 
 
 To abredge with thy bitter paines smart. 
 
 Absence of her shall drive her out of herte. " 
 
 These wordes saied he for the nones all 
 
 To helpe his friend, least he for sorow deide, 
 
 For doubtlesse to doen his wo to fall, 
 
 He raught nat what unthrift that he seide : 
 
 But Troilus that nigh for sorrow deide, 
 
 Tooke little hede of all that ever he ment. 
 
 One eare it heard, at the other out it went. 
 
 But at the last he answerd, and said. Friend, 
 This lechcraft, or healed thus to be, 
 Were well fitting, if that I were a fiend. 
 To traien a wight, that true is unto me, 
 I pray God let this counsaile never ythe, 
 But doe me rather sterve anon right here. 
 Ere this I doen, as thou me wouldest lere. 
 
 ** She that I serve ywis, what so thou sey, 
 ' To whom mine herte enhabite is by right. 
 Shall have me holy hers, till that I dey, 
 For Pandarus, sens I have trouth her hight, 
 
TROTLUS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 I woU nat ben untrue for no wight, 
 
 But as her man I woU aye live and sterve, 
 
 And never none other creature serve. 
 
 ** And there thou saiest thou shalt as fair find 
 As she, let be, make no comparison, 
 To creature yformed here by kind, 
 
 leve Pandare, in conclusion, 
 
 1 woU nat been of thine opinion 
 Touching all this, for which I thee beseech, 
 
 So hold thy peace, thou sleest me with thy speech. 
 
 ** Thou biddest me I should love another 
 
 All freshly new, and let Creseide go. 
 
 It lithe nat in my power, leve brother, 
 
 And though I might, yet would I nat do so. 
 
 But canst thou plaien raket to and fro, 
 
 Nettle in dock out, now this, now that, Pandare? 
 
 Now foule fall her for thy wo that care. 
 
 '* Thou farest eke by me, Pandarus, 
 As he, that whan a wight is wo bigon, 
 He commeth to him apace, and saith right thus, 
 * Thinke not on smart, and thou shalt feele none,* 
 Thou maiest me first transmewen in a stone, 
 And reve me my passions all, 
 Or thou so lightly doe my wo to fall. • . . 
 
 \And while Pandarus is co^nforting his friend and 
 promising him a meeting with his lady, at which 
 some plan of escape may be arranged, Creseide has 
 heard of 'he proposed exchange , and is in great 
 distress, 1 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 89 
 
 But as men seene in toune, and all about, 
 That women usen hir friends to visite, 
 So to Creseide of women came a rout, 
 For pitous joy, and wenden her delite, 
 And with hir tales dere ynough a mite. 
 These women, which that in the citie dwell, 
 They set hem doune, and sayd as I shall tell. 
 
 (Quod, first that one) " I am glad truely, 
 IBecause of you, that shall your father see," 
 Another sayd, *' Ywis, so am not I, 
 For all too little hath she with us be : " 
 (Quod tho the third) " I hope ywis that she 
 Shall bringen us the peace on every side, 
 That whan she goth, almighty God her gide." 
 
 Tho wordes and tho womannish thinges 
 She herd hem right as thogh she thence were : 
 For God it wote, her herte on other thing is, 
 Although the body sat emong hem there, 
 Her advertence is alway els where, 
 For Troilus full fast her soule sought, 
 Withouten word, on him alway she thought. 
 
 These women that thus wenden her to please, 
 About naught gan all hir tales spend. 
 Such vanitie ne can done her none ease, 
 As she that all this meane while brend 
 Of other passion than they wend. 
 So that she felt almost her herte die 
 For wo, and werie of that companie. 
 
 For which might she no lenger restraine 
 Her teares, they gan so up to well, 
 That gave signes of her bitter paine, 
 In which her spirit was, and must dwell, 
 
90 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 Remembring her from Heaven unto which Hell 
 She fallen was, sens she forgo the sight 
 Of Troilus, and sorrowfully she sight. 
 
 And thilke fooles, sitting her about, 
 Wende that she wept and sighed sore, 
 Because that she should out of the rout 
 Departen, and never play with hem more, 
 And they that had knowen her of yore, 
 See her so wepe, and thoght it was kindnesse, 
 And ech of hem wept eke for her distresse. 
 
 And busily they gonnen hir to comforten 
 
 On thing God wot, on which she litle thoght, 
 
 And with her tales wenden hir disporten. 
 
 And to be glad they ofte her besought, 
 
 But such an ease therwith they her wrought. 
 
 Right as a man is eased for to fele. 
 
 For ache of head, to clawen him on his hele. 
 
 But after all this nice vanitie. 
 
 They took hir leve, and home they wenten all, 
 
 Creseide full of sorrowfull pitie, 
 
 Into her chamber up went out of the hall, 
 
 And on her bedde she gan for dead to fall. 
 
 In purpose never thence for to rise. 
 
 And thus she wrought, as I shall you devise. 
 
 Hir ownded hair, that sonnish was of hew, 
 She rent, and eke her fingers long and smale 
 She wrong full oft, and bad God on her rew. 
 And with the death to do bote on her bale, 
 Her hewe whylom bright, that tho was pale. 
 Bare witnesse of her wo, and her constreint ; 
 And thus she spake, sobbing in her compleint. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 91 
 
 ** Alas," (quod she) '* out of this regioun, 
 
 I wofull wretch and infortuned wight, 
 
 And borne in cursed constellatioun, 
 
 Mote gon, and thus departen fro my knight, 
 
 Wo worth alas, that ilke dales light. 
 
 On which I saw him first with eyen twaine, 
 
 That causeth me, and I him all this paine." . • . 
 
 Pandare, which that sent from Troilus 
 Was unto Creseide, as ye have heard devise, 
 That for the best it was recorded thus. 
 And he full glad to done him that servise, 
 Unto Creseide in a full secret wise. 
 There as she lay in tourment and in rage, 
 Came her to tell all holy his message. 
 
 And fond that she her selven gan to grete 
 Full pitously, for with her salte teres, 
 Her breast and face ybathed was full wete. 
 Her mightie tresses of her sonnish heres 
 Unbroiden, hangen all about her eares, 
 Which yave him very signe of mattire 
 Of death, which that her herte gan desire. 
 
 Whan she him saw, she gan for sorrow anon 
 Her tearie face atwixt her amies hide. 
 For which this Pandare is so wo bigon, 
 That in the hous he might unneth abide, 
 As he that felt sorrow on every side, 
 For if Creseide had erst complained sore, 
 Tho gan she plaine a thousand times more. 
 
 And in her aspre plaint, thus she seide ; 
 '* Pandare, first of joies more than two 
 Was cause, causing unto me Creseide, 
 That now transmued ben in cruell wo, 
 
92 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 
 
 Whether shall I say to you welcome or no? 
 That alderfirst me brought unto servise 
 Of love alas, that endeth in such wise. 
 
 " Endeth than love in wo ? Ye or men lieth, 
 And all worldly blisse, as thinketh me. 
 The end of blisse aye sorrow it occupieth, 
 And who troweth not that it so be, 
 Let him upon me wofuU wretche see, 
 That my selfe hate, and aye my birth curse, 
 Feeling alway, fro wicke I go to worse. 
 
 " Who so me seeth, he seeth sorow all atonis, 
 Paine, tourment, plaint, wo and distresse. 
 Out of my wofuU body harme there none is, 
 As langour, anguish, cruell bitternesse, 
 Annoy, smart, drede, furie, and eke sicknesse, 
 I trow ywis from Heaven teares raine. 
 For pitie of my aspre and cruell paine." 
 
 '* And thou my suster, full of discomfort," 
 (Quod Pandarus) ** what thinkest thou to do? 
 Why ne hast thou to thy selven some resport ? 
 Wliy wilt thou thus thy selfe alas fordo ? 
 Leave all this werke, and take now heed to 
 That I shall saine, and herken of good entent 
 This message, that by me Troilus you sent." 
 
 Turned her tho Creseide a wo making, 
 
 So great, that it a death was for to see, 
 
 '* Alas," (quod she) " what wordes may ye bring, 
 
 What woU my dere herte saine to mee, 
 
 Which that I drede nevermore to see, 
 
 WoU he have plaint or teares ere I wend ? 
 
 I have ynough, if he thereafter send." 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 93 
 
 She was right such to scene in her visage, 
 
 As is that wight that men on beare bind, 
 
 Her face like of Paradis the image, 
 
 Was all ychaunged in another kind, 
 
 The play, the laughter men were wont to find 
 
 On hir, and eke her joyes everichone 
 
 Ben fled, and thus lieth Creseide alone. 
 
 About her eyen two, a purpre ring 
 Bitrent, in soothfast tokening of her paine, 
 That to behold it was a deadly thing, 
 For which Pandare might nat restraine 
 The teares from his eyen for to raine, 
 But nathelesse as he best might he seide 
 From Troilus these wordes to Creseide. 
 
 " Lo, nece, I trow ye han heard all how 
 The king with other lordes for the best. 
 Hath made eschaunge of Antenor and you. 
 That cause is of this sorow and this unrest, 
 But how this case doth Troilus molest, 
 This may none yearthly mannes tongue say. 
 For very wo, his wit is all away. 
 
 " For which we have so sorowed, he and I, 
 That into Httle it had us both slawe. 
 But through my counsaile this day finally. 
 He somewhat is fro weeping withdrawe, 
 And seemeth me that he desireth fawe 
 With you to ben all night for to devise 
 Remedie of this, if there were any wise. 
 
 " This short and plain, theffect of my message, 
 As ferforth as my wit can comprehend. 
 For ye that ben of tourment in such rage. 
 May to no long prologue as now entencj. 
 
94 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 
 
 And hereupon ye may answer him send, 
 And for the love of God my nece dere, 
 So leave this wo, or Troilus be here." 
 
 ** Great is my wo," (quod she) and sighed sore, 
 As she that feeleth deadly sharpe distresse, 
 " But yet to me his sorrow is mokell more, 
 That love him bet than he himselfe I gesse, 
 Alas, for me hath he such hevinesse, 
 Can he for me so pitously complaine, 
 Ywis this sorow doubleth all my paine. 
 
 * ' Grevous to me God wot is for to twin, *' 
 
 (Quod she) *' but yet it harder is to me, 
 
 To seene that sorrow which that he is in, 
 
 For well wot I, it woll my bane be, 
 
 And die I woll in certaine tho " (quod she :) 
 
 •* But bid him come, er deth that thus me thrcteth, 
 
 Drive out the ghost which in mine herte beteth." 
 
 These wordes said, she on her armes two 
 Fell gruffe, and gan to weepen pitously : 
 (Quod Pandarus) " Alas, why doe ye so? 
 Sens ye well wote the time is fast by 
 That he shall come, arise up hastely, 
 That he you nat biwopen thus ne find, 
 But ye woll have him wode out of his mind. 
 
 " For wist he that ye farde in this manere, 
 He would himselfe slea : and if I wend 
 To have this fare, he should not come here, 
 For all the good that Priam may dispend : 
 For to what fine he would anon pretend, 
 That know I well, and forthy yet I sey, 
 So leave this sorow, or plainly he woll dey. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 95 
 
 ** And shapeth you his sorow for to abredge, 
 
 And nat encrease, lefe nece swete, 
 
 Beth rather to him cause of plat than edge, 
 
 And with some wisdome ye his sorrowes bete : 
 
 What helpeth it to weepen full a strete, 
 
 Or though ye both in salt teares dreint? 
 
 Bet is a time of cure aye than of pleint. 
 
 " I meane thus, whan I him hither bring, 
 Sens ye be wise, and both of one assent, 
 So shapeth how to distourbe your going. 
 Or come ayen soone after ye be went, 
 Women ben wise, in short avisement, 
 And let seene how your wit shall availe, 
 And what that I may helpe, it shall not faile." 
 
 **Go," (quod Creseide) "and, uncle, truely 
 
 I shall done all my might me to restraine 
 
 From weeping in his sight, and busily 
 
 Him for to glad, I shall done all my paine. 
 
 And in my herte seeken every vaine. 
 
 If to his sore there may ben founden salve. 
 
 It shall nat lacke certaine on mine halve." . . , 
 
 Sooth is, that whan they gonne first to mete, 
 
 So gan the paine hir hertes for to twist, 
 
 That neither of hem other mighte grete. 
 
 But hem in amies took, and after kist, 
 
 The lasse wofuU of hem bothe nist 
 
 Where that he was, ne might o word outbring, 
 
 As I said erst, for wo and for sobbing. 
 
 The wofull teares that they leten fall. 
 As bitter weren out of teares kind 
 For paine, as is ligne aloes, or gall. 
 So bitter teares wept not as I find 
 
96 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 The wofuU Mirra, through the barke and rind. 
 That in this world there n'is so hard an herte, 
 That n'olde have rewed on her paines smart. 
 
 But whan hir wofull wery ghostes twaine 
 Returned ben, there as hem ought to dwell, 
 And that somewhat to weken gan the paine 
 By length of plaint, and ebben gan the well 
 Of hir teares, and the herte unswell. 
 With broken voice, al horse for shright, Creseid 
 To Troilus these ilke wordes seid. 
 
 ** O Jove, I die, and mercy thee besech, 
 Helpe Troilus :" and therewithal her face 
 Upon his brest she laid, and lost her spech. 
 Her wofull spirite from his proper place 
 Right with the worde away in point to pace, 
 And thus she lith, with hewes pale and grene, 
 That whilom fresh and fairest was to sene. , . 
 
 \Creseide vetoes her lover* s proposal to carry her off by 
 force; but promises y with many vows ^ to escape and 
 return to Troy in ten days time.'\ 
 
 And after that they long yplained had, 
 
 And oft ikist, and straite in armes fold, 
 
 The day gan rise, and Troilus him clad, 
 
 And ru fully his lady gan behold : 
 
 As he that felt deathes cares cold. 
 
 And to her grace he gan him recommaund, 
 
 Where he was wo, this hold I no demaund. 
 
 For mannes hedde imaginen ne can, 
 Ne entendement consider, ne tongue tell 
 The cruell paines of this sorrowfull man, 
 That passen every torment doune in Hell ; 
 
TROILUS AND CRESETDE. 97 
 
 For whan he sawe that she ne might dwell, 
 Which that his soule out his herte rent, 
 Withouten more, out of the chamber he went. . . 
 
 Full redy was at prime Diomede, 
 Creseide unto the Grekes hoste to lede. 
 For sorow of which, she felt her herte blede, 
 As she that n'iste what was best to rede : 
 And truely, as men in bokes rede, 
 Men wiste never woman have the care, 
 Ne was so lothe out of a toune to fare. 
 
 This Troilus withouten rede or lore, 
 As man that hath his joies eke forlore, 
 Was waiting on his lady evermore, 
 As she that was sothfast croppe and more, 
 Of all his lust or joyes here tofore : 
 But Troilus, now far well all thy joie. 
 For shalt thou never seen her eft in Troie. 
 
 Soth is, that while he bode in this manere, 
 He gan his wo full manly for to hide. 
 That well unneth it seen was in his chere, 
 But at the yate there she should out ride. 
 With certain folke he hoved her to abide. 
 So wo bigon, all would he not him plain, 
 That on his horse unneth he sate for pain. 
 
 For ire he quoke, so gan his herte gnaw, 
 
 Whan Diomede on horse gan him dight. 
 
 And sayd unto himselfe this ilke saw, 
 
 ** Alas," (quod he) " thus foule a wretchednesse 
 
 Why suffre I it ? Why n'ill I it redresse ? 
 
 Were it nat bet at ones for to die, 
 
 Than evermore in langour thus to crie ? 
 
 478 
 
98 TROILUS AND C RES EWE. 
 
 " Why n'ill I make at ones rich and poore, 
 To have inoiigh to done er that she go ? 
 Why n'ill I bring all Troie upon a roore ? 
 Why n'ill I slaen this Diomede also ? 
 Why n'ill I rather with a man or two, 
 Steale her away ? Why woll I this endure? 
 Why n'ill I helpen to mine owne cure ? " 
 
 But why he n'olde done so fell a deede, 
 That shall I sain, and why him list it spare, 
 He had in herte alway a maner drede, 
 Ivcst that Creseide, in rumour of this fare, 
 Should have ben slain, lo, this was al his care, 
 And eles certain, as I sayed yore. 
 He had it done withouten wordes more. 
 
 Creseide whan she redy was to ride, 
 Full sorowfully she sighed, and sayd "Alas," 
 But forth she mote, for aught that may betide. 
 And forth she rideth full sorowfully apaas : 
 Ther is no other remedy in this caas : 
 What wonder is, thougl^that her sore smart 
 Whan she forgoeth hdr owne swete herte ? 
 
 This Troilus in gise of curtesie. 
 
 With hauke on hond, and with an huge rout 
 
 Of knightes, rode and did her companie, 
 
 Passing all the valey ferre without. 
 
 And ferther would have ridden out of doubt, 
 
 Full faine, and wo was him, to gone so sone, 
 
 But tourne he must, and it was eke to done. 
 
 And right with that was Antenor ycome, 
 Out of the Grekes hoste, and every wight 
 Was of him glad, and sayd he was welcome, 
 And Troilus, al nere his herte light. 
 
TROILUS AND C RES EWE, 99 
 
 He pained him, with all his full might 
 Him to with hold of weping at least, 
 And Antenor he kist, and made feast. 
 
 And therewithal he must his leave take, 
 
 And cast his eye upon her pitously, 
 
 And nere he rode, his cause for to make, 
 
 To take her by the honde al soberly : 
 
 And Lorde so she gan wepen tenderly, 
 
 And he full soft and slighly gan her seie, 
 
 " Now hold your day, and doe me not to deie." 
 
 With that his courser tourned he about, 
 With face pale, and unto Diomede 
 No worde he spake, ne none of all his rout, 
 Of which the sonne of Tideus toke hede. 
 As he that kouthe more than the crede, 
 In soche a craft, and by the rein her hent, 
 And Troilus to Troie homewardes went. 
 
 \_Diomede on the journey ''declares sudden love to Creseide; 
 but she hears him indifferently,!^ 
 
 To Troy is come this wofuU Troilus, 
 
 In sorowe aboven all sorowes smert. 
 
 With felon loke, and face dispitous, 
 
 Tho sodainly doune from his hors he stert, 
 
 And through his paleis with swolne herte, 
 
 To chamber he went, of nothing toke he hede 
 
 Ne none to him dare speke o worde for drede. 
 
 And there his sorowes that he spared had. 
 He yave an issue large, and death he cride, 
 And in his throwes, frenetike and mad 
 He curseth Juno, Apollo, and eke Cupide, 
 
loo TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 
 
 He curseth Bachus, Ceres, and Cipride, 
 His birth, himselfe, his fate, and eke nature, 
 And save his ladie, every creature. 
 
 To bed he goth, and waileth there and turneth, 
 
 In furie, as doth he Ixion in Hell, 
 
 And in this wise he nigh till day sojourneth, 
 
 But tho began his herte alite unswell, 
 
 Through teares, which that gonnen up to wel, 
 
 And pitiously he cried upon Creseide, 
 
 And to him self right thus he spake and seide. 
 
 "Where is mine owne lady lefe and dere? 
 Where is her white brest, where is it, where? 
 Where been her armes, and her eyen clere 
 That yesterday this time with me were ? 
 Now may I wepe alone many a teare. 
 And graspe about I may, but in this place 
 Save a pilow, I find naught to embrace. 
 
 ** How shal I doen? whan shal she come againe? 
 
 I n'ot alas, why let I her to go? 
 
 As would God I had as tho be slain : 
 
 O herte mine Creseide, O swete fo, 
 
 O lady mine, that I love and no mo, 
 
 To whom for ever more mine herte I vowe, 
 
 See how I die, ye n'ill me not rescowe. 
 
 "Who seeth you now, my right lodesterre? 
 Who sitteth right now in your presence ? 
 Who can comforten now your hertes werre ? 
 Now I am gon, whom yeve ye audience? 
 Who speaketh for me right now in my absence ? 
 Alas, no wight, and that is all my care, 
 For well wote I, as evill as I ye fare. 
 
TROILUS AN1> G^F^.^EnXKl \Qi 
 
 *' How should I thus ten daies full endure, 
 Whan I the firste night have all this tene ? 
 How shall she eke sorowfuU creature, 
 For tendernesse, how shall she this sustene, 
 Soche wo for me ? o pitous, pale, and grene, 
 Shall been your freshe womanly face, 
 For langour, erye tourne unto this place." 
 
 And whan he fell in any slombringes, 
 Anon begin he shoulde for to grone, 
 And dreamen of the dreadfullest thinges 
 That might been : as mete he were alone 
 In place horriblCj making aie his mone. 
 Or meten that he was emonges all 
 His enemies, and in hir hondes fall. 
 
 And therewithall his bodie should start, 
 And with the start all sodainly awake, 
 And soche a tremour fele about his herte. 
 That of the feare his bodie should quake : 
 And therwithall he should a noise make, 
 And seme as though he should fall depe. 
 From high alofe, and than he would wepe. 
 
 And re wen on himselfe so pitously. 
 That wonder was to here his fantasie. 
 An other time he should mightely 
 Comfort himselfe, and sain it was folie, 
 So causelesse, soche drede for to drie. 
 And eft begin his aspre sorowes new, 
 That every man might on his paines rew. 
 
 Who could tell all, or fully discrive 
 His wo, his plaint, his langour, and his pine? 
 Nat all the men that han or been on live, 
 Thou reader mayst thy self full well devine, 
 
I02 LROILU^ A:JS'D. QRESEIDE, 
 
 That socbe a wo my wit can not define, 
 On idell for to write it should I swinke, 
 Whan that my wit is werie it to thinke. 
 
 On Heaven yet the sterres weren seen 
 Although full pale ywoxen was the Mone, 
 And whiten gan the orisont shene, 
 All eastward, as it was wont to done. 
 And Phebus with his rosie carte sone, 
 Gan after that to dresse him up to fare, 
 Whan Troilus hath sent after Pandare. . . . 
 
 [7 lie ^i^ood counsellor reproves his friend for weakness, and 
 tnduces him to come and visit Sarpedon^ who 
 entertahts them splendidly.'] 
 
 But what availeth this to Troilus, 
 
 That for his sorrow, nothing of it roughf, 
 
 But ever in one, as herte pitous, 
 
 Full busily Creseide his lady sought : 
 
 On her was ever al that his herte thought, 
 
 Now this, now that, so fast imagining, 
 
 That glad ywis can him no feasting. 
 
 These ladies eke, that at this feast been, 
 Sens that he saw his lady was away, 
 It was his sorow upon hem for to seen, 
 Or for to heare on instrumentes play : 
 For she that of his herte hath the kay, 
 Was absent, lo, this was his fantasie 
 That no wight shulde maken melodic. 
 
 Nor there nas houre in al the day or night, 
 When he was ther as no man might him here, 
 That he ne sayd, " O lovesome lady bright, 
 How have ye faren sins that ye were there ? 
 
TROILUS AND C RES E IDE, 103 
 
 Welcome ywis mine owne lady dere." 
 But welaway, all this n'as but a mase, 
 Fortune his hove entended bet to glase. 
 
 The letters eke, that she of olde time 
 
 Had him ysent, he would alone rede 
 
 An hundred sith, atwixt noone and prime, 
 
 Refiguring her shape, and her womanhede. 
 
 Within his herte, and every worde and dede 
 
 That passed was, and thus he drove to an end, 
 
 The fourth day, and saied he wol wend. 
 
 And said, " Leve brother Pandarus, 
 Intendest thou that we shall here bleve, 
 Til Sarpedon woll forth conveyen us. 
 Yet were it fairer that we toke our leve : 
 For Goddes love, let us now sone at eve 
 Our leave take, and homeward let us turne, 
 For trewely I nill nat thus sojourne." 
 
 Pandare answerde, "Be we comen hither 
 To fetchen fire, and rennen home againe? 
 God help me so, I can nat tellen whither 
 We might gone, if I shall sothly saine : 
 There any wight is of us more faine 
 Than Sarpedon, and if we hence hie 
 Thus sodainly, I hold it vilanie. 
 
 ** Whan that we saiden we would bleve 
 With him a weke, and now thus sodainly 
 The fourth day to take of him our leve. 
 He would wondren on it trewly : 
 Let us holden forth our purpose fermely, 
 And sens that ye behighten him to abide, 
 Hold forward now, and after let us ride." 
 
I04 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 
 
 This Pandarus, with all pine and wo 
 Made him to dwell, and at the wekes end, 
 Of Sarpedon they toke hir leave tho. 
 And on hir way they speden hem to wend ; 
 (Quod Troilus) "Now Lorde me grace send, 
 That I may find at mine home commmg, 
 Creseide comen," and therewith gan he sing. 
 
 *' Ye haselwode," thought this Pandare, 
 And to himselfe ful softly he seide, 
 "God wotte refroiden may this hotte fare, 
 Er Calcas sende Troilus Creseide : " 
 But nathelesse he japed thus and seide,^ 
 And swore ywis, his herte him wel behight. 
 She wolde come as sone as ever she might. 
 
 Whan they unto the paleis were yeomen. 
 
 Of Troilus, they doun of horse alight, 
 
 And to the chambre hir way have they nomen, 
 
 And unto time that it gan to night, 
 
 They speken of Creseide the lady bright, 
 
 And after this, whan hem bothe lest, 
 
 They spede hem fro the supper unto rest. 
 
 On morow as sone as day began to clere. 
 This Troilus gan of his slepe to abreide, 
 And to Pandarus, his own brother dere, 
 *' For love of God," full pitously he seide : 
 " As go we scene the paleis of Creseide, 
 For sens we yet may have no more feest, 
 So let us seine her paleis at the leest." 
 
 And therewithall his meine for to blende, 
 A cause he fonde in toune for to go, 
 And to Creseides hou-^^e they gan wende. 
 But Lorde, this sely Troihis was wo. 
 
TROILUS AND C RES E IDE. 105 
 
 Him thought his sorowful herte brast atwo, 
 For when he saw her doores sparred all, 
 Well nigh for sorow adoun he gan to fall. 
 
 Therwith whan he was ware, and gan behold 
 How shet was every window of the place, 
 As frost him thought his herte gan to cold, 
 For which with changed deedly pale face, 
 Withouten worde, he forth by gan to pace, 
 And as God would, he gan so faste ride, 
 That no wight of his countenance aspide. 
 
 Than said he thus : " O paleis desolate, 
 O house of houses, whilom best yhight, 
 O paleis empty and disconsolate, 
 O thou lanterne, of which queint is the light, 
 O paleis whilom day, that now art night, 
 Wei oughtest thou to fall, and I to die, 
 Sens she is went, that wont was us to gie. 
 
 *' O paleis whilom ciowne of houses all, 
 
 Enlumined with Sunne of alle blisse, 
 
 O ring, of which the ruble is out fall, 
 
 O cause of wo, that cause hast ben of blisse : 
 
 Yet sens I may no bet, fain would I kisse 
 
 Thy colde doores, durst I for this rout, 
 
 And larewel shrine of which the saint is out." 
 
 Therwith he cast on Pandarus his eie. 
 With changed face, and pitous to behold, 
 And whan he might his time aright aspie, 
 Aie as he rode, to Pandarus he told 
 His new sorow, and eke his joyes old, 
 So pitously, and with so deed an hew. 
 That every wight might on his sorow rcw. 
 
io6 TROILVS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 Fro thence-forth he rideth up and doune, 
 And every thing came him to remembraunce, 
 As he rode forth by the places of the toune, 
 In which he whilom had all his pleasaunce : 
 ** Lo, yonder saw I mine owne lady daunce, 
 And in that temple with her eien clere, 
 Me caught first my right lady dere. 
 
 ** And yonder have I herde full lustely 
 
 My dere herte laugh, and yonder play 
 
 Saw I her ones eke ful blisfully, 
 
 And yonder ones to me gan she say 
 
 * Now good sweete love me well I pray,* 
 
 And yonde so goodly gan she me behold, 
 
 That to the death mine herte is to her hold. 
 
 " And at the corner in the yonder house, 
 Herde I mine alderlevest lady dere, 
 So womanly, with voice melodiouse, 
 Singen so wel, so goodly and so clere, 
 That in my soule yet me thinketh I here 
 The blisful sowne, and in that yonder place 
 My lady first me toke unto her grace." . . . 
 
 And after this he to the yates went. 
 
 There as Creseide out rode, a fullgood paas, 
 
 And up and doun there made he many a went, 
 
 And to him selfe ful oft he said, *' Alas, 
 
 Fro hence rode my blisse and my solas, 
 
 As would blisful God now for his joie, 
 
 I might her sene ayen come to Troie. 
 
 •* And to the yonder hil I gan her guide, 
 Alas, and there I toke of her my leve. 
 And yonde I saw her to her father ride. 
 For sorow of which mine herte shal to cleve : 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 107 
 
 And hither home I come whan it was eve, 
 And here I dwell, out cast from all joie. 
 And shal, til I may sene her eft in Troie." 
 
 And of him selfe imagined he oft. 
 To ben defaited, pale, and woxen lesse 
 Than he was wont, and that men saiden soft, 
 " What may it be ? who can the sothe gesse, 
 Why Troilus hath al this hevinesse ? " 
 And al this n'as but his melancholic. 
 That he had of him selfe such fantasie. 
 
 Another lime imagined he would. 
 That every wight that went by the wey, 
 Had of him routh, and that they saine should, 
 '* I am right sorry, Troilus wol dey : " 
 And thus he drove a day yet forth or twey, 
 As ye have herde, such life gan he lede. 
 As he that stode betwixen hope and drede. 
 
 For which him liked in his songes shewe 
 Thencheson of his wo, as he best might. 
 And made a songe, of wordes but a fewe, 
 Somwhat his woluU herte for to light : 
 And whan he was from every mannes sight, 
 With softe voice, he of his lady dere. 
 That absent was, gan sing as ye may here. 
 
 '* O sterre, of which I lost have all the light. 
 With herte sore, wel ought I to bewaile, 
 That ever derke in turment, night by night 
 Toward my deth, with winde I stere and saile : 
 For which the tenth night, if that I faile, 
 The guiding of thy hemes bright an houre, 
 My ship and me Caribdes wol devoure." 
 
io8 TROILUS AND C RES EWE, 
 
 This song whan he thus songen had sone, 
 He fell ayen into his sighes old, 
 And every night, as was he wont to done, 
 He stode the bright Moone to behold : 
 And al his sorow he to the Moone told, 
 And said, ** Ywis whan thou art horned new, 
 I shall be glad, if al the world be trew. 
 
 ** I saw thine homes old eke by that morow, 
 Whan hence rode my right lady dere, 
 That cause is of my turment and my sorow, 
 For whiche, O bright Lucina the clere, 
 For love of God ren fast about thy sphere, 
 For whan thine homes newe ginnen spring, 
 Than shall she come that may my blisse bring." 
 
 The day is more, and lenger every night 
 Than they ben wont to be, him thought tho, 
 And that the Sunne went his course unright, 
 By lenger way than it was wont to go, 
 And said, "Ywis, I drede me evermo 
 The Sunnes sonne Pheton be on live, 
 And that his fathers cart amisse he drive." 
 
 Upon the walles fast eke would he walke. 
 
 And on the Greekes host he would see. 
 
 And to himselfe right thus he would talke : 
 
 ** Lo, yonder is mine owne lady free, 
 
 Or else yonder, there the tents bee. 
 
 And thence commeth this aire that is so soote, 
 
 That in my soule I fele it doth me boote. 
 
 '* And hardily, this wind that more and more 
 Thus stoundmeale encreaseth in my face, 
 Is of my ladies deepe sighes sore, 
 I preve it thus, for in none other space 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 109 
 
 Of all this toune, save only in this place, 
 Feele I no wind, that souneth so like paine, 
 It saith, * Alas, why twined be we twaine.' " 
 
 This longe time he driveth forth right thus, 
 
 Till fully passed was the ninthe night. 
 
 And aye beside him was this Pandarus, 
 
 That busily did all his full might 
 
 Him to comfort, and make his herte light, 
 
 Yeving him hope alway the tenth morow. 
 
 That she shal comen, and stinten all his sorow. . . . 
 
 \Diomede meanwhile makes some slight progress in his 
 courtship of Creseide.l 
 
 But in effect, and shortly for to say. 
 
 This Diomede all freshly new againe 
 
 Gan preasen on, and fast her mercy pray, 
 
 And after this, the soothe for to saine, 
 
 Her glove he toke, of which he was full faine, 
 
 And finally, whan it was woxen eve. 
 
 And all was well, he rose and tooke his leve. 
 
 The bright Venus folowed and aie taught 
 The way there brode Phebus doune alight, 
 And Cithera her chare horse over raught, 
 To whirle out of the Lion, if she might. 
 And Signifer his candles sheweth bright, 
 When that Creseide unto her bed went. 
 Within her fathers faire bright tent. 
 
 Retourning in her soule aye up and doun 
 The wordes of this suddaine Diomede, 
 His great estate, and perill of the toun. 
 And that she was alone, and had nede 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 Of friendes help, and thus began to brede 
 The cause why, the soothe for to tell. 
 She tooke fully purpose for to dwell. 
 
 The morow came, and ghostly for to speke, 
 This Diomede is come unto Creseide, 
 And shortly, least that ye my tale breke, 
 So well he for himselfe spake and seide, 
 That all her sighes sore doune he leide, 
 And finally, the soothe for to saine, 
 He refte her the great of all her paine. 
 
 And after this, the story telleth us, 
 That she him yave the faire bay stede, 
 The which she ones wan of Troilus, 
 And eke a brooch (and that was little nede) 
 That Troilus' was, she yave this Diomede, 
 And eke the bet from sorow him to releve, 
 She made him weare a pencell of her sieve. 
 
 I find eke in stories elsewhere. 
 
 Whan through the body hurt was Diomede, 
 
 Of Troilus, tho wept she many a tere, 
 
 Whan that she saw his wide woundes blede, 
 
 And that she tooke to kepen him good hede, 
 
 And for to healen him of his smart, 
 
 Men saine. I n'ot, that she yave him her herte. 
 
 But truely the storie telleth us. 
 There made never woman more wo 
 Than she, whan that she falsed Troilus, 
 She said " Alas, for now is clene ago 
 My name in trouth of love for evermo. 
 For I have falsed one the gentillest 
 That ever was, and one the worthiest 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 
 
 ** Alas, of me unto the worldes end 
 
 Shall neither ben ywritten or ysong 
 
 No good worde, for these bokes woll me shend : 
 
 YroUed shall I been on many a tong, 
 
 Throughout the word my bell shall be rong, 
 
 And women most woll hate me of all, 
 
 Alas, that such a caas me should fall. 
 
 *' They woll saine, in as much as in me is, 
 I have hem done dishonour welaway. 
 All be I not the first that did amis, 
 What helpeth that, to done my blame away, 
 But sens I see there is no better way, 
 And that too late is now for me to rue, 
 To Diomede I woll algate be true. 
 
 ** But Troilus, sens I no better may, 
 And sens that thus departen ye and I, 
 Yet pray I God so yeve you right good day, 
 As for the gentillest knight truely 
 That ever I saw, to serven faithfully, 
 And best can aye his ladies honour kepe," 
 And with that word she brast anon to wepe. 
 
 ** And certes, you ne haten shall I never. 
 
 And friendes love, that shall ye have of me. 
 
 And my good word, all should I liven ever, 
 
 And truely I would right sorrie be, 
 
 For to seene you in adversite, 
 
 And guiltlesse I wot well I you leave. 
 
 And all shall passe, and thus take I my leave." 
 
 But truely how long it was bitwene, 
 That she forsoke him for this Diomede, 
 There is none authour telleth it I wene. 
 Take every man now to his bookes hedc, 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 
 
 He shall no terme finden, out of drede, 
 For though that he began to wowe her sone, 
 Ere he her wan, yet was there more to done. 
 
 Ne me ne list this selie woman chide 
 Ferther than the storie woU devise, 
 Her name alas, is published so wide, 
 That for her gilt it ought ynough suffise, 
 And if I might excuse her in any wise, 
 For she so sorrie was for her untrouth, 
 Ywis I would excuse her yet for routh. 
 
 This Troilus, as I before have told, 
 Thus driveth forth, as wel as he hath might, 
 But ofte was his herte hote and cold, 
 And namely that ilke ninthe night, 
 Which on the morrow she had him behight 
 To come ayen, God wote full little rest 
 Had he that night, nothing to slepe him lest. 
 
 Tho laurer crowned Phebus, with his heat 
 Gan in his course aie upward as he went, 
 To warmen of the east sea the waves wete, 
 And Circes doughter song, with fresh entent, 
 Whan Troilus his Pandare alter sent, 
 And on the walles of the towne they pleide. 
 To looke, if they can scene ought of Creseide. 
 
