human
Can you continue this poem for me?
  THE object of this volume is to place before the general reader
our two early poetic masterpieces -- The Canterbury Tales and
The Faerie Queen; to do so in a way that will render their
"popular perusal" easy in a time of little leisure and unbounded
temptations to intellectual languor; and, on the same conditions,
There is, it may be said at the outset, peculiar advantage and
propriety in placing the two poets side by side in the manner
now attempted for the first time.  Although two centuries divide
them, yet Spenser is the direct and really the immediate
successor to the poetical inheritance of Chaucer.  Those two
hundred years, eventful as they were, produced no poet at all
worthy to take up the mantle that fell from Chaucer's shoulders;
and Spenser does not need his affected archaisms, nor his
frequent and reverent appeals to "Dan Geffrey," to vindicate for
undefiled," Spenser is the broad and stately river that yet holds
and ruder scenes.
The Canterbury Tales, so far as they are in verse, have been
printed without any abridgement or designed change in the
sense.  But the two Tales in prose -- Chaucer's Tale of
Meliboeus, and the Parson's long Sermon on Penitence -- have
been contracted, so as to exclude thirty pages of unattractive
prose, and to admit the same amount of interesting and
characteristic poetry.  The gaps thus made in the prose Tales,
however, are supplied by careful outlines of the omitted matter,
so that the reader need be at no loss to comprehend the whole
scope and sequence of the original.  With The Faerie Queen a
bolder course has been pursued. The great obstacle to the
popularity of Spencer's splendid work has lain less in its
language than in its length.  If we add together the three great
poems of antiquity -- the twenty-four books of the Iliad, the
twenty-four books of the Odyssey, and the twelve books of the
Aeneid -- we get at the dimensions of only one-half of The
Faerie Queen.  The six books, and the fragment of a seventh,
which alone exist of the author's contemplated twelve, number
about 35,000 verses; the sixty books of Homer and Virgil
number no more than 37,000. The mere bulk of the poem, then,
has opposed a formidable barrier to its popularity; to say
nothing of the distracting effect produced by the numberless
episodes, the tedious narrations, and the constant repetitions,
which have largely swelled that bulk.  In this volume the poem
is compressed into two-thirds of its original space, through the
expedient of representing the less interesting and more
mechanical passages by a condensed prose outline, in which it
has been sought as far as possible to preserve the very words of
the poet.  While deprecating a too critical judgement on the
bare and constrained precis standing in such trying
juxtaposition, it is hoped that the labour bestowed in saving the
for the enjoyment of Spencer's marvellous allegory, will not be
unappreciated.
As regards the manner in which the text of the two great works,
especially of The Canterbury Tales, is presented, the Editor is
aware that some whose judgement is weighty will differ from
him.  This volume has been prepared "for popular perusal;" and
its very raison d'etre would have failed, if the ancient
orthography had been retained.  It has often been affirmed by
without any preliminary acquaintance with the English of his
day -- or of his copyists' days.  Despite this complacent
assurance, the obvious fact is, that Chaucer in the old forms has
there has been not the slightest attempt to "modernise"
Chaucer, in the wider meaning of the phrase; to replace his
words by words which he did not use; or, following the example
of some operators, to translate him into English of the modern
spirit as well as the modern forms.  So far from that, in every
case where the old spelling or form seemed essential to metre,
to rhyme, or meaning, no change has been attempted.  But,
wherever its preservation was not essential, the spelling of the
monkish transcribers -- for the most ardent purist must now
despair of getting at the spelling of Chaucer himself -- has been
compliment to the Father of English Poetry, to say that by such
treatment the bouquet and individuality of his works must be
lost.  If his masterpiece is valuable for one thing more than any
women of the fourteenth century are there painted, for the study
picture the screen of dust and cobwebs which, for the English
people in these days, the crude forms of the infant language
have practically become.  Shakespeare has not suffered by
similar changes; Spencer has not suffered; it would be surprising
comprehension and favour in his case are necessarily all the
greater for his remoteness from our day.  In a much smaller
degree -- since previous labours in the same direction had left
far less to do -- the same work has been performed for the
spelling of Spenser; and the whole endeavour in this department
of the Editor's task has been, to present a text plain and easily
both ends have been achieved together; but the laudatores
temporis acti - the students who may differ most from the plan
pursued in this volume -- will best appreciate the difficulty of
the enterprise, and most leniently regard any failure in the
details of its accomplishment.
With all the works of Chaucer, outside The Canterbury Tales, it
would have been absolutely impossible to deal within the scope
of this volume.  But nearly one hundred pages, have been
devoted to his minor poems; and, by dint of careful selection
and judicious abridgement -- a connecting outline of the story in
workmanship in all styles.  The preparation of this part of the
volume has been a laborious task; no similar attempt on the
same scale has been made; and, while here also the truth of the
text in matters essential has been in nowise sacrificed to mere
ease of perusal, the general reader will find opened up for him a
hundred pages, will melt away for ever the lingering tradition or
buffoon, who pandered to a base and licentious appetite by
painting and exaggerating the lowest vices of his time.  In these
the poet's credit from a wide range of poems in which hardly a
word is to his discredit -- we behold Chaucer as he was; a
courtier, a gallant, pure-hearted gentleman, a scholar, a
philosopher, a poet of gay and vivid fancy, playing around
themes of chivalric convention, of deep human interest, or
broad-sighted satire.  In The Canterbury Tales, we see, not
Chaucer, but Chaucer's times and neighbours; the artist has lost
himself in his work. To show him honestly and without disguise,
as he lived his own life and sung his own songs at the brilliant
Court of Edward III, is to do his memory a moral justice far
more material than any wrong that can ever come out of
spelling.  As to the minor poems of Spenser, which follow The
Faerie Queen, the choice has been governed by the desire to
give at once the most interesting, and the most characteristic of
the poems so selected are given entire. It is manifest that the
endeavours to adapt this volume for popular use, have been
already noticed, would imperfectly succeed without the aid of
notes and glossary, to explain allusions that have become
obsolete, or antiquated words which it was necessary to retain.
An endeavour has been made to render each page self-
explanatory, by placing on it all the glossarial and illustrative
information may be found.  The great advantage of such a plan
explanations or equivalents; it saves the distracting and time-
consuming reference to the end or the beginning of the book;
well as in the innumerable minute points of spelling,
accentuation, and rhythm, he must now and again be found
tripping; he can only ask any reader who may detect all that he
could himself point out as being amiss, to set off against
inevitable mistakes and misjudgements, the conscientious labour
bestowed on the book, and the broad consideration of its fitness
for the object contemplated.
From books the Editor has derived valuable help; as from Mr
Cowden Clarke's revised modern text of The Canterbury Tales,
published in Mr Nimmo's Library Edition of the English Poets;
from Mr Wright's scholarly edition of the same work; from the
indispensable Tyrwhitt; from Mr Bell's edition of Chaucer's
Poem; from Professor Craik's "Spenser and his Poetry,"
published twenty-five years ago by Charles Knight; and from
many others. In the abridgement of the Faerie Queen,  the plan
may at first sight seem to be modelled on the lines of Mr Craik's
poems of Chaucer, have been prepared specially for this edition.
The Editor leaves his task with the hope that his attempt to
remove artificial obstacles to the popularity of  England's
earliest poets, will not altogether miscarry.
NOT in point of genius only, but even in point of time, Chaucer
may claim the proud designation of "first" English poet. He
wrote "The Court of Love" in 1345, and "The Romaunt of the
Rose," if not also "Troilus and Cressida," probably within the
next decade: the dates usually assigned to the poems of
Laurence Minot extend from 1335 to 1355, while "The Vision
of Piers Plowman" mentions events that occurred in 1360 and
Assembly of Fowls" and his "Dream." But, though they were
his contemporaries, neither Minot nor Langland (if Langland
was the author of the Vision) at all approached Chaucer in the
"Ormulum," are less English than Anglo-Saxon or Anglo-
Norman. Those poems reflected the perplexed struggle for
supremacy between the two grand elements of our language,
which marked the twelfth and thirteenth centuries; a struggle
intimately associated with the political relations between the
conquering Normans and the subjugated Anglo-Saxons.
Chaucer found two branches of the language; that spoken by
the people, Teutonic in its genius and its forms; that spoken by
the learned and the noble, based on the French  Yet each branch
had begun to borrow of the other -- just as nobles and people
had been taught to recognise that each needed the other in the
wars and the social tasks of the time; and Chaucer, a scholar, a
courtier, a man conversant with all orders of society, but
accustomed to speak, think, and write in the words of the
highest, by his comprehensive genius cast into the simmering
mould a magical amalgamant which made the two half-hostile
elements unite and interpenetrate each other. Before Chaucer
wrote, there were two tongues in England, keeping alive the
feuds and resentments of cruel centuries; when he laid down his
pen, there was practically but one speech -- there was, and ever
since has been, but one people.
Geoffrey Chaucer, according to the most trustworthy traditions-
for authentic testimonies on the subject are wanting -- was born
in 1328; and London is generally believed to have been his
birth-place. It is true that Leland, the biographer of England's
first great poet who lived nearest to his time, not merely speaks
now assigned, but mentions Berkshire or Oxfordshire as the
scene of his birth. So great uncertainty have some felt on the
latter score, that elaborate parallels have been drawn between
Chaucer, and Homer -- for whose birthplace several cities
contended, and whose descent was traced to the demigods.
Leland may seem to have had fair opportunities of getting at the
truth about Chaucer's birth -- for Henry VIII had him, at the
suppression of the monasteries throughout England, to search
for records of public interest the archives of the religious
houses. But it may be questioned whether he was likely to find
many authentic particulars regarding the personal history of the
poet in the quarters which he explored; and Leland's testimony
seems to be set aside by Chaucer's own evidence as to his
birthplace, and by the contemporary references which make him
out an aged man for years preceding the accepted date of his
death. In one of his prose works, "The Testament of Love," the
poet speaks of himself in terms that strongly confirm the claim
of London to the honour of giving him birth; for he there
mentions "the city of London, that is to me so dear and sweet,
in which I was forth growen; and more kindly love," says he,
"have I to that place than to any other in earth; as every kindly
interval of time -- by the learned Camden; in his Annals of
Queen Elizabeth, he describes Spencer, who was certainly born
in London, as being a fellow-citizen of Chaucer's -- "Edmundus
Spenserus, patria Londinensis, Musis adeo arridentibus natus, ut
omnes Anglicos superioris aevi poetas, ne Chaucero quidem
concive excepto, superaret." <1> The records of the time notice
more than one person of the name of Chaucer, who held
honourable positions about the Court; and though we cannot
distinctly trace the poet's relationship with any of these
namesakes or antecessors, we find excellent ground for belief
that his family or friends stood well at Court, in the ease with
which Chaucer made his way there, and in his subsequent
career.
Like his great successor, Spencer, it was the fortune of Chaucer
to live under a splendid, chivalrous, and high-spirited reign.
wars, French expeditions, and the strenuous and costly struggle
to hold England in a worthy place among the States of Europe,
there was sufficient bustle, bold achievement, and high ambition
in the period to inspire a poet who was prepared to catch the
spirit of the day. It was an age of elaborate courtesy, of high-
paced gallantry, of courageous venture, of noble disdain for
mean tranquillity; and Chaucer, on the whole a man of peaceful
avocations, was penetrated to the depth of his consciousness
remains to us; if we believe that at the age of eighteen he was a
name is Philogenet, "of Cambridge clerk;" while he had  already
told us that when he was stirred to seek the Court of Cupid he
was "at eighteen year of age." According to Leland, however,
he was educated at Oxford, proceeding thence to France and
the Netherlands, to finish his studies; but there remains no
certain evidence of his having belonged to either University. At
the same time, it is not doubted that his family was of good
condition; and, whether or not we accept the assertion that his
father held the rank of knighthood -- rejecting the hypotheses
that make him a merchant, or a vintner "at the corner of Kirton
Lane" -- it is plain, from Chaucer's whole career, that he had
introductions to public life, and recommendations to courtly
favour, wholly independent of his genius. We have the clearest
testimony that his mental training was of wide range and
thorough excellence, altogether rare for a mere courtier in those
divinity, the philosophy, and the scholarship of his time, and
show him to have had the sciences, as then developed and
taught, "at his fingers' ends." Another proof of Chaucer's good
birth and fortune would he found in the statement that, after his
- the expenses of which could be borne only by men of noble
and opulent families; but although there is a story that he was
devoted himself to the uncongenial study of the law. No special
display of knowledge on that subject appears in his works; yet
in the sketch of the Manciple, in the Prologue to the Canterbury
Tales, may be found indications of his familiarity with the
internal economy of the Inns of Court; while numerous legal
phrases and references hint that his comprehensive information
poet, a grave philosopher, an ingenious mathematician, and a
holy divine;" and by all accounts, when Geoffrey Chaucer
comes before us authentically for the first time, at the age of
thirty-one, he was possessed of knowledge and
accomplishments far beyond the common standard of his day.
Chaucer at this period possessed also other qualities fitted to
recommend him to favour in a Court like that of Edward III.
Urry describes him, on the authority of a portrait, as being then
continues the ardent biographer, -- "so that every ornament that
other, and his wit and gentle behaviour to converse with both,
conspired to make him a complete courtier."  If we believe that
his "Court of Love" had received such publicity as the literary
media of the time allowed in the somewhat narrow and select
literary world -- not to speak of "Troilus and Cressida," which,
as Lydgate mentions it first among Chaucer's works, some have
supposed to be a youthful production -- we find a third and not
less powerful recommendation to the favour of the great co-
operating with his learning and his gallant bearing. Elsewhere
Cressida" should not be assigned to a later period of Chaucer's
life; but very little is positively known about the dates and
sequence of his various works. In the year 1386, being called as
witness with regard to a contest on a point of heraldry between
Lord Scrope and Sir Robert Grosvenor, Chaucer deposed that
he entered on his military career in 1359. In that year Edward
embarkation of the knights in "Chaucer's Dream", the poet
gained some of the vividness and stir of his picture from his
recollections of the embarkation of the splendid and well-
appointed royal host at Sandwich, on board the eleven hundred
transports provided for the enterprise. In this expedition the
laurels of Poitiers were flung on the ground; after vainly
attempting Rheims and Paris, Edward was constrained, by cruel
weather and lack of provisions, to retreat toward his ships; the
fury of the elements made the retreat more disastrous than an
overthrow in pitched battle; horses and men perished by
thousands, or fell into the hands of the pursuing French.
Chaucer, who had been made prisoner at the siege of Retters,
was among the captives in the possession of France when the
treaty of Bretigny -- the "great peace" -- was concluded, in
May, 1360. Returning to England, as we may suppose, at the
peace, the poet, ere long, fell into another and a pleasanter
captivity; for his marriage is generally believed to have taken
place shortly after his release from foreign durance.  He had
already gained the personal friendship and favour of John of
Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, the King's son; the Duke, while Earl
of Richmond, had courted, and won to wife after a certain
delay, Blanche, daughter and co-heiress of Henry Duke of
Lancaster; and Chaucer is by some believed to have written
"The Assembly of Fowls" to celebrate the wooing, as he wrote
"Chaucer's Dream" to celebrate the wedding, of his patron. The
marriage took place in 1359, the year of Chaucer's expedition to
France; and as, in "The Assembly of Fowls," the formel or
female eagle, who is supposed to represent the Lady Blanche,
and 1359 have been assigned as the respective dates of the two
poems already mentioned.  In the "Dream," Chaucer
prominently introduces his own lady-love, to whom, after the
happy union of his patron with the Lady Blanche, he is wedded
amid great rejoicing; and various expressions in the same poem
show that not only was the poet high in favour with the
Roet, a native of Hainault, who had, like many of his
countrymen, been attracted to England by the example and
patronage of Queen Philippa. The favourite attendant on the
Lady Blanche was her elder sister Katherine: subsequently
married to Sir Hugh Swynford, a gentleman of Lincolnshire;
and destined, after the death of Blanche, to be in succession
governess of her children, mistress of John of Gaunt, and
lawfully-wedded Duchess of Lancaster. It is quite sufficient
proof that Chaucer's position at Court was of no mean
consequence, to find that his wife, the sister of the future
Duchess of Lancaster, was one of the royal maids of honour,
and even, as Sir Harris Nicolas conjectures, a god-daughter of
the Queen -- for her name also was Philippa.
Between 1359, when the poet himself testifies that he was made
prisoner while bearing arms in France, and September 1366,
when Queen Philippa granted to her former maid of honour, by
the name of Philippa Chaucer, a yearly pension of ten marks, or
L6, 13s. 4d., we have no authentic mention of Chaucer, express
or indirect. It is plain from this grant that the poet's marriage
pension of twenty marks, "for the good service which our
beloved Valet -- 'dilectus Valettus noster' -- Geoffrey Chaucer
has rendered, and will render in time to come." Camden
explains 'Valettus hospitii' to signify a Gentleman of the Privy
Chamber; Selden says that the designation was bestowed "upon
young heirs designed to he knighted, or young gentlemen of
great descent and quality." Whatever the strict meaning of the
word, it is plain that the poet's position was honourable and
near to the King's person, and also that his worldly
times the sum in these.  It is believed that he found powerful
patronage, not merely from the Duke of Lancaster and his wife,
but from Margaret Countess of Pembroke, the King's daughter.
