THE SHIPMAN'S TALE.

THE PROLOGUE

Our Host upon his stirrups stood anon,

And saide; "Good men, hearken every one,

This was a thrifty* tale for the nones. *discreet, profitable

Sir Parish Priest," quoth he, "for Godde's bones,

Tell us a tale, as was thy *forword yore:* *promise formerly*

I see well that ye learned men in lore

Can* muche good, by Godde's dignity." *know

The Parson him answer'd, "Ben'dicite!

What ails the man, so sinfully to swear?"

Our Host answer'd, "O Jankin, be ye there?

Now, good men," quoth our Host, "hearken to me.

I smell a Lollard in the wind," quoth he.

"Abide, for Godde's digne* passion, *worthy

For we shall have a predication:

This Lollard here will preachen us somewhat."

"Nay, by my father's soul, that shall he not,

Saide the Shipman; "Here shall he not preach,

He shall no gospel glose* here nor teach. *comment upon

We all believe in the great God," quoth he.

"He woulde sowe some difficulty,

Or springe cockle in our cleane corn.

And therefore, Host, I warne thee beforn,

My jolly body shall a tale tell,

And I shall clinke you so merry a bell,

That I shall waken all this company;

But it shall not be of philosophy,

Nor of physic, nor termes quaint of law;

There is but little Latin in my maw."* *belly

THE TALE.

A Merchant whilom dwell'd at Saint Denise,

That riche was, for which men held him wise.

A wife he had of excellent beauty,

And *companiable and revellous* was she, *fond of society and

Which is a thing that causeth more dispence merry making*

Than worth is all the cheer and reverence

That men them do at feastes and at dances.

Such salutations and countenances

Passen, as doth the shadow on the wall;

Put woe is him that paye must for all.

The sely* husband algate** he must pay, *innocent **always

He must us clothe and he must us array

All for his owen worship richely:

In which array we dance jollily.

And if that he may not, paraventure,

Or elles list not such dispence endure,

But thinketh it is wasted and y-lost,

Then must another paye for our cost,

Or lend us gold, and that is perilous.

This noble merchant held a noble house;

For which he had all day so great repair,* *resort of visitors

For his largesse, and for his wife was fair,

That wonder is; but hearken to my tale.

Amonges all these guestes great and smale,

There was a monk, a fair man and a bold,

I trow a thirty winter he was old,

That ever-in-one* was drawing to that place. *constantly

This younge monk, that was so fair of face,

Acquainted was so with this goode man,

Since that their firste knowledge began,

That in his house as familiar was he

As it is possible any friend to be.

And, for as muchel as this goode man,

And eke this monk of which that I began,

Were both the two y-born in one village,

The monk *him claimed, as for cousinage,* *claimed kindred

And he again him said not once nay, with him*

But was as glad thereof as fowl of day;

"For to his heart it was a great pleasance.

Thus be they knit with etern' alliance,

And each of them gan other to assure

Of brotherhood while that their life may dure.

Free was Dan John, and namely* of dispence,** *especially **spending

As in that house, and full of diligence

To do pleasance, and also *great costage;* *liberal outlay*

He not forgot to give the leaste page

In all that house; but, after their degree,

He gave the lord, and sithen* his meinie,** *afterwards **servants

When that he came, some manner honest thing;

For which they were as glad of his coming

As fowl is fain when that the sun upriseth.

No more of this as now, for it sufficeth.

But so befell, this merchant on a day

Shope* him to make ready his array *resolved, arranged

Toward the town of Bruges for to fare,

To buye there a portion of ware;* *merchandise

For which he hath to Paris sent anon

A messenger, and prayed hath Dan John

That he should come to Saint Denis, and play* *enjoy himself

With him, and with his wife, a day or tway,

Ere he to Bruges went, in alle wise.

This noble monk, of which I you devise,* *tell

Had of his abbot, as him list, licence,

(Because he was a man of high prudence,

And eke an officer out for to ride,

To see their granges and their barnes wide);

And unto Saint Denis he came anon.

Who was so welcome as my lord Dan John,

Our deare cousin, full of courtesy?

With him he brought a jub* of malvesie, *jug

And eke another full of fine vernage,

And volatile,* as aye was his usage: *wild-fowl

And thus I let them eat, and drink, and play,

This merchant and this monk, a day or tway.

The thirde day the merchant up ariseth,

And on his needeis sadly him adviseth;

And up into his countour-house* went he, *counting-house

To reckon with himself as well may be,

Of thilke* year, how that it with him stood, *that

And how that he dispended bad his good,

And if that he increased were or non.

His bookes and his bagges many a one

He laid before him on his counting-board.

Full riche was his treasure and his hoard;

For which full fast his countour door he shet;

And eke he would that no man should him let* *hinder

Of his accountes, for the meane time:

And thus he sat, till it was passed prime.

Dan John was risen in the morn also,

And in the garden walked to and fro,

And had his thinges said full courteously.

The good wife came walking full privily

Into the garden, where he walked soft,

And him saluted, as she had done oft;

A maiden child came in her company,

Which as her list she might govern and gie,* *guide

For yet under the yarde* was the maid. *rod

"O deare cousin mine, Dan John," she said,

"What aileth you so rath* for to arise?" *early

"Niece," quoth he, "it ought enough suffice

Five houres for to sleep upon a night;'

But* it were for an old appalled** wight, *unless **pallid, wasted

As be these wedded men, that lie and dare,* *stare

As in a forme sits a weary hare,

Alle forstraught* with houndes great and smale; *distracted, confounded

But, deare niece, why be ye so pale?

I trowe certes that our goode man

Hath you so laboured, since this night began,

That you were need to reste hastily."

And with that word he laugh'd full merrily,

And of his owen thought he wax'd all red.

This faire wife gan for to shake her head,

And saide thus; "Yea, God wot all" quoth she.

"Nay, cousin mine, it stands not so with me;

For by that God, that gave me soul and life,

In all the realm of France is there no wife

That lesse lust hath to that sorry play;

For I may sing alas and well-away!

That I was born; but to no wight," quoth she,

"Dare I not tell how that it stands with me.

Wherefore I think out of this land to wend,

Or elles of myself to make an end,

So full am I of dread and eke of care."

This monk began upon this wife to stare,

And said, "Alas! my niece, God forbid

That ye for any sorrow, or any dread,

Fordo* yourself: but telle me your grief, *destroy

Paraventure I may, in your mischief,* *distress

Counsel or help; and therefore telle me

All your annoy, for it shall be secre.

For on my portos* here I make an oath, *breviary

That never in my life, *for lief nor loth,* *willing or unwilling*

Ne shall I of no counsel you bewray."

"The same again to you," quoth she, "I say.

By God and by this portos I you swear,

Though men me woulden all in pieces tear,

Ne shall I never, for* to go to hell, *though I should

Bewray* one word of thing that ye me tell, *betray

For no cousinage, nor alliance,

But verily for love and affiance."* *confidence, promise

Thus be they sworn, and thereupon they kiss'd,

And each of them told other what them list.

"Cousin," quoth she, "if that I hadde space,

As I have none, and namely* in this place, *specially

Then would I tell a legend of my life,

What I have suffer'd since I was a wife

With mine husband, all* be he your cousin. *although

"Nay," quoth this monk, "by God and Saint Martin,

He is no more cousin unto me,

Than is the leaf that hangeth on the tree;

I call him so, by Saint Denis of France,

To have the more cause of acquaintance

Of you, which I have loved specially

Aboven alle women sickerly,* *surely

This swear I you *on my professioun;* *by my vows of religion

Tell me your grief, lest that he come adown,

And hasten you, and go away anon."

"My deare love," quoth she, "O my Dan John,

Full lief* were me this counsel for to hide, *pleasant

But out it must, I may no more abide.

My husband is to me the worste man

That ever was since that the world began;

But since I am a wife, it sits* not me *becomes

To telle no wight of our privity,

Neither in bed, nor in none other place;

God shield* I shoulde tell it for his grace; *forbid

A wife shall not say of her husband

But all honour, as I can understand;

Save unto you thus much I telle shall;

As help me God, he is nought worth at all

In no degree, the value of a fly.

But yet me grieveth most his niggardy.* *stinginess

And well ye wot, that women naturally

Desire thinges six, as well as I.

They woulde that their husbands shoulde be

Hardy,* and wise, and rich, and thereto free, *brave

And buxom* to his wife, and fresh in bed. *yielding, obedient

But, by that ilke* Lord that for us bled, *same

For his honour myself for to array,

On Sunday next I muste needes pay

A hundred francs, or elles am I lorn.* *ruined, undone

Yet *were me lever* that I were unborn, *I would rather*

Than me were done slander or villainy.

And if mine husband eke might it espy,

I were but lost; and therefore I you pray,

Lend me this sum, or elles must I dey.* *die

Dan John, I say, lend me these hundred francs;

Pardie, I will not faile you, *my thanks,* *if I can help it*

If that you list to do that I you pray;

For at a certain day I will you pay,

And do to you what pleasance and service

That I may do, right as you list devise.

And but* I do, God take on me vengeance, *unless

As foul as e'er had Ganilion of France."

This gentle monk answer'd in this mannere;

"Now truely, mine owen lady dear,

I have," quoth he, "on you so greate ruth,* *pity

That I you swear, and plighte you my truth,

That when your husband is to Flanders fare,* *gone

I will deliver you out of this care,

For I will bringe you a hundred francs."

And with that word he caught her by the flanks,

And her embraced hard, and kissed her oft.

"Go now your way," quoth he, "all still and soft,

And let us dine as soon as that ye may,

For by my cylinder* 'tis prime of day; *portable sundial

Go now, and be as true as I shall be ."

"Now elles God forbidde, Sir," quoth she;

And forth she went, as jolly as a pie,

And bade the cookes that they should them hie,* *make haste

So that men mighte dine, and that anon.

Up to her husband is this wife gone,

And knocked at his contour boldely.

*"Qui est la?"* quoth he. "Peter! it am I," *who is there?*

Quoth she; "What, Sir, how longe all will ye fast?

How longe time will ye reckon and cast

Your summes, and your bookes, and your things?

The devil have part of all such reckonings!

Ye have enough, pardie, of Godde's sond.* *sending, gifts

Come down to-day, and let your bagges stond.* *stand

Ne be ye not ashamed, that Dan John

Shall fasting all this day elenge* gon? *see note

What? let us hear a mass, and go we dine."

"Wife," quoth this man, "little canst thou divine

The curious businesse that we have;

For of us chapmen,* all so God me save, *merchants

And by that lord that cleped is Saint Ive,

Scarcely amonges twenty, ten shall thrive

Continually, lasting unto our age.

We may well make cheer and good visage,

And drive forth the world as it may be,

And keepen our estate in privity,

Till we be dead, or elles that we play

A pilgrimage, or go out of the way.

And therefore have I great necessity

Upon this quaint* world to advise** me. *strange **consider

For evermore must we stand in dread

Of hap and fortune in our chapmanhead.* *trading

To Flanders will I go to-morrow at day,

And come again as soon as e'er I may:

For which, my deare wife, I thee beseek *beseech

As be to every wight buxom* and meek, *civil, courteous

And for to keep our good be curious,

And honestly governe well our house.

Thou hast enough, in every manner wise,

That to a thrifty household may suffice.

Thee lacketh none array, nor no vitail;

Of silver in thy purse thou shalt not fail."

And with that word his contour door he shet,* *shut

And down he went; no longer would he let;* *delay, hinder

And hastily a mass was there said,

And speedily the tables were laid,

And to the dinner faste they them sped,

And richely this monk the chapman fed.

And after dinner Dan John soberly

This chapman took apart, and privily

He said him thus: "Cousin, it standeth so,

That, well I see, to Bruges ye will go;

God and Saint Austin speede you and guide.

I pray you, cousin, wisely that ye ride:

Governe you also of your diet

Attemperly,* and namely** in this heat. *moderately

Betwixt us two needeth no *strange fare;* *ado, ceremony*

Farewell, cousin, God shielde you from care.

If any thing there be, by day or night,

If it lie in my power and my might,

That ye me will command in any wise,

It shall be done, right as ye will devise.

But one thing ere ye go, if it may be;

I woulde pray you for to lend to me

A hundred frankes, for a week or twy,

For certain beastes that I muste buy,

To store with a place that is ours

(God help me so, I would that it were yours);

I shall not faile surely of my day,

Not for a thousand francs, a mile way.

But let this thing be secret, I you pray;

For yet to-night these beastes must I buy.

And fare now well, mine owen cousin dear;

*Grand mercy* of your cost and of your cheer." *great thanks*

This noble merchant gentilly* anon *like a gentleman

Answer'd and said, "O cousin mine, Dan John,

Now sickerly this is a small request:

My gold is youres, when that it you lest,

And not only my gold, but my chaffare;* *merchandise

Take what you list, *God shielde that ye spare.* *God forbid that you

But one thing is, ye know it well enow should take too little*

Of chapmen, that their money is their plough.

We may creance* while we have a name, *obtain credit

But goldless for to be it is no game.

Pay it again when it lies in your ease;

After my might full fain would I you please."

These hundred frankes set he forth anon,

And privily he took them to Dan John;

No wight in all this world wist of this loan,

Saving the merchant and Dan John alone.

They drink, and speak, and roam a while, and play,

Till that Dan John rode unto his abbay.

The morrow came, and forth this merchant rideth

To Flanders-ward, his prentice well him guideth,

Till he came unto Bruges merrily.

Now went this merchant fast and busily

About his need, and buyed and creanced;* *got credit

He neither played at the dice, nor danced;

But as a merchant, shortly for to tell,

He led his life; and there I let him dwell.

The Sunday next* the merchant was y-gone, *after

To Saint Denis y-comen is Dan John,

With crown and beard all fresh and newly shave,

In all the house was not so little a knave,* *servant-boy

Nor no wight elles that was not full fain

For that my lord Dan John was come again.

And shortly to the point right for to gon,

The faire wife accorded with Dan John,

That for these hundred francs he should all night

Have her in his armes bolt upright;

And this accord performed was in deed.

In mirth all night a busy life they lead,

Till it was day, that Dan John went his way,

And bade the meinie* "Farewell; have good day." *servants

For none of them, nor no wight in the town,

Had of Dan John right no suspicioun;

And forth he rode home to his abbay,

Or where him list; no more of him I say.