 Till it was noone, they stooden for to see 
 Who that there came, and every maner wight 
 That came fro lerre, they saiden it was shee. 
 Till that they couden knowen him aright : 
 Now was his herte dull, now was it light, 
 And thus bejaped stooden for to stare 
 About naught, this Troilus and Pandare. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 113 
 
 To Pandams this Troilus tho seide 
 
 *' For aught I wot, before noone sikerly, 
 
 Into this toune ne cometh not here Creseide, 
 
 She hath ynough to doen hardely 
 
 To winnen from her father, so trow I, 
 
 Her olde father woU yet make her dine 
 
 Ere that she go, God yeve his herte pine." 
 
 Pandarus answerd, " It may well been certain 
 And for thy let us dine, I thee beseech, 
 And after noone than maist thou come again : " 
 And home they go, without more speech, 
 And comen ayen, but long may they seech, 
 Ere that they finde that they after gape, 
 Fortune hem bothe thinketh for to jape. 
 
 (Quod Troilus) " I see well now that she 
 Is taried with her old father so. 
 That ere she come, it woU nigh even be. 
 Come forth, I woll unto the yate go. 
 These porters ben unkonning evermo, 
 And I woll done hem holden up the yate, 
 As naught ne were, although she come late." 
 
 The day goth fast, and after that came eve, 
 And yet came nat to Troilus Creseide, 
 He looketh forth by hedge, by tree, by greve, 
 And ferre his head over the wall he leide, 
 And at the last he tourned him and seide, 
 *' By God I wote her meaning now Pandare, 
 Almost ywis all newe was my care. 
 
 " Now doubtelesse this lady can her good, 
 I wote she commeth riding prively, 
 I commend her wisedome by mine hood, 
 She woll nat maken people nicely 
 
 479 
 
114 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 Gaure on her whan she commeth, but softely 
 By night into the toune she thinketh ride, 
 And, dere brother, thinke nat long to al)ide. 
 
 ** We have naught else for to done ywis, 
 
 And Pandarus, now wilt thou trowen me, 
 
 Have here my trouth, I see her, yon she is. 
 
 Heave up thine eyen man, mayst thou nat see?" 
 
 Pandere answerde, " Nay, so mote I the, 
 
 Al wrong by God, what saist thou man, wher art, 
 
 That I see yonde afarre, n'is but a cart." 
 
 " Alas, thou sayst right sooth," (quod Troilus) 
 
 ** But hardely it is not all for nought, 
 
 That in mine herte I now rejoyce thus, 
 
 It is ayenst some good, I have a thought, 
 
 Not I nat how, but sens that I was wrought, 
 
 Ne felt I such a comfort dare I say, 
 
 She cometh to night, my life that durst I lay.*' 
 
 Pandarus answerde, ** It may be well ynough," 
 
 And held with him of all that ever he saied, 
 
 But in his herte he thought, and soft he lough, 
 
 And to himselfe full soberly he saied, 
 
 '* From hasell wood, there jolly Robin plaied, 
 
 Shall come all that thou abidest here, 
 
 Ye, farwell all the snow of feme yere." 
 
 The wardein of the yates gan to call 
 The folk, which that without the yates were. 
 And bad hem driven in hir beastes all, 
 Or all the night they must bleven there, 
 And ferre within the night, with many a tere. 
 This Troilus gan homeward for to ride, 
 For well he seeth it helpeih nat to abide. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 115 
 
 But nathelesse, he gladded him in this, 
 He thought he niisacompted had his day, 
 And saied, " I understand have all amis, 
 For thilke night I laste Creseide sey, 
 She sayd, * I shall ben here, if that I may. 
 Ere that the Moone, O dere herte swete, 
 The Lion passe out of this Ariete.' 
 
 " For which she may yet hold all her behest," 
 And on the morrow unto the yate he went. 
 And up and doune, by west and eke by east 
 Upon the walles made he many a went, 
 But all for naught, his hope alway him blent, 
 For which at night, in sorow and sighe sore, 
 He went him home, withouten any more. . . , 
 
 \_Afier a time he sends a letter beseeching her to return^ 
 and writes again and again. But his faith in her 
 is shaken by the tone of her 7-eplies^ and by evil 
 augury interpreted from a dreain. Then comes the 
 final revelation, '\ 
 
 Stood on a day in his melancholy 
 
 This Troilus, and in suspectioun 
 
 Of her, for whom he wend to dye, 
 
 And so befell, that throughout Troie touii, 
 
 As was the guise, yborne was up and doun 
 
 A manner cote armoure, as saith the story, 
 
 Beforne Deiphebe, insigne of his victory. 
 
 The whiche cote, as telleth LoUius, 
 Deiphebe it hath rent fro Diomede 
 The same day, and whan this Troilus 
 It saw, he gan to taken of it hede, 
 
Ii6 TROTLUS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 Avising of the length and of the brede, 
 And all the werke, but as he gan behold, 
 Full sodainly his herte gan to cold. 
 
 As he that on the coler found within 
 
 A brooch, that he Creseide yave at morow 
 
 That she from Troy must nedes twin, 
 
 In remembraunce of him, and of his sorow, 
 
 And she him laid ayen her faith to borow, 
 
 To keepe it aye : but now full well he wist, 
 
 His lady nas no longer on to trist. 
 
 He goth him home, and gan full soone send 
 For Pandarus, and all this newe chaunce, 
 And of this broch, he told him world and end, 
 Complaining of her hertes variaunce. 
 His longe love, his trouth, and his pennaunce, 
 And after Death, without words more, 
 Full fast he cried, his rest him to restore. 
 
 Than spake he thus, " O lady mine Creseide, 
 Where is your faith, and where is your behest ? 
 Where is your love, where is your trouth " he seide, 
 ** Of Diomede have ye now all the fest ? 
 Alas, I would have trowed at the least, 
 That sens ye n'olde in trouthe to me stond, 
 That ye thus n'olde have holden me in bond. 
 
 "Who shall now trowen on any othes mo? 
 Alas, I never would have wend ere this, 
 That ye, Creseide, could have chaunged so, 
 Ne but I had agilt, and done amis ; 
 So cruell wend I nat your herte ywis, 
 To slee me thus, alas, your name of trouth 
 Is now fordone, and that is all my routh, 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 117 
 
 **Was there none other broche you list lete, 
 To feast with your new love," (quod he) 
 '*But thilke broche that I with teres wete 
 You yave, as for a remembraunce of me ? 
 None other cause alas, ne had ye, 
 But for dispite, and eke for that ye ment 
 All utterly to shewen your entent. . . . 
 
 Great was the sorow and plaint of Troilus, 
 But forth her course fortune aye gan hold, 
 Creseide loveth the sonne of Tideus, 
 And Troilus mote wepe in cares cold, 
 Such is this world, who so it can behold, 
 In eche estate is little hertes rest, 
 God leve us to take it for the best. 
 
 In many cruell battaile out of drede. 
 
 Of Troilus, this ilke noble knight, 
 
 (As men may in these old bookes rede) 
 
 Was seen his knighthood and his great might, 
 
 And dredelesse his ire day and night 
 
 Full cruelly the Grekes aye abought. 
 
 And alway most this Diomede, he sought. 
 
 And oft time (I finde) that they mette 
 With bloody strokes, and with wordes great, 
 Assaying how hir speares were whette, 
 And God it wote, with many a cruell heat 
 Gan Troilus upon his helme to beat, 
 But nathelesse, fortune it naught ne would 
 Of others hond that either dien should. 
 
 And if I had ytaken for to write 
 The armes of this ilke worthy man, 
 Than would I of his battailes endite. 
 And for that I to writen first began 
 
Ii8 TROILUS AND CRESEIDE, 
 
 Of his love, I have said as I can 
 
 His worthy deedes, why so list hem here, 
 
 Rede Dares, he can tell hem all yfere. 
 
 Beseeching every lady bright of hew, 
 And every gen till woman, what she be. 
 Albeit that Creseide was untrew. 
 That for that gilt ye be nat wroth with me, 
 Ye may her gilt in other bookes see, 
 And gladder I would write, if you lest, 
 Penelopes trouth, and good Alceste. 
 
 Ne say I nat this all onely for these men, 
 
 But most for women that betraied be 
 
 Through false folk, God yeve hem sorow, amen, 
 
 That with hir great wit and subtilte 
 
 Betraien you : and this meveth me 
 
 To speake, and in effect you all I pray 
 
 Beth ware of men, and hearkeneth what I say. 
 
 Go, little booke, go, my little tragedie. 
 There God my maker yet ere that I die. 
 So send me might to make some comedie : 
 But little booke, make thou none envie. 
 But subject ben unto all poesie, 
 And kisse the steps whereas thou seest pace 
 Of Vergil, Ovid, Homer, Lucan, and Stace. 
 
 And for there is so great diversite 
 In English, and in writing of our tong, 
 So pray I to God, that none miswrite thee, 
 Ne the misse-metre, for defaut of tong : 
 And redde where so thou be, or eles song, 
 That thou be understond, God I beseech, 
 But yet to purpose of my rather speech. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 119 
 
 The wrath (as I began for you to sey) 
 Of Troihis, the Greekes bouj^hten dere, 
 For thousandes his hondes maden dey, 
 As he that was withouten any pere, 
 Save in his time Hector, as I can here, 
 But welaway, save onely Goddes will, 
 Dispitously him slough the fierce Achill. 
 
 And whan that he was slain in this manere, 
 
 His light ghoste full blisfully is went 
 
 Up to the hollownesse of the seventh sphere, 
 
 In his place leting everiche element, 
 
 And there he saw with full avisement 
 
 The erratike sterres, herkening armonie, 
 
 With sownes full of Heavens melodic. 
 
 And doun from thence, fast he gan avise 
 
 This little spot of earth, that with the see 
 
 Enbraced is, and fully gan despise 
 
 This wretched world, and held all vanite 
 
 To respect of the plaine felicite 
 
 That is in Heaven above : and at the last. 
 
 There he was slaine, his looking doun he cast. 
 
 And in himselfe he lough, right at the wo 
 Of hem that wepten for his death so fast, 
 And dampned all our werkes that followeth so 
 The blinde lust, whiche that may nat last, 
 And shoulden all our herte on Heaven cast, 
 And forth he went, shortely for to tell. 
 There as Mercuric sorted him to dwell. 
 
 Such fine hath lo, this Troilus for love, 
 Such fine hath all his great worthinesse, 
 Such fine hath his estate royall above. 
 Such fine his lust, such fine hath his noblesse, 
 
TROILUS AND CRESEIDE. 
 
 Such fine hath false worldes brotelnesse. 
 And thus began his loving of Creseide, 
 As I have told, and in this wise he deide. 
 
 O young fresh folkes, he or she, 
 
 In which that love up groweth with your age, 
 
 Repaireth home from worldly vanite, 
 
 And of your hertes up casteth the visage 
 
 To thilke God, that after his image 
 
 You made, and thinketh all n'is but a faire, 
 
 This world that passeth sone, as floures faire. 
 
 And loveth him the which that right for love 
 Upon a crosse our soules for to bey. 
 First starfe and rose, and sit in Heven above, 
 For he n'ill falsen no wight dare I sey, 
 That wol his herte all holy on him ley, 
 And sens he best to love is and most meeke, 
 What needeth fained loves for to seeke. 
 
 Lo, here of painems cursed olde rites, 
 Lo, here what all hir goddes may availe, 
 Lo, here this wretched worldes appetites, 
 Lo, here the fine and guerdon for travaile, 
 Of Jove, Apollo, of Mars, and such raskaile, 
 Lo, here the forme of olde clerkes speech 
 In poetrie, if ye hir bookes seech. 
 
 O morall Gower, this booke I direct 
 
 To thee, and to the philosophical 1 Strode, 
 
 To vouchsafe there need is, to correct. 
 
 Of your benignities and zeales good, 
 
 And to the soothfast Christ that starfe on rood, 
 
 With all mine herte of mercy ever I pray, 
 
 And to the Lord aright, thus I speake and say, 
 
TROIL US A ND CRESEIDE, 1 1 1 
 
 Thou one, two, and three, eterne on live, 
 That raignest aie in thre, two, and one, 
 Uncircumscript, and all maist circumscrive, 
 Us from visible and invisible fone 
 Defend, and to thy mercy everichone, 
 So make us, Jesus, to thy mercy digne, 
 For love of maide, and mother thine benigne. 
 
122 CHAUCER'S WORDS. 
 
 CHAUCER'S WORDS UNTO HIS OWN 
 SCRIVENER. 
 
 Adam Scrivener, if ever it thee befall 
 Boece or Troilus for to write new, 
 Under thy lockes thou maist have the scall, 
 But after my making thou write more trew, 
 So oft a day I mote thy werke renew, 
 It to correct and eke to ruhbe and scrape, 
 And all is thorow thy negligence and rape. 
 
jLtJ 
 
 Ubc "Ibouse of ifaine. 
 
 God tourne us every dream to good, 
 
 For it is wonder thing, by the rood, 
 
 To my wit, what causetji swevens 
 
 On the morrow, or on eyhns] %(" ^qi 
 
 And why the effect followeth of some, 
 
 And of some it shalliever come, 
 
 Why that it is an avision, 
 
 And why this is a revelation, -. , - ^ 
 
 Why this a dreame, why that^,a sweven, / 
 
 And not to every man liche even ; \^Jl^ o^^^^ 
 
 Why this a fantome, why that oracles ; 
 
 I n'ot ; but whoso of these miracles 
 
 Jhe causes know bet than I, 
 
 Define he, for I certainely 
 
 N'e (jan hem hot, tie never thinke / 
 
 To busie my wit for to swinke ' 
 
 To know of hir significations 
 
 The gendres, ne distinctions 
 
 Of the times of^hem, ne the causes, i^ / 
 
 Or whv this: is rfifnrf tVirm'thnt isJ '~ "' ' 
 
 Or why this is rtfore than that is, '~ ^ ' ^.-^ 
 Or ye?ye folkes complexions, ^-^^Trt^iiHA^,-*^ 
 Make hem dreame of reflections, J/^X-^^^t^JtJi/ 
 her saine, CJl?/, 
 
 Or else thus,^ as other saine, O^// D 
 i^.For the gfeate feeblenesse of nir brain, 
 By abstinence, or by sicknesse, 
 Prison, strife, or great distresse, 
 
124 THE HOUSE OF FAME. 
 
 Or els by msorqinaunce,^^ , ' 
 
 Or natural accustomaunce, ^.. 
 
 Th'at some men be too curious 
 
 In studie, or melancolious, . . .4^-*.^ y,A*w\^ 
 
 Or thus, so inly full of dredcu^ ^ < "^ >^^ 
 
 That no man may him bote reae, * ^'^'^' r-^^'*-^ 
 
 Or els tMt devotion 
 
 Of some, and contemplation 
 
 Causen such dreames oft, 
 
 Or that the cruell life uasoft^-*-'^^**.. 
 
 PJ" hem that loves leden,"**" 
 ^Oft^hopen much or dreden.f/'^^J'^ 
 '''Tliai purely hir impressions Y^ 
 
 Causen hem tp have visions, 
 
 Or if spirits ban the might / 
 
 To make folke to dreamej^n night, — ^ 
 
 Or if the soule^of proper kind *^*^ k.*XwaX 
 
 Be so perfite as men find, « 
 
 That it wote vi^hat is to cpme, ^fj- 
 
 And that he warneth all an3 some 
 
 Of everrche of hir avenlures, . 
 
 By avisions, or by figureSyf-^f^-""'''^^ / 
 
 But that our flesh hath no might <^-*'* ^ ^. 
 
 To understand it aright, . j^ k/»a.w*^ ^ 'Tt 
 
 For it is warned too derkely,V^'^^ ' t^f^^ 
 
 s^v» r?ut why the cause is, not wote I. 
 /'"' Well worth of this^thing clerkes 
 
 That treaten of thdt and of other werkes, 
 
 For I of none opinion 
 
 N'ill as now make mention, 
 
 But only that the holy rood r 
 
 Tourne us every dreame to good, *^ 
 
 For never sith I was borne, 
 
 jNe no man els me beforne, 
 '^"*Mette, I trow stedfastly, ' 
 
 So wonderful! a dreame as I. . . . 
 
THE HOUSE OF FAME. 125 
 
 But as I slept, me mette I was 
 Within a temple ymade of glas, 
 In which there were mo images * j^ 
 
 Of gold, standing in sundry stages, llb**^^*^^"^ 
 In mo rich tabernacles, . ^f^L^ 
 
 And with perrie mo pinacles, 4;^^^*''**'^ ^ 
 And mo cufious portraitures, (fOitKcA^'Vo^ 
 And queinT 'manner of figures 
 Of gold worke than I saw ever. . . . 
 
 Whan I had seene all this sight 
 In this noble temple thus, 
 c'Jx* Hey, lord," thought I, "that madest us, 
 Yet saw I never such noblesse ^^ *^|J^^i^»-'Oi^«A 
 Of images, nor such richesse ^ . -*^fc?^ 
 As I see graven in this church, . f ■ . 'WwiLI 
 But nought Wote I wrio did* hi'em worch, iT^ 
 Ne where I am, ne in what countree, 
 But now ,wiU I out gone and see 
 Right'atlhe^ wicket if I can ^^^ . 
 
 Seene ou^ght wiiere sterring any man, "p^'^^'"^'^^^];i^ " 
 That may me tellen wh^re I am.'' . ^\^^^ ^ 
 
 Whan I out'^bf the dore came, 
 I fast about me beheld, ^"^ 
 
 Than saw I but' a 'large field. 
 As farre as ever I might see. 
 Without toune, house, qr tree^^ 
 Or bush, or grasse, or -eared land, 
 P'or allthe field was but of sand, 1 tuL^^ 
 As SnmTtas men may see at eye ^^ ^^5 
 In the desart of Lybye, J ,gJiJ^ 
 
 Ne no manner creature, ' [} ^v 
 That is yformed by iiature, {^Hs.qL'^^ « , 
 Ne saw I, itie to reae or wisse t Jf. }M^/^^/ys^ , 
 " O Christ," thought I, ** that aVeln blisle, >6^o4^ 
 From fantome and illusion 
 Me save," and with devotion 
 
136 THE HOUSE OF FAME. 
 
 . . '. ^. V ■.'' ■ :. • ■ 
 
 Mine eyen tp the Heaven I cast, 
 ^ho w£^s^I w^re, lo, at the last, ^ 
 Tfiat -fast by the^Sunne qn hye,^^^^;^^ j^:*,^*^-**^*-!^ 
 As Ue'nne might I with mine eye, 
 
 Me thought I saw an egle sore, ^^ 
 O^^NEut that it seemed much more i ^'*-*-*'''^ 
 Than I h^d.?-Py e^le y^eii> ; ^ y-*^ I^ 
 This is"as"4ooth as death certam,"^**^ 
 
 
 It was of gold,, and shgpe so bright, 
 That never saw men such a sight, i, - i^^JU 
 But if the JFIeaven had ywonne j'^'^**^/ ai/j^-^^*^ 
 All new of God another sonne, -^^^ ]/ 
 '^^ To shone the egles fethers bright, 
 
 And somewhat downward gan it light, ^ 
 
 >'^ ^ • : \ ^^' -.'-'.. c a ^ iP^'-^P^*- 
 
 EXPLICIT LIBER PRIMUS. 
 
 LIBER SECUNDUS. 
 
 And with his grim pawes strong, 
 Within his sharpe nailes long, 
 Me fieyng at a swappe he hent, 
 And with his sours againe up went, 
 Me carying in his clawes starke. 
 As lightly as I had ben a larke, 
 How high I cannot tellen you. 
 For I came up I n'ist never how, 
 For so astonied and asweved 
 Was every virtue in my heved. 
 What with his sours and my dread, 
 That all my feeling gan to dead, 
 For why ? it was a great afifray. 
 Thus I long in his clawes lay, 
 
THE HOUSE OF FAME. 127 
 
 Till at the last he to me spake 
 
 In mans voice, and said * 'Awake, 
 
 And be not agast so for shame," 
 
 And called me tho by my name, 
 
 And, for I should better abraid, 
 
 Me to awake thus he said, 
 
 Right in the same voice and stevin. 
 
 That useth one that I can nevin, 
 
 And with that voice, sooth to saine, 
 
 My mind came to me again, 
 
 For it was goodly said to me. 
 
 So nas it never wont to be ; 
 
 And, herewithal, I gan to stere, 
 
 As he me in his feet bere, 
 
 Till that he felt that I had heat, 
 
 And felt eke tho mine herte beat. 
 
 And tho gan he me to disport. 
 
 And with gentle wordes me comfort, 
 
 And said twice, ** Saint Mary, 
 
 Thou art a noyous thing to cary. 
 
 And nothing needeth it, parde, 
 
 For also, wise God helpe me. 
 
 As thou no harme shalt have of this. 
 
 And this case that betiddeth thee is 
 
 For thy lore and for thy prow ; 
 
 Let see, darst thou looke yet now? 
 
 Be full ensured boldely, 
 
 I am thy friend : " and therewith I 
 
 Gan for to wonder in my mind. 
 
 God," quod I : " thad madest all kind, 
 Shall I none otherwise die. 
 
 Whether Jove will me stellifie, 
 Or what thing may this signifie? 
 
 1 am neither Enocke, ne Helie, 
 Ne Romulus, ne Ganimede, 
 That were bore up, as men rede, 
 
128 THE HOUSE OF FAME. 
 
 To Heaven with dan Jupiter, 
 
 And made the gods boteler : " 
 
 IjO, this was tho my fantasie, 
 
 But he that bare gan aspie 
 
 That I so thought, and said this, 
 
 *' Thou deemest of thy selfe amis, 
 
 For Jove is not thereabout, 
 
 I dare thee put full out of doubt, 
 
 To make of the yet a sterre, 
 
 But ere I beare thee much ferre, 
 
 I will thee tell what I am. 
 
 And whider thou shalt, and why I came 
 
 To do this, so that thou take 
 
 Good herte, and not for feare quake." 
 
 *' Gladly," quod I : ** Now well," quod he : 
 
 " First, I that in my feet have the, 
 
 Of whom thou hast feare and wonder, 
 
 I am dwelling with the god of thonder, 
 
 Which men callen Jupiter, 
 
 That doth me flien full oft fer, 
 
 To do all his commaundement, 
 
 And for this cause he hath me sent 
 
 To thee : herke now by thy trouth, 
 
 Certaine he hath of thee routh, 
 
 That thou hast so truely 
 
 Long served ententifely 
 
 His blind nevew Cupido, 
 
 And faire Venus also. 
 
 Without guerdon ever yet, 
 
 And nathelesse hast set thy wit, 
 
 Although in thy head full little is, 
 
 To make bookes, songs, and dities 
 
 In rime, or else in cadence. 
 
 As thou best canst, in reverence 
 
 Of Love, and of his servaunts eke, 
 
 That have his service sought and sake, 
 
THE HOUSE OF FAME, 129 
 
 And painest thee to praise his art, 
 Although thou haddest never part, 
 "Wherefore also, God me blesse, 
 Jovis halt in great humblesse, 
 And vertue eke, that thou wilt make 
 A night full oft thine head to ake, 
 In thy study so thou writest 
 And evermore of Love enditest, 
 In honour of him and praisings, 
 And in his folkes furtherings. 
 And in hir matter all devisest, 
 And not him ne his folke dispisest, 
 Although thou maist go in the daunce 
 Of hem that him list not avaunce ; 
 Wherefore, as I said ywis, 
 Jupiter considreth well this, 
 And also beausire, of other things, 
 That is, thou haste no tidings 
 Of Loves folke, if they be glade, 
 Ne of nothing else that God made. 
 And not onely fro ferre countree 
 That no tidings commen to thee, 
 Not of thy very neighbours, 
 That dwellen almost at thy dores, 
 Thou hearest neither that ne this, 
 P'or whan thy labour all done is, 
 And hast made all thy reckenings, 
 In stead of rest and of new things, 
 '1 hou goest home to thine house anone, 
 And also dombe as a stone 
 Thou sittest at another booke, 
 Till fully dased is thy looke. 
 And livest thus as an hermite. 
 Although thine abstinence is lite. . . , 
 
 " Geffray, thou wotest well this, 
 That every kindely thing that is, 
 
 480 
 
ISO THE HOUSE OF FAME. 
 
 Hath a kindely stede there he 
 May best in it conserved be, 
 Unto which place every thing,' 
 Through his kindely enclining, 
 Meveth for to come to. 
 Whan that it is away therefro, 
 As thus, lo, how thou maist al day see, 
 Take any thing that heavie bee. 
 As stone or lead, or thing of weight, 
 And beare it never so hie on height, 
 Let go thine hand, it falleth downe. 
 Right so say I by fire or sowne 
 Or smoke, or other things light, 
 Alway they seeke upward on height. 
 Light things up, and downward charge, 
 While everich of hem be at large. 
 And for this cause thou maist well see, 
 That every river unto the see 
 Enclined is to go by kind, 
 And by these skilles, as I find. 
 Have fishes dwelling in flood and see, 
 And trees eke on the earth be ; 
 Thus every thing by his reason 
 Hath his own proper mansion. 
 To which he seeketh to repaire. 
 There as it should nat appaire. 
 
 *' Lo, this sentence is knowne couth 
 Of every philosophers mouth, 
 As Aristotle and dan Platone, 
 And other clerkes many one, 
 And to confirme my reasoun, 
 Thou wost well that speech is soun, 
 Or else no man might it here, 
 Now herke what I woll thee lere. 
 
 " Sowne is not but eyre y broken, 
 And every speech that is spoken. 
 
THE HOUSE OF FAME. 131 
 
 Loud or prive, foule or faire, 
 
 In his substaunce is but eyre, 
 
 For as flame is but lighted smoke, 
 
 Right so is sowne eyre ybroke, 
 
 But this may be in many wise, 
 
 Of which I will thee devise ; 
 
 As sowne cometh of pipe or harpe 
 
 For when a pipe is blowen sharpe. 
 
 The eyre is twist with violence, 
 
 And rent ; lo, this is my sentence : 
 
 Eke, whan men harpe strings smite, 
 
 Wheder it be much or lite, 
 
 Lo, with a stroke the eyre it breketh. 
 
 And right so breaketh it whan men speaketh, 
 
 Thus, wost thou well, .what thing is speach, 
 
 Now henceforth, I will thee teach 
 
 How everich speech, voice, or soun, 
 
 Through his multiplicatioun, 
 
 Though it were piped of a mouse, 
 
 Mote needs come to Fames House ; 
 
 I prove it thus, take heed now 
 
 By experience, for if that thou 
 
 Threw in a water now, a stone, 
 
 Well wost thou it will make, anone, 
 
 A little roundell as a circle, 
 
 Paraventure as broad as a covercle, 
 
 And right anone, thou shalt see wele, 
 
 That whele cercle wil cause another whele, 
 
 And that the third, and so forth brother. 
 
 Every cercle causing other, 
 
 Broader than himselfe was, 
 
 And thus from roundell to compas, 
 
 Ech about other going, 
 
 Causeth of others stering 
 
 And multiplying evermo, 
 
 Till it be so farre go 
 
132 THE HOUSE OF FAME. 
 
 That it at both brinkes bee, 
 
 Although thou may it not see 
 
 Above, yet gothe it alway under, 
 
 Though thou thinke it a great wonder. 
 
 And who so saith of trouth I vary, 
 
 Bid him prove the contrary ; 
 
 And right thus every word ywis, 
 
 That loud or privie yspoken is, 
 
 Moveth first an eyre about, 
 
 And of his moving, out of doubt, 
 
 Another eyre anone is moved ; 
 
 As I have of the water proved, 
 
 That every cercle causeth other. 
 
 Right so of eyre, my leve brother; 
 
 Everich eyre in other stereth 
 
 More and more, and speech up beareth, 
 
 Or voice of noise, word or soun, 
 
 Aye through multiplication. 
 
 Till it be at the House of Fame; 
 
 Take it in earnest or in game, 
 
 Now have I told, if thou have mind, 
 
 How speech or sowne, of pure kind 
 
 Enclined is upward to meve ; 
 
 This maiest thou fele well by preve, 
 
 And that same stede ywis. 
 
 That every thing enclined to is, 
 
 Hath his kindliche stede. 
 
 That sheweth it without drede, 
 
 That kindely the mansioun 
 
 Of everich speeche of every soun, 
 
 Be it either foule or faire, 
 
 Hath his kind place in aire, 
 
 And sith that every thing ywis, 
 
 Out of his kind place ywis, 
 
 Moveth thider for to go. 
 
 If it away be therefro, 
 
THE HOUSE OF FAME, 133 
 
 As I have before proved thee, 
 It sheweth every soune, parde, 
 Moveth kindely to pace. 
 As up into his kind place ; 
 And this place of which I tell, 
 There as Fame list to dwell. 
 It sette amiddes of these three, 
 Heaven, Earth, and eke the see, 
 As most conservatife the soun ; 
 Than is this the conclusion, 
 That every speech of every man, 
 As I thee tell first began, 
 Moveth up on height to pace 
 Kindly to Fames place. 
 
 "Tell me this now faithfully, 
 Have I not proved thus simply. 
 Without any subtelte 
 Of speech, or great prolixite 
 Of termes of philosophy, 
 Of figures of poetry. 
 Or colours of rhetorike ? 
 Perde, it ought thee to like, 
 For hard language, and hard matere 
 Is incombrous for to here 
 At ones, wost thou not well this?" 
 And I answered and said "Yes." . . . 
 
 Tho gan I wexe in a were. 
 And said, *' I wote well I am here. 
 But whether in body or in goost, 
 I not ywis, but God thou woost; " 
 For more clere entendement, 
 N'as me never yet ysent ; 
 And than thought I on Marcian, 
 And eke of Anticlaudian, 
 That sothe was hir descripcion 
 Of all the Heavens region. 
 
134 THE HOUSE OF FAME, 
 
 As far as that I saw the preve. 
 And, therefore, I can hem leve. 
 
 With that the egle gan to crie, 
 *' Let be," quod he, " thy fantasie, 
 Wilt thou learne of sterres ought ? " 
 
 ** Nay certainly," quod I, "right nought." 
 " And why ? " quod he. '* For I am old," 
 " Or els would I thee have told," 
 Quod he, *' the sterres names, lo, 
 And all the Heavens signs to, 
 And which they be." — " No force," quod I, 
 
 *' Yes, parde," quod he, " wost thou why? 
 For whan thou redest poetry, 
 How the goddes can stellify 
 Birde, fishe, or him, or her. 
 As the ravin and other, 
 Or Ariones harpe fine. 
 Castor, Polexe, or Delphine, 
 Or Athalantes doughters seven. 
 How all these are set in Heven, 
 For though thou have hem ofte in hand, 
 Yet n'ost thou nat where they stand." 
 
 ** No force," quod I, " it is no need. 
 As well I leve, so God me speed, 
 Hem that writen of this matere, 
 As though I knew hir places here, 
 And eke they semen here so bright. 
 It should shenden all my sight, 
 
 To look on hem : " — " That may well be," 
 Quod he, and so forth bare he me 
 A while, and tho he gan to cry, 
 (That never herde I thing so hie) 
 '* Hold up thine heed, for all is well, 
 Saint Julian, lo, bonne hostell. 
 See here the House of Fame, lo, 
 Mayst thou not here that I do ? " 
 
THE HOUSE OF FAME. 135 
 
 ** What ?" quod I. " The great sowne," 
 Quod he, *' that rombleth up and downe 
 In Fames House full of tidings, 
 Both of fayre speech and chidings, 
 And of false and sothe compouned, 
 Herken well, it is not rowned. 
 Herest thou not the great swough ? " 
 "Yes, perde," quod I, *' wel ynough." 
 ** And what sowne is it like ? " quod he, 
 
 " Parde, lyke the beating of the see," 
 Quod I, " against the roches holow, 
 Whan tempests done her shippes swolow, 
 And that a man stand out of doute, 
 A myle thens, and here it route. 
 
 *' Or els lyke the humbling 
 After the clappe of a thundring, 
 When Jovis hath the eyre ybete, 
 But it doth me for feare swete." 
 
 " Nay, drede thee not thereof," quod he, 
 ** It is nothing that will biten thee, 
 Thou shalt have no harme truely." 
 
 And with that worde both he and I 
 As nigh the place arrived were. 
 As men might cast with a spere, 
 I n'ist how, but in a strete 
 He set me faire on my feete, 
 And said, " Walke forth a pace 
 And telle thine adventure and case, ' 
 That thou shalt finde in Fames place." » , . 
 
 EXPLICIT LIBER SECUNDIS. 
 
t36 THE HOUSE OF FAME, 
 
 LIBER TERTIUS. 
 
 When I was from the Egle gone, 
 I gan behold upon this place, 
 And certaine, or I further passe, 
 I woll you all the shape devise, 
 Of house and citee, and all the wise 
 How I gan to this place approche, 
 That stood upon so hie a roche, 
 Hier standeth none in Spaine ; 
 But up I clambe with moch payne. 
 And though to climbe greved mee, 
 Yet I ententife was to see, 
 And for to poren wondre low, 
 If I coude any wise yknow 
 What maner stone this roche was, 
 For it was like a limed glas, 
 But that it shone full more clere, 
 But of what congeled matere 
 It was, I n'iste redely. 
 But at the last espied I, 
 And found that it was everydele, 
 A roche of yse and not of stele : 
 Thought I, "By saint Thomas of Kent, 
 This were a feeble foundement 
 To builden on a place hie, 
 He ought him little to glorifie. 
 That hereon bilte, God so me save." 
 
 Tho sawe I all the hall ygrave 
 With famous folkes names fele, 
 That had been in moch wele, 
 And hir fames wide yblow, 
 But well unneth might I know 
 Any letters for to rede 
 Hir names by, for, out of drede, 
 
THE HOUSE OF FAME. 137 
 
 They weren almost of thawed so, 
 That of the letters one or two 
 Were molte away of every name. 
 So unfamous was wexe her fame ; 
 But men say, what may ever last ? 
 
 Tho gan I in mine herte cast, 
 That they were molte away for heate, 
 And not away with stormes beate, 
 For on that other side I sey. 
 Of this hill, that northward ley, 
 How it was written full of names 
 Of folke that had afore great fames, 
 Of old time, and yet they were 
 As fresh as men had written hem there 
 The self-day, or that houre 
 That I on hem gan to poure, 
 But well I wiste what it made. 
 It was conserved with the shade. 
 All the writing that I sie, 
 Of a castell that so stoode on hie, 
 And stoode eke in so cold a place 
 That heate might it not deface. . . . 
 But all on hie above a dees, 
 Satte in a see imperiall, 
 That made was of ruble royal). 
 Which that a carbuncle is ycalled, 
 I sawe prepetually ystalled, 
 A feminine creature, 
 That never formed by nature 
 Was such another thing I sale : 
 For alderfirst, soth to sale, 
 Me thought that she was so lite. 
 That the length of a cubite, 
 Was lenger than she seemed be. 
 But thus soone in a while she, 
 Her self tho wonderly streight. 
 
138 THE HOUSE OF FAME, 
 
 That with her feet she th'erthe reight, 
 
 And with her hedde she touched Heaven, 
 
 There as shineth the sterres seven. 
 
 And thereto yet, as to my wit, 
 
 I saw a great wonder yet, 
 
 Upon her eyen to behold, 
 
 But certainly I hem never told. 
 
 For as fele eyen has she, 
 
 As fethers upon foules be, 
 
 Or weren on the beasts foure, 
 
 That Goddes trone can honour, 
 
 As writeth John in the Apocalips, 
 
 Her heer that was oundie and crips, 
 
 As burned gold it shone to see. 
 
 And sothe to tellen, also shee 
 Had also fele up standing eares, 
 And tonges, as on beast been heares. 
 And on her feete woxen saw I, 
 Partriche winges redily. 
 
 But Lord the perrie and the richesse 
 I saw sitting on the goddesse, 
 And the heavenly melodic 
 Of songes full of armonie 
 I heard about her trone ysong. 
 That all the palais wall rong, 
 So song the mighty Muse, she 
 That cleped is Caliope, 
 And her seven sisterne eke, 
 That in hir faces seemen meke. 
 And evermore eternally 
 They song of Fame, tho heard I, 
 *' Heried be thou and thy name, 
 Goddes of renoun and of Fame ! " . • « 
 
 Tho gan I looke about and see, 
 That there come entring into the hall 
 A right great company withall, 
 
THE HOUSE OF FAME, 139 
 
 And that of sondry regions, 
 Of all kind of condicions, 
 That dwell in yearth under the Moone, 
 Poore and riche ; and all so soone 
 As they were come into the hall, 
 They gan on knees doune to fall, 
 Before this ilke noble queene, 
 And said, '* Graiint us lady sheene, 
 Eche of us of thy grace a bone," 
 And some of hem she graunted sone, 
 And some she warned well and faire, 
 And some she graunted the contraire 
 Of hir asking utterly : 
 But this I say you truely. 
 What her grace was, I n'ist, 
 For of these folke full well I wist. 
 They had good fame eche deserved, 
 Although they were diversly served. 
 Right as her sister, dame Fortune, 
 Is wont to serve in commune. 
 
 Now herken how she gan to pay 
 Hem that gan her of grace pray, 
 And yet, lo, all this companie 
 Saiden soth, and not a lie. 
 