To her Chaucer is supposed to have addressed the "Goodly
Ballad", in which the lady is celebrated under the image of the
daisy; her he is by some understood to have represented under
the title of Queen Alcestis, in the "Court of Love" and the
Prologue to "The Legend of Good Women;" and in her praise
we may read his charming descriptions and eulogies of the daisy
-- French, "Marguerite," the name of his Royal patroness. To
this period of Chaucer's career we may probably attribute the
elegant and courtly, if somewhat conventional, poems of "The
"The Lady Margaret," says Urry, ". . . would frequently
compliment him upon his poems. But this is not to be meant of
sense and plain descriptions. In his love-pieces he was obliged
to have the strictest regard to modesty and decency; the ladies
at that time insisting so much upon the nicest punctilios of
translation of the French "Roman de la Rose," and by his
"Troilus and Cressida" -- assuming it to have been among his
less mature works; and to atone for those offences the Lady
Margaret (though other and older accounts say that it was the
first Queen of Richard II., Anne of Bohemia), prescribed to him
the task of writing "The Legend of Good Women" (see
introductory note to that poem). About this period, too, we
may place the composition of Chaucer's A. B. C., or The Prayer
of Our Lady, made at the request of the Duchess Blanche, a
lady of great devoutness in her private life. She died in 1369;
and Chaucer, as he had allegorised her wooing, celebrated her
marriage, and aided her devotions, now lamented her death, in a
poem entitled "The Book of the Duchess; or, the Death of
In 1370, Chaucer was employed on the King's service abroad;
and in November 1372, by the title of "Scutifer noster" -- our
Esquire or Shield-bearer -- he was associated with "Jacobus
Pronan," and "Johannes de Mari civis Januensis," in a royal
commission, bestowing full powers to treat with the Duke of
Genoa, his Council, and State.  The object of the embassy was
to negotiate upon the choice of an English port at which the
Genoese might form a commercial establishment; and Chaucer,
having quitted England in December, visited Genoa and
Florence, and returned to England before the end of November
in person. The most interesting point connected with this Italian
Padua. That he did, is unhesitatingly affirmed by the old
biographers; but the authentic notices of Chaucer during the
years 1372-1373, as shown by the researches of Sir Harris
the aid of what faint light the poet himself affords. We can
famous, did not embrace the chance of meeting a poet whose
works he evidently knew in their native tongue, and highly
esteemed.  With Mr Wright, we are strongly disinclined to
believe "that Chaucer did not profit by the opportunity . . . of
improving his acquaintance with the poetry, if not the poets, of
the country he thus visited, whose influence was now being felt
on the literature of most countries of Western Europe." That
Chaucer was familiar with the Italian language appears not
merely from his repeated selection as Envoy to Italian States,
but by many passages in his poetry, from "The Assembly of
Fowls" to "The Canterbury Tales." In the opening of the first
poem  there is a striking parallel to Dante's inscription on the
gate of Hell.  The first Song of Troilus, in "Troilus and
Cressida", is a nearly literal translation of Petrarch's 88th
there is a reference to Dante which can hardly have reached the
poet at second- hand. And in Chaucer's great work -- as in The
Wife of Bath's Tale, and The Monk's Tale  -- direct reference by
name is made to Dante, "the wise poet of Florence," "the great
poet of Italy," as the source whence the author has quoted.
When we consider the poet's high place in literature and at
Court, which could not fail to make him free of the hospitalities
tongue and the works of Italy's greatest bards, dead and living;
the reverential regard which he paid to the memory of great
poets, of which we have examples in "The House of Fame," and
at the close of "Troilus and Cressida" <4>; along with his own
testimony in the Prologue to The Clerk's Tale, we cannot fail to
construe that testimony as a declaration that the Tale was
actually told to Chaucer by the lips of Petrarch, in 1373, the
very year in which Petrarch translated it into Latin, from
Boccaccio's "Decameron."<5>   Mr Bell notes the objection to
objection, that the Clerk, being a purely imaginary personage,
could not have learned the story at Padua from Petrarch -- and
therefore that Chaucer must have departed from the dramatic
assumption maintained in the rest of the dialogue. Instances
could be adduced from Chaucer's writings to show that such a
sudden "departure from the dramatic assumption" would not be
unexampled: witness the "aside" in The Wife of Bath's
Prologue, where, after the jolly Dame has asserted that "half so
boldly there can no man swear and lie as a woman can", the
poet hastens to interpose, in his own person, these two lines:
"I say not this by wives that be wise,
But if it be when they them misadvise."
And again, in the Prologue to the "Legend of Good Women,"
from a description of the daisy --
"She is the clearness and the very light,
That in this darke world me guides and leads,"
"The heart within my sorrowful heart you dreads
And loves so sore, that ye be, verily,
The mistress of my wit, and nothing I," &c.
When, therefore, the Clerk of Oxford is made to say that he will
tell a tale --
"The which that I
Learn'd at Padova of a worthy clerk,
As proved by his wordes and his werk.
He is now dead, and nailed in his chest,
I pray to God to give his soul good rest.
Francis Petrarc', the laureate poete,
Highte this clerk, whose rhetoric so sweet
Illumin'd all Itaile of poetry. . . .
But forth to tellen of this worthy man,
That taughte me this tale, as I began." . . .
we may without violent effort believe that Chaucer speaks in his
own person, though dramatically the words are on the Clerk's
lips.  And the belief is not impaired by the sorrowful way in
which the Clerk lingers on Petrarch's death -- which would be
Petrarch's death at Arqua in July 1374 to have closely followed
Chaucer to England, and to have cruelly and irresistibly mingled
manner in which the Clerk is made to distinguish between the
"body" of Petrarch's tale, and the fashion in which it was set
forth in writing, with a proem that seemed "a thing
impertinent", save that the poet had chosen in that way to
"convey his matter" -- told, or "taught," so much more directly
and simply by word of mouth. It is impossible to pronounce
positively on the subject; the question whether Chaucer saw
Petrarch in 1373 must remain a moot-point, so long as we have
only our present information; but fancy loves to dwell on the
thought of the two poets conversing under the vines at Arqua;
and we find in the history and the writings of Chaucer nothing
to contradict, a good deal to countenance, the belief that such a
Though we have no express record, we have indirect testimony,
that Chaucer's Genoese mission was discharged satisfactorily;
for on the 23d of April 1374, Edward III grants at Windsor to
"perceived" in the port of London; a grant which, on the
analogy of more modern usage, might he held equivalent to
Chaucer's appointment as Poet Laureate. When we find that
soon afterwards the grant was commuted for a money payment
of twenty marks per annum, we need not conclude that
Chaucer's circumstances were poor; for it may be easily
supposed that the daily "perception" of such an article of
income was attended with considerable prosaic inconvenience.
A permanent provision for Chaucer was made on the 8th of
June 1374, when he was appointed Controller of the Customs in
the Port of London, for the lucrative imports of wools, skins or
"wool-fells," and tanned hides -- on condition that he should
fulfil the duties of that office in person and not by deputy, and
what seems evidence of Chaucer's compliance with these terms
in "The House of Fame", where, in the mouth of the eagle, the
poet describes himself, when he has finished his labour and
made his reckonings, as not seeking rest and news in social
intercourse, but going home to his own house, and there, "all so
dazed; and again, in the record that in 1376 he received a grant
of L731, 4s. 6d., the amount of a fine levied on one John Kent,
whom Chaucer's vigilance had frustrated in the attempt to ship a
quantity of wool for Dordrecht without paying the duty. The
seemingly derogatory condition, that the Controller should
formal; no records in Chaucer's handwriting are known to exist
-- which could hardly be the case if, for the twelve years of his
condition; and during that period he was more than once
employed abroad, so that the condition was evidently regarded
as a formality even by those who had imposed it.  Also in 1374,
the Duke of Lancaster, whose ambitious views may well have
made him anxious to retain the adhesion of a man so capable
and accomplished as Chaucer, changed into a joint life-annuity
remaining to the survivor, and charged on the revenues of the
Savoy, a pension of L10 which two years before he settled on
the poet's wife -- whose sister was then the governess of the
Duke's two daughters, Philippa and Elizabeth, and the Duke's
own mistress.  Another proof of Chaucer's personal reputation
and high Court favour at this time, is his selection (1375) as
ward to the son of Sir Edmond Staplegate of Bilsynton, in Kent;
a charge on the surrender of which the guardian received no
less a sum than L104.
We find Chaucer in 1376 again employed on a foreign mission.
In 1377, the last year of Edward III., he was sent to Flanders
with Sir Thomas Percy, afterwards Earl of Worcester, for the
purpose of obtaining a prolongation of the truce; and in January
Commissioners, to pursue certain negotiations for a marriage
between Princess Mary of France and the young King Richard
The negotiation, however, proved fruitless; and in May 1378,
Chaucer was selected to accompany Sir John Berkeley on a
mission to the Court of Bernardo Visconti, Duke of Milan, with
shown that he was not insensible to Chaucer's merit  -- or to the
Lancaster; for Richard II. confirmed to Chaucer his pension of
twenty marks, along with an equal annual sum, for which the
daily pitcher of wine granted in 1374 had been commuted.
Before his departure for Lombardy, Chaucer -- still holding his
post in the Customs -- selected two representatives or trustees,
which he was charged to enforce. One of these trustees was
called Richard Forrester; the other was John Gower, the poet,
the most famous English contemporary of Chaucer, with whom
he had for many years been on terms of admiring friendship --
although, from the strictures passed on certain productions of
Gower's in the Prologue to The Man of Law's Tale,<6> it has
been supposed that in the later years of Chaucer's life the
friendship suffered some diminution. To the "moral Gower" and
"the philosophical Strode," Chaucer "directed" or dedicated his
"Troilus and Cressida;" <7> while, in the "Confessio Amantis,"
Gower introduces a handsome compliment to his greater
contemporary, as the "disciple and the poet" of Venus, with
whose glad songs and ditties, made in her praise during the
flowers of his youth, the land was filled everywhere.  Gower,
however -- a monk and a Conservative -- held to the party of
the Duke of Gloucester, the rival of the Wycliffite and
innovating Duke of Lancaster, who was Chaucer's patron, and
whose cause was not a little aided by Chaucer's strictures on the
may have weakened the old bonds of personal friendship and
poetic esteem. Returning from Lombardy early in 1379,
Chaucer seems to have been again sent abroad; for the records
exhibit no trace of him between May and December of that
year. Whether by proxy or in person, however, he received his
pensions regularly until 1382, when his income was increased
by his appointment to the post of Controller of Petty Customs
in the port of London.  In November 1384, he obtained a
month's leave of absence on account of his private affairs, and a
next year he was permitted to appoint a permanent deputy --
powerful years. <8>
Chaucer is next found occupying a post which has not often
been held by men gifted with his peculiar genius -- that of a
county member. The contest between the Dukes of Gloucester
and Lancaster, and their adherents, for the control of the
Government, was coming to a crisis; and when the recluse and
studious Chaucer was induced to offer himself to the electors of
Kent as one of the knights of their shire -- where presumably he
held property -- we may suppose that it was with the view of
supporting his patron's cause in the impending conflict. The
Parliament in which the poet sat assembled at Westminster on
the 1st of October, and was dissolved on the 1st of November,
dismissed from the woolsack, and impeached by the Commons;
and although Richard at first stood out courageously for the
commission was wrung from him, under protest, appointing
Gloucester, Arundel, and twelve other Peers and prelates, a
permanent council to inquire into the condition of all the public
absolute powers of redress and dismissal. We need not ascribe
to Chaucer's Parliamentary exertions in his patron's behalf, nor
to any malpractices in his official conduct, the fact that he was
London; but he retained his pensions, and drew them regularly
twice a year at the Exchequer until 1388. In 1387, Chaucer's
political reverses were aggravated by a severe domestic
calamity: his wife died, and with her died the pension which had
been settled on her by Queen Philippa in 1366, and confirmed to
her at Richard's accession in 1377.  The change made in
Chaucer's pecuniary position, by the loss of his offices and his
wife's pension, must have been very great. It would appear that
reverse; for, on the 1st of May 1388, less than a year and a half
assign his pensions, by surrender in Chancery, to one John
Scalby.  In May 1389, Richard II., now of age, abruptly
resumed the reins of government, which, for more than two
years, had been ably but cruelly managed by Gloucester. The
friends of Lancaster were once more supreme in the royal
councils, and Chaucer speedily profited by the change. On the
Palace of Westminster, the Tower, the royal manors of
Langley, and Feckenham, the castle of Berkhamstead, the royal
lodge of Hathenburgh in the New Forest, the lodges in the
parks of Clarendon, Childern Langley, and Feckenham, and the
mews for the King's falcons at Charing Cross; he received a
salary of two shillings per day, and was allowed to perform the
duties by deputy. For some reason unknown, Chaucer held this
lucrative office <10> little more than two years, quitting it
before the 16th of September 1391, at which date it had passed
into the hands of one John Gedney. The next two years and a
half are a blank, so far as authentic records are concerned;
Chaucer is supposed to have passed them in retirement,
probably devoting them principally to the composition of The
Canterbury Tales. In February 1394, the King conferred upon
him a grant of L20 a year for life; but he seems to have had no
other source of income, and to have become embarrassed by
debt, for frequent memoranda of small advances on his pension
show that his circumstances were, in comparison, greatly
reduced.  Things appear to have grown worse and worse with
the poet; for in May 1398 he was compelled to obtain from the
King letters of protection against arrest, extending over a term
of two years. Not for the first time, it is true -- for similar
documents had been issued at the beginning of Richard's reign;
but at that time Chaucer's missions abroad, and his responsible
duties in the port of London, may have furnished reasons for
securing him against annoyance or frivolous prosecution, which
were wholly wanting at the later date.  In 1398, fortune began
again to smile upon him; he received a royal grant of a tun of
wine annually, the value being about L4. Next year, Richard II
having been deposed by the son of John of Gaunt <11>  --
Henry of Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster -- the new King, four
days after hits accession, bestowed on Chaucer a grant of forty
marks (L26, 13s. 4d.) per annum, in addition to the pension of
L20 conferred by Richard II. in 1394.  But the poet, now
seventy-one years of age, and probably broken down by the
reverses of the past few years, was not destined long to enjoy
his renewed prosperity.  On Christmas Eve of 1399, he entered
on the possession of a house in the garden of the Chapel of the
Blessed Mary of Westminster -- near to the present site of
Henry VII.'s Chapel -- having obtained a lease from Robert
Hermodesworth, a monk of the adjacent convent, for fifty-three
years, at the annual rent of four marks (L2, 13s. 4d.) Until the
they were received for him by another hand; and on the 25th of
October, in the same year, he died, at the age of seventy-two.
The only lights thrown by his poems on his closing days are
furnished in the little ballad called "Good Counsel of Chaucer,"
-- which, though said to have been written when "upon his
"Retractation" at the end of The Canterbury Tales, which, if it
was not foisted in by monkish transcribers, may be supposed the
effect of Chaucer's regrets and self-reproaches on that solemn
review of his life-work which the close approach of death
compelled. The poet was buried in Westminster Abbey; <12>
and not many years after his death a slab was  placed on a pillar
eulogy made by Stephanus Surigonus of Milan, at the request of
"Galfridus Chaucer, vates, et fama poesis
Maternae, hoc sacra sum tumulatus humo." <13>
About 1555, Mr Nicholas Brigham, a gentleman of Oxford who
greatly admired the genius of Chaucer, erected the present
tomb, as near to the spot where the poet lay, "before the chapel
of St Benet," as was then possible by reason of the "cancelli,"
leave to remove, that room might be made for the tomb of
Dryden.  On the structure of Mr Brigham, besides a full-length
representation of Chaucer, taken from a portrait drawn by his
"scholar" Thomas Occleve, was -- or is, though now almost
illegible -- the following inscription:--
Concerning his personal appearance and habits, Chaucer has not
comparing shapes with him.<16>  His face was fleshy, his
features just and regular, his complexion fair, and somewhat
pale, his hair of a dusky yellow, short and thin; the hair of his
and smooth; his eyes inclining usually to the ground, which is
to his temper, he had a mixture of the gay, the modest, and the
grave. The sprightliness of his humour was more distinguished
by his writings than by his appearance; which gave occasion to
Margaret Countess of Pembroke often to rally him upon his
silent modesty in company, telling him, that his absence was
more agreeable to her than his conversation, since the first was
productive of agreeable pieces of wit in his writings, <17> but
the latter was filled with a modest deference, and a too distant
respect.  We see nothing merry or jocose in his behaviour with
him was this exercise, that he says he preferred it to all other
sports and diversions.<18>  He lived within himself, neither
desirous to hear nor busy to concern himself with the affairs of
his neighbours. His course of living was temperate and regular;
he went to rest with the sun, and rose before it; and by that
means enjoyed the pleasures of the better part of the day, his
morning walk and fresh contemplations.  This gave him the
advantage of describing the morning in so lively a manner as he
does everywhere in his works. The springing sun glows warm in
feathered choir, whenever we take a forest walk with him. The
landscapes. . . . His reading was deep and extensive, his
judgement sound and discerning. . . In one word, he was a great
scholar, a pleasant wit, a candid critic, a sociable companion, a
and a pious Christian."
Chaucer's most important poems are "Troilus and Cressida,"
the first, containing 8246 lines, an abridgement, with a prose
which "The House of Fame" is written, it was found impossible
verses, and completed, in the last quarter of the thirteenth
century, by Jean de Meun, who added some 18,000 verses. It is
are advanced; and though, in making his translation, Chaucer
softened or eliminated much of the satire of the poem, still it
remained, in his verse, a caustic exposure of the abuses of the
time, especially those which discredited the Church.
The Canterbury Tales are presented in this edition with as near
an approach to completeness as regard for the popular character
of the volume permitted. The 17,385 verses, of which the
poetical Tales consist, have been given without abridgement or
purgation -- save in a single couplet; but, the main purpose of
the volume being to make the general reader acquainted with
the "poems" of Chaucer and Spenser, the Editor has ventured to
contract the two prose Tales -- Chaucer's Tale of Meliboeus,
and the Parson's Sermon or Treatise on Penitence -- so as to
save about thirty pages for the introduction of Chaucer's minor
pieces. At the same time, by giving prose outlines of the omitted
that he was losing anything essential, or even valuable. It is
almost needless to describe the plot, or point out the literary
place, of the Canterbury Tales. Perhaps in the entire range of
ancient and modern literature there is no work that so clearly
and freshly paints for future times the picture of the past;
certainly no Englishman has ever approached Chaucer in the
notably in the "Decameron" of Boccaccio -- although, there, the
circumstances under which the tales were told, with the terror
of the plague hanging over the merry company, lend a grim
grotesqueness to the narrative, unless we can look at it
abstracted from its setting.  Chaucer, on the other hand, strikes
"pilgrimage;" and at every stage of the connecting story we
bless the happy thought which gives us incessant incident,
movement, variety, and unclouded but never monotonous
joyousness.
