The Canterbury Tales

The General Prologue

	When April with its sweet showers comes to call
	And pierces the drought of March, roots and all,
	And bathes each vein in sap of such a power
	That by its strength it brings to birth the flower;
	When Zephyr too, the west wind, with sweet breath
	Has breathed in every wood and every heath
	Life into tender shoots, and the young sun
	Is in the Ram, and half its course is done,
	And little birds make melody, and lie
	Asleep all night long with an open eye
	(So Nature pricks their hearts with her sharp goad):
	Then people long to take the pilgrim road
	(And palmers long to seek out foreign strands)
	To far-off shrines, renowned in many lands;
	And most of all, from England far and wide,
	From every shire's end, to Canterbury they ride,
	To seek the holy, blessed martyr, who
	Has helped them when they were sick, and seen them through.

	It happened in that season, on a day
	In Southwark, at the Tabard, where I lay
	Ready to go on pilgrimage, set out
	For Canterbury, feeling most devout,
	That night there came into that hostelry
	A good nine and twenty in one company
	Of every sort of people, who'd chanced to fall
	In fellowship together, pilgrims all,
	And Canterbury-bound, and set to ride.
	The rooms were spacious, and the stables wide,
	And we were treated to the very best.
	In short, by the time the sun had gone to rest
	I'd talked with all of them in such a way
	That I had joined their fellowship straight away,
	And we agreed to get up early and go
	Upon our way, as I will let you know.

	But all the same, while I have time and space,
	Before my story moves on from this place,
	It seems to me the reasonable thing to do
	Is to describe the circumstances to you
	Of each of them, as each one seemed to me,
	And who they were, and what their rank might be,
	And what they wore, the clothes that they were in;
	And with a knight, then, let me first begin.

	There was a knight, a most distinguished man,
	Who from the very time he first began
	To ride out on campaign, had loved chivalry,
	Good faith and honour, generosity, courtesy.
	He'd fought with great distinction in his lord's war,
	And ridden out (no man had ridden more)
	In Christian lands and heathen ones no less,
	And was always honoured for his worthiness.

	He was at Alexandria when it was won;
	Often he'd been seated as the honoured one
	Above the knights of every land in Prussia;
	He'd raided in Lithuania and in Russia;
	No Christian of his rank had been there more;
	And in Granada he had been, at the siege before
	Algeciras, and had raided on Moroccan land;
	At Ayas and Antalya he was on hand
	When they were won; and on the Great Sea
	He'd been in many a noble landing party.
	Of mortal battles he had fought fifteen,
	And fought for our faith at Tlemcen
	Three times in the lists, and always killed his foe.
	This same distinguished knight, some years ago,
	Had served the lord of Balat, doing the work
	Of war against another heathen Turk.
	And everywhere he'd won the highest prize.
	And though he was distinguished, he was wise,
	And in his bearing modest as a maid.
	He never yet, in all his life, has made
	One rude remark to anyone, however slight.
	He was a true and perfect noble knight.
	But now, to tell you of his outfit: he
	Had good horses, but he wore no finery.
	He wore a fustian tunic, every bit
	Stained with the rust of the mail coat over it,
	For he had just come home from his voyage
	And now was going to make his pilgrimage.

	With him there was his son, a young squire,
	A lover, a lively knight-to-be, full of fire,
	With curly locks, as if laid in a press.
	He was some twenty years of age, I guess.
	In stature he was of a middling length,
	And wonderfully agile, and of great strength.
	And he'd been out on raids with the cavalry
	In Flanders, in Artois, and Picardy,
	And borne himself well, for so short a space,
	In hope of standing in his lady's grace.
	His clothes were embroidered like a meadow, spread
	With fresh flowers everywhere, white and red.
	He was singing, or playing the flute, all day;
	He was as fresh as is the month of May.
	His gown was short, with sleeves both long and wide.
	He sat a horse well, and knew how to ride.
	He could make up songs and put the words just right,
	Joust, and dance too, and draw well, and write.
	He loved so hotly that, the whole night through,
	He slept no more than a nightingale would do.
	He was courteous, humble, willing and able,
	And carved for his father at the table.

	The knight had a yeoman, and no servants beside,
	At that time, since that was how he liked to ride;
	And he was dressed in coat and hood of green;
	A sheaf of peacock-feathered arrows, bright and keen,
	Was tucked under his belt, packed carefully
	(He kept his tackle like a yeoman, properly:
	His arrows never drooped with feathers low),
	And in his hand he carried a mighty bow.
	His hair was cropped close, and his face was brown;
	He knew the ways of woodcraft up and down.
	Upon his arm he wore a gaudy bracer,
	And at his side a sword and a small buckler,
	And on the other side a fancy dagger, near
	To hand, well mounted, sharp as the point of a spear;
	He wore a Saint Christopher of silver, polished clean;
	He carried a horn, on a shoulder strap of green;
	He must have been a forester, I guess.

	There was also a nun, a prioress,
	Whose smile was unaffected, sweet and coy;
	Her greatest oath was only "By Saint Loy!"
	And she was called Madame Eglantine.
	She sang the holy service very fine,
	Intoning through her nose, most becomingly;
	And she spoke French, and spoke it elegantly,
	In the style of the school at Stratford-at-Bow,
	For the French of Paris she did not know.
	At table she'd been well schooled in it all:
	She never let a morsel from her lips fall,
	Nor wet her fingers in her sauce too deep.
	She lifted morsels well, and took care to keep
	A single drop from falling on her breast.
	Good manners were the thing she liked the best.
	She wiped her upper lip so very clean
	That in her cup there wasn't a fleck to be seen
	Of grease, when she had drunk her fill. And she
	Reached for her food most delicately.
	And certainly she was a lot of fun,
	Most pleasant, and her manner a friendly one,
	And she took pains to imitate the style
	Of court, and to be stately all the while,
	And to be thought deserving of reverence.
	But, speaking now about her conscience,
	She was so charitable, so soft and kind,
	She'd weep to see a mouse—if she should find
	One caught in a trap, if it was dead or bled.
	She had some little dogs, which she fed
	With roasted meat, or milk and fine white bread.
	But she wept bitterly if one was dead,
	Or if someone hit it with a stick and made it smart:
	And all was conscience and a tender heart.
	Her wimple was pleated with a touch of class;
	Her nose was shapely, her eyes as grey as glass;
	Her mouth was very small, and soft and red;
	But she certainly had a fine forehead;
	It was almost a span across, I'd say;
	For she was not undersized in any way.
	Her cloak was very elegant, I was aware.
	Around her arm, of little corals, she would wear
	A rosary, its larger beads all green,
	And from it hung a brooch of golden sheen,
	On which was first engraved a crowned A,
	And then Amor vincit omnia: Love wins the day.

	Another nun was in her company,
	Who was her chaplain, and her priests were three.

	There was a monk, a fine one, finer than the rest,
	An outrider, who loved the hunt the best;
	A manly man, to be an abbot more than able.
	He kept many a handsome horse in his stable:
	And when he rode, then anyone could hear
	His bridle jingling in a whistling wind, as clear
	And just as loud as the chapel bell
	Where this lord was the master of his cell.
	The rule of Saint Maurus or of Saint Benedict,
	Because it was old-fashioned and somewhat strict,
	This monk let all those old things slide, and chose
	To keep in step with how the modern world goes.
	He didn't think that text worth a plucked hen
	That says that hunters are not holy men,
	Or that a monk, when he is cloisterless,
	Is like a fish when it is waterless—
	That is to say, a monk out of his cloister.
	That text, he thought, was not worth an oyster;
	And I said his opinion was good.
	Why should he study, drive himself mad? Why should
	He pore over a book in the cloister day after day,
	Or toil with his hands and labour away,
	As Augustine bids? How shall the world be served?
	Let Augustine keep his toil—it's his, reserved!
	So he was a proper hard rider, all right;
	He had greyhounds as swift as birds in flight;
	Hard riding and hunting for the hare
	Were all his pleasure; cost was not his care.
	I saw his sleeves were trimmed around the hand
	With grey fur, and the finest in the land;
	And, to fasten his hood beneath his chin,
	He had an intricately worked gold pin:
	There was a love-knot at the larger end—first-class.
	His head was bald, and shone like any glass,
	And his face too, as if he'd been anointed.
	He was a lord, nice and fat, and well appointed;
	His eyes were bright and bulging, rolling in his head,
	Gleaming like a furnace with a cauldron overhead;
	His boots were supple, his horse in splendid state.
	Now certainly he was a handsome prelate;
	He was not pale like some tormented ghost.
	A fat swan was what he loved best as a roast.
	His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.

	There was a friar, a playful one and merry,
	A licensed beggar, an imposing man.
	In all four orders there is no one who can
	Match him at flirting and at fancy language.
	He had paid for many a young woman's marriage,
	And bore the whole cost of it on his own.
	He was his order's pillar and cornerstone.
	He was well loved, and friendly as could be
	With franklins everywhere around his territory,
	And with the well-off women round about,
	For in confession he had greater clout
	Than any parish priest—or so he'd state—
	For he was his order's licentiate.
	Most sweetly he would hear a man's confession,
	And absolution was a pleasant session.
	He was an easy man when penance was due
	Wherever there'd be a good gift for him, he knew;
	For when a gift to a poor order is given,
	It's a sign that a man's been well forgiven.
	For if he gave, the friar would dare to vow
	He knew the man was truly penitent now.
	For many a man is so hard in his heart
	He cannot weep, however sharp the smart.
	So instead of weeping and of praying, men
	Must give silver to the poor friars then.
	The tippet of his hood was always stuffed with knives
	And pins, for giving to good-looking wives.
	And certainly his voice rang merry and strong;
	He could play the harp, and he could sing a song.
	At ballads he outdid the rest, and utterly;
	His neck was white as any fleur-de-lis;
	And he was strong as a champion of renown.
	He knew the taverns well in every town,
	And every innkeeper and barmaid there
	Better than lepers or beggar-women anywhere;
	For to such a distinguished man as he
	It wasn't suitable, in his capacity,
	To be acquainted with lepers who were ill—not done!
	It isn't decent, and it won't help you get on,
	To deal with any poor and ragged folk like these,
	But only with the rich, and sellers of groceries.
	And wherever there was profit to be made,
	He was courteous, and humble, and eager to aid.
	There was nowhere a man of such ability;
	He was the best beggar in his friary;
	He paid a fixed rent for the right to beg alone;
	None of his brothers came into his zone;
	For though a widow didn't have a shoe, so
	Pleasant was his gospel greeting, In principio,
	That he'd still get a farthing before he went.
	His pickings far outdid his regular rent.
	And he could frisk about just like a pup.
	On settlement days he'd help to patch things up,
	For there he looked nothing like a cloistered friar
	With a threadbare cope, in a poor scholar's attire,
	But he was like a master or a pope.
	In double worsted he wore his semi-cope,
	That rounded like a bell fresh from the press.
	He lisped a little, out of playfulness,
	To make his English sweet upon his tongue;
	And in his harping, when he had sung,
	His eyes would twinkle in his head, as bright
	As the stars twinkle on a frosty night.
	This fine friar's name was Hubert.

	There was a merchant with a forked beard,
	In motley, and high on his horse he sat,
	Upon his head a Flemish beaver hat;
	His boots were buckled handsomely and neatly.
	He spoke his opinions very solemnly,
	Always on about the increase in his gains.
	He wanted the sea guarded, at any pains,
	Between the ports of Middelburg and Orwell.
	In foreign exchange he knew how to buy and sell.
	This fine man had his wits so cleverly set
	That no one knew that he was in debt,
	So stately was his conduct and his stance
	In bargaining, and lending, and finance.
	He was a very fine man in every way,
	But what his name was, honestly, I can't say.

	There was a scholar from Oxford also,
	Who had gone in for logic long ago.
	His horse was as lean as is a rake,
	And he himself was not too fat, make no mistake,
	But he looked hollow-cheeked and serious; and he
	Wore an outer cloak as threadbare as could be;
	For he had not yet got himself a benefice,
	Nor was he worldly enough to hold an office.
	For he would rather have, at his bed's head,
	Twenty books, bound in black or red,
	Of Aristotle and his philosophy,
	Than rich robes, or a fiddle, or a fine psaltery.
	But even though he was a philosopher, he'd hold
	Very little in his strongbox in the way of gold;
	But all that he could get from friends was spent
	On books and learning—that was where it went,
	And diligently he would pray, in turn,
	For the souls of those who paid for him to learn.
	Study was what took most of his care and heed.
	He never spoke a word more than he'd need,
	And that was said with form and reverence,
	And short and lively, and full of lofty sense.
	Moral virtue sounded all through his speech,
	And he would gladly learn, and gladly teach.

	A sergeant of the law, shrewd and wise,
	Who'd often been at Saint Paul's porch, where lawyers advise,
	Was with us too, a man rich in excellence.
	He was discreet, and commanded deference;
	Or so he seemed, his words were all so wise.
	He had often been a judge at the assize,
	By letters patent and by full commission;
	For his learning, and the fame of his position,
	He'd taken many fees and robes, and none
	Could buy up land the way that he had done.
	It was all fee simple to him, in effect;
	No purchase that he made could have a defect.
	There was no busier man, in any cause,
	And yet he seemed busier than he was.
	He had all the cases and rulings, every one,
	In proper terms, that since King William had been done.
	Besides, he could draft and draw up anything;
	No one could find a flaw in his writing;
	And he knew every statute fully by rote.
	He rode quite plainly, in a mixed-weave coat,
	Belted by a silk sash with bars, small in scale;
	Of his outfit I won't tell a longer tale.

	There was a franklin, a landowner, in his company;
	His beard was white, as white as is the daisy.
	He had the sanguine temperament, red-cheeked and fine;
	Each morning he loved a sop of bread in wine.
	To live in pleasure was what he had always done,
	For he was Epicurus' own son,
	Who held the view that perfect happiness
	Is simply pleasure, nothing more or less.
	He ran a household, and a big one; and he
	Was a Saint Julian of welcome in his county.
	His bread, his ale were always first-rate, every one;
	No man had a better wine cellar—none.
	His house was never short of pies, and those
	Of fish and meat, in plenty that overflows,
	It snowed in his house with food and drink,
	And all the delicacies a man could think.
	According to each season of the year
	He changed the dinners and the suppers that appear.
	He kept a lot of fat partridges caged, and he
	Had bream and pike in his fishponds, in quantity.
	Woe to his cook unless his sauces had bite,
	Were pungent, sharp, and all his gear set right.
	His table in the hall, fixed there to stay,
	Stood always laid and ready the whole long day.
	At sessions of the court he was lord and sire;
	Many a time he'd been knight of the shire.
	A dagger and a purse all made of silk
	Hung at his belt, as white as morning milk.
	He'd been a sheriff and an auditor, and there
	Was no such worthy landed gentleman anywhere.

	A haberdasher and a carpenter,
	A weaver, a dyer, and an upholsterer
	Were with us too, all dressed in one livery
	Of a great and dignified fraternity.
	Their gear was decked out fresh and new—and as
	For knives, theirs were not tipped with any brass,
	But all with silver, finely worked and neat,
	Their belts and purses too, the set complete.
	Each one of them looked like a burgher, fit
	To take the dais in a guildhall and sit.
	And each, for all the wisdom he had, was the man
	Who was cut out to be an alderman.
	For they had property enough, and rent,
	And their wives, too, would gladly give consent;
	Or else, for certain, they'd have been to blame.
	It's very nice to have "Madame" before your name,
	And walk ahead to vigils, and be seen
	With a mantle carried for them like a queen.

	They'd brought along a cook, for the trip, their own,
	To boil the chickens with the marrowbone
	And tart spice-powder, and galingale.
	He could tell a good draught of London ale.
	He could roast, and simmer, and broil, and fry,
	Make stews, and nicely bake a pie.
	But it was a great shame, it seemed to me,
	That he had a running sore below the knee;
	For blancmange, he could make it with the best.

	There was a shipman, from somewhere far in the west:
	For all I know, he was a Dartmouth man.
	He rode a nag, as well as a sailor can,
	In a gown of coarse wool, falling to the knee.
	He had a dagger on a cord, which he
	Wore round his neck, under his arm, hanging down.
	The hot summer had turned his colour all brown;
	And certainly he was a jolly fellow. He
	Had drawn off many a draught of wine for free
	Coming from Bordeaux, while the merchant was asleep.
	A squeamish conscience wasn't one he'd keep.
	If he fought, and got the upper hand,
	He sent them home by water to every land.
	But as for his skill in reckoning his tides,
	His currents, and the dangers on all sides,
	His harbours, and his moon, his pilot's lore,
	There was none like him from Hull to Carthage's shore.
	He was bold, and shrewd in what he'd undertake;
	Many a storm had made his beard shake.
	He knew the harbours well, both here and there,
	From Gotland to the Cape of Finisterre,
	And every creek in Brittany and Spain;
	His ship was called the Maudelayne.

	With us there was a doctor of medicine, too;
	In all the world there was no equal who
	Could speak of medicine and surgery;
	For he was grounded in astrology.
	He watched his patients closely, a great deal,
	At the right hours, by natural magic, to heal.
	He knew how to choose a lucky ascendant
	For the images he made for his patient.
	He knew the cause of every illness, why
	It came from hot or cold, or moist or dry,
	And where it was bred, and from which humour;
	He was a true and perfect practitioner.
	The cause once known, and the root of the disease,
	At once he gave the sick man his remedies.
	He had his druggists ready, close at hand,
	To send him medicines and syrups on demand,
	For each made sure the other one had won;
	Their friendship wasn't one they'd just begun.
	He knew well the old Aesculapius,
	And Dioscorides, and Rufus,
	Old Hippocrates, Haly, and Galen,
	Serapion, Rhazes, and Avicen,
	Averroes, Damascenus, and Constantine,
	Bernard, and Gaddesden, and Gilbertine.
	He kept his diet moderate, and free
	Of all excess and superfluity,
	But very nourishing and digestible.
	His study was but little on the Bible.
	His clothes were red and blue-grey, every bit,
	With taffeta and fine silk lining it;
	And yet he was quite careful of expense;
	He kept the gold he'd earned in pestilence.
	For gold in medicine is a cordial,
	And so he loved gold specially, above all.

	There was a good wife from Bath's neighbourhood,
	But she was somewhat deaf, which wasn't good.
	At making cloth she had such skill, she went
	Past all the weavers of Ypres and of Ghent.
	There wasn't a wife in all the parish who
	Went up before her when the offering was due;
	And if one did, she'd be so furious, she
	Lost every scrap of Christian charity.
	Her kerchiefs were the finest weave to be found;
	I'd dare to swear that they weighed a good ten pound,
	The ones she wore on Sundays on her head.
	Her stockings were of fine scarlet red,
	Tied tightly, and her shoes were soft and new.
	Her face was bold, and fair, and ruddy too.
	She was a woman of standing all her life:
	Five times at the church door she'd become a wife,
	Not counting other company when she was young—
	But on that subject, for now, I'll hold my tongue.
	And she had been three times to Jerusalem;
	She'd crossed many a foreign stream;
	She'd been to Rome, and also to Boulogne,
	To Saint James in Galicia, and to Cologne.
	She knew a lot about wandering by the way.
	She was gap-toothed, it's only right to say.
	On an ambling horse she comfortably sat,
	Well wimpled, and upon her head a hat
	As broad as a buckler or a shield; around
	Her ample hips a riding skirt was wound,
	And on her feet a pair of spurs, sharp ones. And she
	Could laugh and chatter well in company.
	She knew love's remedies, I'd guess, by heart,
	For she knew all the old dance of that art.

	And there was a good man of religion—I'll set him down:
	He was the poor parson of a town;
	But he was rich in holy deeds and thought.
	He was a scholar too, a man well taught,
	Who would preach Christ's gospel faithfully, and who
	Would teach his parishioners devoutly too.
	He was kind, and hard-working with all his might,
	And very patient when things weren't going right;
	And he had often been tested, and proved so.
	He'd hate to curse—excommunicate—for tithes they owe,
	But he would rather give, without a doubt,
	To his poor parishioners round about
	From the offerings, and from his own means, too;
	With very little he knew how to make do.
	His parish was wide, the houses far asunder,
	But he would never fail, for rain or thunder,
	In sickness or misfortune, to go and call
	On the farthest in his parish, great and small,
	On foot, and in his hand he held a staff.
	He gave his flock this fine example, on their behalf:
	That first he practised, and afterwards he taught;
	It was from the gospel that those words were brought;
	And he added this comparison to it, too:
	If gold rusts, what is iron going to do?
	For if a priest is foul, in whom we trust,
	No wonder if an ignorant man should rust;
	And it's a shame, if priests would pay it heed,
	A shit-smeared shepherd and a clean sheep.
	A priest should set the example, and should give,
	By his own purity, the way his sheep should live.
	He didn't farm his parish out for hire
	And leave his sheep stuck fast in the mire
	And run to London, to Saint Paul's, to try
	For a chantry, paid to sing for souls of men who die,
	Or get himself retained by a guild, enrolled;
	But stayed at home, and kept good watch on his fold,
	So that the wolf could never harm it; he was wary;
	He was a shepherd, and no mercenary.
	And though he was holy, and virtuous,
	To sinful men he wasn't contemptuous,
	Nor domineering, nor high and mighty in his speech,
	But tactful and kind in the way he'd teach.
	To draw people to heaven by gentle ways,
	By good example, was the work of all his days.
	But if a man was obstinate, whoever he
	Might be, whether of high or low degree,
	He'd rebuke him sharply, then and there.
	I don't believe there's a better priest anywhere.
	He didn't hanker after pomp or praise,
	Nor had a conscience fussy in its ways,
	But Christ's teaching, and his twelve apostles', too,
	He taught—and he was first to follow it through.

	With him there was a ploughman, his own brother,
	Who'd hauled cartloads of dung, one after another;
	He was a good, true worker, and he
	Lived in peace and perfect charity.
	He loved God best, with all his heart,
	At all times, whether it pleased him or made him smart,
	And then his neighbour, as himself; and he'd be found
	Threshing, and ditching, and digging in the ground,
	For Christ's sake, to help any poor man's plight,
	Without pay, if it lay within his might.
	He paid his tithes, and paid them fair, and true,
	Both on his own labour and his property too.
	He wore a tabard, a smock, and rode a mare.

	There was a reeve as well, and a miller there,
	A summoner, and a pardoner beside,
	A manciple, and myself: that's all who'd ride.

	The miller was a strong fellow, and a rough brute,
	Very big in muscle, and in bone to boot.
	It showed, for at wrestling, everywhere he came,
	He'd always win the ram, the prize of the game.
	He was stocky, broad, a thick knot, solid to the core;
	And he could heave off its hinges any door,
	Or break it by running at it with his head.
	His beard, like any sow's or fox's, was red,
	And broad as well, as though it were a spade.
	On the very tip of his nose he displayed
	A wart, and on it stood a tuft of hair,
	As red as the bristles that a sow's ears bear;
	His nostrils both were black and wide.
	He carried a sword and buckler by his side;
	His mouth was as big as a great furnace door.
	He was a gabber, a buffoon, who'd hold the floor,
	And most of it was about sin and filth and vice;
	He knew how to steal corn, and take his toll thrice;
	And yet he had a golden thumb, by God, all right.
	He wore a blue hood and a coat of white.
	He could blow the bagpipe well, and make it play,
	And with it he led us out of town on our way.

	There was a fine manciple, the buyer for a Temple,
	Whom every buyer could take as an example
	Of how to be wise when it came to buying food;
	For whether he paid in cash, or ran a tab, he would
	Watch his buying so closely, always, that he'd stay
	Ahead of the game, and well off, every day.
	Now isn't it a fine gift of God's grace
	That such an unlearned man's wits should outpace
	The wisdom of a whole heap of learned men?
	He had more masters than three times ten,
	All experts in the law, painstaking and keen;
	A dozen of those in that house would have been
	Good enough to be stewards of rent and estate
	For any lord in England, however great,
	To make him live upon his own domain
	In honour, debt-free, unless he'd gone insane,
	Or live as frugally as he might desire;
	And able to help out a whole shire
	In any trouble that might happen to befall;
	And yet this manciple made fools of them all.

	The reeve was a thin, short-tempered, choleric man;
	His beard was shaved as close as any razor can.
	His hair was cropped all round, level with his ears;
	The top cut short in front, the way a priest's appears.
	His legs were very long, and very lean,
	Just like a stick; no calf was to be seen.
	He knew how to keep a granary and a bin;
	No auditor could catch him out or win.
	He knew well, by the drought and by the rain,
	The yield he'd get from his seed and from his grain.
	His lord's sheep, his cattle, his dairy,
	His pigs, his horses, his stock, and his poultry,
	Were all entirely in this reeve's control,
	And by contract he'd reported on the whole
	Ever since his lord was twenty years of age;
	No one could catch him in arrears at any stage.
	There was no bailiff, herdsman, or other hand
	Whose tricks and schemes he didn't understand;
	They were as frightened of him as of death.
	His home was very pleasant, on a heath;
	His place was shaded by green trees all around.
	He was better than his lord at buying ground.
	He'd secretly built up a rich supply;
	He knew how to please his lord, cunning and sly,
	By lending and giving him his own goods; he would
	Get thanks for it, and a coat and a hood.
	When he was young he'd learned a good trade: he could
	Work very well as a carpenter, in wood.
	This reeve was riding a good horse, a cob he'd got,
	That was all dapple-grey, and it was called Scot.
	He wore a long overcoat, of a blue-grey shade,
	And at his side he carried a rusty blade.
	The reeve I'm telling of was from Norfolk; he'd dwell
	Near a town that people call Bawdeswell.
	His coat was tucked up like a friar's, all about,
	And he rode at the back of our group throughout.

	There was a summoner, for the church courts, in that place,
	Who had, like a cherub, a fire-red face,
	For he was pimply, and his eyes were narrow;
	He was as hot and lecherous as a sparrow,
	With scabby black eyebrows, and a patchy beard;
	His face was something little children feared.
	There was no mercury, lead oxide, or brimstone—none—
	No borax, no white lead, no oil of tartar—not one—
	Nor any ointment that would cleanse and bite,
	That could have cured his white pustules outright,
	Nor the lumps that sat on both his cheeks.
	He dearly loved garlic, onions, and leeks,
	And drinking strong wine, as red as blood;
	Then he would talk, and shout, as a madman would.
	And when he'd got a good deal of the wine in,
	He wouldn't speak a single word but Latin.
	He had a few terms, just two or three,
	That he had learned out of some decree;
	That's no wonder, since he heard them all day;
	And you know well enough how a jay
	Can call out "Wat!" as well as the pope.
	But if you tested him on things outside that scope,
	Then his whole philosophy was spent, and he'd cry
	Always "Questio quid iuris"—"What law should apply?"
	He was a fine rascal, and a kindly one;
	You'd find no better fellow under the sun.
	He would allow, for a quart of wine,
	A good fellow to keep his concubine
	For a whole year, and excuse him in full;
	And on the quiet, he had his own finch to pull.
	And if he found a good fellow anywhere,
	He'd teach him not to be afraid, or care,
	In such a case, about the archdeacon's curse,
	Unless a man's soul was in his purse;
	For it was in his purse a man would have to pay;
	"The purse is the archdeacon's hell," he'd say.
	But I know well he lied, and lied outright;
	Every guilty man should dread the curse's might—
	For the curse kills, as absolution can save it—
	And fear the jailing writ, significavit.
	At his beck and call, in his control, he had
	The young people of the diocese, girl and lad,
	And knew their secrets, and by him they were all led.
	He had a garland set upon his head
	As big as the one an alehouse hangs out on its stake;
	He'd made himself a buckler out of a cake.

	With him there rode a fine pardoner, one who
	Was from Rouncival, his friend and comrade, too,
	Who had come straight from Rome, from the papal see.
	He loudly sang, "Come here, love, come to me!"
	This summoner backed him with a strong bass drone;
	No trumpet ever had half as loud a tone.
	This pardoner had hair as yellow as wax,
	But it hung smoothly, like a hank of flax;
	In small strands hung what locks of hair he'd got,
	And over his shoulders he spread out the lot;
	But it lay thinly, strand by strand, one by one;
	As for a hood, for jauntiness, he wore none,
	For it was folded in his pack, tucked away;
	He thought he rode in the latest style of the day:
	Hair loose, except for his cap, he rode all bare.
	He had such staring eyes, just like a hare.
	He had sewn a Veronica, Christ's face, on his cap.
	His bag lay in front of him, upon his lap,
	Brimful of pardons, fresh from Rome, all hot.
	He had a voice as thin as a goat has got.
	He had no beard, nor ever would; his skin
	Was smooth, as if he'd only just shaved his chin;
	I'd guess he was a gelding or a mare.
	But in his trade, from Berwick down to Ware,
	There was no pardoner to match him in any place.
	For in his bag he had a pillowcase
	Which, he said, was Our Lady's veil;
	He said he had a piece of the sail
	That Saint Peter had, the time he left the ship
	To walk the sea, till Jesus caught him in his grip.
	He had a cross of cheap brass, full of stones,
	And in a glass jar he had pigs' bones.
	But with these relics, whenever he found
	A poor parson living on country ground,
	He'd make more money there in just one day
	Than the parson made in two months' pay.
	And so, with phoney flattery and tricks and japes,
	He made the parson and the people into his apes.
	But, to be honest, giving him his due,
	In church he was a noble churchman, too.
	He knew how to read a lesson or a story,
	But best of all he sang an offertory;
	For he knew well, when that song was sung,
	He'd have to preach, and sharpen up his tongue
	To win some silver, as he well knew how to do;
	That's why he sang so merrily, and loudly too.

	Now I have told you briefly, in a clause,
	The rank, the dress, the number, and the cause
	Of why this company had come to be
	In Southwark, at this fine hostelry
	That's called the Tabard, by the inn called the Bell.
	But now it's time for me to go on and tell
	How we conducted ourselves that night, every one,
	When we had reached that inn, and our day's ride was done;
	And afterwards I'll tell you how we went,
	And how the rest of our pilgrimage was spent.
	But first I ask you, out of courtesy,
	Not to put it down to rudeness in me
	If I speak plainly in what I have to share,
	In telling you their words, their manner and their air,
	Nor if I give their very words exactly, too;
	For this is something you know as well as I do:
	Whoever tells a story after another man
	Must repeat it, as closely as ever he can,
	Every word, if that's the task he's set,
	However rude and broad the speaker's words may get;
	Or else he has to tell his tale untrue,
	Or make things up, or find some words that are new.
	He mustn't hold back, even if it were his brother;
	He has to say one word as much as another.
	Christ himself spoke very broadly in holy writ,
	And you know well there's no rudeness in it.
	And Plato says, for anyone who can read,
	The words must be the cousin of the deed.
	I also ask you, please, to pardon me
	If I've not set folk in order of their degree
	Here in this tale, the way they ought to stand;
	My wits are short, as you can understand.

	Our Host made all of us welcome in a hearty way,
	And sat us down to supper without delay.
	He served us food, and served us of the best.
	The wine was strong, and we drank it with zest.
	Our Host was a handsome man, the sort you'd call
	Fit to be the marshal at a feast in a great hall;
	He was a large man, with bright eyes open wide;
	There's no finer burgher in all Cheapside:
	He was bold in his speech, and wise, and knew his stuff;
	And as for manliness, he had more than enough.
	Besides all that, he was a cheerful man,
	And after supper the fun and games began,
	And, among other things, he spoke of having fun,
	When we had paid our bills, and that was done,
	And said, "Now, my lords, I'll tell you true:
	You're heartily welcome here, every one of you;
	For, on my word, if I'm to tell no lie,
	I haven't seen this year a merrier crowd come by
	All at once in this inn, as there is now.
	I'd gladly make you merry, if I knew how.
	And just now I've thought up a game that we can play,
	To give you pleasure, and there's nothing to pay.

	"You're going to Canterbury—God speed you there,
	And may the blessed martyr pay you your fair share!
	And I know well, as you go on your way,
	You'll want to tell stories, and to play;
	For honestly, there's no comfort or fun that I've known
	In riding along the road as dumb as a stone;
	And so I'll find some entertainment for you here,
	As I said before, and give you some good cheer.
	And if it pleases all of you, with one voice,
	To stand by my judgement now, by your own choice,
	And to do whatever I may say
	Tomorrow, when you're riding on your way,
	Then, by my father's soul (and he is dead),
	If you're not merry, I'll give you my head!
	Hold up your hands, and not another word!"

	It didn't take us long to decide, when we conferred;
	We didn't think it worth our while to hesitate,
	And granted it without more argument or debate,
	And told him to give his verdict, at his own behest.

	"My lords," he said, "now listen—it's for the best;
	But please, I beg you, don't take this with disdain;
	This is the point, to put it short and plain:
	That each of you, to make the miles decrease,
	Shall tell, on this pilgrimage, two tales apiece
	On the way to Canterbury—that's what I mean you'll do—
	And on the way home each shall tell another two,
	Of adventures that once upon a time befell.
	And whichever of you does best, and tells them well—
	That is, whoever tells, out of everyone,
	Tales of the best sense and the most fun—
	Shall get a supper, and the rest of us pay the cost,
	Here in this place, sitting by this post,
	When we come back again from Canterbury.
	And so as to make you all the more merry,
	I'll gladly come along with you and ride,
	Right at my own cost, and be your guide.
	And whoever disputes my judgement and won't obey
	Shall pay for all we spend along the way.
	And if you agree that it should be so,
	Tell me right now, no more words, and let me know,
	And I'll get up early and see that it gets done."

	This thing was granted, and we swore it, every one,
	With happy hearts; and we begged him, too,
	To be good enough to do as he'd said he'd do,
	And that he would be our governor, and more:
	The judge of our tales, and the one to keep the score,
	And fix the supper's cost at a set price;
	And we'd be ruled by him, and by his advice,
	In high and low; and so, without division,
	We all agreed to abide by his decision.
	Then straight away the wine was fetched, and then
	We drank, and all of us went off to bed, women and men,
	Without any further dawdling or delay.

	Next morning, at the very break of day,
	Our Host got up, and woke us all up like a cock,
	And gathered us together, all into a flock,
	And off we rode, at a bit more than walking pace,
	To Saint Thomas's Watering, a horses' drinking place.
	And there our Host began to stop his horse, and these
	Were his words: "My lords, now listen, if you please.
	You know your bargain, and I'm reminding you:
	If last night's song and this morning's still hold true,
	Let's see now who's to tell the first tale.
	As surely as I hope to drink wine or ale,
	Whoever rebels against what I decide
	Shall pay for everything we spend along the ride.
	Now draw straws, before we're farther from the inn;
	Whoever draws the shortest one shall begin.
	Sir Knight," he said, "my master and my lord,
	Now draw a straw, for that's my ruling and accord.
	Come closer," he said, "my lady Prioress;
	And you, sir scholar, leave off your bashfulness;
	Don't stand there thinking; lend a hand, every man!"