 " Madame," sayd they, '* we bee 
 Folke that here besechen thee, 
 That thou graunt us now good fame, 
 And let our workes have good name 
 In full recompensacioun 
 Of good worke, give us good renoun." 
 
 " I warne it you," quod she, '* anone, 
 Ye get of me good fame none, 
 By God, and therefore go your way." 
 
 '•' Alas," quod they, " and welaway I 
 Tell us what your cause may be." 
 
 *' For me list it not," quod she, 
 
140 THE HOUSE OF FAME. 
 
 ** No wight shall speake of you, ywis, 
 Good ne harme, ne that ne this." 
 
 And with that worde she gan to call 
 Her messenger that was in hall, 
 And bad that he should faste gone, 
 Upon paine to be blinde anone, 
 For Eolus the god of winde, 
 ** In Trace there ye shall him finde, 
 And bid him bring his clarioun, 
 That is full divers of his soun, 
 And it is cleped cleare laude, 
 With which he wont is to heraude, 
 Hem that me list ypraised bee ; 
 And also bid him how that hee 
 Bring eke his other clarioun, 
 That height sclaunder in every toun, 
 With which he wont is to diflame 
 Hem that me list, and doe hem shame." . 
 
 This Eolus no where abode, 
 Till he was come to Fames feete. 
 And eke the man that Triton heete. 
 And there he stode as still as stone, 
 And herewithall, there came anone, 
 Another huge companie 
 Of good folke and gan to crie, 
 ** Lady, graunt us now good fame, 
 And let our workes have that name. 
 Now in honour of gentilnesse, 
 And also God your soule blesse. 
 For we han well deserved it. 
 Therefore is right that we be quit.** 
 ** As thrive I," quod she, ** ye shall faile, 
 Good workes shall you not availe. 
 To have of me good fame as now. 
 But wote ye what, I graunt you, 
 That ye shall have a shrewd name. 
 
THE HOUSE OF FAME, 141 
 
 And wicked loos and worse fame, 
 
 Though ye good loos have well deserved, 
 
 Now goeth your way for you been served : 
 
 And thou dan Eolus," quod she, 
 
 " Take forth thy trumpe anone, let see. 
 
 That is ycleped sclaunder light, 
 
 And blow hir loos, that every wight 
 
 Speak of hem harme and shreudnesse, 
 
 In stede of good and worthinesse, 
 
 For thou shalt trumpe all the contrarie, 
 
 Of that they have done well and faire," 
 
 Alas, thought I, \^hat aventures 
 Have these sory creatures. 
 That they among all the pres, 
 Should this be shamed giltles? 
 But what, it must needes be. 
 What did this Eolus, but he 
 Tooke out his blacke trumpe of bras. 
 That fouler than the Devil was, 
 And gan this trompe for to blow, 
 As all the world should overthrow. 
 Throughout every regioun. 
 Went this foule trumpes soun, 
 As swifte as a pellet out of a gonne. 
 When fire is in the pouder ronne. 
 And soch a smoke gan out wende, 
 Out of the foule trumpes ende, 
 Blacke, blue, grenishe, swartish, red. 
 As doth where that man melte led, 
 Lo, and on hie Irom the tewell ; 
 And thereto, one thing saw I well, 
 That the ferther that it ranne, 
 The greater wexen it beganne. 
 As doth the river from a well, 
 And it stanke as the pitte of Hell : 
 Alas, thus was hir shame yrong, 
 
142 THE HOUSE OF FAME. 
 
 And giltlesse on every tong. 
 
 Tho came the third companie, 
 And gone up to the dees to hie, 
 And doune on knees they fell anone, 
 And saiden, " We been everichone 
 Folke that han full truely 
 Deserved fame rightfully, 
 And prayed you it might be know, 
 Right as it is and forth blow." 
 
 *' I graunt," quod she, *' for now me list 
 That your good workes shall be wist, 
 And yet ye shall have better loos, 
 Right in dispite of all your foos, 
 Than worthy is, and that anone : 
 Let now," quod she, "thy trumpe gone, 
 Thou Eolus that is so blacke, 
 And out thine other trumpe take 
 That hight laude, and blow it so 
 That through the world hir fame go, 
 All easely and not too fast, 
 That it be knowen at the last." 
 
 *' Full gladly, lady mine," he saied, 
 And out his trumpe of gold he braied 
 Anone, and set it to his mouth. 
 And blewe it east, west, and south, 
 And north, as loude as any thonder, 
 That every wight hath of it wonder, 
 So brode it ran or that it stent. 
 And certes, all the breath that went 
 Out of his trumpes mouth smelde 
 As men a potte full of baume helde 
 Among a basket full of roses, 
 This favour did he to hir loses. 
 
 And right with this I gan espie, 
 There came the fowerth companie, 
 But certaine they were wonder fewe, 
 
THE HOUSE OF FAME. 143 
 
 And gonne to standen on a rewe, 
 And saiden, "Certes, lady bright, 
 We have done well with all our might, 
 But we ne keepe to have fame ; 
 Hide our workes and our name, 
 For Goddes love, for certes wee 
 Have surely done it for bountee, 
 And for no manner other thing/' 
 
 *' I graunt you all your asking,*' 
 Quod she, *'let your workes be dedde." 
 
 With that about I tourned my hedde, 
 And sawe anone the fifth rout 
 That to this lady gan lout, 
 And doune on knees, anone, to fall, 
 And to her tho besoughten all. 
 To hiden hir good workes eke, 
 And said, they yeve not a leke 
 For no fame, ne soch renoun, 
 For they for contemplacioun. 
 And Goddes love had it wrought, 
 Ne of fame would they nought. 
 
 "What!" quod she, "and be ye wood? 
 And wene ye for to do good. 
 And for to have of that no fame ? 
 Have ye dispite to have my name? 
 Nay, ye shall lien everichone : 
 Bio we thy trumpe and that anone," 
 Quod she, '* thou Eolus I bote, 
 And ring these folkes workes by note, 
 That all the world may of it here :" 
 And he gan blowe hir loos so cleare 
 In his golden clarioun. 
 Through the worlde went the soun, 
 Also kindly, and eke so soft, 
 That their fame was blowe aloft. 
 
 Tho came the sixt companie, 
 
144 THE HOUSE OF FAME. 
 
 And gan fast to Fame crie, 
 
 Right verely in this manere, 
 
 They saiden, " Mercy, lady dere, 
 
 To tell certain as it is, 
 
 We have done neither that ne this, 
 
 But idell all our life hath be, 
 
 But nathelesse, yet pray we, 
 
 That we may have as good a fame, 
 
 And great renome and knowen name, 
 
 As they that have do noble jestes, 
 
 And acheved all hir questes, 
 
 As well of love as other thing, , , , 
 
 With that I gan about wend. 
 For one that stode right at my backe, 
 Me thought full goodly to me spake. 
 And said, ** Frende, what is thy name? 
 Arte thou come hider to have fame ? *' 
 
 *' Nay forsothe, frende," quod I, 
 * * I come not hither, graunt mercy, 
 For no soch cause by my heed, 
 Suffiseth me as I were deed, 
 That no wight have my name in honde, 
 I wot my selfe best how I stonde. 
 For what 1 drie or what I thinke, 
 I woll my selfe all it drinke, 
 Certaine for the more part. 
 As fer forth as I can mine art." 
 "- What dost thou here than ?" quod he : 
 Quod I, " that woll I tell thee, 
 The cause why I stand here. 
 Some new tidings for to lere, 
 Some new thing, I not what, 
 Tidings eyther this or that, 
 Of love, or such things glade, 
 For certainely he that me made 
 To come hyder, said to mee 
 
THE HOUSE OF FAME, 14S 
 
 I shokle bothe heare and see, 
 In this place wonder things, 
 But these be no soch tidings 
 As I meant of: "— " No ? " quod he : 
 And I answerde "No, parde. 
 For well I wote ever yet, 
 Sith that first I had wit, 
 That some folke han desired fame, 
 Diversly, and loos and name. 
 But certainly I n'ist how, 
 Ne where that Fame dwelled or now, 
 Ne eke of her descripcion, 
 Ne also her condicion, 
 Ne the order of her dome. 
 Knew 1 not till hider come." . . , 
 Tho gan I forth with him gone, 
 Out of the castell, sothe to sey. 
 Tho sawe I stand in a valey. 
 
 Under the castell fast by, 
 
 An house, that domus Dedal i, 
 
 That Laborintus ycleped is, 
 
 N'as made so wonderly ywis, 
 
 Ne halfe so queintly ywrought, 
 
 And evermo, as swift as thought, 
 
 This queint house about went. 
 
 That never mo it still stent, 
 
 And there came out so great a noise, 
 
 That had it stonde upon Oise, 
 
 Men might have heard it easily 
 
 To Rome, I trowe sikerly, 
 
 And the noise which that I herde. 
 
 For all the world right so it ferde. 
 
 As doth the routing of the stone, 
 
 That fro th'engin is letyn gone . . . 
 
 And eke this house hath of entrees 
 
 As many as leves ben on trees, 
 
 481 
 
146 THE HOUSE OF FAME. 
 
 In sommer whan they been greene, 
 And on the rofe yet men may seene 
 A thousand holes, and wel mo, 
 To letten the sowne out go, 
 And by day in every tide 
 Bene all the dores open wide, 
 And by night eche one unshet, 
 Ne porter is there none to let 
 No maner tidings in to pace, 
 Ne never rest is in that place, 
 That it n'is filled full of tidings, 
 Eyther loude or of whisperings, 
 And ever all the houses angles 
 Is ful of rownings and of jangles, 
 Of werres, of peace, of mariages, 
 Of restes, and of labour, of viages, 
 Of abode, of death, and of lyfe, 
 Of love, of hate, accord, of strife, 
 Of losse, of lore, and of winnings. 
 Of heale, of sicknesse, or of lesings, 
 Offaire wether, and eke of tempests, 
 Of qualme, of folke, and of beests, 
 Of divers transmutacions. 
 Of estates and eke of regions. 
 Of trust, of drede, of jalousie, 
 Ofwitte, of winning, of folic, 
 Of plenty, and of great famine, 
 Of chepe, derth, and of ruine, 
 Of good or misgovernment, 
 Of fire, and of divers accident. . . . 
 With this word he right anone, 
 Hent me up bytwene his tone, 
 And at a window in me brought, 
 That in this house was at me thought, 
 And therewithall, me thought it stent. 
 And nothing it about went, 
 
THE HOUSE OF FAME, 147 
 
 And me set in the floore adoun ; 
 But such a great congregacioun 
 Of folke as I sawe rome about, 
 Some within and some without, 
 N'as never seene, ne shall be efte, 
 That certes, in this world n'is lefte 
 So many formed by nature, 
 Ne need so many a creature, 
 That wel unneth in that place 
 Had I foote brede of space ; 
 And every wight that I sawe there, 
 Rowned everich in others eere, 
 A new tiding prively, 
 Or els he told it all openly 
 Right thus, and said, *' N'ost nat thou 
 That is betidde, and lo, right now ? '' 
 " No," quod he, " tell me what: '' 
 And than he told him this and that, 
 And swore thereto that it was soth. 
 Thus hath he said, and thus he doth, 
 Aud this shal be, and thus herde I say, 
 That shal be found that dare I lay : 
 That all the folke that is on live, 
 Ne have the conning to discrive, 
 Tho thinges that I herde there. 
 What a loude, and what in eere ; 
 But all the wonder most was this, A 
 
 "Whan one had herd a thing ywis, ^ 
 
 He came streight to another wight 
 And gan him tellen anon right. 
 The same that him was told 
 Or it a forlong way was old, 
 And gan somewhat for to eche 
 To this tiding in his speche, 
 More than ever it spoken was, 
 And nat so sone departet n'as 
 
148 THE HOUSE OF FAME. 
 
 Tho fro him that he ne mette 
 With the third, and ere he lette 
 Any stound he told hym alse, 
 Where the tidini^s sothe or false, 
 Yet wold he tell it nalheles, 
 And evermore with mo encrees, 
 Than it was erst : thus north and south 
 Went every tiding fro mouth to mouth, 
 And that encreasing evermo, 
 As fire is wont to quicken and go 
 From a sparcle sprongen amis, 
 Till a citie brent up is. 
 
 And whan that was full up sprong, 
 And waxen more on every tonge, 
 Than ever it was, and went anone, 
 Up to a window out to gone, 
 Or but it might out there passe, 
 It gan out crepe at some crevasse, 
 And flewe forth fast for the nones. 
 
TLbc Xegenb of (5oo^ Momen* 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 A THOUSAND times I have heard men tell, 
 That there is joy in Heaven, and pain in Hell, 
 And I accord it wele that it is so, 
 But nathelesse yet wote I wele also, 
 That there n'is non dwelling in this countre, 
 That either hath in Pleaven or in Hell ybe, 
 Ne may of it none other waies witten. 
 But as he heard sayd, or found it written, 
 For by assay there may no man it preve. 
 But God forbede but men should leve 
 Wei more thing than they have seen with eye. 
 Men shall nat wenen every thing a lie 
 But if himself he seeth, or els it dooth. 
 For, God wote, thing is never the lesse soth, 
 Though every wight ne may it not ysee. 
 Bernarde the monke ne saugh all, parde, 
 Than mote we to bookes that we find, 
 (Through which that olde things ben in mind) 
 And to the doctrine of the old wise, 
 Yeve credence, in every skilful wise, 
 That tellen of the olde appreved stories, 
 Ofholines, of reignes, of victories, 
 Of love, of hate, and other sundry things, 
 Of which I make not many rehearsings ; 
 
ISO LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN. 
 
 And if that old bookes were away, 
 Ylorne were of all remembraunce the kay. 
 
 Well ought us than, honouren and beleve 
 These bookes, there we han none other preve. 
 
 And as for me, though that I can but lite, 
 On bookes for to rede I me delite, 
 And to hem yeve I faith and full credence, 
 And in mine herte have hem in reverence 
 So hertely, that there is game none, 
 That fro my bookes maketh me to gone, 
 But it be seldome on the holy dale, 
 Save certainly, whan that the month of May 
 Is comen, and that I hear the foules sing, 
 And that the floures ginnen for to spring, 
 Farwell my booke, and my devotion. 
 
 Now have I than eke this condition, 
 That of all the floures in the mede, 
 Than love I most these floures white and rede, 
 Soch that men callen daisies in our toun. 
 To hem I have so great affectioun, 
 As I sayd erst, whan comen is the May, 
 That in my bedde there daweth me no day, 
 That I n'am up and walking in the mede, 
 To seen this floure ayenst the Sunne sprede, 
 Whan it up riseth early by the morrow, 
 ^ That blisfull sight softeneth all my sorow, 
 
 ^ So glad am I, whan that I have presence 
 
 Of it to done it all reverence. 
 As she that is of all floures the floure, 
 Fulfiled of all vertue and honoure, 
 And every ylike faire, and fresh of hewe, 
 And ever I love it, and ever ylike newe, 
 And ever shall, till that mine herte die, 
 All sweare I not, of this I woll not lie. 
 
 There loved no wight hotter in his life, 
 And whan that it is eve I renne blithe, 
 
LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN. 151 
 
 As sone as ever the Sunne ginneth west, 
 To scene this floure, how it woll go to rest, 
 For feare of night, so hateth she derkenesse, 
 Her chere is plainly spred in the brightnesse 
 Of the Sunne, for there it woll enclose : 
 Alas, that I ne had English rime, or prose 
 Suffisaiint this floure to j^raise aright, 
 But helpeth ye, that han conning and might, 
 Ye lovers, that can make of sentement, 
 In this case ought ye be diligent. 
 To forthren me somewhat in my labour, 
 Whether ye been with the lefe or with the flour, 
 Full well I wote, that ye han here beforne 
 Of making ropen, and had alway the corne. 
 And I come after, glening here and there. 
 And am full glad if I may finde an eare, 
 Of any goodly worde that ye han left. 
 And though it happen me to rehearsen eft, 
 That ye han in your freshe songes sayd, 
 Forbeareth me, and beth not evill apayd, 
 Sith that ye se, I doe it in the honour 
 or love, and eke of service of the flour, 
 Whom that I serve, as I have wit or might, 
 She is the clerenesse and the very light, 
 That in this derke world me wint and ledeth ; 
 The herte within my sorowfull brest you dredeth, 
 And loveth so sore, that ye ben verily 
 The maistres of my wit, and nothing I, 
 My word, my workes, is knit so in your bonde 
 That as an harpe obeieth to the honde, 
 And make it soune after his fingering, 
 Right so mowe ye out of mine herte bring, 
 Soch voice, right as you list, to laugh or pain ; 
 Be ye my guide, and lady soverain ! 
 As to mine yearthly God, to you I call. 
 Both in this werke, and my sorowes all. 
 
152 LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN, 
 
 But wherefore that I spake to yeve credence 
 To old stories, and done hem reverence, 
 And that men musten more thing bileve 
 That men may seen at eye or els preve, 
 That shall I sein, whan that I see my time. 
 I may nat all atones speake in rime ; 
 My busie ghost, that thursteth alway new 
 To seen this flour so yong, so fresh of hew, 
 Constramed me, with so gredy desire, 
 That in my herte I fele yet the fire, 
 That made me rise ere it were day. 
 And this was now the first morow of May, 
 With dreadfuU herte and glad devotion 
 For to been at the resurrection 
 Of this floure, whan that it should unclose 
 Again the Sunne, that rose as redde as rose, 
 That in the brest was of the beast that day, 
 That Angenores daughter ladde away : 
 And doune on knees, anon, right I me sette, 
 And as I could, this fresh floure I grette, 
 Kneeling alway, till it unclosed was, 
 Upon the small, soft, swete gras. 
 That was with floures swete embrouded all. 
 Of such sweetnesse, and such odour over all, 
 That for to speake of gomme, herbe, or tree, 
 Comparison may not ymaked be, 
 For it surmounteth plainly all odoures, 
 And of riche beaute of floures : 
 Forgotten had the yearth his poore estate 
 Of Winter, that him naked made and mate, 
 And with his sword of cold so sore greved ; 
 Nor hath the attempre sunne al that releved 
 That naked was, and cled it new again ; 
 The small foules of the season fain. 
 That of the panter and the net been scaped, 
 Upon the fouler, that hem made awhapcd 
 
LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN, 153 
 
 In Winter, and destroied had hir brood, 
 
 In his dispite hem thought it did hem good 
 
 To sing of him, and in hir song dispise 
 
 The foule chorle, that for his covetise. 
 
 Had hem betraied with his sophistrie, 
 
 This was hir song, " The fouler we defie. 
 
 And all his craft : " and some songen clere, 
 
 Laies of love, that joy it was to here, 
 
 In worshipping and praysing of hir make, 
 
 And for the new blisfuU Somers sake. 
 
 Upon the braunches full of blosmes soft. 
 
 In hir dilite, they tourned hem ful oft, 
 
 And songen, *'Blissed be Sainct Valentine, 
 
 For on his day I chese you to be mnie, 
 
 Withouten repenting mine herte swete ; " 
 
 And therewithall hir bekes gonnen mete, . . . 
 
 And tho that had done unkindnesse, 
 
 And doeth the tidife, for new fanglenesse, 
 
 Besought mercy of her trespasing, 
 
 And humbly song hir repenting, 
 
 And sworen on the blosmes to be true, 
 
 So that hir makes would upon hem rue, 
 
 And at the last maden hir acorde, 
 
 All found they Daunger for the time a lord, 
 
 Yet Pite, through his strong gentill might, 
 
 Foryave, and made Mercy passen right 
 
 Through Innocence, and ruled Curtesie : 
 
 But I ne cleape it nat innocence folic, 
 
 Ne false pite, for vertue is the meane. 
 
 As eticke sayth, in soch maner I meane. 
 
 And thus these foule, voide of all malice, 
 
 Acordeden to love, and laften vice 
 
 Of hate, and song all of one acorde, 
 
 *■ Welcome Sommer, our governour and lorde." 
 
 And Zehpirus, and Flora gentelly, 
 
 Yave to the floures soft and tenderly, 
 
154 LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN, 
 
 Hir swote breth, and made hem for to sprede, 
 As god and goddesse of the flourie mede, 
 In which me thoughte I might day by day, 
 Dwellen alway, the joly month of May, 
 Withouten slepe, withouten meat or drinke ; 
 Adowne full softly I gan to sinke. 
 And leaning on my elbow and my side, 
 The long day I shope me for to abide, 
 For nothing els, and I shall nat lie, 
 But for to looke upon the daisie, 
 That well by reason men it call may 
 The daisie, or els the eye of the day, 
 The emprise, and floure of floures all, 
 I pray to God that faire mote she fall. 
 And all that loven floures, for her sake : 
 But nathelesse, ne wene nat that I make 
 In praising of the floure againe the lefe, 
 No more than of the corne againe the shefe : 
 For as to me n'is lever none ne lother, 
 I n'am witholden yet with never nother, 
 Ne I not who serveth lefe, ne who the floure, 
 Well brouken they hir service or laboure, 
 For this thing is all of another tonne. 
 Of old storie, er soch thing was begonne. 
 Whan that the vSunne out the south gan west, 
 And that this floure gan close, and gan to rest, 
 For derknes of the night, the which she dred. 
 Home to mine house full swiftly I me sped 
 To gone to rest, and earely for to rise, 
 To scene this floure to sprede, as I devise, 
 And in a little herber that I have, 
 That benched was on turves fresh ygrave, 
 I bad men shoulde me my couche make, 
 For deintie of the newe Sommers sake, 
 I bad hem strawen floures on my bedde ; 
 Whan I was laid, and had mine eyen hedde, 
 
LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN, 155 
 
 I fell a slepe, and slept an houre or two, 
 
 Me met how I lay in the medow tho, 
 
 To seen this floure, that I loved so and drede, 
 
 And from a ferre came walking in the mede 
 
 The god of love, and in his hand a queene, 
 
 And she was clad in royall habite grene, 
 
 A fret of golde she had next her heere, 
 
 And upon that a white croune she beare, 
 
 With flourouns small, and I shall not lie, 
 
 For all the world right as a daisie 
 
 Ycrouned is, with white leaves lite. 
 
 So were the florouns of her croune white, 
 
 For of o perle fine orientall, 
 
 Her white croune was ymaked all, 
 
 For which the white croune above the grene 
 
 Made her like a daisie for to seme, 
 Considred eke her fret of gold above : 
 Yclothed was this mighty god of love 
 In silke, embroided full of grene greves, 
 In which a fret of redde rose leves, 
 The freshest sens the world was first begun ; 
 His gilt heere was crouned with a sun, 
 In stede of gold, for hevinesse and weight, 
 Therwith, me thought, his face shone so bright 
 That well unnethes might I him behold, 
 And in his hand, me thought, I saw him hold 
 Two firie dartes, as the gledes rede, 
 And angelike his winges saw I sprede : 
 And all be that men sain that blinde is he, 
 Algate, me thought, that he might se, 
 For sternely on me he gan behold, 
 So that his loking doeth mine herte cold. 
 And by the hand he held this noble queene, 
 Crouned with white, and clothed al in greene, 
 So womanly, so benigne, and so meke. 
 That in this worlde though that men wold seke. 
 
156 LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN. 
 
 Halfe her beaiite should they not finde 
 In creature that formed is by kinde, 
 And therefore may 1 sain as thinketh me, 
 This song in praising of this lady fre. 
 
 " Hide, Absalon, thy gilte tresses clere, 
 Hester lay thou thy mekenesse all adoun, 
 Hide, Jonathas, all thy frendly manere, 
 Penelopee, and Marcia Catoun, 
 Make of your wifehode no comparisoun, 
 Hide your beauties, Isoude and Helein, 
 My lady cometh, that all this may distain. 
 
 " Thy faire body let it not appere, 
 Lavine, and thou Lucrece of Rome toun, 
 And Polixene, that boughten love so dere, 
 And Cleopatras, with all thy passioun, 
 Hide your trouthe of love, and your renoun, 
 And thou Tisbe, that hast of love such pain, 
 My lady commeth, that all this may distain. 
 
 " Hero, Dido, Laodomia, al yfere, 
 
 And Phillis, hanging for Demophoun, 
 
 And Canace, espied by thy chere, 
 
 HiiDsiphile betrayed with Jasoun, 
 
 Maketh of your trouth neither boste ne soun, 
 
 Nor Hipermistre, or Ariadne, ye twain, 
 
 My lady cometh, that all this may distain." 
 
 This balade may full well ysongen be. 
 As I have sayd erst, by my lady fre. 
 For certainly, all these mowe not suffice, 
 To apperen with my lady in no wise, 
 For as the Sunne woll the fire distain, 
 So passcth all my lady soverain, 
 
LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN, 157 
 
 That is so good, so faire, so debonaire, 
 I pray to God that ever fall her faire, 
 For nad comforte ben of her presence, 
 I had ben dead, withouten any defence, 
 For drcde of Loves wordes, and his chere. 
 As vi^han time is, hereafter ye shall here. 
 
 Behind this god of love upon the grene, 
 I saw coming of ladies ninetene, 
 In roiall habit, a full easie pace, 
 And after hem came of women such a trace, 
 That sens that God Adam had made of yerth. 
 The third part of mankinde, or the ferth, 
 Ne wende I nat by possibilite, 
 Had ever in this wide world ybe, 
 And true of love, these women were echon : 
 Now, whether was that a wonder thing or non, 
 That right anon, as that they gonne espye 
 This floure, which that I clepe the daysie, 
 Full sodainly they stinten all at ones. 
 And kneled doune, as it were for the nones, 
 And songen with o voice, " Heale and honour 
 To trouth of womanhede, and to this flour, 
 That beareth our alderprise in figuring. 
 Her white croune beareth the witnessing." 
 And with that word, a compas enviroun. 
 They sitten hem ful softely adoun : 
 First sat the god of love, and sith his queue, 
 With the white croune, c'ad all in grene. 
 And sithen al the remnaunt by and by, 
 As they were of estate, full curtesly, 
 Ne nat a worde was spoken in the place 
 The mountenance of a furlong way of space. 
 
 I, kneling by this floure, in good entent 
 Abode to knowen what this people ment, 
 As still as any stone, till, at the last, 
 This god of love, on me his eyen cast. 
 
158 LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN. 
 
 And said, "Who kneleth there?" and I 
 
 answerde 
 Unto his asking, whan that I it herde, 
 And sayd, " Sir, it am I," and come him nere, 
 And salued him : quod he, *' What doest thou 
 
 here 
 So nigh mine owne floure, so boldly ? 
 It were better worthy truely, 
 A worme to nighen nere my floure than thou." 
 
 " And why sir," quod I, *' and it like you ? " 
 " For thou," quod he, "art thereto nothing able, 
 It is my relike, digne and delitable. 
 And thou my fo, and all my folke werriest, 
 And of mine old servaunts thou missaiest. 
 And hindrest hem with thy translation, 
 And lettest folke from hir devocion. 
 To serve me, and boldest it folie 
 To serve Love, thou mayst it nat denie. 
 For in plain text, withouten nede of glose. 
 Thou hast translated the Romaunt of the Rose, 
 That is an heresie ayenst my law. 
 And makest wise folke fro me withdraw ; 
 And of Creseide, thou hast said as the list, 
 That maketh men to women lesse trist. 
 That ben as trewe as ever was any stele : 
 Of thine answere avise thee right wele, 
 For though thou renied hast my lay, 
 As other wretches have done many a day, 
 By seint Venus, that my mother is, 
 If that thou live, thou shalt repenten this, 
 So cruelly, that it shall well be sene." 
 
 Tho spake this lady, clothed all in greene, 
 And saied, *' God, right of your curtesie. 
 Ye mote herken if he can replie 
 Ayenst all this that ye have to him meved : 
 A God ne shulde nat be thus agreved. 
 
LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN, 159 
 
 But of his deite he shal be stable, 
 And there gracious and merciable : 
 And if ye n'ere a God that knowen all. 
 Than might it be as I you tellen shall, 
 This man to you may falsely ben accused, 
 That as by right him ought ben excused, 
 For in your court is many a losengeour, 
 And many a queinte totoler accusour, 
 That tabouren in your eares many a soun, 
 Right after hir imaginatioun, 
 To have your daliaunce, and for envie, 
 These ben the causes, and I shall nat lie, 
 Envie is lavender of the court alway, 
 For she ne parteth neither night ne day, 
 Out of the house of Csesar, thus saith Dant, 
 Who so that goeth algate she wol nat want. 
 
 '* And eke, peraunter, for this man is nice, 
 He might done it, gessing no malice, 
 But for he useth thinges for to make. 
 Him recketh nought of what mater he take, 
 Or him was boden make thilke twey. 
 Of some persone, and durst it nat withsey : 
 Or him repenteth utterly of this. 
 He ne hath nat done so grevously amis, 
 To translaten that old clerkes writen. 
 As though that he of malice would enditen, 
 Dispite of Love, and had himself it wrought : 
 This shold a rightwise lord have in his thought. 
 And nat be like tiraunts of Lombardie, 
 That han no reward but at tyrannic, 
 For he that king or lorde is naturell, 
 Him ought nat be tiraunt ne cruell. 
 As is a fermour, to done the harme he can, 
 He must thinke it is his liege man, 
 And is his tresour, and his gold in cofer, 
 This is the sentence of the philosopher : 
 
i6o LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN, 
 
 A king, to kepe his lieges in justice, 
 
 Withouten doute that is his office, 
 
 All woll he kepe his lordes in hir degree, 
 
 As it is right and skil, that they bee 
 
 Enhaimsed and honoured, and most dere, 
 
 For they ben halfe goddes in this world here, 
 
 Yet mote he done both right to poore and 
 
 riche, 
 All be that hir estate be nat both yliche, 
 And have of poore folke compassion. 
 For lo, the gentill kinde of the lion, 
 For whan a flie offendeth him or biteth, 
 He with his taile away the flie smiteth, 
 Al easily, for of his gentrie, 
 Tlim deineth nat to wreke him on a flie. 
 As doeth a curre, or els another beest ; 
 In noble corage ought ben areest, 
 And waien every thing by equite. 
 And ever have regard unto his owne degre : 
 For, sir, it is no maistrie for a lord 
 To dampne a man, without answere of word, 
 And for a lorde, that is full foule to use ; 
 And it so be, he may him nat excuse, 
 But asketh mercy with a dreadfull herte. 
 And profereth him, right in his bare sherte, 
 To ben right at your owne judgement, 
 Than ought a God by short avisement, 
 Consider his owne honour, and his trespace, 
 For sith no cause of death lieth in this case, 
 You ought to ben the lightlier merciable, 
 Letteth your ire, and bethe somewhat tretable : 
 The man hath served you of his conninges. 
 And forthred well your law in his makinges, 
 All be it that he can nat well endite. 
 Yet hath he made leude folke delite 
 To serve you, in preising of your name, 
 
LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN. i6i 
 
 He made the boke, that hight, the House of 
 
 Fame, 
 And eke the Death of Blaimche the Duchesse, 
 And the Parliament of Foules, as I gesse, 
 And al the Love of Palamon and Arcite 
 Of Thebes, though the storie is knowen hte, 
 And many an himpne, for your holy daies, 
 That highten Balades, Rondels, Virelaies ; 
 And for to speake of other holinesse, 
 He hath in prose translated Boece, 
 And made the Life also of Saint Cecile : 
 He made also, gone is a great while, 
 Origenes upon the Maudelaine : 
 Him ought now to have the lesse paine, 
 He hath made many a ley, and many a thing. 
 
 " Now as ye be a God, and eke a king, 
 I your Alceste, whilom quene of Trace, 
 I aske you this man right of your grace, 
 That ye him never hurt in al his live. 
 And he shal swearen to you, and that blive, 
 He shal never more agilten in this wise, 
 But shal maken as ye woll devise. 
 Of women trewe in loving al hir life. 
 Where so ye woll, of maiden or of wife, 
 And forthren you as much as he misseide, 
 Or in the Rose, or eles in Creseide. " 
 
 The god of love answerde her thus anon, 
 " Madame," quod he, *' it is so long agon. 
 That I you knew, so charitable and trewe, 
 That never yet, sens the world was newe, 
 To me ne found I better none than ye, 
 If that I woll save my degree : 
 I may nor woll nat werne your request, 
 Al lieth in you, doth with him as you lest. 
 
 " I al foryeve withouten lenger space, 
 For who so yeveth a yefte or doth a grace, 
 
 482 
 
i62 LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN, 
 
 Do it betime, his thanke shall be the more ; 
 And demeth ye what ye shal do therfore ? 
 
 " Go thanke now my lady here," quod he. 
 I rose, and doun I set me on my knee, 
 And said thus : *' Madame, the God above 
 Foryelde you that the god of love 
 Have maked me his wrath to foryeve. 
 And grace so longe for to live, 
 That I may know sothely what ye be, 
 That have me holpen, and put in this degre : 
 But trewly I wende, as in this caas 
 Nought have a gilte, ne done to love trespas, 
 For why? a trewe man withouten drede 
 Hath nat to parten with a theves dede. 
 
 '' Ne a trewe lover ought me nat to blame, 
 Though that I speke a false lover some shame : 
 They ought rather with me for to hold, 
 For that I of Creseide wrote or told, 
 Or of the Rose, what so mine author ment, 
 Algate, God wotte, it was mine entent 
 To forthren trouth in love, and it cherice, 
 And to ben ware fro falsenesse and fro vice, 
 By which ensample, this was my mening." 
 
 And she answerde, " Let be thine arguing. 
 For love ne wol not counterpleted be, 
 In right ne wrong, and lerne that of me : 
 Thou hast thy grace, and hold the right thereto : 
 Now woll 1 saine what penance thou shalt do 
 For thy trespace, understand it here : 
 Thou shalt while that thou livest, yere by yere. 
 The most partie of thy time spende, 
 In making of a glorious legende. 
 Of good women, maidenes and wives. 
 That weren trewe in loving all hir lives, 
 And tell of false men that hem betraien, 
 That al hir life ne do nat but assaien 
 
LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN. 163 
 
 How many women they may done a shame, 
 For in your world that is now hold a game : 
 And though thee like nat a lover be, 
 Speke wel of love, this penance yeve I thee, 
 And to the god of love I shal so pray, 
 That he shal charge his servaunts by any way, 
 To forthren thee, and wel thy labour quite. 
 Go now thy waie, this penaunce is but lite : 
 And whan this boke is made, yeve it the quene 
 On my behalfe, at Eltham, or at Shene." 
 The god of love gan smile, and than he said : 
 '* Wost thou," quod he, "where this be wife or 
 
 maid, 
 Or queene, or countesse, or of what degree. 
 That hath so littell penaunce yeven thee. 
 That hast deserved sore for to smart. 
 But pite renneth sone in gentle herte : 
 That maist thou sene, she kitheth what she is." 
 And I answerde, " Naie, sir, so have I blis, 
 No more, but that I see well she is good." 
 
 ** That is a trewe tale, by mine hood," 
 Quod Love, "and thou knowest wel, parde, 
 If it be so that thou avise the : 
 Hast thou nat in a booke in thy cheste, 
 The great goodnesse of the quene Alceste, 
 That turned was into a dayesie. 
 She that for her husband chese to die, 
 And eke to gone to Hell, rather than he, 
 And Hercules rescued her, parde. 
 And brought her out of Hel againe to blis ? " 
 
 And I answerde againe, and said "Yes, 
 Now know I her, and is this good Alceste, 
 The dayesie, and mine owne hertes reste ? 
 Now fele I well the goodnesse of this wife, 
 That both after her death, and in her life, 
 Her great bounte doubleth her renoun, 
 
i64 LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN. 
 
 Wei hath she quit me mine affectioun, 
 That I have to her floure the dayesie, 
 No wonder is though Jove her stellifie, 
 As telleth Agaton, for her great goodnesse, 
 Her white corowne beareth of it wilnesse ; 
 For all so many vertues had she, 
 As smal florounes in her corowne be, 
 In remembraunce of her, and in honour, 
 Cibylla made the dayesie and the floure, 
 Ycrowned al with white, as men may se, 
 And Mars yave to her a corowne reed, parde, 
 In stede of rubies set among the white : " 
 Therewith this quene woxe red for shame 
 
 alite, 
 Whan she was praysed so in her presence. 
 Than said Love, " A full great negligence 
 Was it to thee, that ilke time thou made, 
 ' Hide Absolon thy tresses,' in balade. 
 That thou forget in thy songe to sette, 
 Sith that thou art so greatly in her dette, 
 And wost well that kalender is she 
 To any woman, that woU lover be : 
 For she taught all the craft of trewe loving, 
 And namely of wifehode the living. 
 And all the bondes that she ought keepe ; 
 Thy litel witte was thilke time asleepe : 
 But now I charge thee upon thy life. 
 That in thy legende thou make of this wife, 
 Whan thou hast other smale ymade before : 
 And fare now well, I charge thee no more. 
 But er I go, thus much I will the tell, 
 Ne shal no trewe lover come in Hell. 
 