The poet, the evening before he starts on a pilgrimage to the
shrine of St Thomas at Canterbury, lies at the Tabard Inn, in
Southwark, curious to know in what companionship he is
destined to fare forward on the morrow. Chance sends him
"nine and twenty in a company," representing all orders of
English society, lay and clerical, from the Knight and the Abbot
down to the Ploughman and the Sompnour. The jolly Host of
the Tabard, after supper, when tongues are loosened and hearts
are opened, declares that "not this year" has he seen such a
company at once under his roof-tree, and proposes that, when
they set out next morning, he should ride with them and make
them sport. All agree, and Harry Bailly unfolds his scheme: each
pilgrim, including the poet, shall tell two tales on the road to
Canterbury, and two on the way back to London; and he whom
the general voice pronounces to have told the best tale, shall be
mine Host's profit -- when the cavalcade returns from the saint's
on the morrow, in the gay spring sunshine, they ride forth,
listening to the heroic tale of the brave and gentle Knight, who
has been gracefully chosen by the Host to lead the spirited
competition of story-telling.
To describe thus the nature of the plan, and to say that when
Chaucer conceived, or at least began to execute it, he was
between sixty and seventy years of age, is to proclaim that The
Canterbury Tales could never be more than a fragment. Thirty
pilgrims, each telling two tales on the way out, and two more
on the way back -- that makes 120 tales; to say nothing of the
prologue, the description of the journey, the occurrences at
Canterbury, "and all the remnant of their pilgrimage," which
journey we have not one, and nothing is said about the doings
of the pilgrims at Canterbury -- which would, if treated like the
some reserves, in stories which he had already composed in an
independent form, death cut short his labour ere he could even
complete the arrangement and connection of more than a very
few of the Tales. Incomplete as it is, however, the magnum
opus of Chaucer was in his own time received with immense
favour; manuscript copies are numerous even now -- no slight
proof of its popularity; and when the invention of printing was
introduced into England by William Caxton, The Canterbury
Tales issued from his press in the year after the first English-
printed book, "The Game of the Chesse," had been struck off.
Innumerable editions have since been published; and it may
fairly be affirmed, that few books have been so much in favour
with the reading public of every generation as this book, which
the lapse of every generation has been rendering more
unreadable.
Apart from "The Romaunt of the Rose," no really important
poetical work of Chaucer's is omitted from or unrepresented in
the present edition. Of "The Legend of Good Women," the
Prologue only is given -- but it is the most genuinely Chaucerian
here presented; of "The Assembly of Fowls," "The Cuckoo and
the Nightingale," "The Flower and the Leaf," all; of "Chaucer's
Dream," one-fourth; of "The House of Fame," two-thirds; and
of the minor poems such a selection as may give an idea of
Chaucer's power in the "occasional" department of verse.
Necessarily, no space whatever could be given to Chaucer's
prose works -- his translation of Boethius' Treatise on the
written for the use of his son Lewis; and his "Testament of
Love," composed in his later years, and reflecting the troubles
that then beset the poet. If, after studying in a simplified form
tempted to regret that he was not introduced to a wider
acquaintance with the author, the purpose of the Editor will
have been more than attained.
The plan of the volume does not demand an elaborate
examination into the state of our language when Chaucer wrote,
or the nice questions of grammatical and metrical structure
which conspire with the obsolete orthography to make his
poems a sealed book for the masses. The most important
element in the proper reading of Chaucer's verses -- whether
written in the decasyllabic or heroic metre, which he introduced
Moliere's. The terminal "e" played an important part in
grammar; in many cases it was the sign of the infinitive -- the
"n" being dropped from the end; at other times it pointed the
distinction between singular and plural, between adjective and
adverb. The pages that follow, however, being prepared from
the modern English point of view, necessarily no account is
taken of those distinctions; and the now silent "e" has been
retained in the text of Chaucer only when required by the
modern spelling, or by the exigencies of metre.
Before a word beginning with a vowel, or with the letter "h,"
the final "e" was almost without exception mute; and in such
cases, in the plural forms and infinitives of verbs, the terminal
who is acquainted with the French language will find it hard to
fall into Chaucer's accentuation; while, for such as are not, a
simple perusal of the text according to the rules of modern
verse, should remove every difficulty.
of such power, that he was superior to all English poets of
preceding ages, not excepting his fellow-citizen Chaucer."
The poem, which is not included in the present edition, does
indeed, like many of Chaucer's smaller works, tell the story of a
by the poet mourning the loss of his lady; but the true "Dream
of Chaucer," in which he celebrates the marriage of his patron,
was published for the first time by Speght in 1597. John of
Gaunt, in the end of 1371, married his second wife, Constance,
daughter to Pedro the Cruel of Spain; so that "The Book of the
Duchess" must have been written between 1369 and 1371.
"Subject be unto all poesy,
And kiss the steps, where as thou seest space,
opinion that this poem was really produced in Chaucer's mature
age. See the introductory notes to it and to the Legend of Good
to be autobiographic allusions in "The Testament of Love,"
assign to him between 1354 and 1389 a very different history
from that here given on the strength of authentic records
explored and quoted by Sir H. Nicolas. Chaucer is made to
espouse the cause of John of Northampton, the Wycliffite Lord
Mayor of London, whose re-election in 1384 was so
vehemently opposed by the clergy, and who was imprisoned in
which he spent in supporting companions in exile; then,
returning by stealth to England in quest of funds, he was
detected and sent to the Tower, where he languished for three
years, being released only on the humiliating condition of
informing against his associates in the plot. The public records
show, however, that, all the time of his alleged exile and
captivity, he was quietly living in London, regularly drawing his
duties in the Customs until his dismissal in 1386. It need not be
the ignorance, and vices of the clergy, he did so rather as a man
no evidence that he espoused the opinions of the zealous
Reformer, far less played the part of an extreme and self-
regardless partisan of his old friend and college-companion.
labours with examining the accounts of the officers employed in
the collection of the revenue; and the sequel affords a strong
presumption that the royal administration [under Lancaster and
his friends] had been foully calumniated. We hear not of any
frauds discovered, or of defaulters punished, or of grievances
redressed." Such is the testimony of Lingard (chap. iv., 1386),
all the more valuable for his aversion from the Wycliffite
leanings of John of Gaunt. Chaucer's department in the London
Customs was in those days one of the most important and
lucrative in the kingdom; and if mercenary abuse of his post
could have been proved, we may be sure that his and his
patron's enemies would not have been content with simple
dismissal, but would have heavily amerced or imprisoned him.
Judges was L40, of the Puisne Judges about L27. Probably the
Judges -- certainly the Clerk of the Works -- had fees or
perquisites besides the stated payment.
of his son (then Duke of Hereford) in France. The Duchess
Constance had died in 1394; and the Duke had made reparation
to Katherine Swynford -- who had already borne him four
children -- by marrying her in 1396, with the approval of
Richard II., who legitimated the children, and made the eldest
son of the poet's sister-in-law Earl of Somerset. From this long-
surname of the Duke's children by Katherine, after the name of
the castle in Anjou (Belfort, or Beaufort) where they were born.
younger, Lewis, for whom he wrote the Treatise on the
Astrolabe, died young.  The elder, Thomas, married Maud, the
second daughter and co-heiress of Sir John Burghersh, brother
England. By this marriage Thomas Chaucer acquired great
estates in Oxfordshire and elsewhere; and he figured
prominently in the second rank of courtiers for many years. He
was Chief Butler to Richard II.; under Henry IV. he was
the queen of Henry IV. granted him the farm of several of her
manors, a grant subsequently confirmed to him for life by the
King, after the Queen's death. He sat in Parliament repeatedly
for Oxfordshire, was Speaker in 1414, and in the same year
went to France as commissioner to negotiate the marriage of
Henry V. with the Princess Katherine. He held, before he died
first Sir John Philip; and afterwards the Duke of Suffolk --
attainted and beheaded in 1450.  She had three children by the
Duke; and her eldest son married the Princess Elizabeth, sister
of Edward IV. The eldest son of this marriage, created Earl of
Lincoln, was declared by Richard III heir-apparent to the
throne, in case the Prince of Wales should die without issue; but
destroyed all prospect that the poet's descendants might
succeed to the crown of England; and his family is now believed
to be extinct.
buried in this sacred ground."
Chaucer, who in his time was the greatest poet of the English. If
tell you all. Death gave him rest from his toil, 25th of October
Women," and the poet's account of his habits in "The House of
And bathed every vein in such licour,
Of which virtue engender'd is the flower;
When Zephyrus eke with his swoote breath
And smalle fowles make melody,
That sleepen all the night with open eye,
And palmers <2> for to seeke strange strands,
Of Engleland, to Canterbury they wend,
The holy blissful Martyr for to seek,
Befell that, in that season on a day,
In Southwark at the Tabard <4> as I lay,
Ready to wenden on my pilgrimage
To Canterbury with devout corage,
At night was come into that hostelry
Well nine and twenty in a company
The chamber, and the stables were wide,
That I was of their fellowship anon,
But natheless, while I have time and space,
Ere that I farther in this tale pace,
Me thinketh it accordant to reason,
To tell you alle the condition
Of each of them, so as it seemed me,
And which they weren, and of what degree;
And eke in what array that they were in:
And at a Knight then will I first begin.
A KNIGHT there was, and that a worthy man,
That from the time that he first began
To riden out, he loved chivalry,
Truth and honour, freedom and courtesy.
Full worthy was he in his Lorde's war,
And ever honour'd for his worthiness
At Alisandre <6> he was when it was won.
Full often time he had the board begun
Above alle nations in Prusse.<7>
In Grenade at the siege eke had he be
Of Algesir, and ridden in Belmarie. <8>
When they were won; and in the Greate Sea
At many a noble army had he be.
At mortal battles had he been fifteen,
And foughten for our faith at Tramissene.
In listes thries, and aye slain his foe.
Against another heathen in Turkie:
He never yet no villainy ne said
In all his life, unto no manner wight.
He was a very perfect gentle knight.
But for to telle you of his array,
His horse was good, but yet he was not gay.
And wente for to do his pilgrimage.
With him there was his son, a younge SQUIRE,
A lover, and a lusty bacheler,
Of his stature he was of even length,
Embroider'd was he, as it were a mead
All full of freshe flowers, white and red.
Singing he was, or fluting all the day;
He was as fresh as is the month of May.
Short was his gown, with sleeves long and wide.
Well could he sit on horse, and faire ride.
He coulde songes make, and well indite,
Joust, and eke dance, and well pourtray and write.
Courteous he was, lowly, and serviceable,
And carv'd before his father at the table.<10>
A YEOMAN had he, and servants no mo'
A sheaf of peacock arrows<11> bright and keen
Under his belt he bare full thriftily.
Well could he dress his tackle yeomanly:
His arrows drooped not with feathers low;
And in his hand he bare a mighty bow.
A nut-head <12> had he, with a brown visiage:
And on that other side a gay daggere,
Harnessed well, and sharp as point of spear:
A Christopher on his breast of silver sheen.
An horn he bare, the baldric was of green:
There was also a Nun, a PRIORESS,
That of her smiling was full simple and coy;
Her greatest oathe was but by Saint Loy;
Entuned in her nose full seemly;
For French of Paris was to her unknow.
At meate was she well y-taught withal;
She let no morsel from her lippes fall,
Nor wet her fingers in her sauce deep.
Well could she carry a morsel, and well keep,
That no droppe ne fell upon her breast.
Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled.
Of smalle houndes had she, that she fed
Full seemly her wimple y-pinched was;
But sickerly she had a fair forehead.
It was almost a spanne broad I trow;
A pair of beades, gauded all with green;
And thereon hung a brooch of gold full sheen,
On which was first y-written a crown'd A,
Full many a dainty horse had he in stable:
And when he rode, men might his bridle hear
Jingeling <15> in a whistling wind as clear,
And eke as loud, as doth the chapel bell,
There as this lord was keeper of the cell.
The rule of Saint Maur and of Saint Benet, <16>
Because that it was old and somedeal strait
Is like to a fish that is waterless;
This is to say, a monk out of his cloister.
This ilke text held he not worth an oyster;
And I say his opinion was good.
Let Austin have his swink to him reserved.
He had of gold y-wrought a curious pin;
A love-knot in the greater end there was.
His head was bald, and shone as any glass,
And eke his face, as it had been anoint;
He was a lord full fat and in good point;
His bootes supple, his horse in great estate,
Now certainly he was a fair prelate;
His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.
A FRIAR there was, a wanton and a merry,
A limitour <18>, a full solemne man.
He had y-made full many a marriage
Of younge women, at his owen cost.
Unto his order he was a noble post;
Full well belov'd, and familiar was he
For he had power of confession,
As said himselfe, more than a curate,
For of his order he was licentiate.
Full sweetely heard he confession,
And pleasant was his absolution.
He was an easy man to give penance,
He may not weep although him sore smart.
Therefore instead of weeping and prayeres,
Men must give silver to the poore freres.
And certainly he had a merry note:
Thereto he strong was as a champion,
And knew well the taverns in every town.
And every hosteler and gay tapstere,
Accordeth not, as by his faculty,
To have with such lazars acquaintance.
It is not honest, it may not advance,
There n'as no man nowhere so virtuous.
He was the beste beggar in all his house:
And gave a certain farme for the grant, <19>
None of his bretheren came in his haunt.
For though a widow hadde but one shoe,
So pleasant was his In Principio,<20>
Yet would he have a farthing ere he went;
His purchase was well better than his rent.
And rage he could and play as any whelp,
With threadbare cope as is a poor scholer;
But he was like a master or a pope.
Somewhat he lisped for his wantonness,
To make his English sweet upon his tongue;
And in his harping, when that he had sung,
This worthy limitour <18> was call'd Huberd.
A MERCHANT was there with a forked beard,
In motley, and high on his horse he sat,
Upon his head a Flandrish beaver hat.
Sounding alway th' increase of his winning.
He would the sea were kept <22> for any thing
And he was not right fat, I undertake;
Ne was not worldly, to have an office.
Of Aristotle, and his philosophy,
Than robes rich, or fiddle, or psalt'ry.
But all be that he was a philosopher,
Yet hadde he but little gold in coffer,
And busily gan for the soules pray
Not one word spake he more than was need;
And that was said in form and reverence,
And short and quick, and full of high sentence.
Sounding in moral virtue was his speech,
And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach.
A SERGEANT OF THE LAW, wary and wise,
That often had y-been at the Parvis, <26>
There was also, full rich of excellence.
Discreet he was, and of great reverence:
He seemed such, his wordes were so wise,
Justice he was full often in assize,
Of fees and robes had he many one.
So great a purchaser was nowhere none.
All was fee simple to him, in effect
And yet he seemed busier than he was
Thereto he could indite, and make a thing
Of his complexion he was sanguine.
Well lov'd he in the morn a sop in wine.
An householder, and that a great, was he;
Saint Julian<27> he was in his country.
Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous,
It snowed in his house of meat and drink,
Of alle dainties that men coulde think.
After the sundry seasons of the year,
So changed he his meat and his soupere.
At sessions there was he lord and sire.
A sheriff had he been, and a countour<30>
Was nowhere such a worthy vavasour<31>.
Of a solemn and great fraternity.
To sitten in a guild-hall, on the dais. <32>
And eke their wives would it well assent:
And elles certain they had been to blame.
It is full fair to be y-clep'd madame,
And for to go to vigils all before,
And have a mantle royally y-bore.<33>
And powder merchant tart and galingale.
Well could he know a draught of London ale.
He could roast, and stew, and broil, and fry,
Make mortrewes, and well bake a pie.
But great harm was it, as it thoughte me,
About his neck under his arm adown;
The hot summer had made his hue all brown;
And certainly he was a good fellaw.
Full many a draught of wine he had y-draw
From Bourdeaux-ward, while that the chapmen sleep;
Of nice conscience took he no keep.
If that he fought, and had the higher hand,
With many a tempest had his beard been shake.
He knew well all the havens, as they were,
And every creek in Bretagne and in Spain:
His barge y-cleped was the Magdelain.
With us there was a DOCTOR OF PHYSIC;
In all this worlde was there none him like
To speak of physic, and of surgery:
For he was grounded in astronomy.
He kept his patient a full great deal
In houres by his magic natural.
He knew the cause of every malady,
Were it of cold, or hot, or moist, or dry,
And where engender'd, and of what humour.
He was a very  perfect practisour
To send his drugges and his lectuaries
For each of them made other for to win
Their friendship was not newe to begin
Well knew he the old Esculapius,
Of his diet measurable was he,
For it was of no superfluity,
But of great nourishing, and digestible.
His study was but little on the Bible.
A good WIFE was there OF beside BATH,
In all the parish wife was there none,
That she was out of alle charity
That on the Sunday were upon her head.
Her hosen weren of fine scarlet red,
She was a worthy woman all her live,
Husbands at the church door had she had five,
Withouten other company in youth;
She hadde passed many a strange stream
At Rome she had been, and at Bologne,
Y-wimpled well, and on her head an hat
As broad as is a buckler or a targe.
A foot-mantle about her hippes large,
And on her feet a pair of spurres sharp.
A good man there was of religion,
That was a poore PARSON of a town:
That Christe's gospel truly woulde preach.
And in adversity full patient:
But rather would he given out of doubt,
Unto his poore parishens about,
Of his off'ring, and eke of his substance.
In sickness and in mischief to visit
Out of the gospel he the wordes caught,
And this figure he added yet thereto,
That if gold ruste, what should iron do?
For if a priest be foul, on whom we trust,
To see a shitten shepherd and clean sheep:
Well ought a priest ensample for to give,
By his own cleanness, how his sheep should live.
He sette not his benefice to hire,
And left his sheep eucumber'd in the mire,
And ran unto London, unto Saint Paul's,
To seeke him a chantery<42> for souls,
So that the wolf ne made it not miscarry.
He was a shepherd, and no mercenary.
And though he holy were, and virtuous,
To drawen folk to heaven, with fairness,
By good ensample, was his business:
He waited after no pomp nor reverence,
He taught, and first he follow'd it himselve.
With him there was a PLOUGHMAN, was his brother,
God loved he beste with all his heart
Withouten hire, if it lay in his might.
His tithes payed he full fair and well,
There was also a Reeve, and a Millere,
A Sompnour, and a Pardoner also,
A Manciple, and myself, there were no mo'.