The merchant, when that ended was the fair,

To Saint Denis he gan for to repair,

And with his wife he made feast and cheer,

And tolde her that chaffare* was so dear, *merchandise

That needes must he make a chevisance;* *loan

For he was bound in a recognisance

To paye twenty thousand shields* anon. *crowns, ecus

For which this merchant is to Paris gone,

To borrow of certain friendes that he had

A certain francs, and some with him he lad.* *took

And when that he was come into the town,

For great cherte* and great affectioun *love

Unto Dan John he wente first to play;

Not for to borrow of him no money,

Bat for to weet* and see of his welfare, *know

And for to telle him of his chaffare,

As friendes do, when they be met in fere.* *company

Dan John him made feast and merry cheer;

And he him told again full specially,

How he had well y-bought and graciously

(Thanked be God) all whole his merchandise;

Save that he must, in alle manner wise,

Maken a chevisance, as for his best;

And then he shoulde be in joy and rest.

Dan John answered, "Certes, I am fain* *glad

That ye in health be come borne again:

And if that I were rich, as have I bliss,

Of twenty thousand shields should ye not miss,

For ye so kindely the other day

Lente me gold, and as I can and may

I thanke you, by God and by Saint Jame.

But natheless I took unto our Dame,

Your wife at home, the same gold again,

Upon your bench; she wot it well, certain,

By certain tokens that I can her tell

Now, by your leave, I may no longer dwell;

Our abbot will out of this town anon,

And in his company I muste gon.

Greet well our Dame, mine owen niece sweet,

And farewell, deare cousin, till we meet.

This merchant, which that was full ware and wise,

*Creanced hath,* and paid eke in Paris *had obtained credit*

To certain Lombards ready in their hond

The sum of gold, and got of them his bond,

And home he went, merry as a popinjay.* *parrot

For well he knew he stood in such array

That needes must he win in that voyage

A thousand francs, above all his costage.* *expenses

His wife full ready met him at the gate,

As she was wont of old usage algate* *always

And all that night in mirthe they beset;* *spent

For he was rich, and clearly out of debt.

When it was day, the merchant gan embrace

His wife all new, and kiss'd her in her face,

And up he went, and maked it full tough.

"No more," quoth she, "by God ye have enough;"

And wantonly again with him she play'd,

Till at the last this merchant to her said.

"By God," quoth he, "I am a little wroth

With you, my wife, although it be me loth;

And wot ye why? by God, as that I guess,

That ye have made a *manner strangeness* *a kind of estrangement*

Betwixte me and my cousin, Dan John.

Ye should have warned me, ere I had gone,

That he you had a hundred frankes paid

By ready token; he *had him evil apaid* *was displeased*

For that I to him spake of chevisance,* *borrowing

(He seemed so as by his countenance);

But natheless, by God of heaven king,

I thoughte not to ask of him no thing.

I pray thee, wife, do thou no more so.

Tell me alway, ere that I from thee go,

If any debtor hath in mine absence

Y-payed thee, lest through thy negligence

I might him ask a thing that he hath paid."

This wife was not afeared nor afraid,

But boldely she said, and that anon;

"Mary! I defy that false monk Dan John,

I keep* not of his tokens never a deal:** *care **whit

He took me certain gold, I wot it well. —

What? evil thedom* on his monke's snout! — *thriving

For, God it wot, I ween'd withoute doubt

That he had given it me, because of you,

To do therewith mine honour and my prow,* *profit

For cousinage, and eke for belle cheer

That he hath had full often here.

But since I see I stand in such disjoint,* *awkward position

I will answer you shortly to the point.

Ye have more slacke debtors than am I;

For I will pay you well and readily,

From day to day, and if so be I fail,

I am your wife, score it upon my tail,

And I shall pay as soon as ever I may.

For, by my troth, I have on mine array,

And not in waste, bestow'd it every deal.

And, for I have bestowed it so well,

For your honour, for Godde's sake I say,

As be not wroth, but let us laugh and play.

Ye shall my jolly body have *to wed;* *in pledge*

By God, I will not pay you but in bed;

Forgive it me, mine owen spouse dear;

Turn hitherward, and make better cheer."

The merchant saw none other remedy;

And for to chide, it were but a folly,

Since that the thing might not amended be.

"Now, wife," he said, "and I forgive it thee;

But by thy life be no more so large;* *liberal, lavish

Keep better my good, this give I thee in charge."

Thus endeth now my tale; and God us send

Taling enough, until our lives' end!

****

THE PRIORESS'S TALE.

THE PROLOGUE.

" W ell said, by *corpus Domini,"* quoth our Host; *the Lord's body*

"Now longe may'st thou saile by the coast,

Thou gentle Master, gentle Marinere.

God give the monk *a thousand last quad year!* *ever so much evil*

Aha! fellows, beware of such a jape.* *trick

The monk *put in the manne's hood an ape,* *fooled him*

And in his wife's eke, by Saint Austin.

Drawe no monkes more into your inn.

But now pass over, and let us seek about,

Who shall now telle first of all this rout

Another tale;" and with that word he said,

As courteously as it had been a maid;

"My Lady Prioresse, by your leave,

So that I wist I shoulde you not grieve,* *offend

I woulde deeme* that ye telle should *judge, decide

A tale next, if so were that ye would.

Now will ye vouchesafe, my lady dear?"

"Gladly," quoth she; and said as ye shall hear.

THE TALE.

O Lord our Lord! thy name how marvellous

Is in this large world y-spread! (quoth she)

For not only thy laude* precious *praise

Performed is by men of high degree,

But by the mouth of children thy bounte* *goodness

Performed is, for on the breast sucking

Sometimes showe they thy herying.* *glory

Wherefore in laud, as I best can or may

Of thee, and of the white lily flow'r

Which that thee bare, and is a maid alway,

To tell a story I will do my labour;

Not that I may increase her honour,

For she herselven is honour and root

Of bounte, next her son, and soules' boot.* *help

O mother maid, O maid and mother free!* *bounteous

O bush unburnt, burning in Moses' sight,

That ravished'st down from the deity,

Through thy humbless, the ghost that in thee light;

Of whose virtue, when he thine hearte light,* *lightened, gladdened

Conceived was the Father's sapience;

Help me to tell it to thy reverence.

Lady! thy bounty, thy magnificence,

Thy virtue, and thy great humility,

There may no tongue express in no science:

For sometimes, Lady! ere men pray to thee,

Thou go'st before, of thy benignity,

And gettest us the light, through thy prayere,

To guiden us unto thy son so dear.

My conning* is so weak, O blissful queen, *skill, ability

For to declare thy great worthiness,

That I not may the weight of it sustene;

But as a child of twelvemonth old, or less,

That can unnethes* any word express, *scarcely

Right so fare I; and therefore, I you pray,

Guide my song that I shall of you say.

There was in Asia, in a great city,

Amonges Christian folk, a Jewery,

Sustained by a lord of that country,

For foul usure, and lucre of villainy,

Hateful to Christ, and to his company;

And through the street men mighte ride and wend,* *go, walk

For it was free, and open at each end.

A little school of Christian folk there stood

Down at the farther end, in which there were

Children an heap y-come of Christian blood,

That learned in that schoole year by year

Such manner doctrine as men used there;

This is to say, to singen and to read,

As smalle children do in their childhead.

Among these children was a widow's son,

A little clergion,* seven year of age, *young clerk or scholar

That day by day to scholay* was his won,** *study **wont

And eke also, whereso he saw th' image

Of Christe's mother, had he in usage,

As him was taught, to kneel adown, and say

Ave Maria as he went by the way.

Thus had this widow her little son y-taught

Our blissful Lady, Christe's mother dear,

To worship aye, and he forgot it not;

For sely* child will always soone lear.** *innocent **learn

But aye when I remember on this mattere,

Saint Nicholas stands ever in my presence;

For he so young to Christ did reverence.

This little child his little book learning,

As he sat in the school at his primere,

He Alma redemptoris hearde sing,

As children learned their antiphonere;

And as he durst, he drew him nere and nere,* *nearer

And hearken'd aye the wordes and the note,

Till he the firste verse knew all by rote.

Nought wist he what this Latin was tosay,* *meant

For he so young and tender was of age;

But on a day his fellow gan he pray

To expound him this song in his language,

Or tell him why this song was in usage:

This pray'd he him to construe and declare,

Full oftentime upon his knees bare.

His fellow, which that elder was than he,

Answer'd him thus: "This song, I have heard say,

Was maked of our blissful Lady free,

Her to salute, and eke her to pray

To be our help and succour when we dey.* *die

I can no more expound in this mattere:

I learne song, I know but small grammere."

"And is this song y-made in reverence

Of Christe's mother?" said this innocent;

Now certes I will do my diligence

To conne* it all, ere Christemas be went; *learn; con

Though that I for my primer shall be shent,* *disgraced

And shall be beaten thries in an hour,

I will it conne, our Lady to honour."

His fellow taught him homeward* privily *on the way home

From day to day, till he coud* it by rote, *knew

And then he sang it well and boldely

From word to word according with the note;

Twice in a day it passed through his throat;

To schoole-ward, and homeward when he went;

On Christ's mother was set all his intent.

As I have said, throughout the Jewery,

This little child, as he came to and fro,

Full merrily then would he sing and cry,

O Alma redemptoris, evermo';

The sweetness hath his hearte pierced so

Of Christe's mother, that to her to pray

He cannot stint* of singing by the way. *cease

Our firste foe, the serpent Satanas,

That hath in Jewes' heart his waspe's nest,

Upswell'd and said, "O Hebrew people, alas!

Is this to you a thing that is honest,* *creditable, becoming

That such a boy shall walken as him lest

In your despite, and sing of such sentence,

Which is against your lawe's reverence?"

From thenceforth the Jewes have conspired

This innocent out of the world to chase;

A homicide thereto have they hired,

That in an alley had a privy place,

And, as the child gan forth by for to pace,

This cursed Jew him hent,* and held him fast *seized

And cut his throat, and in a pit him cast.

I say that in a wardrobe* he him threw, *privy

Where as the Jewes purged their entrail.

O cursed folk! O Herodes all new!

What may your evil intente you avail?

Murder will out, certain it will not fail,

And namely* where th' honour of God shall spread; *especially

The blood out crieth on your cursed deed.

O martyr souded* to virginity, *confirmed

Now may'st thou sing, and follow ever-in-one* *continually

The white Lamb celestial (quoth she),

Of which the great Evangelist Saint John

In Patmos wrote, which saith that they that gon

Before this Lamb, and sing a song all new,

That never fleshly woman they ne knew.

This poore widow waited all that night

After her little child, but he came not;

For which, as soon as it was daye's light,

With face pale, in dread and busy thought,

She hath at school and elleswhere him sought,

Till finally she gan so far espy,

That he was last seen in the Jewery.

With mother's pity in her breast enclosed,

She went, as she were half out of her mind,

To every place, where she hath supposed

By likelihood her little child to find:

And ever on Christ's mother meek and kind

She cried, and at the laste thus she wrought,

Among the cursed Jewes she him sought.

She freined,* and she prayed piteously *asked*

To every Jew that dwelled in that place,

To tell her, if her childe went thereby;

They saide, "Nay;" but Jesus of his grace

Gave in her thought, within a little space,

That in that place after her son she cried,

Where he was cast into a pit beside.

O greate God, that preformest thy laud

By mouth of innocents, lo here thy might!

This gem of chastity, this emeraud,* *emerald

And eke of martyrdom the ruby bright,

Where he with throat y-carven* lay upright, *cut

He Alma Redemptoris gan to sing

So loud, that all the place began to ring.

The Christian folk, that through the streete went,

In came, for to wonder on this thing:

And hastily they for the provost sent.

He came anon withoute tarrying,

And heried* Christ, that is of heaven king, *praised

And eke his mother, honour of mankind;

And after that the Jewes let* he bind. *caused

With torment, and with shameful death each one

The provost did* these Jewes for to sterve** *caused **die

That of this murder wist, and that anon;

He woulde no such cursedness observe* *overlook

Evil shall have that evil will deserve;

Therefore with horses wild he did them draw,

And after that he hung them by the law.

The child, with piteous lamentation,

Was taken up, singing his song alway:

And with honour and great procession,

They crry him unto the next abbay.

His mother swooning by the biere lay;

Unnethes* might the people that were there *scarcely

This newe Rachel bringe from his bier.

Upon his biere lay this innocent

Before the altar while the masses last';* *lasted

And, after that, th' abbot with his convent

Have sped them for to bury him full fast;

And when they holy water on him cast,

Yet spake this child, when sprinkled was the water,

And sang, O Alma redemptoris mater!

This abbot, which that was a holy man,

As monkes be, or elles ought to be,

This younger child to conjure he began,

And said; "O deare child! I halse* thee, *implore

In virtue of the holy Trinity;

Tell me what is thy cause for to sing,

Since that thy throat is cut, to my seeming."

"My throat is cut unto my necke-bone,"

Saide this child, "and, as *by way of kind,* *in course of nature*

I should have died, yea long time agone;

But Jesus Christ, as ye in bookes find,

Will that his glory last and be in mind;

And, for the worship* of his mother dear, *glory

Yet may I sing O Alma loud and clear.

"This well* of mercy, Christe's mother sweet, *fountain

I loved alway, after my conning:* *knowledge

And when that I my life should forlete,* *leave

To me she came, and bade me for to sing

This anthem verily in my dying,

As ye have heard; and, when that I had sung,

Me thought she laid a grain upon my tongue.

"Wherefore I sing, and sing I must certain,

In honour of that blissful maiden free,

Till from my tongue off taken is the grain.

And after that thus saide she to me;

'My little child, then will I fetche thee,

When that the grain is from thy tongue take:

Be not aghast,* I will thee not forsake.'" *afraid

This holy monk, this abbot him mean I,

His tongue out caught, and took away the grain;

And he gave up the ghost full softely.

And when this abbot had this wonder seen,

His salte teares trickled down as rain:

And groff* he fell all flat upon the ground, *prostrate, grovelling

And still he lay, as he had been y-bound.

The convent* lay eke on the pavement *all the monks

Weeping, and herying* Christ's mother dear. *praising

And after that they rose, and forth they went,

And took away this martyr from his bier,

And in a tomb of marble stones clear

Enclosed they his little body sweet;

Where he is now, God lene* us for to meet. *grant

O younge Hugh of Lincoln! slain also

With cursed Jewes, — as it is notable,

For it is but a little while ago, —

Pray eke for us, we sinful folk unstable,

That, of his mercy, God so merciable* *merciful

On us his greate mercy multiply,

For reverence of his mother Mary.

****

CHAUCER'S TALE OF SIR THOPAS.

THE PROLOGUE.

When said was this miracle, every man

As sober* was, that wonder was to see, *serious

Till that our Host to japen* he began, *talk lightly

And then *at erst* he looked upon me, *for the first time*

And saide thus; "What man art thou?" quoth he;

"Thou lookest as thou wouldest find an hare,

For ever on the ground I see thee stare.

"Approache near, and look up merrily.

Now ware you, Sirs, and let this man have place.