 " These other ladies sitting here a rowe, 
 Ben in thy balade, if thou const hem know. 
 And in thy bokes al thou shalt hem find, 
 Have hem now in thy legende al in mind, 
 
LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN. 165 
 
 I meane of hem that ben in thy knowing, 
 
 For here ben twenty thousand mo sitting 
 
 Than thou knowest, good women all, 
 
 And trewe of love, for ought that may befall : 
 
 Make the metres of hem as thee lest, 
 
 I mote gone home, the Sunne draweth west 
 
 To Paradis, with all his companie, 
 
 And serve alway the fresh dayesie. , , . 
 
Ube Canterbmi? Uales* 
 
 [about 1386.] 
 
 THE PROLOGUE. 
 
 Whann^ that April with his shoures sote jK^ifL 
 The droughte of March hath perced to the rote, 
 -J^. And bathed every veine in swiche licour^ fkAx^^ A^ !H*4 
 '^^■''^'*^^*-^^^ f which>i vertue engend reJinhTHouT; lA^rto^ - 
 SiCucM^ Whan Zephmis eke with his sot^ brethe^ 0^ ^ ^ 
 
 Enspired hath in every hoJLt.and hethe p.-^-^t-^^^i'^^ "^r^/ 
 The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne ^^-^^nn^ 
 . ' * Hath in the Ram his halfci coiirs yronne, 
 ^\j\tjty^nd smale (anles-maken melodie, 
 I That slepen alle night with open eye, 
 
 /^jr*- f ^ ^^ Eji]>-^^^ ^cm nature in hir corages ; ^ ' 
 J " ThanTongen folk to gon on pilgrimages, ^^ 
 
 ^ And palmeres for to seken strange strondes, 
 
 To serve halwes coiUhe in sondry londes ; 
 And specially, from every sdiires ende 
 Of Englelond, to Canterbury they wende, 
 The holy blisful martyr for to seke, 
 That hem liath hoi pen, whan that they were seke. 
 
 Befell^, that, in that sdon on a day. 
 In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 
 Redy to wenden on my pilgrimag'e 
 To Canterbury with devoute corage, 
 
 1^ : 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 167 
 
 At night was come into that hostelrie 
 Wei nine and twenty in a compagnie 
 Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle 
 In felawship, and pilgrimes were they alle, 
 That toward Canterbury wolden ride. 
 The chambres and the stables weren wide, 
 And wel we weren esed atte bcstel 
 
 And shortly, whan the sonne was gon to reste, 
 
 So hadde I spoken with Hem everich on, ^ q 
 
 That I was of hir felawshio anon.- ^ " ■ * ^dSmLu 
 
 That I was of hir felawship anon,- 
 And madfe' forword erly for to rise, 
 To take oiu6 way ther as I you devise. 
 
 But natheles, while I have time and space, 
 Or that I forther in this tale pace. 
 Me thinketh it accordant to reson. 
 To tellen you alle the condition 
 Of eche of hem, so as it semed me. 
 And whiche they weren, and of what degre ; 
 And eke in what ar.aie that they were inne : 
 And at a knight than wol I firste beginne, 
 
 . <S^ 
 
 A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man, 
 That fro the time that he firste began 
 To riden out, he loved chevalrie, 
 Trouthe and honour, fredom and curtesie. 
 Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre, 
 And therto hadde he ridden, no man fcrre, 
 As wel in Cristendom as in Ilethenesse, 
 And ever honoured for his worthinesse. 
 
 At Alisandre he was whan it was wonne, 
 Ful often time he hadde the bord begonne 
 Aboven alle nations in Pruce. 
 In Lettowe hadde he reysed and in Ruce, • 
 No cristen man so ofte of his degre. 
 In Gernade at the siege eke hadde he be 
 Of Algesir, and ridden in Belmarie ._ ^^o 
 
i68 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 At Leyes was he, and at Satalie, 
 
 Whan they were wonne ; and in the Crete see 
 
 At many a noble armce hadde he be. 
 
 At mortal batailles hadde he ben fiftene, 
 
 And foiighten for our faith at Tramissenc 
 
 In listes thries, and ay slain his fo. 
 
 This ilke worthy knight hadde ben also 
 Sometime with the lord of Palatie, 
 Agen another hethen in Turkic : 
 And evermore he hadde a sbvereine pris. • 
 "***>v^^And though that he was worthy he was wise, 
 And of his port as meke as is a mayde. 
 He never yet no vilanie ne sayde 
 -^.. In alle his lif, unto no manere wight. 
 
 He was a veray parfit gentil knight. 
 Put for to tellcn you of his araie, 
 His hbrs was good, but he ne was not gaie. 
 Of fustian he wered a gipon, ., - ' Ct-n-^ 
 
 Alle besmotred with his habergeon, .'• - ' .. 
 For he was late ycome fro his viage, 
 And wqnte for to don his pilgrimage. 
 
 With him ther was his sone a yonge Squier, 
 A lover, and a lusty bacheler. 
 With lockes cruU as they were laide in presse. 
 Of twenty yere of age he was I gesse. . 
 
 01 his stature he was of even lengthe, " •■•*^ ■" y t^X 
 And wonderly deliver, and gretc of strengthe. 
 And he hadde be somtime in chevachje, /- ■ "^ -''-r U-*-*^ 
 In Flaundres, in Artoin, and in^Ticardie, -r^v k>u^A 
 And borne him wel, as of so litel space. 
 In hope to stonden in his ladies grace. 
 , • . , ,\ Embrouded was he, as it were a mede 
 Alle ful of fresshe floures, white and rede. 
 Singing he was, or floyting alle the day, 
 He was as fresshe as is the moneth of May. 
 
 4e-^^ 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 169 
 
 Short was his goiine, with sieves long and wide. 
 Wei coiide he sitte on hors, and f^yjJJLRfey a ». - 
 lie coude songes make, and wel^endite, qT" ~' 
 
 Juste and eke dance, and wcrpourtraie aiw write. 
 -S'dTtlote he loved, that by nightertale r-v^ '. r, 
 
 He slep no more than doth the nightingale. '*^ 
 
 Curteis he was, lowly, and servisable, 
 And carf before his fader at the table. ^ ^ ^ 
 
 A Yej^ian hadde he, and servantes no mo ^'\ ' 
 At that lime, for him luste to_ride soj^ ,__AiJUj-«i-9 « 
 And he was cladde in cote andTiode of grene. 
 A shefe of peacock arwes bright and kene />)k4v4^- ^^ ^-♦^ 
 Under his belt he bare ful thriftily. -v- ^ 
 
 Wei coude he dresse his takel yemanly : 
 His arwes drouped not with fetheres lowe. 
 And in his bond he bare a mighty bo we. 
 
 A not-hed hadde he, with a broune visage. (V^^^"" 
 Of wood-craft coude he wel alle the usage. /ku-.x 
 
 Upon his arme he bare a gaie bracer, ,> . ^ . k . w 
 And by his side a swerd and a bokeler, 
 And on that other side a gaic daggere, 
 Harneised wel, and sharpe as point of spcre : 
 A Cristofre on his brest of silver shene. 
 An home he bare, the baudrik was of grenc. 
 A forster was he sothely as I gesse. , 1 ' 
 
 Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, 
 That of hire smiling was ful simple and coy ; 
 Hire gretest othe n'as but by Seint Eloy ; 
 And she was cleped madame Eglentine. 
 Ful wel she sange the service devine, 
 Entuned in hire nose ful swetely ; 
 And Frenche she spake ful fayre and fetisly, 
 After the scole of Stratford atte bowe. 
 For Frenche of Paris was to hire unknowc, f 
 
\^ 
 
 170 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 At mete was she wel ytaughte withalle ; 
 
 She lette no morsel from hire lippes falle, 
 
 Ne wette hire fingres in hire sauce depe. 
 
 Wel coude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe, 
 
 Thatte no drope ne fell upon hire brest. 
 
 In curtesie was sette ful moche hire lest. 
 
 Hire over lippe wiped she so clene, 
 
 That in hire cuppe was no ferthing sene 
 
 Of grese, whan she dronken hadde hire draught. 
 
 Ful semely after hire mete she raught. 
 
 And sikerly she was of grete disport, 
 
 And ful plesant, and amiable of port, 
 
 And peined hire to contrefeten chere 
 
 Of court, and ben estatelich of manere, 
 
 And to ben holden digne of reverence. 
 
 But for to speken of hire conscience, 
 She was so charitable and so pitous, 
 She wolde wepe if that shfe saw a mous 
 Caughte in a trappe, if it were ded or bledde. 
 Of smale houndes hadde she, that she fedde 
 With rosted flesh, and milk, and wastel bredc, 
 But sore wept she if on of hem were dede. 
 Or if men smote it with a yerde smert : 
 And all was conscience and tendre herte. 
 
 Ful semely hire wimble ypinched was ; 
 Hire nose tretis ; hire eyen grey as glas ; 
 Hire mouth ful smale, and therto soft and re<l ; 
 But sikerly she hadde a fayre forehed. 
 It was almost a spanne brode I trowe ; 
 '^ For hardily she was not undergrowe. 
 
 Ful fetjse was hire cloke, as I was ware. 
 Of smale^corall aboute hire arm she bare 
 A pair of bedes, gauded all with grene ; 
 And theron heng a broche of gold ful shene, 
 On whiche was first ywriten a crouned A, 
 And after, Amor viiicit omnia. 
 
 vduCol 
 
 U~ <Ij^,^c\M^ i-c*. 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 171 
 
 Another Nonne also with hire hackle she, 
 That was hire chapelleine, and Preestes thre. 
 
 A Monk ther was, a fay re for the maistrie. 
 An out-rider, that loved venerie ; 
 A manly man, to ben an abbot able. 
 Ful many a deinte hors hadde he in stable : 
 And whan he rode, men mighte his bridel here 
 Gingeling in a whistling wind as clere, 
 And eke as loude, as doth the chapell belle, 
 Ther as this lord was keper of the celle. 
 
 The reule of seint Maure and of seint Beneit, 
 Because that it was olde and somdele streit. 
 This ilke monk lette olde thinges pace, 
 And held after the newe world the trace. 
 He yave not of the text a pulled hen, 
 That saith, that hunters ben not holy men ; 
 Ne that a monk, whan he is rekkeles, 
 Is like to a fish that is waterles ; 
 This is to say, a monk out of his cloistre. 
 This ilke text held he not worth an oistre^^^ 
 And I say his opinion was good. -^ 
 
 What shulde he studie, and make himselven wood, 
 Upon a book in cloistre alway to pore, ^ ; 
 
 Or swinken with his hondes, and laboure, ' 
 
 As Austin bit ? how shal the world be served ? 
 Let Austin have his swink to him reserved. 
 Therfore he was a prickasoure a right : 
 Greihoundes he hadde as swift as foul of flight : 
 Of pricking and of hunting for the hare 
 Was all his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. 
 
 I saw his sieves purfiled at the hond 
 With gris, and that the finest of the lond. 
 And for to fasten his hood under his chinne, 
 He hadde of gold y wrought a curious pinne ; 
 A love-knotte in the greter end ther was. ^ 
 
 \ =\ ' 
 
172 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 His heel was balled, and shone as any glas, 
 And eke his face, as it hadde ben anoint. 
 He was a lord ful fat and in good point. 
 His eyen stepe, and rolling in his hed. 
 That stemed as a forneis of a led. 
 His botes souple, his hors in gret estat. 
 Now certainly he was a fayre prelat. 
 He was not pale as a forpined gost. 
 A fat swan loved he best of any rost. 
 ^ ^ ^ His palfrey was as broune as is a bery, 
 
 A Frere ther was, a wanton and a mery, 
 A Limitoiir, a ful solcmpne man. 
 In all the ordres foure is non that can 
 So moche of daliance and fayre langage. 
 He hadde ymade ful many a mariage 
 Of yonge wimmen, at his owen cost. 
 Until his ordre he was a noble post. ''. 
 Ful wel beloved, and familier was he 
 With frankeleins over all in his contrce, 
 And eke with worthy wimmen of the toun ; 
 For he had power oi confession, 
 As saide himselfe, more than a curat, 
 For of his ordre he was licenciat, 
 Ful swetely herde he confession, 
 And plesant was his al)Solution. 
 He was an esy man to give penance, 
 Thcr as he wiste to han a good pitancc : 
 For unto a poure ordre for to give 
 Is signe that a man is wel yshrive. 'W'nO''^*^ 
 For if he gave, he dorste make avant, 
 He wiste that a man was repentant. 
 For many a man so hard is of his herte, 
 He may not wepe although him sore smerte. 
 Therfore in stede of weping and praieres, 
 Men mote give silver to the poure freres. 
 
 ^^ 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 173 
 
 a 
 
 His tippet was ay farsed ful of knives, 
 And pinnes, for to given fayre wives. 
 And certainly he hadde a mery note. 
 Wei coude he singe and plaien on a rote. 
 Of yeddinges he bare utterly the pris. 
 His nekke was white as the flour de lis. 
 Therto he strong was as a championn, 
 And knew wel the tavernes in every toun, 
 And every hosteler and gay tapstere. 
 Better than a lazar or a beggere. 
 For unto swiche a worthy man as he 
 Accordeth nought, as by his faculte, 
 To haven with sikelazars acquaintance. 
 It is not honest, it may not avance, 
 As for to delen with no swiche pouraille, 
 But all with riche, and sellers of vitaille. 
 
 And over all, ther as profit shuld arise, 
 Curteis he was, and lowly of servise. 
 Ther n'as no man nowher so vertuous. 
 He was the beste begger in all his hous : 
 And gave a certaine ferme for the grant, 
 Non o( his bretheren came in his haunt. 
 For though a widewe hadde but a sou, 
 (So plesant was his hi principio) 
 Yet wold he have a ferthing or he went. 
 His pourchas was wel better than his rent. 
 And rage he coude as it hadde ben a whelp. 
 In lovedayes, ther coude he mochel help. 
 For ther was he nat like a cloisterere, 
 With thredbare cope, as is a poure scolere, 
 But he was like a maister or a pope. 
 Of double worsted was his semicope. 
 That round was as a belle out of the presse. 
 Somwhat he lisped for his wantonnesse, 
 To make his English swete upon his tonge ; 
 And in his harping, whan that he hadde songe, 
 
 [ ^ 
 
174 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 His eyen twinkled in his hed aright, 
 As don the sterres in a frosty night. 
 This worthy limitour was cleped Huberd. 
 
 A Marchant was ther with a forked berd, 
 In mottelee, and highe on hors he sat, 
 And on his hed a Flaundrish bever hat. 
 His botes elapsed fayre and fetisly. 
 His resons spake he ful solempnely, 
 Souning alway the encrese of his winning, 
 lie wold the see were kept for any thing 
 Betwixen MidcrTebiirgh and Orewell. 
 Wei coud he in eschanges sheldes selle. 
 This worthy man ful wel his wit besette ; 
 Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, 
 So stedefastly didde he his governance, 
 With his bargeines, and with his chexisance. » 
 Forsothe he was a worthy man withalle, 
 But soth to sayn, I n'ot how men him calle. 
 
 A Clerk ther was of Oxenforde also, 
 That unto logike hadde long ygo. 
 As lene was his hors as is a rake, 
 And he was not fat, I undertake ; 
 But loked holwe, and therto soberly. 
 Ful thredbare was his overest courtepy, 
 For he hadde geten him yet no benefice, 
 Ne was nought worldly to have an office. 
 For him was lever han at his beddes hed 
 A twenty bokes, clothed in black or red, 
 Of Aristotle, and his philosophic, 
 Than robes riche, or fidel, or sautrie, 
 But all be that he was a philosophre, 
 Yet had he but litel gold in cofre, 
 But all that he might of his frendes hejitej 
 On bokes and on lerning he it spente, 
 
 2.£ 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 175 
 
 And besily gan for the soules praie 
 Of hem, that yave him wherwith to scolaie. 
 Of studie toke he moste cure and hede. 
 Not a word spake he more than was nede ; 
 And that was said in forme and reverence, 
 And short and quike, and ful of high sentence. 
 Souning in moral vertue was his speche, 
 And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche. 
 
 A Sergeant of the Lawe ware and wise, 
 That often hadde yben at the paruis, 
 Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. • 
 Discrete he was, and of gret reverence : 
 He semed swiche, his wordes were so wise, 
 Justice he was ful often in assise. 
 By patent, and by pleine commissioun ; 
 For his science, and for his high renoun, 
 Of fees and robes had he many on. 
 So grete a pourchasour was nowher non. 
 All was fee simple to him in effect. 
 His pourchasing might not ben in suspect. 
 Nowher so besy a man as he ther n'as, 
 And yet he semed besier than he was. 
 In termes hadde he cas and domes alle, 
 That fro the time of l^ihg Will, weren falle. 
 Therto he coude endite, and make a thing, 
 Ther coude no wight pinche at his writing. 
 And every statute coucTe""Ee plaine by rote. 
 He rode but homely in a medlee cote, ^ "^ X^ 
 
 Girt with a seint of silk, with bajres smale ; -^ 
 
 Of his array tell I no lenger tale. J^ 
 
 A Frankelein was in this compagnie ; 
 White was his herd, as is the dayesie. 
 Of his complexion he was sanguin. 
 Wei loved he by the morwe a sop in win. 
 
176 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 To liven in delit was ever his wone, 
 
 For he was Epicures owen sone, 
 
 That held opinion, that plein delit 
 
 Was veraily felicite partite. 
 
 An housholder, and that a grete was he ; 
 
 Seint Julian he was in his contree. 
 
 His brede, his ale, was alway after on ; 
 
 A better envyned man was no wher non. 
 
 Withouten bake mete never was his hous, 
 
 Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous, 
 
 It snewed in his hous of mete and drinke, 
 
 Of alle deintees that men coud of thinke, 
 
 After the sondry sesons of the yere, 
 
 So changed he his mete and his soupere. 
 
 Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in mewe, 
 
 And many a breme, and many a luce in stewe. 
 
 Wo was his coke, but if his sauce were 
 
 Poinant and sharpe, and redy all his gere. 
 
 His table dormant in his halle alway 
 
 Stode redy covered alle the longe day. 
 
 At sessions ther was he lord and sire. 
 Ful often time he was knight of the shire. 
 An anelace and a gipciere all of silk, 
 Heng at his girdel, white as morwe milk, 
 A shereve hadde he ben, and a countour. 
 Was no wher swiche a worthy vavasour. 
 
 An Haberdasher, and a Carpenter, 
 A Webbe, a Deyer, and a Tapiser, 
 Were alle yclothed in o livere, 
 Of a solempne and grete fraternite. 
 Ful fresh and newe hir gere ypiked was. 
 Hir knives were ychaped not with bras, 
 But all with silver wrought ful clene and wel, 
 Hir girdeles and hir pouches every del. 
 Wel semed eche of hem a fayre burgeis, 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 177 
 
 To sitten in a gild halle, on the deis. 
 Everich, for the wisdom that he can, 
 Was shapelich for to ben an alderman. 
 For catel hadden they ynough and rent, 
 And eke hir wives wolde it wel assent : 
 And elles certainly they were to blame. 
 It is full fayre to ben ycleped madame. 
 And for to gon to vigiles all before, 
 And have a mantel reallich ybore. 
 
 A Coke they hadden with hem for the nones. 
 To boile the chikenes and the marie bones, 
 And poudre marchant, tart and galingale. 
 Wel coude he knowe a draught of London ale. 
 He coude roste, and sethe, and broile, and frie, 
 Maken mortrewes, and wel bake a pie. 
 But gret harm was it, as it thoughte me, 
 That on his shinne a mormal hadde he. 
 For blanc manger that made he with the best. 
 
 A Shipman was ther, woned fer by West : 
 For ought I wote, he was of Dertemouth. 
 He rode upon a rouncie, as he couthe. 
 All in a goune of falding to the knee. 
 A dagger hanging by a las hadde hee 
 About his nekke under his arm adoun. 
 The hote sommer hadde made his hewe al broun. 
 And certainly he was a good felaw. 
 Ful many a draught of win he hadde draw 
 From Burdcux ward, while that the chapman 
 
 slepe. 
 Of nice conscience toke he no kepe. 
 If that he faught, and hadde the higher hand, 
 By water he sent hem home to every land. 
 But of his craft to reken wel his tides, 
 His stremes and his strand es him besides. 
 
 483 
 
178 772^.5" CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 His herberwe, his mone, and his lodemanage, 
 There was non swiche, from Hull unto Cartage. 
 Hardy he was, and wise, I undertake : 
 With many a tempest hadde his herd be shake. 
 He knew wel alle the havens, as they were. 
 Fro Gotland, to the Cape de finistere, 
 And every creke in Bretagne and in Spaine : 
 His barge ycleped was the Magdelaine. 
 
 With us ther was a Doctour of Phisike, 
 In all this world ne was ther non him like 
 To speke of phisike, and of surgerie : 
 For he was grounded in astronomie. 
 He kept his patient a ful gret del 
 In houres by his magike naturel. 
 Wel coude he fortunen the ascendent 
 Of his images for his patient. 
 
 He knew the cause of every maladie, 
 Were it of cold, or hote, or moist, or drie, 
 And wher engendred, and of what humour. 
 He was a veray parfite practisour. 
 The cause yknowe, and of his harm the rote, 
 Anon he gave to the sike man his bote. 
 Ful redy hadde he his apothecaries 
 To send him dragges, and his lettuaries, 
 For eche of hem made other for to winne : 
 Hir frendship n'as not newe to beginne 
 Wel knew he the old Esculapius, 
 And Dioscorides, and eke Rufus ; 
 Old Hippocras, Hali, and Gallien ; 
 Serapion, Rasis, and Avicen ; 
 Averrois, Damascene, and Constantin ; 
 Bernard, and Gatisden, and Gilbertin. 
 Of his diete mesurable was he, 
 For it was of no superfluitee, 
 But of gret nourishing, and digestible. 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 179 
 
 His studie was but litel on the Bible. 
 In sanguin and in perse he clad was alle 
 Lined with taffata, and with sendalle. 
 And yet he was but esy of dispence : 
 He kepte that he wan in the pestilence. 
 
 For gold in phisike is a cordial ; 
 Therfore he loved gold in special. 
 
 ) 
 
 A good WiF was ther of beside Bathe, 
 But she was som del defe, and that was scathe. 
 Of cloth making she hadde swiche an haunt, 
 She passed hem of Ipres, and of Gaunt. 
 In all the parish wif ne was ther non, 
 That to the offring before hire shulde gon, 
 And if ther did, certain so wroth was she, 
 That she was out of alle charitee. 
 Hire coverchiefs weren ful fine of ground ; 
 I dorste swere, they weyeden a pound ; 
 That on the Sonday were upon hire hede. 
 Hire hosen weren of fine scarlet rede, 
 Ful streite yteyed, and shoon ful moist and newe. 
 Bold was hire face, and fayre and rede of hew. 
 She was a worthy woman all hire live, 
 Housbondes at the chirche dore had she had five, 
 Withouten other compagnie in youthe. 
 But thereof nedeth not to speke as nouthe. 
 And thries hadde she ben at Jerusaleme. 
 She hadde passed many a strange streme. 
 At Rome she hadde ben, and at Boloine, 
 In Galice at Seint James, and at Coloine. 
 She coude moche of wandring by the way. 
 Gat-tothed was she, sothly for to say. 
 Upon an ambler esily she sat, 
 Ywimpled wel, and on hire hede an hat, 
 As brode as is a bokeler, or a targe. 
 A fote-mantel about hire hippes large, 
 
i8o THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 And on hire fete a pair of sporres sharpe. 
 In felawship wel coude she laughe and carpe 
 Of remedies of love she knew perchance, 
 For of that arte she coude the olde dance^__;> 
 
 ^ 1 ^ A good man ther was of religioun, 
 That was a poure Persone of a toun : 
 But riche he was of holy thought and weik. 
 He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 
 That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche. 
 His parishens devoutly wolde he teche. 
 Benigne he was, and wonder diligent, 
 And in adversite ful patient : 
 And swiche he was ypreved often sithes. 
 Ful loth were him to cursen for his tithes, 
 But rather wolde he yeven out of doute, 
 Unto his poure parishens aboute, 
 Of his offring, and eke of his substance. 
 He coude in litel thing have suffisance. 
 Wide was his parish, and houses fer asonder, 
 But he ne left nought for no rain ne thunder, 
 In sickenesse and in mischief to visite 
 The ferrest in his parish, moche and lite, 
 Upon his fete, and in his hand a staf. 
 This noble ensample to his shepe he yaf, 
 That first he wrought, and afterward he taught. 
 Out of the gospel he the wordes caught, 
 And this figure he added yet therto. 
 That if gold ruste, what shuld iren do ? 
 For if a preest be foule, on whom we trust, 
 No wonder is a lewed man to rust : 
 And shame it is, if that a preest take kepe ; 
 To see a shitten shepherd, and clene shepe : 
 Wel ought a preest ensample for to yeve, 
 By his clenenesse, how his shepe shulde live. 
 He set not his benefice to hire, 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. i8i 
 
 And Ictte his shepe acombred in the mire, 
 And ran unto London, unto Seint Poules, 
 To seken hirn a chanterie for soules, 
 Or with a bijRherhede to be withold : 
 But dwelt at home, and kepte wel his fold, 
 So that the wolf ne made it not miscarie. 
 He was a shepherd, and no mercenarie. 
 And though he holy were, and vertuous, 
 He was to sinful men not dispitous, 
 Ne of his speche dangerous ne digne. 
 But his teching discrete and benigne. 
 To drawen folk to heven, with fairenesse, 
 By good ensample, \Vas his besinesse ; 
 But it were any persone obstinat, 
 What so he were of highe, or low estat, 
 Him wolde he snibben sharply for the nones. 
 A better preest I trowe that nowher non is. 
 He waited after no pompe ne reverence, 
 Ne maked him no spiced conscience, 
 But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, 
 He taught, but first he folwed it himselve. 
 
 With him ther was a Plowman^ was his brother, 
 That hadde ylaid of dong ful many a fother. 
 A trewe swinker, and a good was he. 
 Living in pees, and parfite charitee. 
 God loved he beste with alle his herte 
 At alle times, were it gain or smerte. 
 And than his neighebour right as himselve. 
 He wolde thresh, and therto dike, and delve, 
 For Cristes sake, for every poure wight, 
 Withouten hire, if it lay in his might. 
 
 His tithes paied he ful fayre and wel 
 Both of his propre swinke, and his catel. 
 In a tabard he rode upon a mere. 
 
 Ther was also a reve, and a millere, 
 
i82 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 A sompnour, and a pardoner also, 
 
 A manciple, and myself, ther n'ere no mo. 
 
 The Miller was a stout carl for the nones, 
 Ful bigge he was of braun, and eke of bones ; 
 That proved wel, for over all ther he came, 
 At wrastling he wold here away the ram. 
 He was short shuldered brode, a thikke gnarre, 
 Ther n'as no dore, that he n'olde heve of barre. 
 Or breke it at a renning with his hede. 
 His herd as any sowe or fox was rede. 
 And therto brode, as though it were a spade. 
 Upon the cop right of his nose he hade 
 A wert, and theron stode a tufte of heres, 
 Rede as the bristles of a sowes eres. 
 His nose-thirles blacke were and wide. 
 A swerd and bokeler bare he by his side. 
 His mouth as wide was as a forneis. 
 He was a jangler, and a goliardeis, 
 And that was most of sinne, and harlotries. 
 Wel coude he stelen corne, and toUen thries. 
 And yet he had a thomb of gold parde. 
 A white cote and a blew hode wered he. 
 A baggepipe wel coude he blowe and soune, 
 And therwithall he brought us out of toune. 
 
 '* ' A gentil Manciple was ther of a temple, 
 
 ^ ^ Of which achatours mighten take ensemple 
 
 For to ben wise in bying of vitaille. 
 For whether that be paide, or toke by taille, 
 Algate he waited so in his achate, 
 That he was ay before in good estate. 
 Now is not that of God a ful fayre grace, 
 That swiche a lewed mannes wit shal pace 
 The wisdom of an hepe of lered men ? 
 Of maisters had he mo than thries ten. 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 183 
 
 That were of lawe expert and curious : 
 
 Of which ther was a dosein in that hous, 
 
 Worthy to ben stewardes of rent and lond 
 
 Of any lord that is in Englelond, 
 
 To maken him live by his propre good, 
 
 In honour detteles, but if he were wood, 
 
 Or live as scarsly, as him list desire ; 
 
 And able for to helpen all a shire 
 
 In any cas that mighte fallen or happe ; 
 
 And yet this manciple sette hir aller cappe. 
 
 The Reve was a slendre colerike man, 
 His herd was shave as neighe as ever he can. 
 His here was by his eres round yshorne. 
 His top was docked like a preest beforne. 
 Ful longe were his legges, and ful lene, 
 Ylike a staff, there was no calf ysene. 
 Wei coude he kepe a garner and a binne : 
 Ther was non auditour coude on him winne. 
 Wei wiste he by the drought, and by the rain. 
 The yelding of his seed, and of his grain. 
 His lordes shepe, his nete, and his deirie, 
 His swine, his hors, his store, and his pultrie, 
 Were holly in this reves governing. 
 And by his covenant yave he rekening. 
 Sin that his lord was twenty yere of age ; 
 Ther coude no man bring him in arerage. 
 Ther n'as baillif, ne herde, ne other hine. 
 That he ne knew his sleight and his covine : 
 They were adradde of him, as of the deth. 
 His wonning was ful fayre upon an heth, 
 With green trees yshadewed was his place. 
 He coude better than his lord pourchace. 
 Ful riche he was ystored privily. 
 His lord wel coude he plesen subtilly, 
 To yeve and lene him of his owen good, 
 
i84 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 And have a thank, and yet a cote and hood. 
 
 In youthe he lerned hadde a good mistere. 
 
 He was a wel good wright, a carpentere. 
 
 This reve sate upon a right good stot, 
 
 That was all pomelee grey, and highte Scot. 
 
 A long surcote of perse upon he hade, 
 
 And by his side he bare a rusty blade. 
 
 Of Norfolk was this reve, of which I tell, 
 
 Beside a toun, men clepen Baldeswell. 
 
 Tucked he was, as is a frere, aboute, 
 
 And ever he rode the hinderest of the route, i v*^ 
 
 A SoMPNOUR was ther with us in that place, 
 That hadde a fire-red cherubinnes face, 
 For sausefleme he was, with eyen narwe. 
 As hote he was, and likerous as a sparwe. 
 With scalled browes blake, and pilled herd : 
 Of his visage children were sore aferd. 
 Ther n'as quiksilver, litarge, ne brimston, 
 Boras, ceruse, ne oile of tartre non, 
 Ne oinemenl that wolde dense or bite, 
 That him might helpen of his whelkes white, 
 Ne of the knobbes sitting on his chekes. 
 Wel loved he garlike, onions, and lekes. 
 And for to drinke strong win as rede as blood. 
 Than wolde he speke, and crie as he were wood. 
 And whan that he wel dronken had the win, 
 Then wold he speken no word but Latin. 
 A fewe termes coude he, two or three, 
 That he had lerned out of som decree ; 
 No wonder is, he herd it all the day. ^ 
 And eke ye knowen wel. how that a jay 
 Can clepen watte, as well as can the pope. 
 But who so wolde in other thing him grope, 
 Than hadde he spent all his philosophic, 
 Ay, Questio quidjuris^ wolde he crie. 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 185 
 
 He was a gentil harlot and a kind ; 
 A better felaw shulde a man not find. 
 He wolde suffre for a quart of wine, 
 A good felaw to have his concubine 
 A twelve month, and excuse him at the full. 
 Ful prively a finch eke coude he pull. 
 And if he found owhere a good felawe, 
 He wolde techen him to have non awe 
 In swiche a cas of the archedekenes curse ; 
 But if a mannes soule were in his purse ; 
 For in his purse he shulde ypunished be. 
 Purse is the archedekens helle, said he. 
 But wel I wote, he lied right in dede : 
 Of cursing ought eche gilty man him drede. 
 For curse wol sle right as assoiling saveth, 
 And also ware him of a sii^fiificav't. 
 
 In danger hadde he at his owen gise 
 The yonge girles of the diocise, 
 And knew hir conseil, and was of hir rede. 
 A gerlond hadde he sette upon his hede, 
 As gret as it were for an alestake : 
 A bokeler hadde he made him of a cake. 
 
 With him ther rode a gentil Pardon ere 
 Of Rouncevall, his frend and his compere, 
 That streit was comen from the court of Rome, 
 Ful loude he sang, Come hither, love, to me. 
 This sompnour bare to him a stiff burdoun, 
 Was never trompe of half so gret a soun. 
 This pardoner had here as yelwe as wax, 
 But smoth it heng, as doth a strike of flax : 
 By unces heng his lokkes that he hadde. 
 And therwith he his shulders over>pradde. 
 Ful thinne it lay, by culpons on and on, 
 But hode, for jolite, ne wered he non, 
 For it was trussed up in his wallet 
 
1 86 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 Him thought he rode al of the newe get, 
 Dishevele, sauf his cappe, he rode all bare. 
 Swiche glaring eyen hadde he, as an hare. 
 A vernicle hadde he sewed upon his cappe. 
 His wallet lay beforne him in his lappe, 
 Bret-ful of pardon come from Rome al hote. 
 A vois he hadde, as smale as hath a gote. 
 No berd hadde he, ne never non shulde have, 
 As smothe it was as it were newe shave ; 
 I trowe he were a gelding or a mare^ fe O. "^ 
 
 But of his craft, fro Berwike unto ware, 
 Ne was ther swiche an other pardonere. 
 For in his male he hadde a pilwebere, 
 Which, as he saide, was oure ladies veil : 
 He saide, he hadde a gobbet of the seyl 
 Thatte seint Peter had, whan that he went 
 Upon the see, till Jesu Crist him hent. 
 He had a crois of laton ful of stones, 
 And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. 
 But with these relikes, whanne that he fond 
 A poure persone dwelling up on lond. 
 Upon a day he gat him more moneie 
 Than that the persone gat in monethes tweie. 
 And thus with fained flattering and japes. 
 He made the persone, and the peple, his apes. 
 
 But trewly to tellen atte last, 
 He was in chirche a noble ecclesiast. 
 Wei coude he rede a lesson or a storie, 
 But alderbest he sang an offertorie : 
 For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe, 
 He must preche, and wel afile his tonge, 
 To winne silver, as he right wel coude : 
 Therfore he sang the merier and loude. 
 
 Now have I told you shortly in a clause, 
 Th' estat, th' araie, the n ombre, and eke the cause 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 187 
 
 Why that assembled was this compagnie 
 
 In South werk at this gen til hostelrie, 
 
 That hight^e the Tabard, faste by the Belle. 
 
 But now is time to you for to telle, 
 
 How that we baren us that ilke night, 
 
 Whan we were in that hostelrie alight. 
 
 And after wol I telle of our viage. 
 
 And all the remenant of our pilgrimage. 
 
 ^jBut firste I praie you of your curtesie, 
 
 T^at ye ne arette it not my vilanie. 
 
 Though that I plainly speke in this matere, 
 
 To tellen you hir wordes and hir chere ; 
 
 Ne though I speke hir wordes proprely. 
 
 For this ye knowen al so wel as I, 
 
 Who so shall telle a tale after a man, 
 
 He moste reherse, as neighe as ever he can, 
 
 Everich word, if it be in his charge. 
 
 All speke he never so rudely and so large ; 
 
 Or elles he moste tellen his tale untrewe, 
 
 Or feinen thinges, or finden wordes newe. 
 
 He may not spare, although he were his brother. 
 
 He moste as wel sayn o word, as an other. 
 
 Crist spake himself ful brode in holy writ, 
 
 And wel ye wote no vilanie is it. 
 
 Eke Plato sayeth, who so can him rede, 
 
 The wordes moste ben cosin to the dede. 
 
 Also I praie you to forgive it me, 
 And have I not sette folk in hir degree, 
 Here in this tale, as that they shulden stonde. 
 My wit is short, ye may wel understonde. 
 
 Gret chere made oure hoste us everich on, 
 And to the souper sette he us anon : 
 And served us with vitaille of the beste. 
 Strong was the win, and wel to drinke us leste. 
 A semely man our hoste was with a.le 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 For to han ben a marshal in an halle. 
 A large man he was with eyen stepe, 
 A fairer burgeis is ther non in Chepe : 
 Bold of his speche, and wise and wel ytaught, 
 And of manhood him lacked righte naught. 
 Eke thereto was he right a mery man, 
 And after souper plaien he began, 
 And spake of mirthe amonges other thinges, 
 Whan that we hadden made our rekeninges ; 
 • And saide thus ; Now, lordinges, trewely 
 Ye ben to me welcome right hertily : 
 For by my trouthe, if that I shal not lie, 
 I saw nat this yere swiche a compagnie 
 At ones in this herberwe, as is now. 
 Fayn wolde I do you mirthe, and I wiste how, 
 And of a mirthe I am right now bethought, 
 To don you ese, and it shall coste you nought. 
 Ye gon to Canterbury ; God you spede. 
 The blisful martyr quite you your mede ; 
 And wel I wot, as ye gon by the way, 
 Ye shapen you to talken and to play : 
 For trewely comfort ne mirthe is non, 
 To riden by the way dombe as the ston : 
 And therfore wold I maken you disport, 
 As I said erst, and don you some comfort. 
 >f And if you liketh alle by on assent 
 Now for to stonden at my jugement : 
 And for to werchen as I shal you say 
 To-morwe, whan ye riden on the way, 
 Now by my faders soule that is ded, 
 But ye be mery, smiteth of my hed. 
 Hold up your hondes withouten more speche. 
 