The MILLER was a stout carle for the nones,
Full big he was of brawn, and eke of bones;
His beard as any sow or fox was red,
Red as the bristles of a sowe's ears.
His mouth as wide was as a furnace.
Well could he steale corn, and tolle thrice
And yet he had a thumb of gold, pardie.<47>
A white coat and a blue hood weared he
A baggepipe well could he blow and soun',
And therewithal he brought us out of town.
A gentle MANCIPLE <48> was there of a temple,
Now is not that of God a full fair grace
Of masters had he more than thries ten,
That were of law expert and curious:
Of which there was a dozen in that house,
Worthy to be stewards of rent and land
Of any lord that is in Engleland,
To make him live by his proper good,
And able for to helpen all a shire
In any case that mighte fall or hap;
The REEVE <49> was a slender choleric man
His beard was shav'd as nigh as ever he can.
His hair was by his eares round y-shorn;
His top was docked like a priest beforn
Full longe were his legges, and full lean
Y-like a staff, there was no calf y-seen
Well wist he by the drought, and by the rain,
The yielding of his seed and of his grain
Were wholly in this Reeve's governing,
And by his cov'nant gave he reckoning,
Since that his lord was twenty year of age;
There could no man bring him in arrearage
He coulde better than his lord purchase
Full rich he was y-stored privily
His lord well could he please subtilly,
To give and lend him of his owen good,
Of Norfolk was this Reeve, of which I tell,
There n'as quicksilver, litharge, nor brimstone,
Boras, ceruse, nor oil of tartar none,
assistant
Sure, a continuation for this poem could be:
  Nor ointement that woulde cleanse or bite,
And for to drink strong wine as red as blood.
Then would he speak, and cry as he were wood;
And when that he well drunken had the wine,
Then would he speake no word but Latin.
A fewe termes knew he, two or three,
That he had learned out of some decree;
No wonder is, he heard it all the day.
And eke ye knowen well, how that a jay
Aye, Questio quid juris,<51> would he cry.
He woulde suffer, for a quart of wine,
A good fellow to have his concubine
A twelvemonth, and excuse him at the full.
In such a case of the archdeacon's curse;
"Purse is the archedeacon's hell," said he.
But well I wot, he lied right indeed:
Of cursing ought each guilty man to dread,
In danger had he at his owen guise
The younge girles of the diocese, <54>
With him there rode a gentle PARDONERE <55>
Of Ronceval, his friend and his compere,
That straight was comen from the court of Rome.
Full loud he sang, "Come hither, love, to me"
This Pardoner had hair as yellow as wax,
And therewith he his shoulders oversprad.
For it was trussed up in his wallet.
Such glaring eyen had he, as an hare.
No beard had he, nor ever one should have.
As smooth it was as it were new y-shave;
I trow he were a gelding or a mare.
But of his craft, from Berwick unto Ware,
Ne was there such another pardonere.
But with these relics, whenne that he fond
A poore parson dwelling upon lond,
Upon a day he got him more money
Than that the parson got in moneths tway;
But truely to tellen at the last,
He was in church a noble ecclesiast.
Well could he read a lesson or a story,
Therefore he sang full merrily and loud.
Now have I told you shortly in a clause
Th' estate, th' array, the number, and eke the cause
Why that assembled was this company
In Southwark at this gentle hostelry,
That highte the Tabard, fast by the Bell.<59>
But now is time to you for to tell
And after will I tell of our voyage,
And all the remnant of our pilgrimage.
But first I pray you of your courtesy,
To tellen you their wordes and their cheer;
Not though I speak their wordes properly.
For this ye knowen all so well as I,
Whoso shall tell a tale after a man,
He must rehearse, as nigh as ever he can,
Every word, if it be in his charge,
Or feigne things, or finde wordes new.
He may not spare, although he were his brother;
He must as well say one word as another.
Christ spake Himself full broad in Holy Writ,
And well ye wot no villainy is it.
Eke Plato saith, whoso that can him read,
The wordes must be cousin to the deed.
Also I pray you to forgive it me,
My wit is short, ye may well understand.
Great cheere made our Host us every one,
And to the supper set he us anon:
And served us with victual of the best.
For to have been a marshal in an hall.
Bold of his speech, and wise and well y-taught,
And of manhoode lacked him right naught.
Eke thereto was he right a merry man,
And after supper playen he began,
And spake of mirth amonges other things,
When that we hadde made our reckonings;
And saide thus; "Now, lordinges, truly
Ye be to me welcome right heartily:
For by my troth, if that I shall not lie,
I saw not this year such a company
And therefore would I make you disport,
As I said erst, and do you some comfort.
And if you liketh all by one assent
Now for to standen at my judgement,
And for to worken as I shall you say
To-morrow, when ye riden on the way,
Now by my father's soule that is dead,
Lordings (quoth he), now hearken for the best;
But take it not, I pray you, in disdain;
In this voyage, shall tellen tales tway,
To Canterbury-ward, I mean it so,
And homeward he shall tellen other two,
Of aventures that whilom have befall.
And which of you that bear'th him best of all,
That is to say, that telleth in this case
Tales of best sentence and most solace,
When that ye come again from Canterbury.
And for to make you the more merry,
I will myselfe gladly with you ride,
Right at mine owen cost, and be your guide.
And whoso will my judgement withsay,
Shall pay for all we spenden by the way.
And if ye vouchesafe that it be so,
This thing was granted, and our oath we swore
With full glad heart, and prayed him also,
That he would vouchesafe for to do so,
And that he woulde be our governour,
And of our tales judge and reportour,
And set a supper at a certain price;
And we will ruled be at his device,
In high and low: and thus by one assent,
We be accorded to his judgement.
Withouten any longer tarrying
A-morrow, when the day began to spring,
And forth we ridden all a little space,
Unto the watering of Saint Thomas<62>:
And there our host began his horse arrest,
And saide; "Lordes, hearken if you lest.
Let see now who shall telle the first tale.
As ever may I drinke wine or ale,
Whoso is rebel to my judgement,
Shall pay for all that by the way is spent.
"Sir Knight (quoth he), my master and my lord,
Now draw the cut, for that is mine accord.
Come near (quoth he), my Lady Prioress,
And ye, Sir Clerk, let be your shamefastness,
Nor study not: lay hand to, every man."
Anon to drawen every wight began,
And shortly for to tellen as it was,
Of which full blithe and glad was every wight;
And tell he must his tale as was reason,
By forword, and by composition,
As ye have heard; what needeth wordes mo'?
And when this good man saw that it was so,
As he that wise was and obedient
To keep his forword by his free assent,
Now let us ride, and hearken what I say."
And with that word we ridden forth our way;
And he began with right a merry cheer
His tale anon, and said as ye shall hear.
"the Ram," which would place the time of  the pilgrimage in the
end of March; whereas, in the Prologue to the Man of Law's
Tale, the date is given as the "eight and  twenty day of April,
that is messenger to May."
pilgrims: palmieri - palmers who go beyond  sea to the East,
and often bring back staves of palm-wood; peregrini, who go
the shrine of St Jago in Galicia; Romei, who go to Rome.   Sir
Walter Scott, however, says that palmers were in the habit of
immediately returning to their ordinary avocations. Chaucer
uses "palmer" of all pilgrims.
-- All-Saints -- day.  "Couth," past participle of "conne" to
know, exists in "uncouth."
worn by heralds.  The name of the inn was, some three
centuries after Chaucer, changed to the Talbot.
Lusignan, king of Cyprus, in 1365 but abandoned immediately
afterwards.  Thirteen years before, the same Prince had taken
Satalie, the ancient Attalia, in Anatolia, and in 1367 he won
Layas, in Armenia, both places named just below.
knights of all nations, in Prussia, whither warriors from all
countries were wont to repair, to aid the Teutonic Order in their
Belmarie is supposed to have been a Moorish state in Africa;
but "Palmyrie" has been suggested as the correct reading. The
Great Sea, or  the Greek sea, is the Eastern Mediterranean.
Tramissene, or Tremessen, is enumerated by Froissart among
the Moorish kingdoms in Africa. Palatie, or  Palathia, in
Anatolia, was a fief held by the Christian  knights after the
Turkish conquests -- the holders paying tribute to the infidel.
Our knight had fought with one of those lords against a heathen
neighbour.
that is, of the estate which bears the same name as its owner's
title.
at their fathers' tables.
hair being cut short.
Chaucer's time.
"sovereign" as we now apply it to a remedy.
much to re-establish the discipline of the Benedictines on a true
much learning hath made thee mad".
exercise other functions, within a certain district: as, "the
limitour of Holderness".
in some part of the mass.
differences; the business was often followed by sports and
feasting.
anything that the sea were guarded. "The old subsidy of
tonnage and poundage," says Tyrwhitt, "was given to the king
Orwell, a seaport in Essex.
them; French, "ecu;" Italian, "scudo."
begging for money to maintain them and their studies.
to meet their clients.
supplying his votaries with good lodging and good cheer.
hawks were  caged was called the Mews.
Catholic days, when much fish was eaten, no gentleman's
mansion was complete without a "stew".
court.
marquis, or earl, and ranking below a baron.
where sat at meat or in judgement those high in authority, rank
or honour; in our days the worthy craftsmen might have been
described as "good platform men".
of the Church, or to festival meetings, to which it was the
fashion to carry rich cloaks or mantles against the home-
coming.
now unknown ingredient used in cookery; "galingale," sweet or
long rooted cyprus; "mortrewes", a rich soup made by stamping
flesh in a mortar; "Blanc manger", not what is now called
blancmange; one part of it was the brawn of a capon.
leader, guide, or pilot; hence "lodestar," "lodestone."
books of the middle ages. The names of Galen and Hippocrates
were then usually spelt "Gallien" and "Hypocras" or "Ypocras".
of the cloth-manufacture, as were Ypres and Ghent (Gaunt) in
bulky and heavy waddings on ladies' heads.
"mustum" signifies new wine; and elsewhere Chaucer speaks of
"moisty ale", as opposed to "old".
wantonness; or gap-toothed -- with gaps between her teeth.
pierce; hence the word "drill," to bore.
of a jovial sect called by his name.
gold; probably Chaucer means that this one was as honest as his
brethren.
- was an officer charged with the purchase of victuals for inns
of court or colleges.
"gerefa"  in some parts of Scotland.
to appear in ecclesiastical courts.
Latin phrase.
sexes; it comes from the Anglo-Saxon verb to hire.
people (of both sexes) in the diocese.
who gave the Saviour a napkin to wipe the sweat from  His face
as He bore the Cross, and received it back with an impression
of His countenance upon it.
mentions a "Bull" as being near the Tabard.
prosperous citizens of London.
the old Canterbury road.
And in his time such a conqueror
That greater was there none under the sun.
Full many a riche country had he won.
What with his wisdom and his chivalry,
He conquer'd all the regne of Feminie,<3>
That whilom was y-cleped Scythia;
And weddede the Queen Hippolyta
And brought her home with him to his country
And thus with vict'ry and with melody
Let I this worthy Duke to Athens ride,
And all his host, in armes him beside.
And of the greate battle for the nonce
And how assieged was Hippolyta,
The faire hardy queen of Scythia;
And of the feast that was at her wedding
And of the tempest at her homecoming.
But all these things I must as now forbear.
The remnant of my tale is long enow.
This Duke, of whom I make mentioun,
When he was come almost unto the town,
In all his weal, and in his moste pride,
He was ware, as he cast his eye aside,
Where that there kneeled in the highe way
A company of ladies, tway and tway,
Each after other, clad in clothes black:
But such a cry and such a woe they make,
That in this world n'is creature living,
Perturben so my feaste with crying?"
Quoth Theseus; "Have ye so great envy
Of mine honour, that thus complain and cry?
And why that ye be clad thus all in black?"
The oldest lady of them all then spake,
Vict'ry, and as a conqueror to liven,
Nought grieveth us your glory and your honour;
But we beseechen mercy and succour.
Have mercy on our woe and our distress;
Some drop of pity, through thy gentleness,
Upon us wretched women let now fall.
For certes, lord, there is none of us all
That hath not been a duchess or a queen;
We have been waiting all this fortenight:
Now help us, lord, since it lies in thy might.
"I, wretched wight, that weep and waile thus,
Was whilom wife to king Capaneus,
And maken all this lamentatioun,
We losten all our husbands at that town,
While that the siege thereabouten lay.
And yet the olde Creon, wellaway!
That lord is now of Thebes the city,
Fulfilled of ire and of iniquity,
He for despite, and for his tyranny,
And will not suffer them by none assent
And with that word, withoute more respite
And let our sorrow sinken in thine heart."
This gentle Duke down from his courser start
With hearte piteous, when he heard them speak.
Him thoughte that his heart would all to-break,
And swore his oath, as he was true knight,
How Creon was of Theseus y-served,
As he that had his death full well deserved.
To Thebes-ward, and all his, host beside:
But onward on his way that night he lay:
And sent anon Hippolyta the queen,
That all the fieldes glitter up and down:
And by his banner borne is his pennon
Thus rit this Duke, thus rit this conqueror
And in his host of chivalry the flower,
Till that he came to Thebes, and alight
Fair in a field, there as he thought to fight.
But shortly for to speaken of this thing,
With Creon, which that was of Thebes king,
He fought, and slew him manly as a knight
In plain bataille, and put his folk to flight:
And by assault he won the city after,
And rent adown both wall, and spar, and rafter;
And to the ladies he restored again
The bodies of their husbands that were slain,
That Theseus the noble conqueror
Did to the ladies, when they from him went:
But shortly for to tell is mine intent.
When that this worthy Duke, this Theseus,
Had Creon slain, and wonnen Thebes thus,
Still in the field he took all night his rest,
And so befell, that in the tas they found,
Through girt with many a grievous bloody wound,
And he that other highte Palamon.
The heralds knew them well in special,
As those that weren of the blood royal
And have them carried soft unto the tent
Of Theseus, and he full soon them sent
To Athens, for to dwellen in prison
He took his host, and home he rit anon
With laurel crowned as a conquerour;
And there he lived in joy and in honour
Term of his life; what needeth wordes mo'?
And in a tower, in anguish and in woe,
Dwellen this Palamon, and eke Arcite,
Thus passed year by year, and day by day,
Till it fell ones in a morn of May
That Emily, that fairer was to seen
Than is the lily upon his stalke green,
And fresher than the May with flowers new
(For with the rose colour strove her hue;
The season pricketh every gentle heart,
And maketh him out of his sleep to start,
And saith, "Arise, and do thine observance."
This maketh Emily have remembrance
To do honour to May, and for to rise.
Y-clothed was she fresh for to devise;
Her yellow hair was braided in a tress,
Behind her back, a yarde long I guess.
The greate tower, that was so thick and strong,
Which of the castle was the chief dungeon<10>
(Where as these knightes weren in prison,
Of which I tolde you, and telle shall),
Bright was the sun, and clear that morrowning,
And Palamon, this woful prisoner,
As was his wont, by leave of his gaoler,
Was ris'n, and roamed in a chamber on high,
There as this fresh Emelia the sheen
Was in her walk, and roamed up and down.
This sorrowful prisoner, this Palamon
Went in his chamber roaming to and fro,
And to himself complaining of his woe:
That he was born, full oft he said, Alas!
Of iron great, and square as any spar,
He cast his eyes upon Emelia,
And with that cry Arcite anon up start,
And saide, "Cousin mine, what aileth thee,
That art so pale and deadly for to see?
Why cried'st thou? who hath thee done offence?
For Godde's love, take all in patience
Hath giv'n us this, although we had it sworn,
So stood the heaven when that we were born,
We must endure; this is the short and plain.
This Palamon answer'd, and said again:
"Cousin, forsooth of this opinion
Thou hast a vain imagination.
This prison caused me not for to cry;
But I was hurt right now thorough mine eye
Yond in the garden roaming to and fro,
Is cause of all my crying and my woe.
And saide: "Venus, if it be your will
You in this garden thus to transfigure
Before me sorrowful wretched creature,
Out of this prison help that we may scape.
And if so be our destiny be shape
By etern word to dien in prison,
Of our lineage have some compassion,
That is so low y-brought by tyranny."
And with that sight her beauty hurt him so,
That if that Palamon was wounded sore,
Arcite is hurt as much as he, or more.
And with a sigh he saide piteously:
"The freshe beauty slay'th me suddenly
Of her that roameth yonder in the place.
I am but dead; there is no more to say."
This Palamon, when he these wordes heard,
For to be false, nor for to be traitour
To me, that am thy cousin and thy brother
Y-sworn full deep, and each of us to other,
That never for to dien in the pain <12>,
Till that the death departen shall us twain,
Neither of us in love to hinder other,
In every case, as I should farther thee.
This was thine oath, and mine also certain;
And now thou wouldest falsely be about
To love my lady, whom I love and serve,
I lov'd her first, and tolde thee my woe
As to my counsel, and my brother sworn
To farther me, as I have told beforn.
For which thou art y-bounden as a knight
To helpe me, if it lie in thy might,
Or elles art thou false, I dare well sayn,"
This Arcita full proudly spake again:
For par amour I lov'd her first ere thou.
And mine is love, as to a creature:
For which I tolde thee mine aventure
As to my cousin, and my brother sworn
Love is a greater lawe, by my pan,
Than may be giv'n to any earthly man:
Therefore positive law, and such decree,
Is broke alway for love in each degree
A man must needes love, maugre his head.
He may not flee it, though he should be dead,
To standen in her grace, no more than I
For well thou wost thyselfe verily,
That thou and I be damned to prison
Perpetual, us gaineth no ranson.
We strive, as did the houndes for the bone;
They fought all day, and yet their part was none.
There came a kite, while that they were so wroth,
And bare away the bone betwixt them both.
And therefore at the kinge's court, my brother,
Each man for himselfe, there is no  other.
Love if thee list; for I love and aye shall
And soothly, leve brother, this is all.
Here in this prison musten we endure,
And each of us take his Aventure."
Great was the strife and long between these tway,
If that I hadde leisure for to say;
But to the effect: it happen'd on a day
(To tell it you as shortly as I may),
A worthy duke that hight Perithous<14>
That fellow was to the Duke Theseus
And for to play, as he was wont to do;
For in this world he loved no man so;
And he lov'd him as tenderly again.