He in the waist is shapen as well as I;

This were a puppet in an arm t'embrace

For any woman small and fair of face.

He seemeth elvish* by his countenance, *surly, morose

For unto no wight doth he dalliance.

"Say now somewhat, since other folk have said;

Tell us a tale of mirth, and that anon."

"Hoste," quoth I, "be not evil apaid,* *dissatisfied

For other tale certes can* I none, *know

Eut of a rhyme I learned yore* agone." *long

"Yea, that is good," quoth he; "now shall we hear

Some dainty thing, me thinketh by thy cheer."* *expression, mien

THE TALE

The First Fit* *part

Listen, lordings, in good intent,

And I will tell you verrament* *truly

Of mirth and of solas,* *delight, solace

All of a knight was fair and gent,* *gentle

In battle and in tournament,

His name was Sir Thopas.

Y-born he was in far country,

In Flanders, all beyond the sea,

At Popering in the place;

His father was a man full free,

And lord he was of that country,

As it was Godde's grace.

Sir Thopas was a doughty swain,

White was his face as paindemain,

His lippes red as rose.

His rode* is like scarlet in grain, *complexion

And I you tell in good certain

He had a seemly nose.

His hair, his beard, was like saffroun,

That to his girdle reach'd adown,

His shoes of cordewane:

Of Bruges were his hosen brown;

His robe was of ciclatoun,

That coste many a jane.

He coulde hunt at the wild deer,

And ride on hawking *for rivere* *by the river*

With gray goshawk on hand:

Thereto he was a good archere,

Of wrestling was there none his peer,

Where any ram should stand.

Full many a maiden bright in bow'r

They mourned for him par amour,

When them were better sleep;

But he was chaste, and no lechour,

And sweet as is the bramble flow'r

That beareth the red heep.* *hip

And so it fell upon a day,

For sooth as I you telle may,

Sir Thopas would out ride;

He worth* upon his steede gray, *mounted

And in his hand a launcegay,* *spear

A long sword by his side.

He pricked through a fair forest,

Wherein is many a wilde beast,

Yea, bothe buck and hare;

And as he pricked north and east,

I tell it you, him had almest *almost

Betid* a sorry care. *befallen

There sprange herbes great and small,

The liquorice and the setewall,* *valerian

And many a clove-gilofre,

And nutemeg to put in ale,

Whether it be moist* or stale, *new

Or for to lay in coffer.

The birdes sang, it is no nay,

The sperhawk* and the popinjay,** *sparrowhawk **parrot

That joy it was to hear;

The throstle-cock made eke his lay,

The woode-dove upon the spray

She sang full loud and clear.

Sir Thopas fell in love-longing

All when he heard the throstle sing,

And *prick'd as he were wood;* *rode as if he

His faire steed in his pricking were mad*

So sweated, that men might him wring,

His sides were all blood.

Sir Thopas eke so weary was

For pricking on the softe grass,

So fierce was his corage,* *inclination, spirit

That down he laid him in that place,

To make his steed some solace,

And gave him good forage.

"Ah, Saint Mary, ben'dicite,

What aileth thilke* love at me *this

To binde me so sore?

Me dreamed all this night, pardie,

An elf-queen shall my leman* be, *mistress

And sleep under my gore.* *shirt

An elf-queen will I love, y-wis,* *assuredly

For in this world no woman is

Worthy to be my make* *mate

In town;

All other women I forsake,

And to an elf-queen I me take

By dale and eke by down."

Into his saddle he clomb anon,

And pricked over stile and stone

An elf-queen for to spy,

Till he so long had ridden and gone,

That he found in a privy wonne* *haunt

The country of Faery,

So wild;

For in that country was there none

That to him durste ride or gon,

Neither wife nor child.

Till that there came a great giaunt,

His name was Sir Oliphaunt,

A perilous man of deed;

He saide, "Child,* by Termagaunt, *young man

*But if* thou prick out of mine haunt, *unless

Anon I slay thy steed

With mace.

Here is the Queen of Faery,

With harp, and pipe, and symphony,

Dwelling in this place."

The Child said, "All so may I the,* *thrive

To-morrow will I meete thee,

When I have mine armor;

And yet I hope, *par ma fay,* *by my faith*

That thou shalt with this launcegay

Abyen* it full sore; *suffer for

Thy maw* *belly

Shall I pierce, if I may,

Ere it be fully prime of day,

For here thou shalt be slaw."* *slain

Sir Thopas drew aback full fast;

This giant at him stones cast

Out of a fell staff sling:

But fair escaped Child Thopas,

And all it was through Godde's grace,

And through his fair bearing.

Yet listen, lordings, to my tale,

Merrier than the nightingale,

For now I will you rown,* *whisper

How Sir Thopas, with sides smale,* *small

Pricking over hill and dale,

Is come again to town.

His merry men commanded he

To make him both game and glee;

For needes must he fight

With a giant with heades three,

For paramour and jollity

Of one that shone full bright.

"*Do come,*" he saide, "my minstrales *summon*

And gestours* for to telle tales. *story-tellers

Anon in mine arming,

Of romances that be royales,

Of popes and of cardinales,

And eke of love-longing."

They fetch'd him first the sweete wine,

And mead eke in a maseline,* *drinking-bowl

And royal spicery; of maple wood

Of ginger-bread that was full fine,

And liquorice and eke cumin,

With sugar that is trie.* *refined

He didde,* next his white lere,** *put on **skin

Of cloth of lake* fine and clear, *fine linen

A breech and eke a shirt;

And next his shirt an haketon,* *cassock

And over that an habergeon,* *coat of mail

For piercing of his heart;

And over that a fine hauberk,* *plate-armour

Was all y-wrought of Jewes'* werk, *magicians'

Full strong it was of plate;

And over that his coat-armour,* *knight's surcoat

As white as is the lily flow'r,

In which he would debate.* *fight

His shield was all of gold so red

And therein was a boare's head,

A charboucle* beside; *carbuncle

And there he swore on ale and bread,

How that the giant should be dead,

Betide whatso betide.

His jambeaux* were of cuirbouly, *boots

His sworde's sheath of ivory,

His helm of latoun* bright, *brass

His saddle was of rewel bone,

His bridle as the sunne shone,

Or as the moonelight.

His speare was of fine cypress,

That bodeth war, and nothing peace;

The head full sharp y-ground.

His steede was all dapple gray,

It went an amble in the way

Full softely and round

In land.

Lo, Lordes mine, here is a fytt;

If ye will any more of it,

To tell it will I fand.* *try

The Second Fit

Now hold your mouth for charity,

Bothe knight and lady free,

And hearken to my spell;* *tale

Of battle and of chivalry,

Of ladies' love and druerie,* *gallantry

Anon I will you tell.

Men speak of romances of price* * worth, esteem

Of Horn Child, and of Ipotis,

Of Bevis, and Sir Guy,

Of Sir Libeux, and Pleindamour,

But Sir Thopas, he bears the flow'r

Of royal chivalry.

His goode steed he all bestrode,

And forth upon his way he glode,* *shone

As sparkle out of brand;* *torch

Upon his crest he bare a tow'r,

And therein stick'd a lily flow'r;

God shield his corse* from shand!** *body **harm

And, for he was a knight auntrous,* *adventurous

He woulde sleepen in none house,

But liggen* in his hood, *lie

His brighte helm was his wanger,* *pillow

And by him baited* his destrer** *fed **horse

Of herbes fine and good.

Himself drank water of the well,

As did the knight Sir Percivel,

So worthy under weed;

Till on a day - . . .

****

CHAUCER'S TALE OF MELIBOEUS.

THE PROLOGUE.

"No more of this, for Godde's dignity!"

Quoth oure Hoste; "for thou makest me

So weary of thy very lewedness,* *stupidity, ignorance

That, all so wisly* God my soule bless, *surely

Mine eares ache for thy drafty* speech. *worthless

Now such a rhyme the devil I beteche:* *commend to

This may well be rhyme doggerel," quoth he.

"Why so?" quoth I; "why wilt thou lette* me *prevent

More of my tale than any other man,

Since that it is the best rhyme that I can?"* *know

"By God!" quoth he, "for, plainly at one word,

Thy drafty rhyming is not worth a tord:

Thou dost naught elles but dispendest* time. *wastest

Sir, at one word, thou shalt no longer rhyme.

Let see whether thou canst tellen aught *in gest,* *by way of

Or tell in prose somewhat, at the least, narrative*

In which there be some mirth or some doctrine."

"Gladly," quoth I, "by Godde's sweete pine,* *suffering

I will you tell a little thing in prose,

That oughte like* you, as I suppose, *please

Or else certes ye be too dangerous.* *fastidious

It is a moral tale virtuous,

*All be it* told sometimes in sundry wise *although it be*

By sundry folk, as I shall you devise.

As thus, ye wot that ev'ry Evangelist,

That telleth us the pain* of Jesus Christ, *passion

He saith not all thing as his fellow doth;

But natheless their sentence is all soth,* *true

And all accorden as in their sentence,* *meaning

All be there in their telling difference;

For some of them say more, and some say less,

When they his piteous passion express;

I mean of Mark and Matthew, Luke and John;

But doubteless their sentence is all one.

Therefore, lordinges all, I you beseech,

If that ye think I vary in my speech,

As thus, though that I telle somedeal more

Of proverbes, than ye have heard before

Comprehended in this little treatise here,

*T'enforce with* the effect of my mattere, *with which to

And though I not the same wordes say enforce*

As ye have heard, yet to you all I pray

Blame me not; for as in my sentence

Shall ye nowhere finde no difference

From the sentence of thilke* treatise lite,** *this **little

After the which this merry tale I write.

And therefore hearken to what I shall say,

And let me tellen all my tale, I pray."

THE TALE.

A young man called Meliboeus, mighty and rich, begat upon his wife, that called was Prudence, a daughter which that called was Sophia. Upon a day befell, that he for his disport went into the fields him to play. His wife and eke his daughter hath he left within his house, of which the doors were fast shut. Three of his old foes have it espied, and set ladders to the walls of his house, and by the windows be entered, and beaten his wife, and wounded his daughter with five mortal wounds, in five sundry places; that is to say, in her feet, in her hands, in her ears, in her nose, and in her mouth; and left her for dead, and went away. When Meliboeus returned was into his house, and saw all this mischief, he, like a man mad, rending his clothes, gan weep and cry. Prudence his wife, as farforth as she durst, besought him of his weeping for to stint: but not forthy he gan to weep and cry ever longer the more.

This noble wife Prudence remembered her upon the sentence of Ovid, in his book that called is the "Remedy of Love," where he saith: He is a fool that disturbeth the mother to weep in the death of her child, till she have wept her fill, as for a certain time; and then shall a man do his diligence with amiable words her to recomfort and pray her of her weeping for to stint. For which reason this noble wife Prudence suffered her husband for to weep and cry, as for a certain space; and when she saw her time, she said to him in this wise: "Alas! my lord," quoth she, "why make ye yourself for to be like a fool? For sooth it appertaineth not to a wise man to make such a sorrow. Your daughter, with the grace of God, shall warish and escape. And all were it so that she right now were dead, ye ought not for her death yourself to destroy. Seneca saith, 'The wise man shall not take too great discomfort for the death of his children, but certes he should suffer it in patience, as well as he abideth the death of his own proper person.'"

Meliboeus answered anon and said: "What man," quoth he, "should of his weeping stint, that hath so great a cause to weep? Jesus Christ, our Lord, himself wept for the death of Lazarus his friend." Prudence answered, "Certes, well I wot, attempered weeping is nothing defended to him that sorrowful is, among folk in sorrow but it is rather granted him to weep. The Apostle Paul unto the Romans writeth, 'Man shall rejoice with them that make joy, and weep with such folk as weep.' But though temperate weeping be granted, outrageous weeping certes is defended. Measure of weeping should be conserved, after the lore that teacheth us Seneca. 'When that thy friend is dead,' quoth he, 'let not thine eyes too moist be of tears, nor too much dry: although the tears come to thine eyes, let them not fall. And when thou hast forgone thy friend, do diligence to get again another friend: and this is more wisdom than to weep for thy friend which that thou hast lorn f or therein is no boot . And therefore if ye govern you by sapience, put away sorrow out of your heart. Remember you that Jesus Sirach saith, 'A man that is joyous and glad in heart, it him conserveth flourishing in his age: but soothly a sorrowful heart maketh his bones dry.' He said eke thus, 'that sorrow in heart slayth full many a man.' Solomon saith 'that right as moths in the sheep's fleece annoy to the clothes, and the small worms to the tree, right so annoyeth sorrow to the heart of man.' Wherefore us ought as well in the death of our children, as in the loss of our goods temporal, have patience. Remember you upon the patient Job, when he had lost his children and his temporal substance, and in his body endured and received full many a grievous tribulation, yet said he thus: 'Our Lord hath given it to me, our Lord hath bereft it me; right as our Lord would, right so be it done; blessed be the name of our Lord."'

To these foresaid things answered Meliboeus unto his wife Prudence: "All thy words," quoth he, "be true, and thereto profitable, but truly mine heart is troubled with this sorrow so grievously, that I know not what to do." "Let call," quoth Prudence, "thy true friends all, and thy lineage, which be wise, and tell to them your case, and hearken what they say in counselling, and govern yo u after their sentence . Solomon saith, 'Work all things by counsel, and thou shall never repent.'" Then, by counsel of his wife Prudence, this Meliboeus let call a great congregation of folk, as surgeons, physicians, old folk and young, and some of his old enemies reconciled (as by their semblance) to his love and to his grace; and therewithal there come some of his neighbours, that did him reverence more for dread than for love, as happeneth oft. There come also full many subtle flatterers, and wise advocates learned in the law. And when these folk together assembled were, this Meliboeus in sorrowful wise showed them his case, and by the manner of his speech it seemed that in heart he bare a cruel ire, ready to do vengeance upon his foes, and suddenly desired that the war should begin, but nevertheless yet asked he their counsel in this matter. A surgeon, by licence and assent of such as were wise, up rose, and to Meliboeus said as ye may hear. "Sir," quoth he, "as to us surgeons appertaineth, that we do to every wight the best that we can, where as we be withholden and to our patient that we do no damage; wherefore it happeneth many a time and oft, that when two men have wounded each other, one same surgeon healeth them both; wherefore unto our art it is not pertinent to nurse war, nor parties to support. But certes, as to the warishing of your daughter, albeit so that perilously she be wounded, we shall do so attentive business from day to night, that, with the grace of God, she shall be whole and sound, as soon as is possible." Almost right in the same wise the physicians answered, save that they said a few words more: that right as maladies be cured by their contraries, right so shall man warish war (by peace). His neighbours full of envy, his feigned friends that seemed reconciled, and his flatterers, made semblance of weeping, and impaired and agregged much of this matter, in praising greatly Meliboeus of might, of power, of riches, and of friends, despising the power of his adversaries: and said utterly, that he anon should wreak him on his foes, and begin war.