 Our conseil was not longe for to seche : 
 Us thought it was not worth to make it wise, 
 And granted him withouten more avise, 
 And bad him say his verdit, as him leste. 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 189 
 
 Lordinges, (quod he) now herkeneth for the beste; 
 But take it nat, I pray you, in disdain ; 
 This is the point, to speke it plat and plain, 
 That eche of you to shorten with youre way. 
 In this viage, shal tellen tales tway, 
 To Canterbury ward, I mene it so, 
 And homeward he shall tellen other two, 
 Of aventures that whilom han befalle. 
 And which of you that bereth him best of alle, 
 That is to sayn, that telleth in this cas 
 Tales of best sentence and most solas, 
 Shal have a souper at youre aller cost 
 Here in this place sitting by this post, 
 Whan that ye comen agen from Canterbury. 
 And for. to maken you the more mery, 
 I wol myselven gladly with you ride. 
 Right at min owen cost, and be your gide. 
 And who that wol my jugement withsay, 
 Shal pay for alle we spenden by the way. 
 And if ye vouchesauf that it be so, 
 Telle me anon withouten wordes mo, 
 And I wol erly shapen me therfore. 
 
 This thing was granted, and our othes swore 
 With ful glad herte, and praiden him also, 
 That he wold vouchesauf for to don so, 
 And that he wolde ben our governour, 
 And of our tales juge and reportour. 
 And sette a souper at a certain pris ; 
 And we wol reuled ben at his devise. 
 In highe and lowe : and thus by on assent, 
 We ben accorded to his jugement. 
 And therupon the win was fette anon. 
 We dronken, and to reste wenten eche on, 
 Withouten any lenger tarying. 
 
 A-morwe whan the day began to spring, 
 Up rose our hoste, and was our aller cok, 
 
I90 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 And gaderd us togeder in a flok, 
 
 And forth we riden a litel more than pas, 
 
 Unto the watering of Seint Thomas : 
 
 And ther our hoste began his hors arest, 
 
 And saide ; lordes, herkeneth if you lest. 
 
 Ye wete your forword, and I it record. 
 
 If even-song and morwe-song accord, 
 
 Let se now who shal telle the first tale. 
 
 As ever mote I drinken win or ale, 
 
 "Who so is rebel to my jugement, 
 
 Shal pay for alle that by the way is spent. 
 
 Now draweth cutte, or that ye forther twinne. 
 
 He which that hath the shortest shal beginne. 
 
 Sire knight, (quod he) my maister and my lord, 
 Now draweth cutte, for that is min accord. 
 Cometh nere, (quod he) my lady prioresse, 
 And ye, sire clerk, let be your shamefastnesse, 
 Ne studieth nought ; lay hand to, every man. 
 
 Anon to drawen every wight began, 
 And shortly for to tellen as it was, 
 Were it by aventure, or sort, or cas. 
 The sothe is this, the cutte felle on the knight, 
 Of which ful blith and glad was every wight ; 
 And tell he must his tale as was reson. 
 But forword, and by composition, 
 As ye han herd ; what nedeth wordes mo ? 
 And whan this good man saw that it was so, 
 As he that wise was and obedient 
 To kepe his forword by his free assent, 
 He saide ; sithen I shal begin this game. 
 What ? welcome be the cutte a goddes name. 
 Now let us ride, and herkeneth what I say. 
 
 And with that word we riden forth our way ; 
 And he began with right a mery chere 
 His tale anon, and saide as ye shul here. 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 191 
 
 THE MAN OF LAWES TALE. 
 
 O SCATHFUL harm, condition of poverte, 
 
 With thirst, with cold, with hunger so confounded. 
 
 To asken helpe thee shameth in thin herte. 
 
 If thou non ask, so sore art thou ywounded, 
 
 That veray nede unwrappeth al thy wound hid. 
 
 Maugre thin hed thou must for indigence 
 
 Or stele, or begge, or borwe thy dispence. 
 
 Thou blamest Crist, and sayst ful bitterly, 
 He misdeparteth richesse temporal ; 
 Thy neighebour thou witest sinfully, 
 And sayst, thou hast a litel, and he hath all : 
 Parfay (sayst thou) sometime he reken shall, 
 Whan that his tayl shal brennen in the glede, 
 For he nought helpeth needful in hir nede. 
 
 Herken what is the sentence of the wise, 
 Bet is to dien than have indigence. 
 Thy selve neighebour wol thee despise, 
 If thou be poure, farewel thy reverence. 
 Yet of the wise man take this sentence, 
 Alle the dayes of poure men ben wicke. 
 Beware therfore or thou come to that pricke. 
 
 If thou be poure, thy brother hateth thee, 
 And all thy frendes fleen fro thee, alas ! 
 O riche marchants, ful of wele ben ye, 
 O noble, o prudent folk, as in this cas, 
 Your bagges ben not filled with ambes as, 
 But with sis cink, that renneth for your chance j 
 At Cristenmasse mery may ye dance. 
 
192 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 Ye seken lond and see for your winningcs, 
 As wise folk ye knowen all th'estat 
 Of regnes, ye ben fathers of tidinges, 
 And tales, both of pees and of debat : 
 I were right now of tales desolat, 
 N'ere that a marchant, gon in many a yere, 
 Me taught a tale, which that ye shull here. 
 
 In Surrie whilom dwelt a compagnic 
 Of chapmen rich, and therto sad and trewe, 
 That wide where senten hir spicerie, 
 Clothes of gold, and safeins riche of hewe. 
 Hir chaffare was so thriftly and so newe, 
 That every wight hath deintee to chaffare 
 With hem, and eke to sellen hem hir ware. 
 
 Now fell it, that the maisters of that sort 
 Han shapen hem to Rome for to wende, 
 Were it for chapmanhood or for disport, 
 Non other message wold they thider sende, 
 But comen hemself to Rome, this is the ende : 
 And in swiche place as thought hem avantage 
 For hir entente, they taken hir herbergage. 
 
 Sojourned han these marchants in that toun 
 A certain time, as fell to hir plesance : 
 And so befell, that the excellent renoun 
 Of the emperoures doughter dame Custance 
 Reported was, with every cirumstance, 
 Unto these Surrlen marchants, in swiche wise 
 Fro day to day, as I shal you devise. 
 
 This was the commun vois of every man : 
 Our emperour of Rome, God him se, 
 A doughter hath, that sin the world l)egan. 
 To reken as wel hire goodnesse as beautc, 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 193 
 
 N'as never swiche another as is she : 
 
 I pray to God in honour hire sustene, 
 
 And wold she were of all Europe the quene. 
 
 In hire is high beaute withouten pride, 
 Youthe, withouten grenehed or folic : 
 To all hire werkes vertue is hire guide ; 
 Humblesse hath slaien in hire tyrannie : 
 She is mirrour of alle curtesie, 
 Hire herte is veray chambre of holinesse, 
 Hire bond ministre of fredom for almesse. 
 
 And al this vols was soth, as God is trewe, 
 But now to purpos let us turne agein. 
 These marchants ban don fraught hir shippes ncwe, 
 And whan they ban this blisful maiden sein, 
 Home to Surrie ben they went ful fayn, 
 And don hir nedes, as they ban don yore, 
 And liven in wele, I can say you no more. 
 
 Now fell it, that these marchants stood in grace 
 Of him that was the Soudan of Surrie : 
 For whan they came from any strange place 
 He wold of his benigne curtesie 
 Make hem good chere, and besily espie 
 Tidings of sundry regnes, for to lere 
 The wonders that they mighte seen or here. 
 
 Amonges other thinges specially 
 These marchants ban him told of dame Custance 
 So gret noblesse, in ernest seriously, 
 That this Soudan hath caught so gret pleasance 
 To ban hire figure in his remembrance, 
 That all his lust, and all his besy cure 
 Was for to love hire, while his lif may dure. 
 
 484 
 
194 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 Paraventure in thilke large book, 
 Which that men clepe the heven, ywriten was 
 With sterres, whan that he his birthe took, 
 That he for love shuld han his deth, alas ! 
 For in the sterres, clerer than is glas, 
 Is writen, God wot, who so coud it rede, 
 The deth of every man withouten drede. 
 
 In sterres many a winter therbeforn 
 Was writ the deth of Hector, Achilles, 
 Of Pompey, Julius, or they were born ; 
 The strif of Thebes ; and of Hercules, 
 Of Sampson, Turnus, and of Socrates 
 The deth ; but mennes wittes ben so dull, 
 That no wight can wel rede it at the full. 
 
 This Soudan for his prive councel sent, 
 And shortly of this matere for to pace. 
 He hath to hem declared his entent, 
 And sayd hem certain, but he might have grace 
 To han Custance, within a litel space, 
 He n'as but ded, and charged hem in hie 
 To shapen for his lif som remedie. 
 
 Diverse men, diverse thinges saiden ; 
 They argumentes casten up and doun ; 
 Many a subtil reson forth they laiden ; 
 They speken of magike, and abusion ; 
 But finally, as in conclusion. 
 They cannot seen in that non avantage, 
 Ne in non other way, save mariage. 
 
 Than saw they therin swiche difficultee 
 By way of reson, for to speke all -plain. 
 Because ther was swiche diversitee 
 Betwene hir bothe lawes, that they sayn, 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 195 
 
 They trowen that no cristen prince wold fayn 
 Wedden his child under our lawe swete, 
 That us was yeven by Mahound our prophete. 
 
 And he answered : Rather than I lese 
 Custance, I wol be cristened douteles ; 
 I mote ben hires, I may non other chese, 
 I pray you hold your arguments in pees, 
 wSaveth my lif, and beth not reccheles 
 To getten hire that hath my lif in cure, 
 For in this wo I may not long endure 
 
 What nedeth greter dilatation? 
 I say, by tretise and ambassatrie, 
 And by the popes mediation, 
 And all the chirche, and all the chevalrie, 
 That in destruction of Maumetrie, 
 And in encrese of Cristes lawe dere. 
 They ben accorded so as ye may here ; 
 
 How that the Soudan and his baronage, 
 And all his lieges shuld ycristened be, 
 And he shal han Custance in mariage, 
 And certain gold, I no't what quantitee, 
 And hereto finden suffisant suretee. 
 The same accord is sworne on eyther side ; 
 Now, fair Custance, almighty God thee gide. 
 
 Now wolden som men waiten, as I gesse, 
 That I shuld tellen all the purveiance, 
 The which that the emperour of his noblesse 
 Hath shapen for his doughter dame Custance. 
 Wei may men know that so gret ordinance 
 May no man tellen in a litel clause, 
 As was arraied for so high a cause. 
 
196 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 Bishopes ben shapen with hire for to wende, 
 Lordes, ladies, and knightes of renoun, 
 And other folk ynow, this is the end. 
 And notified is thurghout al the toun, 
 That every wight with gret devotioun 
 Shuld prayen Crist, that he this mariage 
 Receive in gree, and spede this viage. 
 
 The day is comen of hire departing, 
 I say the woful day fatal is come, 
 That ther may be no longer tarying. 
 But forward they hem dressen all and some. 
 Custance, that was with sorwe all overcome, 
 Ful pale arist, and dresseth hire to wende, 
 For wel she seth ther n'is non other ende 
 
 Alas ! what wonder is it though she wept ? 
 That shal be sent to straunge nation 
 From frendes, that so tendrely hire kept, 
 And to be bounde under subjection 
 Of on, she knoweth not his condition. 
 Housbondes ben all good, and han ben yore, 
 That knowen wives, I dare say no more. 
 
 Fader, (she said) thy wretched child Custance, 
 Thy yonge doughter, fostered up so soft, 
 And ye, my moder, my soveraine plesance 
 Over all thing, (out taken Crist on loft) 
 Custance your child hire recommendeth oft 
 Unto your grace ; for I shal to Surrie, 
 Ne shal I never seen you more with eye. 
 
 Alas ! unto the Barbare nation 
 I muste gon, sin that it is your will : 
 But Crist, that starfe for our redemption, 
 So yeve me grace his hestes to fulfill, 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 197 
 
 I wretched woman no force though I spill ; 
 Women arn borne to thraldom and penance, 
 And to ben under mannes governance. 
 
 I trow at Troye when Pirrus brake the wall, 
 Or Ilion brent, or Thebes the citee, 
 Ne at Rome for the harm thurgh Hanniball, 
 That Romans hath venqueshed times three, 
 N'as herd swiche tendre weping for pitee. 
 As in the chambre was for hire parting, 
 But forth she mote, wheder she wepe or sing. 
 
 O firste moving cruel firmament, 
 With thy diurnal swegh that croudest ay, 
 And hurtlest all from Est til Occident, 
 That naturally wold hold another way ; 
 Thy crouding set the heven in swiche array, 
 At the beginning of this fierce viage, 
 That cruel Mars hath slain this marriage. 
 
 Infortunat ascendent tortuous. 
 Of which the lord is helpeles fall, alas ! 
 Out of his angle into the derkest hous. 
 O Mars, o Atyzar, as in this cas ; 
 O feble Mone, unhappy ben thy pas, 
 Thou knittest thee ther thou art not received, 
 Ther thou were wel fro thennes art thou weived. 
 
 Imprudent emperour of Rome, alas ! 
 Was ther no philosophre in al thy toun ? 
 Is no time bet than other in swiche cas ? 
 Of viage is ther non electioun, 
 Namely to folk of high conditioun, 
 Nat whan a rote is of a birth yknowe ? 
 Alas ! we ben to lewed, or to slow. 
 
iqs the canterbury tales. 
 
 To ship is brought this woful faire maid 
 Solempnely, with every circumstance : 
 Now Jesu Crist be with you all, she said. 
 Ther n'is no more, but farewel fair Custance. 
 She peineth hire to make good countenance, 
 And forth I let hire sayle in this manere, 
 And turne I wol againe to my matere. 
 
 The mother of the Soudan, well of vices, 
 Espied hath hire sones pleine entente, 
 How he wol lete his olde sacrifices : 
 And right anon she for her conseil sente, 
 And they ben comen, to know what she mente, 
 And whan assembled was this folk in fere, 
 She set hire doun, and sayd as ye shul here. 
 
 Lordes, (she sayd) -ye knowen everich on. 
 How that my sone in point is for to lete 
 The holy lawes of our Alkaron, 
 Yeven by Goddes messager Mahomete : 
 But on avow to grete God I hete, 
 The Hf shal rather out of my body sterte, 
 Than Mahometes lawe out of myn herte. 
 
 What shuld us tiden of this newe lawe 
 But thraldom to our bodies and penance, 
 And afterward in helle to ben drawe. 
 For we reneied Mahound our creance ? 
 But, lordes, wol ye maken assurance. 
 As I shal say, assenting to my lore? 
 And I shal make us sauf for evermore. 
 
 They sworen, and assented every man 
 To live with hire and die, and by hire stond : 
 And everich on, in the best wise he can, 
 To strengthen hire shal all his frendes fond. 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 199 
 
 And she hath this emprise ytaken in hond, 
 Which ye shuU heren that I shal devise, 
 And to hem all she spake right in this wise. 
 
 We shul first feine us cristendom to take ; 
 Cold water shal not greve us but a lite : 
 And I shal swiche a feste and revel make, 
 That, as I trow, I shal the Soudan quite. 
 For tho his wif be cristened never so white. 
 She shal have nede to wash away the rede, 
 Though she a font of water with hire lede. 
 
 O Soudannesse, rote of iniquitee, 
 Virago thou Semyramee the second, 
 O serpent under femininitee, 
 Like to the serpent depe in helle ybound : 
 O feined woman, all that may confound 
 Vertue and innocence, thurgh thy malice, 
 Is bred in thee, as nest of every vice. 
 
 O Sathan envious, sin thilke day 
 That thou were chased from our heritage, 
 Wei knowest thou to woman the olde way. 
 Thou madest Eva bring us in servage, 
 Thou wait fordon this cristen mariage : 
 Thin instrument so (wala wa the while !) 
 Makest thou of women whan thou wolt begile. 
 
 This Soudannesse, whom I thus blame and warrie, 
 Let prively hire conseil gon hir way : 
 What shuld I in this tale longer tarie ? 
 She rideth to the Soudan on a day, 
 And sayd him, that she wold reneie hire lay, 
 And cristendom of prestes hondes fong, 
 Repenting hire she hethen was so long ; 
 
200 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 Beseching him to don hire that honour, 
 That she might han the cristen folk to fest ; 
 To plesen hem I wol do my labour, 
 The Soudan saith, I wol don at your hest, 
 And kneling, thanked hire of that request ; 
 So glad he was, he n'iste not what to say. 
 She kist hire sone, and home she goth hire way. 
 
 Arrived ben these cristen folk to londe 
 In Surrie, with a gret solempne route. 
 And hastily this Soudan sent his sonde, 
 First to his mother, and all the regne aboute, 
 And sayd, his wif was comen out of doute, 
 And praide hem for to riden again the quene, 
 The honour of his regne to sustene. 
 
 Gret was the presse, and riche was th'array 
 Of Surriens and Romanes met in fere. 
 The mother of the Soudan riche and gay 
 Received hire with all so glad a chere. 
 As any mother might hire doughter dere : 
 And to the nexte citee ther beside 
 A softe pas solempnely they ride. 
 
 Nought trow I, the triumph of Julius, 
 Of which that Lucan maketh swiche a bosl, 
 Was realler, or more curious. 
 Than was th'assemblee of this blisful host : 
 Butte this scorpion, this wicked gost. 
 The Soudannesse, for all hire flattering 
 Cast under this ful mortally to sting. 
 
 The Soudan cometh himself sone after this 
 So really, that wonder is to tell : 
 And welcometh hire with alle joye and blis. 
 And thus in mirth and joye I let him dwell. 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 201 
 
 The fruit of this matere is that I tell. 
 
 Whan time came, men thought it for the best 
 
 That revel stint, and men go to hir rest. 
 
 The time come is, this olde Soudannesse 
 Ordeined hath the feste of which I tolde, 
 And to the feste cristen folk hem dresse 
 In general, ya bothe yonge and olde. 
 Ther may men fest and realtee beholde, 
 And deintees mo than I can you devise, 
 But all to dere they bought it or they rise. 
 
 O soden wo, that ever art successour 
 To worldly blis, spreint is with bitternesse 
 Th' ende of the joye of our worldly labour : 
 Wo occupieth the fyn of our gladnesse. 
 Herken this conseil for thy sikernesse : 
 Upon thy glade day have in thy minde 
 The unaware wo of harm, that cometh behinde. 
 
 For shortly for to tellen at a word, 
 The Soudan and the cristen everich on 
 Ben all to-hewe, and stiked at the bord. 
 But it were only dame Custance alone. 
 This olde Soudannesse, this cursed crone. 
 Hath with hire frendes don this cursed dede. 
 For she hireself wold all the contree lede. 
 
 Ne ther was Surrien non that was converted, 
 That of the conseil of the Soudan wot, 
 That he n'as all to-hewe, er he asterted : 
 And Custance han they taken anon fote-hot. 
 And in a ship all stereles (God wot) 
 They han hire set, and bidden hire lerne sayle 
 Out of Surrie againward to Itaille. 
 
202 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 A certain tresor that she thither ladde, 
 And soth to sayn, vitaille gret plentee, 
 They han hire yeven, and clothes eke she hadde, 
 And forth she sayleth in the salte sea : 
 O my Custance, ful of benignitee, 
 O emperoures yonge doughter dere, 
 He that is lord of fortune be thy stere. 
 
 She blesseth hire, and with ful pitous vois 
 Unto the crois of Crist thus sayde she, 
 O clere, o weleful auter, holy crois, 
 Red of the lambes blood ful of pitee, 
 That wesh the world fro the old iniquitee, 
 Me fro the fende, and fro his clawes kepe, 
 That day that I shal drenchen in the depe 
 
 Victorious tree protection of trewe, 
 That only worthy were for to here 
 The king of heven, with his woundes newe, 
 The white lamb, that hurt was with a spere ; 
 Flemer of fendes, out of him and here 
 On which thy limmes faithfully extenden, 
 Me kepe, and yeve me might my lif to amenden. 
 
 Yeres and dayes fleet this creature 
 Thurghout the see of Greece, unto the straite 
 Of Maroc, as it was hire aventure : 
 On many a sory mele now may she baite, 
 After hire deth ful often may she waite, 
 Or that the wilde waves wol hire drive 
 Unto the place ther as she shal arive. 
 
 Men mighten asken, why she was not slain ? 
 Eke at the feste who might hire body save? 
 And I answer to that demand again, 
 Who saved Daniel in the horrible cave, 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 203 
 
 Ther every wight, save he, master or knave, 
 Was with the leon frette, or he asterte ? 
 No wight but God, that he bare in his herte. 
 
 God list to shew his wonderful miracle 
 In hire, for we shuld seen his mighty werkes : 
 Crist, which that is to every harm triacle, 
 By certain menes oft, as knowen clerkes, 
 Doth thing for certain ende, that ful derke is 
 To mannes wit, that for our ignorance 
 Ne can nat know his prudent purveiance. 
 
 Now sith she was not at the feste yslawe, 
 Who kepte hire fro the drenching in the see ? 
 Who kepte Jonas in the fishes mawe, 
 Till he was spouted up at Ninivee ? 
 Wei may men know, it was no wight but he 
 That kept the peple Ebraike fro drenching, 
 With drye feet thurghout the see passin^r. 
 
 Who bade the foure spirits of tempest, 
 That power han to anoyen lond aud see. 
 Both north and south, and also west and est, 
 Anoyen neyther see, ne lond, ne tree ? 
 Sothly the commander of that was he 
 That fro the tempest ay this woman kepte, 
 As wel whan she awoke as whan she slepte. 
 
 Wher might this woman mete and drinke have ? 
 Three yere and more, how lasteth hire vitaille ? 
 Who fed the Egyptian Mary in the cave 
 Or in desert ? no wight but Crist sans faille. 
 Five thousand folk it was as gret marvaille 
 With loaves five and fishes two to fede ; 
 God sent his foyson at hire grete nede. 
 
204 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 She driveth forth into our Ocean 
 Thurghout our wide see, til at the last 
 Under an hold, that nempnen I ne can, 
 For in Northumberlond, the wave hire cast, 
 And in the sand hire ship stiked so fast, 
 That thennes wolde it not in all a tide : 
 The wille of Crist was that she shulde abide. 
 
 The constable of the castle doun is fare 
 To seen this wreck e, and al the ship he sought, 
 And fond this wery woman ful of care ; 
 He fond also the tresour that she brought : 
 In hire langage mercy she besought, 
 The lif out of hire body for to twinne, 
 Hire to deliver of wo that she was inne. 
 
 A maner Latin corrupt was hire speche, 
 But algate therby was she understonde. 
 The constable, whan him list no lenger seche, 
 This woful woman brought he to the londe. 
 She kneleth doun, and thanketh Goddes sonde ; 
 But what she was, she wolde no man seye 
 For foule ne faire, though that she shulde deye. 
 
 She said, she was so mased in the see. 
 That she forgate hire minde, by hire trouth. 
 The constable hath of hir so gret pitee 
 And eke his wif, that they wepen for routh : 
 She was so diligent withouten slouth 
 To serve and plesen everich in that place, 
 That all hire love, that loken in hire face. 
 
 The constable and dame Hermegild his wif 
 Were payenes, and that contree every wher ; 
 But Hermegild loved Custance as hire lif; 
 And Custance hath so long sojourned ther 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 205 
 
 In orisons, with many a bitter tere, 
 
 Til Jesu hath converted thurgh his grace 
 
 Dame Hermegiid, constablcsse of that place. 
 
 In all that lond no cristen dorste route ; 
 All cristen folk ben fled fro that contree 
 Thurgh payenes, that conquereden all aboute 
 The plages of the North by lond and see. 
 To Wales fled the cristianitee 
 Of olde Bretons, dwelling in this lie ; 
 Ther was hir refuge for the mene while. 
 
 But yet n'ere cristen Bretons so exiled, 
 That ther n'ere som which in hir privitee 
 Honoured Crist, and hethen folk begiled ; 
 And neigh the castle swiche ther dwelten three : 
 That on of hem was blind, and might not see, 
 But it were with thilke eyen of his minde, 
 With which men mowen see whan they ben blinde. 
 
 Bright was the sonne, as in that sommers day, 
 For which the constable and his wif also 
 And Custance, han ytake the righte way 
 Toward the see, a furlong way or two. 
 To plaien, and to romen to and fro ; 
 And in hir walk this blinde man they mette, 
 Croked and olde, with eyen fast yshette. 
 
 In the name of Crist (cried this blinde Breton) 
 Dame Hermegiid, yeve me my sight again. 
 This lady wexe afraied of that soun. 
 Lest that hire husbond, shortly for to sain, 
 Wold hire for Jesu Cristes love have slain, 
 Till Custance made hire bold, and bad hire werche 
 The will of Crist, as doughter of holy cherche. 
 
2o6 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 The constable wexe abashed of that sight, 
 And sayde ; What amounteth all this fare ? 
 Custance answerd ; Sire, it is Cristes might, 
 That helpeth folk out of the fendes snare ; 
 And so ferforth she gan our lay declare, 
 That she the constable, er that it were eve, 
 Converted, and on Crist made him beleve. 
 
 This constable was not lord of the place 
 Of which I speke, ther as he Custance fond, 
 But kept it strongly many a winter space, 
 Under Alia, king of Northumberiond, 
 That was ful wise, and worthy of his hond 
 Againe the Scottes, as men may wel here ; 
 But tourne I wol againe to my matere. 
 
 Sathan, that ever us waiteth to begile, 
 Saw of Custance all hire perfectioun. 
 And cast anon how he might quite hire while, 
 And made a yonge knight, that dwelt in that toun, 
 Love hire so bote of foule affectioun. 
 That veraily him thought that he shuld spille, 
 But he of hire might ones han his wille. 
 
 He woeth hire, but it availeth nought, 
 She wolde do no sinne by no wey : 
 And for despit, he compassed his thought 
 To maken hire on shameful deth to dey. 
 He waiteth whan the constable is away, 
 And prively upon a night he crepte 
 In Hermegildes chambre while she slepte. 
 
 Wery, forwaked in hire orisons, 
 Slepeth Custance, and Hermegilde also. 
 This knight, thurgh Sathanas temptations, 
 All softely is to the bed ygo, 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 207 
 
 And cut the throte of Hermegilde atwo, 
 And layd the blody knif by dame Custance, 
 And went his way, ther God yeve him mischance. 
 
 Sone after cometh this constable home again, 
 And eke Alia, that king was of that lond, 
 And saw his wife despitously yslain. 
 For which ful oft he wept and wrong his bond ; 
 And in the bed the blody knif he fond 
 By dame Custance, alas ! what might she say ? 
 For veray wo hire wit was all away. 
 
 To king Alia was told all this mischance, 
 And eke the time, and wher, and in what wise, 
 That in a ship was fonden this Custance, 
 As here before ye han herd me devise : 
 The kinges herte of pitee gan agrise, 
 Whan he saw so benigne a creature 
 Falle in disese and in misaventure. 
 
 For as the lamb toward his deth is brought. 
 So stant this innocent beforn the king : 
 This false knight, that hath this treson wrought, 
 Bereth hire in bond that she hath don this thing : 
 But natheles ther was gret murmuring 
 Among the peple, and sayn they cannot gesse 
 That she had don so gret a wickednesse. 
 
 For they han seen hire ever so vertuous, 
 And loving Hermegild right as hire lif : 
 Of this bare witnesse everich in that hous, 
 Save he that Hermegild slow with his knif : 
 This gentil king hath caught a gret motif 
 Of this witness, and thought he wold enquere 
 Deper in this cas, trouthe for to lere. 
 
2o8 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 Alas ! Custance, thou hast no champion, 
 Ne fighten canst thou not, so wala wa ! 
 But he that starf for our redemption, 
 And bond Sathan, and yet lith ther he lay, 
 So be thy stronge champion this day : 
 For but if Crist on thee miracle kithe, 
 Withouten gilt thou shalt be slaine as swithe. 
 
 She set hire doun on knees, and thus she sayde ; 
 Immortal God, that savedest Susanne 
 Fro false blame, and thou merciful mayde, 
 Mary I mene, doughter to seint Anne, 
 Beforn whos child angels singen Osanne^ 
 If I be gilteles of this felonie, 
 My socour be, or elles shal I die. 
 
 Have ye not seen sometime a pale face 
 (Among a prees) of him that hath ben lad 
 Toward his deth, wher as he geteth no grace, 
 And swiche a colour in his face hath had. 
 Men mighten know him that was so bestad, 
 Amonges all the faces in that route, 
 So stant Custance, and loketh hire aboute. 
 
 O quenes living in prosperitee. 
 Duchesses, and ye ladies everich on, 
 Haveth som routhe on hire adversitee; 
 An emperoures doughter stant alone ; 
 She hath no wight to whom to make hire moue \ 
 O blood real, that stondest in this drede, 
 Far ben thy frendes in thy grete nede. 
 
 This Alia king hath swiche compassioun, 
 As gentil herte is fulfilled of pitee. 
 That fro his eyen ran the water doun. 
 Now hastily do fecche a book, quod he ; 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 209 
 
 And if this knight wol sweren, how that she 
 This woman slow, yet wol we us avise, 
 Whom that we wol that shal ben our justice. 
 
 A Breton book, written with Evangiles, 
 Was fet, and on this book he swore anon 
 She giltif was, and in the mene whiles 
 An hond him smote upon the nekke bone, 
 That doun he fell at ones as a stone : 
 And both his eyen brost out of his face 
 In sight of every body in that place. 
 
 A vois was herd, in general audience, 
 That sayd ; Thou hast desclandred gilteles 
 The doughter of holy chirche in high presence ; 
 Thus hast thou don, and yet hold I my pees. 
 Of this mervaile agast was all the prees, 
 As mased folk they stonden everich on 
 For drede of wreche, save Custance alone. 
 
 Gret was the drede and eke the repentance 
 Of hem that hadden wronge suspection 
 Upon this sely innocent Custance ; 
 And for this miracle, in conclusion, 
 And by Custances mediation, 
 The king, and many another in that place, 
 Converted was, thanked be Cristes grace. 
 
 This false knight was slain for his untrouthe 
 By jugement of Alia hastily ; 
 And yet Custance had of his deth gret routhe ; 
 And after this Jesus of his mercy 
 Made Alia wedden ful solempnely 
 This holy woman, that is so bright and shene,- 
 And thus hath Crist ymade Custance a quene. 
 
 485 
 
2IO THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 But who was woful (if I shal not lie) 
 Of this wedding but Donegild and no mo, 
 The kinges mother, ful of tyrannie ? 
 Hire thoughte hire cursed herte brast atwo ; 
 She wolde not that hire sone had do so ; 
 Hire thoughte a despit, that he shulde take 
 So strange a creature unto his make. 
 
 Me list not of the chaf ne of the stre 
 Maken so long a tale, as of the corn. 
 What shulde I tellen of the realtee 
 Of this mariage, or which cours goth beforn, 
 Who bloweth in a trompe or in an horn ? 
 The fruit of every tale is for to say ; 
 They ete and drinke, and dance, and sing, and play. 
 
 They gon to bed, as it was skill and right, 
 For though that wives ben ful holy thinges, 
 They mosten take in patience a night 
 Swiche maner necessaries, as ben plesinges 
 To folk that han ywedded hem with ringes, 
 And lay a lite hir holinesse aside 
 As for the time, it may no bet betide. 
 
 On hire he gat a knave childe anon, 
 And to a bishop, and his constable eke 
 He toke his wif to kepe, whan he is gon 
 To Scotland ward, his fomen for to sake. 
 Now faire Custance, that is so humble and meke, 
 So long is gon with childe til that still 
 She halt hire chambre, abiding Cristes will. 
 
 The time is come, a knave child she here : 
 Mauricius at the fontstone they him calle. 
 This constable doth forth come a messager, 
 And wrote unto his king that cleped was Alle, 
 
THE CANTERB UR V TALES, 2 1 1 
 
 How that this blisful tiding is befalle, 
 And other tidings spedeful for to say. 
 He hath the lettre, and forth he goth his way. 
 
 This messager, to don his avantage, 
 Unto the kinges mother rideth swithe, 
 And salueth hire ful faire in his langage. 
 INIadame, quod he, ye may be glad and blithe, 
 And thanken God an hundred thousand sithe ; 
 My lady quene hath child, withouten doute, 
 To joye and blisse of all this regne aboute. 
 
 Lo here the lettre seled of this thing, 
 That I most here in all the hast I may : 
 If ye wol ought unto your sone the king, 
 I am your servant bothe night and day. 
 Donegilde answerd, As now at this time nay ; 
 But here I wol all night thou take thy rest, 
 To morwe wol I say thee what me lest. 
 
 This messager drank sadly ale and wine, 
 And stolen were his lettres prively 
 Out of his box, while he slept as a swine ; 
 And contrefeted was ful subtilly 
 Another lettre, wrought ful sinfully. 
 Unto the kinge directe of this matere 
 Fro his constable, as ye shal after here. 
 
 This lettre spake, the quene delivered was 
 Of so horrible a fendliche creature. 
 That in the castle non so hardy was 
 That any while dorste therein endure : 
 The mother was an elfe by aventure 
 Ycome, by charmes or by sorcerie, 
 And everich man hateth hire compagnie. 
 
212 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 Wo was this king whan he this lettre had sein. 
 But to no wight he told his sorwes sore, 
 But of his owen hand he wrote again ; 
 Welcome the sonde of Crist for evermore 
 To me, that am now lerned in this lore : 
 Lord, welcome be thy lust and thy plesance, 
 My lust I put all in thyn ordinance. 
 
 Kepeth this child, al be it foule or faire, 
 And eke my wif, unto min home coming : 
 Crist whan him list may senden me an heire, 
 More agreable than this to my liking. 
 This lettre he seled, prively weping, 
 Which to the messager was taken sone, 
 And forth he goth, ther is no more to done. 
 
 O messager, fulfilled of dronkenesse. 
 Strong is thy breth, thy limmes faltren ay, 
 And thou bewreiest alle secrenesse ; 
 Thy mind is lorne, thou janglest as a jay ; 
 Thy face is tourned in a new array ; 
 Ther dronkenesse regneth in any route, 
 Ther is no conseil hid withouten doute. 
 
 O Donegild, I ne have non English digne 
 Unto thy malice, and thy tirannie : ^ 
 And therfore to the fende I thee resigne, 
 Let him enditen of thy traitorie. 
 Fy mannish, fy ; o nay by God I lie ; 
 Fy fendliche spirit, for I dare wel telle. 
 Though thou here walke, thy spirit is in helle. 
 
 This messager cometh fro the king again, 
 And at the kinges modres court he light, 
 And she was of this messager ful fayn. 
 And plesed him in all that ever she might. 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 213 
 
 He dranke, and wel his girdel underpight ; 
 He slepeth, and he snoreth in his gise 
 All night, until the sonne gan arise. 
 
 Eft were his lettres stolen everich on, 
 And contrefeted lettres in this wise. 
 The king commanded his constable anon 
 Up peine of hanging and of high jewise, 
 The he ne shulde soffren in no wise 
 Custance within his regne for to abide 
 Three dales, and a quarter of a tide ; 
 
 But in the same ship as he hire fond, 
 Hire and hire yonge sone, and all hire gere 
 He shulde put, and croude hire fro the lond. 
 And charge hire, that she never eft come there. 
 O my Custance, wel may thy ghost have fere. 
 And sleping in thy dreme ben in penance, 
 Whan Donegild cast all this ordinance. 
 
 This messager on morwe whan he awoke, 
 Unto the castel halt the nexte way ; 
 And to the constable he the lettre toke ; 
 And whan that he this pitous lettre sey, 
 Ful oft he sayd alas, and wala wa ; 
 Lord Crist, quod he, how may this world endure ? 
 So ful of sinne is many a creature. 
 
 O mighty God, if that it be thy will, 
 Sin thou art rightful juge, how may it be 
 That thou wolt soffren innocence to spill. 
 And wicked folke regne in prosperitee ? 
 A good Custance, alas ! so wo is me, 
 That I mote be thy turmentour, or dey 
 On shames deth, ther is non other wey. 
 
214 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 Wepen both yong and old in al that place, 
 Whan that the king this cursed lettre sent : 
 And Custance with a dedly pale face 
 The fourthe day toward the ship she went : 
 But natheles she taketh in good entent 
 The will of Crist, and kneling on the strond 
 She sayde, Lord, ay welcome be thy sond. 
 
 He that me kepte fro the false blame, 
 While I was in the lond amonges you, 
 He can me kepe fro harme and eke fro shame 
 In the salt see, although I se not how : 
 As strong as ever he was, he is yet now, 
 In him trust I, and in his mother dere, 
 That is to me my sail and eke my stere. 
 