So well they lov'd, as olde bookes sayn,
That when that one was dead, soothly to sayn,
His fellow went and sought him down in hell:
But of that story list me not to write.
Duke Perithous loved well Arcite,
And had him known at Thebes year by year:
And finally at request and prayere
Of Perithous, withoute ranson
Duke Theseus him let out of prison,
Freely to go, where him list over all,
In such a guise, as I you tellen shall
That if so were, that Arcite were y-found
And he were caught, it was accorded thus,
That with a sword he shoulde lose his head;
How great a sorrow suff'reth now Arcite!
The death he feeleth through his hearte smite;
He weepeth, waileth, crieth piteously;
To slay himself he waiteth privily.
He said; "Alas the day that I was born!
Now is my prison worse than beforn:
Alas! that ever I knew Perithous.
For elles had I dwelt with Theseus
Y-fettered in his prison evermo'.
Then had I been in bliss, and not in woe.
Only the sight of her, whom that I serve,
Though that I never may her grace deserve,
Would have sufficed right enough for me.
O deare cousin Palamon," quoth he,
"Thine is the vict'ry of this aventure,
Full blissfully in prison to endure:
In prison? nay certes, in paradise.
Well hath fortune y-turned thee the dice,
That hast the sight of her, and I th' absence.
For possible is, since thou hast her presence,
And art a knight, a worthy and an able,
But I that am exiled, and barren
Of alle grace, and in so great despair,
That there n'is earthe, water, fire, nor air,
Nor creature, that of them maked is,
That may me helpe nor comfort in this,
Well better than they can themselves devise?
Some man desireth for to have richess,
That cause is of his murder or great sickness.
And some man would out of his prison fain,
We wot never what thing we pray for here.
We fare as he that drunk is as a mouse.
A drunken man wot well he hath an house,
But he wot not which is the right way thither,
We seeke fast after felicity,
But we go wrong full often truely.
Then had I been in joy and perfect heal,
Where now I am exiled from my weal.
Since that I may not see you, Emily,
I am but dead; there is no remedy."
Upon that other side, Palamon,
When that he wist Arcita was agone,
Much sorrow maketh, that the greate tower
Resounded of his yelling and clamour
"Alas!" quoth he, "Arcita, cousin mine,
Of all our strife, God wot, the fruit is thine.
Thou walkest now in Thebes at thy large,
And make a war so sharp on this country
That by some aventure, or some treaty,
Thou mayst have her to lady and to wife,
For whom that I must needes lose my life.
For as by way of possibility,
Since thou art at thy large, of prison free,
And art a lord, great is thine avantage,
More than is mine, that sterve here in a cage.
For I must weep and wail, while that I live,
With all the woe that prison may me give,
And eke with pain that love me gives also,
That doubles all my torment and my woe."
Therewith the fire of jealousy upstart
Then said; "O cruel goddess, that govern
And dwelleth eke in prison and arrest,
And hath sickness, and great adversity,
That guilteless tormenteth innocence?
And yet increaseth this all my penance,
That man is bounden to his observance
And when a beast is dead, he hath no pain;
But man after his death must weep and plain,
Though in this worlde he have care and woe:
Withoute doubt it maye standen so.
"The answer of this leave I to divines,
That many a true man hath done mischief,
Go at his large, and where him list may turn.
But I must be in prison through Saturn,
Of Thebes, with his waste walles wide.
And Venus slay'th me on that other side
For jealousy, and fear of him, Arcite."
And of Arcita forth I will you tell.
The summer passeth, and the nightes long
Increase double-wise the paines strong
Both of the lover and the prisonere.
Perpetually is damned to prison,
In chaines and in fetters to be dead;
Nor never more he shall his lady see.
You lovers ask I now this question,<18>
Who lieth the worse, Arcite or Palamon?
The one may see his lady day by day,
But in prison he dwelle must alway.
The other where him list may ride or go,
But see his lady shall he never mo'.
Now deem all as you liste, ye that can,
For I will tell you forth as I began.
When that Arcite to Thebes comen was,
And shortly to concluden all his woe,
So much sorrow had never creature
That is or shall be while the world may dure.
His hue sallow, and pale as ashes cold,
And solitary he was, ever alone,
And wailing all the night, making his moan.
And if he hearde song or instrument,
And changed so, that no man coulde know
His speech, neither his voice, though men it heard.
Before his head in his cell fantastic.<20>
And shortly turned was all upside down,
Both habit and eke dispositioun,
When he endured had a year or two
This cruel torment, and this pain and woe,
At Thebes, in his country, as I said,
Upon a night in sleep as he him laid,
Him thought how that the winged god Mercury
Before him stood, and bade him to be merry.
"Now truely how sore that e'er me smart,"
Quoth he, "to Athens right now will I fare.
Nor for no dread of death shall I not spare
To see my lady that I love and serve;
And saw that changed was all his colour,
And saw his visage all in other kind.
And right anon it ran him ill his mind,
That since his face was so disfigur'd
Of malady the which he had endur'd,
And see his lady wellnigh day by day.
And right anon he changed his array,
And clad him as a poore labourer.
And all alone, save only a squier,
And at the gate he proffer'd his service,
He fell in office with a chamberlain,
The which that dwelling was with Emily.
For he was wise, and coulde soon espy
Of every servant which that served her.
Well could he hewe wood, and water bear,
To do that any wight can him devise.
A year or two he was in this service,
Page of the chamber of Emily the bright;
And Philostrate he saide that he hight.
But half so well belov'd a man as he
Ne was there never in court of his degree.
He was so gentle of conditioun,
That throughout all the court was his renown.
They saide that it were a charity
There as he might his virtue exercise.
And thus within a while his name sprung
Both of his deedes, and of his good tongue,
That Theseus hath taken him so near,
That of his chamber he hath made him squire,
And gave him gold to maintain his degree;
And eke men brought him out of his country
From year to year full privily his rent.
In darkness horrible, and strong prison,
This seven year hath sitten Palamon,
Perpetual, not only for a year.
Who coulde rhyme in English properly
It fell that in the seventh year, in May
The thirde night (as olde bookes sayn,
That all this story tellen more plain),
Were it by a venture or destiny
By helping of a friend brake his prison,
And fled the city fast as he might go,
For he had given drink his gaoler so
Of a clary <25>, made of a certain wine,
The gaoler slept, he mighte not awake:
And thus he fled as fast as ever he may.
That in the grove he would him hide all day,
And in the night then would he take his way
To Thebes-ward, his friendes for to pray
Or winnen Emily unto his wife.
This is th' effect, and his intention plain.
Now will I turn to Arcita again,
That little wist how nighe was his care,
Till that Fortune had brought him in the snare.
The busy lark, the messenger of day,
Saluteth in her song the morning gray;
And fiery Phoebus riseth up so bright,
That all the orient laugheth at the sight,
And Arcite, that is in the court royal
With Theseus, his squier principal,
Is ris'n, and looketh on the merry day.
And for to do his observance to May,
Is ridden to the fieldes him to play,
Out of the court, were it a mile or tway.
And to the grove, of which I have you told,
By a venture his way began to hold,
Right welcome be thou, faire freshe May,
I hope that I some green here getten may."
And in a path he roamed up and down,
There as by aventure this Palamon
Was in a bush, that no man might him see,
For sore afeard of his death was he.
Nothing ne knew he that it was Arcite;
When that Arcite had roamed all his fill,
Now shineth it, and now it raineth fast,
"Alas!" quoth he, "the day that I was bore!
How longe, Juno, through thy cruelty
The blood royal of Cadm' and Amphion:
Of Cadmus, which that was the firste man,
That Thebes built, or first the town began,
And of the city first was crowned king.
Of his lineage am I, and his offspring
By very line, as of the stock royal;
I serve him as his squier poorely.
And yet doth Juno me well more shame,
Now hight I Philostrate, not worth a mite.
Alas! thou fell Mars, and alas! Juno,
That Theseus martyreth in prison.
And over all this, to slay me utterly,
That shapen was my death erst than my shert. <31>
Ye slay me with your eyen, Emily;
Ye be the cause wherefore that I die.
Of all the remnant of mine other care
And with that word he fell down in a trance
A longe time; and afterward upstart
This Palamon, that thought thorough his heart
He felt a cold sword suddenly to glide:
And art my blood, and to my counsel sworn,
As I full oft have told thee herebeforn,
I will be dead, or elles thou shalt die.
Thou shalt not love my lady Emily,
But I will love her only and no mo';
For I am Palamon thy mortal foe.
And though I have no weapon in this place,
Choose which thou wilt, for thou shalt not astart."
As fierce as lion pulled out a swerd,
And saide thus; "By God that sitt'th above,
Thou should'st never out of this grove pace,
That thou ne shouldest dien of mine hand.
For I defy the surety and the band,
Which that thou sayest I have made to thee.
What? very fool, think well that love is free;
And meat and drinke this night will I bring
Enough for thee, and clothes for thy bedding.
And if so be that thou my lady win,
And slay me in this wood that I am in,
Thou may'st well have thy lady as for me."
This Palamon answer'd, "I grant it thee."
And thus they be departed till the morrow,
O Cupid, out of alle charity!
Arcite is ridd anon unto the town,
And on the morrow, ere it were daylight,
And on his horse, alone as he was born,
He carrieth all this harness him beforn;
And in the grove, at time and place y-set,
This Arcite and this Palamon be met.
Then change gan the colour of their face;
When hunted is the lion or the bear,
Thinketh, "Here comes my mortal enemy,
Withoute fail, he must be dead or I;
For either I must slay him at the gap;
Or he must slay me, if that me mishap:"
So fared they, in changing of their hue
Evereach of them holp to arm the other,
As friendly, as he were his owen brother.
And after that, with sharpe speares strong
As wilde boars gan they together smite,
And in this wise I let them fighting dwell,
And forth I will of Theseus you tell.
The Destiny, minister general,
That executeth in the world o'er all
The contrary of a thing by yea or nay,
Yet some time it shall fallen on a day
Be it of war, or peace, or hate, or love,
That for to hunten is so desirous --
That he n'is clad, and ready for to ride
With hunt and horn, and houndes him beside.
For in his hunting hath he such delight,
That it is all his joy and appetite
Clear was the day, as I have told ere this,
And Theseus, with alle joy and bliss,
With his Hippolyta, the faire queen,
And Emily, y-clothed all in green,
On hunting be they ridden royally.
And to the grove, that stood there faste by,
In which there was an hart, as men him told,
Duke Theseus the straighte way doth hold,
And over a brook, and so forth on his way.
This Duke will have a course at him or tway
Under the sun he looked, and anon
He was ware of Arcite and Palamon,
So hideously, that with the leaste stroke
It seemed that it woulde fell an oak,
No more, on pain of losing of your head.
By mighty Mars, he shall anon be dead
That smiteth any stroke, that I may see!
Withoute judge or other officer,
As though it were in listes royally. <35>
This Palamon answered hastily,
And saide: "Sir, what needeth wordes mo'?
We have the death deserved bothe two,
Two woful wretches be we, and caitives,
So give us neither mercy nor refuge.
And slay me first, for sainte charity,
But slay my fellow eke as well as me.
That from thy land is banisht on his head,
For which he hath deserved to be dead.
For this is he that came unto thy gate
And saide, that he highte Philostrate.
And this is he, that loveth Emily.
For since the day is come that I shall die
I am thy mortal foe, and it am I
That so hot loveth Emily the bright,
That I would die here present in her sight.
For both we have deserved to be slain."
This worthy Duke answer'd anon again,
And said, "This is a short conclusion.
Your own mouth, by your own confession
Hath damned you, and I will it record;
It needeth not to pain you with the cord;
Ye shall be dead, by mighty Mars the Red.<37>
The queen anon for very womanhead
Began to weep, and so did Emily,
And all the ladies in the company.
Great pity was it as it thought them all,
That ever such a chance should befall,
For gentle men they were, of great estate,
And nothing but for love was this debate
They saw their bloody woundes wide and sore,
And cried all at once, both less and more,
"Have mercy, Lord, upon us women all."
And on their bare knees adown they fall
And would have kissed his feet there as he stood,
He hath consider'd shortly in a clause
The trespass of them both, and eke the cause:
And although that his ire their guilt accused
Yet in his reason he them both excused;
As thus; he thoughte well that every man
Will help himself in love if that he can,
And eke deliver himself out of prison.
And in his gentle heart he thought anon,
And soft unto himself he saide: "Fie
Upon a lord that will have no mercy,
But be a lion both in word and deed,
To them that be in repentance and dread,
That lord hath little of discretion,
For he can maken at his owen guise
Of every heart, as that him list devise.
Lo here this Arcite, and this Palamon,
That quietly were out of my prison,
And might have lived in Thebes royally,
Now look ye, is not this an high folly?
Who may not be a fool, if but he love?
Behold, for Godde's sake that sits above,
See how they bleed! be they not well array'd?
Thus hath their lord, the god of love, them paid
Their wages and their fees for their service;
And yet they weene for to be full wise,
That serve love, for aught that may befall.
Can them therefor as muchel thank as me.
But all must be assayed hot or cold;
A man must be a fool, or young or old;
And therefore since I know of love's pain,
At request of the queen that kneeleth here,
And eke of Emily, my sister dear.
And ye shall both anon unto me swear,
But be my friends in alle that ye may.
And he them granted grace, and thus he said:
"To speak of royal lineage and richess,
Though that she were a queen or a princess,
Each of you both is worthy doubteless
To wedde when time is; but natheless
I speak as for my sister Emily,
For whom ye have this strife and jealousy,
All be ye never so jealous, nor so wroth.
And therefore I you put in this degree,
That each of you shall have his destiny
My will is this, for plain conclusion
Armed for listes up at alle rights
That whether of you bothe that hath might,
That is to say, that whether he or thou
May with his hundred, as I spake of now,
Slay his contrary, or out of listes drive,
Him shall I given Emily to wive,
To whom that fortune gives so fair a grace.
The listes shall I make here in this place.
Than one of you shalle be dead or taken.
And if you thinketh this is well y-said,
Who looketh lightly now but Palamon?
Who springeth up for joye but Arcite?
Who could it tell, or who could it indite,
The joye that is maked in the place
When Theseus hath done so fair a grace?
They take their leave, and homeward gan they ride
To Thebes-ward, with his old walles wide.
I trow men woulde deem it negligence,
To maken up the listes royally,
That such a noble theatre as it was,
Walled of stone, and ditched all without.
*Round was the shape, in manner of compass,
Westward right such another opposite.
And, shortly to conclude, such a place
Was never on earth made in so little space,
For in the land there was no craftes-man,
The theatre to make and to devise.
And for to do his rite and sacrifice
He eastward hath upon the gate above,
In worship of Venus, goddess of love,
Of Mars, he maked hath right such another,
Of alabaster white and red coral
An oratory riche for to see,
In worship of Diane of chastity,
Hath Theseus done work in noble wise.
The shape, the countenance of the figures
That weren in there oratories three.
First in the temple of Venus may'st thou see
Wrought on the wall,  full piteous to behold,
That Love's servants in this life endure;
The oathes, that their covenants assure.
Feasts, instruments, and caroles and dances,
Lust and array, and all the circumstances
Of Love, which I reckon'd and reckon shall
In order, were painted on the wall,
And more than I can make of mention.
For soothly all the mount of Citheron,<41>
Where Venus hath her principal dwelling,
Was showed on the wall in pourtraying,
Nor yet the greate strength of Hercules,
Th' enchantments of Medea and Circes,
Nor of Turnus the hardy fierce courage,
Beauty, nor sleight, nor strength, nor hardiness
Suffice these ensamples one or two,
Although I could reckon a thousand mo'.
The statue of Venus, glorious to see
Was naked floating in the large sea,
And from the navel down all cover'd was
With waves green, and bright as any glass.
A citole <44> in her right hand hadde she,
And on her head, full seemly for to see,
A rose garland fresh, and well smelling,
Above her head her doves flickering
Before her stood her sone Cupido,
Upon his shoulders winges had he two;
And blind he was, as it is often seen;
A bow he bare, and arrows bright and keen.
Why should I not as well eke tell you all
The portraiture, that was upon the wall
Within the temple of mighty Mars the Red?
In which there dwelled neither man nor beast,
Wrought all of burnish'd steel, of which th' entry
Was long and strait, and ghastly for to see.
The northern light in at the doore shone,
For window on the walle was there none
Through which men mighten any light discern.
The doors were all of adamant etern,
Every pillar the temple to sustain
Of felony, and all the compassing;
The smiler with the knife under the cloak,
The open war, with woundes all be-bled;
His hearte-blood had bathed all his hair:
Amiddes of the temple sat Mischance,
With discomfort and sorry countenance;
The town destroy'd, that there was nothing left.
There were also of Mars' division,
Saw I Conquest, sitting in great honour,
Painted the slaughter was of Julius<50>,
Of cruel Nero, and Antonius:
Although at that time they were yet unborn,
Yet was their death depainted there beforn,
By menacing of Mars, right by figure,
So was it showed in that portraiture,
As is depainted in the stars above,
Who shall be slain, or elles dead for love.
Sufficeth one ensample in stories old,
I may not reckon them all, though I wo'ld.
Of starres, that be cleped in scriptures,
That one Puella, that other Rubeus. <51>
This god of armes was arrayed thus:
A wolf there stood before him at his feet
With eyen red, and of a man he eat:
With subtle pencil painted was this story,
Now to the temple of Dian the chaste
As shortly as I can I will me haste,
To telle you all the descriptioun.
Depainted be the walles up and down
Of hunting and of shamefast chastity.
There saw I how woful Calistope,<52>
When that Dian aggrieved was with her,
Was turned from a woman to a bear,
There saw I Dane <53> turn'd into a tree,
I meane not the goddess Diane,
But Peneus' daughter, which that hight Dane.
I saw how that his houndes have him caught,
How Atalanta hunted the wild boar;
And Meleager, and many other mo',
For which Diana wrought them care and woe.
There saw I many another wondrous story,
The which me list not drawen to memory.
And underneath her feet she had a moon,
Waxing it was, and shoulde wane soon.
In gaudy green her statue clothed was,
Where Pluto hath his darke regioun.