	And straight away, the drawing by everyone began,
	And, to be brief, and tell you how it fell,
	Whether by luck, or fate, or chance—who can tell?—
	The truth is this: the straw fell to the knight,
	And everyone was glad and happy at the sight;
	And so he had to tell his tale, as was right and due,
	By our agreement and our arrangement too,
	As you have heard. What more is there to know?
	And when this good man saw that it was so,
	As he was wise, and obedient, and meant
	To keep his promise, given with free consent,
	He said, "Since I'm the one to begin the game,
	Well, then, the straw is welcome, in God's name!
	Now let us ride, and listen to what I say."

	And with that word we rode off on our way;
	And straight away, quite cheerfully, he started in
	On his tale, and spoke like this to begin.

The Knight's Tale

Iamque domos patrias, Scithice post aspera gentis Prelia, laurigero, &c.: And now, after fierce war with the Scythian people, he neared his homeland, crowned with laurel.⁴

	Once upon a time, as the old stories tell us,
	There was a duke whose name was Theseus;
	He was the lord and governor of Athens' state,
	And in his time a conqueror so great
	That there was none greater under the sun.
	He'd won rich countries, many more than one;
	What with his wisdom and his chivalry,
	He conquered all the land of women, Femeny,
	That long ago was known as Scythia;
	And he married the queen, Hippolyta,
	And brought her home with him to his own country
	With great glory and great solemnity,
	And, with her, her young sister Emily.
	And so, with victory and melody,
	I'll leave this noble duke to make his ride
	To Athens, with his army at his side.

	And certainly, if it weren't too long to listen to,
	I would have told the full account to you,
	How the kingdom of Femeny came to be
	Won by Theseus and his chivalry;
	And of the great battle that was fought then
	Between the Amazons and the Athenian men;
	And how they laid siege to Hippolyta,
	The fair and hardy queen of Scythia;
	And of the feast that marked the wedding day,
	And of the tempest on her homeward way;
	But all of that I must let alone for now.
	God knows, I have a big field still to plough,
	And the oxen in my team are none too strong;
	And the remainder of the tale is long.
	Nor would I hold up any of this throng;
	Let each man tell his tale, and pass it along,
	And let us see who'll win the supper, then;
	And where I left off, I will begin again.

	This duke I've told you of had come down
	The road until he'd almost reached the town,
	And in all his happiness, at the height of his pride,
	He became aware, as he glanced to one side,
	That, kneeling on the highway over there,
	Was a company of ladies, pair by pair,
	One after another, dressed in mourning clothes;
	But such a cry, such grief, from them arose
	That there's no creature living anywhere
	Who's ever heard such wailing of despair;
	And they would not stop crying, not until
	They'd seized his bridle reins and held him still.

	"Who are you, who spoil my homecoming day
	And disturb my feast with crying in this way?"
	Said Theseus. "Is it envy of my high
	Honour that makes you so lament and cry?
	Or who has wronged you, or who has offended?
	And tell me whether it can be amended,
	And why you're dressed in black on every side?"

	The eldest of the ladies then replied,
	After she'd swooned, her face so deathly white
	That she was sad to hear, and a pitiful sight,
	And said, "My lord, to whom Fortune has seen fit to give
	Victory, and a conqueror's life to live,
	It's not your glory or your honour we deplore;
	It's mercy and relief we beg you for.
	Have mercy on our grief and misery.
	Some drop of pity, by your nobility,
	Let fall on us poor wretched women, every one.
	For certainly, my lord, of all of us there's none
	Who hasn't been a duchess or a queen;
	Now we are wretches, as is plainly seen:
	We have Fortune and her false wheel to thank,
	Which guarantees well-being to no rank.
	And certainly, lord, to meet your majesty,
	Here in the temple of the goddess Clemency
	We have been waiting this whole fortnight;
	Now help us, lord, since you have the might.

	"I, wretch, who weep and wail before you thus,
	Was once the wife of King Capaneus,
	Who died at Thebes—cursed be that day!
	And all of us, who are dressed in this way
	And make this lamentation, so full of pity,
	All lost our husbands there, outside that city,
	For as long as the siege was under way.
	And yet old Creon—oh, alas the day!—
	Who is now lord of Thebes, that city,
	Full of fury and iniquity,
	He, out of spite, and in his tyranny,
	To do the dead bodies indignity,
	Has had our lords, the ones whom they have slain,
	All dragged into a heap, and there they've lain,
	And won't allow, whatever we desire,
	Their burial, or burning on the pyre,
	But makes the dogs eat them, out of spite."
	And at that word, without a moment's respite,
	They fell face down and cried out piteously,
	"Show us poor wretched women some mercy,
	And let our sorrow sink into your heart."

	This noble duke leapt from his horse with a start,
	With pity in his heart, when the women spoke.
	It seemed to him that his heart nearly broke
	When he saw them so pitiful and so downcast,
	Who'd been of such high rank in times past.
	He raised them all up in his arms, and there
	He comforted them, with the kindest care,
	And swore his oath, upon his word as a true knight,
	That he would do all that was in his might
	To make the tyrant Creon pay, and wreak
	Revenge for them, till all of Greece would speak
	Of how Theseus handled Creon, how he served
	Him as a man whose death was well deserved.
	And straight away, without delay, he showed
	His banner, and he rode off down the road
	Toward Thebes, with all his army at his side;
	He'd go no nearer Athens, walk or ride,
	Nor take his ease for even half a day,
	But spent that night camped out along the way;
	And sent the queen, Hippolyta, immediately,
	With her lovely young sister, Emily,
	Off to the town of Athens, there to stay;
	And on he rides; there's no more to say.

	The red figure of Mars, with spear and shield,
	So shines upon his great white banner's field
	That all the fields glitter, far and wide;
	And his pennon's carried by the banner's side,
	Of rich gold, on which was beaten out his feat:
	The Minotaur, which he had killed in Crete.
	So rides this duke, so rides this conqueror,
	And in his army, all of knighthood's flower,
	Until he came to Thebes, and, as was right,
	Dismounted in a field where he meant to fight.
	But, to be brief in speaking of this thing:
	With Creon, the man who was the Theban king,
	He fought, and killed him like a man, a knight,
	In open battle, and put his men to flight;
	And by assault he won the city after,
	And tore down both wall, and beam, and rafter;
	And to the ladies he restored again
	The bones of their husbands who were slain,
	To hold their funerals, as was then the way.
	But it would be too long for me to say
	The great clamour, and the wailing, loud and dire,
	That the ladies made beside the funeral fire
	Of the bodies, and the great honour
	That Theseus, the noble conqueror,
	Showed to the ladies when they took leave and went;
	But to be brief in telling is my intent.
	When this distinguished duke, this Theseus,
	Had slain Creon, and won Thebes thus,
	He camped all night on that field, to rest,
	And did with the country what he thought best.

	To rummage through the heap of the dead,
	And strip their clothes and armour, foot to head,
	The looters went to work and bustled about
	After the battle, when the foe was put to rout.
	And so it happened that in the heap they found,
	Pierced through with grievous, bloody wounds, on the ground,
	Two young knights lying side by side, and they
	Both wore one coat of arms, in rich array,
	And of these two, Arcite was the name of one,
	And the other knight was called Palamon.
	Not fully living, not fully dead, they lay;
	But by the arms and gear they wore that day
	The heralds knew them best of all, by sight,
	As being of the royal blood by right
	Of Thebes, and born to two sisters. Then,
	Out of the heap, the looters pulled the men,
	And carried them gently over to the tent
	Of Theseus; and very soon he sent
	Them on to Athens, to be kept perpetually
	In prison; he would take no ransom fee.
	And once this distinguished duke had done this, then
	He took his army and rode home again,
	Crowned with laurel, as a conqueror should be;
	And there he lives in joy and dignity
	For the rest of his life. What more is there to know?
	And in a tower, in anguish and in woe,
	This Palamon and Arcite have to dwell
	For ever; no gold can buy them from their cell.

	This goes on year by year, and day by day,
	Till it happened once, on a morning in May,
	That Emily, more beautiful to see
	Than the lily on its green stalk can be,
	And fresher than May is when its flowers are new—
	For her complexion vied with the rose's hue;
	I don't know which was the lovelier of the two—
	Before daylight, as she would always do,
	Had risen, dressed, and was ready for the day;
	For May won't have you lazing the night away.
	The season pricks at every noble heart,
	And makes it wake up from its sleep with a start,
	And says, "Get up, and keep your observance."
	This brought it into Emily's remembrance
	To honour May, and rise up from her rest.
	She was, to tell you how, all freshly dressed;
	Her yellow hair was braided in a tress
	Behind her back, a yard long, I guess.
	And in the garden, at the break of day,
	She walks up and down, and in her own way
	She gathers flowers, mixed, some white, some red,
	To make a delicate garland for her head,
	And like a heavenly angel she sang a song.
	The great tower, which was so thick and strong,
	Which was the castle's keep, its chief stronghold
	(Where the two knights were in prison, as I told
	You, and shall tell you more about them all),
	Stood right up against the garden wall
	Where Emily was walking, at her play.
	Bright was the sun, and clear the day,
	And Palamon, this woeful prisoner,
	As usual, by leave of his jailer,
	Had risen, and was roaming in a room on high,
	From which the whole noble city met his eye,
	And the garden too, all leafy, fresh and green,
	Where Emily, so fresh and lovely, could be seen
	Out on her walk, and wandering on.
	This sorrowful prisoner, this Palamon,
	Goes in the chamber, roaming to and fro,
	And complaining to himself of his woe;
	He often grieved that he'd been born: "Alas!"
	And then, by chance or luck, it came to pass
	That through a window, thick with many a bar
	Of heavy iron, square as any spar,
	He cast his eye on Emily below,
	And with that he flinched, and cried out, "Oh!"
	As if he had been stung right to the heart.
	And at that cry Arcite leapt up with a start,
	And said, "Cousin, what's the matter with you,
	That you look as pale and deathly as you do?
	Why did you cry out? Who's given you offence?
	For God's love, take it all with patience,
	Our prison, since there is no remedy;
	Fortune has given us this adversity.
	Some wicked aspect or disposition
	Of Saturn, in some heavenly position,
	Has given us this, whatever we had sworn;
	So the heavens stood when we were born;
	We must endure it: that's it, short and plain."

	This Palamon answered and said again,
	"Cousin, in all honesty, this view
	Is empty fancy, and it isn't true.
	It wasn't this prison that made me cry.
	I was wounded just now, through my eye,
	Into my heart, and that will be the end of me.
	The beauty of that lady whom I see
	Down in the garden, roaming to and fro,
	Is the cause of all my crying and my woe.
	I don't know whether she's a woman or a goddess;
	But she is Venus, really, so I'd guess."
	And then and there he dropped down on his knees,
	And said, "Venus, if it is what you please
	To take this form in the garden in this way
	Before me, a sorrowful wretch, then, I pray,
	Help us get out of this prison and escape.
	And if it's so my destiny's been given shape
	By the eternal word, to die in captivity,
	Then have compassion on our family,
	Brought down so low as this by tyranny."
	And at those words Arcite looked out to see
	Where this lady was roaming to and fro,
	And at that sight her beauty hurt him so
	That, if Palamon was wounded to the core,
	Arcite was hurt as much as he, or more.
	And with a sigh he said, so pitifully:
	"It kills me, suddenly—the fresh beauty
	Of her who's roaming over in that place;
	And unless I have her mercy and her grace,
	To let me see her at the least, I may
	As well be dead; there's nothing more to say."

	When Palamon had heard those words, he eyed
	His cousin with contempt, and he replied:
	"Are you saying this in earnest, or in play?"

	"No," said Arcite, "in earnest, by my faith—no other way!
	God help me, I'm in no mood for joking now."

	This Palamon began to knit his brow:
	"It would be no great honour," he said, "for you
	To be false, or to be a traitor too
	To me, who am your cousin and your brother,
	Sworn deeply, each of us to the other,
	That never, though we died in torment—never,
	Until the day that death should part us forever—
	Would one of us, in love, obstruct the other,
	Or in any other matter, my dear brother;
	But you would faithfully take my part, and stand
	By me in every case, and I'd lend you a hand.
	That was your oath, and mine—and that's a fact;
	I know you wouldn't dare deny the pact.
	So you're my confidant, beyond a doubt.
	And now you want, falsely, to set about
	Loving my lady, whom I love and serve,
	And will, until I die, and never swerve.
	Now, false Arcite, I swear you won't do so.
	I loved her first, and told you of my woe
	As to my confidant, my brother by vow,
	Bound to help me, as I told you just now.
	For which you are obliged, as a knight,
	To help me, if it lies within your might,
	Or else you're false; I dare to say it plain."

	This Arcite, very proudly, spoke again:
	"You'll be," he said, "the false one, and not I;
	But you are false, and I'll tell you flatly why:
	I loved her first, par amour—as a lover. How
	Can you object? You didn't know, just now,
	Whether she was a woman or a goddess!
	What you feel is worship, holiness;
	And mine is love, as for a creature; and so
	I told you what had happened, as you know,
	As to my cousin, and my brother by vow.
	Let's say you loved her first—I'll grant it now.
	Surely you know the old scholars' saw,
	That 'Who can give a lover any law?'
	Love is a greater law, by my brainpan,
	Than any given to an earthly man.
	And therefore man-made law, and each decree,
	Gets broken every day for love, in every degree.
	A man must love, in spite of his own head;
	He can't run from it, even if he ends up dead,
	Whether she's a maiden, a widow, or a wife.
	And anyway, it isn't likely, all your life,
	That you'll find favour with her; nor will I;
	For you know well yourself the reason why:
	That you and I are doomed perpetually
	To prison; no ransom will set us free.
	We're fighting like the dogs did for the bone:
	They fought all day, and still not a bit was their own;
	While they were angry, a kite swooped down and flew
	Off with the bone that lay between the two.
	And so, as at the king's court, my brother,
	It's each man for himself; there isn't any other.
	Love if you like; for I'll love her, come what may;
	And honestly, dear brother, that's all I'll say.
	Here in this prison we must hold out, and wait,
	And each of us must take his chance with fate."

	The quarrel was great and long between the two,
	If I had time to tell it all to you;
	But to get to the point. It happened one day
	(To tell it to you as briefly as I may)
	That a distinguished duke, by name Perotheus,
	Who'd been a friend of Duke Theseus
	Since the time when they were children, small,
	Had come to Athens to pay his friend a call,
	And to enjoy himself, as he'd often done before,
	For in this world he loved no other man more;
	And he was loved by him as tenderly again.
	So much they loved, as the old books maintain,
	That when one died, his friend—so people tell—
	Went all the way to look for him in hell;
	But that's a story that I don't care to write.
	Duke Perotheus was very fond of Arcite,
	And had known him in Thebes for years on end;
	And at last, at the request and plea of this friend,
	Perotheus, with no ransom and no fee,
	Duke Theseus let him out, and set him free
	Free to go anywhere at all he chose,
	On such conditions as I'll now disclose.
	This was the deal, to put it in black and white,
	Between Theseus and him, Arcite:
	That if Arcite, in his life, were ever seen
	By day or night, or any time between,
	In any country ruled by Theseus,
	And caught, it had been agreed thus,
	That with a sword they'd cut off his head;
	There'd be no other remedy, nothing to be said;
	So he takes his leave, and hurries off to make
	His way home. Let him beware: his neck's at stake!

	How terribly he suffers now, Arcite!
	He feels death strike his heart with all its might;
	He weeps, he wails, he cries so pitifully;
	He looks for a chance to kill himself, privately.
	He said, "Alas the day that I was born! What's more,
	My prison now is worse than it was before;
	Now I'm condemned for evermore to dwell
	Not in purgatory, but in hell.
	Alas, that I ever knew Perotheus!
	For otherwise I'd have stayed with Theseus,
	Fettered in his prison for evermore—and so
	I would have been in bliss, and not in woe.
	Only the sight of her, the one I serve,
	Though her grace is something I can never deserve,
	Would have been quite enough for me instead.
	O my dear cousin Palamon," he said,
	"Yours is the victory in this event;
	You can stay in prison, blissfully content.
	In prison? Certainly not—in paradise!
	Fortune has favoured you with the turn of the dice,
	For you have the sight of her, and I the absence.
	For it's possible, since you are in her presence,
	And are a knight, distinguished, strong and able,
	That by some chance, since fortune is unstable,
	Some day you'll get your wish—there's still hope left.
	But I, who am an exile, and bereft
	Of all grace, and in such great despair
	That there's no earth, or water, fire, or air,
	Nor any creature that is made of these,
	That can help me, or comfort me, or give me ease—
	I ought to die in hopelessness and misery;
	Farewell my life, my pleasure, and my gaiety!

	"Alas, why do people all complain, as they do,
	Of the providence of God, or of fortune, too,
	Which often gives them, in many a guise,
	Far better than they themselves could devise?
	Someone desires to have great wealth,
	Which brings his murder, or the ruin of his health;
	And someone longs to get out of prison; then
	At home he's killed by his own household men.
	Endless harms lie in this whole affair;
	We don't know what we're asking for in prayer.
	We're like a man who's drunk as any mouse:
	A drunk man knows quite well he has a house,
	But which is the right way home, he cannot say;
	And for a drunken man it's a slippery way.
	And certainly, that's just how we behave;
	We hunt hard for the happiness we crave,
	But we go wrong, and very frequently.
	We all can say this, and I especially,
	Who thought, and was quite sure, and held it clear,
	That if I could escape from prison here,
	Then I'd be in joy, and in perfect peace of mind;
	Whereas I'm exiled, and my joy's left behind.
	Since I may not see you, Emily,
	I'm as good as dead; there is no remedy."

	Meanwhile, on the other side, Palamon,
	When he found out that Arcite was gone,
	Grieves so much that the great tower all around
	Resounds with his howling, and his clamour's sound.
	The fetters on his great shins, even they,
	Were wet with bitter salty tears that day.
	"Alas!" he said, "my cousin Arcite, it's plain
	That of all our strife, God knows, yours is the gain.
	You walk at large in Thebes now, your prison done,
	And give my sorrow little thought, or none.
	You can, since you are wise, and every inch a man,
	Assemble all the people of our clan,
	And wage so sharp a war on this city
	That by some chance, or by some treaty,
	You may have her as your lady and your wife,
	For whom I must surely lose my life.
	For, as a matter of possibility,
	Since you're at large, and out of prison, free,
	And are a lord, you're better off by far
	Than I, who die here, caged behind an iron bar.
	For I must weep and wail as long as I live,
	With all the woe that prison has to give,
	And with the pain of love, which hurts me so,
	And doubles all my torment and my woe."
	At that, the fire of jealousy, with a start,
	Flared up inside his breast, and seized his heart
	So madly that he seemed, for all to behold,
	Like boxwood, or like ashes dead and cold.
	Then he said: "Cruel gods, who govern and decree,
	Binding this world with your word eternally,
	And write upon a tablet of adamant
	Your council's verdict and your eternal grant,
	How is mankind more precious in your hold
	Than the sheep that cowers in the fold?
	For man is slain just like another beast,
	And lies in prison, held, and not released,
	And has sickness, and great adversity,
	And often, by God, he suffers guiltlessly!

	"What kind of government is this foresight,
	That tortures guiltless innocence outright?
	And yet this adds to all my misery:
	That man is bound by his religious duty,
	For God's sake, to restrain his will,
	While a beast can take its pleasure, have its fill.
	And when a beast is dead, it has no pain;
	But man after his death must weep and complain,
	Though in this world he's had his care and woe:
	There is no doubt that it may well be so.
	I'll leave it for the theologians to explain,
	But I know well that this world is full of pain.
	Alas, I see a serpent, or a thief,
	Who's brought many an honest man to grief,
	Go free at large, wherever he likes to turn;
	But I must stay in prison, through Saturn,
	And Juno's too, so jealous and insane,
	Who has destroyed almost the entire strain
	Of Thebes, whose ruined walls stretch far and wide.
	And Venus kills me on the other side
	With jealousy, and fear of him, Arcite."

	Now I'll leave Palamon a little, out of sight,
	And leave him sitting in his prison cell,
	And now it's Arcite's story I will tell.

	The summer passes, and the nights, grown long,
	Increase twice over the pains, already strong,
	Both of the lover and the man in jail.
	I don't know which of them has more to bewail.
	For, briefly put, this Palamon must stay
	Condemned to prison for ever and a day,
	In chains and in fetters till he's dead;
	And Arcite is exiled on pain of his head
	For evermore, and banished from that domain,
	And he will never see his lady again.

	You lovers, I put this question to you outright:
	Who has it worse, Palamon or Arcite?
	The one can see his lady every day,
	But he must stay in prison, locked away.
	The other's free to ride or walk, and come and go,
	But he will never see his lady, though.
	Now judge it as you please, you who can;
	For I'll go on with the story as I began.

Part Two

	When Arcite came to Thebes, the days would pass
	With him fainting often, crying out "Alas!"
	For he would never see his lady again.
	And, to be brief, and sum up all his pain,
	No creature living, or that ever will be
	While the world lasts, has had such grief as he.
	He'd lost his sleep, his food, his drink; he'd grown
	As lean and dry as a shaft, all skin and bone.
	His eyes were hollow, grisly to behold;
	His skin was sallow, pale as ash grown cold,
	And he was solitary, always alone,
	And wailing all night long, making his moan.
	And if he heard a song or instrument,
	Then he would weep, and couldn't stop till he was spent;
	So feeble were his spirits, and so low,
	And so changed, that nobody could know
	His speech or voice, though they heard it clear.
	And in his ways, for all the world, he'd appear
	Not only like the lover's sickness, known
	As Hereos, but like a mania grown
	From melancholy humour, the kind that's bred
	In fancy's cell, up at the front of the head.
	In short, he'd been turned upside down, his whole
	Behaviour and his temperament, heart and soul,
	This poor, sorrowful lover, Lord Arcite.

	Why should I write all day about his plight?
	When he had borne, for a year or so,
	This cruel torment, all this pain and woe,
	At Thebes, in his own country, as I said,
	One night, when he lay down to sleep in bed,
	It seemed the winged god, Mercury, drew near
	And stood before him, telling him, "Take cheer!"
	He held his wand of sleep in his hand upright;
	He wore a hat on hair that shone so bright.
	And, as Arcite observed, the god was dressed
	As when he lulled the hundred-eyed Argus to rest;
	And said to him: "To Athens you must go;
	There fate has shaped an end for all your woe."
	And at that word Arcite woke with a start.
	"Now, however badly it may sting my heart,"
	He said, "to Athens, now, is where I'll go;
	Not even dread of death will make me slow
	To see my lady, whom I love and serve;
	To die before her face won't shake my nerve."

	He grabbed a large mirror as he spoke, to view
	Himself, and saw his colour changed all through,
	And saw his face transformed into another kind.
	And all at once it came into his mind
	That, since his face, from all he had been through,
	Was so disfigured by disease, he knew
	He might well, if he kept his bearing low,
	Live on in Athens, and no one would ever know,
	And see his lady almost every day.
	And right away he changed his whole array,
	And dressed up as a poor labourer would do;
	And all alone, except one squire, who knew
	His secret, and the whole of his affair,
	And who, like him, was dressed in poor men's wear,
	He went to Athens by the shortest way.
	And then he went up to the court one day,
	And at the gate he offered work for hire,
	To drudge and carry, whatever they'd require.
	And, to be brief about it, and tell it plain,
	He got a job under a chamberlain
	Whose post was in the household of Emily.
	For he was shrewd, and quickly came to see
	Each servant there, and what each one would do.
	He could chop wood, and carry water too,
	For he was young and mighty, and well grown,
	And strong besides, and big in every bone,
	To do whatever anyone could devise.
	A year or two he served there in this guise,
	As chamber page to bright Emily; and there
	"Philostrate," he said, was the name he'd bear.
	And there was never a man half as loved as he
	In all the court, of his own rank and degree;
	He was so noble in his nature, so well-bred,
	That through the court his reputation spread.
	They said that it would be a kindness if he
	Were raised by Theseus to a higher degree,
	And put in honourable service, placed where
	He'd have the scope to exercise his virtue there.
	And so, in a little while, his fame had sprung
	Both from his deeds and from his pleasant tongue,
	That Theseus brought him close, and set him higher:
	He made him his own chamber's private squire,
	And gave him gold to fit his rank and station;
	And men brought him, from his own land and nation,
	Year after year, in secret, all his rent;
	But decently and quietly it was spent,
	So that no one wondered where he'd got it, or why.
	And three years in this way his life went by,
	And he bore himself so well in peace and war
	There was no man whom Theseus valued more.
	And in this happiness I'll leave Arcite,
	And speak a little of Palamon, and his plight.

	In a dark prison, horrible and strong,
	Palamon has sat these seven years long,
	Wasting away with sorrow and despair.
	Who feels a double ache and weight of care
	But Palamon? whom love torments so
	That he goes mad, out of his wits with woe;
	And on top of that he is a prisoner here
	For ever, and not only for a year.
	Who could rhyme in English, as it ought to be,
	His martyrdom? I promise you, not me;
	So I'll pass over it as lightly as I may.

	It happened, in the seventh year, in May,
	On the third night (as the old books explain,
	Which tell this whole story more full and plain),
	Whether it was by chance or destiny
	(As, when a thing is destined, it will be),
	That, soon after midnight, Palamon, with aid
	From a friend, broke out of prison, and he made
	His escape from the city, fast as he could go;
	For he had given his jailer, mixed just so,
	A clary, a spiced drink of a certain wine,
	With narcotics, and with Theban opium, fine,
	That all that night, however they might shake
	The jailer, he slept on, and wouldn't wake;
	And so he flees away as fast as he may.
	The night was short, and close upon the day,
	So that, whatever it cost, he had to hide,
	And to a grove that stood there close beside
	Palamon creeps, his footsteps full of dread;
	For, briefly, this was the plan that filled his head:
	That in that grove he'd hide himself all day,
	And in the night he'd go upon his way
	Toward Thebes, to beg his friends to give him aid
	Against Theseus, so that war could be made;
	And, in short, either he would lose his life,
	Or win Emily, and make her his wife;
	This was the gist of it, his purpose plain.

	Now I will turn back to Arcite again,
	Who little knew how close he stood to care,
	Till Fortune had brought him into the snare.

	The busy lark, the messenger of day,
	Greets in her song the dawn, which is still grey;
	And fiery Phoebus rises up so bright
	That all the east is laughing with the light,
	And with his rays, which every grove receives,
	He dries the silver drops that hang on the leaves.
	And Arcite, who is in the royal hall
	As Theseus's squire, the foremost of them all,
	Is up, and looks out on the merry day.
	And, so that he could pay respects to May,
	Remembering the object of his desire,
	Upon a horse that darted like a fire,
	He's ridden out into the fields to play,
	Out of the court, a mile or two away;
	And by chance, the course he came to hold
	Led to the very grove of which I told,
	To make himself a garland from the trees,
	From woodbine or from hawthorn, as he'd please;
	And loudly he sang toward the sun's bright sheen:
	"May, with all your flowers and your green,
	Welcome to you, welcome, fair fresh May;
	I hope I get some green of you today."
	And, getting off his horse with a lively heart,
	He hurried into the grove with a sudden start,
	And on a path he wandered all around,
	Where, as it happened, Palamon had found
	A bush to hide in, out of everyone's sight,
	For he was in a mortal fear and fright.
	He had no notion this was Arcite;
	God knows he'd hardly have believed he might.
	But it's a true old saying, from long-gone years,
	That "Fields have eyes, and the woods have ears."
	It's very wise to bear yourself with care,
	For every day men meet unplanned somewhere.
	Arcite knows little that his comrade's near,
	So close that every word he says, he'll hear,
	For in the bush he now sits very still.

	When Arcite had roamed about to his fill,
	And sung his roundel through in a lively mood,
	All of a sudden he began to brood,
	As lovers do, with their strange and changing desires,
	Now in the treetops, now down in the briars,
	Now up, now down, just like a bucket in a well.
	Exactly like a Friday, truth to tell,
	One moment sunshine, and the next rain falls fast,
	Just so can changeable Venus overcast
	The hearts of her followers; just as her day
	Is fickle, so she changes her array.
	A Friday's seldom like the rest of the week.

	When Arcite had sung, he sighed, his mood turned bleak,
	And he sat down then, at once, forlorn:
	"Alas!" he said, "the day that I was born!
	How long, Juno, in your cruel hate,
	Will you make war against the Theban state?
	Alas! it's ruined now, and come undone,
	The royal blood of Cadmus and Amphion;
	Of Cadmus, who was the very first man
	To build Thebes, or with whom the town began,
	And who was first crowned as the city's king—
	I'm of his line; it's from him that I spring
	By true descent, from the royal family tree;
	And now I am so wretched, so unfree,
	That he, the man who is my mortal foe—
	I serve him as his squire, poor and low.
	And Juno does me even greater shame,
	For I don't dare acknowledge my own name;
	Where once I used to be called Arcite,
	Now I'm called Philostrate, not worth a mite.
	Alas, you cruel Mars! alas, Juno!
	Your anger has destroyed our kin, laid them low,
	Except for me, and wretched Palamon as well,
	Whom Theseus tortures in a prison cell.
	And over all this, to kill me outright,
	Love has driven his fiery dart, burning bright,
	Through my true, careworn heart, so deep the hurt,
	My death was shaped for me before my shirt.
	You kill me with your eyes, Emily;
	You are the cause of all that's killing me.
	For all the other troubles I must bear,
	I'd value them less than a weed, and wouldn't care,
	If only I could please you, by any chance!"
	And at that word he fell into a trance
	For a long time; and then he jumped up with a start.

	And Palamon, who thought that through his heart
	He felt a cold sword suddenly slide,
	Shook with fury, and no longer would hide.
	And when he'd heard the whole of Arcite's tale,
	As if insane, his face deathly pale,
	He leapt up out of the bushes, thick as they grew,
	And said: "Arcite, you false and wicked traitor, you,
	Now you are caught, who love my lady so,
	For whom I suffer all this pain and woe,
	And you're my blood, and sworn to keep my trust,
	As I have often told you that you must,
	And you've deceived Duke Theseus with your game,
	And falsely, like this, you have changed your name;
	I'll die, or else you'll die; it's you or me.
	You shall not love my lady Emily,
	But I alone will love her, not you—no!
	For I am Palamon, your mortal foe.
	And though I have no weapon in this place,
	But have escaped from prison by God's grace,
	I have no doubt: either you'll be dead and gone,
	Or else you'll stop loving Emily from now on.
	Choose which you like; you'll not escape, or depart."

	And Arcite, with a fierce and scornful heart,
	When he knew who it was, and had heard every word,
	As fierce as any lion, pulled out a sword,
	And said: "By God who sits up there above,
	If you weren't sick, and mad with love,
	And had a weapon with you in this place,
	You'd never leave this grove by a single pace
	Without your dying here by my own hand.
	For I defy the pledge, and I won't stand
	By the bond you claim I made with you. Can't you see,
	You utter fool, that love is always free,
	And I will love her, in spite of all your might!
	But, since you are a distinguished knight,
	And want to win her by combat, fair and square,
	Here is my word: tomorrow I'll be there,
	And no one else will know of it, out of sight,
	And here I will be found, ready as a knight,
	And bring enough armour here for you, and see
	You choose the best, and leave the worst for me.
	And I will bring you food and drink tonight,
	Enough, and bedding, so you'll sleep all right.
	And if it turns out that you are the one to win
	My lady, and kill me in this wood I'm in,
	You're welcome to your lady, as for me."
	And Palamon answered him: "I agree."
	And so they parted, till the morning light,
	When each had pledged his word to come and fight.

	O Cupid, utterly without charity!
	O reign that will not share its sovereignty!
	The saying's true: neither love nor a throne
	Will willingly share; each wants to rule alone.
	Arcite and Palamon learned it to their cost.
	Arcite rode back to town, no moment lost,
	And in the morning, before it was light,
	He readied two suits of armour, out of sight,
	Both fit and good enough to settle there,
	In battle in the field, between the pair.
	And on his horse, as alone as he was born,
	He carries, out in front, the armour to be worn;
	And in the grove, at the time and place they'd set,
	This Arcite and this Palamon have met.
	The colour began to change in each one's face,
	Just like the hunter in the land of Thrace,
	Who waits there at the gap, holding his spear,
	When lion or bear is hunted, and comes near,
	And hears it come rushing, as it cleaves
	The woods, and breaks the branches and the leaves,
	And thinks, "Here comes my mortal enemy;
	Without fail, one of us must die—it's him or me;
	For either I must kill him at the gap,
	Or he kills me, if I have a mishap":
	So both of them changed colour, as hunters do,
	As soon as each could see the man he knew.
	There was no "good day", and no greeting said,
	But straight away, without a word, instead,
	Each one of them helped to arm the other,
	As friendly as if he were his own brother;
	And after that, with sharp spears, stout and strong,
	They lunged at one another, hard and long.
	In fighting, you'd have thought that Palamon
	Was a mad lion, raging on and on,
	And like a cruel tiger was Arcite;
	Like two wild boars they started in to fight,
	That froth as white as foam, with rage distraught.
	Up to their ankles in their blood they fought.
	And here I'll leave them fighting for a spell,
	And now there's Theseus, of whom I'll tell.

	Now Destiny, the minister-general
	Who carries out throughout the world, for all,
	The providence that God has seen before,
	Is so strong that, even if the world swore
	The opposite of something, yes or no,
	Yet one day something happens, even so,
	That won't occur again for a thousand years;
	For certainly, each appetite that here appears,
	Whether for war, or peace, or hate, or love,
	Is ruled entirely by the sight above.
	I'm speaking now of mighty Theseus here,
	Who has such a desire to hunt the deer,
	And most of all to hunt the great stag in May,
	That in his bed there never dawns a day
	When he's not dressed, and ready for a ride,
	With huntsmen, horn, and hounds there at his side.
	For in his hunting he takes such delight
	That it is all his joy and his appetite
	To be the great stag's killer, if he can;
	For after Mars, he's now Diana's man.

	The day was bright, as I said before this,
	And Theseus, in all his joy and bliss,
	With his Hippolyta, the lovely queen,
	And Emily, who was dressed all in green,
	Went riding out to hunt, in royal pride;
	And to the grove that stood there close beside,
	Where there was a stag, so he had heard them say,
	Duke Theseus rode by the straightest way.
	And to the clearing he rides, aiming right
	For where the stag was used to taking flight,
	And over a brook, and onward, on its way.
	The duke means to give it a run or two today,
	With such hounds as he cares to command.