 Hire litel child lay weping in hire arm, 
 And kneling pitously to him she said, 
 Pees, litel sone, I wol do thee no harm : 
 With that hire couverchief of hire hed she braid, 
 And over his litel eyen she it laid. 
 And in hire arme she luUeth it ful fast, 
 And into the heven hire eyen up she cast. 
 
 Mother, quod she, and mayden bright Marie, 
 Soth is, that thurgh womannes eggement 
 Mankind was lorne, and damned ay to die, 
 For which thy child was on a crois yrent : 
 Thy blisful eyen saw all his turment. 
 Than is ther no comparison betwene 
 Thy wo, and any wo man may sustene. 
 
 Thou saw thy child yslain before thin eyen, 
 And yet now liveth my litel child parfay : 
 Now, lady bright, to whom all woful crien. 
 Thou glory of womanhed, thou faire may, 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 215 
 
 Thou haven of refute, bright sterre of day, 
 Rew on my child, that of thy gentillesse 
 Rawest on every rewful in distresse. 
 
 O litel child, alas ! what is thy gilt, 
 That never wroughtest sinne as yet parde ? 
 Why wol thin harde father have thee spilt ? 
 O mercy, dere constable, (quod she) 
 As let my little child dwell here with thee : 
 And if thou darst not saven him fro blame, 
 So kisse him ones in his fadres name. 
 
 Therwith she loketh backward to the lond, 
 And saide ; Farewel, housbond routheles ! 
 And up she rist, and walketh doun the strond 
 Toward the ship, hire foloweth all the prees : 
 And ever she praieth hire child to hold his pees. 
 And taketh hire leve, and with an holy entent 
 She blesseth hire, and into the ship she went. 
 
 Vitailled was the ship, it is no drede, 
 Habundantly for hire a ful long space : 
 And other necessaries that shuld nede 
 She had ynow, heried be Goddes grace : 
 For wind and wether, almighty God purchace, 
 And bring hire home, I can no better say, 
 But in the see she driveth forth hire way. 
 
 Alia the king cometh home sone after this 
 Unto his castel, of the which I told, 
 And asketh wher his wif and his child is; 
 The constable gan about his herte cold. 
 And plainly all the matere he him told 
 As ye han herd, I can tell it no better, 
 And shewed the king his sele and his letter j 
 
2i6 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 And sayde ; Lord, as ye commanded me 
 Up peine of deth, so have I don certain. 
 This messager turmented was, til he 
 Moste beknowe, and tellen plat and plain, 
 Fro night to night in what place he had lain : 
 And thus by wit and subtil enquering 
 Imagined was by whom this harm gan spring. 
 
 The hand was knowen that the lettre wrote, 
 And all the venime of this cursed dede ; 
 But in what wise, certainly I n'ot. 
 The effect is this, that Alia out of drede 
 His moder slew, that moun men plainly rede, 
 For that she traitour was to hire ligeance : 
 Thus endeth this old Donegild with meschance. 
 
 The sorwe that this Alia night and day 
 Maketh for his wif and for his child also, 
 Ther is no tonge that it tellen may. 
 But now wol I agen to Custance go, 
 That fleteth in the see in peine and wo 
 Five yere and more, as liked Cristes sonde, 
 Or that hire ship approched to the londe. 
 
 Under an hethen castel at the last, 
 (Of which the name in my text I not find) 
 Custance and eke hire child the see up cast. 
 Almighty God, that saved all mankind, 
 Have on Custance and on hire child som mind, 
 That fallen is in hethen bond eftsone 
 In point to spill, as I shal tell you sone. 
 
 Doun fro the castel cometh ther many a wight 
 To gauren on this ship, and on Custance : 
 But shortly fro the castel on a night, 
 The lordes steward (God yeve him meschance) 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 217 
 
 A theef, that had reneyed our creance, 
 Came into the ship alone, and said, he wolde 
 Hire lemman be, whether she wolde or n'olde. 
 
 Wo was this wretched woman tho begon, 
 Hire child cried, and she cried pitously : 
 But blisful Mary halpe hire right anon, 
 For with hire strogling wel and mightily 
 The theef fell over bord al sodenly, 
 And in the see he drenched for vengeance, 
 And thus hath Crist unwemmed kept Custance. 
 
 O foule lust of luxurie, lo thin ende, 
 Nat only that thou faintest mannes mind, 
 But veraily thou wolt his body shende. 
 Th'ende of thy werk, or of thy lustes blind, 
 Is complaining : how many may men find, 
 That not for werk somtime, but for th'entent 
 To don this sinne, ben other slain or shent. 
 
 How may this weke woman han the strength 
 Hire to defend again this renegate ? 
 O Golias, unmesurable of length, 
 How mighte David maken thee so mate ? 
 So yonge, and of armure so desolate, 
 How dorst he loke upon thy dredful face ? 
 Wel may men seen it was but Goddes grace. 
 
 Who yaf Judith corage or hardinesse 
 To sleen him Holofernes in his tent, 
 And to deliver out of wretchednesse 
 The peple of God ? I say for this entent, 
 That right as God spirit of vigour sent 
 To hem, and saved hem but of meschance, 
 So sent he might and vigour to Custance. 
 
2i8 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 Forth goth hire ship thurghout the narwe mouth 
 Of Jubaltare and Septe, driving alway, 
 Somtime West, and somtime North and South, 
 And somtime Est, ful many a wery day : 
 Til Cristes moder (blessed be she ay) 
 Hath shapen thurgh hire endeles goodnesse 
 To make an end of all hire hevinesse. 
 
 Now let us stint of Custance but a throw, 
 And speke we of the Romane emperour, 
 That out of Surrie hath by lettres knowe 
 The slaughter of cristen folk, and dishonour 
 Don to his doughter by a false traitour, 
 I mene the cursed wicked Soudannesse, 
 That at the fest let sleen both more and lesse. 
 
 For which this emperour hath sent anon 
 His senatour, with real ordinance, 
 And other lordes, God wote, many on, 
 On Surriens to taken high vengeance : 
 They brennen, sleen, and bring hem to meschance 
 Ful many a day : but shortly this is th'ende, 
 Horn ward to Rome they shapen hem to wende. 
 
 This senatour repaireth with victorie 
 To Rome ward sayling ful really, 
 And met the ship driving, as saith the storie. 
 In which Custance sitteth ful pitously : 
 Nothing ne knew he what she was, ne why 
 She was in swiche array, ne she wil sey 
 Of hire estat, though that she shulde dey. 
 
 He bringeth hire to Rome, and to his wif 
 He yaf hire, and hire yonge sone also : 
 And with the senatour she lad hire lif. 
 Thus can our lady bringen out of wo 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 219 
 
 Woful Custance, and many another mo: 
 And longe time dwelled she in that place, 
 In holy werkes ever, as was hire grace. 
 
 The senatoures wif her aunte was, 
 But for all that she knew hire never the more : 
 I wol no longer tarien in this cas, 
 But to king Alia, which I spake of yore, 
 That for his wif wepeth and siketh sore, 
 I wol returne, and let I wol Custance 
 Under the senatoures governance. 
 
 King Alia, which that had his moder slain, 
 Upon a day fell in swiche repentance. 
 That if I shortly tellen shal and plain. 
 To Rome he cometh to receive his penance, 
 And putte him in the popes ordinance 
 In high and low, and Jesu Crist besought, 
 Foryeve his wicked werkes that he had wrought. 
 
 The fame anon thurghout the toun is born, 
 How Alia king shal come on pilgrimage. 
 By herbergeours that wenten him beforn, 
 For which the senatour, as was usage, 
 Rode him againe, and many of his linage, 
 As wel to shewen his high magnificence, 
 As to don any king a reverence. 
 
 Gret chere doth this noble senatour 
 To king Alia, and he to him also ; 
 Everich of hem doth other gret honour ; 
 And so befell, that in a day or two 
 This senatour is to king Alia go 
 To fest, and shortly, if I shal not lie, 
 Custances sone went in his compagnie. 
 
220 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 Som men wold sain at requeste of Custance 
 This senatour hath lad this child to feste : 
 I may not tellen every circumstance, 
 Be as he may, ther was he at the leste : 
 But soth is this, that at his mothers heste 
 Beforn Alia, during the metes space, 
 The child stood, loking in the kinges face. 
 
 This Alia king hath of this child gret wonder, 
 And to the senatour he said anon, 
 Whos is that faire child that stondeth yonder ? 
 I no't, quod he, by God and by Seint John ; 
 A moder he hath, but fader hath he non, 
 That I of wote : but shortly in a stound 
 He told Alia how that this child was found. 
 
 But God wot, quod this senatour also. 
 So vertuous a liver in all my lif 
 Ne saw I never, as she, ne herd of mo 
 Of worldly woman, maiden, widewe or wif : 
 I dare wel sayn hire hadde lever a knif 
 Thurghout hire brest, than ben a woman wikke, 
 Ther is no man coude bring hire to that prikke. 
 
 Now was this child as like unto Custance 
 As possible is a creature to be : 
 This Alia hath the face in remembrance 
 Of dame Custance, and theron mused he, 
 If that the childes moder were aught she 
 That is his wif, and prively he sighte, 
 And sped him fro the table that he mighte. 
 
 Parfay, thought he, fantome is in min hed. 
 I ought to deme of skilful jugement, 
 That in the salte see my wif is ded. 
 And afterward he made his argument •, 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 221 
 
 What wot I, if that Crist have hider sent 
 
 My wif by see, as wel as he hire lent 
 
 To my contree, fro thennes that she went ? 
 
 And after noon home with the senatour 
 Goth Alia, for to see this wonder chance. 
 This senatour doth Alia gret honour, 
 And hastily he sent after Custance : 
 But trusteth wel, hire luste not to dance. 
 Whan that she wiste wherfore was that sonde, 
 Unnethe upon hire feet she mighte stonde. 
 
 Whan Alia saw his wif, faire he hire grette. 
 And wept, that it was routhe for to see, 
 For at the firste look he on hire sette 
 He knew wel veraily that it was she : 
 And she for sorwe, as domb stant as a tree : 
 So was hire herte shette in hire distresse, 
 Whan she remembered his unkindenesse. 
 
 Twies she swouneth in his owen sight, 
 He wepeth and him excuseth pitously : 
 Now God, quod he, and all his halwes bright 
 So wisly on my soule as have mercy, 
 That of youre harme as gilteles am I, 
 As is Maurice my sone, so like your face, 
 EUes the fend me fetche out of this place. 
 
 Long was the sobbing and the bitter peine. 
 Or that hir woful hertes mighten cese, 
 Great was the pitee for to here hem pleine, 
 Thurgh whiche pleintes gan hir wo encrease. 
 
222 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 I pray you all my labour to relese, 
 I may not tell hir wo until to-morwe, 
 I am so wery for to speke of sorwe. 
 
 But finally, whan that the soth is wist. 
 That Alia gilteles was of hire wo, 
 I trow an hundred times han they kist. 
 And swiche a blisse is ther betwix hem two, 
 That save the joye that lasteth evermo, 
 Ther is non like, that any creature 
 Hath seen or shal, while that the world may dure. 
 
 Tho praied she hire husbond mekely 
 In releef of hire longe pitous pine, 
 That he wold pray hire fader specially, 
 That of his magestee he wold encline 
 To vouchesauf som day with him to dine ; 
 She praied him eke, he shulde by no way 
 Unto hire fader no word of hire say. 
 
 Som men wold sayn, how that the child Maurice 
 Doth this message until this emperour : 
 But as I gesse, Alia was not so nice, 
 To him that is so soveraine of honour, 
 As he that is of cristen folk the flour, 
 Send any child, but it is bet to deme 
 He went himself, and so it may wel seme. 
 
 This emperour hath granted gentilly 
 To come to dinner, as he him besoughte : 
 And wel rede I, he loked besily 
 Upon this child, and on his doughter thought. 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 223 
 
 Alia goth to his inne, and as him ought 
 Arraied for this feste in every wise, 
 As ferforth as his conning may suffice. 
 
 Ther morwe came, and Alia gan him dresse, 
 And eke his wif, this emperour to mete : 
 And forth they ride in joye and in gladnesse, 
 And whan she saw hire fader in the strete, 
 She light adoun and falleth him to fete. 
 Fader, quod she, your yonge child Custance 
 Is now ful clene out of your remembrance. 
 
 I am your doughter, your Custance, quod she, 
 That whilom ye han sent into Surrie ; 
 It am I, fader, that in the salte see 
 Was put alone, and dampned for to die. 
 Now, goode fader, I you mercy crie, 
 Send me no more into non hethenesse, 
 But thanketh my lord here of his kindenesse. 
 
 Who can the pitous joye tellen all 
 Betwix hem thre, sin they ben thus ymette? 
 But of my tale make an ende I shal, 
 The day goth fast, I wol no longer lette. 
 Thise glade folk to dinner ben ysette, 
 In joy and blisse at mete I let hem dwell, 
 A thousand fold wel more than I can tell. 
 
 This child Maurice was sithen emperour 
 Made by the pope, and lived cristenly. 
 To Cristes chirche did he gret honour : 
 But I let all his storie passen by, 
 
224 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 Of Custance is my tale specially, 
 
 In the olde Romane gestes men may find 
 
 Maurices lif, I bere it not in mind. 
 
 This king Alia, whan he his time sey, 
 With his Custance, his holy wif so swete, 
 To England ben they come the right ewey, 
 Ther as they live in joye and in quiete. 
 But litel while it lasteth I you hete, 
 Joye of this world for time wol not abide, 
 Fro day to night it changeth as the tide. 
 
 Who lived ever in swiche delite o day, 
 That him ne meved other conscience. 
 Or ire, or talent, or som kin affray, 
 Envie, or pride, or passion, or offence? 
 I ne say but for this end this sentence, 
 That litel while in joye or in plesance 
 Lasteth the blisse of Alia with Custance. 
 
 For deth, that taketh of hie and low his rente, 
 Whan passed was a yere, even as I gesse, 
 Out of this world this king Alia he hente, 
 For whom Custance hath ful gret hevinesse. 
 Now let us praien God his soule blesse : 
 And dame Custance, finally to say, 
 Toward the toun of Rome goth hire way. 
 
 To Rome is come this holy creature, 
 And findeth ther hire frendes hole and sound : 
 Now is she scaped all hire aventure : 
 And whan that she hire fader hath yfound, 
 Doun on hire knees falleth she to ground, 
 Weping for tendernesse in herte blithe 
 She herieth God an hundred thousand sithc. 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 225 
 
 In vertue and in holy almesse dede 
 They liven alle, and never asonder wende ; 
 Till deth departeth hem, this lif they lede : 
 And fareth now wel, my tale is at an ende. 
 Now Jesu Crist, that of his might may sende 
 Joye after wo, governe us in his grace, 
 And kepe us alle that ben in this place. 
 
 THE WIF OF BATHES TALE. 
 
 But for ye speken of swiche gentillesse, 
 As is descended out of old richesse, 
 That therfore shullen ye be gentilmen ; 
 Swiche arrogance n'is not worth an hen. 
 
 Loke who that is most vertuous alway, 
 Prive and apert, and most entendeth ay 
 To do the gentil dedes that he can, 
 And take him for the gretest gentilman. 
 Crist wol we claime of him our gentillesse, 
 Not of our elders for hir old richesse. 
 For though they yeve us all hir heritage, 
 For which we claime to ben of high parage, 
 Yet may they not bequethen, for no thing, 
 To non of us, hir vertuous living, 
 That made hem gentilmen called to be. 
 And bade us folwen hem in swiche degree. 
 
 Wel can the wise poet oi Florence, 
 That highte Dant, speken of this sentence : 
 Lo, in swiche maner rime is Dantes tale. 
 
 Ful selde up riseth by his branches smale 
 Prowesse of man, for God of his goodnesse 
 Wol that we claime of him our gentillesse : 
 
 486 
 
226 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 For of our elders may we nothing claime 
 
 But temporel thing, that man may hurt and maime. 
 
 Eke every wight wot this as wel as I, 
 If gentillesse were planted naturelly 
 Unto a certain linage doun the line, 
 Prive and apert, than wold they never fine 
 To don of gentillesse the faire office. 
 They mighten do no vilanie or vice. 
 
 Take fire and here it into the derkest hous 
 Betwix this and the mount of Caucasus, 
 And let men shette the dores, and go thenne, 
 Yet wol the fire as faire lie and brenne 
 As twenty thousand men might it behold ; 
 His office naturel ay wol it hold, 
 Up peril of my lif, til that I die. 
 
 Here may ye see well, how that genterie 
 Is not annexed to possession, 
 Sith folk ne don hir operation 
 Alway, as doth the fire, lo, in his kind. 
 For God it wot, men moun ful often find 
 A lordes sone do shame and vilanie. 
 And he that wol han pris of his genterie, 
 For he was boren of a gentil hous, 
 And had his elders noble and vertuous. 
 And n'ill himselven do no gentil dedes, 
 Ne folwe his gentil auncestrie, that ded is, 
 He n'is not gentil, be he duk or erl ; 
 For vilains sinful dedes make a cherl. 
 For gentillesse n'is but the renomee 
 Of thin auncestres, for hir high bountee. 
 Which is a strange thing to thy persone : 
 Thy gentillesse cometh fro God alone. 
 Than cometh our veray gentillesse of grace, 
 It was no thing bequeathed us with our pla<:e. 
 
 Thinketh how noble, as saith Valerius, 
 Was thilke TuUius Hostilius, 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 227 
 
 That out of poverte rose to high noblesse. 
 Redeth Senek, and redeth eke Boece, 
 Ther shull ye seen expresse, that it no dred is, 
 That he is gentil that doth gentil dedis. 
 And therfore, leve hiisbond, I thus conclude ; 
 Al be it that min auncestres weren rude, 
 Yet may the highe God, and so hope I, 
 Granten me grace to liven vertuously : 
 Than am I gentil, whan that I beginne 
 To liven vertuously, and weiven sinne. 
 
 And ther as ye of poverte me repreve, 
 The highe God, on whom that we beleve, 
 In wilful poverte chese to lede his lif : 
 And certes, every man, maiden, or wif 
 May understond, that Jesus heven king 
 Ne wold not chese a vicious living. 
 
 Glad poverte is an honest thing certain. 
 This wol Senek and other clerkes sain. 
 Who so that halt him paid of his poverte, 
 I hold him rich, al had he not a sherte. 
 He that coveiteth is a poure wight. 
 For he wold han that is not in his might. 
 But he that nought hath, ne coveiteth to have, 
 Is riche, although ye hold him but a knave. 
 Veray poverte is sinne proprely. 
 
 Juvenal saith of poverte merily : 
 The poure man whan he goth by the way, 
 Beforn the theves he may sing and play. 
 Poverte is hateful good ; and, as I gesse, 
 A ful gret bringer out of besinesse ; 
 A gret amender eke of sapience 
 To him, that taketh it in patience. 
 Poverte is this, although it seme elenge, 
 Possession that no wight wol challenge. 
 Poverte ful often, whan a man is low, 
 Maketh his God and eke himself to know : 
 
228 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 Pdverte a spectakel is, as thinketh me, 
 Thurgh which he may his veray frendes see. 
 And therfore, sire, sin that I you not greve, 
 Of my poverte no more me repreve. 
 
 THE DOCTOURES TALE. 
 
 Ther was, as telleth Titus Livius, 
 A knight, that cleped was Virginius, 
 Fulfilled of honour and worthinesse, 
 And strong of frendes, and of gret richesse. 
 This knight a doughter hadde by his wif. 
 No children had he mo in all his lif. 
 Faire was this maid in excellent beautee 
 Aboven every wight that man may see : 
 For nature hath with soveraine diligence 
 Yformed hire in so gret excellence, 
 As though she wolde sayn, lo, I nature, 
 Thus can I forme and peint a creature, 
 Whan that me list ; who can me contrefete? 
 Pigmalion? not, though he ay forge and bete. 
 Or grave, or peinte : for I dare wel sain, 
 Apelles, Xeuxis, shulden werche in vain, 
 Other to grave, or peinte, or forge, or bete, 
 If they presumed me to contrefete. 
 For he that is the former principal. 
 Hath rnaked me his vicaire general 
 To forme and peinten erthly creatures 
 Right as me list, and eche thing in my cure is 
 Under the mone, that may wane and waxe. 
 And for my werk right nothing wol I axe ; 
 My lord and I ben ful of on accord. 
 I made hire to the worship of my lord ; 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 229 
 
 So do I all min other creatures, 
 
 What colour that they han, or what figures. 
 
 Thus semeth me that nature wolde say. 
 
 This maid of age twelf yere was and tway, 
 In which that nature hadde swiche delit. 
 For right as she can peint a lily whit 
 And red a rose, right with swiche peinture 
 She peinted hath this noble creature 
 Er she was borne, upon hire limmes free, 
 Wheras by right swiche colours shulden be : 
 And Phebus died hath hire tresses grete, 
 Like to the stremes of his burned hete. 
 And if that excellent were hire beautee, 
 A thousand fold more vertuous was she. 
 In hire ne lacked no condition, 
 That is to preise, as by discretion. 
 As wel in gost as body, chast was she : 
 For which she floured in virginitee, 
 With all humilitee and abstinence, 
 With all attemperance and patience, 
 With mesure eke, of bering and array. 
 Discrete she was in answering alway. 
 Though she were wise as Pallas, dare I sain. 
 Hire lacounde eke ful womanly and plain, 
 No contrefeted termes hadde she 
 To semen wise ; but after hire degree 
 She spake, and all hire wordes more and lesse 
 Souning in vertue and in gentillesse. 
 Shameiast she was in maidens sharaefastnesse, 
 Constant in herte, and ever in besinesse 
 To drive hire out of idel slogardie : 
 Bacchus had of hiie mouth right no maistrie. 
 For wine and youthe don Venus encrese, 
 As men in fire wol casten oile and grese. 
 And of hiie owen vertue unconstreined, 
 She hath hircself ful olten sike yleined, 
 
230 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 For that she wolde fleen the compagnie, 
 Wher likely was to treten of folic, 
 As is at festes, at revels, and at dances, 
 That ben occasions of daliances. 
 Swiche thinges niaken children for to be 
 To sone ripe and bold, as men may see, 
 Which is ful perilous, and hath ben yore, 
 For al to sone may she lernen lore 
 Of boldnesse, whan she woxen is a wif. 
 
 And ye maistresses in your olde lif, 
 That lordes doughters han in governance, 
 Ne taketh of my wordes displesance : 
 Thinketh that ye ben set in governinges 
 Of lordes doughters, only for two thinges 
 Other for ye han kept your honestee, 
 Or elles for ye han fallen in freeltee, 
 And knowen wel ynough the olde dance, 
 And han forsaken fully swiche meschance 
 For evermo : therfore for Cristes sake 
 To teche hem vertue loke that ye ne slake. 
 
 A theef of venison, that hath forlaft 
 His likerousnesse, and all his olde craft, 
 Can kepe a forest best of any man : 
 Now kepeth him wel, for if ye wol ye can. 
 Loke wel, that ye unto no vice assent, 
 Lest ye be damned for your wikke entent, 
 For who so doth, a traytour is certain : 
 And taketh kepe of that I shal you sain ; 
 Of alle treson soveraine pestilence 
 Is, whan a wight betrayeth innocence. 
 
 Ye fathers, and ye mothers eke also. 
 Though ye han children, be it on or mo, 
 Your is the charge of all hir surveance, 
 While that they ben under your governance. 
 Beth ware, that by ensample of your living, 
 Or by your negligence in chastising. 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 231 
 
 That they ne perish : for I dare vvel saye, 
 If that they don, ye shul it dere abeye. 
 Under a shepherd soft and negligent, 
 The wolf hath many a shepe and lamb to-rent. 
 
 Sufficeth this ensample now as here, 
 For I mote turne agen to my matere. 
 
 This maid, of which I tell my tale expresse, 
 She kept hireself, hire neded no maistresse ; 
 For in hire living maidens mighten rede-, 
 As in a book, every good word and dede, 
 That longeth to a maiden vertuous : 
 She was so prudent and so bounteous. 
 For which the fame out sprong on every side 
 Both of hire beautee and hire bountee wide: 
 That thurgh the lond they preised hire ech one, 
 That loved vertue, sauf envie alone. 
 That sory is of other mannes wele, 
 And glad is of his sorwe and his unhele. 
 The doctour maketh this descriptioun. 
 
 This maiden on a day went in the toun 
 Toward a temple, with hire mother dere, 
 As is of yonge maidens the manere. 
 
 Now was ther than a justice in that toun. 
 That governour was of that regioun : 
 And so befell, this juge his eyen cast 
 Upon this maid, avising hire ful fast. 
 As she came forth by ther this juge stood : 
 Anon his herte changed and his mood. 
 So was he caught with beautee of this maid, 
 And to himself ful prively he said, 
 This maiden shal be min for any man. 
 
 Anon the fend into his herte ran, 
 And taught him sodenly, that he by sleight 
 This maiden to his purpos winnen might. 
 For certes, by no force, ne by no mede. 
 Him thought he was not able for to spede ; 
 
232 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 For she was strong of frendes, and eke she 
 Confermed was in swiche soveraine bountee, 
 That wel he wist he might hire never winne. 
 As for to make hire with hire body sinne. 
 For which with gret deliberatioun 
 He sent after a cherl was in the toun, 
 The which he knew for sotil and for bold. 
 This juge unto this cherl his tale hath told 
 In secree wise, and made him to ensure, 
 He shulde tell it to no creature, 
 And if he did, he shulde lese his hede. 
 And whan assented was this cursed rede. 
 Glad was the juge, and maked him gret chere, 
 And yaf him yeftes precious and dere. 
 
 Whan shapen was all hir conspiracie 
 Fro point to point, how that his lecherie 
 Parformed shulde be ful sotilly, 
 As ye shul here it after openly, 
 Home goth this cherl, that highte Claudius. 
 This false juge, that highte Appius, 
 (wSo was his name, for it is no fable, 
 But knowen for an historial thing notable : 
 The sentence of it soth is out of doute) 
 This false juge goth now fast aboute 
 To hasten his delit all that he may. 
 And so befell, sone after on a day 
 This false juge, as telleth us the storie, 
 As he was wont, sat in his consistorie. 
 And yaf his domes upon sondry cas : 
 This ialse cherl came forth a ful gret pas, 
 And saide ; lord, if that it be your will, 
 As dolh me right upon this pitous bill, 
 In which 1 plaine upon Virginius. 
 And if thnt he wol sayn it is not thus, 
 I wol it preve, and finden good witnesse, 
 That soth is that my bille wol expresse. 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 233 
 
 The juge answerd, of this in his absence 
 I may not yeve diffinitif sentence. 
 Let don him call, and I wol gladly here ; 
 Thou shalt have right, and no wrong as now here. 
 
 Yirginius came to wete the juges will, 
 And right anon was red this cursed bill ; 
 The sentence of it was as ye shul here. 
 
 To you, my lord sire Appius so dere, 
 Sheweth your poure servant Claudius, 
 How that a knight called Virginius, 
 Agein the lawe, agein all equitee, 
 Holdeth, expresse agein the will of me, 
 My servant, which that is my thral by right, 
 Which from min hous was stolen on a night 
 "While that she was ful yong, I wol it preve 
 By witnesse, lord, so that it you not greve ; 
 She n'is his doughter nought, what so he say 
 Wherfore to you, my lord the juge, I pray : 
 Yelde me my thral, if that it be your will. 
 Lo, this was all the sentence of his bill. 
 
 Virginius gan upon the cherl behold ; 
 But hastily, er he his tale told. 
 And wold han preved it, as shuld a knight, 
 And eke by witnessing of many a wight. 
 That all was false, that said his adversary. 
 This cursed juge wolde nothing tary, 
 Ne here a word more of Virginius, 
 But yave his jugeraent, and saide thus. 
 
 I deme anon this cherl his servant have. 
 Thou shalt no lenger in thin hous hire save. 
 Go bring hire forth, and put hire in our ward. 
 The cherl shal have his thral ; thus I award. 
 
 And whan this worthy knight Virginius, 
 Thurgh sentence of this justice Appius, 
 Muste by force his dere doughter yeven 
 Unto the juge, in lecherie to liven, 
 
234 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 He goth him home, and set him in his hall, 
 And let anon his dere doughter call : 
 And with a face ded as ashen cold, 
 Upon hire humble face he gan behold, 
 With fadres pitee stiking thurgh his herte, 
 Al wold he from his purpos not converte. 
 
 Doughter, quod he, Virginia by thy name, 
 Ther ben two waies, other deth or shame. 
 That thou must suffre, alas that I was bore ! 
 For never thou deservedest wherfore 
 To dien with a swerd or with a knif. 
 O dere doughter, ender of my lif, 
 , Which I have fostred up with swiche plesance, 
 That thou were never out of my remembrance ; 
 O doughter, which that art my laste wo, 
 And in my lif my laste joye also, 
 O gemme of chastitee, in patience 
 Take thou thy deth, for this is my sentence ; 
 For love and not for hate thou must be ded, 
 My pitous hond must smiten of thin hed. 
 Alas that ever Appius thee say ! 
 Thus hath he falsely juged thee to-day. 
 And told hire all the cas, as ye before 
 Han herd, it nedeth not to tell it more. 
 
 O mercy, dere father, quod this maid. 
 And with that word she both hire armes laid 
 About his necke, as she was wont to do, 
 (The teres brast out of hire eyen two,) 
 And said, O goode father, shal I die ? 
 Is ther no grace? is ther no remedie? 
 
 No certes, dere doughter min, quod he. 
 Than yeve me leiser, father min, quod she, 
 My deth for to complaine a litel space : 
 For parde Jepte yave his daughter grace 
 For to complaine, or he hire slow, alas ! 
 And God it wot, nothing was hire trespas, 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 535 
 
 But for she ran hire father first to see, 
 To welcome him with gret solempnitee. 
 And with that word she fell aswoune anon, 
 And after, whan hire swouning was agon, 
 She riseth up, and to hire father said : 
 Blessed be God, that I shall die a maid. 
 Yeve me my deth, or that I have a shame. 
 Doth with your child your wille a goddes name. 
 And with that word she praied him ful oft, 
 That with his swerd he wolde smite hire soft ; 
 And with that word, aswoune again she fell. 
 Hire father, with ful sorweful herte and will, 
 Hire hed of smote, and by the top it hent, 
 And to the juge he gan it to present. 
 As he sat yet in dome in consistorie. 
 
 And whan the juge it saw, as saith the storie. 
 He bad to take him, and.anhang him fast. 
 But right anon a thousand peple in thrast 
 To save the knight, for routh and for pitee, 
 For knowen was the false iniquitee. 
 
 The peple anon had suspect in this thing 
 By maner of the cherles chalenging, 
 That it was by the assent of Appius ; 
 They wisten wel that he was lecherous. 
 For which unto this Appius they gon, 
 And caste him in a prison right anon, 
 Wheras he slow himself : and Claudius, 
 That servant was unto this Appius, 
 Was demed for to hange upon a tree \ 
 But that Virginius of his pitee 
 So prayed for him, that he was exiled, 
 And e}les certes had he ben begiled : 
 The remenant were anhanged, more and lessc, 
 That were consentant of this cursednesse. 
 
 Here men may see how sin hath his merite : 
 Beth ware, for no man wot whom God wol smite 
 
236 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 In no degree, ne in which maner wise 
 
 The worme of conscience may agrise 
 
 Of wicked lif, though it so privee be, 
 
 That no man wote therof, sauf God and he : 
 
 For be he lewed man or elles lered, 
 
 He n'ot how sone that he shal ben afered. 
 
 Therfore I rede you this conseil take, , 
 
 Forsaketh sinne, or sinne you forsake. 
 
 THE NONNES PREESTES TALE. 
 
 THE NONNES PREESTES PROLOGUE. 
 
 Ho ! quod the knight, good sire, no more of this : 
 That ye han said, it right ynough ywis, 
 And mochel more ; for litel hevinesse 
 Is right ynough to mochel folk, I gesse. 
 I say for me, it is a gret disese, 
 Wher as men have ben in gret welth and ese, 
 To heren of hir soden fall, alas ! 
 And the contrary is joye and gret solas, 
 As whan a man hath ben in poure estat, 
 And climbeth up, and wexeth fortunat, 
 And ther abideth in prosperitee : 
 Swiche thing is gladsom, as it thinketh me, 
 And oi swiche thing were goodly for to telle. 
 Ye, quod our hoste, by Seint Poules belle. 
 Ye say rir:ht soth ; this monk hath clapped loude : 
 He spake, now fortune covere i with a cloude 
 I wote net what, and als of a tragedie 
 Right now ye herd : and parde no remedie 
 It is for to bewailen, ne complaine 
 That that is don, and als it is a paine, 
 As ye han said, to here of hevinesse. 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. lyj 
 
 Sire monk, no more of this, so God you blesse ; 
 Your tale anoyeth all this compagnie ; 
 Swiche talking is not worth a boterflie, 
 For therin is ther no disport ne game : 
 Therfore, sire monk, dan Piers by your name, 
 I pray you hertely, tell us somwhat elles, 
 For sikerly, n'ere clinking of your belles, 
 That on your bridel hange on every side. 
 By heven king, that for us alle dide, 
 I shuld er this have fallen doun for slepe, 
 Although the slough had ben never so depe : 
 Than hadde your tale all ben tolde in vain. 
 For certainly, as that thise clerkes sain, 
 Wher as a man may have non audience, 
 Nought helpeth it to tellen his sentence. 
 And wel I wote the substance is in me. 
 If any thing shal wel reported be 
 Sire, say somwhat of hunting, I you pray. 
 
 Nay, quod this Monk, I have no lust to play : 
 Now let another telle as I have told. 
 
 Than spake our hoste with rude speche and bold. 
 And sayd unto the Nonnes Freest anon. 
 Come nere, thou preest, come hither, thou Sire John, 
 Telle us swiche thing, as may our hertes glade. 
 Be blithe, although thou ride upon a jade. 
 What though thyn horse be bothe foule and lene, 
 If he wol serve thee, recke thee not a bene : 
 Loke that thyn herte be mery evermo. 
 
 Yes, hoste, quod he, so mote I ride or go. 
 But I be mery, yvvis I wol be blamed. 
 And right anon his tale he hath attamed ; 
 And thus he said unto us everich on. 
 This swete preest, this goodly man Sire John. 
 
238 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 THE NONNES PREESTES TALE. 
 
 A POURE widewe somdel stoupen in age, 
 Was whilom dwelling in a narwe cotage, 
 Beside a grove, stonding in a dale. 
 This widewe, which I tell you of my tale, 
 Sin thilke day that she was last a wif, 
 In patience led a ful simple lif. 
 For litel was hire catel and hire rente : 
 By husbondry of swiche as God hire sente, 
 She found hireself, and eke hire doughtren two. 
 Three large sowes had she, and no mo ; 
 Three kine and eke a sheep that highte Malle. 
 Ful sooty was hire boure, and eke hire halle, 
 In which she ete many a slender mele. 
 Of poinant sauce ne knew she never a dele. 
 No deintee morsel passed thurgh hire throte ; 
 Hire diete was accordant to hire cote. 
 Repletion ne made hire never sike ; 
 Attempre diete was all her physike, 
 And exercise, and hertes suffisance. 
 The goute let hire nothing for to dance, 
 No apoplexie shente not hire hed. 
 No win ne dranke she, neyther white ne red : 
 Hire bord was served most with white and black, 
 Milk and broun bred, in which she fond no lack, 
 Seinde bacon, and somtime an ey or twey ; 
 For she was as it were a maner dey. 
 A yerd she had, enclosed all about 
 "With stickes, and a drie diche without, 
 In which she had a cok highte Chaunteclere, 
 In all the land of crowing n'as his pere. 
 His vois was merier than the mery orgon, 
 On masse dales that in the chirches gon. 
 Wei sikerer was his crowing in his loge, 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 239 
 
 Than is a clok, or any abbey orloge. 
 
 By nature he knew eche ascentioun 
 
 Of the equinoctial in thilke toun ; 
 
 For whan degrees fiftene were ascended, 
 
 Then crew he, that it might not ben amended. 
 
 His combe was redder than the fin corall, 
 Enbattelled, as it were a castel wall. 
 His bill was black, and as the jet it shone ; 
 Like asure were his legges and his tone ; 
 His nailes whiter than the lily flour, 
 And like the burned gold was his colour. 
 
 This gentil cok had in his governance 
 Seven hennes, for to don all his plesance. 
 Which were his susters and his paramoures. 
 And wonder like to him, as of coloures. 
 Of which the fairest hewed in the throte, 
 Was cleped faire damoselle Pertelote. 
 Curteis she was, discrete, and debonaire. 
 And compenable, and bare hireself so faire, 
 Sithen the day that she was sevennight old, 
 That trewelich she hath the herte in hold 
 Of Chaunteclere, loken in every lith : 
 He loved hire so, that wel was him therwith. 
 But swiche a joye it was to here hem sing. 
 Whan that the brighte sonne gan to spring, 
 In swete accord : my lefe is fare in lond. 
 