Up rose then an advocate that was wise, by leave and by counsel of other that were wise, and said, "Lordings, the need for which we be assembled in this place, is a full heavy thing, and an high matter, because of the wrong and of the wickedness that hath been done, and eke by reason of the great damages that in time coming be possible to fall for the same cause, and eke by reason of the great riches and power of the parties both; for which reasons, it were a full great peril to err in this matter. Wherefore, Meliboeus , this is our sentence ; we counsel you, above all things, that right anon thou do thy diligence in keeping of thy body, in such a wise that thou want no espy nor watch thy body to save. And after that, we counsel that in thine house thou set sufficient garrison, so that they may as well thy body as thy house defend. But, certes, to move war or suddenly to do vengeance, we may not deem in so little time that it were profitable. Wherefore we ask leisure and space to have deliberation in this case to deem; for the common proverb saith thus; 'He that soon deemeth soon shall repent.' And eke men say, that that judge is wise, that soon understandeth a matter, and judgeth by leisure. For albeit so that all tarrying be annoying, algates it is no reproof in giving of judgement, nor in vengeance taking, when it is sufficient and, reasonable. And that shewed our Lord Jesus Christ by example; for when that the woman that was taken in adultery was brought in his presence to know what should be done with her person, albeit that he wist well himself what he would answer, yet would he not answer suddenly, but he would have deliberation, and in the ground he wrote twice. And by these causes we ask deliberation and we shall then by the grace of God counsel the thing that shall be profitable."

Up started then the young folk anon at once, and the most part of that company have scorned these old wise men and begun to make noise and said, "Right as while that iron is hot men should smite, right so men should wreak their wrongs while that they be fresh and new:" and with loud voice they cried. "War! War!" Up rose then one of these old wise, and with his hand made countenance that men should hold them still, and give him audience. "Lordings," quoth he, "there is full many a man that crieth, 'War! war!' that wot full little what war amounteth. War at his beginning hath so great an entering and so large, that every wight may ente r when him liketh, and lightly find war: but certes what end shall fall thereof it is not light to know. For soothly when war is once begun, there is full many a child unborn of his mother, that shall sterve young by cause of that war, or else live in sorrow and die in wretchedness; and therefore, ere that any war be begun, men must have great counsel and great deliberation." And when this old man weened to enforce his tale by reasons, well-nigh all at once began they to rise for to break his tale, and bid him full oft his words abridge. For soothly he that preacheth to them that list not hear his words, his sermon them annoyeth. For Jesus Sirach saith, that music in weeping is a noyous thing. This is to say, as much availeth to speak before folk to whom his speech annoyeth, as to sing before him that weepeth. And when this wise man saw that him wanted audience, all shamefast he sat him down again. For Solomon saith, 'Where as thou mayest have no audience, enforce thee not to speak.' "I see well," quoth this wise man, "that the common proverb is sooth, that good counsel wanteth, when it is most need." Yet had this Meliboeus in his council many folk, that privily in his ear counselled him certain thing, and counselled him the contrary in general audience. When Meliboeus had heard that the greatest part of his coun cil were accorded that he should make war, anon he consented to their counselling, an d fully affirmed their sentence.

(Dame Prudence, seeing her husband's resolution thus taken, in full humble wise, when she saw her time, begins to counsel him against war, by a warning against haste in requital of either good or evil. Meliboeus tells her that he will not work by her counsel, because he should be held a fool if he rejected for her advice the opinion of so many wise men; because all women are bad; because it would seem that he had given her the mastery over him; and because she could not keep his secret, if he resolved to follow her advice. To these reasons Prudence answers that it is no folly to change counsel when things, or men's judgements of them, change — especially to alter a resolution taken on the impulse of a great multitude of folk, where every man crieth and clattereth what him liketh; that if all women had been wicked, Jesus Christ would never have descended to be born of a woman, nor have showed himself first to a woman after his resurrection and that when Solomon said he had found no good woman, he meant that God alone was supremely good; that her husband would not seem to give her the mastery by following her counsel, for he had his own free choice in following or rejecting it; and that he knew well and had often tested her great silence, patience, and secrecy. And whereas he had quoted a saying, that in wicked counsel women vanquish men, she reminds him that she would counsel him against doing a wickedness on which he had set his mind, and cites instances to show that many women have been and yet are full good, and their counsel wholesome and profitable. Lastly, she quotes the words of God himself, when he was about to make woman as an help meet for man; and promises that, if her husband will trust her counsel, she will restore to him his daughter whole and sound, and make him have honour in this case. Meliboeus answers that because of his wife's sweet words, and also because he has proved and assayed her great wisdom and her great truth, he will govern him by her counsel in all things. Thus encouraged, Prudence enters on a long discourse, full of learned citations, regarding the manner in which counsellors should be chosen and consulted, and the times and reasons for changing a counsel. First, God must be besought for guidance. Then a man must well examine his own thoughts, of such things as he holds to be best for his own profit; driving out of his heart anger, covetousness, and hastiness, which perturb and pervert the judgement. Then he must keep his counsel secret, unless confiding it to another shall be more profitable; but, in so confiding it, he shall say nothing to bias the mind of the counsellor toward flattery or subserviency. After that he should consider his friends and his enemies, choosing of the former such as be most faithful and wise, and eldest and most approved in counselling; and even of these only a few. Then he must eschew the counselling of fools, of flatterers, of his old enemies that be reconciled, of servants who bear him great reverence and fear, of folk that be drunken and can hide no counsel, of such as counsel one thing privily and the contrary openly; and of young folk, for their counselling is not ripe. Then, in examining his counsel, he must truly tell his tale; he must consider whether the thing he proposes to do be reasonable, within his power, and acceptable to the more part and the better part of his counsellors; he must look at the things that may follow from that counselling, choosing the best and waiving all besides; he must consider the root whence the matter of his counsel is engendered, what fruits it may bear, and from what causes they be sprung. And having thus examined his counsel and approved it by many wise folk and old, he shall consider if he may perform it and make of it a good end; if he be in doubt, he shall choose rather to suffer than to begin; but otherwise he shall prosecute his resolution steadfastly till the enterprise be at an end. As to changing his counsel, a man may do so without reproach, if the cause cease, or when a new case betides, or if he find that by error or otherwise harm or damage may result, or if his counsel be dishonest or come of dishonest cause, or if it be impossible or may not properly be kept; and he must take it for a general rule, that every counsel which is affirmed so strongly, that it may not be changed for any condition that may betide, that counsel is wicked. Meliboeus, admitting that his wife had spoken well and suitably as to counsellors and counsel in general, prays her to tell him in especial what she thinks of the counsellors whom they have chosen in their present need. Prudence replies that his counsel in this case could not properly be called a counselling, but a movement of folly; and points out that he has erred in sundry wise against the rules which he had just laid down. Granting that he has erred, Meliboeus says that he is all ready to change his counsel right as she will devise; for, as the proverb runs, to do sin is human, but to persevere long in sin is work of the Devil. Prudence then minutely recites, analyses, and criticises the counsel given to her husband in the assembly of his friends. She commends the advice of the physicians and surgeons, and urges that they should be well rewarded for their noble speech and their services in healing Sophia; and she asks Meliboeus how he understands their proposition that one contrary must be cured by another contrary. Meliboeus answers, that he should do vengeance on his enemies, who had done him wrong. Prudence, however, insists that vengeance is not the contrary of vengeance, nor wrong of wrong, but the like; and that wickedness should be healed by goodness, discord by accord, war by peace. She proceeds to deal with the counsel of the lawyers and wise folk that advised Meliboeus to take prudent measures for the security of his body and of his house. First, she would have her husband pray for the protection and aid of Christ; then commit the keeping of his person to his true friends; then suspect and avoid all strange folk, and liars, and such people as she had already warned him against; then beware of presuming on his strength, or the weakness of his adversary, and neglecting to guard his person — for every wise man dreadeth his enemy; then he should evermore be on the watch against ambush and all espial, even in what seems a place of safety; though he should not be so cowardly, as to fear where is no cause for dread; yet he should dread to be poisoned, and therefore shun scorners, and fly their words as venom. As to the fortification of his house, she points out that towers and great edifices are costly and laborious, yet useless unless defended by true friends that be old and wise; and the greatest and strongest garrison that a rich man may have, as well to keep his person as his goods, is, that he be beloved by his subjects and by his neighbours. Warmly approving the counsel that in all this business Meliboeus should proceed with great diligence and deliberation, Prudence goes on to examine the advice given by his neighbours that do him reverence without love, his old enemies reconciled, his flatterers that counselled him certain things privily and openly counselled him the contrary, and the young folk that counselled him to avenge himself and make war at once. She reminds him that he stands alone against three powerful enemies, whose kindred are numerous and close, while his are fewer and remote in relationship; that only the judge who has jurisdiction in a case may take sudden vengeance on any man; that her husband's power does not accord with his desire; and that, if he did take vengeance, it would only breed fresh wrongs and contests. As to the causes of the wrong done to him, she holds that God, the causer of all things, has permitted him to suffer because he has drunk so much honey of sweet temporal riches, and delights, and honours of this world, that he is drunken, and has forgotten Jesus Christ his Saviour; the three enemies of mankind, the flesh, the fiend, and the world, have entered his heart by the windows of his body, and wounded his soul in five places — that is to say, the deadly sins that have entered into his heart by the five senses; and in the same manner Christ has suffered his three enemies to enter his house by the windows, and wound his daughter in the five places before specified. Meliboeus demurs, that if his wife's objections prevailed, vengeance would never be taken, and thence great mischiefs would arise; but Prudence replies that the taking of vengeance lies with the judges, to whom the private individual must have recourse. Meliboeus declares that such vengeance does not please him, and that, as Fortune has nourished and helped him from his childhood, he will now assay her, trusting, with God's help, that she will aid him to avenge his shame. Prudence warns him against trusting to Fortune, all the less because she has hitherto favoured him, for just on that account she is the more likely to fail him; and she calls on him to leave his vengeance with the Sovereign Judge, that avengeth all villainies and wrongs. Meliboeus argues that if he refrains from taking vengeance he will invite his enemies to do him further wrong, and he will be put and held over low; but Prudence contends that such a result can be brought about only by the neglect of the judges, not by the patience of the individual. Supposing that he had leave to avenge himself, she repeats that he is not strong enough, and quotes the common saw, that it is madness for a man to strive with a stronger than himself, peril to strive with one of equal strength, and folly to strive with a weaker. But, considering his own defaults and demerits, — remembering the patience of Christ and the undeserved tribulations of the saints, the brevity of this life with all its trouble and sorrow, the discredit thrown on the wisdom and training of a man who cannot bear wrong with patience — he should refrain wholly from taking vengeance. Meliboeus submits that he is not at all a perfect man, and his heart will never be at peace until he is avenged; and that as his enemies disregarded the peril when they attacked him, so he might, without reproach, incur some peril in attacking them in return, even though he did a great excess in avenging one wrong by another. Prudence strongly deprecates all outrage or excess; but Meliboeus insists that he cannot see that it might greatly harm him though he took a vengeance, for he is richer and mightier than his enemies, and all things obey money. Prudence thereupon launches into a long dissertation on the advantages of riches, the evils of poverty, the means by which wealth should be gathered, and the manner in which it should be used; and concludes by counselling her husband not to move war and battle through trust in his riches, for they suffice not to maintain war, the battle is not always to the strong or the numerous, and the perils of conflict are many. Meliboeus then curtly asks her for her counsel how he shall do in this need; and she answers that certainly she counsels him to agree with his adversaries and have peace with them. Meliboeus on this cries out that plainly she loves not his honour or his worship, in counselling him to go and humble himself before his enemies, crying mercy to them that, having done him so grievous wrong, ask him not to be reconciled. Then Prudence, making semblance of wrath, retorts that she loves his honour and profit as she loves her own, and ever has done; she cites the Scriptures in support of her counsel to seek peace; and says she will leave him to his own courses, for she knows well he is so stubborn, that he will do nothing for her. Meliboeus then relents; admits that he is angry and cannot judge aright; and puts himself wholly in her hands, promising to do just as she desires, and admitting that he is the more held to love and praise her, if she reproves him of his folly)

Then Dame Prudence discovered all her counsel and her will unto him, and said: "I counsel you," quoth she, "above all things, that ye make peace between God and you, and be reconciled unto Him and to his grace; for, as I have said to you herebefore, God hath suffered you to have this tribulation and disease for your sins; and if ye do as I say you, God will send your adversaries unto you, and make them fall at your feet, ready to do your will and your commandment. For Solomon saith, 'When the condition of man is pleasant and liking to God, he changeth the hearts of the man's adversaries, and constraineth them to beseech him of peace of grace.' And I pray you let me speak with your adversaries in privy place, for they shall not know it is by your will or your assent; and then, when I know their will and their intent, I may counsel you the more surely." '"Dame," quoth Meliboeus, '"do your will and your liking, for I put me wholly in your disposition and ordinance."

Then Dame Prudence, when she saw the goodwill of her husband, deliberated and took advice in herself, thinking how she might bring this need unto a good end. And when she saw her time, she sent for these adversaries to come into her into a privy place, and showed wisely into them the great goods that come of peace, and the great harms and perils that be in war; and said to them, in goodly manner, how that they ought have great repentance of the injuries and wrongs that they had done to Meliboeus her Lord, and unto her and her daughter. And when they heard the goodly words of Dame Prudence, then they were surprised and ravished, and had so great joy of her, that wonder was to tell. "Ah lady!" quoth they, "ye have showed unto us the blessing of sweetness, after the saying of David the prophet; for the reconciling which we be not worthy to have in no manner, but we ought require it with great contrition and humility, ye of your great goodness have presented unto us. Now see we well, that the science and conning of Solomon is full true; for he saith, that sweet words multiply and incr ease friends, and make shrews to be debonair and meek. Certes we put our deed, and all our matter and cause, all wholly in your goodwill, and be ready to obey unto the speech and commandment of my lord Meliboeus. And therefore, dear and benign lady, we pray you and beseech you as meekly as we can and may, that it like unto your great goodness to fulfil in deed your goodly words. For we consider and acknowledge that we have offended and grieved my lord Meliboeus out of measure, so far forth that we be not of power to make him amends; and therefore we oblige and bind us and our friends to do all his will and his commandment. But peradventure he hath such heaviness and such wrath to usward, because of our offence, that he will enjoin us such a pain as we may not bear nor sustain; and therefore, noble lady, we beseech to your womanly pity to take such advisement in this need, that we, nor our friends, be not disinherited and destroyed through our folly."