	And when the duke had come to that open land,
	He looks out under the sun, and then, upon
	The field, he notices Arcite and Palamon,
	Who fought as fiercely as two boars, blow on blow;
	The bright swords went flashing to and fro
	So horribly that with the slightest stroke
	It seemed as if it could have felled an oak.
	But who they were, he didn't have a clue.
	The duke dug in his spurs, and his horse flew,
	And in a bound he was between the pair,
	And pulled a sword, and cried out, "Stop right there!
	No more, on pain of losing your head!
	By mighty Mars, that man will soon be dead
	Who strikes a single stroke that I can see!
	But tell me what kind of men you are, to be
	So bold that you would dare to fight it out here,
	With no judge or other officer near,
	As if this were a tournament held royally?"

	And Palamon answered him hastily:
	"Sir, what need is there for more to say?
	We both deserve to die, and die today.
	We're two poor woeful wretches, two captives,
	Encumbered and weighed down by our own lives;
	And since you are a rightful lord and judge,
	Give us no mercy, and grant us no refuge,
	But kill me first, for holy charity;
	But kill my comrade too, as well as me.
	Or kill him first; though you don't know it, this knight
	Is your own mortal foe—this is Arcite,
	Who was banished from your land on pain of his head,
	For which he has deserved to be dead.
	For this is he who came up to your gate
	And said that he was called Philostrate.
	So he has fooled you for years, and you, sire,
	Have made him nothing less than your chief squire;
	And this is the man who loves Emily.
	And since this is the day of death for me,
	I'll make a plain confession; I'll proclaim
	That I am woeful Palamon, the same
	Who broke out of your prison wickedly.
	I am your mortal foe, and it is me
	Who loves her so hotly, Emily the bright,
	That I'm willing to die right here, in her sight.
	So I ask you for my death and judgment today—
	But kill my comrade, too, in just the same way,
	For both of us have deserved to be slain."

	This fine duke answered him at once again,
	And said: "This is a short conclusion: in this place
	Your own mouth, by your confession, to my face,
	Has damned you, and I will put it on record;
	There is no need to torture you with the cord.
	You shall be dead, by mighty Mars the red!"
	The queen at once, from true womanhood, shed
	Tears freely, and so did Emily,
	And all the ladies in the company.
	It seemed to them all a great pity, all
	That ever such misfortune should befall;
	For they were noblemen of high estate,
	And only love was cause of this debate;
	They saw their bloody wounds, wide and sore,
	And all of them, of high rank and low, implore:
	"Have mercy, lord, on us women, one and all!"
	And down upon their bare knees they fall,
	And would have kissed his feet where he stood, until
	At last his fury cooled, and his mood grew still;
	For pity runs swiftly in a noble heart.
	And though at first his fury made him shake and start,
	He briefly thought it over, in a pause,
	The wrong they'd both done, and also the cause;
	And though in anger he had them accused,
	Yet in his reason he had them both excused,
	Like this: he thought that surely every man
	Will help himself in love, if he can,
	And also break out of a prison cell;
	And his heart was moved to compassion as well
	For women, since they wept continually;
	And in his noble heart he thought, immediately,
	And softly to himself he said: "For shame,
	A lord who has no mercy is to blame,
	Who acts the lion, both in word and deed,
	To those who in repentance and in fear plead,
	As much as to a proud and scornful man
	Who will maintain whatever he began!
	That lord has little discernment, who
	In such a case can't tell apart the two,
	But weighs both pride and humbleness as one."
	And, in short, once his anger was all done,
	He looked up then, his eyes grown clear and light,
	And spoke these words out loud, in all their sight:—
	"The god of love—ah, bless us, benedicite!
	How mighty and how great a lord is he!
	No obstacle can stand against his might;
	His miracles give him a god's name, by right;
	For he can make, however it suits his whim,
	Of every heart whatever pleases him.
	Look at these two, Arcite and Palamon, the pair
	Who'd got out of my prison, free as air,
	And might have lived in Thebes in royal state,
	And know I'm their mortal foe, who bears them hate,
	And know their death lies in my power, also;
	And yet love, in spite of all they know,
	Has brought them here, the pair of them, to die!
	Now look, is that not foolishness piled high?
	Who can be a fool, unless he's in love?
	Look, for the sake of God who sits above,
	See how they bleed! Aren't they well arrayed?
	That's how their lord, the god of love, has paid
	Their wages and their fees, their service's prize!
	And yet they think themselves extremely wise,
	Those who serve love, whatever may befall!
	But here's the best joke of them all:
	That she for whom they're having all this fun
	Owes them no more thanks than I do—none!
	She knows no more about this hot affair,
	By God, than does a cuckoo or a hare!
	But everything must be tried, both hot and cold;
	A man must be a fool, when young or old;
	I know it by myself, from days long done:
	For in my time, I too was such a one.
	And therefore, since I know about love's pain,
	And know how sorely it can rack and strain
	A man, as one caught often in its noose,
	I wholly pardon this offence, and let you loose,
	At the request of the queen who's kneeling here,
	And of Emily too, my sister dear.
	And both of you shall swear to me, right there,
	That you will never harm my land, or dare
	To make war on me, either night or day,
	But be my friends in every way you may;
	I forgive this trespass, all of it, every part."
	They swore what he asked, and with all their heart,
	And for his lordship and his mercy they pled,
	And he grants grace, and this is what he said:

	"In royal blood, and in your wealth no less,
	Even if she were a queen or a princess,
	Each of you would be worthy, doubtless,
	To marry her in time; but, nevertheless,
	I'm speaking for my sister Emily,
	For whom you have this strife and jealousy:
	You know yourselves she can't marry two
	At once, though you fight on your whole lives through:
	One of you, whether it brings him joy or grief,
	Must go and whistle on an ivy leaf;
	That is to say, she can't have both, it's plain;
	Be jealous and angry as you like—in vain.
	And so I'll set you on this course, to see
	That each of you shall have his destiny
	As it is shaped for him; and listen how:
	Here is the outcome that I'll devise now.

	"My will is this, as my final, flat decision,
	Without any reply or opposition:
	If you agree, take it as for the best,
	That each may go where he likes, east or west,
	Freely, with no ransom, nothing to fear;
	And fifty weeks from now, exactly, here,
	Each of you shall bring a hundred knights to fight,
	Armed for the lists, and fitted out just right,
	All ready to fight it out for her, and prevail.
	And I promise you this, without fail,
	On my honour, and as I am a knight,
	That whichever of you both has the might,
	That is to say, whichever of you two
	Can, with his hundred, as I've just told you,
	Kill his opponent, or drive him out of the strife,
	To him I'll give Emily to be his wife,
	The one to whom Fortune gives so fair a grace.
	And I will build the lists right in this place;
	And may God have mercy on my soul as true
	As I shall be an honest, even judge to you.
	There'll be no other ending undertaken
	Than one of you being either killed or taken.
	And if you think this is well said by me,
	Then speak your mind, be satisfied, agree.
	This is your ending, and the matter's done."

	Who looks so happy now but Palamon?
	And who leaps up for joy but Arcite?
	Who could tell it all, or who could ever write
	The joy that filled the whole of that place
	When Theseus had shown such generous grace?
	And down upon their knees went everyone in sight,
	And thanked him with all their heart and might,
	And most of all the Thebans, with delight;
	And so, with good hope, and hearts that were light,
	They take their leave, and turn for home, and ride
	To Thebes, with its old walls, broad and wide.

Part Three

	I think that you would say I'd been remiss
	If I forgot to tell the cost of this,
	The cost to Theseus, who busily goes round
	To build the lists up royally from the ground,
	So that the world, I'd dare to say, had none,
	No theatre so noble as this one.
	The circuit was a mile around, its wall
	Of stone, and with a ditch outside it all.
	The shape was round, the way a compass goes,
	Tiered all with steps, sixty paces high, in rows,
	So that a man who sat on one would be
	No hindrance to his neighbour's chance to see.

	On the eastern side a gate of white marble stood,
	And on the western, opposite, one as good.
	And, to be brief, the earth had no such place,
	Not one, within so very small a space;
	For there was not a craftsman in the land
	Who had geometry or arithmetic in hand,
	No painter, and no sculptor at his trade,
	But Theseus gave him board and saw him paid,
	To build the theatre and design the site.
	And so that he could do his sacrifice and rite,
	Eastward, upon the gate, high up above,
	In honour of Venus, goddess of love,
	He'd made an altar and an oratory;
	And westward, in the honour and the memory
	Of Mars, he'd had its twin built there, and for
	That one he spent a cartload of gold, and more.
	And northward, in a turret on the wall,
	Of white alabaster and of red coral,
	A chapel, rich to look at, was arrayed
	In worship of Diana, the chaste maid:
	Theseus had built it in a noble way.

	But I'd forgotten even so to portray
	The noble carving, and each painted scene,
	The shapes, the faces, figures, that had been
	Inside these chapels, each one of the three.

	First, in the temple of Venus, you could see,
	Painted on the wall, most pitiful to behold,
	The broken sleep, and all the sighs, so cold;
	The sacred tears, and the laments, the woe;
	The fiery strokes of longing, blow on blow,
	That love's own servants in this life endure;
	The oaths that make their promises secure;
	Pleasure and hope, desire, and recklessness,
	Beauty and youth, and bawdry, and wealth's excess,
	Charms and force, and lies, and flattery,
	Extravagance, and busyness, and Jealousy,
	Who wore a garland of yellow marigold,
	And on her hand a cuckoo she would hold;
	Feasts, instruments, and carols, and the dances,
	Delight and finery, and all the circumstances
	Of love, which I count up, and will count, all
	Were painted in their order on the wall,
	And more than I have room here to recount.
	For all of it, the whole Cithaeron mount,
	Where Venus has her most important seat,
	Was shown in paint upon the wall, complete,
	With all the garden, and the joys in store.
	Nor had they forgotten Idleness, who kept the door,
	Nor fair Narcissus, from so long ago,
	Nor yet the folly that King Solomon would show,
	Nor yet the mighty strength of Hercules—
	And all Medea's and Circe's sorceries—
	Nor Turnus, with his fierce heart, bold and brave,
	Nor wealthy Croesus, made a wretched captive slave.
	So you can see that neither wealth nor wit,
	Nor beauty, cunning, strength, nor daring grit
	Can claim an equal share in Venus's sway;
	For as she likes, she steers the world her way.
	Look how these people, tangled in her snare,
	So often cried "Alas!" in their despair.
	Here one or two examples ought to do,
	Although I could list a thousand more for you.

	The statue of Venus, glorious to see,
	Was floating naked in the open sea,
	And from the navel down, all covered in a mass
	Of waves of green, as bright as any glass.
	She held a citole—a lute—in her right;
	And on her head, a fitting, lovely sight,
	A garland of roses, fresh and fragrant, lay;
	Above her head her doves were fluttering away.
	Before her, Cupid, her son, was standing there;
	On his shoulders he had wings, a pair;
	And he was blind, as he is often seen;
	He bore a bow, and arrows bright and keen.

	Why shouldn't I as well describe to you all
	The painting that was there upon the wall
	Inside the temple of red Mars, the god of strength?
	The wall was painted over, breadth and length,
	Just like the inner rooms of that grim place
	That's called the great temple of Mars in Thrace,
	In that cold region, frosty, bleak and bare,
	Where Mars has made his sovereign mansion there.

	First, on the wall, a forest was painted there,
	In which no man or beast lived, anywhere,
	With knotty, gnarled, and barren trees, and old,
	With jagged stumps, and hideous to behold;
	In which a rumbling ran, a sighing sound,
	As though a storm would break each branch around;
	And down below a hill, beneath a grassy height,
	There stood the temple of Mars, mighty in fight,
	Wrought all of burnished steel, its entryway
	Was long and narrow, ghastly to survey.
	And out of it came such a rage and blast
	It made the gates all tremble as it passed.
	The northern light shone in the doors, and that was all,
	For there was not one window on the wall
	Through which a man could make out any ray.
	The doors were all of adamant that won't decay,
	Clenched crosswise and lengthwise all along
	With tough iron; and, to make the building strong,
	Each pillar, holding up the temple's load,
	Was barrel-thick, of iron that brightly glowed.

	There first I saw the dark design and thought
	Of Felony, and all the plots it wrought;
	Cruel Anger, like a glowing coal, all red;
	The pickpocket, and also pale-faced Dread;
	The smiler with the knife beneath the cloak;
	The cattle-shed on fire, with black smoke;
	The treason of the murder in the bed;
	The open war, its wounds all bleeding red;
	Strife, with his bloody knife and threatening face;
	And harsh noise filled the whole of that sad place.
	The man who killed himself I also saw there:
	His own heart's blood had bathed all of his hair;
	The nail that's driven through the head at night;
	Cold Death, laid on his back, mouth gaping to the light.
	In the middle of the temple sat Mischance,
	With misery, and a sad and downcast glance.
	And I saw Madness, laughing in his rage;
	Armed Complaint, and Outcry, and fierce Outrage;
	The corpse in the bushes, with its throat slit wide;
	A thousand slain, and none of plague had died;
	The tyrant, with the prey he'd seized by might;
	The town destroyed, with nothing left in sight.
	I saw the dancing ships go up in flares;
	The hunter strangled by the savage bears;
	The sow devouring the baby in its cradle;
	The cook scalded, for all his long ladle.
	No evil chance of Mars was missing, not one part:
	The carter run over by his own cart,
	Under the wheel he lay, flat on the ground.
	And, under Mars's sign, there too were found
	The barber, and the butcher, and the smith whose trade
	Is forging on his anvil the sharp sword's blade.
	And high above, depicted in a tower,
	I saw Conquest sitting in honour and in power,
	With a sharp sword hanging high above his head,
	Suspended by a fine and slender thread.
	Painted there was the slaughter of Julius,
	Of great Nero, and of Antonius;
	Though none of them was born yet, all the same
	Their deaths were painted there before they came,
	By Mars's menace, told by figure and by sign;
	So it was shown there, in that design,
	Just as it's painted in the stars above,
	Who shall be slain, or else shall die for love.
	Let one example out of old stories do;
	I couldn't count them all, though I wanted to.

	The statue of Mars, upon a chariot, stood,
	Armed, and it looked as grim as a madman would;
	And over his head two figures shone out bright,
	Of stars, which in the books the scholars write
	Are called the one Puella, the other Rubeus.
	This god of arms was dressed and fitted out thus:
	A wolf stood there before him at his feet
	Red-eyed, and gnawing on a man for meat.
	With a fine brush this was painted, the whole story,
	In reverence of Mars and of his glory.

	Now to the temple of Diana the chaste
	As briefly as I can I'll go in haste,
	To give you its description, all I found.
	The walls were painted, top to bottom, all around,
	With hunting, and with modest chastity.
	There I saw sorrowful Callisto, how she,
	When Diana was displeased with her, was there
	Transformed out of a woman into a bear,
	And afterwards she was made the star that guides;
	That's how it was painted; I can say no more besides.
	Her son is a star as well, as you can see.
	There I saw Daphne, turned into a tree—
	I don't mean the goddess Diana, no, but rather
	The one called Daphne, with Peneus for her father.
	There I saw Actaeon changed into a stag, the way
	Diana took revenge for being seen naked one day;
	I saw how his own hounds caught him, and they
	Devoured him, not knowing him, as their prey.
	A little further on, they'd painted more:
	How Atalanta hunted the wild boar,
	And Meleager, and many more also,
	For which Diana caused him care and woe.
	There I saw many another marvellous tale,
	Which I don't care to bring to mind in detail.
	Up on a stag this goddess had her seat,
	With little hounds all round about her feet;
	And underneath her feet she had a moon:
	A waxing one, that would be waning soon.
	Her statue was dressed in yellow-green, head to toe,
	With arrows in a case, and in her hand a bow.
	She kept her eyes cast low upon the ground,
	Where Pluto has his dark realm underground.
	Before her was a woman in labour, all worn,
	Because her child so long remained unborn;
	She began, most piteously, to call
	On Lucina, and said, "Help, you can best of all."
	The painter painted to the life, and brought
	To it the colours many a florin bought.

	Now the lists were finished. Theseus, who'd paid
	So great a cost, and thus had all arrayed
	The temples and the theatre, every part,
	When it was done, was pleased with all his heart.
	But now I'll let Theseus drop a while from sight
	And speak of Palamon and of Arcite.

	The day of their return was drawing near,
	When each of them would bring a hundred knights here
	To fight the battle out, as I have told;
	And to Athens, so that their pact would hold,
	Each one has brought a hundred knights to the fight,
	Well armed for war, with everything just right.
	And certainly, there was many a man
	Who thought that never, since the world began,
	To speak of knightly prowess, deeds of hand,
	As far as God has made the sea or land,
	Had there been, of so few, so noble a company.
	For every man who loved chivalry,
	And wished, with all his heart, to win a famous name,
	Had begged that he might be part of that game;
	And it went well for the man who won a place;
	For if tomorrow there should come such a case,
	You know quite well that every lively knight
	Who's in love, and has his strength and might,
	Whether it were in England or elsewhere,
	Would gladly wish, of his own will, to be there.
	To fight for a lady—benedicite!—
	That would be a lively sight to see.

	And that was just how it went with Palamon.
	With him there went knights, many and many a one;
	Some will be armed in a coat of mail, and dressed
	In a light tunic and a plate across the breast;
	And some will have a pair of plates, broad and large;
	And some, a Prussian shield or a small round targe;
	Some will want their legs well armed, from thigh to heel,
	And have an axe, and some a mace of steel.
	There is no new fashion that wasn't once old.
	They were all armed, then, just as I have told,
	Each one according to what he thought should be.

	There, coming with Palamon, you could see
	Lycurgus himself, the great king of Thrace;
	His beard was black, and he had a manly face.
	The circles of the eyes set in his head
	Glowed with a colour between yellow and red;
	And like a griffin he looked all about,
	With shaggy hair on brows that were thick and stout;
	His limbs were big, his muscles hard and strong,
	His shoulders broad, his arms both round and long.
	And, following the fashion of his land,
	High on a golden chariot he took his stand,
	With four white bulls in harness, to haul its weight.
	Instead of a coat of arms over his armour plate,
	With claws as yellow and as bright as gold,
	He had a bear's skin, coal-black, and very old.
	His long hair was combed and hung behind his back;
	Like a raven's feather it shone, deep black.
	A wreath of gold, arm-thick, of a huge weight,
	Was on his head, set full of bright stones, ornate,
	Of fine rubies and diamonds, row on row.
	Around his chariot white wolfhounds ran to and fro,
	Twenty or more, each one as big as a steer,
	For hunting down the lion or the deer,
	And followed him, with muzzles tightly bound,
	Collars of gold, and leash-rings filed round.
	He had a hundred lords with him who rode out
	Well armed, with hearts that were stern and stout.

	With Arcite, as the stories have it written down,
	The great Emetreus, who wore India's crown,
	Upon a bay steed, with steel trappings, and
	Covered in cloth of gold, worked by a skilful hand,
	Came riding like the god of arms, Mars.
	His coat of arms was silk, the cloth of Tars,
	Set thick with pearls, white and round and great.
	His saddle was of pure gold, fresh-beaten plate;
	A mantle hung from his shoulder, rich attire,
	Crammed full of rubies, red and sparkling like fire.
	His curly hair ran into rings; each one
	Was yellow, and it glittered like the sun.
	His nose was high, his eyes a bright citrine,
	His lips were round, his colouring sanguine;
	A few freckles were sprinkled on his skin,
	Between yellow and somewhat black, mixed in;
	He looked about him as a lion would.
	I'd put his age at twenty-five, as best I could.
	His beard was well on its way to growing out;
	His voice was like a trumpet's thundering shout.
	Upon his head he wore a garland, green
	With laurel, fresh and lively to be seen.
	Upon his hand he carried, for his delight,
	A tame eagle, every bit as lily-white.
	He had a hundred lords with him there,
	All in their armour, but with their heads bare,
	Richly fitted out in all manner of things.
	For take my word for it: dukes, and earls, and kings
	Were gathered in this noble company
	For love, and for the growth of chivalry.
	On every side, around this king, were found
	Many tame lions and leopards running round.
	And so the lords, all of them, in this way,
	Have come into the city on the Sunday,
	At prime, nine in the morning, and in the town alight.

	This Theseus, this duke, this distinguished knight,
	When he had brought them all within his gate,
	And lodged them, each according to his state,
	He feasts them, and he labours, works so hard
	To ease them, honour them in every regard,
	That people still believe that no man's wit,
	Of any rank, could have improved on it.
	The minstrelsy, the service at the feast,
	The splendid gifts to greatest and to least,
	The rich display in Theseus's palace hall,
	Who sat first on the dais, who last of all,
	Which ladies are the loveliest or dance best,
	Which of them sing and dance beyond the rest,
	Or who speaks most feelingly of love;
	What hawks are sitting on the perch above,
	What hounds are lying on the floor, stretched flat:
	I'll make no mention now of all of that;
	But just the gist; I think it best to tell
	No more. Now comes the point: please listen well.

	On Sunday night, before the dawn could spring,
	When Palamon had heard the skylark sing,
	Two hours before the day would start to show,
	The lark was singing, and Palamon also.
	With holy heart and lofty spirit he arose,
	And off upon his pilgrimage he goes
	To Cytherea, blissful and benign—
	I mean Venus, honoured, worthy and divine.
	And in her hour he walks out, at a slow pace,
	To the lists, where her temple had its place,
	And down he kneels, and with a humble look, sincere,
	And aching heart, he spoke, as you shall hear:

	"O fairest of the fair, my lady Venus,
	Daughter of Jove, and wife of Vulcanus,
	You who make glad the whole Cithaeron mount,
	For the love you had for Adonis—on that account
	Have pity on the bitter tears that smart,
	And take my humble prayer into your heart.
	Alas! I have no words with which to tell
	The effects or the torments of my hell;
	My heart cannot reveal my hurts in any way;
	I am so confused that I can't think what to say.
	But mercy, shining lady, you who know
	My thoughts, and see what harms I undergo,
	Consider all of this, and pity my wound, so sore,
	As surely as I'll be, for evermore,
	With all my strength, your servant, loyally,
	And always be at war with chastity;
	I make this vow, if you'll stand by my side.
	I do not care to boast of arms with pride,
	And I don't ask tomorrow to win the day,
	Nor fame in this affair, nor the vain display
	Of praise for arms, blown up and down the land,
	But I would have, completely, in my hand,
	Emily, and die in serving you;
	You find the means, and how, and what to do.
	I do not care which of these two it's to be,
	To conquer them, or have them conquer me,
	So long as I have my lady in my arms.
	For though it's true that Mars is god of arms,
	Your power is so great in heaven above
	That, if you wish, I surely shall have my love.
	I'll worship at your temple, always; and so,
	Upon your altar, wherever I ride or go,
	I will make sacrifice, and fan the fire's heat.
	And if you will not do so, my lady, my sweet,
	Then this I pray of you: tomorrow, with a spear,
	Let Arcite run me through the heart, right here.
	Then I won't care, when I have lost my life,
	Though Arcite should win her for his wife.
	This is the substance and the ending of my prayer:
	Give me my love, you blissful lady, dear and fair."

	When Palamon had finished what he prayed,
	At once his sacrifice to her was made,
	Most piteously, with all the rites that he knew,
	Although I won't tell his observances to you.
	But at the last the statue of Venus shook,
	And made a sign, and from that sign he took
	His prayer to be accepted on that day.
	For though the sign had shown there'd be delay,
	He knew quite well that he'd been granted his boon;
	And with a glad heart he went home very soon.

	In the third unequal hour after Palamon
	Set out for Venus's temple, and was gone,
	Up rose the sun, and up rose Emily,
	And off to Diana's temple she went, hurriedly.
	Her maidens, whom she brought with her to pray,
	Had the fire with them, ready, right away,
	The incense, and the cloths, and everything
	A sacrifice required them to bring,
	The horns of mead, filled up, as was the way;
	Nothing was lacking for her rite that day.
	The temple smoking, lovely cloths hung round the place,
	This Emily, with heart of gentle grace,
	Washed her body with water from a well;
	But how she did her rite I dare not tell,
	Unless it's something said in general;
	And yet it would be fun to hear it all;
	To one who means well, there would be no blame;
	But keeping one's freedom is good, all the same.
	Her bright hair, combed and unbraided, hung down free;
	A crown of leaves from a green Turkey oak tree
	Was set upon her head, lovely and fit.
	Upon the altar then she had two fires lit,
	And did her rites, as anyone can behold
	In Statius's Thebaid and other books as old.
	With piteous face, once the fire was alight,
	She spoke to Diana, as you'll hear me recite.

	"O chaste goddess of the green woods, you
	To whom both heaven and earth and sea are in view,
	Queen of the realm of Pluto, dark and low,
	Goddess of maidens, who have come to know
	My heart for many years, and know what I desire,
	Keep me from your vengeance and your ire,
	Which Actaeon was cruelly made to pay;
	Chaste goddess, you know well I want to stay
	A maiden for as long as I have life,
	And never be a lover, never a wife.
	I'm still, you know, one of your company,
	A maid, who loves to hunt, and loves to be
	Out walking in the woods and in the wild,
	And not to be a wife, and be with child.
	I will not know the company of man.
	Now help me, lady, since you may and can,
	By the three forms that you contain, all three.
	And Palamon, who has such love for me,
	And Arcite too, who loves me to the core,
	I pray you for this favour, nothing more:
	Send love and peace between those two; and may
	Their hearts be turned from me in such a way
	That all their burning love, and their desire,
	And all their busy torment, and their fire,
	Is quenched, or turned toward some other place;
	And if it is that you won't show me grace,
	Or if my destiny is shaped so that I'm due
	To have, by necessity, one of the two,
	Then send me him who most desires me.
	Behold, goddess of spotless chastity,
	The bitter tears that down my cheeks now fall.
	Since you're a maid, and keeper of us all,
	Keep my virginity, and guard it, and preserve;
	And while I live, a maid, it's you I'll serve."

	The fires burned on the altar, clear and bright,
	While Emily was praying at her rite;
	But suddenly she saw an eerie sight,
	For all at once one of the fires lost its light,
	And then revived again; and after that, the other one
	Was quenched, and all its burning over and done;
	And as it died, it made a whistling,
	As wet logs do when they are burning,
	And from the logs' ends there ran out, there and then,
	What seemed like drops of blood, again and again;
	At which Emily was so badly terrified
	That she was nearly out of her mind, and cried,
	For she did not know what it signified;
	But only out of fear like this she cried,
	And wept, so that it was pitiful to hear.
	And with that, there Diana did appear,
	With bow in hand, just like a huntress dressed,
	And said, "My daughter, put your grief to rest.
	Among the high gods it has been affirmed,
	And by eternal word written and confirmed,
	You shall be wedded to one of those two
	Who have suffered so much care and woe for you;
	But which of them it is, I cannot tell.
	I can't stay any longer, so farewell.
	The fires that are burning on my altar now
	Shall show you, before you go from here, how
	Your love will fare, your fortune in this case."
	And with that word, the arrows in the case
	Of the goddess clattered fast, and rang out clear,
	And off she went, and disappeared from here;
	At which this Emily was astonished, and
	Said, "Alas! What does this mean? I don't understand.
	I put myself in your protection, and I stand,
	Diana, at your disposal, in your hand."
	And home she goes at once, the quickest way.
	That's what happened; there is no more to say.

	Then came the hour of Mars, the next in line;
	Arcite went walking off to the shrine
	Of fierce Mars, to make his sacrifice
	With all the rites his pagan ways devise.
	With a piteous heart and great devotion, there
	He spoke to Mars, like this, and said his prayer:

	"O strong god, honoured in the cold realms of Thrace,
	And held as lord there, over all that place,
	And who have, in every realm and every land,
	The bridle of all arms in your hand,
	And deal them fortune as you may devise,
	Accept from me my piteous sacrifice.
	If it is so that my youth has earned the right,
	And that my strength is worthy, in your sight,
	To serve your godhead, and be counted in your line,
	Then I pray you, take pity on this pain of mine.
	For that same pain, and that same burning fire
	In which you once were burning with desire,
	When you made use of the great beauty
	Of Venus, young and fair and fresh and free,
	And had her in your arms, to do your will,
	Although on one occasion it went ill,
	When Vulcanus had caught you in his snare,
	And found you lying with his wife—alas!—right there,
	For that same sorrow that was in your heart,
	Have pity as well upon my pains that smart.
	I'm young and know so little, as you can see,
	And, I believe, love's wounded none like me
	Of any living creature there has been, I'm sure;
	For she, who makes me all this woe endure,
	Never cares whether I go under or stay above;
	And I know well, before she promises me love,
	I'll have to win her by force, in the jousting place;
	And I know well that, without the help or grace
	From you, I cannot win by my own might.
	Then help me, lord, tomorrow, in my fight,
	For that same fire that burned you, long ago,
	As surely as this same fire now burns me so;
	And grant that I tomorrow have the victory.
	Mine be the labour, and yours be the glory!
	Your sovereign temple is the one I'll honour
	Above all places, and I'll always labour
	For your delight, and in the strong crafts that you ply;
	And in your temple I will hang my banner high,
	And all the arms of all my men; and I,
	For evermore, until the day I die,
	Will keep eternal fire before your shrine,
	And bind myself to this further vow of mine:
	My beard, my hair, which hangs long down my back,
	Which never yet has suffered the attack
	Of razor or of shears, I'll give to you,
	And be your faithful servant my whole life through.
	Now, lord, have pity on my sorrows, aching sore;
	Give me the victory; I ask no more."

	Arcite the strong had prayed, and now was done;
	The rings that hung on the temple door, each one,
	And the doors too, clattered hard and fast,
	At which Arcite was somewhat aghast.
	The fires burned upon the altar, bright,
	So that the whole temple was filled with light;
	The ground gave off a sweet smell straight away,
	And Arcite raised his hand, without delay,
	And threw more incense in the fire, and he passed
	To other rites besides; and at the last
	The statue of Mars began to make its mail coat ring.
	And with that sound he heard a murmuring,
	Very low and dim, that said this: "Victory!"
	For which he gave to Mars honour and glory.
	And full of joy, and hoping to succeed,
	Arcite went back to his lodging with all speed,
	As glad as a bird is of the bright sun.

	And right away, such strife had now begun,
	Because of this granting, in the heaven above,
	Between Venus, the goddess of love,
	And Mars, the stern god, mighty in the fight,
	That Jupiter was busy setting it right;
	Until pale Saturn, Saturn the cold,
	Who knew so many happenings of old,
	Found in his old experience an art
	By which he very soon pleased every part.
	It's rightly said that age has great advantage;
	In age are wisdom and experience, and usage;
	You can outrun the old, but not outguess.
	Saturn at once, to stop the strife and distress,
	Although it went entirely against his grain,
	Found a remedy for all the strife and pain.

	"My dear daughter Venus," said Saturn,
	"My course, which has so wide a way to turn,
	Has more power than any man can know.
	Mine is the drowning in the grey sea below;
	Mine is the prison in the dark cell, remote;
	Mine is the strangling and hanging by the throat,
	The muttering, and the commoners rising,
	The grumbling, and the secret poisoning;
	I deal out vengeance and full punishment
	While in the sign of the Lion I'm resident.
	Mine is the ruin of the lofty halls,
	The falling of the towers and of the walls
	Upon the miner, or the man who builds with wood;
	I killed Samson when he shook the pillar where it stood;
	And mine are the diseases that are cold,
	The dark betrayals, and the tricks of old;
	My glance is the father of pestilence.
	Now weep no more; I'll work with all diligence
	That Palamon, who is your own knight,
	Shall have his lady, as you promised him he might.
	Though Mars shall help his knight, nevertheless,
	Between you, at some time, there must be peace,
	Although your natures differ, and do not blend,
	Which causes all this strife without an end.
	I am your grandfather, ready at your will;
	Weep no more: what you desire, I will fulfil."

	Now I'll stop speaking of the gods above,
	Of Mars, and of Venus, goddess of love,
	And tell you, just as plainly as I can,
	The main event for which I first began.

Part Four

	Great was the feast in Athens on that day,
	And the lively season, too, that month of May,
	Made everyone so happy, so entranced,
	That all that Monday long they jousted and danced,
	And spent it in high service for Venus's sake;
	But since they had to rise, and be awake
	Early in the morning, to see the great fight,
	They all went off to get their rest at night.
	And in the morning, when the day began to break,
	The noise and clatter that the horses and armour make
	Was heard in all the inns and lodgings round about;
	And to the palace many a troop rode out
	Of lords, mounted on palfreys and on steeds.
	There you could see them fit the gear each needs,
	So strange, so rich, so finely worked and made
	In goldsmith's work, in steel, and in brocade;
	The shining shields, the horse-armour, head to tail;
	Gold-hammered helmets, coats of arms, and mail;
	Lords in rich robes upon their chargers there,
	And household knights, and squires everywhere
	Nailing the spearheads, buckling helmets tight,
	Strapping the shields, and lacing thongs just right;
	Wherever there was need, not one sat idle;
	The foaming steeds, upon the golden bridle,
	Were champing; and the armourers also,
	With file and hammer, hurried to and fro;
	Yeomen on foot, and commoners, many a man,
	With short staves, packed together as thick as they can;
	Pipes, trumpets, kettledrums, and clarions, all
	That blow in battle with a bloody call;
	The palace full of people all about,
	Here three, there ten, arguing it out,
	Making their guesses on the Theban two.
	Some said one thing, some said this would come true;
	Some sided with the man with the black beard,
	Some for the bald, some for the thick-haired cheered;
	Some said, "That one looks grim; he'll want to fight:
	He's got an axe that's twenty pounds, all right."
	So all the hall was full of such surmise
	Long after the sun had started to rise.

	The great Theseus, who'd been woken from his sleep
	By minstrelsy and noise, still chose to keep
	His palace chamber, waiting, all the while
	Till the two Theban knights, in equal style
	Honoured, had been brought into the palace too.
	Duke Theseus sat at a window, in full view,
	Dressed like a god enthroned, in all his pride.
	The people pressed toward him from every side
	To see him, and to pay him reverence,
	And hear his orders, and hear his sentence.

	A herald on a platform shouted, "Ho!"
	Till all the people's noise had died down low;
	And when he saw the people quiet and still,
	He made known to them the mighty duke's will.