 For thilke time, as I have understond, 
 Bestes and briddes couden speke and sing. 
 
 And so befell, that in a dawening, 
 As Chaunteclere among his wives alle 
 Sate on his perche, that was in the halle, 
 And next him sate his faire Pertelote, 
 This Chaunteclere gan gronen in his throte, 
 As man that in his dreme is dretched sore. 
 And whan that Pertelote thus herd him rore. 
 She was agast, and saide, herte dere, 
 
240 • THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 What aileth you to grone in this manere ? 
 Ye ben a veray sleper, fy for shame. 
 
 And he answered and sayde thus ; madame, 
 I pray you, that ye take it not agrefe : 
 By God me mette I was in swiche mischefe 
 Right now, that yet min herte is sore afright. 
 Now God (quod he) my sweven recche aright. 
 And kepe my body out of foule prisoun. 
 
 Me mette, how that I romed up and doun 
 Within our yerde, wher as I saw a beste, 
 Was like an hound, and wold han made areste 
 Upon my body, and han had me ded. 
 His colour was betwix yelwe and red ; 
 And tipped was his tail, and both his eres 
 With black, unlike the remenant of his heres. 
 His snout was smal, with glowing eyen twey : 
 Yet for his loke almost for fere I dey : 
 This caused me my groning douteles. 
 
 Avoy ! quod she, fy on you herteles. 
 Alas ! quod she, for by that God above 
 Now han ye lost myn herte and all my love ; 
 I cannnt love a coward by my faith. 
 For certes, what so any woman saith, 
 We all desiren, if it mighte be, 
 To have an husband, hardy, wise and free. 
 And secree, and non niggard ne no fool, 
 Ne him that is agast of every tool, 
 Ne non avnntour by that God above. 
 How dorsten ye for shame say to your love, 
 That any thing might maken you aferde ? 
 Han ye no mannes herte, and han a berde? 
 Alas ! and con ye ben agast of swevenis? 
 Nothing but vanitee, got wote, in sweven is. 
 
 Svvevenes engendren of repletions. 
 And oft of fume, and of complexions. 
 Whan humours ben to habundant in a wight 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 241 
 
 Certes this dreme, which ye han met to-night ; 
 
 Cometh of the grete superfluitee 
 
 Of youre rede colera parde. 
 
 Which causeth folk to dreden in hir dremes 
 
 Of arwes, and of fire with rede lemes, 
 
 Of rede bestes, that they wol hem bite, 
 
 On conteke, and of waspes gret and lite ; 
 
 Right as the humour of melancolie 
 
 Causeth ful many a man in slepe to crie, 
 
 For fere of holies, and of beres blake. 
 
 Of elles that blake devils wol hem take. 
 
 Of other humours coud I telle also. 
 That werken many a man in slepe moch wo : 
 But I wol passe, as lightly as I can. 
 
 Lo Caton, which that was so wise a man, 
 Said he not thus ? Ne do no force of dremes. 
 
 Now, Sire, quod she, whan we flee fro the hemes, 
 For Goddes love, as take som laxatif : 
 Up peril of my soule, and of my lif, 
 I conseil you the best, I wol not lie, 
 That both of coler, and of melancolie 
 Ye purge you ; and for ye shul not tarie, 
 Though in this toun be non apotecarie, 
 I shal myself two herbes techen you, 
 That shal be for your hele, and for your prow ; 
 And in our yerde, the herbes shall I finde, 
 The which han of hir propretee by kinde 
 To purgen you benethe, and eke above 
 Sire, forgete not this for Goddes love ; 
 Ye ben ful colerike of complexion ; 
 Ware that the sonne in his ascention 
 Ne finde you not replete of humours hote ; 
 And if it do, I dare wel lay a grote. 
 That ye shul han a fever tertiane, 
 Or elles an ague, that may be your bane. 
 A day or two ye shul han digestives 
 487 
 
242 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 Of wormes, or ye take your laxatives, 
 Of laureole, centaurie, and fumetere, 
 Of elles of ellebor, that groweth there, 
 Ofcatapuce, or of gaitre-beries, 
 Or herbe ive growing in our yerd, that mery is : 
 Picke hem right as they grow, and ete hem in. 
 Beth mery, husl)ond, for your fader kin ; 
 Dredeth no dreme ; I can say you no more, 
 
 Madame, quod he, grand 77iercy of your lore. 
 But natheles, as touching dan Caton, 
 That hath of wisdome swiche a gret renoun. 
 Though that he bade no dremes for to drede, 
 By God, men moun in olde bookes rede, 
 Of many a man, more of auctoritee 
 Than ever Caton was, so mote I the, 
 That all the revers sayn of his sentence, 
 And han wel founden by experience. 
 That dremes ben significations 
 As wel of joye, as tribulations, 
 That folk enduren in this lif present. 
 Ther nedeth make of this non argument ; 
 The veray preve sheweth it indede. . . . 
 
 But thilke tale is al to long to telle. 
 And eke it is nigh day, I may not dwelle. 
 Shortly I say, as for conclusion, 
 That I shal han of this avision 
 Adversitee : and I say forthermore, 
 That I ne tell of laxatives no store, 
 For they ben venimous, I wot it well : 
 I hem deffie, I love hem never a del. 
 
 But let us speke of mirthe, and stinte all this ; 
 Madame Pertelote, so have I blis, 
 Of o thing God hath sent me large grace : 
 For whan I see the beau tee of your face, 
 Ye ben so scarlet red al)Out your eyen. 
 It maketh all my drede for to dien. 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 243 
 
 For, al so siker as In principio, 
 
 Mtilier est hominis confusio. 
 
 (Madame, the sentence of this Latine is. 
 
 Woman is mannes joye and mannes blis.) 
 
 For whan I fele a-night your softe side, 
 
 I am so fill of joye and of solas, 
 
 That I deffie bothe sweven and dreme. 
 
 And with that word he flew doun fro the beme, 
 For it was day, and eke his hennes alle ; 
 And with a chuk he gan hem for to calle, 
 For he had found a corn, lay in the yerd. 
 Real he was, he was no more aferd ; 
 He fethered Pertelote twenty time. 
 And trade hire eke as oft, er it was prime. 
 He loketh as it were a grim leoun ; 
 And on his toos he rometh up and doun. 
 Him deigned not to set his feet to ground : 
 He chukketh, whan he hath a corn yfound, 
 And to him rennen than his wives alle. 
 
 Thus real, as a prince is in his halle, 
 Leve I this Chaunteclere in his pasture ; 
 And after wol I tell his aventure. 
 
 Whan that the month in which the world began, 
 That hitghte March, whan God first maked man, 
 Was complete, and ypassed were also, 
 Sithen March ended, thrity dayes and two. 
 Befell that Chaunteclere in all his pride. 
 His seven wives walking him beside, 
 Cast up his eyen to the brighte sonne, 
 That in the signe of Taurus hadde yronne 
 Twenty degrees and on, and somwhat more : 
 He knew by kind, and by non other lore. 
 That it was prime, and crew with blisful steven. 
 The Sonne, he said, is clomben up on heven 
 Twenty degrees and on, and more ywis. 
 Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis, 
 
244 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 Herkeneth thise blisful briddes how they sing, 
 And see the freshe floures how they spring ; 
 Ful is min herte of revel, and solas. 
 
 But sodenly him fell a sorweful cas ; 
 For ever the latter ende of joye is wo: 
 God wote that worldly joye is sone ago : 
 And if a rethor coude faire endite, 
 He in a chronicle might it saufly write, 
 As for a soveraine notabilitee. 
 
 Now every wise man let him herken me : 
 This story is al so trewe, I undertake, 
 As is the book of Launcelot du lake, 
 That women holde in ful gret reverence. 
 Now wol I turne agen to my sentence. 
 
 A col fox, ful of sleigh iniquitee, 
 That in the grove had wonned yeres three, 
 By high imagination forecast, 
 The same night thurghout the hegges brast 
 Into the yerd, ther Chaunteclere the faire 
 Was wont, and eke his wives, to repaire : 
 And in a bedde of wortes stille he lay, 
 Till it was passed undern of the day, 
 Waiting his time on Chaunteclere to falle ; 
 As gladly don thise homicides alle, 
 That in await liggen to mordre men. 
 
 O false morderour, rucking in thy den ! 
 O newe Scariot, newe Genelon ! 
 O false dissimulour, o Greek Sinon, 
 That broughtest Troye al utterly to sorwe ! 
 O Chaunteclere, accursed be the morwe. 
 That thou into thy yerd flew fro the hemes : 
 Thou were ful wel y warned by thy dremes, 
 That thilke day was perilous to thee. 
 But what that God forewote most nedes be, 
 After the opinion of certain clerkes. 
 Witnesse on him, that any parfit clerk is, 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 245 
 
 That in scole is gret altercation 
 
 In this matere, and gret disputison, 
 
 And hath ben of an hundred thousand men. 
 
 But I ne cannot boult it to the bren, 
 
 As can the holy doctour Augustin, 
 
 Or Boece, or the bishop Bradwardin, 
 
 Whether that Goddes worthy foreweting 
 
 Streineth me nedely for to don a thing, 
 
 (Nedely clepe I simple necessitee) 
 
 Or elles if free chois be granted me 
 
 To do that same thing, or do it nought, 
 
 Though God forewot it, or that it was wrought ; 
 
 Or if his weting streineth never a del, 
 
 But by necessitee condicionel. 
 
 I woll not han to don of swiche matere ; 
 
 My tale is of a cok, as ye may here, 
 
 That took his conseil of his wif with sorwe 
 
 To walken in the yerd upon the morwe, 
 
 That he had met the dreme, as I you told. 
 
 Womennes conseils ben ful often cold ; 
 
 Womannes conseil brought us first to wo, 
 
 And made Adam fro paradis to go, 
 
 Ther as he was ful mery, and wel at ese. 
 
 But for I n'ot, to whom I might displese, 
 
 If I conseil of women wolde blame, 
 
 Passe over, for I said it in my game. 
 
 Rede auctours, wher they trete of swiche matere, 
 
 And what they sayn of women ye mown here. 
 
 Thise ben the Cokkes wordes, and not mine ; 
 
 I can non harme of no woman devine. 
 
 Faire in the sond, to bath hire merily, 
 Lith Pertelote, and all hire susters by, 
 Agein the sonne, and Chaunteclere so free 
 Sang merier than the Mermaid in the see, 
 For Phisiologus sayth sikerly, 
 IIow that they singen wel and merily. 
 
246 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 And so befell that as he cast his eye 
 Among the wortes on a boterflie, 
 He was ware of this fox that lay ful low. 
 Nothing ne list him thanne for to crow, 
 But cried anon cok, cok, and up he sterte, 
 As man that was affraied in his herte. 
 For naturelly a beest desireth flee 
 Fro his contrarie, if he may it see, 
 Though he never erst had seen it with his eye. 
 
 This Chaunteclere, when he gan him espie, 
 He wold han fled, but that the fox anon 
 Said ; gentil sire, alas ! what wol ye don ? 
 Be ye affraid of me that am your frend ? 
 Now certes, I were werse than any fend, 
 If I to you wold harme or vilanie. 
 I n'am not come your conseil to espie. 
 But trewely the cause of my coming 
 Was only for to herken how ye sing : 
 For trewely ye han as mery a steven, 
 As any angel hath, that is in heven ; 
 Therwith ye hanof musike more feling, 
 Than had Boece, or any that can sing. 
 My lord your fader (God his soule blesse) 
 And eke your moder of hire gentillesse 
 Han in myn housyben, to my gret ese : 
 And certes, sire, hil lain wold I you plese. 
 But for men spcke of singing, I wol sey, 
 So mote I brouken wel min eyen twey, 
 Save you, ne herd I never man so sing. 
 As did your fader in the morwening. 
 Certes it was of herte all that he song. 
 And for to make his vois the more strong, 
 He wold so peine him, that with both his eyen 
 He muste winke, so loud he wolde crien. 
 And stonden on his tiptoon therwithal. 
 And stretchen forth his necke long and smal 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 247 
 
 And eke he was of swiche discretion, 
 That ther n'as no man in no region, 
 That him in song or wisdom mighte passe. 
 I have wel red in dan Burnel the asse 
 Among his vers, how that ther was a cok, 
 That, for a preestes sone yave him a knok 
 Upon his leg, while he was yonge and nice, 
 He made him for to lese his benefice. 
 But certain ther is no comparison 
 Betwix the wisdom and discretion 
 Of youre fader, and his subtilitee. 
 Now singeth, sire, for Seinte Charitee, 
 Let see, can ye your fader contrefete ? 
 
 This Chaunteclere his winges gan to bete, 
 As man that coud not his treson espie,- 
 So was he ravished with his flaterie 
 
 Alas ! ye lordes, many a false flatour 
 Is in your court, and many a losengeour. 
 That pleseth you wel more, by my faith, 
 Than he that sothfastnesse unto you saith. 
 Redeth Ecclesiast of flaterie, 
 Beth ware, ye lordes, of hire trecherie. 
 
 This Chaunteclere stood high upon his toos. 
 Stretching his necke, and held his eyen cloos, 
 And gan to crowen loude for the nones : 
 And dan Russel the fox stert up at ones. 
 And by the gargat hente Chaunteclere, 
 And on his back toward the wood him berc. 
 For yet ne was ther no man that him sued. 
 
 O destinee, that maist not ben eschued ! 
 Alas, that Chaunteclere flew fro the hemes ! 
 Alas, his wif ne raughte not of dremes ! 
 And on a Friday fell all this meschance. 
 
 O Venus, that art goddesse of plesance, 
 Sin that thy servant was this Chaunteclere, 
 And in thy service did all his powerc, 
 
248 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 More for delit, than world to multiplie, 
 Why wolt thou suffre him on thy day to die ? 
 
 O Gaufride, dere maister soverain, 
 That, whan thy worthy king Richard was slain 
 With shot, complainedest his deth so sore, 
 Why ne had I now thy science and thy lore, 
 The Friday for to chiden, as did ye ? 
 (For on a Friday sothly slain was he) 
 That wold I shew you how that I coud plaine, 
 For Chauntecleres drede, and for his paine. 
 
 Certes swiche cry, ne lamentation 
 N'as never of ladies made, whan Ilion 
 Was wonne, and Pirrus with his streite swerd 
 Whan he had hent king Priam by the herd, 
 And slain him, (as saith us Ejteidos) 
 As maden all the hennes in the cloos. 
 Whan they had seen of Chaunteclere the sight. 
 But soverainly dame Pertelote shright, 
 Ful louder than did Hasdruballes wif. 
 Whan that hire husbond hadde ylost his lif, 
 And that the Romaines hadden brent Cartage, 
 She was so ful of turment and of rage, 
 That wilfully into the fire she sterte, 
 And brent hireselven with a stedfast herte. 
 
 O woful hennes, right so criden ye, 
 As, whan that Nero brente the citee 
 Of Rome, cried the senatoures wives, 
 For that hir husbonds losten alle hir lives ; 
 Wilhouten gilt this Nero hath hem slain. 
 
 Now wol I turne unto my tale again. 
 The sely widewe, and hire doughtren two, 
 Herden thise hennes crie and maken wo, 
 And out at the dores sterten they anon, 
 And saw the fox toward the wode is gon, 
 And bare upon his back the cok away : 
 They crieden, out ! harow and wala wa ! 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 249 
 
 A ha the fox ! and after him they ran, 
 
 And eke with staves many another man ; 
 
 Ran Colle our dogge, and Talbot, and Gerlond, 
 
 And Malkin, with hire distaf in hire hond ; 
 
 Ran cow and calf, and eke the veray hogges 
 
 So fered were for berking of the dogges, 
 
 And shouting of the men and women eke. 
 
 They ronnen so, hem thought hir hertes breke. 
 
 They yelleden as fendes don in helle : 
 
 The dokes crieden as men wold hem quelle : 
 
 The gees for fere flewen over the trees, 
 
 Out of the hive came the swarme of bees, 
 
 So hidous was the noise, a benedicite I 
 
 Certes he Jakke Straw, and his meinie, 
 
 Ne maden never shoutes half so shrille, 
 
 Whan that they wolden any Fleming kille. 
 
 As thilke day was made upon the fox 
 
 Of bras they broughten beemes and of box. 
 
 Of horn and bone, in which they blew and 
 
 pouped, 
 And therwithal they shriked and they houped ; 
 I semed, as that the heven shulde falle. 
 
 Now, goode men, I pray you herkeneth alle ; 
 Lo, how fortune turneth sodenly 
 The hope and pride eke of hire enemy. 
 This cok that lay upon the foxes bake, 
 In all his drede, unto the fox he spake. 
 And sayde ; sire, if that I were as ye, 
 Yet wolde I sayn, (as wisly God helpe me) 
 Turneth agein, ye proude cherles alle ; 
 A veray pestilence upon you falle. 
 Now am I come unto the wodes side, 
 Maugre your hed, the cok shal here abide ; 
 I wol him ete in faith, and that anon. 
 
 The fox answered, in faith it shal be don : 
 And as he spake the word, al sodenly 
 
250 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 The cok brake from his mouth deliverly, 
 And high upon a tree he flew anon. 
 
 And whan the fox saw that the cok was gon, 
 Alas ! quod he, o Chaunteclere, alas ! 
 I have (quod he) ydon to you trespas, 
 In as moche as I maked you aferd, 
 Whan I you hente, and brought out of your yerJ ; 
 But, sire, I did it in no wikke entente : 
 Come doun, and I shal tell you what I mente. 
 I shal say sothe to you, God helpe me so. 
 
 Nay than, quod he, I shrewe us bothc two. 
 And first I shrewe myself, bothe blood and bones, 
 If thou begile me oftener than ones. 
 Thou shalt no more thurgh thy flaterie 
 Do me to sing and winken with myn eye. 
 For he that winketh, whan he shulde see, 
 Al wilfully, God let him never the. 
 
 Nay, quod the fox, but God yeve him meschance, 
 That is so indiscrete of governance, 
 That jangleth, whan that he shuld hold his pees. 
 
 Lo, which it is for to be reccheles 
 And negligent, and trust on flaterie. 
 But ye that holden this tale a folic 
 As of a fox, or of a cok, or hen, 
 Taketh the moralitee therof, good men. 
 For Seint Poule sayth, That all that writen is, 
 To our doctrine it is ywritten ywis. 
 Taketh the fruit, and let the chaf be stille. 
 
 Now, goode God, if that it be thy wille. 
 As sayth my Lord, so make us all good men ; 
 And bring us to thy highe blisse. Amen. 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 251 
 
 THE SECOND NONNES TALE. 
 
 The ministre and the norice unto vices, 
 
 Which that men clepe in English idelnesse, 
 
 That porter at the gate is of delices, 
 
 To eschiien, and by hire contrary hire oppresse, 
 
 That is to sain, by leful besinesse, 
 
 Wei oughte we to don al our entente. 
 
 Lest that the fend thurgh idelnesse us hente. 
 
 For he that with his thousand cordes slie 
 Continuelly us waiteth to beclappe, 
 Whan he may man in idelnesse espie, 
 He can so lightly cacche him in his trappe. 
 Til that a man be hent right by the lappe, 
 He n'is not ware the fend hath him in bond : 
 Wei ought us werche, and idlenesse withstond. 
 
 And though men dradden never for to die, 
 Yet see men wel by reson dou teles, 
 That idelnesse is rote of slogardie, 
 Of which ther never cometh no good encrees, 
 And see that slouthe holdeth hem in a lees, 
 Only to slepe, and for to ete and drinke, 
 And to devouren all that other swinke. 
 
 And for to put us from swiche idelnesse, 
 That cause is of so gret confusion, 
 I have here don my feithful besinesse 
 After the Legende in translation 
 Right of thy glorious lif and passion. 
 Thou with thy gerlond, wrought of rose and lilie, 
 Thee mene I, maid and martir Seinte Cecilia. 
 
252 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 And thou, that arte floure of virgines all. 
 Of whom that Bernard list so wel to write, 
 To thee at my beginning first I call, 
 Thou comfort of us wretches, do me endite 
 Thy maidens deth, that wan thurgh hire merite 
 The eternal lif, and over the fend victorie, 
 As man may after reden in hire storie. 
 
 Thou maide and mother, doughter of thy son, 
 Thou well of mercy, sinful soules cure, 
 In whom that God of bountee chees to won ; 
 Thou humble and high over every creature. 
 Thou nobledest so fer forth our nature, 
 That no desdaine the maker had of kinde 
 His son in blood and flesh to clothe and winde. 
 
 Within the cloystre blisful of thy sides, 
 Toke mannes shape the eternal love and pees, 
 That of the trine compas Lord and gide is. 
 Whom erthe, and see, and heven out of relees 
 Ay herien ; and thou, virgine wemmeles, 
 Bare of thy body (and dweltest maiden pure) 
 The creatour of every creature. 
 
 Assembled is in thee magnificence 
 With mercy, goodnesse, and with swiche pitee, 
 That thou, that art the sonne of excellence, 
 Not only helpest hem that praien thee, 
 But oftentime of thy benignitee 
 Ful freely, or that men thin heipe beseche, 
 Thou goest beforne, and art hir lives leche. 
 
 Now helpe, thou meke and blisful faire maidc; 
 Me flemed wretch, in this desert of galle ; 
 Thinke on the woman Cananee, that saide 
 That whelpes eten som of the cromes alle 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 253 
 
 That from hir Lordes table ben yfalle ; 
 And though that I, unworthy sone of Eve, 
 Be sinful, yet accepteth my beleve. 
 
 And for that feith is ded withouten werkes, 
 So for to werken yeve me wit and space. 
 That I be quit from thennes that most derke is ; 
 O thou, that art so faire and ful of grace, 
 Be thou min advocat in that high place, 
 Ther as withouten ende is songe Osanne, 
 Thou Cristes mother, doughter dere of Anne. 
 
 And of thy light my soule in prison light, 
 That troubled is by the contagion 
 Of my body, and also by the wight 
 Of erthly lust, and false affection : 
 O haven of refute, o salvation 
 Of hem that ben in sorwe and in distresse, 
 Now help, for to my werk I wol me dresse. 
 
 Yet pray I you that reden that I write, 
 Foryeve me, that I do no diligence 
 This ilke storie subtilly to endite. 
 For both have I the wordes and sentence 
 Of him, that at the seintes reverence 
 The storie wrote, and folowed hire legende. 
 And pray you that ye wol my werk amende. 
 
 First wol I you the name of Seinte Cecilie 
 Expoune, as men may in hire storie see : 
 It is to sayn in English, Hevens lilie. 
 For pure chastnesse of virginitee. 
 Or for she whitnesse had of honestee, 
 And grene of conscience, and of good fame 
 The swote savour, Lilie was hire name. 
 
254 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 Or Cecilie is to sayn the way to blinde, 
 For she ensample was by good teching ; 
 Or elles Cecilie, as I writen finde. 
 Is joined by a maner conjoining 
 Of heven and Lia, and here in figuring 
 The heven is set for thought of holinesse, 
 And Lia, for her lasting besinesse. 
 
 Cecilie may eke be sayd in this manere, 
 Wanting of blindnesse, for hire grete light 
 Of sapience, and for hire thewes clere. 
 Or elles lo, this maidens name bright 
 Of heven or Leos cometh, for which by right 
 Men might hire wel the heven of peple calle, 
 Ensample of good and wise werkes alle : 
 
 For Leos peple in English is to say ; 
 And right as men may in the heven see . 
 The Sonne and mone, and sterres every way, 
 Right so men gostly, in this maiden free 
 Sawen of faith the magnanimitee, 
 And eke the clerenesse hole of sapience, 
 And sondry werkes, bright of excellence. 
 
 And right so as thise Philosophres write, 
 That heven is swift and round, and eke brenning, 
 Right so was faire Cecilie the white 
 Ful swift and besy in every good werking, 
 And round and hole in good persevering, 
 And brenning ever in charitee ful bright : 
 Now have I you declared what she hight. 
 
 This maiden bright Cecile, as hire lif saith, 
 Was come of Romaines and of noble kind, 
 And from hire cradle fostred in the faith 
 Of Crist, and bare his Gospel in hire mind : 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 255 
 
 She never cesed, as I writen find. 
 
 Of hire prayere, and God to love and drede, 
 
 Beseching him to kepe hire maidenhede. 
 
 And whan this maiden shuld until a man 
 Ywedded be, that was ful yonge of age, 
 Which that ycleped was Valerian, 
 And day was comen of hire marriage, 
 She ful devout and humble in hire corage, 
 Under hire robe of gold, that sat ful faire, 
 Had next hire flesh yclad hire in an haire. 
 
 And while that the organs maden melodie, 
 To God alone thus in hire hert song she ; 
 O Lord, my soule and eke my body gie 
 Unwemmed, lest that I confounded be. 
 And for his love that died upon the tree, 
 Every second or thridde day she fast, 
 Ay bidding in hire orisons ful fast. 
 
 The night came, and to bedde must she gon 
 With hire husbond, as it is the manere, 
 And prively she said to him anon ; 
 
 swete and wel beloved spouse dere, 
 Ther is a conseil, and ye wol it here, 
 Which that right fayn I wold unto you saie, 
 So that ye swere, ye wol it not bewraie. 
 
 Valerian gan fast unto hire swere. 
 That for no cas, ne thing that mighte be, 
 He shulde never to non bewraien here ; 
 And than at erst thus to hini saide she ; 
 
 1 have an Angel which that lovelh me. 
 That with gret love, wher so I wake or slepe, 
 Is redy ay my body for to kepe ; 
 
256 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 And if that he may felen out of drede, 
 That ye me touch or love in vilanie, 
 He right anon wol sleen you with the dede, 
 And in your youthe thus ye shulden die. 
 And if that ye in clene love me gie, 
 He wol you love as me, for your clenenesse. 
 And shew to you his joye and his brightnesse. 
 
 This Valerian, corrected as God wold, 
 Answerd again, if I shal trusten thee, 
 Let me that angel seen, and him behold ; 
 And if that it a veray angel be, 
 Than wol I don as thou hast prayed me ; 
 And if thou love another man, forsothe 
 Right with this swerd than wol I slee you bothe 
 
 Cecile answerd anon right in this wise ; 
 If that you list, the angel shul ye see, 
 So that ye trowe on Crist, and you baptise ; 
 Goth forth to Via Apia (quod she) 
 That fro this toun ne stant but miles three, 
 And to the poure folkes that ther dwellen 
 Say hem right thus, as that I shal you tellen. 
 
 Tell hem, that I Cecile you to hem sent 
 To shewen you the good Urban the old. 
 For secree nedes, and for good entent ; 
 And whan that ye Seint Urban han behold. 
 Tell him the wordes whiche I to you told ; 
 And whan that he hath purged you fro sinnCj 
 Than shal ye seen that angel er ye twinne. 
 
 Valerian is to the place gon, 
 And right as he was taught by hire lerning, 
 He fond this holy old Url:)an anon 
 Among the seintes buriels louting : 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 257 
 
 And he anon withouten tarying 
 
 Did his message, and whan that he it tolde. 
 
 Urban for joye his hondes gan upholde. 
 
 The teres from his eyen let he falle ; 
 Ahnighty Lord, o Jesu Crist, quod he, 
 Sower of chast conseil, hierde of us alle, 
 The fruit of thilke seed of chastitee 
 That thou hast sow in Cecile, take to thee ; 
 Lo, Hke a besy bee withouten gile 
 Thee serveth ay thin owen thral Cecile. 
 
 For thilke spouse, that she toke but newe 
 Ful like a fiers leon, she sendeth here 
 As meke as ever was any lambe to ewe. 
 And with that word anon ther gan apere 
 An old man, clad in white clothes clere, 
 That had a book with lettres of gold in bond, 
 And gan beforne Valerian to stond. 
 
 Valerian, as ded, fell doun for drede, 
 Whan he him saw ; and he up hent him tho, 
 And on his book right thus he gan to rede ; 
 On Lord, on faith, on God withouten mo, 
 On Cristendom, and fader of all also 
 Aboven all, and over all every wher : 
 Thise wordes all with gold ywriten were. 
 
 Whan this was red, than said this olde man, 
 I>evest thou this thing or no ? say ye or nay. 
 I leve all this thing, quod Valerian, 
 For sother thing than this, I dare wel say. 
 Under the heven no wight thinken may. 
 Tho vanished the olde man, he n'iste wher, 
 And pope Urban him christened right ther. 
 
258 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 Valerian goth home, and fint Cecilie 
 Within his chambre with an angel stonde : 
 This angel had of roses and of lilie 
 Corones two, the which he bare in honde, 
 And first to Cecile, as I understonde, 
 He yaf that on, and after gan he take 
 That other to Valerian hire make. 
 
 With body clene, and with unwemmed thought 
 Kepeth ay wel thise corones two, quod he, 
 From paradis to you I have hem brought, 
 Ne never mo ne shul they roten be, 
 Ne lese hir swete savour, trusteth me, 
 Ne never wight shal seen hem with his eye, 
 But he be chaste, and hate vilanie. 
 
 And thou. Valerian, for thou so sone 
 Assentedest to good conseil, also 
 Say what thee list, and thou shalt han thy bone, 
 I have a brother, quod Valerian tho. 
 That in this world I love no man so, 
 I pray you that my brother may have grace 
 To know the trouth, as I do in this place. 
 
 The angel sayd ; God liketh thy request, 
 And bothe with the pal me of martirdome 
 Ye shullen come unto his blisful rest. 
 And with that word, Tiburce his brother come. 
 And whan that he the savour undernome, 
 Which that the roses and the lilies cast. 
 Within his herte he gan to wonder fast, 
 
 And said ; I wonder this time of the yere 
 Whennes that swete savour cometh so 
 Of roses and lilies, that I smelle here ; 
 For though I had hem in min hondes two, 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 259 
 
 The savour might in me no deper go : 
 The swete smel, that in min herte I find, 
 Hath changed me all in another kind. 
 
 Valerian saide ; two corones han we 
 Snow-white and rose-red, that shinen clere, 
 Which that thin eyen han no might to see : 
 And as thou smellest hem thurgh my praiere, 
 So shalt thou seen hem, leve brother dere, 
 If it so be thou wolt withouten slouthe 
 Beleve aright, and know the veray trouthe. 
 
 Tiburce answered ; saiest thou this to me 
 In sothnesse, or in dreme herken I this ? 
 In dremes, quod Valerian, han we be 
 Unto this time, brother min, ywis : 
 But now at erst in trouthe our dwelling is. 
 How wost thou this, quod Tiburce, in what wise? 
 Quod Valerian ; that shal I thee devise. 
 
 The angel of God hath me the trouth ytaught, 
 Which thou shalt seen, if that thou wilt reney 
 The idoles, and be clene, and elles naught. 
 [And of the miracle of thise corones twey 
 Seint Ambrose in his preface list to sey ; 
 Solempnely this noble doctour dere 
 Commendeth it, and saith in this manere. 
 
 The palme of martirdome for to receive, 
 Seinte Cecilie, fulfilled of Goddes yeft, 
 The world and eke hire chambre gan she weive ; 
 Witnesse Tiljurces and Ceciles shrift, 
 To which God of his bountee wolde shift 
 Corones two, of floures wel smelling. 
 And made his angel hem the corones bring. 
 
26o THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 The maid hath brought thise men to blisse above ; 
 The world hath wist what it is worth certain 
 Devotion of chastitee to love.] 
 Tho shewed him Cecile all open and plain, 
 That all idoles n'is but a thing in vain, 
 For they ben dombe, and therto they ben deve, 
 And charged him his idoles for to leve. 
 
 Who so that troweth not this, a best he is. 
 Quod this Tiburce, if that I shal not lie. 
 And she gan kisse his brest whan she herd this, 
 And was ful glad he coude trouth espie : 
 This day I take thee for min allie, 
 Saide this blisful faire maiden dere ; 
 And after that she said as ye may here. 
 
 I.O, right so as the love of Crist (quod she) 
 Made me thy brothers wif, right in that wise 
 Anon for mine allie here take I thee, 
 Sithen that thou wolt thin idoles despise. 
 Goth with thy brother now and thee baptise, 
 And make thee clene, so that thou maist behold 
 The angels face, of which thy brother told. 
 
 Tiburce answered, and saide ; brother dere. 
 First tell me whither I shal, and to what man. 
 To whom ? quod he ; come forth with good chere, 
 I wol thee lede unto the pope Urban. 
 To Urban ? brother min Valerian, 
 Quod tho Tiburce, wilt thou me thider lede? 
 Me thinketh that it were a wonder dede. 
 
 Ne menest thou not Urban (quod he tho) 
 That is so often damned to be ded, 
 And woneth in halkes alway to and fro, 
 And dare not ones putten forth his hed ? 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 261 
 
 Men shuld him brennen in a fire so red, 
 
 If he were found, or that men might him spie, 
 
 And we also, to here him compagnie. 
 
 And while we seken thilke divinitee. 
 That is yhid in heven prively, 
 Algate ybrent in this world shuld we be. 
 To whom Cecile answered boldely ; 
 Men mighten dreden wel and skilfully 
 This lif to lese, min owen dere brother, 
 If this were living only and non other. 
 
 But ther is better lif in other place, 
 That never shal be lost, ne drede thee nought : 
 Which Goddes sone us tolde thurgh his grace, 
 That fadres sone which alle thinges wrought ; 
 And all that wrought is with a skilful thought, 
 The gost, that from the fader gan procede, 
 Hath souled hem withouten any drede. 
 
 By word and by miracle he Goddes sone, 
 Whan he was in this world, d.clared here, 
 That ther is other lif ther men may wone. 
 To whom answerd Tiburce ; o suster dere, 
 Ne saidest thou right now in this manere, 
 Ther n'as but o God, lord in sothfastnesse. 
 And now of three how mayst thou here witnesse ? 
 
 That shall I tel, quod she, or that I go. 
 Right as a man hath sapiences three, 
 Memorie, engine, and intellect also. 
 So in o being of divinitee 
 Three persones mow en ther righte wel be. 
 Tho gan she him ful besily to preche 
 Of Cristes sonde, and of his peines teche, 
 
262 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 And many pointes of his passion ; 
 How Goddes sone in this world was withhold 
 To don mankinde pleine remission, 
 That was ybound in sinne and cares cold. 
 All this thing she unto Tiburce told, 
 And after this Tiburce in good entent, 
 With Valerian to pope Urban he went, 
 
 That thanked God, and with glad herte and light 
 He cristened him, and made him in that place 
 Parfite in his lerning and Goddes knight. 
 And after this Tiburce gat swiche grace. 
 That every day he saw in time and space 
 The angel of God, and every maner bone 
 That he God axed, it was sped ful sone. 
 
 It were ful hard by ordre for to sain 
 How many wonders Jesus for hem wrought. 
 But at the last, .to tellen short and plain, 
 The sergeaunts of the toun of Rome hem sought, 
 And hem before Almache the prefect brought. 
 Which hem apposed, and knew all hire entent. 
 And to the image of Jupiter hem sent ; 
 
 And said ; who so wol nought do sacrifice, 
 Swap of his hed, this is my sentence here. 
 Anon thise martyrs, that I you devise. 
 On Maximus, that was an ofhcere 
 Of the prefectes, and his corniculere. 
 Hem hent, and whan he forth the seintes lad, 
 Himself he wept for pitee that he had. 
 
 Whan Maximus had herd the seintes lore, 
 He gate him of the turmentoures leve, 
 And lad hem to his hous withouten more ; 
 And with hir preching, or that it were eve, 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 263 
 
 They j^^onnen fro the turmentours to reve, 
 And fro Maxime, and fro his folk eche on 
 The false faith, to trowe in God alone. 
 
 Cecilie came, whan it was waxen night. 
 With preestes, that hem cristened all yfere ; 
 And afterward, whan day was waxen light, 
 Cecilie hem said with a ful stedfast chere ; 
 Now, Cristes owen knightes leve and dere. 
 Caste all away the werkes of derkenesse, 
 And armeth you in armes of brightnesse. 
 
 Ye han forsoth ydon a gret bataille ; 
 Your cours is don, your faith han ye conserved ; 
 Goth to the croune of lif that may not faille ; 
 The rightful juge which that ye han served, 
 Shal yeve it you, as ye han it deserved. 
 And whan this thing was said, as I devise, 
 Men ledde hem forth to don the sacrifice. 
 
 But whan they weren to the place ybrought. 
 To tellen shortly the conclusioun, 
 They n'olde encense, ne sacrifice right nought, 
 But on hir knees they setten hem adoun, 
 With humble herte and sad devotioun, 
 And losten bothe hir hedes in the place ; 
 Hir soules wenten to the king of grace. 
 
 This Maximus, that saw this thing betide. 
 With pitous teres told it anon right, 
 That he hir soules saw to heven glide 
 With angels, ful of clerenesse and of light ; 
 And with his word converted many a wight. 
 For which Almachius did him to- bete 
 With whip of led, til he his lif gan lete. 
 