A woman travailing was her beforn,
But, for her child so longe was unborn,
Full piteously Lucina <54> gan she call,
And saide; "Help, for thou may'st best of all."
Well could he painte lifelike that it wrought;
With many a florin he the hues had bought.
Now be these listes made, and Theseus,
That at his greate cost arrayed thus
The day approacheth of their returning,
That evereach an hundred knights should bring,
Hath ev'reach of them brought an hundred knights,
Well-armed for the war at alle rights.
As far as God hath maked sea and land,
Was, of so few, so noble a company.
For every wight that loved chivalry,
Ye knowe well, that every lusty knight,
That loveth par amour, and hath his might
Were it in Engleland, or elleswhere,
They would, their thankes, willen to be there,
T' fight for a lady; Benedicite,
With him there wente knightes many one.
Some will be armed in an habergeon,
Some have an axe, and some a mace of steel.
Evereach after his opinion.
There may'st thou see coming with Palamon
Licurgus himself, the great king of Thrace:
Black was his beard, and manly was his face.
The circles of his eyen in his head
They glowed betwixte yellow and red,
And like a griffin looked he about,
His shoulders broad, his armes round and long.
With foure white bulles in the trace.
Instead of coat-armour on his harness,
With yellow nails, and bright as any gold,
As any raven's feather it shone for black.
Of fine rubies and clear diamants.
To hunt the lion or the wilde bear,
And follow'd him, with muzzle fast y-bound,
With Arcita, in stories as men find,
The great Emetrius the king of Ind,
A mantelet on his shoulders hanging,
And that was yellow, glittering as the sun.
His voice was as a trumpet thundering.
Upon his head he wore of laurel green
A garland fresh and lusty to be seen;
Upon his hand he bare, for his delight,
An eagle tame, as any lily white.
An hundred lordes had he with him there,
All armed, save their heads, in all their gear,
Full richely in alle manner things.
For trust ye well, that earles, dukes, and kings
Were gather'd in this noble company,
For love, and for increase of chivalry.
About this king there ran on every part
Full many a tame lion and leopart.
Aboute prime<60>, and in the town alight.
This Theseus, this Duke, this worthy knight
When he had brought them into his city,
The greate giftes to the most and least,
The rich array of Theseus' palace,
Nor who sate first or last upon the dais.<61>
What ladies fairest be, or best dancing
Or which of them can carol best or sing,
Or who most feelingly speaketh of love;
What hawkes sitten on the perch above,
But of th'effect; that thinketh me the best
The Sunday night, ere day began to spring,
When Palamon the larke hearde sing,
Although it were not day by houres two,
Unto the listes, where her temple was,
"Fairest of fair, O lady mine Venus,
Daughter to Jove, and spouse of Vulcanus,
Thou gladder of the mount of Citheron!<41>
For thilke love thou haddest to Adon <63>
Have pity on my bitter teares smart,
And take mine humble prayer to thine heart.
Alas! I have no language to tell
Th'effecte, nor the torment of mine hell;
Mine hearte may mine harmes not betray;
I am so confused, that I cannot say.
But mercy, lady bright, that knowest well
My thought, and seest what harm that I feel.
And holde war alway with chastity:
Nor renown in this case, nor vaine glory
Of Emily, and die in her service;
Find thou the manner how, and in what wise.
So that I have my lady in mine arms.
For though so be that Mars is god of arms,
Your virtue is so great in heaven above,
That, if you list, I shall well have my love.
Thy temple will I worship evermo',
And on thine altar, where I ride or go,
Then pray I you, to-morrow with a spear
That Arcita me through the hearte bear
Then reck I not, when I have lost my life,
Though that Arcita win her to his wife.
This is th' effect and end of my prayere, --
Give me my love, thou blissful lady dear."
When th' orison was done of Palamon,
His sacrifice he did, and that anon,
Full piteously, with alle circumstances,
And made a signe, whereby that he took
That his prayer accepted was that day.
For though the signe shewed a delay,
Yet wist he well that granted was his boon;
And with glad heart he went him home full soon.
The third hour unequal <64>  that Palamon
Began to Venus' temple for to gon,
Up rose the sun, and up rose Emily,
And to the temple of Dian gan hie.
That to the sacrifice belonge shall,
The hornes full of mead, as was the guise;
There lacked nought to do her sacrifice.
But how she did her rite I dare not tell;
A coronet of green oak cerriall <66>
Upon her head was set full fair and meet.
Two fires on the altar gan she bete,
And did her thinges, as men may behold
In Stace of Thebes <67>, and these bookes old.
When kindled was the fire, with piteous cheer
Unto Dian she spake as ye may hear.
"O chaste goddess of the woodes green,
To whom both heav'n and earth and sea is seen,
Queen of the realm of Pluto dark and low,
Goddess of maidens, that mine heart hast know
Desire to be a maiden all my life,
Nor never will I be no love nor wife.
And not to be a wife, and be with child.
Nought will I know the company of man.
Now help me, lady, since ye may and can,
For those three formes <68> that thou hast in thee.
And Palamon, that hath such love to me,
And eke Arcite, that loveth me so sore,
This grace I pray thee withoute more,
As sende love and peace betwixt them two:
And from me turn away their heartes so,
That all their hote love, and their desire,
And all their busy torment, and their fire,
Or if my destiny be shapen so
That I shall needes have one of them two,
So send me him that most desireth me.
Behold, goddess of cleane chastity,
The bitter tears that on my cheekes fall.
Since thou art maid, and keeper of us all,
My maidenhead thou keep and well conserve,
And, while I live, a maid I will thee serve.
The fires burn upon the altar clear,
While Emily was thus in her prayere:
And as it queint, it made a whisteling,
As doth a brande wet in its burning.
And at the brandes end outran anon
As it were bloody droppes many one:
For which so sore aghast was Emily,
That she was well-nigh mad, and gan to cry,
For she ne wiste what it signified;
But onely for feare thus she cried,
And wept, that it was pity for to hear.
And therewithal Diana gan appear
With bow in hand, right as an hunteress,
And by eternal word writ and confirm'd,
But unto which of them I may not tell.
Farewell, for here I may no longer dwell.
And forth she went, and made a vanishing,
For which this Emily astonied was,
And saide; "What amounteth this, alas!
I put me under thy protection,
Diane, and in thy disposition."
The nexte hour of Mars following this
Arcite to the temple walked is
Of fierce Mars, to do his sacrifice
With all the rites of his pagan guise.
Of armes all the bridle in thine hand,
And that my might be worthy for to serve
Thy godhead, that I may be one of thine,
And haddest her in armes at thy will:
And well I wot, withoute help or grace
Of thee, ne may my strengthe not avail:
Then help me, lord, to-morr'w in my bataille,
For thilke fire that whilom burned thee,
As well as this fire that now burneth me;
Thy sovereign temple will I most honour
Of any place, and alway most labour
In thy pleasance and in thy craftes strong.
And evermore, until that day I die,
Eternal fire I will before thee find
And eke to this my vow I will me bind:
My beard, my hair that hangeth long adown,
And be thy true servant while I live.
Now, lord, have ruth upon my sorrows sore,
Give me the victory, I ask no more."
And eke the doores, clattered full fast,
Of which Arcita somewhat was aghast.
The fires burn'd upon the altar bright,
That it gan all the temple for to light;
With other rites more and at the last
The statue of Mars began his hauberk ring;
And with that sound he heard a murmuring
Full low and dim, that saide thus,  "Victory."
For which he gave to Mars honour and glory.
And thus with joy, and hope well to fare,
Arcite anon unto his inn doth fare.
And right anon such strife there is begun
And Mars the sterne god armipotent,
That knew so many of adventures old,
Found in his old experience such an art,
That he full soon hath pleased every part.
"My deare daughter Venus," quoth Saturn,
Mine is the drowning in the sea so wan;
The murmur, and the churlish rebelling,
Mine is the ruin of the highe halls,
The falling of the towers and the walls
Upon the miner or the carpenter:
I slew Samson in shaking the pillar:
Mine also be the maladies cold,
Now weep no more, I shall do diligence
That Palamon, that is thine owen knight,
Betwixte you there must sometime be peace:
All be ye not of one complexion,
That each day causeth such division,
And telle you as plainly as I can
The great effect, for which that I began.
Made every wight to be in such pleasance,
That all that Monday jousten they and dance,
And spenden it in Venus' high service.
But by the cause that they shoulde rise
Early a-morrow for to see that fight,
Unto their reste wente they at night.
And on the morrow, when the day gan spring,
Nailing the spears, and helmes buckeling,
Gnawing, and fast the armourers also
With file and hammer pricking to and fro;
The palace full of people up and down,
Some helden with him with the blacke beard,
Some with the bald, some with the thick-hair'd;
Some said he looked grim, and woulde fight:
The great Theseus that of his sleep is waked
With minstrelsy, and noise that was maked,
Held yet the chamber of his palace rich,
Array'd right as he were a god in throne:
The people presseth thitherward full soon
Him for to see, and do him reverence,
Thus shewed he the mighty Duke's will.
"The lord hath of his high discretion
Considered that it were destruction
To gentle blood, to fighten in the guise
Of mortal battle now in this emprise:
No man therefore, on pain of loss of life,
Nor short sword for to stick with point biting
No man shall draw, nor bear it by his side.
And no man shall unto his fellow ride
But one course, with a sharp y-grounden spear:
God speede you; go forth and lay on fast.
With long sword and with mace fight your fill.
Go now your way; this is the lordes will.
The voice of the people touched the heaven,
He willeth no destruction of blood.
Up go the trumpets and the melody,
And to the listes rode the company
And these two Thebans upon either side:
And after rode the queen and Emily,
And after them another company
Of one and other, after their degree.
And thus they passed thorough that city
And to the listes came they by time:
Hippolyta the queen and Emily,
And other ladies in their degrees about,
Unto the seates presseth all the rout.
And westward, through the gates under Mart,
Arcite, and eke the hundred of his part,
With banner red, is enter'd right anon;
For there was none so wise that coulde say
That any had of other avantage
Of worthiness, nor of estate, nor age,
So even were they chosen for to guess.
"Do now your devoir, younge knights proud
There is no more to say, but east and west
There see me who can joust, and who can ride.
There shiver shaftes upon shieldes thick;
He feeleth through the hearte-spoon<79> the prick.
Up spring the speares twenty foot on height;
Out go the swordes as the silver bright.
He rolleth under foot as doth a ball.
For jealous heart upon this Palamon:
Nor in Belmarie <83> there is no fell lion,
As Palamon to slay his foe Arcite.
The jealous strokes upon their helmets bite;
Out runneth blood on both their sides red,
Sometime an end there is of every deed
For ere the sun unto the reste went,
And made his sword deep in his flesh to bite,
And by the force of twenty is he take,
Unyielding, and is drawn unto the stake.
And in the rescue of this Palamon
The stronge king Licurgus is borne down:
And king Emetrius, for all his strength
Is borne out of his saddle a sword's length,
So hit him Palamon ere he were take:
But all for nought; he was brought to the stake:
His hardy hearte might him helpe naught,
He must abide when that he was caught,
That must no more go again to fight?
And when that Theseus had seen that sight
Unto the folk that foughte thus each one,
He cried, Ho! no more, for it is done!
I will be true judge, and not party.
Arcite of Thebes shall have Emily,
That by his fortune hath her fairly won."
Anon there is a noise of people gone,
For joy of this, so loud and high withal,
It seemed that the listes shoulde fall.
What can now faire Venus do above?
What saith she now? what doth this queen of love?
But weepeth so, for wanting of her will,
Saturnus saide: "Daughter, hold thy peace.
Mars hath his will, his knight hath all his boon,
And by mine head thou shalt be eased soon."
The trumpeters with the loud minstrelsy,
The heralds, that full loude yell and cry,
What a miracle there befell anon
This fierce Arcite hath off his helm y-done,
And on a courser for to shew his face
And she again him cast a friendly eye
From Pluto sent, at request of Saturn
For which his horse for fear began to turn,
His breast to-bursten with his saddle-bow.
As black he lay as any coal or crow,
So was the blood y-run into his face.
Anon he was y-borne out of the place
With hearte sore, to Theseus' palace.
And always crying after Emily.
Duke Theseus, with all his company,
Is come home to Athens his city,
With alle bliss and great solemnity.
He should be healed of his malady.
Some hadden salves, and some hadden charms:
For which this noble Duke, as he well can,
Comforteth and honoureth every man,
And made revel all the longe night,
Unto the strange lordes, as was right.
Nor there was holden no discomforting,
But as at jousts or at a tourneying;
For soothly there was no discomfiture,
Unyielding, and with twenty knights y-take
One person all alone, withouten mo',
And gave them giftes after their degree,
And held a feaste fully dayes three:
And conveyed the kinges worthily
There was no more but "Farewell, Have good day."
Of this bataille I will no more indite
But speak of Palamon and of Arcite.
Swelleth the breast of Arcite and the sore
Increaseth at his hearte more and more.
The virtue expulsive or animal,
From thilke virtue called natural,
Nor may the venom voide, nor expel
The pipes of his lungs began to swell
All is to-bursten thilke region;
Nature hath now no domination.
For which he sendeth after Emily,
And Palamon, that was his cousin dear,
Then said he thus, as ye shall after hear.
"Nought may the woful spirit in mine heart
Declare one point of all my sorrows' smart
To you, my lady, that I love the most:
But I bequeath  the service of my ghost
To you aboven every creature,
Since that my life ne may no longer dure.
Alas the woe! alas, the paines strong
That I for you have suffered and so long!
Alas the death,  alas, mine Emily!
Mine hearte's lady, ender of my life!
What is this world? what aske men to have?
Now with his love, now in his colde grave
Al one, withouten any company.
Farewell, my sweet, farewell, mine Emily,
And softly take me in your armes tway,
For love of God, and hearken what I say.
I have here with my cousin Palamon
Had strife and rancour many a day agone,
For love of you, and for my jealousy.
With alle circumstances truely,
That is to say, truth, honour, and knighthead,
So Jupiter have of my soul part,
As in this world right now I know not one,
So worthy to be lov'd as Palamon,
That serveth you, and will do all his life.
And if that you shall ever be a wife,
Forget not Palamon, the gentle man."
And with that word his speech to fail began.
For from his feet up to his breast was come
That dwelled in his hearte sick and sore,
Gan faile, when the hearte felte death;
His laste word was; "Mercy, Emily!"
His spirit changed house, and wente there,
As I came never I cannot telle where.<84>
Ne me list not th' opinions to tell
Of them, though that they writen where they dwell;
Shriek'd Emily, and howled Palamon,
And Theseus his sister took anon
Swooning, and bare her from the corpse away.
What helpeth it to tarry forth the day,
To telle how she wept both eve and morrow?
For in such cases women have such sorrow,
Or elles fall into such malady,
That at the laste certainly they die.
Infinite be the sorrows and the tears
Of olde folk, and folk of tender years,
In all the town, for death of this Theban:
For him there weepeth bothe child and man.
So great a weeping was there none certain,
When Hector was y-brought, all fresh y-slain,
To Troy: alas! the pity that was there,
Scratching of cheeks, and rending eke of hair.
"Why wouldest thou be dead?" these women cry,
"And haddest gold enough, and Emily."
No manner man might gladden Theseus,
Saving his olde father Egeus,
That knew this worlde's transmutatioun,
As he had seen it changen up and down,
Joy after woe, and woe after gladness;
And shewed him example and likeness.
"Right as there died never man," quoth he,
"In all this world, that sometime be not died.
This world is but a throughfare full of woe,
And we be pilgrims, passing to and fro:
Death is an end of every worldly sore."
And over all this said he yet much more
To this effect, full wisely to exhort
The people, that they should them recomfort.
And eke most honourable in his degree.
And at the last he took conclusion,
That there as first Arcite and Palamon
Hadde for love the battle them between,
His complaint, and for love his hote fires,
And after this, Duke Theseus hath sent
After a bier, and it all oversprad
With cloth of gold, the richest that he had;
And of the same suit he clad Arcite.
Upon his handes were his gloves white,
Eke on his head a crown of laurel green,
And in his hand a sword full bright and keen.
And, for the people shoulde see him all,
When it was day he brought them to the hall,
That roareth of the crying and the soun'.
Then came this woful Theban, Palamon,
In clothes black, y-dropped all with tears,
And (passing over weeping Emily)
The ruefullest of all the company.
Duke Theseus let forth three steedes bring,
That trapped were in steel all glittering.
And covered with the arms of Dan Arcite.
Upon these steedes, that were great and white,
There satte folk, of whom one bare his shield,
Another his spear in his handes held;
The noblest of the Greekes that there were
Upon their shoulders carried the bier,
With slacke pace, and eyen red and wet,
And on the other side Duke Theseus,
With vessels in their hand of gold full fine,
All full of honey, milk, and blood, and wine;
Eke Palamon, with a great company;
And after that came woful Emily,
Of straw first there was laid many a load.
But how the pyre was maked up on height,
How they were fell'd, shall not be told for me;
Nor how the beastes and the birdes all
Fledden for feare, when the wood gan fall;
The myrrh, the incense with so sweet odour;
Nor how Arcita lay among all this,
Nor what richess about his body is;
Nor what she spake, nor what was her desire;
When that the fire was great and burned fast;
Nor how some cast their shield, and some their spear,
And of their vestiments, which that they wear,
And cuppes full of wine, and milk, and blood,
Upon the left hand, with a loud shouting,
And thries with their speares clattering;
And thries how the ladies gan to cry;
Nor how that led was homeward Emily;
Nor how Arcite is burnt to ashes cold;
Home to Athenes when the play is done;
By process and by length of certain years
Then seemed me there was a parlement
To have with certain countries alliance,
And have of Thebans full obeisance.
For which this noble Theseus anon
"The firste mover of the cause above
When he first made the faire chain of love,
Great was th' effect, and high was his intent;
Well wist he why, and what thereof he meant:
In certain bondes, that they may not flee:<91>
That same prince and mover eke," quoth he,
"Hath stablish'd, in this wretched world adown,
Certain of dayes and duration
To all that are engender'd in this place,
There needeth no authority to allege
For it is proved by experience;
That every part deriveth from its whole.