	"Our lord, in his high wisdom and discretion,
	Has judged that it would mean the destruction
	Of noble blood to fight here in the guise
	Of mortal battle in this enterprise;
	So, to arrange that nobody shall die,
	The plan he first proposed, he'll modify.
	Therefore no man, on pain of losing his life,
	Shall send a missile, poleaxe, or short knife
	Into the lists, or carry one in, or bring
	A short sword made for stabbing, with a point to sting;
	No man shall draw one, or wear one at his side.
	And no man shall against his fellow ride
	More than one course, with a sharp-ground spear;
	On foot, if he likes, he may thrust, to keep himself clear.
	And anyone who's beaten, they shall take,
	Not kill, but bring him over to the stake
	That shall be set up there on either side;
	He shall be forced to go there, and there abide.
	And if it happens that a chief is caught
	On either side, or kills the man he fought,
	The tournament shall then no longer last.
	God speed you; go out there and lay on fast!
	With long swords and with maces, fight your fill.
	Now go your way; this is the lord's will."

	The people's voices rose and touched the sky,
	So loud and merry was the crowd's glad cry:
	"God save a lord so good, so fine a man:
	He wants no blood destroyed, in all his plan!"
	Up go the trumpets and the melody,
	And off to the lists rides the company
	In order, through the city broad and wide,
	Hung with gold cloth, not serge, on every side.
	Just like a lord this noble duke rode through,
	These Thebans either side of him, the two;
	And after rode the queen, and Emily,
	And after that another company
	Of one and another, each in their degree.
	And so they pass on through the whole city,
	And to the lists they come in proper time;
	The day had not yet reached the hour of prime,
	When Theseus was seated, rich and high,
	With Emily and Queen Hippolyta nearby,
	And other ladies, seated tier by tier.
	The crowd pressed to the seats from far and near.
	And westward, through the gates beneath Mars, came
	Arcite, and the hundred he could claim,
	With a red banner, entering, riding on;
	And at that very moment Palamon
	Comes under Venus, eastward in the place,
	With a white banner, and a bold and daring face.
	In all the world, if you searched every nation,
	So even, without any variation,
	Two companies like these could not be found;
	For there was no one wise enough around
	To say that either one had the advantage
	In merit, or in rank, or else in age,
	So evenly were they chosen, I would say.
	In two fine ranks they lined up for the fray.
	When all their names had been read out, every one,
	So there'd be no cheating in their numbers—none—
	Then the gates were shut, and someone cried out loud:
	"Now do your duty, young knights, so proud!"

	The heralds stopped their riding to and fro;
	Now trumpets ring out loud, and clarions blow;
	There's nothing more to say, but east and west
	In go the spears, set firmly in the lance-rest;
	In goes the sharp spur into the horse's side.
	Now you can see who can joust, and who can ride;
	There shafts are shattered against shields so thick;
	Through his breastbone one feels the spear's sharp prick.
	Up spring the spears, twenty feet in height;
	Out come the swords, as silver shining bright.
	They hack and hew the helmets till they shred;
	Out bursts the blood in stern streams of red.
	With mighty maces, they break bones in two.
	Into the thickest press one thrusts his way through.
	There strong steeds stumble, and down goes horse and all.
	One rolls about underfoot like a ball.
	One, on his feet, jabs with a broken lance;
	One hurls another down with his horse's advance.
	One's run right through the body, and they take
	Him, like it or not, and bring him to the stake,
	As was agreed, and he has to wait there, set aside;
	Another's led off to the other side.
	And now and then Theseus has them rest,
	To refresh themselves, and drink if they think best.
	Many a time that day the Thebans met to fight,
	And each one hurt his fellow with his might;
	Each of the two has been unhorsed by the other.
	No tiger in Gargaphia's valley, as a mother
	Whose cub's been stolen when it's young and slight,
	Was so cruel on the hunt as was Arcite,
	With jealous heart, hunting down Palamon;
	Nor in Morocco is there such a savage lion,
	That's hunted, or by hunger driven mad,
	That wants the blood of its prey quite so bad
	As Palamon longs to kill his foe Arcite.
	The jealous blows upon their helmets bite;
	Out runs red blood on both their sides; they bleed.

	But there's an end, sometime, to every deed;
	For, before the sun had set, there came
	The strong king Emetreus, to claim
	This Palamon, as he fought with Arcite,
	And made his sword sink deep into his flesh and bite;
	And twenty of them overpower and take
	Him, though he hadn't yielded, to the stake.
	And fighting to rescue Palamon from the foe,
	The strong king Lycurgus is brought down low;
	And King Emetreus, for all his strength,
	Is knocked out of his saddle a sword's length,
	So hard did Palamon hit him before they could take
	Him; but all for nothing—he was brought to the stake.
	His brave heart could not help him, though he fought;
	He had to stay there, since he had been caught
	By force, and by the terms agreed upon.

	Who's grieving now but woeful Palamon,
	Who may no longer go back in to fight?
	And when Theseus had seen this sight,
	To all the folk still fighting, every one,
	He cried, "Ho! No more, for it is done!
	I will be a true judge, and take no side.
	Arcite of Thebes shall have Emily for his bride,
	Since he, by his fortune, has fairly won."
	At once a noise among the people has begun
	For joy of this, so loud and high, that all
	The lists, it seemed, were going to fall.

	What can fair Venus do now, up above?
	What does she say? What does she do, this queen of love?
	Nothing but weep, for want of her own will,
	Until her tears fall into the lists and spill.
	She said, "I am ashamed, without a doubt."
	Saturn said, "Daughter, hold your peace. Hear me out:
	Mars has his will, his knight his whole request,
	And, by my head, you'll soon be put at rest."

	The trumpets, and the music loud and high,
	The heralds, who so loudly yell and cry,
	Are all in bliss for joy of Lord Arcite.
	But listen, and stop a little, while I recite
	What a miracle happened then and there.

	Fierce Arcite has pulled his helmet off, head bare,
	And on a charger, so as to show his face,
	He spurs along the whole length of the space,
	Looking up toward Emily on high;
	And she cast back at him a friendly eye
	(For women, speaking generally, will run
	To follow Fortune's favour, every one),
	And she was all his gladness, in his heart.
	From underground a hellish Fury leapt with a start,
	Sent up by Pluto at the request of Saturn,
	At which, in fright, his horse began to turn,
	And leapt aside, and stumbled as it went;
	And, before Arcite could take heed, it sent
	Him pitching down upon the crown of his head,
	So that he lay there as if he were dead,
	His chest smashed in against the saddle-bow.
	He lay as black as any coal or crow,
	So had the blood run up into his face.
	At once he was carried out of the place,
	In pain of heart, to Theseus's palace hall.
	Then they cut off his armour, mail and all,
	And put to bed, as fast and gently as they'd contrive,
	For he was conscious still, and still alive,
	And crying out, the whole time, Emily's name.

	Duke Theseus, with all his company, came
	Home to Athens, his city, in high state,
	With all the joy and pomp to celebrate.
	Although this accident had happened, all
	The same, he would not let their spirits fall.
	People said, too, that Arcite would not die;
	He would be healed and well, by and by.
	And they were glad, too, of another gain:
	That out of all of them not one was slain,
	Though they were badly hurt, one worse than the rest:
	A spear had gone right through the bone of his breast.
	For other wounds, and for broken arms,
	Some had ointments, and some had charms;
	And they drank potions made from herbs, and sage, so they
	Could keep their limbs, and not have them cut away.
	And so this noble duke, the best he can,
	Comforts and honours every single man,
	And held a revel all the long night
	For the visiting lords, as was right.
	And no one counted it as a defeat,
	But as a joust or tourney, where knights meet;
	For it was not a real defeat at all;
	It's nothing but bad luck to take a fall;
	Nor if by force one's dragged to the stake
	Unyielded, when it took twenty knights to take
	One man alone, with no one else to go
	With him, and dragged by arm and foot and toe,
	And his horse driven off with staves and noise
	By men on foot, by yeomen and by boys—
	It was not held as shameful or as base;
	No man could call it cowardice in that case.

	And so at once Duke Theseus proclaimed outright,
	To end all bitterness and envious spite,
	The victory as much to one side as the other,
	And either side alike, as each other's brother;
	And gave them gifts, each fitting to his place,
	And held a feast that lasted three days' space,
	And gave the kings an honourable escort too,
	A day's ride from his town, to see them through.
	And every man went home the shortest way.
	There was no more but "Farewell! Have a good day!"
	Of this battle I'll say no more, nor write,
	But speak of Palamon and of Arcite.

	Arcite's chest swells, and the wound grows sore
	Around his heart, increasing more and more.
	The clotted blood, despite the doctors' skill,
	Goes bad, and stays inside his body still,
	So neither bleeding him, nor cupping, nor
	A drink of herbs can help him any more.
	The "expulsive" power, or the "animal",
	Out of the power that doctors call "natural",
	Cannot drain out the poison, nor expel;
	The pipes inside his lungs began to swell,
	And every muscle down his chest, each section,
	Is ruined by the poison and infection.
	To save his life, it does no good to give
	An emetic upward, or a downward laxative;
	That whole region is burst, and broken, and
	Nature no longer has the upper hand.
	And certainly, where nature leaves you in the lurch,
	Farewell, medicine! Go carry the man to church!
	This is the sum of it: Arcite must die;
	And so he sends for Emily, to say goodbye,
	And Palamon, his cousin, whom he held dear;
	And then he spoke like this, as you will hear:

	"The woeful spirit in my heart can't start
	To tell a single point of my sorrows' smart
	To you, my lady, whom I love the most;
	But I bequeath the service of my ghost
	To you above all creatures, far and near,
	Since my life can last no longer here.
	Alas, the woe! Alas, the pains so strong
	That I have suffered for you, and so long!
	Alas, the death! Alas, my Emily!
	Alas, the parting of our company!
	Alas, my heart's queen! Alas, my wife!
	My heart's lady, the ender of my life!
	What is this world? What is it men crave?
	Now with his love, now in his cold grave
	Alone, without any company.
	Farewell, my sweet foe! My Emily!
	And gently take me in your arms, and stay,
	For love of God, and listen to what I say.

	"I've had strife and rancour with Palamon,
	My cousin here, for many a day now gone,
	For love of you, and out of jealousy.
	And so may Jupiter guide my soul for me,
	To speak about a lover as I should,
	In every circumstance, as an honest man would—
	That is to say, good faith, honour, and knighthood's worth,
	Wisdom, humility, rank, and noble birth,
	Generosity, and all that's in that art—
	So may my soul have, in Jupiter, a part,
	In this whole world, right now, I know of none
	So worthy to be loved as Palamon,
	Who serves you, and will do so all his life.
	And if you ever are to be a wife,
	Do not forget Palamon, the noble man."
	With that, the failing of his speech began,
	For up from his feet into his chest had come
	The cold of death, by which he was overcome.
	And furthermore, in both his arms, the two,
	The vital strength is lost; it's all gone, right through.
	Only the intellect, and nothing more,
	That dwelt within his heart, so sick and sore,
	Began to fail, when the heart felt death;
	His two eyes dimmed, and he had no more breath.
	But on his lady still he cast his eye;
	"Mercy, Emily!" was his last word and cry.
	His spirit changed its house, and went off there,
	Where I have never been—I can't say where.
	So I'll stop here; theology's not my line;
	About souls I find nothing in this source of mine,
	Nor do I want to go into what people tell
	About them, though they write of where they dwell.
	Arcite is cold; may Mars guide his soul on its way!
	Now, Emily: of her I have more to say.

	Emily shrieked, and howls came from Palamon,
	And Theseus at once took his sister, wan,
	Swooning, and from the corpse he carried her away.
	What use is it to drag out all the day
	Telling how she wept, at evening and at morning?
	For women in such cases have such mourning,
	When their husbands have been taken from them—so
	That most of them are sunk so deep in woe,
	Or else they fall into such sickness, by
	Which in the end, for certain, they will die.

	There was no end to the sorrows and the tears
	Of old folk, and of folk of tender years,
	In all the town, for the death of this Theban;
	For him there weep both child and grown man;
	There never was such weeping, this is plain,
	When Hector was brought home, just freshly slain,
	To Troy; alas, the pity that was there,
	The scratching of cheeks, the tearing of hair.
	"Why did you die," the women cry, "when you
	Had gold enough, and had Emily too?"
	No one could cheer up Theseus,
	Except his old father, Egeus,
	Who knew how this world changes—knew it all,
	For he had seen it change, through rise and fall,
	Joy after woe, and woe after good cheer;
	And showed them examples and comparisons, clear.

	"Just as no man has ever met his death,"
	He said, "who did not live and draw some breath,
	Just so, no man has ever lived," he said,
	"In all this world, who was not some day dead.
	This world is just a thoroughfare of woe,
	And we are pilgrims, passing to and fro;
	Death is an end of every earthly sore."
	And on top of this he said a great deal more
	To the same effect, and wisely, to advise
	The people to take heart and dry their eyes.

	Duke Theseus, with all his busy care,
	Considered now the burial, and where
	For good Arcite it might best be made, and be
	Most honourable, too, as fitted his degree.
	And in the end he settled on this plan:
	That where Arcite and Palamon began
	Their battle for love between them, fierce and keen,
	In that same grove, so fragrant and so green,
	Where he had had his amorous desires,
	His lament, and for love his burning fires,
	He'd build a fire, in which he would fulfil
	All of the funeral rites, as was his will;
	And ordered right away that men should go
	To hack and hew old oaks and lay them in a row
	In logs well set out, and ready to burn;
	His officers ran swiftly, each in turn,
	And rode at once at his commandment.
	And after this, Theseus has sent
	For a bier, and had it covered and clad
	With cloth of gold, the richest that he had.
	And in the same cloth he dressed Arcite;
	Upon his hands he wore his gloves of white,
	And on his head a wreath of laurel, green,
	And in his hand a sword, so bright and keen.
	He laid him with his face bare on the bier,
	And wept so that it was pitiful to hear.
	So that the people might see him, one and all,
	When it was day, he brought him to the hall,
	That roared with crying, wailing on and on.

	Then came this woeful Theban, Palamon,
	With straggling beard, and rough hair grey with ashes,
	In black clothes, wet with tears that dropped from his lashes;
	And Emily, who wept more than the others there,
	The saddest of them all, beyond compare.
	So that the funeral service there might be
	The nobler and the richer, for his degree,
	Duke Theseus had three steeds led out, all bright
	In trappings of steel, glittering in the light,
	And covered with the coat of arms of Lord Arcite.
	Upon these steeds, which were big and white,
	Sat men, of whom the first one bore his shield;
	Another held aloft the spear he used to wield;
	The third man bore his Turkish bow, designed
	With case and fittings both of gold refined;
	And they rode on at a walk, with many a tear,
	Toward the grove, as later you will hear.
	The noblest of the Greeks who were present here
	Upon their shoulders carried up the bier,
	Slow-paced, with red and wet eyes, on heavy feet,
	Through all the city, along the main street,
	That was all spread with black; and, wonderfully high,
	The whole street was hung with the same, up to the sky.
	Upon the right hand walked old Egeus,
	And on the other side Duke Theseus,
	With vessels in their hands of gold, so fine,
	All full of honey, milk, and blood, and wine;
	And Palamon, with a large retinue;
	And after that came Emily, woeful too,
	With fire in hand, as was the custom—a light
	To do the office of the funeral rite.

	There was great labour, and much to acquire
	For the service and the building of the fire,
	That with its green top reached the heavens, and wide
	Its arms stretched twenty fathoms, side to side;
	That is to say, the boughs spread broad around.
	First, many loads of straw were laid on the ground.
	But how the fire was raised and made so high,
	And what the trees were named that it was built by,
	Such as oak, fir, birch, aspen, alder, holm-oak, poplar,
	Willow, elm, plane, ash, box, chestnut, linden, laurel,
	Maple, thorn, beech, hazel, yew, and dogwood tree,
	How they were felled, will not be told by me;
	Nor how the gods were running to and fro,
	Evicted from their homes, with nowhere to go,
	In which they used to dwell in rest and ease,
	The nymphs, the fauns, the dryads of the trees;
	Nor how the beasts and birds, one and all,
	Fled in fear, when they saw the forest fall;
	Nor how the ground was frightened of the light,
	Not being used to seeing the sun so bright;
	Nor how they set the fire with straw for its base,
	And then dry logs, split in three, in place,
	And then with green wood, and with spices, laid,
	And then with gold cloth, and with gems arrayed,
	And garlands hanging, with many a flower,
	Myrrh and incense, with scent of such power;
	Nor how Arcite lay among all this,
	Nor how much wealth around his body is;
	Nor how Emily, as the custom was in those days,
	Put the funeral torch in, to set it ablaze;
	Nor how she fainted when they made the fire,
	Nor what she said, nor what was her desire;
	Nor what jewels were thrown in, what gems were cast,
	When the fire was great, and burning fast;
	Nor how some threw their shield, and some their spear,
	And some their robes, the clothes they wore, their gear,
	And cups of wine, of milk, of blood—they'd add
	These to the fire, that burned as if gone mad;
	Nor how the Greeks in a huge troop rode out
	Three times around the fire, all round about,
	With the fire on their left, and shouting loud and clear,
	And three times with the clatter of each spear;
	And how the ladies cried out three times, loud;
	Nor how they led Emily home through the crowd;
	Nor how Arcite is burned to ashes cold;
	Nor how they held the wake, the young and old,
	All that night; nor how the Greeks would play
	The funeral games—I don't care to say;
	Who wrestled best, stripped naked and oiled,
	Nor who bore himself best, and was never foiled.
	I will not tell how they go, either, when
	The games are over, home to Athens again;
	But briefly to the point I'll go, as I intend,
	And bring my long tale, now, to its end.

	With time, and with the length of certain years,
	There came an end to mourning and to tears
	Among the Greeks, by general assent.
	Then, it seems to me, there was a parliament
	At Athens, on certain points and matters of state;
	Among the points that came up in debate
	Was to make, with certain countries, an alliance,
	And to have from the Thebans full compliance.
	So the great Theseus at once sent on
	A summons for the noble Palamon,
	Who didn't know the cause of it, or why;
	But in his black clothes, sorrowing, with a sigh,
	He came at his command, and hurriedly.
	Then Theseus sent for Emily.
	When they were seated, and silence filled the place,
	And Theseus had waited a short space
	Before a word came from his wise breast,
	He fixed his eyes where it pleased him best,
	And sighed in silence, sober-faced and still,
	And after that, he told them thus his will.

	"The First Mover of the cause above,
	When he first made the fair chain of love,
	Great was the effect, and high was his intent;
	He knew well why he did it, and what he meant;
	For with that fair chain of love he bound
	The fire, the air, the water, and the ground
	In fixed bounds, from which they may not flee;
	That same prince and that mover," he said, "he
	Has given this wretched world, in his creation,
	Certain days, and a fixed duration,
	To all that is begotten in this place,
	Beyond which day they cannot take a pace,
	Although they may well shorten those days; and here
	I need not cite authorities, it's clear,
	For it is proved by experience;
	I only want to set out my own sense.
	So men may well, by this order, discern
	That this same Mover, eternal, does not turn.
	Men may well know, unless they're fools at heart,
	That from the whole comes every single part.
	For nature did not take its beginning
	From any portion or piece of a thing,
	But from a thing that's perfect and is stable,
	Descending, till it's mortal and unstable.
	And therefore, out of his wise foresight, he has made
	His ordinances so well arranged and laid
	That species of things, and their progressions,
	Shall last, one after another, in successions,
	And not be eternal—that's no lie:
	You can understand this, and see it with your eye.

	"Look at the oak, which takes so long to grow
	From the time it first begins to sprout and show,
	And has so long a life, as we can see,
	Yet in the end it wastes away, the tree.

	"Consider how the hard stone, too, below
	Our feet, on which we tread and come and go,
	Still wears away, as it lies by the way.
	The broad river will dry up some day.
	We see the great towns dwindle and descend;
	Then you can see that all these things must end.

	"And we can see of man and woman, too,
	That, at one or the other of these two—
	That is to say, in youth or in old age—
	He has to die, the king just like the page;
	Some in their bed, some in the deep sea,
	Some on the open field, as men can see;
	There's no help for it: all go the same way;
	So all things die—that's what I have to say.
	What causes this, but Jupiter the king,
	Who is the prince and cause of everything,
	Turning all back into its proper source,
	From which it was derived, along its course.
	And against this, for no creature alive,
	Of any rank, is there any use to strive.

	"Then it is wisdom, as it seems to me,
	To make a virtue of necessity,
	And take it well, what we cannot eschew,
	Above all, what is every person's due.
	And anyone who grumbles plays the fool,
	And rebels against him who has all in his rule.
	And certainly a man wins the most praise
	Who dies at his best, in his flowering days,
	When he is certain of his good name;
	Then he has done his friend, or himself, no shame.
	And his friend ought to be gladder of his death
	When with honour he has yielded up his breath
	Than when his name has grown, with age, faded and grey;
	For all his knightly deeds have passed away.
	Then it is best, as for a worthy fame,
	To die when he is at his best in name.
	The opposite of all of this is wilfulness.
	Why grumble, then? Why all this sad distress
	That good Arcite, the flower of chivalry,
	Has gone, with duty done, and honourably,
	Out of the foul prison of this life?
	Why do they grumble here, his cousin and his wife,
	About his welfare, who loved them so well?
	Can he thank them? No—not a bit, as God can tell.
	It wrongs his soul, and does themselves harm, too,
	And yet it cannot make their wishes true.

	"What can I draw from all this long argument here
	But, after woe, I'd urge us all to cheer,
	And thank Jupiter for all his grace?
	And, before we depart from this place,
	I counsel us to make, of these two woes,
	One perfect joy that lasts and never goes;
	And look now: where the most sorrow is within,
	There we will first make things right, and begin.

	"Sister," he said, "this is my full assent,
	With all the advice here of my parliament,
	That noble Palamon, your own knight,
	Who serves you with his will, heart, and might,
	And always has, since first you saw his face,
	That you take pity on him, of your grace,
	And take him as your husband and your lord:
	Give me your hand, for this is our accord.
	Now let us see your womanly pity shown.
	He is a king's own nephew, by God, as is known;
	And even if he were a poor young knight here,
	Since he has served you for so many a year,
	And suffered for you such adversity,
	It ought to be considered, believe me;
	For noble mercy ought to pass beyond right."

	Then he said this to Palamon outright:
	"I think that little preaching's needed to bring
	You round to give consent to such a thing.
	Come near, and take your lady by the hand."
	At once between them there was made the bond
	That's known as matrimony, or as marriage,
	By all the council and the baronage.
	And so, with every bliss and melody,
	Palamon has wedded Emily.
	And may God, who made this whole wide world, and wrought
	It all, send him his love, so dearly bought.
	For Palamon now has all good fortune and wealth,
	Living in bliss, in riches, and in health;
	And Emily loves him with so tender a heart,
	And he serves her so nobly for his part,
	That there was never a single word between
	The two of them, of jealousy or spleen.
	So ends the tale of Palamon and Emily;
	And God save all this fair company!—Amen.

The Miller's Prologue

	When the Knight had finished, and his tale was told,
	In all our company there was no one, young or old,
	Who didn't say it was a noble story,
	And one worth keeping in the memory;
	The gentlefolk especially, all agreed.
	Our Host laughed and swore, "As I hope to succeed,
	This is going well; we've opened up the bale.
	Let's see now who will tell another tale:
	For honestly, the game is well begun.
	Now you, sir Monk, tell us, if you know one,
	Something that will repay the Knight's tale."
	The Miller, so drunk that he had turned all pale,
	So that he barely stayed up where he sat,
	Would not take off, for anyone, his hood or hat,
	Nor wait for anyone, the courteous way,
	But started ranting like Pilate in a play,
	And swore by arms, by blood and bones, "I know
	A noble tale that fits the moment, so
	With it I'll now pay back the Knight's tale."

	Our Host could see that he was drunk on ale,
	And said, "Hold on, Robin, my dear brother;
	Some better man must tell us first another.
	Hold on, and let us do this properly."

	"By God's soul," he said, "that won't be me;
	I'll speak, or else I'm going on my way."
	Our Host replied, "In the devil's name, tell away!
	You're a fool; your wits are overcome."

	"Now listen," said the Miller, "all and some!
	But first I want to make a declaration
	That I am drunk: I know it by my intonation.
	And so, if I misspeak, or my words fail,
	Then blame it, please, on the Southwark ale;
	For I will tell a legend, a saint's life,
	About a carpenter, and of his wife,
	How a student made the carpenter a sap."

	The Reeve answered and said, "Shut your trap!
	Leave off your ignorant, drunken ribaldry.
	It is a sin, and a great stupidity,
	To injure any man, or blacken his name,
	Or bring wives, too, into such ill fame.
	You've lots of other things that you can say."

	The drunken Miller answered right away,
	And said, "Dear brother Oswald, I've been told
	The man who has no wife is no cuckold.
	But I'm not saying, mind, that you are one;
	There are good wives in plenty, many a one,
	And always a thousand good to every bad;
	You know that well yourself, unless you're mad.
	Why does my tale now make you so upset?
	I've got a wife, by God, like you; and yet
	I wouldn't, for the oxen in my plough,
	Take more upon myself than sense would allow,
	As to decide that I myself am one;
	I'll go on believing that I'm none.
	A husband has no business, in this life,
	To pry into God's secrets, or his wife.
	As long as he can find God's plenty there,
	Then all the rest is none of his affair."

	What more is there to say? The Miller, though,
	Would not hold back his words for friend or foe,
	But told his common churl's tale, as churls do;
	I think I'll have to tell it here to you.
	And so I beg each noble person, every one,
	For God's love, do not think that this is done
	From evil purpose; it's that I must rehearse
	All of their tales, whether better or worse,
	Or else I'd falsify my matter here.
	And so, if anyone would rather not hear,
	Turn over the page, and choose another tale;
	For he will find plenty, of every scale,
	Of history that touches on nobility,
	And on morality as well, and sanctity;
	Don't put the blame on me if you choose wrong.
	The Miller is a churl; you've known it all along;
	So was the Reeve, and many others too,
	And smutty stories are what they told, those two.
	Think it over, and leave me out of the blame;
	And no one should make earnest out of game.

The Miller's Tale

	There lived in Oxford, once, with a rich man's hoard,
	A lout who took in paying guests to board,
	And he was, by his trade, a carpenter.
	Living with him there was a poor scholar,
	Who'd studied arts, but all he cared about
	Was learning astrology; and he'd worked out
	A number of set methods, and the ways
	To judge things by the questions people raise,
	If people asked him, at certain hours,
	Whether there would be droughts, or else showers,
	Or if they asked him what was going to befall
	Of every kind of thing—I can't count them all.

	This student's name was handy Nicholas;
	He was well versed in secret love and solace;
	And he was sly as well, and very discreet,
	And looked just like a maiden, meek and sweet.
	He had a room there in that lodging-house, alone,
	Without companions, a room of his own,
	Done up with fragrant herbs, with leaf and shoot;
	And he himself was sweet as is the root
	Of licorice, or of any ginger at all.
	His Almagest, and books both large and small,
	His astrolabe, belonging to his art,
	His counting-stones for sums, were set apart
	On shelves, arranged beside his bed's head;
	His cupboard covered with a coarse cloth of red.
	And over it all, a showy psaltery lay,
	On which, at night, he'd make music and play
	So sweetly that the whole room would ring;
	And Angelus ad virginem he would sing;
	And after that he sang "The King's Note";
	And often people blessed his merry throat.
	And that is how the sweet scholar's time was spent,
	Living on his friends' support and his own rent.

	This carpenter had newly wed a wife
	Whom he loved more than he loved his own life;
	She was a girl of eighteen years of age.
	He was jealous, and kept her tightly in a cage,
	For she was wild and young, and he was old,
	And thought himself likely to be a cuckold.
	He didn't know his Cato—his wits were crude—
	Who said a man should wed his similitude.
	Men ought to marry others in their own state,
	For youth and age are often in debate.
	But since he had fallen in the snare,
	He had to bear, like other folk, his share.

	The young wife was a beauty, and on top of all,
	Her body, like a weasel's, slim and small.
	She wore a belt with stripes of silk,
	And an apron, white as morning milk,
	Around her hips, with pleats and panels galore.
	Her smock was white, embroidered all before
	And at the back, and on her collar, all about,
	In coal-black silk, inside as well as out.
	The ribbons on her white cap, which were fine,
	Matched with her collar, of the same design;
	Her headband, broad, of silk, was set up high;
	And certainly she had a wanton eye.
	Her two eyebrows were plucked thin, just so,
	And they were arched, and black as any sloe.
	She was a great deal lovelier to see
	Than a newly blossoming early-pear tree,
	And softer than the wool upon a wether.
	And from her belt there hung a purse of leather,
	Tasselled with silk, with brass beads up and down.
	In all the world, if you searched through every town,
	There's no man wise enough to picture in his mind
	So bright a little doll, a wench of such a kind.
	Her colouring shone brighter in its hue
	Than a gold noble at the Tower mint, struck new.
	But as for singing, she was loud and keen
	As any swallow on a barn you've ever seen.
	And she could skip and frolic, like any other
	Young kid or calf that follows its mother.
	Her mouth was sweet as mead and honey-ale together,
	Or a hoard of apples laid in hay or heather.
	She was skittish, like a lively colt,
	Tall as a mast, and straight as a bolt.
	She wore a brooch upon her low collar,
	As broad as is the boss upon a buckler.
	Her shoes were laced around her legs, up high;
	She was a primrose, she was a sweetie-pie
	For any lord to lay down in his bed,
	Or for a decent yeoman, too, to wed.

	Now sir, and sir again, the thing that came to pass
	Was this: one day this handy Nicholas
	Began to romp with this young wife, and play,
	While her husband was gone to Osney for the day,
	As scholars are, all subtle, sly, and never blunt;
	And on the sly he grabbed her by the cunt,
	And said, "Unless I have my way, it's true,
	For secret love, sweetheart, I'll die for you."
	And held her hard by the hip-bones, held her tight,
	And said, "Sweetheart, love me now, at once, outright,
	Or I will die, so help me God's good name!"
	And she jumped like a colt held in the shoeing frame,
	And with her head she twisted fast away,
	And said, "By my faith, I will not kiss you—no way!
	Why, let me be," she said, "let go, Nicholas,
	Or I will scream out "Help!" and "Oh, alas!"
	Take your hands off me—now, be polite!"

	Then Nicholas cried mercy with all his might,
	And spoke so sweetly, pressed his suit so fast,
	That she granted him her love at last,
	And swore her oath, by Saint Thomas of Kent,
	That she would be at his command, and consent
	Whenever she could find a moment free.
	"My husband is so full of jealousy
	That if you're not discreet and wary, I'll be dead;
	I know that very well," the young wife said.
	"You must keep it very secret in this case."

	"Now don't you worry about that," said Nicholas;
	"A scholar would have wasted all his time at school
	If he couldn't make a carpenter look a fool."
	And so the two of them agreed, and swore
	To wait their time, as I have said before.
	When Nicholas had done all this, and sealed the deal,
	And patted her around the loins with zeal,
	He kissed her sweetly, and took up his psaltery,
	And played away, and made his melody.

	Then it so happened that to church, to her parish pew,
	To do the works of Christ, as Christians do,
	This good wife went upon a saint's day, to pray;
	Her forehead shone as bright as any day,
	It was so washed when she had left her work.

	Now there was, at that church, a parish clerk
	And he went by the name of Absolon.
	His hair was curly, and like gold it shone,
	It spread out like a fan, both wide and great;
	His jaunty parting lay quite even and straight.
	His face was red, his eyes grey as a goose;
	With Saint Paul's windows carved into his shoes,
	In red stockings he went most elegantly;
	And he was dressed quite trim and properly,
	All in a tunic of a light blue shade,
	With laces thickly set and finely made.
	And over it he wore a surplice, fine and fit,
	As white as blossom on the branch, every bit.
	He was a merry lad, so may God save
	My soul; he knew how to let blood, and cut hair, and shave,
	And draw up deeds for land, or a release;
	In twenty styles he'd skip and dance with ease,
	The way the Oxford school did it then, and throw
	His legs about, and kick them to and fro,
	And play songs on a little fiddle; and he
	Would sometimes sing a loud, high harmony;
	And he could play as well on his guitar.
	In all the town there wasn't a brewhouse or a bar
	That he didn't visit, to amuse and please,
	If any lively barmaid worked in one of these.
	But, truth to tell, a fart made him a little queasy,
	And he was prim in speech, not loose and easy.

	This Absolon, so jolly and so full of play,
	Goes with the censer on the holy day,
	Censing the parish wives, thick and fast,
	And casting loving looks at them as he passed,
	Especially at this carpenter's wife.
	To look at her, he thought, was a merry life,
	She was so trim and sweet and lecherous.
	I dare say that if she had been a mouse,
	And he a cat, she'd have been caught, and gone.

	This parish clerk, this jolly Absolon,
	Has in his heart such lovesick longing, he
	Takes no wife's offering, refusing every fee;
	Out of courtesy, he said, he wouldn't take a mite.
	The moon was shining very brightly that night,
	And Absolon has picked up his guitar, for the sake
	Of love: he meant to spend the night awake.
	And off he goes, so jolly and amorous,
	Until he came to the carpenter's house
	A little after the cocks had begun to crow,
	And took his stand beside a hinged window
	That was set into the carpenter's wall.
	He sings in his voice so delicate and small,
	"Now, my dear lady, if you will agree,
	I beg you, please, to have pity on me,"
	In tune, exactly, with his guitar's string.
	This carpenter woke up and heard him sing,
	And spoke to his wife at once: "What's going on?
	Alison! Don't you hear that Absolon
	Chanting like this under our bedroom wall?"
	And straight away she answered her husband's call,
	"Yes, God knows, John, I hear it very well."

	So it went on; what more is there to tell?
	From day to day this jolly Absolon
	So woos her that he's miserable, woebegone.
	He stays awake all night and all the day;
	He combed his spreading locks, put on his best array;
	He woos her through go-betweens he pays a wage,
	And swore that he would be her very own page;
	He sings, trilling like a nightingale;
	He sent her spiced wine, mead, and spiced ale,
	And wafers, piping hot out of the glowing brand;
	And since she was from town, he offered cash in hand.
	For some are won by wealth, and some by blows,
	And some by true nobility, as the saying goes.

	Sometimes, to show his nimbleness and mastery,
	He plays Herod on a high stage, for the town to see.
	But what good does it do him, in this pass?
	She is so much in love with handy Nicholas
	That Absolon can whistle for it, all forlorn;
	For all his labour, all he got was scorn;
	And so she turns this Absolon into her ape,
	And all his earnest wooing into a jape.
	This proverb's very true—it's not a lie—
	And people say it this way: "The sly man standing by
	Makes the beloved far away the one you hate."
	For though Absolon may go mad, or be irate,
	Because he was too far away, out of her sight,
	This nearby Nicholas stood in his light.