264 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 Cecile him toke, and buried him anon - 
 By Tiburce and Valerian softely, 
 Within hir burying place, under the ston. 
 And after this Almachius hastily 
 Bad his ministres fetchen openly 
 Cecile, so that she might in his presence 
 Don sacrifice, and Jupiter encense. 
 
 But they converted at hire wise lore 
 Wepten ful sore, and yaven ful credence 
 Unto hire word, and crieden more and more ; 
 Crist, Goddes sone, withouten difference 
 Is veray God, this is all our sentence, 
 That hath so good a servant him to serve : 
 Thus with o vois we trowen though we sterve. 
 
 Almachius, that herd of this dping. 
 Bad fetchen Cecile, that he might hire see : 
 And alderfirst, lo, this was his axing ; 
 What maner woman arte thou?. quod he. 
 I am a gentilwoman borne, quod she. 
 I axe thee, quod he, though it thee greve, 
 Of thy religion and of thy beleve. 
 
 Why than began your question folily, 
 Quod she, that woldest two answers conclude 
 In o demand ? ye axen lewedly. 
 Almache answerd to that similitude, 
 Of whennes cometh thin answering so rude? 
 Of whennes? (quod she, whan that she was freined) 
 Of conscience, and of good faith unfeined. 
 
 Almachius said ; ne takest thou non hede 
 Of my power? and she him answerd this ; 
 Your might (quod she) ful lilcl is to drede ; 
 For every mortal maniies power n'is 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 265 
 
 But like a bladder ful of wind ywis : 
 For with a nedles point, whan it is blow, 
 May all the bost of it be laid ful low. 
 
 Ful wrongfully begonnest thou, (quod he) 
 And yet in wrong is al thy perseverance : 
 Wost thou not how our mighty princes free 
 Have thus commanded and made ordinance, 
 That every cristen wight shal han penance 
 But if that he his Cristendome withseye. 
 And gon al quite, if he wol it reneye ? 
 
 Your princes erren, as your nobley doth, 
 Quod tho Cecile, and with a wood sentence 
 Ye make us gilty, and it is not soth : 
 For ye that knowen wel our innocence, 
 For as moch as we don ay reverence 
 To Crist, and for we here a Cristen name, 
 Ye put on us a crime and eke a blame. 
 
 But we that knowen thilke name so 
 For vertuous, we may it not withseye. 
 Almache answered ; chese on of thise two, 
 Do sacrifice, or Cristendom reneye. 
 That thou mow now escapen by that wey. 
 At which this holy bli&ful fayre maid 
 Gan for to laughe, and to the juge said : 
 
 O juge confuse in thy nicetee, 
 Woldest thou that I reneye innocence ? 
 To maken me a wicked wight (quod she) 
 Lo, he dissimuleth here in audience, 
 He stareth and wodeth in his advertence. 
 To whom Almachius said ; Unsely wretch, 
 Ne wost thou not how far my might may stretch ? 
 
266 THE CANTERBURY TALES, 
 
 Han not our mighty princes to me yeven 
 Ya bothe power and eke auctoritee 
 To maken folk to dien or to liven ? 
 Why spekest thou so proudly than to me ? 
 I ne speke nought but stedfastly. quod she, 
 Not proudely, for I say, as for my side, 
 We haten dedly thilke vice of pride. 
 
 And if thou drede not a soth for to here, 
 Than wol I shewe al openly by right. 
 That thou hast made a ful gret lesing here. 
 Thou saist, thy princes han thee yeven might 
 Both for to slee and for to quiken a wight. 
 Thou that ne maist but only lif bereve, 
 Thou hast non other power ne no leve. 
 
 But thou maist sayn, thy princes han thee maked 
 Ministre of deth ; for if thou speke of mo, 
 Thou liest ; for thy power is ful naked. 
 Do way thy boldnesse, said Almachius tho, 
 And sacrifice to our goddes, er thou go. 
 I recke not what wrong that thou me profTre, 
 For I can suffre it as a philosophre. 
 
 But thilke wronges may I not endure, 
 That thou spekest of our goddes here, quod he. 
 Cecile answerd ; o nice creature. 
 Thou saidest no word sin thou spake to me, 
 That I ne knew therwith thy nicetee, 
 And that thou were in every maner wise 
 A lewed officer, a vain justice. 
 
 Ther lacketh nothing to thin utter eyen 
 That thou n'art blind ; for thing that we seen alle 
 That is a ston, that men may wel espien, 
 That ilke ston a god thou wolt it calle. 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 26; 
 
 I rede thee let thin hond upon it falle, 
 And tast it wel, and ston thou shalt it find, 
 Sin that thou seest not with thin eyen blind. 
 
 It is a shame that the peple shal 
 So scornen thee, and laugh at thy folic : 
 For comunly men wot it wel over al, 
 That mighty God is in his hevens hie ; 
 And thise images, wel maist thou espie, 
 To thee ne to hemself may not profite. 
 For in effect they be not worth a mile. 
 
 Thise and swiche other wordes saide she. 
 And he wex wroth, and bade men shuld hire lede 
 Home til hire house, and in hire hous (quod he) 
 Brenne hire right in a bath, with flames rede. 
 And as he bade, right so was don the dede ; 
 For in a bathe they gonne hire faste shetten. 
 And night and day grct fire they under betten. 
 
 The longe night, and eke a day also, 
 For all the fire, and eke the bathes hete, 
 She sate al cold, and felt of it no wo. 
 It made hire not a drope for to swete : 
 But in that bath hire lif she muste lete. 
 For he Almache, with a ful wicke entent, 
 To sleen hire in the bath his sonde sent. 
 
 Three strokes in the nekke he smote hire the 
 The turmentour, but for no maner chance 
 He mighte not smite all hire nekke atwo : 
 And for ther was that time an ordinance 
 That no man shulde don man swiche penance, 
 The fourthe stroke to smiten, soft or sore. 
 This turmentour ne dorste do not more j 
 
268 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 But half ded, with hire nekke ycorven ther 
 He left hire lie, and on his way is went. 
 The cristen folk, which that about hire were, 
 With shetes han the blood ful faire yhent : 
 Three dayes lived she in this turment, 
 And never cesed hem the faith to teche, 
 That she had fostred hem, she gan to preche, 
 
 And hem she yaf hire membles and hire thing. 
 And to the pope Urban betoke hem tho, 
 And said ; I axed this of heven king, 
 To have respit three dayes and no mo. 
 To recommend to you, or that I go, 
 Thise soules lo, and that I might do werche 
 Here of min hous perpetuellich a cherche. 
 
 Seint Urban, with his dekenes prively 
 The body fette, and buried it by night 
 Among his other seintes honestly : 
 Hire hous the cherche of seinte Cecile hight 
 Seint Urban halowed it, as he wel might, 
 In which unto this day in noble wise 
 Men don to Crist and to his seinte servise. 
 
 THE CHANONES YEMANNES PROLOGUE. 
 
 Whan that tolde was the lif of seinte Cecile, 
 
 Er we had ridden fully five mile, 
 
 At Boughton under blee us gan atake 
 
 A man, that clothed was in clothes blake, 
 
 And undernethe he wered a white surplis. 
 
 His hakeney, which that was al pumelee gris, 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 269 
 
 So" swatte, that it wonder was to see, 
 It semed as he had priked miles three. 
 The horse eke that his yeman rode upon, 
 So swatte, that unnethes might he gon. 
 About the peytrel stood the fome ful hie, 
 He was of fome as flecked as a pie. 
 A male tweifold on his croper lay, 
 It semed that he caried litel array, 
 Al light for sommer rode this worthy man. 
 And in my herte wondren I began 
 What that he was, til that I understode, 
 How that his cloke was sowed to his hode ; 
 For which whan I had long avised me, 
 I demed him some chanon for to be. 
 His hat heng at his back doun by a las. 
 For he had ridden more than trot or pas, 
 He had ay priked like as he were wode. 
 A clote-lefe he had laid under his hode 
 For swete, and for to kepe his hed fro hete. 
 But it was joye for to seen him swete ; 
 His forehed dropped, as a stillatorie 
 Were ful of plantaine or of paritorie. 
 And whan that he was come, he gan to crie, 
 God save (quod he) this joly compagnie. 
 Fast have I priked (quod he) for your sake. 
 Because that I wolde you atake. 
 To riden in this mery compagnie. 
 
 His yeman was eke ful of curtesie, 
 And saide ; Sires, now in the morwe tide 
 Out of your hostelrie I saw you ride, 
 And warned here my lord and soverain. 
 Which that to riden with you is ful fain. 
 For his disport ; he loveth daliance. 
 Frend, for thy warning God yeve thee good chance, 
 Than said our hoste ; certain it wolde seme 
 Thy lord were wise, and so I may wel deme ; 
 
270 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 He is ful joconde also dare I leye : 
 Can he ought tell a mery tale or tweie, 
 With which he gladen may this compagnie ? 
 
 Who, sire ? my lord ? Ye, sire, withouten lie. 
 He can of mirth and eke of jolitee 
 Not but ynough ; also, sire, trusteth me, 
 And ye him knew al so wel as do I, 
 Ye wolden wondre how wel and craftily 
 He coude werke, and that in sondry wise. 
 He hath take on him many a gret emprise. 
 Which were ful harde for any that is here 
 To bring about, but they of him it lore. 
 As homely as he rideth amonges you. 
 If ye him knew, it wold be for your prow : 
 Ye wolden not forgon his acquaintance 
 For mochel good, I dare lay in balance 
 All that I have in my possession. 
 He is a man of high discression, 
 I warne you wel, he is a passing man. 
 
 Wel, quod our hoste, I pray thee tell me than, 
 Is he a clerk, or non ? tell what he is. 
 
 Nay, he is greter than a clerk ywis, 
 Saide this yeman, and in wordes fewe, 
 Hoste, of his craft somwhat I wol you shewe. 
 
 I say, my lord can swiche a subtiltee, 
 (But all his craft ye moun not wete of me, 
 And somwhat help I yet to his werking) 
 That all the ground on which we ben riding 
 Till that we come to Canterbury toun, 
 He coud al clene turnen up so doun. 
 And pave it all of silver and of gold. 
 
 And whan this yeman had this tale ytolde 
 Unto our hoste, he said ; benedicitey 
 This thing is wonder mervaillous to me, 
 Sin that thy lord is of so high prudence, 
 Because of which men shulde him reverence, 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES. 271 
 
 That of his worship rekketh he so lite ; 
 
 His overest sloppe it is not worth a mite 
 
 As in effect to him, so mote I go ; 
 
 It is all bandy and to-tore also. 
 
 Why is thy lord so sluttish I thee preye. 
 
 And is of power better cloth to beye, 
 
 If that his dede acorded with thy speche ? 
 
 Telle me that, and that I thee beseche. 
 
 Why ? quod this yeman, whereto axe ye me ? 
 God helpe me so, for he shal never the : 
 (But I wol not avowen that I say, 
 And therfore kepe it secree I you pray) 
 He is to wise in faith, as I beleve. 
 Thing that is overdon, it wol not preve 
 Aright, as clerkes sain, it is a vice ; 
 Wherfore in that I hold him lewed and nice. 
 For whan a man hath overgret a wit, 
 Ful oft him happeth to misusen it : 
 So doth my lord, and that me greveth sore. 
 God it amende, I can say now no more. 
 
 Therof no force, good yeman, quod our host, 
 Sin of the conning of thy lord thou wost, 
 Telle how he doth, I pray thee hertily, 
 Sin that he is so crafty and so sly. 
 Wher dwellen ye, if it to tellen be ? 
 
 In the subarbes of a toun, quod he, 
 Lurking in hemes and in lanes blinde, 
 Wheras thise robbours and thise theves by kinde 
 Holden hir privee fereful residence. 
 As they that dare not shewen hir presence, 
 So faren we, if I shal say the sothe. 
 
 Yet, quod our hoste, let me talken to the ; 
 Why art thou so discoloured of thy face ? 
 
 Peter, quod he, God yeve it harde grace, 
 I am so used the bote fire to blow, 
 That it hath changed my colour I trow ; 
 
272 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 I n'am not wont in no mirrour to prie, 
 But swinke sore, and lerne to multiplie. 
 We blundren ever, and poren in the fire, 
 And for all that we faille of our desire, 
 For ever we lacken our conclusion. 
 To mochel folk we don illusion, 
 And borwe gold, be it a pound or two, 
 Or ten or twelve, or many sommes mo. 
 And make hem wenen at the leste wey. 
 That of a pound we connen maken twey. 
 Yet is it false ; and ay we han good hope 
 It for to don, and after it we grope ; 
 But that science is so fer us beforne. 
 We mowen not, although we had it sworne, 
 It overtake, it slit away so fast ; 
 It wol us maken beggers at the last. 
 
 While this yeman was thus in his talking, 
 This Chanon drow him nere, and herd all thing 
 Which this yeman spake, for suspecion 
 Of mennes speche ever had this Chanon : 
 For Caton sayth, that he that gilly is, 
 Demeth all thing be spoken of him y wis ; 
 That was the cause, he gan so nigh him drawe 
 To his yeman, to herken all his sawe. 
 And thus he saide unto his yeman tho ; 
 Hold thou thy pees, and speke no wordes mo : 
 For if thou do, thou shalt it dere abie. 
 Thou sclaundrest me here in this compagnie, 
 And eke discoverest that thou shuldest hide. 
 
 Ye, quod our hoste, tell on, what so betide ; 
 Of all his thretening recke not a mite. 
 
 In faith, quod he, no more I do but lite. 
 And whan this Chanon saw it wold not be, 
 But his yeman wold tell his privetee, 
 He fled away for veray sorwe and shame. 
 
 A, quod the yeman, here shal rise a game : 
 
THE CANTERBURY TALES, 273 
 
 All that I can anon I wol you telle, 
 
 Sin he is gon ; the foule fend him quelle ; 
 
 For never hereafter wol I with him mete 
 
 For peny ne for pound, I you behete. 
 
 He that me broughte first unto that game, 
 
 Er that he die, sorwe have he and shame. 
 
 For it is ernest to me by faith ; 
 
 That fele I wel, what that any man saith ; 
 
 And yet for all my smert, and all my grief, 
 
 For all my sorwe, labour, and meschief, 
 
 I coude never leve it in no wise. 
 
 Now wolde God my wit mighte suffice 
 
 To tellen all that longeth to that art ; 
 
 But natheles, yet wol I tellen part ; 
 
 Sin that my lord is gon, I wol not spare, 
 
 Swiche thing as that I know, I wol declare. 
 
 489 
 
GL, 
 
 ,c^ 
 
 274 GOOD COUNSATL OF CHAUCER. 
 
 GOOD COUNSAIL OF CHAUCER. 
 
 Fly fro the prease, and dwell with soothfastnesse, 
 wSuffise unto thy good though it be small, 
 ,yvX- X-^-«s'v<w For horde hath hate, and climbing tikelncsse, u?^tji^AA»> 
 ^ . Prease hath envy, and wele is blent over all, 
 
 - vJlA^cp^-iv'-o Savour no more than thee behove shall, 
 
 ^^^<^;JLa- -ftede well thy selfe that other folke canst rede, dtn-«- 
 And trouth thee shall deliver, it is no drede. 
 
 Paine thee not ech crooked to redresse 
 
 In trust of her that tourneth as a ball, 
 
 Great rest standeth in little businesse, 
 
 Beware also to spurne againe a nail, "^.'-j*^ 
 
 Strive not as doth a crocke with a wall, v-'a ^''^^ 
 
 Deme thy selfe that demest others dede. 
 
 And trouth thee shall deliver, it is no drede. 
 
 That thee is sent receive in buxomnesse, 
 The v/rastling of this world asketh a fall, ' • • 
 Here is no home, here is but wildernesse, 
 Forth, pilgrime ! forth, beast, out of thy stall ! 
 Looke up on high, and thanke God of all ! 
 Weive thy lusts, and let thy ghost thee lede, 
 And trouth thee shall deliver, it is no drede. 
 
VENVO Y DE CHA UCER. 275 
 
 L'ENVOY DE CHAUCER. 
 
 A SCOGAN. 
 
 ToBROKEN been the statutes hie in Heaven, 
 That create were eternally t'endure, 
 Sithe that I see the bright goddes seven 
 Mowe wepe and waile, and passion endure, 
 As may in yearth a mortall creature : 
 Alas, fro whens may this thing procede, 
 Of which errour I die almost ior drede? 
 
 By word eterne, whilom, was it shape, 
 That fro the fifth cercle, in no manere, 
 Ne might of teares doune escape, 
 But now so weepeth Venus in her sphere, 
 That with her teares she wol drench us here. 
 Alas, Scogan, this is for thine offence, 
 Thou causest this deluge of pestilence. 
 
 Hast thou not said, in blaspheme of the goddis, 
 Through pride, or through thy gret rekelnes, 
 Such things as in the law of love forbode is, 
 That for thy lady saw not thy dislresse, 
 Therfore thou yave her up at Mighelmesse ? 
 Alas, Scogan, of olde folke ne yong, 
 Was never erst Scogan blamed for his tong. 
 
 Thou drew in scorne Cupide eke to record, 
 Of thilke rebell word that thou hast spoken. 
 For which he woll no lenger be thy lord, 
 And Scogan, though his bow be not broken, 
 He woll not with his arowes be ywroken 
 On thee ne me, ne none of our figure, 
 We shall of him have neither hurte ne cure. 
 
276 VENVO V DE CHA UCER. 
 
 Now certes, frend, I drede of thine unhape, 
 Lest for thy gilte the wreche of love procede 
 On all hem that been hore and round of shape, 
 That be so likely folke to spede, 
 Than we shall of our labour have our mede, 
 But well I wot, thou wolt answere and say, 
 Lo, old Grisell list to renne and play. 
 
 Nay, Scogan, say not so, for I me excuse, 
 God helpe me so, in no rime doubtles, 
 Ne thinke I never of sleepe wake my muse. 
 That rusteth in my sheath still in pees, 
 While I was yong I put her forth in prees, 
 But all shall passe that men prose or rime, 
 Take every man his tourne as for his time. 
 
 Scogan, thou knelest at the stremes hedde 
 Of grace, of all honour, and of worthiness. 
 In th' ende of which I am dull as dedde, 
 Forgotten in solitary wildernesse. 
 Yet, Scogan, thinke on Tullius' kindness, 
 Mind thy frende there it may fructifie, 
 Farewel, and looke thou never eft love defie. 
 
DENVO V DE CHA UCER, 277 
 
 L'ENVOY DE CHAUCER A BUKTON. 
 
 My master Bukton, whan of Christ our king. 
 Was asked, what is troth or sothfastnesse, 
 He not a worde answerde to that asking, 
 As who saith, no man is all true, I gesse : 
 And therefore, though I hight to expresse 
 The sorrow and wo that is in mariage, 
 I dare not writen of it no wickednesse, 
 Lest I my selfe fall efte in suche dotage. 
 
 I woll not say how that it is the chaine 
 Of Sathanas, on which he knaweth ever, 
 But I dare saine, were he out of his paine. 
 As by his will he would be bounden never ; 
 But thilke doted foole, that eft hath lever 
 Ychayned be, than out of prison crepe, 
 God let him never fro his wo discever, 
 Ne no man him bewayle, though he wepe. 
 
 But yet, lest thou doe worse, take a wife, 
 Bet is to wedde than brenne in worse wise. 
 But thou shalt have sorow on thy flesh thy life, 
 And ben thy wives thrale, as sain these wise, 
 And if that holy writ may not suffice. 
 Experience shall thee teach, so may happe, 
 Take the way lever to be taken in frise. 
 Than efte to fall of wedding in the trappe. 
 
 This little writte, proverbes or figures, 
 I sende you, take keepe of it I rede, 
 Unwise is he that can no wele endure. 
 If thou be siker, put thee not in drede. 
 
278 nEN VO Y DE CHA UCER. 
 
 The Wife of Bathe I pray you that ye rede 
 Of this matter that we have no honde, 
 God graunt you your lyfe freely to lede 
 In fredome, for foule is to be bonde. 
 
 EXPLICIT. 
 
A BALLAD, 279 
 
 A BALLAD 
 
 MADE BY CHAUCER, TEACHING WHAT IS GENTILNES3, 
 OR WHOM IS WORTHY TO BE CALLED GENTILL. 
 
 The first stocke .farther of gentilnes, ■ 
 
 What man desireth gentil for to bee, 
 
 Must followe his trace, and all his wittes dres 
 
 Vertue to love and vices for to flee. 
 
 For unto vertue longeth dignitee, 
 
 And not the revers falsly, dare I deme, 
 
 AUweare he miter, crowne, or diademe. 
 
 This first stocke was full of rightwisnes, 
 
 Trewe of his worde, sober, pitous and free, 
 
 Clene of his goste, and loved besinesse, 
 
 Against the vice of slouth in honeste, 
 
 And, but his heire love vertue as did he, -^^^^ vn^-.^^v 
 
 He is not gentill, though he rich seme, 
 
 All weare he miter, crowne, or diademe. 
 
 Viceste may well be heir to old richesse, 
 
 But there may no man, as men may wel see, 
 
 Bequethe his heire his vertues noblenesse, 
 
 That is appropried unto no degree, 
 
 But to the first father in majestee, jI^jJa^ 
 
 That maketh his heires them that him queme, V^^^-^'-'^'r*^ 
 
 All weare he miter, crowne, or diademe. 
 
 EXPLICIT. 
 
28o TO HIS EMPTY PURSE. 
 
 TO HIS EMPTY PURSE, 
 
 To you, my purse, and to none other wight 
 
 Complaine I, for ye be my lady dere, 
 
 I am sorry now that ye be light, 
 
 For, certes, ye now make me heavy chere. 
 
 Me were as lefe laid upon a here, 
 
 For which unto your mercy thus I crie, 
 
 Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. 
 
 Now vouchsafe this day or it be night, 
 That I of you the blissful sowne may here, 
 Or see your colour like the Sunne bright, 
 That of yelowness had never pere, 
 Ye be my life, ye be my hertes stere, 
 Queene of comfort and of good companie, 
 Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. 
 
 Now purse, that art to me my lives light, 
 And saviour, as downe in this world here, 
 Out of this towne helpe me by your might, 
 Sith that you woll not be my treasure, 
 For I am shave as nere as any frere, 
 But I pray unto your curtesie. 
 Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. 
 
 EXPLICIT. 
 
BALADE SENT TO K, RICHARD, 281 
 
 BALADE SENT TO K. RICHARD. 
 
 Sometime the world so stedfast was and stable, 
 That mannes word was an obligatioun, 
 And now it is so false and deceivable, 
 That word and deed, as in conclusioun, 
 Is nothing like, for tourned is up so doun 
 All the world, through mede and fikelnesse. 
 That all is lost for lacke of stedfastnesse. 
 
 What maketh the world to be so variable 
 
 But lust, that men have in dissension ? 
 
 For among us a man is hold unable. 
 
 But if he can by some collusion 
 
 Doe his neighbour wrong and oppression : 
 
 What causeth this but wilfuU wretchednesse 
 
 That all is lost for lacke of stedfastnesse ? 
 
 Trouth is put downe, reason is hold fable. 
 Virtue hath now no domination, 
 Pity is exiled, no man is merciable, 
 Through covetise is blente discretion, 
 The world hath made a permutation, 
 Fro right to wrong, fro trouth to fikelnesse, 
 That all is lost for lacke of stedfastnesse. 
 
 L' ENVOY E. 
 
 Prince, desire to be honourable, 
 
 Cherish thy folke, and hate extortion, 
 
 Suffer nothing that may be reprovable 
 
 To thine estate, done in thy region, 
 
 Shew forth the yerd of castigation, 
 
 Drede God, do law, love trouth and worthinesse, 
 
 And wed thy folke ayen to stedfastnesse* 
 
 EXPLICIT. 
 
282 A BALLADE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 A BALLADE OF THE VILLAGE WITHOUT 
 PAINTING. 
 
 PLAINTIFE TO FORTUNE. 
 
 This wretched worldes transmutation, 
 As wele and wo, now poor, and now honour, 
 Without order or due discretion, 
 Governed is by Fortunes errour, 
 But natheless, the lacke of her favour 
 Ne may not doe me sing, though that I die, 
 J' ay tout pej'dUf nion temps et 7non labour, 
 For finally Fortune I defie. 
 
 Yet is me left the sight of my reasoun, 
 
 To know friend fro foe in thy mirrour, 
 
 So much hath yet thy tourning up and doun 
 
 Ytaught me to knowen in an hour, 
 
 But truly, no force of thy reddour 
 
 To him that over himselfe hath maistrie, 
 
 My suffisaunce shall be my succour, 
 
 For finally Fortune I defie. 
 
 Socrates, thou stedfast champion, 
 She might never be thy turmentour, 
 Thou never dredest her oppression, 
 Ne in her chere found thou no favour. 
 Thou knew the deceit of her colour. 
 And that her moste worship is for to lie, 
 
 1 know her eke a false dissimulour, 
 For finally Fortune I defie. 
 
 THE ANSWERE OF FORTUNE, 
 
 No man is wretched, but himselfe it wane, 
 Ne that hath in himselfe suffisaunce, 
 
A BALLADE OF THE VILLAGE. 283 
 
 Why saist thou than I am to thee so kene, 
 That hast thy selfe out of my governance ? 
 Say thus, graunt mercy of thine habundance 
 That thou hast lent, or this, thou shalt not strive, 
 What wost thou yet how I thee woll avance ? 
 And eke thou hast thy best friend alive. 
 
 I have thee taught devision betwcene 
 Friend of effect, and friend of countenaunce, 
 Thee needeth nat the gall of an hine. 
 That cureth eyen darke for her pennaunce. 
 Now seest thou clere that were in ignoraunce, 
 Yet holt thine anker, and yet thou maist arrive 
 There bounty beareth the key of my substance, 
 And eke thou hast thy best friend alive. 
 
 How many have I refused to sustene, 
 Sith I have thee fostred in thy pleasaunce ! 
 Wolt thou than make a statute on thy quene, 
 That I shall be aye at thine ordinaunce? 
 Thou born art in my reigne of variaunce. 
 About the whele with other must thou drive, 
 My lore is bet than wicke is thy grevaunce, 
 And eke thou hast thy best friend alive. 
 
 THE ANSWERE TO FORTUNE. 
 
 Thy lore I dampne, it is adversity. 
 My frend maist thou not reve, blind goddesse, 
 That I thy friends know, I thanke it thee. 
 Take hem againe, let hem go lie a presse, 
 The niggardes in keeping hir richesse, 
 Pronostike is, thou wolt hir toure assaile, 
 Wicke appetite commeth aye before sicknesse, 
 In general this rule may not faile. 
 
284 ^ BALLADE OF THE VILLAGE, 
 
 Thou pinchcst at my mutability, 
 For I thee lent a droppe of my richesse, 
 And now me liketh to withdraw me, 
 Why shouldest thou my royalty oppresse ? 
 The sea may ebbe and flow more and lesse, 
 The welken hath might to shine, rain, and hail. 
 Right so must I kithe my brotilnesse, 
 In generail this rule may not fail. 
 
 THE PLAINTIFE. 
 
 Lo, the execution of the majesty. 
 That all purveigheth of his rightwisenesse, 
 That same thing Fortune clepen ye, 
 Ye blind beasts, full of leaudnesse. 
 The Heaven hath property of sikernesse, 
 This world hath ever restlesse travaile, 
 The last day is end of mine entresse. 
 In generail this rule may not faile. 
 
 th'envoye of fortune. 
 
 Princes, I pray you of your gentilnesse 
 Let not this man and me thus cry and plain, 
 And I shall quite you this businesse, 
 And if ye liste releve him of his pain, 
 Pray ye his best frende, of his noblesse, 
 That to some better state he may attain. 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 Aliawed ; astonished. Achatoiirs ; piircliasers. Aduoutry ; 
 adultery. Agilt ; ofteiided. Agrise ; grue. Alderbest ; 
 best of all. Ambes as ; double ace in dice. And ; an, 
 if. Anelace ; a dagger or wood-knife. Appaire ; impair. 
 Apert ; open. Appose ; to question. Arette ; to im- 
 pute. Aspre ; bitter. Auter ; altar. Avising ; looking 
 at. Aweved ; dazed. Awhaped ; confounded, dazed. 
 
 Becappe ; ensnare. Bespreint ; sprinkled. Bestad ; situ- 
 ated. Bet, Bete ; better. Bete ; to prepare. Bewreiest ; 
 betrayest. Bitreut ; entwine. Blakes ; letters. 
 Blende; deceive. Bleve ; to stay. Blive; quickly. 
 Boult ; sift. Brede ; abroad. Breide ; stray. Bren ; 
 bran. Bresten ; burst. Bronken ; preserve. Brotel- 
 nesse ; fickleness. 
 
 Caraine ; carrion. ChafT:ire ; merchandise. Chere ; man- 
 ner, bearing. Clepe ; clasp. Clepen ; call. Coude ; 
 knew. Counterpleted ; pleaded against. Countonr ; 
 a counting-house, an accountant. Courtepy ; a short 
 
286 GLOSSARY, 
 
 cloak. Couthe ; knew, could. Covine ; cunning, con- 
 trivance. Culpous ; a bundle of anything, as a lock of 
 hair or a fagot of wood. 
 
 Danger ; shyness. Daweth ; dawneth. Debonaire ; gra- 
 cious. Dees ; dais. Deigneliche ; proudly. Deignous ; 
 disdainful. Hath deintee ; desires. A dele ; an atom. 
 Deliver ; nimble. Dey ; the lowest grade of country 
 labourer. Domes ; judgments. Dormant ; sleeping, 
 fixed. Out of drede ; without doubt. Drenching ; 
 drowning. Dretche; delay. Dretclied ; troubled. Drie; 
 suffer. 
 
 Eche ; to eke, supplement. Eft ; after. Eggement ; in- 
 citement. Elenge ; strange. Ender ; goal. Enliaunsed ; 
 raised. Eutremete ; interfere. Envyned ; stored with 
 wine. Eticke ; probably Aristotle's Ethics. 
 
 Facounde ; speech. Faine ; fond. Farsed ; stuffed. 
 Fawe ; fain. Feere ; companion. Fele ; many. Felon ; 
 cruel. Fendliche ; fiendish. Ferforth ; thereupon. 
 Feme ; before, last. Ferre ; further. Fers ; Persian 
 word signifying chief-counsellor, and formerly applied to 
 second piece in chess. Ferthlng ; particle. Fet ; fetch. 
 Fetise ; neat. Fine ; cease. Fleme ; to banish. Flemer ; 
 one who banishes. Fleyng ; flying. Floyting ; playing 
 flute. Fong ; take. Forthy ; therefore. Foyson ; 
 abundance. Franklin ; one of the highest class of 
 freeholders. Frete; devoured. 
 
 Gargat ; neck. Gat-tothtd ; lower teeth project beyond 
 ujjper, like those of a goat, underjawed. Gaure ; gaze. 
 
GLOSSARY, 287 
 
 Gestes ; histories. Gie ; guide, keep. Girles ; young 
 people. Gipciere ; a cassock. Glase, glose ; deceive. 
 Glede ; a burning coal or brand, sparks. Gnarre ; a hard 
 knot in a tree. Gofisslie ; foolish. Goliardeis ; a buffoon. 
 Gree ; satisfaction, resignation. Groin ; a sad expression. 
 Gruflfe ; heavily. 
 
 A goddeshalfe ; on God's behalf. Halke ; corner. Halt ; 
 held. Halwes ; saints. Hem ; them. Hente ; seized. 
 Herbergage ; lodging. Herbergeours ; providers of 
 lodging, harbingers. Heried ; praised. Heme ; corner. 
 Hete ; promise. Hierdes ; herds. Hir ; their. Hire ; 
 her. Hold ; stronghold. Hove ; hood. Hoved her to 
 abide ; waited about for her. Humble ; sly. Hunte ; 
 hunter. 
 
 Ich ; I. 
 
 Kepe, Keepe ; care, attention. Kidde ; revealed. Kind ; 
 nature, instinct. Kith ; to show. Kithe ; show. Knave ; 
 boy. 
 
 Lefe ; dear, pleasure. Lemes ; flames. Lere ; learn. 
 - Lesing ; a lie. Leste ; list. Lete ; stop. Lewed ; simple, 
 
 stupid. Liggen ; lie. Likerous ; sensual, fond of drink. 
 
 Limed ; painted. Limitour ; a friar licensed to ask alms 
 
 within a certain limit. Lith ; limb. Loos ; praise. 
 
 Losengeour ; flatterer. Lotlier ; more hateful. Lough ; 
 
 laughed. Lout ; to bow, stoop. Lusty head ; health. 
 
 Lust ; pleasure, health. 
 
 Manciple ; a purchaser or contractor, a caterer. Mannish ; 
 term of utmost reproach to a woman. Mate ; mad. 
 
288 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Maugre ; in spite of. May ; maid. Medled ; mixed. 
 Meinie ; retinue. Met ; dreamed. Mo ; more. Mokel ; 
 size. Mormal ; a sore. Mote ; must. Moun ; may. 
 Hue ; to change. 
 
 Nad ; had not. N'as ; was not. Ne ; nor. Nempnen ; 
 name. Nice ; foolish. No force ; no matter. Nome ; 
 took. Nouthe ; now. N'ot ; wot not. 
 
 ; one. Or ; ere. Overest sloppe ; overcoat. Ownded ; 
 wavy. 
 
 Pace ; proceed. I\atron ; pattern. Parcell ; detail. Par- 
 doner ; a seller of indulgences. Parfay ; by my 
 faith. Parnis ; a church-porch. Payenes ; pagans. 
 Pencell ; small pennant. Perrie ; jewels. Peyfrel ; 
 breast-piece in harness. Pine ; pain. Pilwebere ; a 
 pillow-case. Pistel ; whisper. Plages ; plagues. Pome- 
 lee gris ; dapple-grey . Possed ; tossed. Pouraille ; poor 
 people. Pricke ; point. J^iickasoure ; a hard rider. 
 Prive ; privy, private. Purveiance ; provision. 
 
 Queint ; unknown, lost. Quite ; requite. 
 
 Bakell ; rash. Ptape ; haste, to carry off. Real ; regaL 
 Eede ; counsel. Relike ; token. Refroiden ; to cool. 
 Reneie ; renounce. Rethor ; orator. Reve ; to take 
 away. Reysed ; made a raid. Rone ; rained. Rouncie ; 
 a hackney. Route ; make a sound. Rowned ; whispered. 
 Rucking; hiding. 
 
GLOSSARY, 289 
 
 Sad ; earnest, demure. Sausefleme ; pimpled. See ; seat. 
 Sely ; harmless, simple, silly. Shende ; to ruin, destroy. 
 Shright; shrieked. Sike ; sigh. Sithe ; times. Sith, 
 sithen ; since. Sitte ; to suit. Sis cink ; six and five. 
 Solas ; solace. Sompnour ; an officer, now called an 
 apparitor, employed to summon delinquents to appear 
 in the ecclesiastical courts. Sonde ; message, will. Sote ; 
 sweet. Snibben ; snub, reprove. Spill ; die, kill. Stede ; 
 resting-place. Stepe ; projecting. Stereliche ; fiercely. 
 Steven ; a voice. Stewe ; closet. Stint ; cease. Stound- 
 meale ; every moment. Streight ; stretched. Sterve ; 
 die. Sued ; followed. Sufl*rant ; submissive. Surgiie- 
 drie ; arrogance. Swappe ; swoop. Swegh ; rushing. 
 Sweven ; dream. Swinken ; labour. Switlie ; quickly. 
 
 Tabard ; a short, sleeveless jacket, sometimes embroidered 
 with heraldic bearings. Tabouren ; to drum. Tewell ; 
 funnel. That ; what. The; thrive. Ther ; where. 
 Thirled; pierced. Tho;then. Throw ; moment. Tiden ; 
 happen. Tidife ; titmouse (Skinner) or hedge-sparrow 
 (Skeat). Toune ; tun, tap. Totoler ; whisperer. Triacle ; 
 remedy. Travers ; curtains. Tretis ; long and shapely. 
 Twinne ; to part. 
 
 Uncouth ; uncommon. Undernome ; received. Unnethes ; 
 scarcely. 
 
 Vary ; err. Vavasour ; next in rank to a baron. Vernicle ; 
 dimin. of Veronike, a copy in miniature of the miraculous 
 picture of Christ. Verre ; glass. 
 
 Wastel-brede ; finest bread. Weived ; departed. Wemme ; 
 a stain. Wenden ; intended. Werne ; to refuse. "Werre ; 
 
 490 
 
290 GLOSSARY. 
 
 war, a coil, worse. Wete ; know. Where ; whether, 
 were. Whilom ; once upon a time. Wicke ; wicked. 
 Wierdes ; destinies. Witest ; blamest. Won ; to dwell. 
 Wood ; mad. Wrecke ; vengeance. Wrie ; deceive. 
 
 Ybourded ; jested. Ychaped ; furnished with cliapes or 
 clasps. Yearth ; earth. Yeddinges ; romances. Yeft ; 
 gift. Yeven ; give. Yfere ; together, Yliche ; alike. 
 Ywis ; truly. Ywoxen ; grown. 
 
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