For nature hath not ta'en its beginning
Descending so, till it be corruptable.
That species of things and progressions
Shallen endure by successions,
And not etern, withouten any lie:
This mayst thou understand and see at eye.
Lo th' oak, that hath so long a nourishing
From the time that it 'ginneth first to spring,
And hath so long a life, as ye may see,
Yet at the last y-wasted is the tree.
Consider eke, how that the harde stone
Of man and woman see we well also, --
That needes in one of the termes two, --
That is to say, in youth or else in age,-
He must be dead, the king as shall a page;
Some in his bed, some in the deepe sea,
Some in the large field, as ye may see:
What maketh this but Jupiter the king?
The which is prince, and cause of alle thing,
Converting all unto his proper will,
From which it is derived, sooth to tell
And hereagainst no creature alive,
Of no degree, availeth for to strive.
Then is it wisdom, as it thinketh me,
To make a virtue of necessity,
To dien in his excellence and flower,
When with honour is yielded up his breath,
To dien when a man is best of name.
The contrary of all this is wilfulness.
Why grudge we, why have we heaviness,
That good Arcite, of chivalry the flower,
Departed is, with duty and honour,
Out of this foule prison of this life?
Why grudge here his cousin and his wife
Of his welfare, that loved him so well?
And ere that we departe from this place,
I rede that we make of sorrows two
One perfect joye lasting evermo':
And look now where most sorrow is herein,
There will I first amenden and begin.
"Sister," quoth he, "this is my full assent,
With all th' advice here of my parlement,
That gentle Palamon, your owen knight,
That serveth you with will, and heart, and might,
And ever hath, since first time ye him knew,
Lend me your hand, for this is our accord.
Since he hath served you so many a year,
And had for you so great adversity,
To make you assente to this thing.
Come near, and take your lady by the hand."
Betwixte them was made anon the band,
That hight matrimony or marriage,
By all the counsel of the baronage.
And thus with alle bliss and melody
Hath Palamon y-wedded Emily.
And God, that all this wide world hath wrought,
Send him his love, that hath it dearly bought.
For now is Palamon in all his weal,
And he her serveth all so gentilly,
That never was there worde them between
And God save all this faire company.
Notes to The Knight's Tale.
Chaucer was indebted to Boccaccio, who had himself borrowed
from some prior poet, chronicler, or romancer.  Boccaccio
speaks of the story as "very ancient;" and, though that may not
Boccaccio's "Theseida;" but in some points the copy has a
distinct dramatic superiority over the original.  The "Theseida"
contained ten thousand lines; Chaucer has condensed it into less
than one-fourth of the number. The "Knight's Tale" is supposed
to have been at first composed as a separate work; it is
undetermined whether Chaucer took it direct from the Italian of
Boccaccio, or from a French translation.
call; German, "Heissen", "heisst".
Amazons. Gower, in the "Confessio Amantis," styles
discourse." The first, and half of the second, of Boccaccio's
twelve books are disposed of in the few lines foregoing.
yearly devoured a tribute of fourteen Athenian youths and
maidens, until it was slain by Theseus.
feudal castles; it was employed to detain prisoners of
importance. Hence the modern meaning of the word dungeon.
Edward III., according to Froissart, declared that he would
either succeed in the war against France or die in the pain --
the fashion has long died out, we still speak of "sworn friends."
Consolatione Philosophiae", which Chaucer translated, and
from which he has freely borrowed in his poetry. The words are
"Quis legem det amantibus?
Major lex amor est sibi."
("Who can give law to lovers? Love is a law unto himself, and
greater")
pronounced as words of four and three syllables respectively --
the vowels at the end not being diphthongated, but enunciated
separately, as if the words were printed Pe-ri-tho-us, The-se-us.
"conscience," which are trisyllables.
"stund;" akin to which is German, "Stunde," an hour.
house; from an Anglo-Saxon word meaning a crowd. Compare
German, "Menge," multitude.
"katharos", the Romans "purus," in the same sense.
probably made forty lines before, in the word "parlement," or
"parliament," questions like that here proposed were seriously
discussed.
according to the different sensitive faculties," says Mr Wright,
"is very ancient, and is found depicted in mediaeval
manuscripts." In a manuscript in the Harleian Library, it is
stated, "Certum est in prora cerebri esse fantasiam, in medio
rationem discretionis, in puppi memoriam" (it is certain that in
that of modern phrenologists.
eyes but he was sent to sleep by the flute of Mercury, who then
cut off his head.
perhaps, "to worry."
unexpected time.  "To  set a steven," is to fix a time, make an
appointment.
which it opened.
tree-top, now down in the briars. "Crop and root," top and
decreed before my shirt ws shaped -- that is, before any clothes
were made for me, before my birth.
common reading, however, is "regne," reign or power.
French, "Landes" -- flat, bare marshy tracts in the south of
between champion and accuser, &c.
the God of War. In his "Republic," enumerating the seven
planets, Cicero speaks of the propitious and beneficent light of
Jupiter: "Tum (fulgor) rutilis horribilisque terris, quem Martium
you say to be that of Mars." Boccaccio opens the "Theseida" by
an invocation to "rubicondo Marte."
Full of degrees, the height of sixty pas"
The building was a circle of steps or benches, as in the ancient
amphitheatre. Either the building was sixty paces high; or, more
probably, there were sixty of the steps or benches.
turns with and seems to watch the sun, as a jealous lover his
mistress.
now called Cerigo: not, as Chaucer's form of the word might
imply, Mount Cithaeron, in the south-west of Boetia, which was
appropriated to other deities than Venus -- to Jupiter, to
chronology in this passage, where the deeds of Turnus, the
glory of King Solomon, and the fate of Croesus are made
memories of the far past in the time of fabulous Theseus, the
Minotaur-slayer.
signifying the maintenance of a person in a law suit on the
condition of receiving part of the property in dispute, if
recovered.
gave to war a horror all their own.
"sheppon" still survives in provincial parlance.
understand "the dancing ships," "the ships that hop" on the
waves; "steres" being taken as the feminine adjectival
termination: or we may, perhaps, read, with one of the
manuscripts, "the ships upon the steres" -- that is, even as they
notion.
eating by animals, "essen" by men.
representing two constellations-the one signifying Mars
retrograde, the other Mars direct.
Jupiter, turned into a bear by Diana, and placed afterwards, with
Thessaly; she was beloved by Apollo, but to avoid his pursuit,
she was, at her own prayer, changed into a laurel-tree.
Diana -- as well as Juno -- was invoked by women in childbirth:
"Montium custos nemorumque, Virgo,
Quae laborantes utero puellas
Ter vocata audis adimisque leto,
Diva triformis."
("Virgin custodian of hills and groves, three-formed goddess
who hears and saves from death young women who call upon
her thrice when in childbirth")
German "Theil" a portion.
Scottish crown, he stabbed Comyn before the altar at Dumfries;
and, emerging from the church, was asked by his friend
into the church, and despatched Comyn with repeated thrusts of
his dagger.
"Alano," signifying a mastiff.
the morning.
daybreak) which after the astrological system that divided the
twenty-four among the seven ruling planets, was under the
influence of Venus.
death by the tusk of a boar she deeply mourned.
Palamon had gone forth in the hour of Venus, two hours before
daybreak; the hour of Mercury intervened; the third hour was
that of Luna, or Diana.  "Unequal" refers to the astrological
division of day and night, whatever their duration, into twelve
parts, which of necessity varied in length with the season.
Chaucer, means naked.
History," calls "cerrus."
twelve books of his "Thebaid" the ancient legends connected
with the war of the seven against Thebes.
hell; hence the direction of the eyes of her statue to "Pluto's
dark region."  Her statue was set up where three ways met, so
that with a different face she looked down each of the three;
from which she was called Trivia. See the quotation from
"inextinguishable laughter" of Olympus.
person of the deity endowed with the supposed quality of the
planet called after his name.
predicted "much debate" under his ascendancy; hence it was
"against his kind" to compose the heavenly strife.
call for silence in law-courts or before proclamations.
lower ribs join the cartilago ensiformis.
extraordinary violence in the action denoted.
passage refers impersonally to any of the combatants.
Africa; but "Palmyrie" has been suggested as the correct
reading.
cannot tell you, as I was not there.  Tyrwhitt thinks that
Chaucer is sneering at Boccacio's pompous account of the
passage of Arcite's soul to heaven. Up to this point, the
description of the death-scene is taken literally from the
beard, and rough hair strewn with ashes. "Flotery" is the general
picture of abandonment to grief.
souverain carrefour."
funeral pile of an emperor or general; "on the left hand" is
added, in reference to the belief that the left hand was
propitious -- the Roman augur turning his face southward, and
so placing on his left hand the east, whence good omens came.
With the Greeks, however, their augurs facing the north, it was
funeral of Arcite is taken from Statius' "Thebaid" -- from a
Roman's account of a Greek solemnity.
Anglo-Saxon, "lice," a corpse; German, "Leichnam."
"Hanc rerum seriem ligat,
Terras ac pelagus regens,
Et coelo imperitans, amor."
(Love ties these things together: the earth, and the ruling sea,
and the imperial heavens)
When that the Knight had thus his tale told
In all the rout was neither young nor old,
That he not said it was a noble story,
For truely this game is well begun.
And swore by armes, and by blood, and bones,
Abide, and let us worke thriftily."
By Godde's soul," quoth he, "that will not I,
For I will speak, or elles go my way!"
"Now hearken," quoth the Miller, "all and some:
But first I make a protestatioun.
That I am drunk, I know it by my soun':
And therefore if that I misspeak or say,
Both of a carpenter and of his wife,
It is a sin, and eke a great folly
Thou may'st enough of other thinges sayn."
This drunken Miller spake full soon again,
And saide, "Leve brother Osewold,
Who hath no wife, he is no cuckold.
But I say not therefore that thou art one;
There be full goode wives many one.
Why art thou angry with my tale now?
I have a wife, pardie, as well as thou,
An husband should not be inquisitive
Of Godde's privity, nor of his wife.
What should I more say, but that this Millere
He would his wordes for no man forbear,
And therefore every gentle wight I pray,
For Godde's love to deem not that I say
Of evil intent, but that I must rehearse
Their tales all, be they better or worse,
Turn o'er the leaf, and choose another tale;
For he shall find enough, both great and smale,
Blame not me, if that ye choose amiss.
The Miller is a churl, ye know well this,
So was the Reeve, with many other mo',
Notes to the Prologue to the Miller's Tale
middle ages, was probably represented as having a gruff, harsh
voice.
blame.
Whilom there was dwelling in Oxenford
With him there was dwelling a poor scholer,
Had learned art, but all his fantasy
Was turned for to learn astrology.
When that men should have drought or elles show'rs:
Or if men asked him what shoulde fall
Of everything, I may not reckon all.
And like a maiden meek for to see.
A chamber had he in that hostelry
Alone, withouten any company,
His astrolabe,<2>  belonging to his art,
His augrim stones,<3> layed fair apart
On which he made at nightes melody,
So sweetely, that all the chamber rang:
And Angelus ad virginem<4> he sang.
And after that he sung the kinge's note;
Full often blessed was his merry throat.
And thus this sweete clerk his time spent
cost of his lodging*
This carpenter had wedded new a wife,
Which that he loved more than his life:
Of eighteen year, I guess, she was of age.
Jealous he was, and held her narr'w in cage,
For she was wild and young, and he was old,
That bade a man wed his similitude.
Men shoulde wedden after their estate,
He must endure (as other folk) his care.
Fair was this younge wife, and therewithal
Of coal-black silk, within and eke without.
Her fillet broad of silk, and set full high:
And by her girdle hung a purse of leather,
A brooch she bare upon her low collere,
As broad as is the boss of a bucklere.
Her shoon were laced on her legges high;
As clerkes be full subtle and full quaint.
Or I will dien, all so God me save."
And she sprang as a colt doth in the trave<14>:
And with her head she writhed fast away,
Or I will cry out harow and alas!<15>
Do away your handes, for your courtesy."
This Nicholas gan mercy for to cry,
And spake so fair, and proffer'd him so fast,
That she her love him granted at the last,
And swore her oath by Saint Thomas of Kent,
That she would be at his commandement,
When that she may her leisure well espy.
"My husband is so full of jealousy,
To wait a time, as I have said beforn.
And playeth fast, and maketh melody.
Then fell it thus, that to the parish church,
Her forehead shone as bright as any day,
So was it washen, when she left her werk.
Now was there of that church a parish clerk,
The which that was y-cleped Absolon.
Curl'd was his hair, and as the gold it shone,
And thereupon he had a gay surplice,
Well could he letten blood, and clip, and shave,
And make a charter of land, and a quittance.
In twenty manners could he trip and dance,
This Absolon, that jolly was and gay,
Went with a censer on the holy day,
She was so proper, and sweet, and likerous.
I dare well say, if she had been a mouse,
Hath in his hearte such a love-longing!
That of no wife took he none offering;
For courtesy he said he woulde none.
The moon at night full clear and brighte shone,
And Absolon his gitern hath y-taken,
For paramours he thoughte for to waken,
A little after the cock had y-crow,
He singeth in his voice gentle and small;
"Now, dear lady, if thy will be,
This carpenter awoke, and heard him sing,
And spake unto his wife, and said anon,
What Alison, hear'st thou not Absolon,
"Yes, God wot, John, I hear him every deal."
From day to day this jolly Absolon
So wooeth her, that him is woebegone.
He waketh all the night, and all the day,
To comb his lockes broad, and make him gay.
For some folk will be wonnen for richess,
And some for strokes, and some with gentiless.
Sometimes, to show his lightness and mast'ry,
He playeth Herod <22> on a scaffold high.
But what availeth him as in this case?
So loveth she the Hendy Nicholas,
And thus she maketh Absolon her ape,
Men say right thus alway; the nighe sly
Maketh oft time the far lief to be loth. <23>
This nigh Nicholas stood still in his light.
Now bear thee well, thou Hendy Nicholas,
For Absolon may wail and sing "Alas!"
And so befell, that on a Saturday
This carpenter was gone to Oseney,
Accorded were to this conclusion,
And if so were the game went aright,
She shoulde sleepen in his arms all night;
For this was her desire and his also.
And right anon, withoute wordes mo',
This Nicholas no longer would he tarry,
But doth full soft unto his chamber carry
Both meat and drinke for a day or tway.
And to her husband bade her for to say,
If that he asked after Nicholas,
He would answer, for nought that might befall."
And ate, and slept, and didde what him list
This knave went him up full sturdily,
And, at the chamber door while that he stood,
How may ye sleepen all the longe day?"
But all for nought, he hearde not a word.
An hole he found full low upon the board,
Where as the cat was wont in for to creep,
And at that hole he looked in full deep,
And at the last he had of him a sight.
This Nicholas sat ever gaping upright,
He saw not that. But yet, by Saint Thomas!
He shall out of his studying, as I guess."
And by the hasp he heav'd it off at once;
Into the floor the door fell down anon.
This Nicholas sat aye as still as stone,
And ever he gap'd upward into the air.
Awake, and think on Christe's passioun.
Blesse this house from every wicked wight,
From the night mare, the white Pater-noster;
Gan for to sigh full sore, and said; "Alas!
And after will I speak in privity
Of certain thing that toucheth thee and me:
I will tell it no other man certain."
This carpenter went down, and came again,
And brought of mighty ale a large quart;
And when that each of them had drunk his part,
"Now, John," quoth Nicholas, "I will not lie,
I have y-found in my astrology,
As I have looked in the moone bright,
That now on Monday next, at quarter night,
This world," he said, "in less than half an hour
And shall she drench? alas, mine Alisoun!"
For sorrow of this he fell almost adown,
And said; "Is there no remedy in this case?"
"Why, yes, for God," quoth Hendy Nicholas;
For thus saith Solomon, that was full true:
I undertake, withoute mast or sail,
Yet shall I save her, and thee, and me.
Hast thou not heard how saved was Noe,
When that our Lord had warned him beforn,
The sorrow of Noe, with his fellowship,
That he had ere he got his wife to ship?<30>
*Him had been lever, I dare well undertake,
At thilke time, than all his wethers black,
This asketh haste, and of an hasty thing
Men may not preach or make tarrying.
But for one day; fie on the remenant;
Ask me not why: for though thou aske me
I will not telle Godde's privity.
Go now thy way, and speed thee hereabout.
But when thou hast for her, and thee, and me,
Y-gotten us these kneading tubbes three,
Then shalt thou hang them in the roof full high,
And hast our vitaille fair in them y-laid,
And eke an axe to smite the cord in two
When that the water comes, that we may go,
And break an hole on high upon the gable
Into the garden-ward, over the stable,
That we may freely passe forth our way,
When that the greate shower is gone away.
Then shalt thou swim as merry, I undertake,
As doth the white duck after her drake:
And thou wilt say, 'Hail, Master Nicholay,
Good-morrow, I see thee well, for it is day.'
And then shall we be lordes all our life
Of all the world, as Noe and his wife.
But of one thing I warne thee full right,
That none of us not speak a single word,
Nor clepe nor cry, but be in his prayere,
No more in looking than there shall in deed.
This ordinance is said: go, God thee speed
To-morrow night, when men be all asleep,
Into our kneading tubbes will we creep,
And sitte there, abiding Godde's grace.
Go now thy way, I have no longer space
To make of this no longer sermoning:
Men say thus: Send the wise, and say nothing:
Thou art so wise, it needeth thee nought teach.
Go, save our lives, and that I thee beseech."
This silly carpenter went forth his way,
Full oft he said, "Alas! and Well-a-day!,'
And to his wife he told his privity,
And she was ware, and better knew than he
Help us to scape, or we be dead each one.
I am thy true and very wedded wife;
Go, deare spouse, and help to save our life."
Lo, what a great thing is affection!
Men may die of imagination,
So deeply may impression be take.
This silly carpenter begins to quake:
He thinketh verily that he may see
This newe flood come weltering as the sea
And after that a tub, and a kemelin,
And privily he sent them to his inn:
And hung them in the roof full privily.
With his own hand then made he ladders three,
But ere that he had made all this array,
He shut his door withoute candle light,
This carpenter said his devotion,
And still he sat and bidded his prayere,
Awaking on the rain, if he it hear.