	Now, play it well, you handy Nicholas!
	For Absolon can wail and sing "Alas!"
	And so it happened, on a Saturday,
	The carpenter had gone to Osney for the day;
	And handy Nicholas and Alison
	Agreed on this, and settled it as one:
	That Nicholas should cook up a scheme, a wile,
	To fool this simple, jealous husband with guile;
	And if the game went off just right,
	She'd sleep there in his arms all night,
	For this was what he wanted, and she did too.
	And right away, without more ado,
	This Nicholas would put things off no more,
	But quietly had carried in through his door
	Both food and drink, for a day, or two days' stay,
	And told her what, to her husband, she should say,
	If he should happen to ask about Nicholas:
	She'd say she didn't know where the young man was,
	She hadn't once laid eyes on him all day;
	She thought some sickness had him, she would say;
	For her maid couldn't rouse him with any call;
	He wouldn't answer, whatever might befall.

	And so it went, all through that Saturday;
	While Nicholas kept quiet in his room, and lay,
	And ate, and slept, and did as he liked best,
	Till Sunday, when the sun went down to rest.

	This simple carpenter was puzzled, and wondered what
	Was wrong with Nicholas, what illness he had got,
	And said, "By Saint Thomas, I'm afraid, alas,
	That something isn't right with Nicholas.
	God forbid that he should suddenly have died!
	This world's a fickle place, it can't be denied;
	Today I saw a corpse brought to the churchyard,
	A man I saw last Monday, working hard.

	"Go up," he told his servant, in a hurried tone;
	"Shout at his door, or knock it with a stone;
	See how he is, and tell me frankly."

	The boy went up the stairs, quite sturdily,
	And at the bedroom door, there where he stood,
	He shouted and he knocked like a madman would:
	"Hey there! What are you doing, Master Nicholas?
	How can you sleep all day, and let it pass?"

	But all for nothing: not a word, not a sound.
	He found a hole, low in a board, near the ground,
	Through which the cat would usually creep;
	And through that hole he looked in, long and deep,
	And in the end he had him in his sight:
	This Nicholas sat gaping, bolt upright,
	As if he'd gazed up at the new moon.
	Down the boy went, and told his master soon
	In what a state he'd found him, in what array.

	The carpenter began to cross himself and pray,
	And said, "Help us, Saint Frideswide!
	A man knows little what his fate will decide.
	This man has fallen, with his astromy,
	Into some madness, or some agony;
	I always knew that it would turn out so!
	God's secrets are a thing men shouldn't know.
	Yes, blessed is the plain, unlearned man
	Who knows nothing but his Creed—that's all he can!
	Another scholar went this way with astromy:
	He walked out in the fields to peer and see
	Up at the stars, to know what would befall,
	Until he fell into a clay pit, after all;
	He didn't see that! But still, by Saint Thomas,
	I'm very sorry for handy Nicholas.
	He'll get a scolding for his studying,
	If I can manage it, by Jesus, heaven's king!

	"Get me a pole, so I can prise it from the floor,
	While you, Robin, heave up on the door.
	He'll come out of his studying, I guess"—
	And faced the bedroom door, and got set to press.
	His boy was a strong fellow, made for jobs like these,
	And by the hasp he heaved it up with ease;
	Down to the floor at once the door was thrown.
	This Nicholas sat on, as still as stone,
	And gaped forever upward into the air.
	This carpenter thought he was in despair,
	And grabbed him by the shoulders, hard and tight,
	And shook him, and cried out with all his might,
	"Hey! Nicholas! Hey, there! Look down here, man!
	Wake up, and think on Christ's Passion, if you can!
	I cross you against elves and evil sprites!"
	Then straight away he said the night-spell's rites
	To the house's four sides, all round about,
	And on the threshold of the door, facing out:
	"Jesus Christ, and Saint Benedict, by your might,
	Bless this house from every wicked sprite,
	Against night-spirits, white pater-noster!
	Where did you go, Saint Peter's sister?"

	And at last this handy Nicholas
	Began to sigh deeply, and said, "Alas!
	Must all the world be lost again, right now?"

	The carpenter replied, "What's that you're saying? How?
	What! Think on God, as we working people think."

	This Nicholas answered, "Bring me a drink;
	And afterwards I'll talk to you, just us two,
	About a certain thing concerning me and you;
	I'll tell it to no other man, that's plain."

	The carpenter goes down, and comes back up again,
	And brought a quart of strong ale up the stair;
	And when each one of them had drunk his share,
	This Nicholas shut his door and locked it tight,
	And sat the carpenter down beside him, out of sight.

	He said, "John, my host, beloved and dear,
	You'll swear to me, upon your honour, here,
	That you won't give away this secret in any way;
	For it is Christ's own secret that I'm going to say;
	And if you tell a soul, then you're done for;
	For this revenge will come to you, therefore:
	That if you give me away, you'll go mad for good!"
	"No! Christ forbid it, by his holy blood!"
	Then said this simple man, "I'm not a blabber;
	Nor, though I say it myself, do I like to jabber.
	Say what you want; I'll never tell,
	Not child or wife, by Him who harrowed hell!"

	"Now, John," said Nicholas, "I won't lie to you;
	I've found, by working my astrology through,
	Looking at the moon when it was shining bright,
	That on next Monday, a quarter into night,
	A rain will fall, so wild and mad, it should
	Be twice as great as even Noah's Flood.
	This world," he said, "in less than an hour
	Will all be drowned, so hideous is the shower;
	So all mankind will drown, and lose their life."

	The carpenter cried out, "Alas, my wife!
	My Alison! Alas! And will she drown?"
	For grief at this he almost tumbled down,
	And he said, "Is there no way out of this impasse?"

	"Why, yes, by God," said handy Nicholas,
	"If you will do as learning and advice have said;
	You mustn't go and act out of your own head.
	For Solomon says this, and he was true:
	'Do all by counsel, and you'll never rue.'
	And if you'll act on good advice, then, without fail,
	I guarantee, without a mast or sail,
	I'll save her yet, and you, and also me.
	Haven't you heard how Noah was saved, how he
	Was warned by our Lord a good while before
	That all the world would drown, and be no more?"

	"Yes," said this carpenter, "long, long ago."

	"And haven't you heard," said Nicholas, "of the woe
	Of Noah and his companions, all their hardship,
	Before he could get his wife on board the ship?
	At that time, I dare swear, he'd have preferred,
	Above all the black wethers in his herd,
	That she had had a ship herself, a separate one.
	And so, do you know what is best to be done?
	This calls for haste; and something that won't wait
	Leaves no room to preach, or hesitate.

	"Go quickly, now, and get us, and bring in
	A kneading-trough, or else a tub or bin,
	For each of us, but see that they are large,
	In which we can float as in a barge,
	And have in them enough food to suffice
	For just one day; the rest, don't think of it twice!
	The water will subside and go away
	About the hour of prime upon the next day.
	But Robin mustn't know of this, your serving knave,
	And Gill, your maid, as well, I cannot save;
	Don't ask me why; for even if you do,
	I won't tell God's secrets, not to you.
	It should be quite enough, unless you're mad,
	To have as great a grace as Noah had.
	I'll save your wife for certain, never doubt;
	Now off you go, and hurry: get it sorted out.

	"But when you have, for her and you and me,
	Got us these kneading-tubs, all three,
	Then you'll hang them up in the roof, up high,
	So that no one may spy what we've laid by.
	And when you've done the things that I've just said,
	And laid our food in them, all neatly spread,
	And an axe, to cut the rope in two, and so
	When the water comes, we'll be ready to go,
	And broken a hole up high, up in the gable,
	Out toward the garden, over the stable,
	So we can freely pass out on our way
	When the great shower has gone away—
	Then you'll float off as merrily—make no mistake—
	As the white duck swimming after her drake.
	Then I will call, 'Hey! Alison! Hey, John!
	Cheer up, the flood will soon be gone!'
	And you will say, 'Hail, Master Nicholas!
	Good morning! I see you well; the night has passed.'
	And then we'll be lords for all our life
	Of all the world, like Noah and his wife.

	"But of one thing I'm warning you outright:
	Take careful note, that on that very night
	When we have gone aboard, let nothing be heard:
	Let none of us speak a single word,
	Nor call, nor cry, but each keep to his prayer;
	For this is God's own dear command: take care.

	"You and your wife must hang far apart—and in
	Such a way that between you there's no sin,
	No more in looking than there is in deed.
	This order's given; go, and God speed!
	Tomorrow night, when everyone's asleep,
	Then into our kneading-tubs we'll creep,
	And sit there, waiting on God's grace.
	Now go your way; I have no time or space
	To make a longer sermon out of this thing.
	People say: 'Send the wise man, and tell him nothing';
	You are so wise, there's no need for me to teach;
	Go, save our lives—that's all that I beseech."

	This simple carpenter goes on his way.
	He keeps on saying "Alas!" and "Woe's the day!"
	And told his secret to his wife; and she
	Was well aware, and knew it better than he,
	What all this cunning plot was meant to imply.
	But still she carried on as if she'd die,
	And said, "Alas! Go on your way, go on,
	Help us escape, or we'll be lost and gone;
	I am your faithful, true, and wedded wife;
	Go, dear husband, and help to save our life."

	Look, what a mighty thing is an emotion!
	A man can die of his imagination,
	So deep is the impression one can take.
	This simple carpenter begins to quake;
	He truly thinks that he can see
	Noah's flood come rolling like the sea
	To drown his Alison, his honey, dear.
	He weeps and wails, and sheds a sorry tear;
	He sighs—a sorry gasping, on and off.
	He goes and gets himself a kneading-trough,
	And after that a tub and a smaller bin,
	And secretly he had them all sent in,
	And hung them in the roof, in secrecy.
	He made three ladders with his own hands, to be
	Climbed by the side-poles, going rung by rung,
	Up to the tubs among the beams where they hung,
	And stocked them up, the trough and tub, all snug,
	With bread and cheese, and good ale in a jug,
	Enough to last them for a day.
	But before he'd set up all this array,
	He sent his servant boy, and his girl too,
	To London, on some errand they had to do.
	And on the Monday, when it drew toward night,
	He shut his door without a candle's light,
	And set up everything as it should be.
	And, to be brief, they climbed up, all three;
	They sat, the time it takes to walk a furlong, dumb.

	Said Nicholas, "Now, pater-noster—mum!"
	And "Mum," said John, and "Mum," said Alison.
	The carpenter began his prayers, one by one,
	And sits there still, and goes on with his prayer,
	Waiting for the rain, to hear it if it's there.

	A deathlike sleep, from weary work and stress,
	Fell on the carpenter right then, I'd guess,
	Around curfew-time, or a little more;
	For his spirit's torment he groans, deep and sore,
	And then he snores, because his head lay wrong.
	Down the ladder Nicholas comes stalking along,
	And Alison came down quietly, and sped;
	Without more words, they went off to bed
	In the bed where the carpenter would usually be;
	There was the revelling, and the melody;
	And so lay Alison and Nicholas,
	Busy with mirth and pleasure, as the hours pass,
	Until the bell for lauds, the dawn prayers, began to ring,
	And friars in the chancel began to sing.

	This parish clerk, this amorous Absolon,
	Who is, for love, always so woebegone,
	On Monday was at Osney, out that way,
	With friends, enjoying himself, at sport and play,
	And chanced to ask a monk, a cloisterer,
	In private, about John the carpenter;
	And the monk drew him aside, out of the church, and so
	Said, "I haven't seen him working here, I don't know,
	Since Saturday; I'd guess that off he went
	For timber, where our abbot had him sent;
	For he goes after timber, as he's used to,
	And stays at the abbey farm a day or two;
	Or else he's certainly at home today;
	Where he may be, I truly cannot say."

	This Absolon was very jolly and light,
	And thought, "Now's the time to stay up all night;
	For I'm sure I haven't seen him stir or stray
	Around his door since the dawning of the day.
	As I hope to thrive, I'll go, when the cocks crow,
	And tap, all secretly, upon his window
	That's set so low into his bedroom wall.
	To Alison, now, I'm going to tell it all,
	My lovesick longing; for I'm not going to miss,
	At the very least, my chance to get a kiss.
	I'll have some kind of comfort, by my faith, today;
	My mouth has itched all this long day;
	That is a sign of kissing, at the least.
	All night I dreamed, too, I was at a feast.
	So I will go and sleep an hour or two,
	And then all night I'll be awake to play and woo."

	When the first cock had crowed, the very first one,
	Up at once gets this jolly lover Absolon,
	And dresses up, all smart, exact, precise.
	But first he chews cardamom and licorice,
	To smell sweet, before he'd combed his hair.
	And under his tongue he kept a true-love leaf, with care,
	For by that charm he thought he'd seem more gracious.
	He strolls off to the carpenter's house,
	And quietly he stands under the hinged window;
	It reached up to his chest, it was so low;
	And gives a gentle little cough, and then goes on:
	"What are you doing, honeycomb, sweet Alison?
	My pretty bird, my cinnamon, sweet as can be,
	Wake up, my darling, and speak to me!
	You think very little of my woe,
	That for your love I sweat wherever I go.
	No wonder that I faint and sweat with heat;
	I mourn the way a lamb mourns for the teat.
	Truly, sweetheart, I have such longing, love,
	I mourn just like a faithful turtle-dove;
	I eat no more than a young maiden, I'm afraid."

	"Get away from the window, you Jack Fool," she said,
	"So help me God, there's no 'Come kiss me' in this game;
	I love another man, or else I'd be to blame,
	Much better than you, by Jesus, Absolon!
	Go on your way, or I'll throw a stone—go on,
	And let me sleep—in twenty devils' names, away!"

	"Alas," said Absolon, "and woe's the day!
	That ever true love was so badly met!
	Then kiss me, since there's nothing better I can get,
	For Jesus' love, and for the love of me."

	"Will you go away then, if I do?" said she.

	"Yes, certainly, darling," said this Absolon.

	"Then get yourself ready," she said; "I'm coming—hold on!"
	And to Nicholas she whispered, very still,
	"Now hush, and you'll get to laugh your fill."

	This Absolon got down upon his knees,
	And said, "I'm a lord now, any way you please;
	For after this, I hope, there will come more!
	Darling, your grace! Sweet bird, your favour, I implore!"

	She unlatches the window, and does it in haste.
	"Get on," she said, "come on, there's no time to waste,
	In case our neighbours spot you, standing by."

	This Absolon began to wipe his mouth quite dry;
	The night was dark as pitch, or as coal,
	And out of the window she stuck her hole,
	And Absolon, as things would come to pass,
	Then with his mouth he kissed her naked arse
	With relish, before he was aware of this.

	He jumped back, and thought something was amiss,
	For well he knew a woman has no beard;
	He'd felt a thing, all rough and long-haired, it appeared,
	And said, "Ugh! Alas! Oh, what did I just do?"

	"Tee-hee!" she said, and slammed the window to;
	And Absolon walks off at a sorry pace.

	"A beard! A beard!" said handy Nicholas,
	"By God's corpus—God's body!—this is going well!"

	This hapless Absolon heard every word that fell,
	And he bit down on his lip, in fury and spite;
	And to himself he said, "I'll pay you back, all right!"

	Who's rubbing now, who's scrubbing now his lips
	With dust, with sand, with straw, with cloth, with chips,
	But Absolon, who keeps on saying, "Alas!
	I'll give my soul up to the Devil, Satanas,
	Unless I'd rather," he said, "than own this town, to be
	Avenged for this insult done to me!
	Alas!" he said. "Alas, why didn't I turn aside?"
	His burning love was cold now, and it died;
	For from the moment that he'd kissed her arse,
	He thought of love affairs as worth less than grass,
	For he'd been cured of his sickness, it was plain;
	He cursed at love affairs again and again,
	And wept the way a child weeps when it's beat.
	Then quietly he went across the street
	Up to a smith, called Master Gerveys,
	Who made plough fittings at his forge, these days;
	He's sharpening ploughshares and coulters busily.
	This Absolon knocks, softly and easily,
	And said, "Open up, Gerveys, at once! Come on!"

	"What? Who are you?" "It's me, Absolon."
	"What, Absolon! By the Cross, Christ's sweet tree,
	Why are you up so early? Ah, benedicite!
	What ails you? Some flashy girl, God knows, has got
	You up like this, and out and on the trot;
	By Saint Neot, you know just what I mean."

	This Absolon didn't care a bean
	For all his joking; he made no answer, none;
	He had more flax on his spindle to be spun
	Than Gerveys knew, and said, "Dear friend, my dear,
	That hot coulter—the plough's blade—in the chimney here,
	Lend it to me; I've got a use for it,
	And I'll bring it back again in a little bit."

	Gerveys replied, "Why, even if it were gold,
	Or a bag of nobles, all of them untold,
	You'd have it, as I'm a smith, and true;
	But, by Christ's foe, what are you going to do?"

	"As for that," said Absolon, "let it be as it may;
	I'll tell you all about it soon—tomorrow, say—"
	And grabbed the coulter by the handle, cold to feel;
	And quietly out of the door he began to steal,
	And went across to the carpenter's wall.
	He coughs first, and then he knocks, and all,
	Upon the window, as he'd done a while ago.

	Then Alison called out, "Who's there? I want to know
	Who's knocking so. A thief, I guarantee."

	"Why, no," he said, "God knows, my sweetheart, my sweet pea,
	I am your Absolon, my darling, my dear thing!
	I've brought you something, gold," he said, "a ring;
	My mother gave it to me, so help me God; it's fine,
	And very delicate, engraved with a design;
	I'll give you this, if you will give a kiss!"

	This Nicholas had got up for a piss,
	And thought he'd top the joke, improve the jape:
	He'd kiss his arse before he could escape.
	And quickly he pushed the window open wide,
	And slyly sticks his arse out, all outside,
	Over the buttock, to the hip-bone;
	And with that spoke the clerk, this Absolon,
	"Speak, sweet bird; I can't tell where you are, sweetheart."

	This Nicholas at once let fly a fart
	As great as any thunderclap could ever be,
	So that with the blast he almost couldn't see;
	And he was ready with his iron, glowing bright,
	And smacked Nicholas mid-arse with all his might.

	Off came the skin, a hand's breadth, all round, wide;
	The hot coulter so burned him on his backside
	That for the pain he thought that he would die.
	Like a madman, in his agony, he gave a cry—
	"Help! Water! Water! Help, for God's heart!"

	The carpenter woke from his sleep with a start,
	And heard someone yelling "Water!" like a madman would,
	And thought, "Alas! Now comes Noel's Flood!"
	He sits up, with no further ado,
	And with his axe he cuts the rope in two,
	And down goes everything; he didn't stop to sell
	His bread or ale, until he hit the sill
	Upon the floor; and there in a faint he lay.

	Up jumped Alison and Nicholas straight away,
	And yelled "Help!" and "Murder!" out in the street.
	The neighbours, all of them, the humble and elite,
	Came running in to gawk at the man,
	Who still lay in a faint, both pale and wan;
	For with the fall he'd broken his arm;
	But he would have to answer for his own harm.
	For when he spoke, they shouted him down, as one—
	Handy Nicholas and Alison.
	They told everyone that he'd gone mad: he stood
	In such a fright, they said, of "Noel's Flood,"
	Through fantasy, that in his foolishness, he
	Had gone and bought himself the kneading-tubs, all three,
	And hung them in the roof, up above;
	And that he'd begged them, for God's love,
	To sit in the roof, par companye, for company.

	The people laughed at his fantasy;
	Up at the roof they stare and gape,
	And turned all his misfortune into a jape.
	For anything this carpenter replied
	Was all for nothing; no one heard his side;
	With great oaths he was so sworn down
	That he was held to be mad throughout the town;
	For every scholar at once sided with the other.
	They said, "The man is mad, my dear brother";
	And everyone laughed at the commotion that ensued.

	And so the carpenter's wife was screwed,
	For all his guard, his jealousy, and all he'd try;
	And Absolon has kissed her nether eye;
	And Nicholas is scalded in the bum.
	This tale is done, and God save all and some!

The Reeve's Prologue

	When everyone had laughed at the foolish pass
	Of Absolon and handy Nicholas,
	Different people had different things to say,
	But for the most part they laughed and joked away;
	And no one, as far as I could perceive,
	Took the tale badly, but Oswald the Reeve,
	Because he was a carpenter by trade.
	A little anger in his heart had stayed;
	He started grumbling, and found fault a bit.

	"So help me," he said, "I could pay you back for it
	By pulling the wool over a proud miller's eye,
	If I cared to tell a tale of ribaldry.
	But I am old; at my age I don't care for sport;
	My grass-time's done; my fodder's the dry sort;
	This white top writes the number of my years;
	My heart is just as mouldy as my hair appears,
	Unless I'm like the medlar, the open-arse:
	That fruit gets worse and worse as the days pass,
	Till it lies rotten in the rubbish or the hay.
	We old men, I'm afraid, go just that way:
	Till we are rotten, we can never be ripe;
	We go on hopping while the world will pipe.
	For always in our will there sticks a nail,
	To have a white head and a green tail,
	Like a leek; for though our strength is gone,
	Our will keeps wanting folly, on and on.
	For when we can't do it, we talk about it;
	And in our old ashes there's a fire still lit.

	"We have four live coals, as I'll explain:
	Boasting, lying, anger, and greed for gain.
	These four sparks belong to old age, all four.
	Our old limbs may be feeble, strong no more,
	But will won't fail us, and that's the truth.
	And yet I've always kept a colt's tooth,
	For all the years that are gone and done
	Since first my tap of life began to run.
	For certainly, the moment I was born, Death drew
	The tap of life, and let the stream run through;
	And ever since, the tap has run that way,
	Until the cask is nearly dry today.
	Life's stream drips on the barrel's rim, the chime;
	The poor old tongue can ring away and chime
	Of miseries that passed long years before;
	With old folk, there's nothing but dotage any more."

	When our Host had heard him preach this sort of thing,
	He started speaking as lordly as a king.
	He said, "What does it all add up to, all this wit?
	Why should we talk all day of Holy Writ?
	The devil makes a reeve preach, just as he can
	Make a cobbler a sailor or a medical man.
	Tell us your tale, and don't waste any time:
	Look, Deptford! and it's half-way through prime.
	Look, Greenwich, with many a rascal living in!
	It's high time now your story should begin."

	"Now, sirs," said Oswald the Reeve, "I pray
	You all, don't take offence at what I say
	If I answer back and make him look a fool;
	To meet force with force is lawful, as a rule.

	"This drunken Miller's told us all, and made
	A tale of a carpenter, fooled and betrayed,
	Perhaps to scorn me, since I'm one too;
	And, by your leave, I'll pay him now what he's due.
	I'll talk his language, the way that churl spoke;
	I pray to God the fellow's neck gets broke.
	He'll spot a speck of straw in my eye, all right,
	But in his own, a beam is out of sight."

The Reeve's Tale

	At Trumpington, not very far from Cambridge,
	There runs a brook, and over it a bridge,
	And on that brook there stands a mill as well;
	And this is the plain truth I'm here to tell.
	A miller had lived there for many a day,
	As proud and showy as a peacock on display.
	He could play the pipes, and fish, and mend nets too,
	And turn cups on a lathe, and wrestle and shoot true;
	He had a long cutlass at his belt, and the blade
	Of his sword was as sharp as any made.
	He had a pretty dagger in his purse;
	No man dared touch him, for fear of worse.
	He had a Sheffield knife tucked in his hose;
	His face was round, and he had a snub nose.
	His skull was bald as an ape's, and bare;
	He swaggered round the markets everywhere.
	No man dared lay a finger on him—he'd swear
	That they would pay for it then and there.
	He was a thief of corn, in fact, and meal,
	And a sly one, with long practice how to steal.
	He went by the name of scornful Simkin.
	He had a wife who came of noble kin;
	Her father was the parson of the town,
	And with her many a brass pan was paid down,
	To make Simkin a member of his family.
	She had been brought up in a nunnery;
	For Simkin wouldn't have a wife, he said,
	Unless she was a virgin, and well bred,
	To keep his standing as a yeoman high.
	And she was proud, and pert as any magpie.
	The two of them made a very handsome show:
	On holy days, ahead of her, he'd go
	With the tail of his hood wound round his head,
	And she came after, in a gown of red;
	And Simkin had stockings of the same.
	No one dared call her anything but "Dame."
	No one who passed her on the public way
	Would dare to flirt with her, or once make play,
	Unless he wanted to be killed by Simkin
	With cutlass, or with knife, or bodkin.
	For jealous men are dangerous through and through—
	At least they'd like their wives to think it true.
	And also, since her pedigree had a hitch,
	She was as haughty as the water in a ditch,
	And full of scorn, and of contempt, and sneers.
	She thought that ladies ought to count her among their peers,
	What with her family, and the breeding she
	Had learned while she was in the nunnery.

	Between them they had a daughter, a grown one,
	Of twenty, and no other daughter or son,
	Except a baby boy, just six months of age,
	Who lay in a cradle, a proper little page.
	This girl was sturdy and well grown, a lass
	With a snub nose and eyes as grey as glass,
	With broad buttocks, and breasts round and high,
	But her hair was very lovely, I won't lie.

	The parson of the town, because she was fair,
	Had it in mind to make her his heir
	Of both his goods and his estate, his heritage,
	And he was hard to please about her marriage.
	He meant to marry her high, and place her in
	Some distinguished blood, of ancient kin;
	For Holy Church's goods must be expended
	On Holy Church's blood, on those descended.
	And so he meant to give his holy blood its due,
	Though he devoured holy Church to see it through.

	This miller had a monopoly, no doubt,
	Of wheat and malt from all the land about;
	And most of all there was a great college,
	The one they call the Soler Hall, at Cambridge;
	There all their wheat and malt as well was ground.
	And it so happened, as the time came round,
	That the manciple was lying sick in bed;
	Men thought for certain he'd soon be dead.
	Because of which this miller stole their meal and wheat
	A hundred times more than he used to cheat;
	For up till then he'd stolen courteously,
	But now he was a thief, and outrageously;
	At which the Warden scolded, and made a scene;
	But the miller didn't care a bean.
	He blustered and he boasted, swore it wasn't true.

	Then there were two poor scholars, young ones, who
	Lived in the hall I'm speaking of; and they
	Were headstrong, and full of life, and keen to play,
	And only for the fun of it, the jest,
	They pestered the Warden, and gave him no rest,
	To give them leave, for a short time, to go round
	To the mill, and see their corn get ground;
	And they'd bet anything, they'd stake their neck,
	The miller couldn't steal from them half a peck
	Of corn by trick or force, so they believe;
	And in the end the Warden gave them leave.
	One was called John, and Aleyn was the other;
	They were born in one town, by the name of Strother,
	Far in the north; I can't tell you where.

	This Aleyn gets his gear all ready, with care,
	And slings the sack across a horse; and on
	Their way go Aleyn the scholar and John,
	With a good sword and a buckler by their side.
	John knew the way; they didn't need a guide;
	And at the mill he sets the sack down near;
	Aleyn speaks first: "Hail, Simon, in faith! What cheer?
	How fares your bonny daughter, and your wife?"

	"Aleyn! Welcome," said Simkin, "on my life,
	And John as well! Well now, what brings you here?"

	"Simon," said John, "by God, need has nae peer;
	A man wi' nae servant mun serve himsel',
	Or else he is a fool, as scholars tell.
	Our manciple, I reckon he'll be dead,
	Sae aye they ache, the back teeth in his head.
	And sae I is come, and Aleyn, baith the twa,
	To grind our corn and carry it hame awa'.
	Please help us off fra here as fast's you may."

	"You'll have it," said Simkin, "faith, without delay.
	What will you do while it's in hand?"

	"By God, right by the hopper's where I'll stand,"
	Said John, "and see how the corn gans in;
	I never yet saw, by my father's kin,
	How the hopper gans a-waggling to and fro."

	Aleyn answered, "John, if you'll do so,
	Then I sall be underneath, by my crown,
	And see how the meal gans falling down
	Into the trough; that sall be my sport.
	For, John, in faith, I is the same sort:
	I is nae better miller, John, than you."

	The miller smiled at the foolishness of the two,
	And thought, "All this is only done as a trick;
	They think nobody can fool them, they're so quick;
	But I'll throw dust in their eyes, as I hope to thrive,
	For all their clever logic can contrive.
	The trickier the dodges that they make,
	The more I'll steal when I come to take.
	Instead of flour, they'll get bran from me, and then—
	'The greatest scholars aren't the wisest men,'
	As in the tale the wolf was told by the mare;
	For all their art I wouldn't give a tare."

	Out of the door he slips, and furtively,
	As soon as he sees his chance, and quietly;
	He looks up and down until he's found
	The students' horse, where it was tied and bound
	Behind the mill, in a leafy arbour's shade;
	And goes up to the horse, all calm and staid;
	He pulls the bridle off at once; and so,
	The horse, when it was loose, began to go
	Toward the fen where wild mares run, and in
	He goes with a "wee-hee!", through thick and thin.

	The miller goes back; not one word was said;
	He does his work, and jokes with them instead,
	Till their corn was nicely, finely ground.
	And when the meal is sacked and tied and bound,
	This John goes out, finds that his horse has gone away,
	And starts to shout out "Help!" and "Alas the day!
	Our horse is lost! Aleyn, by God's banes, man,
	Get on your feet, come out as fast's you can!
	Alas, the Warden's palfrey's lost, forlorn!"
	This Aleyn forgot it all, both meal and corn;
	Clean out of his mind went all his husbandry.
	"What? Which way's he gan?" he starts to cry.

	The wife came running in, leaping, and then
	She said, "Alas! Your horse is off to the fen
	With wild mares, as fast as he can go.
	Curse on the hand that tied him up so,
	And on him who should have tied a better rein!"

	"Alas," said John, "Aleyn, for Christ's pain,
	Lay down your sword, and I sall lay mine down also;
	I is as quick, God knaws, as any roe;
	By God's heart, he'll nae get past us baith, the beast!
	Why'd you nae pit the nag in the barn, at least?
	Bad luck to you, by God, Aleyn—you is a daft one!"

	These hapless students have set off at a run
	Toward the fen, both Aleyn and John.

	And when the miller saw that they were gone,
	He takes half a bushel of their flour, and he'll make
	His wife go knead it up into a cake.
	He said, "I think it's just what those students feared;
	But a miller can still make a scholar's beard,
	For all his learning. Now let them go their way.
	Look where they go! Yes, let the children play.
	They won't catch him so easily, by my crown!"

	These hapless students run up and down
	With "Stop! Stop! Stand, stand! Down here! Watch the rear!
	Gan you and whistle, and I'll keep him here!"
	But, in short, until it was full night,
	They couldn't, though they tried with all their might,
	Catch their nag, he always ran so fast,
	Till in a ditch they caught him at last.

	Weary and wet, like a beast out in the rain,
	Comes poor John, and with him comes Aleyn.
	"Alas," said John, "the day that I was born!
	Now we is driven to mockery and scorn.
	Our corn's been stolen; we'll be called fools by all,
	Baith the Warden and our fellows in the hall,
	And most of all the miller. Alas the day!"

	So John complains as he goes along the way
	Toward the mill, leading Bayard the horse; he came
	And found the miller sitting by the flame,
	For it was night, and they could go no more;
	But, for the love of God, they begged him for
	Lodging and comfort, paying with their penny.

	The miller answered, "If there's any,
	Such as it is, you'll still get your part.
	My house is narrow; but you've learned your art;
	You can, by argument, make a place
	A mile wide out of twenty feet of space.
	Let's see if this place will be enough for you,
	Or talk it roomy, as you scholars do."

	"Now, Simon," said John, "by Saint Cuthbert,
	You is aye merry, and that's fairly answered.
	I's heard it said a man mun tak, of twa things,
	Sic as he finds, or tak sic as he brings.
	But most of all, dear host, I'll ask you here:
	Get us some food and drink, and some good cheer,
	And we'll pay honest, and pay you the whole sum;
	Wi' empty hand men lure nae hawks to come.
	Look, here's our silver, ready to be spent."

	The miller sent his daughter; off she went
	To town for ale and bread; he roasted them a goose,
	And tied their horse, so it would not get loose;
	And in his own bedroom he made them a bed,
	With sheets and blankets nicely spread,
	Not more than ten or twelve feet from his own.
	His daughter had a bed to herself alone,
	Right in the very same room, close by.
	It couldn't be better, and the reason why:
	There was no roomier lodging in that place.
	They eat, and talk, and cheer up, face to face,
	And all the while drink strong ale of the best.
	About midnight they went off to rest.

	This miller has well varnished his head;
	He was pale with drink, and not at all red.
	He hiccups, and he's talking through his nose
	As though he had a croaky throat, or a cold that shows.
	Off to bed he goes, and with him goes his wife;
	She was as perky as a jay, and full of life,
	Her merry whistle had been well and truly wet.
	The cradle's at the foot of her bed, set
	To rock it, and to nurse the baby too.
	And when the jug was emptied of its brew,
	The daughter went to bed at once; upon
	Their bed lie Aleyn and his fellow John;
	That was all; they didn't need a potion to sleep.
	This miller had been drinking ale so deep
	That in his sleep he's snorting like a horse,
	And never heeds his tail behind, which takes its course.
	His wife sang the bass part to him, loud and strong;
	You'd hear her snoring from two furlongs along;
	The wench is snoring too, par companye.

	Aleyn the student, who heard this melody,
	Poked John, and said, "Is you asleep?
	Did you ever hear sic a sang afore, sae deep?
	Listen to the compline, the night prayers, fra them all!
	Wildfire on their bodies—may it fall!
	Wha ever heard sic a strange, sic a weird thing?
	Aye, they'll have the very flower of an ill ending.
	This lang night there comes to me nae rest;
	But still, nae matter; all will be for the best.
	John," he said, "as I hope to thrive, here's what I'll do:
	If I can, that lass there is the ane I'll screw.
	The law has shaped some remedy for us;
	For, John, there is a law that says it thus:
	That gif a man in ae point is aggrieved,
	Then in anither he sall be relieved.
	Our corn is stolen—short, there's nae man can say
	It's not—and we've had an ill fit all this day.
	And since I'll get nae damages, nae payment,
	For my loss I's going to have some easement.
	By God's saul, it'll be nae other way!"

	This John answered, "Aleyn, tak care, I pray;
	The miller is a dangerous man," he said,
	"And if he starts awake there in his bed,
	He might do baith of us some harm, aye."

	Aleyn answered, "I count him not a fly,"
	And up he gets, and to the girl he crept.
	The girl lay on her back, and soundly slept,
	Till he was so close, before she could spy,
	That it would have been too late to cry,
	And, to be brief, the two of them were joined. Play on,
	Aleyn! For now it's time to speak of John.