"Certes," quoth Prudence, "it is an hard thing, and right perilous, that a man put him all utterly in the arbitration and judgement and in the might and power of his enemy. For Solomon saith, 'Believe me, and give credence to that that I shall say: to thy son, to thy wife, to thy friend, nor to thy brother, give thou never might nor mastery over thy body, while thou livest.' Now, since he defendeth that a man should not give to his brother, nor to his friend, the might of his body, by a stronger reason he defendeth and forbiddeth a man to give himself to his enemy. And nevertheless, I counsel you that ye mistrust not my lord: for I wot well and know verily, that he is debonair and meek, large, courteous and nothing desirous nor envious of good nor riches: for there is nothing in this world that he desireth save only worship and honour. Furthermore I know well, and am right sure, that he shall nothing do in this need without counsel of me; and I shall so work in this case, that by the grace of our Lord God ye shall be reconciled unto us."

Then said they with one voice, ""Worshipful lady, we put us and our goods all fully in your will and disposition, and be ready to come, what day that it like unto your nobleness to limit us or assign us, for to make our obligation and bond, as strong as it liketh unto your goodness, that we may fulfil the will of you and of my lord Meliboeus."

When Dame Prudence had heard the answer of these men, she bade them go again privily, and she returned to her lord Meliboeus, and told him how she found his adversaries full repentant, acknowledging full lowly their sins and trespasses, and how they were ready to suffer all pain, requiring and praying him of mercy and pity. Then said Meliboeus, "He is well worthy to have pardon and forgiveness of his sin, that excuseth not his sin, but acknowledgeth, and repenteth him, asking indulgence. For Seneca saith, 'There is the remission and forgiveness, where the confession is; for confession is neighbour to innocence.' And therefore I assent and confirm me to have peace, but it is good that we do naught without the assent and will of our friends." Then was Prudence right glad and joyful, and said, "Certes, Sir, ye be well and goodly advised; for right as by the counsel, assent, and help of your friends ye have been stirred to avenge you and make war, right so without their counsel shall ye not accord you, nor have peace with your adversaries. For the law saith, 'There is nothing so good by way of kind, as a thing to be unbound by him that it was bound.'"

And then Dame Prudence, without delay or tarrying, sent anon her messengers for their kin and for their old friends, which were true and wise; and told them by order, in the presence of Meliboeus, all this matter, as it is above expressed and declared; and prayed them that they would give their advice and counsel what were best to do in this need. And when Meliboeus' friends had taken their advice and deliberation of the foresaid matter, and had examined it by great business and great diligence, they gave full counsel for to have peace and rest, and that Meliboeus should with good heart receive his adversaries to forgiveness and mercy. And when Dame Prudence had heard the assent of her lord Meliboeus, and the counsel of his friends, accord with her will and her intention, she was wondrous glad in her heart, and said: "There is an old proverb that saith, 'The goodness that thou mayest do this day, do it, and abide not nor delay it not till to-morrow:' and therefore I counsel you that ye send your messengers, such as be discreet and wise, unto your adversaries, telling them on your behalf, that if they will treat of peace and of accord, that they shape them, without delay or tarrying, to come unto us." Which thing performed was indeed. And when these trespassers and repenting folk of their follies, that is to say, the adversaries of Meliboeus, had heard what these messengers said unto them, they were right glad and joyful, and answered full meekly and benignly, yielding graces and thanks to their lord Meliboeus, and to all his company; and shaped them without delay to go with the messengers, and obey to the commandment of their lord Meliboeus. And right anon they took their way to the court of Meliboeus, and took with them some of their true friends, to make faith for them, and for to be their borrows.

And when they were come to the presence of Meliboeus, he said to them these words; "It stands thus," quoth Meliboeus, "and sooth it is, that ye causeless, and without skill and reason, have done great injuries and wrongs to me, and to my wife Prudence, and to my daughter also; for ye have entered into my house by violence, and have done such outrage, that all men know well that ye have deserved the death: and therefore will I know and weet of you, whether ye will put the punishing and chastising, and the vengeance of this outrage, in the will of me and of my wife, or ye will not?" Then the wisest of them three answered for them all, and said; "Sir," quoth he, "we know well, that we be I unworthy to come to the court of so great a lord and so worthy as ye be, for we have so greatly mistaken us, and have offended and aguilt in such wise against your high lordship, that truly we have deserved the death. But yet for the great goodness and debonairte that all the world witnesseth of your person, we submit us to the excellence and benignity of your gracious lordship, and be ready to obey to all your commandments, beseeching you, that of your merciable pity ye will consider our great repentance and low submission, and grant us forgiveness of our outrageous trespass and offence; for well we know, that your liberal grace and mercy stretch them farther into goodness, than do our outrageous guilt and trespass into wickedness; albeit that cursedly and damnably we have aguilt against your high lordship." Then Meliboeus took them up from the ground full benignly, and received their obligations and their bonds, by their oaths upon their pledges and borrows, and assigned them a certain day to return unto his court for to receive and accept sentence and judgement, that Meliboeus would command to be done on them, by the causes aforesaid; which things ordained, every man returned home to his house.

And when that Dame Prudence saw her time she freined and asked her lord Meliboeus, what vengeance he thought to take of his adversaries. To which Meliboeus answered, and said; "Certes," quoth he, "I think and purpose me fully to disinherit them of all that ever they have, and for to put them in exile for evermore." "Certes," quoth Dame Prudence, "this were a cruel sentence, and much against reason. For ye be rich enough, and have no need of other men's goods; and ye might lightly in this wise get you a covetous name, which is a vicious thing, and ought to be eschewed of every good man: for, after the saying of the Apostle, covetousness is root of all harms. And therefore it were better for you to lose much good of your own, than for to take of their good in this manner. For better it is to lose good with worship, than to win good with villainy and shame. And every man ought to do his diligence and his business to get him a good name. And yet shall he not only busy him in keeping his good name, but he shall also enforce him alway to do some thing by which he may renew his good name; for it is written, that the old good los of a man is soon gone and passed, when it is not renewed. And as touching that ye say, that ye will exile your adversaries, that thinketh ye much against reason, and out of measure, considered the power that they have given you upon themselves. And it is written, that he is worthy to lose his privilege, that misuseth the might and the power that is given him. And I set case ye might enjoin them that pain by right and by law (which I trow ye may not do), I say, ye might not put it to execution peradventure, and then it were like to return to the war, as it was before. And therefore if ye will that men do you obeisance, ye must deem more courteously, that is to say, ye must give more easy sentences and judgements. For it is written, 'He that most courteously commandeth, to him men most obey.' And therefore I pray you, that in this necessity and in this need ye cast you to overcome your heart. For Seneca saith, that he that overcometh his heart, overcometh twice. And Tullius saith, 'There is nothing so commendable in a great lord, as when he is debonair and meek, and appeaseth him lightly.' And I pray you, that ye will now forbear to do vengeance, in such a manner, that your good name may be kept and conserved, and that men may have cause and matter to praise you of pity and of mercy; and that ye have no cause to repent you of thing that ye do. For Seneca saith, 'He overcometh in an evil manner, that repenteth him of his victory.' Wherefore I pray you let mercy be in your heart, to the effect and intent that God Almighty have mercy upon you in his last judgement; for Saint James saith in his Epistle, 'Judgement without mercy shall be done to him, that hath no mercy of another wight.'"

When Meliboeus had heard the great skills and reasons of Dame Prudence, and her wise information and teaching, his heart gan incline to the will of his wife, considering her true intent, he conformed him anon and assented fully to work after her counsel, and thanked God, of whom proceedeth all goodness and all virtue, that him sent a wife of so great discretion. And when the day came that his adversaries should appear in his presence, he spake to them full goodly, and said in this wise; "Albeit so, that of your pride and high presumption and folly, an of your negligence and unconning, ye have misborne you, and trespassed unto me, yet forasmuch as I see and behold your great humility, and that ye be sorry and repentant of your guilts, it constraineth me to do you grace and mercy. Wherefore I receive you into my grace, and forgive you utterly all the offences, injuries, and wrongs, that ye have done against me and mine, to this effect and to this end, that God of his endless mercy will at the time of our dying forgive us our guilts, that we have trespassed to him in this wretched world; for doubtless, if we be sorry and repentant of the sins and guilts which we have trespassed in the sight of our Lord God, he is so free and so merciable, that he will forgive us our guilts, and bring us to the bliss that never hath end." Amen.

****

THE MONK'S TALE.

THE PROLOGUE

When ended was my tale of Melibee,

And of Prudence and her benignity,

Our Hoste said, "As I am faithful man,

And by the precious corpus Madrian,

I had lever* than a barrel of ale, *rather

That goode lefe* my wife had heard this tale; *dear

For she is no thing of such patience

As was this Meliboeus' wife Prudence.

By Godde's bones! when I beat my knaves

She bringeth me the greate clubbed staves,

And crieth, 'Slay the dogges every one,

And break of them both back and ev'ry bone.'

And if that any neighebour of mine

Will not in church unto my wife incline,

Or be so hardy to her to trespace,* *offend

When she comes home she rampeth* in my face, *springs

And crieth, 'False coward, wreak* thy wife *avenge

By corpus Domini, I will have thy knife,

And thou shalt have my distaff, and go spin.'

From day till night right thus she will begin.

'Alas!' she saith, 'that ever I was shape* *destined

To wed a milksop, or a coward ape,

That will be overlad* with every wight! *imposed on

Thou darest not stand by thy wife's right.'

"This is my life, *but if* that I will fight; *unless

And out at door anon I must me dight,* *betake myself

Or elles I am lost, but if that I

Be, like a wilde lion, fool-hardy.

I wot well she will do* me slay some day *make

Some neighebour and thenne *go my way;* *take to flight*

For I am perilous with knife in hand,

Albeit that I dare not her withstand;

For she is big in armes, by my faith!

That shall he find, that her misdoth or saith.

But let us pass away from this mattere.

My lord the Monk," quoth he, "be merry of cheer,

For ye shall tell a tale truely.

Lo, Rochester stands here faste by.

Ride forth, mine owen lord, break not our game.

But by my troth I cannot tell your name;

Whether shall I call you my lord Dan John,

Or Dan Thomas, or elles Dan Albon?

Of what house be ye, by your father's kin?

I vow to God, thou hast a full fair skin;

It is a gentle pasture where thou go'st;

Thou art not like a penant* or a ghost. *penitent

Upon my faith thou art some officer,

Some worthy sexton, or some cellarer.

For by my father's soul, *as to my dome,* *in my judgement*

Thou art a master when thou art at home;

No poore cloisterer, nor no novice,

But a governor, both wily and wise,

And therewithal, of brawnes* and of bones, *sinews

A right well-faring person for the nonce.

I pray to God give him confusion

That first thee brought into religion.

Thou would'st have been a treade-fowl* aright; *cock

Hadst thou as greate leave, as thou hast might,

To perform all thy lust in engendrure,* *generation, begettting

Thou hadst begotten many a creature.

Alas! why wearest thou so wide a cope?

God give me sorrow, but, an* I were pope, *if

Not only thou, but every mighty man,

Though he were shorn full high upon his pan,* *crown

Should have a wife; for all this world is lorn;* *undone, ruined

Religion hath ta'en up all the corn

Of treading, and we borel* men be shrimps: *lay

Of feeble trees there come wretched imps.* *shoots

This maketh that our heires be so slender

And feeble, that they may not well engender.

This maketh that our wives will assay

Religious folk, for they may better pay

Of Venus' payementes than may we:

God wot, no lusheburghes paye ye.

But be not wroth, my lord, though that I play;

Full oft in game a sooth have I heard say."

This worthy Monk took all in patience,

And said, "I will do all my diligence,

As far as *souneth unto honesty,* *agrees with good manners*

To telle you a tale, or two or three.

And if you list to hearken hitherward,

I will you say the life of Saint Edward;

Or elles first tragedies I will tell,

Of which I have an hundred in my cell.

Tragedy *is to say* a certain story, *means*

As olde bookes maken us memory,

Of him that stood in great prosperity,

And is y-fallen out of high degree

In misery, and endeth wretchedly.

And they be versified commonly

Of six feet, which men call hexametron;

In prose eke* be indited many a one, *also

And eke in metre, in many a sundry wise.

Lo, this declaring ought enough suffice.

Now hearken, if ye like for to hear.

But first I you beseech in this mattere,

Though I by order telle not these things,

Be it of popes, emperors, or kings,

*After their ages,* as men written find, *in chronological order*

But tell them some before and some behind,

As it now cometh to my remembrance,

Have me excused of mine ignorance."

THE TALE.

I will bewail, in manner of tragedy,

The harm of them that stood in high degree,

And felle so, that there was no remedy

To bring them out of their adversity.

For, certain, when that Fortune list to flee,

There may no man the course of her wheel hold:

Let no man trust in blind prosperity;

Beware by these examples true and old.

At LUCIFER, though he an angel were,

And not a man, at him I will begin.

For though Fortune may no angel dere,* *hurt

From high degree yet fell he for his sin

Down into hell, where as he yet is in.

O Lucifer! brightest of angels all,

Now art thou Satanas, that may'st not twin* *depart

Out of the misery in which thou art fall.

Lo ADAM, in the field of Damascene

With Godde's owen finger wrought was he,

And not begotten of man's sperm unclean;

And welt* all Paradise saving one tree: *commanded

Had never worldly man so high degree

As Adam, till he for misgovernance* *misbehaviour

Was driven out of his prosperity

To labour, and to hell, and to mischance.

Lo SAMPSON, which that was annunciate

By the angel, long ere his nativity;

And was to God Almighty consecrate,

And stood in nobless while that he might see;

Was never such another as was he,

To speak of strength, and thereto hardiness;* *courage

But to his wives told he his secre,

Through which he slew himself for wretchedness.

Sampson, this noble and mighty champion,

Withoute weapon, save his handes tway,

He slew and all to-rente* the lion, *tore to pieces

Toward his wedding walking by the way.

His false wife could him so please, and pray,

Till she his counsel knew; and she, untrue,

Unto his foes his counsel gan bewray,

And him forsook, and took another new.

Three hundred foxes Sampson took for ire,

And all their tailes he together band,

And set the foxes' tailes all on fire,

For he in every tail had knit a brand,

And they burnt all the combs of that lend,

And all their oliveres* and vines eke. *olive trees

A thousand men he slew eke with his hand,

And had no weapon but an ass's cheek.

When they were slain, so thirsted him, that he

Was *well-nigh lorn,* for which he gan to pray *near to perishing*

That God would on his pain have some pity,

And send him drink, or elles must he die;

And of this ass's check, that was so dry,

Out of a wang-tooth* sprang anon a well, *cheek-tooth

Of which, he drank enough, shortly to say.