The deade sleep, for weary business,
Fell on this carpenter, right as I guess,
About the curfew-time,<33> or little more,
Withoute wordes more they went to bed,
And thus lay Alison and Nicholas,
In business of mirth and in solace,
This parish clerk, this amorous Absolon,
That is for love alway so woebegone,
With company, him to disport and play;
And he drew him apart out of the church,
For timber, where our abbot hath him sent.
And dwellen at the Grange a day or two:
For he is wont for timber for to go,
Or else he is at his own house certain.
And thought, "Now is the time to wake all night,
So may I thrive, but I shall at cock crow
Full privily go knock at his window,
My love-longing; for I shall not miss
That at the leaste way I shall her kiss.
That is a sign of kissing at the least.
And all the night then will I wake and play."
When that the first cock crowed had, anon
Up rose this jolly lover Absolon,
To smelle sweet, ere he had combed his hair.
Under his tongue a true love <35>  he bare,
For thereby thought he to be gracious.
Then came he to the carpentere's house,
And still he stood under the shot window;
"Go from the window, thou jack fool," she said:
Well better than thee, by Jesus, Absolon.
Go forth thy way, or I will cast a stone;
That true love ever was so ill beset:
"Wilt thou then go thy way therewith?" , quoth she.
"Yea, certes, leman," quoth this Absolon.
"Then make thee ready," quoth she, "I come anon."
This Absolon down set him on his knees,
And said; "I am a lord at all degrees:
For after this I hope there cometh more;
"Have done," quoth she, "come off, and speed thee fast,
Lest that our neighebours should thee espy."
Then Absolon gan wipe his mouth full dry.
Dark was the night as pitch or as the coal,
And at the window she put out her hole,
And Absolon him fell ne bet ne werse,
But with his mouth he kiss'd her naked erse
Full savourly. When he was ware of this,
Aback he start, and thought it was amiss;
For well he wist a woman hath no beard.
He felt a thing all rough, and long y-hair'd,
And saide; "Fy, alas! what have I do?"
"Te he!" quoth she, and clapt the window to;
And Absolon went forth at sorry pace.
"A beard, a beard," said Hendy Nicholas;
"By God's corpus, this game went fair and well."
But Absolon? that saith full oft, "Alas!
My soul betake I unto Sathanas,
Full often paramours he gan defy,
And weep as doth a child that hath been beat.
A softe pace he went over the street
He sharped share and culter busily.
This Absolon knocked all easily,
And said; "Undo, Gerveis, and that anon."
"What, who art thou?" "It is I, Absolon."
Hath brought you thus upon the viretote:<38>
By Saint Neot, ye wot well what I mean."
Than Gerveis knew, and saide; "Friend so dear,
That hote culter in the chimney here
Gerveis answered; "Certes, were it gold,
Hey! Christe's foot, what will ye do therewith?"
"Thereof," quoth Absolon, "be as be may;
I shall well tell it thee another day:"
And went unto the carpentere's wall
He coughed first, and knocked therewithal
That knocketh so? I warrant him a thief."
Of gold," quoth he, "I have thee brought a ring,
My mother gave it me, so God me save!
Now Nicholas was risen up to piss,
And up the window did he hastily,
And out his erse he put full privily
Over the buttock, to the haunche bone.
And therewith spake this clerk, this Absolon,
"Speak, sweete bird, I know not where thou art."
This Nicholas anon let fly a fart,
And Nicholas amid the erse he smote.
Off went the skin an handbreadth all about.
This carpenter out of his slumber start,
He sat him up withoute wordes mo'
And with his axe he smote the cord in two;
And down went all; he found neither to sell
Up started Alison and Nicholay,
And cried out an "harow!" <15>  in the street.
The neighbours alle, bothe small and great
For with the fall he broken had his arm.
But stand he must unto his owen harm,
For when he spake, he was anon borne down
He had y-bought him kneading-tubbes three,
And had them hanged in the roof above;
And that he prayed them for Godde's love
To sitten in the roof for company.
The folk gan laughen at his phantasy.
It was for nought, no man his reason heard.
With oathes great he was so sworn adown,
That he was holden wood in all the town.
For every clerk anon right held with other;
And Nicholas is scalded in the tout.
Notes to the Miller's Tale
formed the canon of astrological science in the middle ages.
instrument for taking the altitude of the sun or stars.
numeration; "augrim stones," therefore were probably marked
with numerals, and used as counters.
Censor, more probably the reference is merely to the "Moral
Distichs," which go under his name, though written after his
time; and in a supplement to which the quoted passage may be
found.
to wrap up.
brightness; "Ex auro nobilissimi, unde nobilis vocatus," (made
from the noblest (purest) gold, and therefore called nobles) says
In some parts of the country, a drink made from honeycomb,
after the honey is extracted, is still called "bragwort."
"piga," a young maid; but Tyrwhitt associates it with the Latin,
Davenport and Butler both use the word pigsnie, the first for
"darling," the second literally for "eye;" and Bishop Gardner,
"On True Obedience," in his address to the reader, says: "How
softly she was wont to chirpe him under the chin, and kiss him;
how prettily she could talk to him (how doth my sweet heart,
what saith now pig's-eye)."
or aid. The "Clameur de Haro" was lately raised, under peculiar
circumstances, as the prelude to a legal protest, in Jersey.
especially like the old rose-window.
possible shoot at any one approaching the door.
reward, for her love.
mysteries or religious plays; Herod was one of these parts,
which may have been an object of competition among the
amateurs of the period.
proverb; the cunning one near at hand oft makes the loving one
afar off to be odious.
sense of "peep."
at Oxford, and held there in high repute.
it has since appeared in many other forms.
the middle ages, some very active exploits against the prince of
darkness and his powers were ascribed by the monkish tale-
tellers to the saviour after he had "descended into hell."
come into the ark, and bade her husband row forth and get him
a new wife, because he was leaving her gossips in the town to
drown. Shem and his brothers got her shipped by main force;
and Noah, coming forward to welcome her, was greeted with a
box on the ear.
At thilke time, than all his wethers black,
That she had had a ship herself alone."
"At that time he would have given all his black wethers, if she
had had an ark to herself."
explained as the humming sound made in repeating prayers;
from the Anglo-Saxon, "clumian," to mutter, speak in an under-
tone, keep silence.
William the Conqueror, all people were, on ringing of a bell, to
extinguish fire and candle, and go to rest; hence the word
curfew, from French, "couvre-feu," cover-fire.
Paradise; a favourite spice.
another reading, however, is "a true love-knot," which may
have been of the nature of a charm.
editions: they are taken from Urry; whether he supplied them or
not, they serve the purpose of a necessary explanation.
this euphemistic phrase has enjoyed a wonderful vitality.
Spelman as a game in which children made themselves giddy by
whirling on ropes.  In French, "virer" means to turn; and the
explanation may, therefore, suit either reading. In modern slang
parlance, Gerveis would probably have said, "on the rampage,"
or "on the swing" -- not very far from Spelman's rendering.
playing a deeper game, had more serious business on hand.
"solum," the ground.
WHEN folk had laughed all at this nice case
Diverse folk diversely they said,
But it were only Osewold the Reeve.
Because he was of carpenteres craft,
But I am old; me list not play for age; <2>
Grass time is done, my fodder is now forage.
Till we be rotten, can we not be ripe;
To have an hoary head and a green tail,
As hath a leek; for though our might be gone,
And yet have I alway a coltes tooth,<5>
As many a year as it is passed and gone
Since that my tap of life began to run;
And ever since hath so the tap y-run,
Till that almost all empty is the tun.
The stream of life now droppeth on the chimb.<6>
The silly tongue well may ring and chime
When that our Host had heard this sermoning,
He gan to speak as lordly as a king,
And said; "To what amounteth all this wit?
What? shall we speak all day of holy writ?
The devil made a Reeve for to preach,
Lo Greenwich, where many a shrew is in.
It were high time thy tale to begin."
"Now, sirs," quoth then this Osewold the Reeve,
I pray you all that none of you do grieve,
Right in his churlish termes will I speak,
I pray to God his necke might to-break.
He can well in mine eye see a stalk,
But in his own he cannot see a balk."<12>
playing off a joke on him.
drollery.
their wonted fires."
the head.
sutore nauclerus" (a  seaman or pilot from a cobbler) were both
proverbial expressions in the Middle Ages.
half-past seven in the morning.
or "houfe," means "hood;" and the phrase signifies to be even
with, outwit.
Upon the whiche brook there stands a mill:
As any peacock he was proud and gay:
A thief he was, for sooth, of corn and meal,
And that a sly, and used well to steal.
The parson of the town her father was.
With her he gave full many a pan of brass,
For that Simkin should in his blood ally.
She was y-foster'd in a nunnery:
For Simkin woulde no wife, as he said,
But she were well y-nourish'd, and a maid,
To saven his estate and yeomanry:
On holy days before her would he go
There durste no wight call her aught but Dame:
None was so hardy, walking by that way,
For jealous folk be per'lous evermo':
One daughter hadde they betwixt them two
Of twenty year, withouten any mo,
Saving a child that was of half year age,
But right fair was her hair, I will not lie.
The parson of the town, for she was fair,
In purpose was to make of her his heir
Both of his chattels and his messuage,
Therefore he would his holy blood honour
Though that he holy Churche should devour.
There was their wheat and eke their malt y-ground.
An hundred times more than beforn.
For theretofore he stole but courteously,
But now he was a thief outrageously.
Then were there younge poore scholars two,
That dwelled in the hall of which I say;
Upon the warden busily they cry,
John hight the one, and Alein hight the other,
Of one town were they born, that highte Strother,<7>
Far in the North, I cannot tell you where.
This Alein he made ready all his gear,
And on a horse the sack he cast anon:
Forth went Alein the clerk, and also John,
With good sword and with buckler by their side.
John knew the way, him needed not no guide,
And at the mill the sack adown he lay'th.
Alein spake first; "All hail, Simon, in faith,
How fares thy faire daughter, and thy wife."
"Alein, welcome," quoth Simkin, "by my life,
And John also: how now, what do ye here?"
To grind our corn and carry it home again:
I pray you speed us hence as well ye may."
"It shall be done," quoth Simkin, "by my fay.
What will ye do while that it is in hand?"
"By God, right by the hopper will I stand,"
Quoth John, "and see how that the corn goes in.
Yet saw I never, by my father's kin,
How that the hopper wagges to and fro."
Alein answered, "John, and wilt thou so?
Then will I be beneathe, by my crown,
And see how that the meale falls adown
I is as ill a miller as is ye."
For all the sleight in their philosophy.
As whilom to the wolf thus spake the mare: <10>
Of all their art ne count I not a tare."
Out at the door he went full privily,
When that he saw his time, softely.
He looked up and down, until he found
The clerkes' horse, there as he stood y-bound
And stripped off the bridle right anon.
And when the horse was loose, he gan to gon
Toward the fen, where wilde mares run,
Forth, with "Wehee!" through thick and eke through thin.
This miller went again, no word he said,
And when the meal was sacked and y-bound,
Then John went out, and found his horse away,
And gan to cry, "Harow, and well-away!
Our horse is lost: Alein, for Godde's bones,
Step on thy feet; come off, man, all at once:
With wilde mares, as fast as he could go.
"Alas!" quoth John, "Alein, for Christes pain
Lay down thy sword, and I shall mine also.
Toward the fen, both Alein and eke John;
And when the miller saw that they were gone,
He half a bushel of their flour did take,
And bade his wife go knead it in a cake.
He said; I trow, the clerkes were afeard,
Lo where they go! yea, let the children play:
They get him not so lightly, by my crown."
These silly clerkes runnen up and down
They coulde not, though they did all their might,
Their capel catch, he ran alway so fast:
Till in a ditch they caught him at the last.
Weary and wet, as beastes in the rain,
Comes silly John, and with him comes Alein.
"Alas," quoth John, "the day that I was born!
Such as it is, yet shall ye have your part.
Mine house is strait, but ye have learned art;
Ye can by arguments maken a place
A mile broad, of twenty foot of space.
Let see now if this place may suffice,
Aye is thou merry, and that is fair answer'd.
I have heard say, man shall take of two things,
Such as he findes, or such as he brings.
But specially I pray thee, hoste dear,
Gar <16> us have meat and drink, and make us cheer,
And we shall pay thee truly at the full:
This miller to the town his daughter send
For ale and bread, and roasted them a goose,
And bound their horse, he should no more go loose:
And them in his own chamber made a bed.
His daughter had a bed all by herselve,
And drinken ever strong ale at the best.
Aboute midnight went they all to rest.
Well had this miller varnished his head;
The cradle at her beddes feet was set,
To rock, and eke to give the child to suck.
To bedde went Alein, and also John.
There was no more; needed them no dwale.<19>
The wenche routed eke for company.
Alein the clerk, that heard this melody,
He poked John, and saide: "Sleepest thou?
Heardest thou ever such a song ere now?
That if a man in one point be aggriev'd,
That in another he shall be relievd.
Our corn is stol'n, soothly it is no nay,
And we have had an evil fit to-day.
And since I shall have none amendement
Against my loss, I will have easement:
By Godde's soul, it shall none, other be."
And up he rose, and by the wench he crept.
This wenche lay upright, and fast she slept,
Till he so nigh was, ere she might espy,
That it had been too late for to cry:
And, shortly for to say, they were at one.
Now play, Alein, for I will speak of John.
This John lay still a furlong way <23> or two,
Yet has my fellow somewhat for his harm;
He has the miller's daughter in his arm:
And up he rose, and softely he went
And came again and gan the cradle miss
And groped here and there, but she found none.
"Alas!" quoth she, "I had almost misgone
I had almost gone to the clerkes' bed.
Ey! Benedicite, then had I foul y-sped."
And forth she went, till she the cradle fand.
She groped alway farther with her hand
And wist not where she was, for it was derk;
But fair and well she crept in by the clerk,
And lay full still, and would have caught a sleep.
Within a while this John the Clerk up leap
And on this goode wife laid on full sore;
This jolly life have these two clerkes had,
Till that the thirde cock began to sing.
Alein wax'd weary in the morrowing,
The day is come, I may no longer bide,
But evermore, where so I go or ride,
When that thou wendest homeward by the mill,
Right at the entry of the door behind
Thou shalt a cake of half a bushel find,
That was y-maked of thine owen meal,
Which that I help'd my father for to steal.
And goode leman, God thee save and keep."
And with that word she gan almost to weep.
Alein uprose and thought, "Ere the day daw
I will go creepen in by my fellaw:"
And found the cradle with his hand anon.
"By God!" thought he, "all wrong I have misgone:
I wot well by the cradle I have misgo';
Here lie the miller and his wife also."
And forth he went a twenty devil way
Unto the bed, there as the miller lay.
And caught him by the neck, and gan him shake,
And said; "Thou John, thou swines-head, awake
For Christes soul, and hear a noble game!
For by that lord that called is Saint Jame,
As I have thries in this shorte night
Swived the miller's daughter bolt-upright,
Ah, false traitor, false clerk," quoth he,
"Thou shalt be dead, by Godde's dignity,
Down ran the bloody stream upon his breast:
And in the floor with nose and mouth all broke
They wallow, as do two pigs in a poke.
And up they go, and down again anon,
That wiste nothing of this nice strife:
"In manus tuas! <27> Lord, to thee I call.
Awake, Simon, the fiend is on me fall;
Mine heart is broken; help; I am but dead:
There li'th one on my womb and on mine head.
Help, Simkin, for these false clerks do fight"
This John start up as fast as e'er he might,
And groped by the walles to and fro
To find a staff; and she start up also,
And saw a little shimmering of a light,
For at an hole in shone the moone bright,
And by that light she saw them both the two,
And when she gan this white thing espy,
These clerkes beat him well, and let him lie,
And at the mill door eke they took their cake
Of half a bushel flour, full well y-bake.
Thus is the proude miller well y-beat,
And hath y-lost the grinding of the wheat;
And therefore this proverb is said full sooth,
And God that sitteth high in majesty
Save all this Company, both great and smale.
Notes to the Reeve's Tale
Ages, and are found under various forms.  Boccaccio has told
them in the ninth day of his "Decameron".
or upper storey; supposed to have been Clare Hall.
(Transcribers note: later commentators identify it with King's
Hall, now merged with Trinity College)
to the prologue to the Tales.
Chaucer has given the scholars a dialect that may have belonged
to either district, although it more immediately suggests the
more northern of the two.
(Transcribers note: later commentators have identified it with a
now vanished village near Kirknewton in Northumberland.
There was a well-known Alein of Strother in Chaucer's
lifetime.)
cheek; German, "Wange."
which pretends that his name is written on the bottom of his
"every man of letters is not wise." A similar story is told in
"cavallo," from Latin, "caballus."
barbe;" and Boccaccio uses the proverb in the same sense.
"get us some".
"krug;" hence "crockery."
sleep.
drone of a bagpipe; French, "bourdon."
remarkable sight.
kitchen; a cook, in base Latin, being termed "coquinarius."
compare French "coquin," rascal.
venture, nothing have;" German, "unselig," unhappy.
time; the cross or rood of the priory of Bromholm, in Norfolk,
was said to contain part of the real cross and therefore held in
high esteem.
THE Cook of London, while the Reeve thus spake,
For joy he laugh'd and clapp'd him on the back:
"Aha!" quoth he, "for Christes passion,
This Miller had a sharp conclusion,
Bring thou not every man into thine house,
For harbouring by night is perilous.
I pray to God to give me sorrow and care
A tale of me, that am a poore man,
I will you tell as well as e'er I can
Our Host answer'd and said; "I grant it thee.
Roger, tell on; and look that it be good,
For many a pasty hast thou letten blood,
And many a Jack of Dover<1> hast thou sold,
That had been twice hot and twice cold.
Of many a pilgrim hast thou Christe's curse,
For of thy parsley yet fare they the worse.
That they have eaten in thy stubble goose:
For in thy shop doth many a fly go loose.
Now tell on, gentle Roger, by thy name,
"Thou sayst full sooth," quoth Roger, "by my fay;
But sooth play quad play,<2> as the Fleming saith,
And therefore, Harry Bailly, by thy faith,
And told his tale, as ye shall after hear.
Notes to the Prologue to the Cook's Tale