	This John lies still for a few minutes or so,
	And grumbles to himself in grief and woe:
	"Alas!" he said, "this is a wicked jape;
	Now I can say that I is just an ape.
	Yet my mate's got summat for his harm:
	He has the miller's daughter in his arm.
	He took his chance, and he's got on ahead,
	And I lie like a sack of bran in my bed;
	And when this joke is tald another day,
	I'll be held a daft one, a milksop, they'll say!
	I'll up and chance it, by my faith, I will!
	'Nae daring, nae luck,' as men says still."
	And up he got, and quietly he went
	To the cradle; and to pick it up he bent,
	And softly carried it to his bed's foot, where it sat.

	Soon after this the wife's snoring stopped flat;
	She woke up, and went outside to have a piss,
	And came back in, and found the cradle amiss,
	And groped around, but couldn't find it anywhere.
	"Alas!" she said, "I nearly went astray back there;
	I almost went into the student's bed.
	Ah, benedicite! What a mess!" she said,
	And on she goes, until the cradle's found.
	She keeps on groping further, feeling round,
	And found the bed, and thought nothing but good,
	Because the cradle stood by it, as it should,
	And didn't know where she was, for it was dark;
	But nicely, quietly, she crept in with the clerk,
	And lay quite still, and would have dropped off to sleep.
	And soon this John the scholar's up, with a leap,
	And he's at this good wife, and lays on hard and sore;
	She hadn't had so merry a bout for years before;
	He thrusts hard and deep, as if he were mad.
	This jolly life is what these scholars had
	Until the third cock started up to sing.

	Aleyn grew weary in the dawning,
	For he had toiled away the whole long night;
	And said, "Fare weel, Malin, my sweet delight!
	The day is come; I can nae langer bide;
	But always, wherever I may walk or ride,
	I is your awn scholar, and sae may all go well!"

	"Now, dear sweetheart," she said, "go, and farewell!
	But before you go, there's one thing I'll tell you, then:
	When you go homeward past the mill again,
	Just at the entrance of the back door, behind,
	There is a half-bushel cake that you will find
	That was baked from your very own meal,
	Which I helped my father to steal.
	And, sweetheart, God protect you, save and keep!"
	And at that word she almost began to weep.

	Aleyn gets up, and thinks, "It's getting late—
	Before it's dawn, I'll creep in by my mate,"
	And with his hand he found the cradle, right there.
	"By God," he thought, "I's gane all wrang somewhere;
	My head's all dizzy wi' my work tonight;
	It's that that makes me nae gan right.
	I can tell by the cradle I's gane wrang—and so,
	Here lies the miller, and his wife also."
	And off he goes, with twenty devils, on his way
	To the bed in which the miller lay.
	He thought he'd crept in by his mate, John;
	Instead, in by the miller he had gone,
	And grabbed him by the neck, and in a whisper said,
	"Hey, you! John! Wake up, you swine's head,
	For Christ's saul, and hear a noble game!
	For by that lord that's called Saint James by name,
	As I has, three times in this short night, laid
	The miller's daughter flat, and screwed the maid,
	While you lay there, a coward, cringing, cowed."

	"Have you, you false rogue?" the miller cried aloud.
	"Ah! False traitor! False scholar!" said he,
	"You'll die for this, by God's dignity!
	Who dared to be so bold as to disparage
	My daughter, who comes of such lineage?"
	And by the Adam's apple he caught Aleyn,
	And Aleyn grabbed him savagely again,
	And with his fist he hit him on the nose,
	And down his chest the bloody stream flows;
	And on the floor, with nose and mouth all broke,
	They wallow like two pigs inside a poke;
	And up they go, and down again, they're thrown,
	Until the miller tripped over a stone,
	And down he fell backward upon his wife,
	Who knew nothing of this foolish strife;
	For she'd just dropped off, a bit before it was light,
	With John the scholar, who'd been awake all night.
	And with the fall she jolted awake in her bed—
	"Help, holy cross of Bromholm!" she said,
	"In manus tuas—into your hands, Lord, I call!
	Wake up, Simon! The devil's fallen on us all!
	My heart is broken! Help! I'm as good as dead!
	There's someone lying on my belly and my head!
	Help, Simkin, for these lying scholars fight!"

	This John jumped up as fast as he might,
	And gropes along the walls, both to and fro,
	To find a staff; and she jumped up also,
	And knew her way about much better than John,
	And found a staff by the wall, which she laid hands on,
	And saw a little shimmering of light,
	For through a hole the moon was shining bright;
	And by that light she saw them, both the two,
	But she didn't know for certain who was who,
	Except she glimpsed a white thing with her eye;
	And when she saw this white thing, there, nearby,
	She thought the scholar had a nightcap on his head,
	And with the staff she crept up closer to the bed,
	And thought she'd hit this Aleyn with all she'd got,
	And hit the miller right on his bald spot,
	So down he goes, and cries, "Help! I die!"
	These scholars beat him well and let him lie,
	And dress themselves, and get their horse; and John
	And Aleyn take their meal, and off they've gone.
	And at the mill they also took their cake
	Of half a bushel of flour, a good bake.

	And so the proud miller ends up soundly beat,
	And has lost his fee for grinding the wheat,
	And paid for every scrap of supper, the whole meal,
	Of Aleyn and of John, who beat him with zeal.
	His wife's been screwed, his daughter too—the pair!
	See what comes of a miller who's not square!
	And therefore this proverb's well said, and true:
	"Expect no good, if evil's what you do;
	A trickster will himself be tricked." And He,
	Our God, who sits on high in majesty,
	Save all this company, both great and small!
	With my tale I've paid the Miller back for all.

The Cook's Prologue

	The Cook of London, while the Reeve still spoke,
	For joy, it seemed, gave the Reeve's back a stroke.
	"Ha! Ha!" he said, "by Christ's Passion,
	This miller got a sharp conclusion
	On his argument about where guests should stay!
	Solomon said it well, in his own way:
	'Don't take in every man at your gate';
	For it's dangerous to lodge people when it's late.
	A man should be well advised and careful, then,
	Whom he brings into his private den.
	I pray to God—may he give me grief and care—
	If ever, since I've been called Hodge of Ware,
	I heard of a miller better set to work.
	He had a spiteful joke played in the murk.
	But God forbid that we should stop here;
	And so, if you'll consent to hear
	A tale from me, who am a poor man,
	I'll tell you one as well as ever I can,
	A little joke that happened in London town."

	Our Host replied, "Agreed; I'll not turn you down.
	Now tell on, Roger; see it's not a dud;
	For many a pie you've drained of its blood,
	And many a jack of Dover you have sold
	That's been twice hot and twice gone cold.
	Many a pilgrim has given you Christ's curse,
	For your parsley still leaves them feeling worse,
	Which they have eaten with your stubble-goose;
	For in your shop there's many a fly let loose.
	Now tell on, noble Roger, by your name.
	But still, I beg you, don't get cross at a game;
	A man can tell the truth in fun and play."

	"You're right," said Roger, "faith, it's as you say;
	But 'True jest, bad jest,' as the Flemings declare;
	And so, Harry Bailly, by your faith, take care:
	Don't you be angry, before we part from here,
	If my tale should be about an innkeeper.
	But all the same, I won't tell it yet;
	But before we part, I'll certainly settle the debt."
	And with that he laughed and was full of cheer,
	And told his tale, as you shall now hear.

The Cook's Tale

	There lived in our city once an apprentice lad,
	And victualling, the food trade, was the craft he had;
	He was as frisky as a goldfinch in the trees,
	As brown as a berry, short, and smart as you please,
	With black curls combed out handsomely and neat;
	He could dance so well, so merry on his feet,
	That he was known as Perkin Reveller.
	He was as full of love—and quite the lover—
	As a hive is full of honey, sweet;
	A lucky girl was any he might meet.
	At every wedding he would sing and hop;
	He loved the tavern better than the shop.

	For whenever a procession rode down Cheapside,
	Out of the shop he'd leap, to the street outside,
	Until he'd seen the whole show, and then
	Danced his fill, he wouldn't come back again.
	And he gathered a gang of his own sort
	To hop and sing and have that kind of sport;
	And there they'd set a time to meet
	To play at dice in such and such a street.
	For in that town no apprentice anywhere
	Could throw a pair of dice with greater flair
	Than Perkin could; and he was free in what he spent,
	In private, out of sight, where his money went.
	His master found that out well, in his trade and ware;
	For often he would find his cash-box bare.
	For certainly a revelling apprentice, who
	Goes in for dice, wild nights, and love affairs too,
	His master's the one who pays for it, in his shop,
	Though he had no part in the music or the hop;
	For theft and riot interchange—that's no riddle—
	However well he plays the gittern or the fiddle.
	Revelry and honesty, in a low degree,
	Are always at odds, as anyone can see.

	This jolly apprentice stayed, through all his adventures,
	With his master, till nearly out of his indentures,
	Though he was told off both early and late,
	And sometimes marched with music off to Newgate;
	But in the end his master gave it thought
	One day, when his account book had been brought,
	Of a proverb that says just this, and nothing more:
	"Far better a rotten apple out of the store
	Than that it rot the rest, the whole amount."
	It's the same with a riotous servant, on that count:
	It's much less harm to send him on his way
	Than have him spoil the other servants who stay.
	So his master gave him his release, and let him go,
	And told him to clear off, with bad luck and woe;
	And so this jolly apprentice got his leave.
	Now let him riot all night long, or leave.

	And since no thief's without a friend to lend
	A hand to help him waste, suck dry, and spend
	Whatever he can cadge or borrow any way,
	At once he sent his bed and his array
	To a crony of his own sort,
	Who loved dice and revels and sport,
	And had a wife who kept a shop for the look
	Of the thing, and screwed for the money she took.

Introduction to the Man of Law's Prologue

	Our Host could see the bright sun had begun
	Its arc across the artificial day, and run
	A quarter of it, half an hour, and more;
	And though he wasn't deeply versed in lore,
	He knew that this was the eighteenth day
	Of April, the month that's messenger to May;
	And he could see the shadow of each tree
	Was, in its length, the very same quantity
	As the upright body that was casting it.
	And so, from the shadow, he worked out by his wit
	That Phoebus, who was shining clear and bright,
	Had climbed five and forty degrees in height;
	And for that day, and in that latitude,
	It was ten o'clock, he went on to conclude,
	And suddenly he pulled his horse about.

	"Gentlemen," he said, "I warn you all: look out!
	A quarter of the day is already gone;
	Now, for the love of God and of Saint John,
	Lose no more time, or as little as you may.
	Gentlemen, time is wasting, night and day,
	And steals from us, in secret, while we're sleeping,
	And through neglect, awake, slips from our keeping,
	As does the stream that never turns again,
	Descending from the mountain to the plain.
	Seneca, and many a philosopher of old,
	Mourned time more than a coffer full of gold.
	'For loss of property can be recovered,' he
	Says, 'but the loss of time destroys us utterly.'
	It won't come back again, once it has fled,
	No more than will Malkin's maidenhead
	When she has lost it in her wantonness;
	Let's not grow mouldy here in idleness.
	Sir Man of Law," he said, "as you hope for bliss,
	Tell us a tale at once; we agreed to this.
	You've freely given your consent to be
	Bound in this case to stand by my decree.
	Acquit yourself, and keep the promise you made,
	And then at least your duty will be paid."

	"Host," he said, "depardieux, by God, I consent;
	To break an agreement isn't my intent.
	A promise is a debt, and I'm glad to pay
	All that I've promised; that's all I can say.
	For whatever law a man gives others to obey,
	He ought, by rights, to keep himself the same way;
	So says our text. But still, I am aware
	I have no worthwhile tale right now to share.
	But Chaucer, though he has an unschooled man's skill
	In metre and in crafty rhyming, still
	Has told them, in such English as he can,
	Long since, as is well known to many a man.
	And if he hasn't told them, my dear brother,
	In one book, he has told them in another.
	For up and down he's told of lovers, more
	Than Ovid ever mentioned long before
	In his Epistles, which are very old.
	Why should I tell them, since they've all been told?
	Of Ceyx and Alcyone, when young, he wrote,
	And since then he has told of all of note,
	These noble wives, and all these lovers too.
	Whoever wants to look his big book through,
	Called Cupid's Legend of the Saints, inside
	Will find the great wounds, gaping deep and wide,
	Of Lucrece, and of Thisbe of Babylon;
	The sword of Dido, when false Aeneas was gone;
	The tree where Phyllis hanged for Demophon;
	The laments of Deianira and Hermione, and on
	To those of Ariadne and Hypsipyle;
	The barren island standing in the sea;
	Leander, drowned for his Hero; also
	The tears of Helen, and the grief and woe
	Of Briseis, and of you, Laodamia;
	The cruelty of you, Queen Medea,
	Your little children hanging by the neck, all due
	To your Jason, who in love was so untrue!
	O Hypermnestra, Penelope, Alcestis! He
	Commends your wifehood with the best, all three!

	"But certainly he never writes, not he,
	A word about that wicked case of Canacee,
	Who loved her own brother in sin; and I
	On such accursed stories cry out, 'Fie!'
	Or of the tale of Tyrian Apollonius,
	How that accursed king, Antiochus,
	Robbed his own daughter of her maidenhead,
	A tale that is so horrible to read,
	When he flung her down upon the pavement floor.
	So he, having thought it over well before,
	Would never write, in any of his sermons,
	Of such unnatural abominations;
	Nor will I tell one, if I can find a way.

	"But what am I to do about my tale today?
	I'd hate it, frankly, to be likened to these,
	The Muses that men call the Pierides—
	Metamorphoseos knows just what I mean—
	But all the same, I couldn't care a bean
	Though I come after him with plain food, haw-bake;
	I speak in prose, and leave the rhymes for him to make."
	And with that word he, with a serious face,
	Began his tale, which follows in its place.

The Man of Law's Prologue

	O hateful harm, condition of poverty!
	By thirst, by cold, by hunger so distressed!
	To ask for help shames you inwardly;
	If you ask none, need wounds you, so hard-pressed
	That very need lays bare your hidden wound, undressed!
	Like it or not, your poverty makes you choose
	To steal, or beg, or borrow what you use!

	You blame Christ, and you say, most bitterly,
	He lets the riches of this world unfairly fall;
	You blame your neighbour too, and sinfully,
	And say he has it all, and your share's small.
	"My word," you say, "some day he'll pay for all,
	When his tail burns in the coals, since he pays no heed
	And never helps the needy in their need."

	Listen to what the wise men have decreed:
	"Better to die than suffer indigence";
	"Your neighbour will despise you in your need";
	If you are poor, farewell to deference!
	And take this further saying, full of sense:
	"All the days of poor men are days of woe";
	Beware, then, before you come so low!

	"If you are poor, even your brother hates you,
	And all your friends, alas, will flee your face!"
	O you rich merchants, wealthy through and through,
	O noble, prudent people, in this case!
	Your bags aren't filled with ambes as, the double ace,
	But with sis cink, six-five, the winning chance;
	At Christmas you can merrily dance!

	You seek through land and sea for what you earn;
	As wise men, you know all about the state
	Of kingdoms; you're the fathers, from whom we learn
	Our news and tales, of peace and of debate.
	I'd be right now, for tales, quite desolate,
	Had not a merchant, many a long year
	Ago, taught me a tale, which you shall hear.

The Man of Law's Tale

	In Syria there once lived a company
	Of merchants, rich, and steadfast too, and true,
	Who sent out far and wide their spicery,
	Cloth of gold, and satins rich in hue;
	Their merchandise was so good, and so new,
	That everyone took pleasure in their trade
	With them, and selling them the things they made.

	Now it so happened that the masters of that band
	Resolved to go to Rome; and, to that end,
	Whether on business or for pleasure planned,
	They would not trust a messenger to send,
	But came to Rome themselves; and there's an end;
	And, in such lodgings as would suit them best
	For their affairs, they settled down to rest.

	These merchants stayed a certain time in town,
	As long as they were pleased to; and by chance
	It happened that the excellent renown
	Of the Emperor's daughter, lady Constance,
	Was told in full, with every circumstance,
	To these same Syrian merchants, in such a way,
	From day to day, as I am going to say.

	This was the common talk of every man:
	"Our Emperor of Rome—God guard His Majesty!—
	Has a daughter who, since the world began,
	Counting her goodness as well as her beauty,
	There's never been another such as she.
	God keep her honoured, as she's always been,
	And wish that she were all of Europe's queen.

	"In her is lofty beauty, without pride,
	Youth without greenness, and from folly free;
	In all her works her virtue is her guide;
	Humility in her has slain all tyranny;
	She is the mirror of all courtesy;
	Her heart, a true chamber of holiness,
	Her hand, the minister of her largesse."

	And all this talk was true, as God is true.
	But now let's turn back to our theme again.
	These merchants freighted all their ships anew,
	And, when they'd seen this blessed maiden, then
	Went happily home to Syria, these men,
	And did their business as they'd done before,
	And lived in comfort; I can't tell you more.

	Now these same merchants, as it happened, stood
	In favour with the Sultan, Syria's lord;
	For when they came from foreign parts, he would,
	Out of his gracious courtesy, spread his board
	For them, and question them on lands abroad,
	On sundry kingdoms, for he longed to hear
	The wonders that had met their eye and ear.

	Among the other things they talked of, they
	Told him of Constance, praising earnestly,
	And in full detail, her nobleness, in such a way
	That the Sultan took such pleasure inwardly
	In keeping her image in his memory
	That all he longed for, all he cared about,
	Was loving her, as long as his life held out.

	Perhaps, in that great book above the earth
	That people call the heavens, there it was,
	Written in stars, when he first came to birth,
	That he would die for love of her, alas!
	For in the stars, which are clearer than glass,
	Is written, God knows, for anyone who can read,
	The death of every man, beyond all doubt decreed.

	In stars, for many a winter long before,
	Was written the death of Hector, of Achilles,
	Of Pompey, Julius, before their birth; the war
	Of Thebes; and the deaths of Hercules,
	Of Samson, Turnus, and of Socrates;
	But people's wits are all so dull and slow
	That no one can read it all, or fully know.

	This Sultan sent for his privy council then,
	And—to hurry over this part of the case—
	Declared his purpose, and he told the men
	For certain that, "unless he had the grace
	To have Constance, and that in a little space,
	He was a dead man"; and he bade them try
	To find him, fast, some cure, or he would die.

	Different men had different things to say;
	They argued, cast about, in long discussion;
	And many subtle reasons came into play;
	They talked of magic, and of fraud and illusion;
	But finally, when they came to their conclusion,
	They saw no help in that of any kind,
	Nor any other way, save marriage, they could find.

	But then they saw in it such difficulty,
	By reasoning, to tell it to you plain,
	Because there was so great a diversity
	Between their faiths that, as they all maintain,
	"No Christian prince would gladly entertain
	A match for his child under the sweet laws we hold,
	Taught us by our prophet Muhammad of old."

	And he replied, "Rather than ever lose
	Constance, I'll be baptised, beyond a doubt;
	I must be hers; there's no other I can choose.
	I beg you, let your arguments die out;
	Save my life, and don't be slack; go set about
	Winning her who has my life in her care;
	For I can't long endure this woe I bear."

	What need is there for me to amplify?
	By treaties, then, and by an embassy,
	And with the Pope's good offices, and by
	The whole Church, and the whole of chivalry,
	To wipe out Muhammad's worship utterly,
	And for the spreading of Christ's law so dear,
	They came to an agreement, as you'll hear:

	That the Sultan, with his barons, and his own
	Subjects, should all be christened; and that he
	Should marry Constance, with a fixed and known
	Amount of gold (I don't know the quantity);
	And ample sureties were found to guarantee
	The pact; and it was sworn to on either side.
	Now, fair Constance, almighty God be your guide!

	Now some, I guess, might be expecting me
	To tell of all the preparations planned
	By the Emperor, out of his great nobility,
	For his daughter Constance. You can understand
	That preparations quite so vast and grand,
	Arrayed as they were for so high a cause,
	Can't be recounted in a little clause.

	Bishops are chosen to go with her, to attend,
	And lords, and ladies, knights of high renown,
	And plenty of other people; there's an end.
	And it's proclaimed throughout the town
	That everyone, in great devotion, up and down,
	Should pray to Christ that he will take this marriage
	In good part, and give good speed to this voyage.

	The day has come for her to go away;
	I mean, the fatal, woeful day has come,
	So that there can be no more delay,
	And they make ready to set off, all and some;
	Constance, with sorrow wholly overcome,
	Rises, all pale, and gets ready to go,
	For well she sees that it must all be so.

	Alas! what wonder is it if she wept,
	Who's to be sent off to a land unknown,
	From friends by whom she'd been so tenderly kept,
	And bound to be subjected, as his own,
	To one whose character she's never known?
	Husbands are all good, and always were before,
	As wives know well; I daren't say any more.

	"Father," she said, "your Constance in distress,
	Your young daughter, raised so tenderly,
	And you, my mother, my supreme happiness
	Above all things, save Christ in majesty,
	Your Constance commends herself, repeatedly,
	To your grace; for I'm bound for Syria, and I
	Will never see you any more with my own eye.

	"Alas, it's to the barbarous people, then,
	That I must go at once, as you desire;
	But Christ, who died for the redemption of men,
	Grant me the grace to do what he'll require;
	I, wretched woman—no matter if I expire.
	Women are born for servitude and penance,
	And to be kept beneath a man's governance."

	I think that, at Troy, when Pyrrhus broke the wall,
	Or when Ilium burned, or at Thebes, the city,
	Or Rome, for the harm it suffered through Hannibal,
	Who three times beat the Romans, there would be
	No weeping heard so tender, out of pity,
	As in her chamber when she said goodbye;
	But she must go, whether she sing or cry.

	O Primum Mobile, cruel firmament,
	Whose daily swing keeps crowding night and day,
	And hurls all things from East to Occident,
	All that by nature would go the other way,
	Your crowding set the heavens in such array
	At the beginning of this fierce voyage
	That cruel Mars has killed this marriage.

	Unlucky, crooked ascendant, whose lord has had his fall,
	Helpless, alas, from his own proper place,
	Out of his angle to the darkest house of all!
	O Mars! O Atazir, in this case!
	O feeble moon, unhappy is your pace!
	You join with one who won't receive you as a guest;
	You're driven from the place where you were best.

	Imprudent Emperor of Rome, alas!
	Was there no philosopher in all your town?
	Is no time better than another, in such a pass?
	For voyages, is there no election set down,
	Especially for people of renown,
	Not when the time of someone's birth, its root, they know?
	Alas! we are too ignorant, or too slow.

	Down to the ship the woeful, lovely maid is led
	Solemnly, with all due pomp and circumstance.
	"Now Jesus Christ be with you all," she said;
	And there is nothing more but "Farewell, fair Constance!"
	She does her best to keep a cheerful countenance;
	And so I'll let her sail away; and then
	Turn back to my own matter once again.

	The Sultan's mother, fountain of all vice,
	Has learned the whole of her son's plain intent,
	How he would give up the old sacrifice;
	At once she sent to call her council; and they went
	To her, to find out what this summons meant.
	And when they'd all assembled, gathered near,
	She sat, and spoke these words, as you shall hear.

	"My lords," she said, "you all know, to a man,
	How my son is about to turn away
	From the holy laws of our Koran,
	Which Muhammad, God's messenger, gave us to obey.
	But one vow I make to great God today:
	Life shall sooner leap from my body and depart
	Than Muhammad's law shall leave my heart!

	"What would become of us, under this new law,
	But slavery for our bodies, and penance,
	And after that, be dragged into hell's maw
	For having renounced Muhammad and our allegiance?
	But, lords, will you give me your assurance,
	Agreeing to the counsel I have in store,
	And I shall make us safe for evermore?"

	They swore, and they agreed, each single man,
	To live and die with her, and by her stand;
	And each of them, the best way that he can,
	Will rally all his friends at her command;
	And she has taken this undertaking in hand,
	Which you shall hear me tell of, as I go;
	And to them all she spoke exactly so:

	"We'll first pretend to be baptised, for show;
	Cold water will do us harm, but only slight;
	And I will hold a feast and revel, so
	That, as I think, I'll pay the Sultan back all right.
	For though his wife's been christened ever so white,
	She'll still have need to wash away the red,
	Though she tip a whole font of water on her head."

	O Sultaness, the root of iniquity,
	Virago, Semiramis the Second, newly found,
	O serpent under femininity,
	Like the serpent deep in hell, fast bound,
	O false woman, everything that can confound
	Virtue and innocence, through your malice,
	Is bred in you, the nest of every vice!

	O Satan, envious since you were sent away,
	The day you were chased out of our heritage,
	You know the old way in to women to this day!
	You made Eve bring us into bondage.
	You would destroy this Christian marriage.
	Your instrument—alas, alas the while!—
	You make of women, when you would beguile.

	This Sultaness, whom I so blame and curse,
	Let her council go off quietly on its way.
	Why should I linger in this tale? I'll be terse:
	She rides to see the Sultan, one day,
	And said that she'd renounce her faith straight away,
	Take baptism from the priests, and own her wrong,
	Repenting she had been a heathen so long,

	Begging him to do her honour, and allow
	That she might feast the Christians, every guest:
	"To please them I will spare no labour now."
	The Sultan says, "I'll do as you think best,"
	And, kneeling, thanks her for her request.
	He was so glad he didn't know what to say;
	She kissed her son, and home she went her way.

Part Two

	These Christian people now arrive on land
	In Syria, a great and stately turnout,
	And quickly the Sultan sends word, by messenger's hand,
	First to his mother, then to the whole realm about,
	And said his wife had come, beyond a doubt,
	And asked her to ride out to meet the queen,
	So that his kingdom's honour might be seen.

	Great was the crowd, and rich the whole array
	Of Syrians and Romans, gathered near;
	The Sultan's mother, rich, in fine display,
	Receives her with as glad a face and cheer
	As any mother gives a daughter dear;
	And to the nearest city, close beside,
	At a gentle pace, in solemn state, they ride.

	I don't believe the triumph of Julius,
	Of which the poet Lucan makes such boast,
	Was any more royal, or more sumptuous,
	Than the assembly of this joyful host.
	But this scorpion, this wicked ghost,
	The Sultaness, for all her flattering,
	Was planning, under this, a deadly sting.

	The Sultan comes himself soon after this,
	So royally that it's a wonder to tell,
	And welcomes her with every joy and bliss.
	And so, in mirth and joy, I let them dwell.
	The fruit of this matter is what I'll tell.
	When the time came, men thought that it was best
	For revels to stop, and all to go to rest.

	The time came. And this old Sultaness
	Has laid on the feast of which I told,
	And to the feast the Christian people press
	All of them—yes!—the young as well as old.
	Here royal feasting was a sight to behold,
	With dainties more than I can itemise;
	But they bought it all too dearly, before they'd rise.

	O sudden woe, who always come as heir
	To worldly bliss, sprinkled with bitterness!
	The end of the joy of all our worldly care!
	Woe takes possession of the end of gladness.
	Take this advice, to keep you from distress:
	Upon your happy day, keep in your mind
	The unexpected woe or harm that comes behind.

	For, to be brief, and tell it in a breath,
	The Sultan and the Christians, every one,
	Are hacked and stabbed at table to their death,
	All but the lady Constance, her alone.
	This old Sultaness, this cursed crone,
	Has with her friends done this cursed deed,
	For she wanted the whole country under her lead.

	Of the converted Syrians, not one
	Who'd shared the Sultan's counsel, of all those,
	Escaped; each one was hacked down before he could run.
	And Constance is seized, in all haste, by her foes,
	And in a rudderless ship, as God well knows,
	They've set her, and they tell her she can steer
	Her own way back to Italy from here.

	A certain treasure that she'd taken there,
	And food, to tell the truth, in great plenty,
	They gave her, and she had clothes, too, to wear;
	And off she sails upon the salty sea.
	O my Constance, full of benignity,
	O daughter of the Emperor, young and dear,
	The lord of Fortune be your helmsman here!

	She blessed herself, and piteously she said,
	Speaking to the cross of Christ, this plea:
	"O shining altar, holy cross, made red
	By the Lamb's blood, so full of pity,
	Which washed the world from its old iniquity,
	From the fiend and from his claws protect and keep
	Me on the day I sink into the deep.

	"Victorious tree, protection of the true,
	Who alone were worthy, once, to bear
	The King of heaven, with his wounds still new,
	The white Lamb that the spear had wounded there,
	Driving out fiends from men and women, where
	Your faithful arms above them both extend,
	Keep me, and give me strength, that my life may mend."

	For years and days this creature drifts on through
	The Grecian sea to the Moroccan strait,
	As fortune willed it, and she must make do
	With many a sorry meal upon her plate;
	For death she often has to watch and wait
	Before the wild waves finally drive
	Her to the place where she's to arrive.

	Some people might well ask the reason why
	She was not slain, or, at the feast, who'd save
	Her body there? To that, here's my reply:
	Who saved Daniel in the horrible cave,
	Where everyone but him, both master and knave,
	Was eaten by the lion before he could depart?
	No one but God, whom he bore in his heart.

	God wished to work a wonderful miracle through
	Her, so that we should see his mighty works;
	Christ, who's the antidote to every harm, will do,
	By certain means, as is well known to clerks,
	A thing for some end where such darkness lurks
	For human wit that, in our ignorance,
	We cannot know his prudent providence.

	Now, since she wasn't killed at the feast, as you saw,
	Who kept her from drowning in the sea?
	Who kept Jonah in the fish's maw
	Until at Nineveh he was spat out free?
	We well may know it was no one but he
	Who kept the Hebrew people from being drowned
	As they went through the sea with dry feet on the ground.

	Who told the four spirits of the tempest,
	Who have the power to harm both land and sea,
	"Both north and south, and also east and west,
	Harm neither sea, nor land, nor any tree"?
	The one who gave that order, it was he
	Who kept this woman from the tempest, kept
	Her safe, as well when she woke as when she slept.

	Where could this woman find her food? Who gave
	Her drink? Three years and more, what made her stores avail?
	Who fed the Egyptian Mary in the cave
	Or in the desert? Only Christ, without fail.
	It was as great a marvel as the gospel's tale
	Of five loaves and two fishes, five thousand folk to feed;
	God sent his abundance in her great need.

	She drives on out into our ocean,
	Through all our wild sea, till at the last,
	Under a castle of whose name I've not a notion,
	Far in Northumberland, the wave has cast
	Her ship, which in the sand stuck so fast
	That it would not move from there for a whole tide;
	The will of Christ was that she should abide.

	The constable of the castle came down there
	To see this wreck, and searched the whole ship through,
	And found this weary woman, full of care;
	And found the treasure she had brought there too.
	In her own tongue, she begged him, as a mercy, to
	Part her life from her body, and so to win
	Her freedom from the woe that she was in.

	A kind of corrupted Latin was her speech,
	But all the same she made them understand;
	The constable, his searching done, from the beach
	Brought this woeful woman up onto the land;
	She kneels, and thanks God for what came from his hand.
	But who she was, she'd tell no one, though they'd try
	By foul means or by fair, though she should die.

	She said she was so dazed out on the sea
	That she had lost her memory, upon her oath;
	The constable was moved to such pity—he,
	And his wife too—that they were weeping, both;
	She was so diligent, without any sloth,
	To serve and please each person in that place,
	That all loved her who looked upon her face.

	This constable, and Hermengild his wife,
	Were pagans, as was the country everywhere;
	But Hermengild loved her as her life,
	And Constance had remained so long a time there,
	With many a bitter tear, in many a prayer,
	Till Jesus had converted, through his grace,
	Lady Hermengild, the mistress of that place.

	In all that land no Christian dared come out;
	All Christian folk had fled from that country,
	Because of pagans, who conquered all about
	The regions of the North, by land and sea;
	To Wales had fled the Christianity
	Of the old Britons, living in this isle;
	And there they took their refuge for a while.

	But Christian Britons weren't so exiled
	That there were none who, in their privacy,
	Honoured Christ, and kept the heathens beguiled;
	And near the castle there were three.
	One of them was blind, and could not see
	Except with those same eyes of the mind
	With which men see once they have gone blind.

	The sun was bright upon that summer's day,
	And so the constable and his wife both go,
	With Constance, taking the most direct way
	Toward the sea, a furlong off or so,
	To stroll about and wander to and fro;
	And on the way this blind man crossed their track,
	Old, with his eyes shut fast, and a crooked back.

	"In Christ's name," cried this Briton, who was blind,
	"Lady Hermengild, give me my sight again!"
	This lady, at the sound, grew fearful in her mind,
	For fear that by her husband—to be brief and plain—
	For love of Jesus Christ she would be slain,
	Till Constance made her bold, and bade her do
	Christ's will, as daughter of his church, and see it through.

	The constable was dumbfounded at that sight,
	And said, "What does it mean, this whole affair?"
	Constance answered, "Sir, this is Christ's might,
	That helps folk to escape out of the devil's snare."
	And she explained our faith so fully there
	That she converted him before the evening came,
	And made the constable believe in Jesus' name.

	This constable was not lord of the place
	I speak of, where he found her on the strand,
	But held it strongly, many winters' space,
	Under Alla, king of all Northumberland,
	Who was most wise, and brave with sword in hand
	Against the Scots, as people well may know;
	But back to my own matter I will go.

	Satan, who always lies in wait to beguile
	Us, saw in Constance all her perfection,
	And plotted at once to pay her back with guile,
	And made a young knight of the town, at his suggestion,
	Love her so hotly, with a foul affection,
	That he believed that it would surely kill
	Him, unless he once could have his will.

	He wooed her, but it all came to naught;
	She wouldn't sin, not in the slightest way;
	And out of spite he plotted in his thought
	To make her die a shameful death; then lay
	In wait until the constable was away,
	And then one night, in secret, in he crept
	Into Hermengild's chamber while she slept.

	Weary, worn out from staying up at prayers,
	Constance is asleep, and Hermengild is too.
	This knight, through Satan's temptations and his snares,
	Steals softly to the bed, and with his knife slits through
	The throat of Hermengild, and cuts it in two,
	And lays the bloody knife where Constance lay,
	And goes his way—God send him an evil day!

	Soon after this the constable comes home again,
	And Alla too, who was the king of that land,
	And sees his wife there, cruelly slain,
	And weeps for it, and often wrings his hand,
	And finds the bloody knife, laid where the knight had planned,
	By Constance in the bed. Alas! what could she say?
	For sheer woe all her wits had gone away.

	King Alla was told of all this mischance,
	And told the time, and where, and in what way
	They'd found her in the ship, the lady Constance,
	As you have already heard me say;
	The king's heart shuddered with pity, in dismay,
	When he saw so gracious a creature
	Fall into distress and misadventure.