Thus help'd him God, as Judicum can tell.

By very force, at Gaza, on a night,

Maugre* the Philistines of that city, *in spite of

The gates of the town he hath up plight,* *plucked, wrenched

And on his back y-carried them hath he

High on an hill, where as men might them see.

O noble mighty Sampson, lefe* and dear, *loved

Hadst thou not told to women thy secre,

In all this world there had not been thy peer.

This Sampson never cider drank nor wine,

Nor on his head came razor none nor shear,

By precept of the messenger divine;

For all his strengthes in his haires were;

And fully twenty winters, year by year,

He had of Israel the governance;

But soone shall he weepe many a tear,

For women shall him bringe to mischance.

Unto his leman* Dalila he told, *mistress

That in his haires all his strengthe lay;

And falsely to his foemen she him sold,

And sleeping in her barme* upon a day *lap

She made to clip or shear his hair away,

And made his foemen all his craft espien.

And when they founde him in this array,

They bound him fast, and put out both his eyen.

But, ere his hair was clipped or y-shave,

There was no bond with which men might him bind;

But now is he in prison in a cave,

Where as they made him at the querne* grind. *mill

O noble Sampson, strongest of mankind!

O whilom judge in glory and richess!

Now may'st thou weepe with thine eyen blind,

Since thou from weal art fall'n to wretchedness.

Th'end of this caitiff* was as I shall say; *wretched man

His foemen made a feast upon a day,

And made him as their fool before them play;

And this was in a temple of great array.

But at the last he made a foul affray,

For he two pillars shook, and made them fall,

And down fell temple and all, and there it lay,

And slew himself and eke his foemen all;

This is to say, the princes every one;

And eke three thousand bodies were there slain

With falling of the great temple of stone.

Of Sampson now will I no more sayn;

Beware by this example old and plain,

That no man tell his counsel to his wife

Of such thing as he would *have secret fain,* *wish to be secret*

If that it touch his limbes or his life.

Of HERCULES the sov'reign conquerour

Singe his workes' land and high renown;

For in his time of strength he bare the flow'r.

He slew and reft the skin of the lion

He of the Centaurs laid the boast adown;

He Harpies slew, the cruel birdes fell;

He golden apples reft from the dragon

He drew out Cerberus the hound of hell.

He slew the cruel tyrant Busirus.

And made his horse to fret* him flesh and bone; *devour

He slew the fiery serpent venomous;

Of Achelous' two hornes brake he one.

And he slew Cacus in a cave of stone;

He slew the giant Antaeus the strong;

He slew the grisly boar, and that anon;

And bare the heav'n upon his necke long.

Was never wight, since that the world began,

That slew so many monsters as did he;

Throughout the wide world his name ran,

What for his strength, and for his high bounte;

And every realme went he for to see;

He was so strong that no man might him let;* *withstand

At both the worlde's ends, as saith Trophee,

Instead of boundes he a pillar set.

A leman had this noble champion,

That highte Dejanira, fresh as May;

And, as these clerkes make mention,

She hath him sent a shirte fresh and gay;

Alas! this shirt, alas and well-away!

Envenomed was subtilly withal,

That ere that he had worn it half a day,

It made his flesh all from his bones fall.

But natheless some clerkes her excuse

By one, that highte Nessus, that it maked;

Be as he may, I will not her accuse;

But on his back this shirt he wore all naked,

Till that his flesh was for the venom blaked.* *blackened

And when he saw none other remedy,

In hote coals he hath himselfe raked,

For with no venom deigned he to die.

Thus sterf* this worthy mighty Hercules. *died

Lo, who may trust on Fortune *any throw?* *for a moment*

For him that followeth all this world of pres,* *near

Ere he be ware, is often laid full low;

Full wise is he that can himselfe know.

Beware, for when that Fortune list to glose

Then waiteth she her man to overthrow,

By such a way as he would least suppose.

The mighty throne, the precious treasor,

The glorious sceptre, and royal majesty,

That had the king NABUCHODONOSOR

With tongue unnethes* may described be. *scarcely

He twice won Jerusalem the city,

The vessels of the temple he with him lad;* *took away

At Babylone was his sov'reign see,* *seat

In which his glory and delight he had.

The fairest children of the blood royal

Of Israel he *did do geld* anon, *caused to be castrated*

And maked each of them to be his thrall.* *slave

Amonges others Daniel was one,

That was the wisest child of every one;

For he the dreames of the king expounded,

Where in Chaldaea clerkes was there none

That wiste to what fine* his dreames sounded. *end

This proude king let make a statue of gold

Sixty cubites long, and seven in bread',

To which image hathe young and old

Commanded he to lout,* and have in dread, *bow down to

Or in a furnace, full of flames red,

He should be burnt that woulde not obey:

But never would assente to that deed

Daniel, nor his younge fellows tway.

This king of kinges proud was and elate;* *lofty

He ween'd* that God, that sits in majesty, *thought

Mighte him not bereave of his estate;

But suddenly he lost his dignity,

And like a beast he seemed for to be,

And ate hay as an ox, and lay thereout

In rain, with wilde beastes walked he,

Till certain time was y-come about.

And like an eagle's feathers wax'd his hairs,

His nailes like a birde's clawes were,

Till God released him at certain years,

And gave him wit; and then with many a tear

He thanked God, and ever his life in fear

Was he to do amiss, or more trespace:

And till that time he laid was on his bier,

He knew that God was full of might and grace.

His sone, which that highte BALTHASAR,

That *held the regne* after his father's day, *possessed the kingdom*

He by his father coulde not beware,

For proud he was of heart and of array;

And eke an idolaster was he aye.

His high estate assured* him in pride; *confirmed

But Fortune cast him down, and there he lay,

And suddenly his regne gan divide.

A feast he made unto his lordes all

Upon a time, and made them blithe be,

And then his officeres gan he call;

"Go, bringe forth the vessels," saide he,

"Which that my father in his prosperity

Out of the temple of Jerusalem reft,

And to our highe goddes thanks we

Of honour, that our elders* with us left." *forefathers

His wife, his lordes, and his concubines

Aye dranke, while their appetites did last,

Out of these noble vessels sundry wines.

And on a wall this king his eyen cast,

And saw an hand, armless, that wrote full fast;

For fear of which he quaked, and sighed sore.

This hand, that Balthasar so sore aghast,* *dismayed

Wrote Mane, tekel, phares, and no more.

In all that land magician was there none

That could expounde what this letter meant.

But Daniel expounded it anon,

And said, "O King, God to thy father lent

Glory and honour, regne, treasure, rent;* *revenue

And he was proud, and nothing God he drad;* *dreaded

And therefore God great wreche* upon him sent, *vengeance

And him bereft the regne that he had.

"He was cast out of manne's company;

With asses was his habitation

And ate hay, as a beast, in wet and dry,

Till that he knew by grace and by reason

That God of heaven hath domination

O'er every regne, and every creature;

And then had God of him compassion,

And him restor'd his regne and his figure.

"Eke thou, that art his son, art proud also,

And knowest all these thinges verily;

And art rebel to God, and art his foe.

Thou drankest of his vessels boldely;

Thy wife eke, and thy wenches, sinfully

Drank of the same vessels sundry wines,

And heried* false goddes cursedly; *praised

Therefore *to thee y-shapen full great pine is.* *great punishment is

prepared for thee*

"This hand was sent from God, that on the wall

Wrote Mane, tekel, phares, truste me;

Thy reign is done; thou weighest naught at all;

Divided is thy regne, and it shall be

To Medes and to Persians giv'n," quoth he.

And thilke same night this king was slaw* *slain

And Darius occupied his degree,

Though he thereto had neither right nor law.

Lordings, example hereby may ye take,

How that in lordship is no sickerness;* *security

For when that Fortune will a man forsake,

She bears away his regne and his richess,

And eke his friendes bothe more and less,

For what man that hath friendes through fortune,

Mishap will make them enemies, I guess;

This proverb is full sooth, and full commune.

ZENOBIA, of Palmyrie the queen,

As write Persians of her nobless,

So worthy was in armes, and so keen,

That no wight passed her in hardiness,

Nor in lineage, nor other gentleness.* *noble qualities

Of the king's blood of Perse* is she descended; *Persia

I say not that she hadde most fairness,

But of her shape she might not he amended.

From her childhood I finde that she fled

Office of woman, and to woods she went,

And many a wilde harte's blood she shed

With arrows broad that she against them sent;

She was so swift, that she anon them hent.* *caught

And when that she was older, she would kill

Lions, leopards, and beares all to-rent,* *torn to pieces

And in her armes wield them at her will.

She durst the wilde beastes' dennes seek,

And runnen in the mountains all the night,

And sleep under a bush; and she could eke

Wrestle by very force and very might

With any young man, were he ne'er so wight;* *active, nimble

There mighte nothing in her armes stond.

She kept her maidenhood from every wight,

To no man deigned she for to be bond.

But at the last her friendes have her married

To Odenate, a prince of that country;

All were it so, that she them longe tarried.

And ye shall understande how that he

Hadde such fantasies as hadde she;

But natheless, when they were knit in fere,* *together

They liv'd in joy, and in felicity,

For each of them had other lefe* and dear. *loved

Save one thing, that she never would assent,

By no way, that he shoulde by her lie

But ones, for it was her plain intent

To have a child, the world to multiply;

And all so soon as that she might espy

That she was not with childe by that deed,

Then would she suffer him do his fantasy

Eftsoon,* and not but ones, *out of dread.* *again *without doubt*

And if she were with child at thilke* cast, *that

No more should he playe thilke game

Till fully forty dayes were past;

Then would she once suffer him do the same.

All* were this Odenatus wild or tame, *whether

He got no more of her; for thus she said,

It was to wives lechery and shame

In other case* if that men with them play'd. on other terms

Two sones, by this Odenate had she,

The which she kept in virtue and lettrure.* *learning

But now unto our tale turne we;

I say, so worshipful a creature,

And wise therewith, and large* with measure,** *bountiful **moderation

So penible* in the war, and courteous eke, *laborious

Nor more labour might in war endure,

Was none, though all this worlde men should seek.

Her rich array it mighte not be told,

As well in vessel as in her clothing:

She was all clad in pierrie* and in gold, *jewellery

And eke she *lefte not,* for no hunting, *did not neglect*

To have of sundry tongues full knowing,

When that she leisure had, and for t'intend* *apply

To learne bookes was all her liking,

How she in virtue might her life dispend.

And, shortly of this story for to treat,

So doughty was her husband and eke she,

That they conquered many regnes great

In th'Orient, with many a fair city

Appertinent unto the majesty

Of Rome, and with strong hande held them fast,

Nor ever might their foemen do* them flee, *make

Aye while that Odenatus' dayes last'.

Her battles, whoso list them for to read,

Against Sapor the king, and other mo',

And how that all this process fell in deed,

Why she conquer'd, and what title thereto,

And after of her mischief* and her woe, *misfortune

How that she was besieged and y-take,

Let him unto my master Petrarch go,

That writes enough of this, I undertake.

When Odenate was dead, she mightily

The regne held, and with her proper hand

Against her foes she fought so cruelly,

That there n'as* king nor prince in all that land, *was not

That was not glad, if be that grace fand

That she would not upon his land warray;* *make war

With her they maden alliance by bond,

To be in peace, and let her ride and play.

The emperor of Rome, Claudius,

Nor, him before, the Roman Gallien,

Durste never be so courageous,

Nor no Armenian, nor Egyptien,

Nor Syrian, nor no Arabien,

Within the fielde durste with her fight,

Lest that she would them with her handes slen,* *slay

Or with her meinie* putte them to flight. *troops

In kinges' habit went her sones two,

As heires of their father's regnes all;

And Heremanno and Timolao

Their names were, as Persians them call

But aye Fortune hath in her honey gall;

This mighty queene may no while endure;

Fortune out of her regne made her fall

To wretchedness and to misadventure.

Aurelian, when that the governance

Of Rome came into his handes tway,

He shope* upon this queen to do vengeance; *prepared

And with his legions he took his way

Toward Zenobie, and, shortly for to say,

He made her flee, and at the last her hent,* *took

And fetter'd her, and eke her children tway,

And won the land, and home to Rome he went.

Amonges other thinges that he wan,

Her car, that was with gold wrought and pierrie,* *jewels

This greate Roman, this Aurelian

Hath with him led, for that men should it see.

Before in his triumphe walked she

With gilte chains upon her neck hanging;

Crowned she was, as after* her degree, *according to

And full of pierrie her clothing.

Alas, Fortune! she that whilom was

Dreadful to kinges and to emperours,

Now galeth* all the people on her, alas! *yelleth

And she that *helmed was in starke stowres,* *wore a helmet in

And won by force townes strong and tow'rs, obstinate battles*

Shall on her head now wear a vitremite;

And she that bare the sceptre full of flow'rs

Shall bear a distaff, *her cost for to quite.* * to make her living*

Although that NERO were so vicious

As any fiend that lies full low adown,

Yet he, as telleth us Suetonius,

This wide world had in subjectioun,

Both East and West, South and Septentrioun.

Of rubies, sapphires, and of pearles white

Were all his clothes embroider'd up and down,

For he in gemmes greatly gan delight.

More delicate, more pompous of array,

More proud, was never emperor than he;

That *ilke cloth* that he had worn one day, *same robe*

After that time he would it never see;

Nettes of gold thread had he great plenty,

To fish in Tiber, when him list to play;

His lustes* were as law, in his degree, *pleasures

For Fortune as his friend would him obey.

He Rome burnt for his delicacy;* *pleasure

The senators he slew upon a day,

To heare how that men would weep and cry;

And slew his brother, and by his sister lay.

His mother made he in piteous array;

For he her wombe slitte, to behold

Where he conceived was; so well-away!

That he so little of his mother told.* *valued

No tear out of his eyen for that sight

Came; but he said, a fair woman was she.

Great wonder is, how that he could or might

Be doomesman* of her deade beauty: *judge

The wine to bringe him commanded he,

And drank anon; none other woe he made,

When might is joined unto cruelty,

Alas! too deepe will the venom wade.

In youth a master had this emperour,

To teache him lettrure* and courtesy; *literature, learning

For of morality he was the flow'r,

As in his time, *but if* bookes lie. *unless

And while this master had of him mast'ry,

He made him so conning and so souple,* *subtle

That longe time it was ere tyranny,

Or any vice, durst in him uncouple.* *be let loose

This Seneca, of which that I devise,* *tell

Because Nero had of him suche dread,

For he from vices would him aye chastise

Discreetly, as by word, and not by deed;

"Sir," he would say, "an emperor must need

Be virtuous, and hate tyranny."