	For as the lamb toward its death is brought,
	So stands this innocent before the king;
	This false knight, by whom the treason had been wrought,
	Accuses her of having done this thing.
	But nonetheless, there was great mourning
	Among the people. "We cannot," they confess,
	"Believe she's done so great a wickedness.

	"For we have seen her always kind and good,
	And loving Hermengild just as her life."
	And everyone in that house as witness stood
	By this, save him who'd killed her with his knife.
	This noble king, much moved by what was rife
	Among them all, resolved that he would go
	Deeper into this, so the truth would show.

	Alas, Constance! You have no champion,
	Nor can you fight—oh, sorrow and dismay!
	But he who died for our redemption
	And bound Satan (who still lies where he lay)
	Be your strong champion on this day!
	For unless Christ makes an open miracle known,
	You'll be slain at once, though the guilt's not your own.

	She went down on her knees, and this she said:
	"Immortal God, you who saved Susanna
	From false blame, and you, merciful maid,
	Mary, I mean, the daughter of Saint Anna,
	Before whose child the angels sing Hosanna,
	If I am guiltless of this crime, stand by
	And help me, for otherwise I'll die!"

	Have you not seen, at some time, a pale face
	Among a crowd—the face of a man who's led
	Toward his death, for whom there is no grace,
	And such a colour in his face has spread
	That you could tell him, so beset with dread,
	From all the faces of that crowd, and pick him out?
	So Constance stands, and looks all round about.

	O queens, who live in all prosperity,
	Duchesses, and you ladies, every one,
	Have some compassion on her adversity;
	An emperor's daughter stands alone;
	She has no one to whom she can make her moan.
	O royal blood, who stand in this great fear,
	Your friends are far when you most need them near!

	King Alla felt such pity in his heart
	(As noble hearts are full of sympathy)
	That from his eyes the tears began to start.
	"Now quickly, fetch a book," he said; "and if he,
	This knight, will swear on it that it was she
	Who killed this woman, we will still decide
	And choose the judge by whom this will be tried."

	A British book, with the Gospels written in it,
	Was fetched; at once he swore on it, and made it known
	That she was guilty; and in that same minute
	A hand came down and struck him on the neck-bone,
	So that he fell at once, down like a stone,
	And both his eyes burst outward from his face
	In sight of everybody in that place.

	A voice was heard by all the audience,
	Which said: "Before the king and all of these
	You've slandered holy church's daughter, free of offence;
	That's what you've done; and still I hold my peace!"
	This marvel made the blood of the whole crowd freeze;
	Like people in a daze they stood there, every one,
	For fear of vengeance, except Constance alone.

	Great was the fear, and great the penitence,
	Of those whose false suspicions had been laid
	On hapless Constance in her innocence;
	And in the end, through this miracle, and the aid
	Of Constance, who pleaded for them and prayed,
	The king, and many another in that place,
	Were converted, thanks be to Christ's grace!

	The false knight, for his perjury, was led
	To death, and quickly, by King Alla's decree;
	And yet Constance grieved for him when he was dead.
	And after this, Jesus, in his mercy,
	Made Alla marry, very solemnly,
	This holy maid, so bright, whose beauty shone;
	And so has Christ raised Constance to a throne.

	But who was grieved, to tell it honestly,
	By this wedding, but Donegild? There was none
	But her, the king's own mother, full of tyranny.
	She felt her cursed heart would split; her son
	Had done a thing she'd never wanted done;
	She thought it an insult that he'd choose, for life,
	So strange a creature as his wedded wife.

	I have no wish to make as long a tale
	Of chaff and straw as I would of the corn.
	Why should I tell the royal pomp in detail
	At the wedding, or the order of the courses borne,
	Who blew upon a trumpet or a horn?
	In every tale the fruit's the thing to say:
	They eat, and drink, and dance, and sing, and play.

	They go to bed, as was reasonable and right;
	For though wives may be very holy things,
	They must accept with patience, in the night,
	Such necessaries—those that pleasure brings
	To people who have wedded them with rings—
	And put a little of their holiness away
	For the time being; there's no better way.

	He got her with child, a boy, without delay;
	And to a bishop and his constable also
	He gave his wife to keep, while he's away
	In Scotland, where he's gone to seek his foe.
	Now fair Constance, humble and meek, is so
	Far on with child that she keeps quiet and still
	Within her chamber, waiting on Christ's will.

	The time came, and a boy was born to her;
	At the font they gave him Maurice for a name.
	The constable sent for a messenger
	And wrote to Alla, his king, of how there came
	This happy news, and other things in the same
	Letter that it was useful to convey;
	He took it, and he set off on his way.

	This messenger, with his own gain in mind,
	Rode off to the king's mother straight away
	And greeted her with speeches most refined:
	"Madam," he said, "be glad, rejoice, and say
	A hundred thousand thanks to God today:
	My lady the queen has had a child, no doubt,
	To the joy and bliss of all the realm throughout.

	"Look, here's the letter sealed about this thing,
	Which I must carry with all the haste I may;
	If you want anything sent to your son, the king,
	I am your servant, both by night and day."
	Donegild answered, "Not just now. But stay
	Here all night long, and take your rest;
	Tomorrow I'll tell you what I think best."

	This messenger drank deep of ale and wine,
	And then his letters were stolen secretly
	Out of his box, while he slept like a swine;
	And in their place a letter, forged most subtly,
	Was slipped in, written very sinfully,
	Addressed to the king about this, made to appear
	As coming from his constable, as you'll hear.

	The letter said: "The queen's been brought to bed
	Of such a horrible and fiendish creature
	That no one in the castle, such is the dread,
	Is bold enough to stay there and endure.
	The mother is an elf, who by misadventure
	Has come here, by charms or else by sorcery,
	And everyone detests her company."

	This letter, when the king had read it, gave him pain,
	But he told no one of the grief he bore,
	But with his own hand he wrote back again,
	"Welcome be what Christ sends, for evermore,
	To me, who am now schooled in his lore;
	Lord, welcome be your will, whatever you please;
	I put my own will wholly under your decrees!

	"Look after this child, whether foul or fair,
	And my wife too, until my homecoming;
	Christ, when he wishes, can send me an heir
	More to my liking than this offspring."
	He seals this letter, secretly weeping;
	It was soon given to the messenger, who sped
	Off on his way; there's nothing more to be said.

	O messenger, so full of drunkenness,
	Your breath is strong, your legs are always giving way,
	And there's no secret that you don't confess;
	Your mind is lost; you chatter like a jay;
	Your face is changed into a new array!
	Where drunkenness rules any company, out
	Comes every secret, beyond any doubt.

	O Donegild, I have no English fine
	Enough for your malice and your tyranny!
	And so I hand you to the fiend; I consign
	Your story to him: let him write your treachery!
	Fie, mannish woman, fie! No—by God, I lie—
	Fie, fiendish spirit! For I dare to tell,
	Though you walk here, your spirit is in hell!

	This messenger comes back from the king again,
	And at the king's mother's court he stops for the night;
	And she was glad of him, and set out to entertain
	And please him in whatever way she might.
	He drank, and stuffed his belt till it was tight.
	He sleeps and snores, in his accustomed guise,
	All night, until the sun began to rise.

	Again his letters were all stolen, every one,
	And forged ones put in place, which ran this way:
	"The king commands his constable, at once, upon
	Pain of hanging, and the heaviest price to pay,
	That he must not allow, in any way,
	Constance to stay; she must be put outside
	His realm within three days and a quarter of a tide;

	"But in the ship where she was found before
	He is to put her, with her son and gear,
	And push her off to sea, away from shore,
	And charge her never again to come back here."
	O my Constance, well may your spirit fear,
	And, as you sleep, be tormented in your dream,
	When Donegild had drawn up such a scheme!

	This messenger, next morning, when he woke,
	Went to the castle by the shortest way,
	And brought the letter to the constable, who spoke,
	When he had read what the sad letter had to say,
	Many an "Alas!" and many a "Woe the day!"
	"Lord Christ," he said, "how can this world survive?
	So full of sin are many souls alive!

	"O mighty God, if it should be your will,
	Since you're the righteous judge, how can it be
	That you allow the innocent to come to ill,
	And wicked people reign in prosperity?
	O good Constance, alas, so woe is me
	That I must be your torturer, or pay
	With a shameful death; there is no other way!"

	The young and old all wept throughout that place
	Because of the cursed letter the king had sent,
	And Constance, with a deathly pale face,
	On the fourth day, down to her ship she went.
	But all the same she took, with good intent,
	The will of Christ, and, kneeling on the shore,
	Said, "Lord, whatever you send is welcome evermore!

	"He who kept me safe from the false blame
	While I was on the land among you, so
	Can keep me safe from harm, and safe from shame,
	On the salt sea, though how, I do not know.
	He is no weaker now than long ago.
	In him I trust, and in his mother, so dear,
	Who is my sail, and is the helm by which I steer."

	Her little child lay weeping in her arm,
	And, kneeling, this is what she piteously said:
	"Hush, little son, I'll do you no harm."
	With that, she pulled her kerchief from her head,
	And laid it on his little eyes, outspread;
	And in her arm she lulls him, holds him fast,
	And up toward heaven her eyes are cast.

	"Mother," she said, "bright maiden Mary, I
	Know it was a woman's urging that sent
	Mankind to ruin, damned forever to die,
	For which your child was crucified and rent;
	Your blessed eyes saw all of his torment;
	So there is no comparison between
	Your woe and any woe there's ever been.

	"You saw your child slain before your eyes,
	And yet my little child, I swear, lives on today!
	Now, lady bright, to whom each sufferer cries,
	Glory of womanhood, fair maid, I pray,
	Haven of refuge, bright star of the day,
	Pity my child, you who, in your nobleness,
	Have pity on all the pitiful in distress!

	"O little child, alas! What is your guilt,
	Who've never sinned at all, as God can see?
	Why does your cruel father want your blood spilt?
	Have mercy, dear Constable!" she said. "Let me
	Leave my little child to stay here in your custody;
	And if you dare not save him, for fear of blame,
	Then kiss him once, in his father's name!"

	With that she looked back toward the land
	And said, "Farewell, my husband, pitiless!"
	And up she rose, and walked along the strand
	Toward the ship; and all the people press
	Behind her, while she soothes the child's distress;
	And takes her leave, and, with a holy intent,
	Crosses herself; and into the ship she went.

	The ship was stocked, no doubt, with food to feed
	Her for a long time, an abundant store,
	And of the other necessaries she'd need
	She had enough—God's grace be praised therefore!
	Almighty God send wind and weather, and restore
	Her to her home! There's nothing better I can say;
	But in the sea she drifts forth on her way.

Part Three

	King Alla comes back home, soon after this,
	To his castle, of which I've already told,
	And asks him where his wife, and where his child is.
	The constable felt his heart grow cold,
	And plainly told him all, just as I've told
	It you; I couldn't tell it any better;
	And shows the king his seal, and his own letter,

	And said, "My lord, as you commanded me,
	On pain of death, so I have done; that's certain."
	This messenger was tortured, until he
	Had to confess, and tell it, flat and plain,
	Night after night, the places where he'd lain.
	And thus, by wit, and questions shrewdly made,
	They guessed by whom this harm had first been laid.

	The hand that wrote the letter was revealed,
	And all the venom of this cursed deed,
	But how, I can't say; that remains concealed.
	The upshot, beyond doubt: for her misdeed
	Alla killed his mother, as men may plainly read,
	Because she'd been a traitor to her allegiance;
	And so old Donegild ends with mischance.

	The sorrow that King Alla, night and day,
	Feels for his wife, and for his child also,
	There is no tongue in the world that can say.
	But now it's back to Constance I will go,
	Who drifts upon the sea, in pain and woe,
	Five years and more, as pleased Christ's guiding hand,
	Before her ship came near to any land.

	Beneath a heathen castle, at the last,
	Whose name, in my text, I cannot find,
	Constance and her child, by the sea, were cast.
	Almighty God, who saves all mankind,
	Keep Constance and her child within your mind,
	Who've landed in a heathen land again, and so
	Are close to death, as I'll soon let you know.

	Down from the castle crowds came, at the sight,
	To stare at this ship, and at Constance there;
	But, to be brief, from the castle, one night,
	The lord's steward—may God bring him to despair!—
	A thief, who had renounced our faith, came there
	Into the ship alone, and told her what he meant:
	He'd be her lover, with or without her consent.

	This wretched woman, then, was in dismay;
	Her child cried, and she cried out piteously;
	But blessed Mary helped her straight away;
	For as she struggled, well and mightily,
	The thief fell overboard, quite suddenly,
	And in the sea, as vengeance, he was drowned;
	And so Christ kept Constance unstained and sound.

	O foul lust of lechery! See your end, and rue!
	Not only do you weaken a man's mind,
	But truly you will ruin his body too;
	The end of your work, or of your lusts that blind,
	Is lamentation; and how many can we find
	Who, sometimes not for the act, but for the aim
	To do this sin, are killed, or brought to shame!

	How could this weak woman have such strength
	To defend herself against this renegade?
	O Goliath, beyond all measure in your length,
	How could David checkmate you, outplayed,
	So young, and with no armour to his aid?
	How did he dare to look on your dreadful face?
	We well may see it was nothing but God's grace!

	Who gave Judith courage and boldness
	To kill him, Holofernes, in his tent,
	And to deliver out of wretchedness
	God's people? I tell you, with this intent,
	That just as God, to strengthen them, had sent
	A spirit of vigour, and saved them from mischance,
	So he sent might and vigour to Constance.

	Her ship goes on, out through the narrow mouth
	Between Gibraltar and Ceuta, drifting away,
	Sometimes to the west, sometimes north and south,
	And sometimes east, for many a weary day,
	Till the mother of Christ (blessed be she, I pray!)
	Has planned, out of her endless goodness,
	To make an end of all her heaviness.

	Let's leave off Constance for a while, and go
	On to speak about the Roman Emperor,
	Who from Syria, by letters, came to know
	Of the slaughter of the Christians, and the dishonour
	Done to his daughter by a false traitor,
	I mean the cursed, wicked Sultaness,
	Who had them slain at the feast, the greater and the less.

	And so the Emperor sends without delay
	His senator, by royal decree, and a band
	Of other lords—God knows, a great array—
	To take on the Syrians the vengeance he had planned;
	They burn and slay, and bring ruin on the land
	For many a day; and then, to make it brief,
	They all set sail for Rome, the senator their chief.

	This senator comes home in victory,
	On course for Rome, sailing most royally,
	And meets the drifting ship, so says the story,
	In which Constance is sitting piteously.
	He had no idea who she was, nor why
	She was in such a state, and she would not reply
	About her rank, although she were to die.

	He brings her back to Rome, and to his wife
	Entrusts her, and her little son also;
	And with the senator she led her life.
	Thus can our Lady bring out of their woe
	Woeful Constance, and many more, just so.
	And there she lived a long time in that place,
	Always in holy works, as was her grace.

	The senator's wife was her aunt, and yet,
	For all of that, she didn't know her any more;
	I'll linger on this case no longer, but I'll get
	Back to King Alla, of whom I spoke before,
	Who weeps and sighs for his wife, his heart sore,
	And leave Constance, for the time being, in the care
	And governance of the senator there.

	King Alla, by whom his mother had been slain,
	One day fell into such repentance
	That—if I'm to tell it short and plain—
	To Rome he comes, to receive his penance,
	And puts himself beneath the Pope's ordinance
	In all things, high and low, and has earnestly sought
	Christ's pardon for the wicked works he'd wrought.

	The news at once through Rome was widely spread,
	How Alla the king would come on pilgrimage,
	By the harbingers who rode on ahead;
	For which the senator, as was the usage,
	Rode out to meet him, with many of his lineage,
	As much to show his own magnificence
	As to do any king due reverence.

	Great is the welcome from this noble senator
	To Alla, and Alla gives him his welcome due;
	Each of them does the other great honour;
	And so it happened, in a day or two,
	This senator goes off to feast with Alla too,
	And, to be brief, if I am not to lie,
	Constance's son went in his company.

	Some say that, at the request of Constance,
	This senator had brought the child as guest;
	I can't relate every circumstance;
	Be as it may, he was there; I'll let it rest.
	But this is true: that, at his mother's behest,
	Before Alla, while the meal was taking place,
	The child stood there, looking in the king's face.

	King Alla, wondering at this child, can only stare,
	And to the senator he says at once, "Whose son
	Is that fine boy, the one who's standing there?"
	"I don't know," he said, "by God and by Saint John!
	He has a mother; but a father he has none
	That I know of." But, to be brief, he soon came round
	To telling Alla how this child was found.

	"But God knows," said the senator as well,
	"I've never seen so virtuous a life
	As hers, in all my days, nor heard men tell
	Of any worldly woman, maid or wife;
	I dare say she would rather have a knife
	Through her breast than turn to wickedness, I think;
	There's no man who could bring her to that brink."

	Now this child looked as much like Constance
	As it is possible for a creature to be.
	This Alla has kept fresh in his remembrance
	The face of Constance; and he mused inwardly
	Whether the child's mother might be she
	Who was his wife; and secretly he sighed,
	And hurried from the table with a hasty stride.

	"My word," he thought, "there's a phantom in my head!
	I ought to reckon, using sound judgement,
	That my wife is lying in the salt sea, dead."
	And afterwards he made this argument:
	"What do I know? Maybe it was Christ's intent
	To bring my wife here by sea, just as he sent
	Her to my country, from the place she went."

	And after noon, as the senator's own guest,
	Alla goes with him to see this marvellous chance.
	The senator treats Alla to his very best,
	And hastily he sends for Constance.
	But trust me, she had no wish to dance
	When she learned why she'd been summoned at his command;
	Upon her feet she scarcely had the strength to stand.

	When Alla saw his wife, he greeted her with grace,
	And wept, so that it was a pity to see;
	For at the first look that he cast upon her face
	He knew for certain that it was she.
	And she, for sorrow, stands dumb as a tree;
	Her heart was so shut up in its distress
	When she remembered his unkindness.

	Twice she fainted, there in his own sight;
	He weeps, and makes excuses piteously:
	"Now may God, and all his saints in light,
	Have mercy on my soul, as certainly
	As I'm as guiltless of your harm as he,
	Maurice, my son, so like you in the face;
	Or else may the fiend fetch me from this place!"

	Long was the sobbing, and the bitter pain,
	Before the grief in their poor hearts would cease;
	Great was the pity, hearing them complain,
	Their laments only making their woe increase.
	I beg you, let my labour have release;
	I couldn't tell their woe until tomorrow;
	I am so weary of speaking of sorrow.

	But at the last, when the truth could not be missed,
	That Alla had no hand in all she'd been through,
	A hundred times, I'd guess, the two of them kissed,
	And such a bliss there is between the two
	That, save the joy that lasts forever, no
	Bliss is like it, that any creature knows,
	Or ever shall, as long as the world goes.

	Then meekly, for relief of her long pain,
	So pitiful, she begged her husband that he
	Would ask her father specially to deign,
	Out of his high and royal majesty,
	To come and dine with him some day; and she
	Begged him besides that he would never say
	One word about her to her father, in any way.

	Some people say the child Maurice was sent,
	And took this message to the Emperor;
	But, as I'd guess, Alla was not so imprudent,
	Toward one of such sovereign honour and power
	As he who is, of Christian folk, the flower,
	As to send just a child; it's better to believe
	He went himself, as we may well conceive.

	This emperor has graciously agreed
	To come to dinner, as he'd been besought;
	And well I believe he looked, with eager heed,
	At this child, and his daughter filled his thought.
	Alla goes to his inn, and, as he ought,
	Prepares for this feast with every device,
	As far as all his skill and knowledge would suffice.

	The morning came, and Alla dressed with care,
	And his wife too, in order to go and meet
	This emperor; and off they ride, a happy pair,
	In joy and gladness; and when, in the street,
	She saw her father, she dismounts, falls at his feet:
	"Father," she said, "your young child, Constance,
	Has slipped completely from your remembrance.

	"I am your daughter Constance," she said, "she
	Whom once you sent away to Syria.
	It's I, Father, who out on the salt sea
	Was put alone, and condemned to die.
	Now, good father, for your mercy I cry:
	Send me no more to heathen lands; but rather
	Thank my lord here for his kindness, Father."

	Who could describe the piteous joy, the whole
	Of it, between those three, met in this way?
	But I must bring my story to its goal;
	The day goes fast; I'll make no more delay.
	These glad folk sit to dinner, and there they stay;
	In joy and bliss at table I let them dwell,
	A thousand times more than I can tell.

	This child Maurice was later emperor,
	Made by the Pope, and lived most Christianly;
	He did the church of Christ great honour;
	But I will let his story all pass by;
	My tale is about Constance, specially.
	In the old Roman histories you will find
	The life of Maurice; I don't bear it in mind.

	King Alla, when he saw the moment come,
	With Constance, his sweet and holy wife,
	Took the straight road back to England, and came home,
	Where they live on in joy, free of all strife.
	But brief, I promise, is the joy of our life
	In this world; for time will not abide;
	From day to night it changes, like the tide.

	Who ever lived in such delight, a day,
	That he was never stirred by conscience,
	Or anger, or desire, or some dismay,
	Envy, or pride, or passion, or offence?
	I tell you this to one end only, in this sense:
	That Alla's bliss, in joy and pleasure with his wife,
	Lasted only a little while of his life.

	For Death, who takes his rent from great and small,
	When a year had passed, or so, as I would guess,
	Took this King Alla from the world, beyond recall,
	For whom Constance grieves in great distress.
	Now let us pray to God that he will bless
	His soul! As for Constance, to finish what I say,
	Toward the city of Rome she goes her way.

	To Rome has come this holy creature,
	And finds her friends there, safe and sound;
	Now she's escaped from all her misadventure;
	And when at last her father has been found,
	Down on her knees she falls upon the ground;
	Weeping for tenderness, with a glad heart, she raises
	To God a hundred thousand times her praises.

	In virtue, and in alms, and holy deed
	They all live on, and never part, but spend
	Their days so, till death parts them; such is the life they lead.
	And now farewell: my tale is at an end.
	Now Jesus Christ, who by his might can send
	Joy after woe, govern us by his grace,
	And keep us all who are here in this place! Amen.

The Shipman's Prologue

	Our Host stood in his stirrups, there and then,
	And said, "Now listen, all of you good men:
	That was a useful tale, and timely too!
	Sir parish priest," he said, "by God's bones, you
	Tell us a tale, the way you promised before.
	I see that you learned men, so deep in lore,
	Know a great deal of good, by God's dignity!"

	The Parson answered, "Benedicite!
	What's wrong with the man, that he should sinfully swear?"

	Our Host replied, "Oho, Jankin, are you there?
	I smell a Lollard in the wind." And he
	Went on, "Ho, all you good men, listen to me:
	Hold on, for God's own worthy Passion, stay,
	For we're going to have a sermon today;
	This Lollard here will preach to you and me."

	"No, by my father's soul! That's not to be,"
	Said the Shipman. "Here he isn't going to preach;
	He'll gloss no gospel for us here, or teach.
	We all believe in the great God," he said;
	"He'd sow some difficulty in our head,
	Or make the cockle sprout in our clean corn;
	And so, Host, there's a thing that I must warn
	You of: my jolly body has a tale to tell,
	And I will ring you such a merry bell
	That I'll wake everybody up, the whole crew;
	But it won't be philosophy I give you,
	Nor physices—science—nor fancy terms of law;
	There's very little Latin in my maw."

The Shipman's Tale

	At Saint Denis there lived a merchant, who
	Was rich, and so was thought a wise man too.
	He had a wife whose beauty was first-rate,
	And sociable; she loved to celebrate,
	And that's a thing that costs more, in the end,
	Than all the cheer and the respect men tend
	To pay them at the parties and the dances;
	Such compliments, such greetings, and such glances
	Pass, as a shadow passes on the wall.
	But woe to him who has to pay for all!
	The hapless husband has to pay, come what may;
	He has to clothe us, dress us up for display,
	All for the sake of his own reputation,
	In which fine clothes we dance in celebration.
	And if, perhaps, he can't afford the bill,
	Or else won't stand for such expense, and will
	Think that it's wasted, that the money's lost,
	Then someone else must come and pay our cost,
	Or lend us gold, and that has risks in store.

	This noble merchant kept an open door,
	And all day long such crowds of guests came there,
	For his free spending, and because his wife was fair,
	That it's a wonder. But hear my story, all:
	Among his guests, the great ones and the small,
	There was a monk, a handsome man, and bold;
	I'd guess that he was thirty winters old,
	Who always seemed to be drawn to that place.
	This young monk, who was so handsome in the face,
	Was so familiar with the good man,
	Ever since their acquaintance first began,
	That in his house he was as close, as free,
	As it is possible for any friend to be.

	And since it happened that this good man
	And this same monk, with whom I first began,
	Had both been born and bred in the same place,
	The monk claims him as cousin, in that case;
	And he, in turn, raised no objection, none,
	But was as glad as a bird is of the sun;
	It was a great delight to him, at heart.
	So they are knit as allies, never to part,
	And each of them assured the other one
	Of brotherhood till both their lives were done.

	Dom John was generous, and he would spend
	Freely in that house, and to that end
	Took pains to please them, though it cost a lot;
	The smallest page was one he never forgot
	In all that house; but, as befitted each degree,
	He gave the lord, and then his household company,
	Each time he came, some decent, proper thing;
	And so they were as glad of his coming
	As a bird is glad to see the sun when it rises.
	No more of this for now; this much suffices.

	But it so happened that this merchant, one day,
	Began to get his things ready for the way
	To travel to the town of Bruges, and there
	To buy a certain stock of goods and ware;
	So he has sent a messenger, who's gone
	To Paris, to invite his friend Dom John
	To come out to Saint Denis and to play
	With him and with his wife for a day
	Or two, before he went to Bruges, at any rate.

	This noble monk, of whom I now relate,
	Has from his abbot, as he likes, licence,
	Because he was a man of high prudence,
	And an official too, sent out to ride
	To see their granges, and their barns so wide;
	And off to Saint Denis he's quickly gone.
	Who was as welcome as my lord Dom John,
	Our dear cousin, so full of courtesy?
	He brought along a jug of Malmsey,
	And another, full of fine Vernage too,
	And game birds, as he'd always used to do.
	And so I'll leave them, merchant and monk, to go
	On eating, drinking, playing, a day or so.

	The third day comes; this merchant rises, and
	Thinks soberly about the things in hand,
	And up into his counting-house he goes
	To reckon with himself, as you'd suppose,
	How he had fared that year, and then to count
	The goods that he had spent, and their amount,
	And whether he'd grown richer or had not.
	His books and bags of money, quite a lot,
	He lays before him on his counting-board;
	His treasure was very rich, and so was his hoard,
	And so he firmly shut his counting-house door;
	He didn't want anyone, what's more,
	To interrupt his accounts during this time;
	And so he sits there until after prime.

	Dom John was up that morning too, and so
	He walks about the garden, to and fro,
	And says his prayers, all proper and complete.

	This good wife came out walking, soft, discreet,
	Into the garden, where he walks so softly,
	And greets him, as she's done before so often.
	A little girl came with her, at her side,
	Whom she could govern as she liked, and guide,
	For the rod still hung above the young girl's head.
	"Oh, my dear cousin, my Dom John," she said,
	"What's wrong with you, to get up early this way?"
	"Niece," he said, "it ought to be enough, I'd say,
	To sleep five hours in the course of a night,
	Unless you're some old man who's lost his might,
	Like married men, who lie and cower and stare
	The way that in its form a weary hare
	Lies, frantic from the hounds, both great and small.
	But, my dear niece, why look so pale at all?
	I really do believe that our good man
	Has laboured on you since the night began,
	So now you need a rest, and urgently?"
	And with that word he laughed out merrily,
	And at his own thought he went all red.

	This lovely wife began to shake her head,
	And answered, "Yes, God knows it all," and she
	Said, "No, my cousin, that's not how it is with me.
	For, by that God who gave me soul and life,
	In all the realm of France there's not a wife
	Who has less appetite for that sorry play.
	For I could sing 'Alas!' and 'Woe the day
	That I was born!' but to no one," she
	Went on, "dare I tell how things stand with me.
	And so I'm thinking I will leave this land and go,
	Or else make an end of myself; I'm so
	Full of fear and dread, and full of care."

	This monk began to give the wife a stare,
	And said, "Alas, my niece! May God forbid
	That you, for any sorrow or fear, ever did
	Away with yourself! But tell me your grief;
	Perhaps, in this trouble, I can bring relief,
	Advise or help you; and therefore let me hear
	All your distress; it's secret, never fear;
	For on my breviary here I swear an oath
	That never in my life, willing or loath,
	Will I give any confidence of yours away."

	"The same to you," she said, "is what I say;
	By God and by this breviary I swear,
	Though I were torn to pieces then and there,
	Never, though it meant I'd go to hell,
	Will I betray a word of what you tell,
	Not for our cousinship or our alliance,
	But truly for my love and my reliance."
	So they are sworn, and on the oath they kissed,
	And each told the other anything they wished.

	"Cousin," she said, "if I had the time and space,
	As I have none, and especially in this place,
	Then I would tell a legend of my life,
	What I have suffered since I was a wife
	With my husband, though he's your cousin."

	"No," said this monk, "by God and by Saint Martin,
	He is no more a cousin, now, to me
	Than is this leaf that's hanging on the tree!
	I call him that, by Saint Denis of France,
	To give myself more reason and more chance
	Of knowing you, whom I have loved especially
	Above all other women, certainly;
	I swear it by my vows and by my gown.
	Tell me your grief, before he comes back down,
	And hurry, and then quickly be gone."

	"My dear love," she said, "oh, my Dom John,
	I'd gladly keep this secret locked inside,
	But out it must: it's more than I can abide.
	My husband is, to me, the worst man
	That ever lived, since the world began.
	But since I am a wife, it's not for me
	To tell a living soul our privacy,
	Neither in bed nor in any other place;
	God keep me from telling it, by his grace!
	A wife should never say about her husband
	Anything but honour, as I understand;
	Except to you, to whom I will confess:
	So help me God, he's worth no more—far less—
	In any way, than what a fly is worth.
	But his meanness grieves me most on earth;
	And you know well that women naturally
	Desire six things—you know as well as me.
	They'd want their husbands, every one, to be
	Bold, and wise, and rich, and generous; and he
	Should do what his wife says, and be lively in bed.
	But, by that same Lord who for us bled,
	For his own honour, for my dress and my display,
	Next Sunday I'm absolutely bound to pay
	A hundred francs, or else I'm lost, forlorn.
	And yet I'd rather never have been born
	Than suffer any scandal or disgrace;
	And if my husband learned of it, in that case
	I'd be quite lost. And so, I beg you, lend
	This sum to me, or else I'll meet my end.
	Dom John, I'm asking you: lend me these hundred francs;
	By God, I will not fail to give you thanks,
	If you would do the thing for which I pray.
	I'll pay you back, I promise, on a certain day,
	And do you any pleasure, any favour too,
	That I can do, whatever you want me to.
	And if I don't, may God send me such vengeance
	As foul as Ganelon's, who betrayed France!"

	This noble monk replied, as you shall hear:
	"Now really, my own lady, my own dear,
	I feel," he said, "such pity for your plight
	That I swear to you, and pledge my word outright,
	That when your husband's gone to Flanders, I'll be there
	To get you out of this, out of your care;
	For I will bring you a hundred francs."
	And with that word he caught her by the flanks,
	And hugs her hard, and kisses her again.
	"Now go your way," he said, "quietly; and then
	Let's have our dinner, soon as ever you may,
	For by my pocket sundial it is prime of day.
	Go now, and be as true as I will be."

	"Why, God forbid it otherwise, sir," and she
	Goes off as jolly as a magpie can,
	And told the cooks to hurry, every man,
	So that they all could dine, and soon; and on
	Up to her husband now this wife has gone,
	And knocks at his counting-house door, not shy.

	"Qui là?—Who's there?" "By Peter, it is I,"
	She said. "What, sir, how long now will you fast?
	How long a time will you reckon and cast
	Your sums, and your books, and your other things?
	The devil take a share in all such reckonings!
	You've got enough, by God, of God's good gifts at hand;
	Come down today, and let your moneybags stand.
	Aren't you ashamed that poor Dom John
	Should go all day without food, woebegone?
	What! Let us hear a Mass, and go and dine."

	"Wife," said this man, "you can hardly divine
	The anxious business that we're in, how grave;
	For of us merchants, as I hope God will save
	Me, and by the lord who's called Saint Ive,
	Scarcely ten in twelve of us will thrive
	Continually, all the way to old age.
	We may look cheerful, show a smiling visage,
	And carry on in the world as best we can,
	And keep our true condition hidden, every man,
	Till we are dead, or else we go to play
	At pilgrimage, or quietly slip away.
	And therefore I have urgent need to be
	Thinking about this tricky world, since we
	Must always stand in fear, and live in dread
	Of luck and fortune, by which our trade is led.

	"To Flanders I'll go tomorrow, at break of day,
	And come back home as soon as ever I may.
	And so, my dear wife, here's the thing I seek:
	Be obedient to everyone, and meek,
	And see you're careful with our property,
	And run our household well, and decently.
	You have enough, in every way, my dear,
	To satisfy a thrifty household here;
	You lack no clothes, no food, nothing at all;
	You'll never find your purse of silver small."
	And with that word he shut his counting-room door,
	And down he went; he wouldn't wait any more,
	And in a hurry a Mass was said,
	And speedily the tables spread,
	And off to dinner they all sped,
	And richly the merchant saw the monk was fed.

	Soon after dinner, Dom John, soberly,
	Took the merchant aside, and privately
	He said to him, "Cousin, as things stand,
	I see that you're off to Bruges, as planned.
	God and Saint Augustine speed you and guide!
	I beg you, cousin, be careful how you ride;
	And keep your diet moderate, and eat
	With temperance, especially in this heat.
	Between us two there's no need for airs;
	Farewell, cousin; God keep you from all cares.
	If there is anything, by day or night,
	If it lies within my power and my might,
	That you would have me do for you, in any way,
	It shall be done, exactly as you say.

	"One thing, before you go, if it may be,
	I'd like to ask you: would you lend to me
	A hundred francs, a week or two, since I
	Have certain beasts I really need to buy
	To stock a certain place that's one of ours.
	So help me God, I wish that it were yours!
	I won't miss my day, for certain, I'll pay,
	Not for a thousand francs, by a minute's delay.
	But keep this secret, please, between us two,
	For I must buy these beasts tonight; they're due.
	Farewell now, my own cousin, my dear,
	And many thanks for your expense and cheer."