For which he made him in a bath to bleed

On both his armes, till he muste die.

This Nero had eke of a custumance* *habit

In youth against his master for to rise;* *stand in his presence

Which afterward he thought a great grievance;

Therefore he made him dien in this wise.

But natheless this Seneca the wise

Chose in a bath to die in this mannere,

Rather than have another tormentise;* *torture

And thus hath Nero slain his master dear.

Now fell it so, that Fortune list no longer

The highe pride of Nero to cherice;* *cherish

For though he were strong, yet was she stronger.

She thoughte thus; "By God, I am too nice* *foolish

To set a man, that is full fill'd of vice,

In high degree, and emperor him call!

By God, out of his seat I will him trice!* *thrust

When he least weeneth,* soonest shall he fall." *expecteth

The people rose upon him on a night,

For his default; and when he it espied,

Out of his doors anon he hath him dight* *betaken himself

Alone, and where he ween'd t'have been allied,* *regarded with

He knocked fast, and aye the more he cried friendship

The faster shutte they their doores all;

Then wist he well he had himself misgied,* *misled

And went his way, no longer durst he call.

The people cried and rumbled up and down,

That with his eares heard he how they said;

"Where is this false tyrant, this Neroun?"

For fear almost out of his wit he braid,* *went

And to his goddes piteously he pray'd

For succour, but it mighte not betide

For dread of this he thoughte that died,

And ran into a garden him to hide.

And in this garden found he churles tway,

That satte by a fire great and red;

And to these churles two he gan to pray

To slay him, and to girdon* off his head, *strike

That to his body, when that he were dead,

Were no despite done for his defame.* *infamy

Himself he slew, *he coud no better rede;* *he knew no better

Of which Fortune laugh'd and hadde game. counsel*

Was never capitain under a king,

That regnes more put in subjectioun,

Nor stronger was in field of alle thing

As in his time, nor greater of renown,

Nor more pompous in high presumptioun,

Than HOLOFERNES, whom Fortune aye kiss'd

So lik'rously, and led him up and down,

Till that his head was off *ere that he wist.* *before he knew it*

Not only that this world had of him awe,

For losing of richess and liberty;

But he made every man *reny his law.* *renounce his religion

Nabuchodonosor was God, said he;

None other Godde should honoured be.

Against his hest* there dare no wight trespace, *command

Save in Bethulia, a strong city,

Where Eliachim priest was of that place.

But take keep* of the death of Holofern; *notice

Amid his host he drunken lay at night

Within his tente, large as is a bern;* *barn

And yet, for all his pomp and all his might,

Judith, a woman, as he lay upright

Sleeping, his head off smote, and from his tent

Full privily she stole from every wight,

And with his head unto her town she went.

What needeth it of king ANTIOCHUS

To tell his high and royal majesty,

His great pride, and his workes venomous?

For such another was there none as he;

Reade what that he was in Maccabee.

And read the proude wordes that he said,

And why he fell from his prosperity,

And in an hill how wretchedly he died.

Fortune him had enhanced so in pride,

That verily he ween'd he might attain

Unto the starres upon every side,

And in a balance weighen each mountain,

And all the floodes of the sea restrain.

And Godde's people had he most in hate

Them would he slay in torment and in pain,

Weening that God might not his pride abate.

And for that Nicanor and Timothee

With Jewes were vanquish'd mightily,

Unto the Jewes such an hate had he,

That he bade *graith his car* full hastily, *prepare his chariot*

And swore and saide full dispiteously,

Unto Jerusalem he would eftsoon,* *immediately

To wreak his ire on it full cruelly

But of his purpose was he let* full soon. *prevented

God for his menace him so sore smote,

With invisible wound incurable,

That in his guttes carf* it so and bote,** *cut **gnawed

Till that his paines were importable;* *unendurable

And certainly the wreche* was reasonable, *vengeance

For many a manne's guttes did he pain;

But from his purpose, curs'd* and damnable, *impious

For all his smart he would him not restrain;

But bade anon apparaile* his host. *prepare

And suddenly, ere he was of it ware,

God daunted all his pride, and all his boast

For he so sore fell out of his chare,* *chariot

That it his limbes and his skin to-tare,

So that he neither mighte go nor ride

But in a chaire men about him bare,

Alle forbruised bothe back and side.

The wreche* of God him smote so cruelly, *vengeance

That through his body wicked wormes crept,

And therewithal he stank so horribly

That none of all his meinie* that him kept, *servants

Whether so that he woke or elles slept,

Ne mighte not of him the stink endure.

In this mischief he wailed and eke wept,

And knew God Lord of every creature.

To all his host, and to himself also,

Full wlatsem* was the stink of his carrain;** *loathsome **body

No manne might him beare to and fro.

And in this stink, and this horrible pain,

He starf* full wretchedly in a mountain. *dies

Thus hath this robber, and this homicide,

That many a manne made to weep and plain,

Such guerdon* as belongeth unto pride. *reward

The story of ALEXANDER is so commune,

That ev'ry wight that hath discretion

Hath heard somewhat or all of his fortune.

This wide world, as in conclusion,

He won by strength; or, for his high renown,

They were glad for peace to him to send.

The pride and boast of man he laid adown,

Whereso he came, unto the worlde's end.

Comparison yet never might be maked

Between him and another conqueror;

For all this world for dread of him had quaked

He was of knighthood and of freedom flow'r:

Fortune him made the heir of her honour.

Save wine and women, nothing might assuage

His high intent in arms and labour,

So was he full of leonine courage.

What praise were it to him, though I you told

Of Darius, and a hundred thousand mo',

Of kinges, princes, dukes, and earles bold,

Which he conquer'd, and brought them into woe?

I say, as far as man may ride or go,

The world was his, why should I more devise?* *tell

For, though I wrote or told you evermo',

Of his knighthood it mighte not suffice.

Twelve years he reigned, as saith Maccabee

Philippe's son of Macedon he was,

That first was king in Greece the country.

O worthy gentle* Alexander, alas *noble

That ever should thee falle such a case!

Empoison'd of thine owen folk thou were;

Thy six fortune hath turn'd into an ace,

And yet for thee she wepte never a tear.

Who shall me give teares to complain

The death of gentiless, and of franchise,* *generosity

That all this worlde had in his demaine,* *dominion

And yet he thought it mighte not suffice,

So full was his corage* of high emprise? *spirit

Alas! who shall me helpe to indite

False Fortune, and poison to despise?

The whiche two of all this woe I wite.* *blame

By wisdom, manhood, and by great labour,

From humbleness to royal majesty

Up rose he, JULIUS the Conquerour,

That won all th' Occident,* by land and sea, *West

By strength of hand or elles by treaty,

And unto Rome made them tributary;

And since* of Rome the emperor was he, *afterwards

Till that Fortune wax'd his adversary.

O mighty Caesar, that in Thessaly

Against POMPEIUS, father thine in law,

That of th' Orient had all the chivalry,

As far as that the day begins to daw,

That through thy knighthood hast them take and slaw,* slain*

Save fewe folk that with Pompeius fled;

Through which thou put all th' Orient in awe;

Thanke Fortune that so well thee sped.

But now a little while I will bewail

This Pompeius, this noble governor

Of Rome, which that fled at this battaile

I say, one of his men, a false traitor,

His head off smote, to winne him favor

Of Julius, and him the head he brought;

Alas! Pompey, of th' Orient conqueror,

That Fortune unto such a fine* thee brought! *end

To Rome again repaired Julius,

With his triumphe laureate full high;

But on a time Brutus and Cassius,

That ever had of his estate envy,

Full privily have made conspiracy

Against this Julius in subtle wise

And cast* the place in which he shoulde die, *arranged

With bodekins,* as I shall you devise.** *daggers **tell

This Julius to the Capitole went

Upon a day, as he was wont to gon;

And in the Capitol anon him hent* *seized

This false Brutus, and his other fone,* *foes

And sticked him with bodekins anon

With many a wound, and thus they let him lie.

But never groan'd he at no stroke but one,

Or else at two, *but if* the story lie. *unless

So manly was this Julius of heart,

And so well loved *estately honesty *dignified propriety*

That, though his deadly woundes sore smart,* *pained him

His mantle o'er his hippes caste he,

That ne man shoulde see his privity

And as he lay a-dying in a trance,

And wiste verily that dead was he,

Of honesty yet had he remembrance.

Lucan, to thee this story I recommend,

And to Sueton', and Valerie also,

That of this story write *word and end* *the whole*

How that to these great conquerores two

Fortune was first a friend, and since* a foe. *afterwards

No manne trust upon her favour long,

But *have her in await for evermo';* *ever be watchful against her*

Witness on all these conquerores strong.

The riche CROESUS, whilom king of Lyde, —

Of which Croesus Cyrus him sore drad,* — *dreaded

Yet was he caught amiddes all his pride,

And to be burnt men to the fire him lad;

But such a rain down *from the welkin shad,* *poured from the sky*

That slew the fire, and made him to escape:

But to beware no grace yet he had,

Till fortune on the gallows made him gape.

When he escaped was, he could not stint* *refrain

For to begin a newe war again;

He weened well, for that Fortune him sent

Such hap, that he escaped through the rain,

That of his foes he mighte not be slain.

And eke a sweven* on a night he mette,** *dream **dreamed

Of which he was so proud, and eke so fain,* *glad

That he in vengeance all his hearte set.

Upon a tree he was set, as he thought,

Where Jupiter him wash'd, both back and side,

And Phoebus eke a fair towel him brought

To dry him with; and therefore wax'd his pride.

And to his daughter that stood him beside,

Which he knew in high science to abound,

He bade her tell him what it signified;

And she his dream began right thus expound.

"The tree," quoth she, "the gallows is to mean,

And Jupiter betokens snow and rain,

And Phoebus, with his towel clear and clean,

These be the sunne's streames* sooth to sayn; *rays

Thou shalt y-hangeth be, father, certain;

Rain shall thee wash, and sunne shall thee dry."

Thus warned him full plat and eke full plain

His daughter, which that called was Phanie.

And hanged was Croesus the proude king;

His royal throne might him not avail.

Tragedy is none other manner thing,

Nor can in singing crien nor bewail,

But for that Fortune all day will assail

With unware stroke the regnes* that be proud: *kingdoms

For when men truste her, then will she fail,

And cover her bright face with a cloud.

O noble, O worthy PEDRO, glory OF SPAIN,

Whem Fortune held so high in majesty,

Well oughte men thy piteous death complain.

Out of thy land thy brother made thee flee,

And after, at a siege, by subtlety,

Thou wert betray'd, and led unto his tent,

Where as he with his owen hand slew thee,

Succeeding in thy regne* and in thy rent.** *kingdom *revenues

The field of snow, with th' eagle of black therein,

Caught with the lion, red-colour'd as the glede,* *burning coal

He brew'd this cursedness,* and all this sin; *wickedness, villainy

The wicked nest was worker of this deed;

Not Charles' Oliver, that took aye heed

Of truth and honour, but of Armorike

Ganilien Oliver, corrupt for meed,* *reward, bribe

Broughte this worthy king in such a brike.* *breach, ruin

O worthy PETRO, King of CYPRE also,

That Alexandre won by high mast'ry,

Full many a heathnen wroughtest thou full woe,

Of which thine owen lieges had envy;

And, for no thing but for thy chivalry,

They in thy bed have slain thee by the morrow;

Thus can Fortune her wheel govern and gie,* *guide

And out of joy bringe men into sorrow.

Of Milan greate BARNABO VISCOUNT,

God of delight, and scourge of Lombardy,

Why should I not thine clomben* wert so high? *climbed

Thy brother's son, that was thy double ally,

For he thy nephew was and son-in-law,

Within his prison made thee to die,

But why, nor how, *n'ot I* that thou were slaw.* *I know not* *slain*

Of th' Earl HUGOLIN OF PISE the languour* *agony

There may no tongue telle for pity.

But little out of Pisa stands a tow'r,

In whiche tow'r in prison put was he,

Aud with him be his little children three;

The eldest scarcely five years was of age;

Alas! Fortune, it was great cruelty

Such birdes for to put in such a cage.

Damned was he to die in that prison;

For Roger, which that bishop was of Pise,

Had on him made a false suggestion,

Through which the people gan upon him rise,

And put him in prison, in such a wise

As ye have heard; and meat and drink he had

So small, that well unneth* it might suffice, *scarcely

And therewithal it was full poor and bad.

And on a day befell, that in that hour

When that his meate wont was to be brought,

The jailor shut the doores of the tow'r;

He heard it right well, but he spake nought.

And in his heart anon there fell a thought,

That they for hunger woulde *do him dien;* *cause him to die*

"Alas!" quoth he, "alas that I was wrought!"* *made, born

Therewith the teares fell from his eyen.

His youngest son, that three years was of age,

Unto him said, "Father, why do ye weep?

When will the jailor bringen our pottage?

Is there no morsel bread that ye do keep?

I am so hungry, that I may not sleep.

Now woulde God that I might sleepen ever!

Then should not hunger in my wombe* creep; *stomach

There is no thing, save bread, that one were lever."* *dearer

Thus day by day this child begun to cry,

Till in his father's barme* adown he lay, *lap

And saide, "Farewell, father, I must die;"

And kiss'd his father, and died the same day.

And when the woeful father did it sey,* *see

For woe his armes two he gan to bite,

And said, "Alas! Fortune, and well-away!

To thy false wheel my woe all may I wite."* *blame

His children ween'd that it for hunger was

That he his armes gnaw'd, and not for woe,

And saide, "Father, do not so, alas!

But rather eat the flesh upon us two.

Our flesh thou gave us, our flesh take us fro',

And eat enough;" right thus they to him said.

And after that, within a day or two,

They laid them in his lap adown, and died.

Himself, despaired, eke for hunger starf.* *died

Thus ended is this Earl of Pise;

From high estate Fortune away him carf.* *cut off

Of this tragedy it ought enough suffice

Whoso will hear it *in a longer wise,* *at greater length*

Reade the greate poet of ltale,

That Dante hight, for he can it devise

From point to point, not one word will he fail.

****

THE NUN'S PRIEST'S TALE.

THE PROLOGUE.

"Ho!" quoth the Knight, "good sir, no more of this;

That ye have said is right enough, y-wis,* *of a surety

And muche more; for little heaviness

Is right enough to muche folk, I guess.

I say for me, it is a great disease,* *source of distress, annoyance

Where as men have been in great wealth and ease,

To hearen of their sudden fall, alas!

And the contrary is joy and great solas,* *delight, comfort

As when a man hath been in poor estate,

And climbeth up, and waxeth fortunate,

And there abideth in prosperity;

Such thing is gladsome, as it thinketh me,

And of such thing were goodly for to tell."

"Yea," quoth our Hoste, "by Saint Paule's bell.

Ye say right sooth; this monk hath clapped* loud; *talked

He spake how Fortune cover'd with a cloud

I wot not what, and als' of a tragedy

Right now ye heard: and pardie no remedy

It is for to bewaile, nor complain

That that is done, and also it is pain,

As ye have said, to hear of heaviness.

Sir Monk, no more of this, so God you bless;

Your tale annoyeth all this company;

Such talking is not worth a butterfly,

For therein is there no sport nor game;

Therefore, Sir Monke, Dan Piers by your name,

I pray you heart'ly, tell us somewhat else,

For sickerly, n'ere* clinking of your bells, *were it not for the

That on your bridle hang on every side,

By heaven's king, that for us alle died,

I should ere this have fallen down for sleep,

Although the slough had been never so deep;

Then had your tale been all told in vain.

For certainly, as these clerkes sayn,

Where as a man may have no audience,

Nought helpeth it to telle his sentence.

And well I wot the substance is in me,

If anything shall well reported be.

Sir, say somewhat of hunting, I you pray."

"Nay," quoth the Monk, "I have *no lust to play;* *no fondness for

Now let another tell, as I have told." jesting*

Then spake our Host with rude speech and bold,

And said unto the Nunne's Priest anon,

"Come near, thou Priest, come hither, thou Sir John,

Tell us such thing as may our heartes glade.* *gladden

Be blithe, although thou ride upon a jade.

What though thine horse be bothe foul and lean?

If he will serve thee, reck thou not a bean;

Look that thine heart be merry evermo'."

"Yes, Host," quoth he, "so may I ride or go,

But* I be merry, y-wis I will be blamed." *unless

And right anon his tale he hath attamed* *commenced

And thus he said unto us every one,

This sweete priest, this goodly man, Sir John.

THE TALE.

A poor widow, *somedeal y-stept* in age, *somewhat advanced*

Was whilom dwelling in a poor cottage,

Beside a grove, standing in a dale.

This widow, of which I telle you my tale,

Since thilke day that she was last a wife,

In patience led a full simple life,

For little was *her chattel and her rent.* *her goods and her income*

By husbandry* of such as God her sent, *thrifty management

She found* herself, and eke her daughters two. *maintained

Three large sowes had she, and no mo';

Three kine, and eke a sheep that highte Mall.

Full sooty was her bow'r,* and eke her hall, *chamber

In which she ate full many a slender meal.

Of poignant sauce knew she never a deal.* *whit

No dainty morsel passed through her throat;

Her diet was *accordant to her cote.* *in keeping with her cottage*

Repletion her made never sick;

Attemper* diet was all her physic, *moderate

And exercise, and *hearte's suffisance.* *contentment of heart*

The goute *let her nothing for to dance,* *did not prevent her

Nor apoplexy shente* not her head. from dancing* *hurt

No wine drank she, neither white nor red:

Her board was served most with white and black,

Milk and brown bread, in which she found no lack,

Seind* bacon, and sometimes an egg or tway; *singed

For she was as it were *a manner dey.* *kind of day labourer*

A yard she had, enclosed all about

With stickes, and a drye ditch without,

In which she had a cock, hight Chanticleer;

In all the land of crowing *n'as his peer.* *was not his equal*

His voice was merrier than the merry orgon,* *organ

On masse days that in the churches gon.

Well sickerer* was his crowing in his lodge, *more punctual*

Than is a clock, or an abbay horloge.* *clock

By nature he knew each ascension

Of th' equinoctial in thilke town;

For when degrees fiftene were ascended,

Then crew he, that it might not be amended.

His comb was redder than the fine coral,

Embattell'd as it were a castle wall.

His bill was black, and as the jet it shone;

Like azure were his legges and his tone;* *toes

His nailes whiter than the lily flow'r,

And like the burnish'd gold was his colour,

This gentle cock had in his governance

Sev'n hennes, for to do all his pleasance,

Which were his sisters and his paramours,

And wondrous like to him as of colours.

Of which the fairest-hued in the throat

Was called Damoselle Partelote,

Courteous she was, discreet, and debonair,

And companiable,* and bare herself so fair, *sociable

Since the day that she sev'n night was old,

That truely she had the heart in hold

Of Chanticleer, locked in every lith;* *limb

He lov'd her so, that well was him therewith,

But such a joy it was to hear them sing,

When that the brighte sunne gan to spring,

In sweet accord, *"My lefe is fare in land."* *my love is

For, at that time, as I have understand, gone abroad*

Beastes and birdes coulde speak and sing.

And so befell, that in a dawening,

As Chanticleer among his wives all

Sat on his perche, that was in the hall,

And next him sat this faire Partelote,

This Chanticleer gan groanen in his throat,

As man that in his dream is dretched* sore, *oppressed

And when that Partelote thus heard him roar,

She was aghast,* and saide, "Hearte dear, *afraid

What aileth you to groan in this mannere?

Ye be a very sleeper, fy for shame!"

And he answer'd and saide thus; "Madame,

I pray you that ye take it not agrief;* *amiss, in umbrage

By God, *me mette* I was in such mischief,** *I dreamed* **trouble

Right now, that yet mine heart is sore affright'.

Now God," quoth he, "my sweven* read aright *dream, vision.

And keep my body out of foul prisoun.

*Me mette,* how that I roamed up and down *I dreamed*

Within our yard, where as I saw a beast

Was like an hound, and would have *made arrest* *siezed*

Upon my body, and would have had me dead.

His colour was betwixt yellow and red;

And tipped was his tail, and both his ears,

With black, unlike the remnant of his hairs.

His snout was small, with glowing eyen tway;

Yet of his look almost for fear I dey;* *died

This caused me my groaning, doubteless."

"Away," quoth she, "fy on you, hearteless!* *coward

Alas!" quoth she, "for, by that God above!

Now have ye lost my heart and all my love;

I cannot love a coward, by my faith.

For certes, what so any woman saith,

We all desiren, if it mighte be,

To have husbandes hardy, wise, and free,

And secret,* and no niggard nor no fool, *discreet

Nor him that is aghast* of every tool,** *afraid **rag, trifle

Nor no avantour,* by that God above! *braggart

How durste ye for shame say to your love

That anything might make you afear'd?

Have ye no manne's heart, and have a beard?

Alas! and can ye be aghast of swevenes?* *dreams

Nothing but vanity, God wot, in sweven is,

Swevens *engender of repletions,* *are caused by over-eating*

And oft of fume,* and of complexions, *drunkenness

When humours be too abundant in a wight.

Certes this dream, which ye have mette tonight,

Cometh of the great supefluity

Of youre rede cholera,* pardie, *bile

Which causeth folk to dreaden in their dreams

Of arrows, and of fire with redde beams,

Of redde beastes, that they will them bite,

Of conteke,* and of whelpes great and lite;** *contention **little

Right as the humour of melancholy

Causeth full many a man in sleep to cry,

For fear of bulles, or of beares blake,

Or elles that black devils will them take,

Of other humours could I tell also,

That worke many a man in sleep much woe;

That I will pass as lightly as I can.

Lo, Cato, which that was so wise a man,

Said he not thus, *'Ne do no force of* dreams,'

Now, Sir," quoth she, "when we fly from these beams,

For Godde's love, as take some laxatife;

On peril of my soul, and of my life,

I counsel you the best, I will not lie,

That both of choler, and melancholy,

Ye purge you; and, for ye shall not tarry,

Though in this town is no apothecary,

I shall myself two herbes teache you,

That shall be for your health, and for your prow;* *profit

And in our yard the herbes shall I find,

The which have of their property by kind* *nature

To purge you beneath, and eke above.

Sire, forget not this for Godde's love;

Ye be full choleric of complexion;

Ware that the sun, in his ascension,

You finde not replete of humours hot;

And if it do, I dare well lay a groat,

That ye shall have a fever tertiane,

Or else an ague, that may be your bane,

A day or two ye shall have digestives

Of wormes, ere ye take your laxatives,

Of laurel, centaury, and fumeterere,

Or else of elder-berry, that groweth there,

Of catapuce, or of the gaitre-berries,

Or herb ivy growing in our yard, that merry is:

Pick them right as they grow, and eat them in,

Be merry, husband, for your father's kin;

Dreade no dream; I can say you no more."

"Madame," quoth he, "grand mercy of your lore,

But natheless, as touching *Dan Catoun,* *Cato

That hath of wisdom such a great renown,

Though that he bade no dreames for to dread,

By God, men may in olde bookes read

Of many a man more of authority

Than ever Cato was, so may I the,* *thrive

That all the reverse say of his sentence,* *opinion

And have well founden by experience

That dreames be significations

As well of joy, as tribulations

That folk enduren in this life present.

There needeth make of this no argument;

The very preve* sheweth it indeed. *trial, experience

One of the greatest authors that men read

Saith thus, that whilom two fellowes went

On pilgrimage in a full good intent;

And happen'd so, they came into a town

Where there was such a congregatioun

Of people, and eke so *strait of herbergage,* *without lodging*

That they found not as much as one cottage

In which they bothe might y-lodged be:

Wherefore they musten of necessity,

As for that night, departe company;

And each of them went to his hostelry,* *inn

And took his lodging as it woulde fall.

The one of them was lodged in a stall,

Far in a yard, with oxen of the plough;

That other man was lodged well enow,

As was his aventure, or his fortune,

That us governeth all, as in commune.

And so befell, that, long ere it were day,

This man mette* in his bed, there: as he lay, *dreamed

How that his fellow gan upon him call,

And said, 'Alas! for in an ox's stall

This night shall I be murder'd, where I lie

Now help me, deare brother, or I die;

In alle haste come to me,' he said.

This man out of his sleep for fear abraid;* *started

But when that he was wak'd out of his sleep,

He turned him, and *took of this no keep;* *paid this no attention*

He thought his dream was but a vanity.

Thus twies* in his sleeping dreamed he, *twice

And at the thirde time yet his fellaw again

Came, as he thought, and said, 'I am now slaw;* *slain

Behold my bloody woundes, deep and wide.

Arise up early, in the morning, tide,

And at the west gate of the town,' quoth he,

'A carte full of dung there shalt: thou see,

In which my body is hid privily.

Do thilke cart arroste* boldely. *stop

My gold caused my murder, sooth to sayn.'

And told him every point how he was slain,

With a full piteous face, and pale of hue.

"And, truste well, his dream he found full true;

For on the morrow, as soon as it was day,

To his fellowes inn he took his way;

And when that he came to this ox's stall,

After his fellow he began to call.

The hostelere answered him anon,

And saide, 'Sir, your fellow is y-gone,

As soon as day he went out of the town.'

This man gan fallen in suspicioun,

Rememb'ring on his dreames that he mette,* *dreamed

And forth he went, no longer would he let,* *delay

Unto the west gate of the town, and fand* *found

A dung cart, as it went for to dung land,

That was arrayed in the same wise

As ye have heard the deade man devise;* *describe

And with an hardy heart he gan to cry,

'Vengeance and justice of this felony:

My fellow murder'd in this same night

And in this cart he lies, gaping upright.

I cry out on the ministers,' quoth he.

'That shoulde keep and rule this city;

Harow! alas! here lies my fellow slain.'

What should I more unto this tale sayn?

The people out start, and cast the cart to ground

And in the middle of the dung they found

The deade man, that murder'd was all new.

O blissful God! that art so good and true,

Lo, how that thou bewray'st murder alway.

Murder will out, that see we day by day.

Murder is so wlatsom* and abominable *loathsome

To God, that is so just and reasonable,

That he will not suffer it heled* be; *concealed

Though it abide a year, or two, or three,

Murder will out, this is my conclusioun,

And right anon, the ministers of the town

Have hent* the carter, and so sore him pined,** *seized **tortured

And eke the hostelere so sore engined,* *racked

That they beknew* their wickedness anon, *confessed

And were hanged by the necke bone.

"Here may ye see that dreames be to dread.

And certes in the same book I read,

Right in the nexte chapter after this

(I gabbe* not, so have I joy and bliss), *talk idly

Two men that would, have passed over sea,

For certain cause, into a far country,

If that the wind not hadde been contrary,

That made them in a city for to tarry,

That stood full merry upon an haven side;

But on a day, against the even-tide,

The wind gan change, and blew right *as them lest.* *as they wished*

Jolly and glad they wente to their rest,

And caste* them full early for to sail. *resolved

But to the one man fell a great marvail

That one of them, in sleeping as he lay,

He mette* a wondrous dream, against the day: *dreamed

He thought a man stood by his bedde's side,

And him commanded that he should abide;

And said him thus; 'If thou to-morrow wend,

Thou shalt be drown'd; my tale is at an end.'

He woke, and told his follow what he mette,

And prayed him his voyage for to let;* *delay

As for that day, he pray'd him to abide.

His fellow, that lay by his bedde's side,

Gan for to laugh, and scorned him full fast.

'No dream,' quoth he,'may so my heart aghast,* *frighten

That I will lette* for to do my things.* *delay

I sette not a straw by thy dreamings,

For swevens* be but vanities and japes.** *dreams **jokes,deceits

Men dream all day of owles and of apes,

And eke of many a maze* therewithal; *wild imagining

Men dream of thing that never was, nor shall.

But since I see, that thou wilt here abide,

And thus forslothe* wilfully thy tide,** *idle away **time

God wot, *it rueth me;* and have good day.' *I am sorry for it*

And thus he took his leave, and went his way.

But, ere that he had half his course sail'd,

I know not why, nor what mischance it ail'd,

But casually* the ship's bottom rent, *by accident

And ship and man under the water went,

In sight of other shippes there beside

That with him sailed at the same tide.

"And therefore, faire Partelote so dear,

By such examples olde may'st thou lear,* *learn

That no man shoulde be too reckeless

Of dreames, for I say thee doubteless,

That many a dream full sore is for to dread.

Lo, in the life of Saint Kenelm I read,

That was Kenulphus' son, the noble king

Of Mercenrike, how Kenelm mette a thing.

A little ere he was murder'd on a day,

His murder in his vision he say.* *saw

His norice* him expounded every deal** *nurse **part

His sweven, and bade him to keep* him well *guard

For treason; but he was but seven years old,

And therefore *little tale hath he told* *he attached little

Of any dream, so holy was his heart. significance to*

By God, I hadde lever than my shirt

That ye had read his legend, as have I.

Dame Partelote, I say you truely,

Macrobius, that wrote the vision

In Afric' of the worthy Scipion,

Affirmeth dreames, and saith that they be

'Warnings of thinges that men after see.

And furthermore, I pray you looke well

In the Old Testament, of Daniel,

If he held dreames any vanity.

Read eke of Joseph, and there shall ye see

Whether dreams be sometimes (I say not all)