	Then the noble merchant graciously went on
	To answer, saying, "Oh, my cousin, Dom John,
	Now surely this is a small request;
	My gold is yours whenever you think best,
	And not my gold alone, but all my ware;
	Take what you want; God forbid that you should spare.

	"But there's one thing, as you know well—how
	For merchants, money is their plough.
	We can get credit while we have a name,
	But being without gold is no game.
	Repay it when you can, at your own ease;
	As far as I am able, I'm glad to please."

	He fetched the hundred francs at once, and on
	The quiet took them over to Dom John.
	No one in all this world knew of this loan
	Except this merchant and Dom John alone.
	They drink, and talk, and stroll about, and play,
	Till to his abbey Dom John rides away.

	The morning came, and off this merchant rides
	Toward Flanders; and his apprentice guides
	Him well, until he came to Bruges, merrily.
	Now this merchant goes, fast and busily,
	About his business: buys, arranges his finances;
	He neither gambles with the dice nor dances,
	But like a merchant—to be brief, I'll tell—
	He leads his life; and there I'll let him dwell.

	The Sunday after the merchant had gone,
	To Saint Denis there comes Dom John,
	His crown and beard all freshly shaved, and all.
	In all the house there was no boy so small,
	Or anyone else at all, who could contain
	His joy that my lord Dom John had come again.
	And, to get straight to the point, with speed,
	This lovely wife and Dom John have agreed
	That for these hundred francs he'd spend the night
	With her, in his arms, flat on her back, held tight;
	And this agreement was carried out in deed.
	All night, in fun, their busy hours proceed
	Till it was day, when Dom John went his way,
	And told the household, "Farewell, have a good day!"
	For no one in the household, no one in the town,
	Had the least suspicion of Dom John.
	And home he rides to his abbey, or away
	Wherever he likes; no more of him I'll say.

	This merchant, when the fair was ended, then
	Returned to Saint Denis, home again,
	And with his wife he feasts and makes good cheer,
	And tells her that the merchandise is so dear
	That he must borrow on his credit, raise a loan,
	For he was bound by a signed bond of his own
	To pay twenty thousand crowns at once, upon
	Demand; and so to Paris he has gone
	To borrow, from some friends of his he knew,
	A certain sum in francs; and took some with him too.
	And when he'd come to town, then, for the bond
	Of friendship and affection, warm and fond,
	Goes first to see Dom John, for his company,
	Not to ask him for a loan, or borrow money,
	But only to inquire about his welfare,
	And tell him how his business went, the whole affair,
	As friends do when they meet and gather here;
	Dom John gives him a feast, and merry cheer;
	And he in turn told him, in full detail,
	How he had bought well, and to great avail,
	Thanks be to God, the whole of his merchandise—
	Except he had to, as would be only wise,
	Arrange a loan, which was what suited him best,
	And then he'd be in joy, and be at rest.

	Dom John replied, "Well, I'm delighted, then,
	That you've come home in good health again.
	And if I were rich, as I may hope for bliss,
	The twenty thousand crowns you wouldn't miss,
	Since you so kindly, just the other day,
	Lent me some gold; and, as well as I may,
	I thank you, by God and by Saint James's name!
	But nonetheless I took back to our dame,
	Your wife at home, the very gold again,
	Upon your counting-bench; she knows it, that's plain,
	By certain tokens that I'll tell her. Now,
	I can't stay any longer, if you'll allow;
	Our abbot's leaving town at once, and on
	His journey, in his company, I'll be gone.
	Greet our dame for me, my own niece, my sweet,
	And farewell, dear cousin, till we meet!"

	This merchant, a man of shrewd and careful ways,
	Took credit, and in Paris also pays
	To certain Lombard bankers, ready cash, in gold,
	The sum, and got back from them the bond they'd hold;
	And home he goes, as merry as a parrot is,
	For well he knew his business stood like this:
	That from that trip, when all his costs were paid,
	A thousand francs was the profit that he'd made.

	His wife was there to meet him at the gate,
	As she had always done, both early and late,
	And all that night in merriment was spent,
	For he was rich, and out of debt, and content.
	When it was day, the merchant began to embrace
	His wife anew, and kissed her on her face,
	And up he gets, and goes at it hard and tough.

	"No more," she said, "by God, you've had enough!"
	And wantonly she played with him, and led
	Him on; until at last this merchant said,
	"By God," he said, "I'm a little annoyed
	With you, my wife, though it's a thing I'd avoid.
	And do you know why? By God, as I would guess,
	You've caused a sort of coolness, an awkwardness,
	Between me and my cousin, Dom John.
	You should have warned me, before I'd gone,
	That he'd repaid you the hundred francs, and made
	It plain by tokens; and he seemed dismayed
	Because I spoke to him about a loan,
	Or so it seemed to me, by the look he'd shown.
	But nonetheless, by God, our heaven's king,
	I never meant to ask him for anything.
	I beg you, wife, from now on, don't do so;
	Always tell me, before I have to go,
	If any debtor, while I've been away,
	Has paid you, lest, through your neglect, I may
	Ask him for something that he has repaid."

	This wife was not afraid, and not dismayed,
	But boldly she replied at once, head-on:
	"By Mary, I defy that false monk, Dom John!
	I don't care a bit about his tokens, though;
	He gave me certain gold, that much I know!
	What! Bad luck to his monkish snout!
	For, God knows, I thought, without a doubt,
	That he had given it to me because of you,
	To use for my good name and my profit too,
	For cousinship, and for the friendly cheer
	That he has had so many times in here.
	But since I see that things are out of joint,
	I'll answer you in short, and to the point.
	You've got much slacker debtors, sir, than I!
	For I will pay you well, and readily,
	From day to day; and if it happens I fail,
	I am your wife: just score it on my tail,
	And I will pay, as soon as ever I may.
	For, on my honour, I've spent it on my array,
	And not on waste—I've spent it, every bit;
	And since I've made such good use of it,
	For your honour—for God's sake, I pray,
	Don't be angry, but let us laugh and play.
	You'll have my jolly body as pledge instead;
	By God, I'll pay you nowhere but in bed.
	Forgive me, my own spouse, my dear;
	Turn round this way, and show some better cheer."

	This merchant saw there was no help or cure,
	And that to scold would be folly, plain and pure,
	Since what was done could never be undone.
	"Well, wife," he said, "I'll forgive you this one;
	But, on your life, don't spend on such a large
	Scale again; keep our goods better: that's your charge."
	And so my tale is ended; may God send
	Us tales enough until our lives' end. Amen.

The Host's Words to the Shipman and the Prioress

	"Well said, by corpus dominus!" said our Host.
	"Now may you long go sailing down the coast,
	Sir noble master, noble mariner! Here's
	To this monk: God give him a thousand cartloads of bad years!
	Aha! My friends, watch out for such a jape!
	Into the husband's hood the monk put an ape,
	And in his wife's as well, by Saint Augustine!
	Don't ever bring a monk into your inn.

	"But let that pass, and let's look round the crew
	To see who'll be the first, of all of you,
	To tell another tale"; and then he said,
	As courteously as any maid well-bred,
	"My lady Prioress, with your leave,
	So long as I knew it wouldn't make you grieve,
	I would decide the next tale ought to be
	Told by yourself, if you would so agree.
	Now will you grant me this, my lady dear?"

	"Gladly," she said, and spoke as you shall hear.

The Prioress's Prologue

Domine, dominus noster: O Lord, our Lord.

	"O Lord, our Lord, how marvellous is your name,
	Spread through the whole wide world!" said she;
	"For not alone your precious praise and acclaim
	Is rendered you by men of high degree,
	But by the mouths of children your bounty
	Is celebrated; for, sucking at the breast,
	Infants sometimes make your praise manifest.

	"And so, in praise, as best I know and may,
	Of you, and of the lily, white in flower,
	Who bore you, and is a virgin still today,
	I'll set myself to tell a story, with all my power;
	Not that by this I could increase her honour,
	For she herself is honour, and the source,
	After her son, of goodness, and the soul's recourse.

	"O mother maid! O maiden mother, noble and free!
	O bush unburnt, burning in Moses' sight,
	Who, through your meekness, drew down from the Deity
	The Holy Spirit, who in you came to alight;
	By whose power, when he made your heart bright,
	The Father's Wisdom was conceived in you:
	Help me to tell it with the reverence due!

	"Lady, your goodness, your magnificence,
	Your virtue, and your great humility,
	No tongue can put in words, with any eloquence;
	For sometimes, lady, before men pray, you'll be
	Ahead of them, out of your benignity,
	And through your prayer you win us light, to steer
	And guide us to your son, who is so dear.

	"O blissful queen, my skill is weak and small
	For telling of the great worth you possess,
	So that I can't bear the weight of it at all;
	But like a child twelve months old, or less,
	Who scarcely knows a single word to express,
	Just so it is with me; and so I pray:
	Guide this song of you that I shall sing and say."

The Prioress's Tale

	There was in Asia, in a great city,
	Among the Christian people, a Jewry,
	Maintained there by a lord of that country
	For foul usury and profit of villainy,
	Hateful to Christ and to his company;
	And through the street men might ride or walk, as they intend,
	For it was free, and open at either end.

	A little school for Christian folk once stood
	Down at the farther end, and in its care
	Were many children, born of Christian blood,
	Who learned in that school, year by year, their share
	Of such instruction as was common there,
	That is to say, to sing and read their lessons through,
	As little children in their childhood do.

	Among these children was a widow's son,
	A little schoolboy, seven years old,
	Who went to school each day, as he'd always done,
	And also, wherever he would behold
	The image of Christ's mother, as he'd been told,
	It was his habit to kneel down and say
	His Ave Maria as he went on his way.

	And so this widow taught her little son
	To worship always our blissful Lady, dear
	Mother of Christ; he never left it undone,
	For simple children learn quickly, by ear;
	But every time I come to this matter here,
	Saint Nicholas stands always in my view,
	For he, so young, gave Christ the honour due.

	This little child, while learning his little book,
	As he sat in the school, at his primer, came to hear
	The Alma redemptoris sung, as the others took
	Their lessons from their book of anthems, clear;
	And, as he dared, he drew nearer and more near,
	And always listened to the words and to the note,
	Till he knew the first verse all by rote.

	He had no notion what this Latin meant to say,
	For he was still so young and tender of age;
	But one day he began to beg his friend, and pray
	Him to explain this song in his own language,
	Or tell him why this song was in such usage;
	He begged him to construe it, and declare,
	Many a time, kneeling, with his knees bare.

	His fellow, who was older than he,
	Answered him thus: "This song, I've heard them say,
	Was made about our noble, blissful Lady, so we
	Could greet her with it, and could also pray
	To her to be our help and succour on our dying day.
	I can't explain any more about it here;
	I'm learning singing; I've little grammar, I fear."

	"And was this song made out of reverence
	For Christ's mother?" said this innocent.
	"Then I will work at it with all diligence
	To learn it all before Christmas is spent;
	Though for my primer I'll be scolded, and sent
	To be beaten three times in an hour, still
	I'll learn it, and honour our Lady with it; I will!"

	His fellow taught him on the way home, secretly,
	From day to day, until he knew it by rote,
	And then he sang it well and boldly,
	Word for word, in keeping with the note;
	Twice a day it passed out through his throat,
	On his way to school and home, whenever he went;
	And on Christ's mother all his heart was bent.

	As I have said, all through the Jewry's street
	This little child, as he came to and fro,
	Would merrily sing, and loudly he'd repeat
	O Alma redemptoris, on and on, as he'd go.
	The sweetness of Christ's mother pierced his heart so
	That he must pray to her; and every day
	He couldn't stop his singing on the way.

	Our first foe, Satan, the serpent, who has
	Within the hearts of Jews his wasps' nest,
	Swelled up, and said, "O Hebrew people, alas!
	Is it a decent thing, by your own test,
	That such a boy should walk wherever he thinks best,
	In spite of you, and sing of such a theme,
	Against the law that you hold in esteem?"

	From then on, the Jews have conspired
	To chase this innocent from the world's face;
	A murderer to do it has been hired,
	Who in an alley had a hidden place;
	And as the child came by, at walking pace,
	This cursed Jew seized him and held him, and slit
	His throat, and cast him down into a pit.

	I say it was a privy where they threw
	Him, where these Jews purge their entrails.
	O cursed people, Herods all made new,
	What can your evil purpose now avail?
	Murder will out, that's certain; it will not fail,
	And above all where God's honour is to spread and speed;
	The blood cries out on your accursed deed.

	"O martyr, bound fast to virginity,
	Now you may sing, and follow ever on
	The white celestial Lamb," said she,
	"Of whom the great evangelist, Saint John,
	Wrote in Patmos, saying that those who've gone
	Before this Lamb, and sing a song afresh,
	Had never known a woman in the flesh."

	This poor widow waits up all that night
	For her little child; but she waited all for naught;
	And so, as soon as it was morning light,
	With face pale with dread and anxious thought,
	At school and elsewhere she has looked, and sought,
	Till finally she managed to find out, and knew,
	That he was last seen in the Jewry, passing through.

	With a mother's pity in her breast enclosed,
	She goes, as if she were half out of her mind,
	To every place where she has supposed,
	By likelihood, her little child she'd find;
	And always to Christ's mother, meek and kind,
	She cried; and finally, half mad, distraught,
	She went among the cursed Jews, and sought.

	She questions, and she begs them, with a cry,
	Each Jew who lived there, in that place,
	To tell her if her child had passed them by.
	They said, "No"; but Jesus, by his grace,
	Put it in her mind, within a little space,
	That she called out for her son, and cried
	Close by the pit where he'd been thrown inside.

	O great God, who have your praises shown
	By mouths of innocents, see here your might!
	This gem of chastity, this emerald stone,
	And martyrdom's own ruby, shining bright,
	Where he lay on his back, his throat cut, out of sight,
	Began to sing "Alma redemptoris", and sing
	So loud that all the place began to ring.

	The Christian people passing in the street then went
	Inside to wonder at this marvellous thing,
	And for the provost hurriedly they sent;
	He came at once, without any lingering,
	And praises Christ, who is heaven's king,
	And his mother too, the honour of mankind,
	And after that he had the Jews bound and confined.

	This child, with pitiful lamentation,
	Was taken up, still singing the same tune;
	And with the honour of a great procession
	They carry him to the nearest abbey soon.
	His mother lay beside the bier, in a swoon;
	The people who were there, and standing near,
	Could scarcely draw this new Rachel from his bier.

	With torment and with shameful death, each one,
	This provost had these Jews put to death, those who
	Knew of this murder; and it was quickly done;
	He would not tolerate such cursedness; the saying's true:
	Who does evil shall get evil as his due.
	Therefore he had wild horses drag and draw
	Them; after that, he hanged them by the law.

	Upon his bier there lies this innocent
	Before the high altar, while the Mass would last;
	And afterwards the abbot and his monks were bent
	On burying him, and had him buried fast;
	And when the holy water on him was cast,
	The child still spoke, when sprinkled with holy water,
	And sang, "O Alma redemptoris mater!"

	This abbot, who was a holy man,
	As monks are, or else ought to be,
	Conjured the child; and this is how he began:
	"O dear child, I implore you, answer me,
	By virtue of the holy Trinity:
	Tell me, what is the reason that you sing,
	Since your throat is cut, as I see the thing?"

	"My throat is cut right through to my neck-bone,"
	Said this child, "and, as nature has designed,
	I should have died, yes, long ago, and gone,
	But Jesus Christ, as in the books you'll find,
	Wills that his glory last and be kept in mind,
	And, to honour his own mother, who is so dear,
	I still can sing 'O Alma' loud and clear.

	"This well of mercy, Christ's mother, sweet,
	I always loved, with all the skill that I could bring;
	And when I came to leave my life and meet
	My death, she came to me, and bade me sing
	This anthem truly as I lay dying,
	As you have heard; and when the song was sung,
	It seemed to me she laid a grain upon my tongue.

	"And so I sing, and I must sing, that's plain,
	In honour of that blissful maiden, kind and free,
	Until from my tongue they take away the grain;
	And afterwards she said these words to me:
	'My little child, I'll come and fetch you; that will be
	When the grain is taken from your tongue; and so
	Don't be afraid: I'll never let you go.'"

	This holy monk, the abbot, as I've said,
	Drew out the tongue, and took away the grain,
	And gently the child gave up the ghost, and lay dead.
	And when this abbot saw this wonder plain,
	His salt tears trickled down like rain,
	And flat upon his face he fell to the ground,
	And lay as still as if he had been bound.

	The monks too lay upon the pavement,
	Weeping, and praising Christ's mother, held so dear,
	And after that they rose, and off they went,
	And took away this martyr from his bier,
	And in a tomb of marble, shining clear,
	Enclose his little body, small and sweet;
	There he is now; God grant that we may meet!

	O young Hugh of Lincoln, slain also
	By cursed Jews, a thing that's notable,
	For it is only a little while ago;
	Pray for us too, we sinful folk, unstable,
	That God, so merciful, so charitable,
	May multiply on us his great mercy,
	For reverence of his mother, Mary. Amen.

The Prologue to Sir Thopas

	When this miracle had all been told, everyone
	Was so sober that it was a wonder to see,
	Until our Host began to joke and have fun,
	And then, for the first time, he looked at me,
	And spoke: "What kind of man are you?" said he;
	"You look as if you're trying to find a hare,
	For on the ground I always see you stare.

	"Come closer; look up cheerfully; don't be shy.
	Now watch out, sirs, and let this man have space;
	He's built around the waist as well as I;
	He'd be a little doll for arms to embrace
	For any woman, small and fair of face.
	By his expression he seems elvish, strange,
	For he has no small talk with anyone to exchange.

	"Say something now, since others have had their say;
	Tell us a tale of mirth, and right away, come on!"
	"Host," I said, "don't take it the wrong way,
	For I have no other tale to draw upon,
	Except a rhyme I learned in years long gone."
	"Yes, that's good," he said; "now we're going to hear
	Some dainty thing, I think, by how his looks appear."

Sir Thopas

	Listen, lords, with good intent,
	And I will tell you, truly meant,
	  Of mirth and of solace;
	About a knight, fair, elegant
	In battle and in tournament;
	  His name was Sir Thopas.

	He was born in a far country,
	In Flanders, all beyond the sea,
	  At Poperinghe, in the place;
	His father was a man most free,
	And he was lord of that country,
	  As it was God's grace.

	Sir Thopas grew a doughty swain;
	His face was white as bread of finest grain,
	  His lips as red as rose;
	His colour like scarlet, dyed so it won't wane,
	And I tell you, in good certain,
	  He had a handsome nose.

	His hair, his beard, like saffron, from his crown
	Reached to his belt, they hung so far down;
	  His shoes of leather from Spain;
	His stockings were from Bruges, and brown,
	His robe of rich brocade, a gown,
	  That cost many a jane.

	He could go hunting the wild deer,
	And go out hawking by the mere,
	  With grey goshawk on hand;
	And as an archer, too, he had no peer;
	At wrestling no one else came near,
	  Where any ram shall stand.

	Many a maiden, bright in bower,
	Pines for him with love's power,
	  When they'd do better to sleep;
	But he was chaste, he'd not deflower,
	And sweet as is the bramble-flower
	  That bears the red hips in a heap.

	And so it happened, truth to say,
	As I can tell you, on a day,
	  Sir Thopas wished to ride;
	He mounted on his steed, the grey,
	And in his hand a lance-gay,
	  A long sword by his side.

	He spurs on through a fair forest,
	Where there is many a wild beast,
	  Yes, both buck and hare;
	And as he spurs both north and east,
	I tell you, he almost, at least,
	  Met with a sorry care.

	There herbs spring up of every scale,
	The liquorice and the setwale,
	  And many a clove galore;
	And nutmeg to put in ale,
	Whether it's fresh or whether stale,
	  Or to lay away in a drawer.

	The birds sing—it's true, I'll say—
	The sparrowhawk and popinjay,
	  So it was joy to hear;
	The thrush, too, sang his lay,
	The wood-dove upon the spray,
	  She sang out loud and clear.

	Sir Thopas fell into love-longing
	As soon as he heard the thrush sing,
	  And spurred as if mad, and sped;
	His fair steed, in his spurring,
	So sweated, you could give him a wring;
	  His sides were all blood-red.

	Sir Thopas, too, so weary was
	From spurring on the soft grass,
	  So fierce was his courage,
	That he lay down there in that place
	To give his steed some solace,
	  And gave him good forage.

	"O Saint Mary, benedicite!
	What does this love have against me,
	  To bind me so sore?
	I dreamed last night, by God, that she,
	An elf-queen, would my sweetheart be,
	  And sleep under the cloak I wore.

	"An elf-queen I will love—mark this—
	For in this world no woman is
	  Worthy, my mate to make
	                In town;
	All other women I forsake,
	And it's an elf-queen I will take
	  By valley and by down!"

	Into the saddle at once he's flown,
	And spurred over stile and stone,
	  An elf-queen to espy,
	Till he had ridden and walked, on his own,
	So long that in a secret place, unknown,
	  He found the land of Faery
	                So wild;
	For in that country there was none
	Who dared to come at him, ride or run,
	  Neither wife nor child.

	Till there came a great giant,
	His name was Sir Olifaunt,
	  A dangerous man in deed;
	He said, "Child, by Termagant,
	Unless you spur out of my haunt,
	  At once I'll slay your steed
	                With mace.
	Here is the queen of Faery,
	With harp and pipe and symphony,
	  Dwelling in this place."

	The child said, "As I hope to fare,
	Tomorrow I will meet you there
	  When I've put on my gear;
	And yet I hope, par ma fay,
	That you, through this lance-gay,
	  Shall pay for it, and dear;
	                Your gut
	Shall I pierce, if I may,
	Before it's fully prime of day,
	  For here you'll be slain and cut."

	Sir Thopas drew back very fast;
	The giant pelted him with stones, cast
	  Out of a cruel staff-sling;
	But fair escapes Child Thopas,
	And all of it was through God's grace,
	  And through his fair bearing.

	Yet listen, lords, to my tale,
	Merrier than the nightingale,
	  For now I'll whisper, then,
	How Sir Thopas, with sides so frail,
	Spurring over hill and dale,
	  Has come to town again.

	He told his merry men to be
	Making him both sport and glee,
	  For he would have to fight
	With a giant with heads three,
	For love and jollity
	  Of one who shone so bright.

	"Come here," he said, "my minstrels all,
	And jesters, tell your tales in hall,
	  At once, while I am arming,
	Of romances that are royal,
	Of popes and of cardinals,
	  And also of love-liking."

	They fetched him first the sweet wine,
	And mead in a mazer of maple design,
	  And royal spicery,
	Of gingerbread that was so fine,
	And liquorice and cumin, superfine,
	  With sugar of high quality.

	He put on, next to his white skin,
	Of linen cloth, so fine and thin,
	  A pair of breeches and a shirt;
	And next his shirt an aketon,
	And over that a habergeon
	  To keep his heart from hurt;

	And over that a fine hauberk,
	That was all made of Jews' work,
	  Very strong it was, of plate;
	And over that his coat-armour,
	As white as is a lily-flower,
	  In which he will debate.

	His shield was all of gold so red,
	And on it was a boar's head,
	  A carbuncle beside;
	And there he swore, on ale and bread,
	That "the giant shall be dead,
	  Whatever may betide!"

	His leg-guards were of cuir-bouilli,
	His sword's sheath of ivory,
	  His helmet, of brass, was bright;
	His saddle was of whalebone,
	His bridle as the sun it shone,
	  Or like the moon's light.

	His spear was of fine cypress,
	That bodes war, and nothing of peace,
	  The head most sharply ground;
	His steed was all dapple-grey,
	It ambles gently on the way,
	  So softly and so round
	                In land.
	Look, my lords, here is a fit!
	If you'll have any more of it,
	  To tell it I'll take in hand.

The Second Fit

	Now hold your tongue, par charitee,
	Both knight and lady free,
	  And listen to my spell;
	Of battle and of chivalry,
	And of ladies' loving courtesy,
	  Right now I'm going to tell.

	Men speak of famous romances, like this:
	Of Horn Child and of Ypotis,
	  Of Bevis and Sir Guy,
	Of Sir Libeaus and Pleindamour;
	But Sir Thopas, he bears the flower
	  Of royal chivalry.

	His good steed he bestrode,
	And off upon his way he rode
	  As a spark from a burning brand;
	Upon his crest he bore a tower,
	And in it stuck a lily-flower;
	  God shield his body from shame's hand!

	And since he was a knight adventurous,
	He would not sleep in any house,
	  But lie down in his hood;
	His bright helmet was his pillow there,
	And by him grazed his destrier
	  On herbs both fine and good.

	He himself drank water from the well,
	As did the knight Sir Percival,
	  So worthy in his gear,
	Till on a day—

The Prologue to Melibee

	"No more of this, for God's own dignity,"
	Our Host broke in, "because you're making me
	So weary of your utter witlessness
	That—as surely as I pray that God will bless
	My soul—my ears ache from your trashy speech.
	Rhyme like this—the devil take it, I beseech!
	This is doggerel rhyme, as far as I can see."

	"Why so?" I said. "Why should you hinder me
	More in my tale than any other one,
	When it's the best rhyming I have ever done?"

	"By God," he said, "to put it plainly, in a word,
	Your trashy rhyming isn't worth a turd.
	You're doing nothing here but wasting time.
	Sir, in one word: you shall no longer rhyme.
	Let's see you try a tale in alliteration,
	Or, at the least, in prose, some kind of narration
	With something cheerful in it, or something to learn."

	"Gladly," I said. "By God's sweet pain, I'll turn
	To telling you a little thing in prose
	That ought to please you, so I would suppose,
	Or else, for certain, you're too fastidious.
	It is a moral tale, and virtuous,
	Although it's told at times in a different way
	By different people, as I'm about to say.
	Like this: you know that each evangelist who
	Tells of the pain that Jesus Christ went through
	Does not say everything the way his fellow might,
	But nonetheless, the sense of all of them is right,
	And all of them agree in substance, though
	There's difference in the way their tellings go.
	For some of them say more, and some say less,
	When they recount his Passion and distress—
	I mean Mark, Matthew, Luke and John—
	But doubtless there's one meaning they agree on.
	So, gentlemen, I beg you, all and each,
	If you should think I vary in my speech—
	For instance, if I tell you somewhat more
	Of proverbs than you've ever heard before,
	Packed into this little treatise of mine,
	To strengthen the effect of my design,
	And though I do not use the words the way
	That you have heard them—all of you, I pray,
	Don't blame me; for, in terms of what I mean,
	You will not find much difference in between
	Mine and the meaning of this treatise, short and slight,
	The one I follow in this merry tale I write.
	And so, listen to what I'm going to say,
	And let me tell you all my tale, I pray."

The Tale of Melibee

§ 1. A young man called Melibeus, mighty and rich, had a daughter by his wife, whose name was Prudence; the daughter was called Sophie.

§ 2. One day it happened that he went out into the fields to amuse himself. His wife and his daughter he had left at home, inside his house, with the doors shut fast. Three of his old enemies had spied this out, and they set ladders against the walls of his house, got in through the windows, beat his wife, and wounded his daughter with five mortal wounds in five different 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.

§ 3. When Melibeus came home and saw all this harm, he tore his clothes like a madman and began to weep and cry out.

§ 4. Prudence his wife, as far as she dared, begged him to stop his weeping; but for all that, the longer it went on, the more he cried and wept.

§ 5. This noble wife Prudence remembered what Ovid says in his book called The Remedies for Love: "He is a fool who stops a mother weeping at the death of her child before she has wept her fill, for a certain time; after that, a man should do his best to comfort her with kind words, and beg her to stop her weeping." For this reason this noble wife Prudence let her husband weep and cry out for a certain space; and when she saw her moment, she spoke to him like this. "Alas, my lord," she said, "why do you make yourself act like a fool? Really, it is not fitting for a wise man to grieve like this. Your daughter, by the grace of God, will recover and come through. And even if she were dead this very moment, you ought not to destroy yourself on account of her death. Seneca says: 'The wise man shall not take the death of his children too much to heart, but he should certainly bear it with patience, just as he waits for the death of his own person.'"

§ 6. Melibeus answered at once. "What man," he said, "should stop weeping, when he has so great a cause to weep? Jesus Christ our Lord himself wept for the death of his friend Lazarus." Prudence answered, "Certainly, I know well that moderate weeping is in no way forbidden to someone in sorrow, among people in sorrow; on the contrary, he is allowed to weep. The Apostle Paul writes to the Romans: 'Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.' But though moderate weeping is allowed, weeping beyond all measure is certainly forbidden. Weeping should be kept within measure, as Seneca teaches us. 'When your friend is dead,' he says, 'do not let your eyes be too wet with tears, nor too dry; even if the tears come to your eyes, do not let them fall.' And when you have lost your friend, make it your business to get another friend; this is wiser than weeping for the friend you have lost, for there is no help in that. And so, if you govern yourself by wisdom, put sorrow out of your heart. Remember that Jesus son of Sirach, who wrote the book of Ecclesiasticus, says: 'A man who is joyful and glad at heart keeps flourishing in his old age; but truly a sorrowful heart dries up the bones.' He says this too: 'Sorrow in the heart kills many a man.' Solomon says that 'just as moths in the sheep's fleece do harm to the clothes, and small worms to the tree, so sorrow does harm to the heart.' And so we ought to have patience, in the death of our children as much as in the loss of our worldly goods.

§ 7. "Remember patient Job. When he had lost his children and all his worldly wealth, and had endured and suffered many grievous afflictions in his body, still he said this: 'The Lord has given it to me, the Lord has taken it away from me; as the Lord has willed, so it is done; blessed be the name of the Lord.'" To all this Melibeus answered his wife Prudence: "Everything you say," he said, "is true, and useful too; but truly my heart is so grievously troubled with this sorrow that I don't know what to do." "Send for all your true friends," said Prudence, "and those of your family who are wise. Tell them your situation, listen to what they say in counsel, and govern yourself by their opinion. Solomon says: 'Do everything you do with counsel, and you will never regret it.'"

§ 8. So, on the advice of his wife Prudence, this Melibeus had a great gathering of people called together: surgeons, physicians, old people and young, and some of his old enemies who were, by all appearances, reconciled and back in his love and favour; and with them came some of his neighbours, who showed him respect more out of fear than out of love, as often happens. There came a great many cunning flatterers too, and wise advocates learned in the law.

§ 9. And when these people were assembled, this Melibeus laid his case before them in a sorrowful way; and from the way he spoke it seemed that he carried a cruel anger in his heart, ready to take vengeance on his enemies, and wanted the war to begin immediately; but all the same he asked their advice on the matter. A surgeon, with the leave and agreement of those who were wise, stood up and spoke to Melibeus as you shall hear.

§ 10. "Sir," he said, "the duty of us surgeons is to do the best we can for everyone, wherever we are retained, and to do no harm to our patients; and so it happens again and again that when two men have wounded each other, one and the same surgeon heals them both. It is no part of our art, then, to feed a war or to support either side. But certainly, as to the healing of your daughter, though she is dangerously wounded, we will work so hard over her, day and night, that with the grace of God she will be whole and sound as soon as possible." The physicians answered in much the same way, except that they said a few words more: "Just as diseases are cured by their opposites, so men should cure war by vengeance." His neighbours, full of envy, his false friends who seemed to be reconciled, and his flatterers all made a show of weeping, and they made the business much worse and inflamed it further by loudly praising Melibeus for his might, his power, his riches and his friends, and scorning the power of his adversaries; and they said outright that he should avenge himself on his enemies at once and begin a war.

§ 11. Then a wise advocate stood up, with the leave and on the advice of others who were wise, and said: "Gentlemen, the business that brings us together here is a very heavy thing and a grave matter, because of the wrong and the wickedness that has been done, and also because of the great harm that may come of it in time to come, and also because of the great riches and power of both parties; and for all these reasons it would be very dangerous to make a mistake in this matter. So, Melibeus, this is our judgement. We advise you, above all things, to take pains at once to guard your own person, in such a way that you lack neither spy nor watchman to keep your body safe. And after that we advise you to put a sufficient garrison in your house, so that they can defend your body as well as your house. But certainly, as for starting a war, or taking sudden vengeance, we cannot judge in so short a time whether it would be to your profit. So we ask for leisure and room to deliberate before we judge this case. For the common proverb says: 'He who judges in haste will repent in haste.' And people also say that the wise judge is the one who understands a matter quickly and judges it at leisure. For although all delay is irksome, still it is not to be blamed in giving judgement or in taking vengeance, when it is sufficient and reasonable. Our Lord Jesus Christ showed this by his example. When the woman who had been taken in adultery was brought before him, so that he might say what should be done with her, although he knew perfectly well himself what he would answer, still he would not answer suddenly, but chose to deliberate, and wrote twice on the ground. For these reasons we ask for time to deliberate; and then, by the grace of God, we will advise you on what will be to your profit."

§ 12. Then the young people jumped up all at once, and most of that company scorned the wise old men and began to make a noise, and said that just as men should strike while the iron is hot, so men should avenge their wrongs while they are fresh and new; and at the tops of their voices they shouted, "War! War!"

Then one of the wise old men stood up, and with his hand made a sign that they should keep quiet and give him a hearing. "Gentlemen," he said, "there is many a man who shouts 'War! War!' who knows very little what war amounts to. War at its beginning has so great and so wide an entrance that anyone can go in when he likes and find war easily enough. But what end will come of it is certainly not easy to know. For truly, once a war has begun, there is many a child still unborn in its mother's womb who will die young because of that same war, or else live in sorrow and die in misery. And therefore, before any war begins, men must take great counsel and deliberate long." And when this old man meant to back up his speech with reasons, almost all of them at once began to get up to break in on him, and told him again and again to cut his words short. For truly, a man who preaches to people who do not want to hear him only annoys them with his sermon. For Jesus son of Sirach says that "music in a time of weeping is an annoying thing"; that is to say, it does as much good to speak to people whom the speech annoys as to sing to someone who is weeping. And when this wise man saw that no one would hear him, he sat down again, quite ashamed. For Solomon says: "Where you can get no hearing, do not try to speak." "I see well," said this wise man, "that the common proverb is true: 'Good counsel is lacking when it is most needed.'"

§ 13. Melibeus also had many people in his council who privately whispered one piece of advice in his ear and gave him the opposite advice in open hearing.

When Melibeus had heard that the greater part of his council agreed that he should make war, he consented to their advice at once and fully confirmed their judgement. Then Dame Prudence, seeing how her husband was preparing to avenge himself on his enemies and to begin a war, waited for her moment and then spoke these words to him, most humbly. "My lord," she said, "I beg you as earnestly as I dare and can, do not hurry too fast; and as you hope for any reward, give me a hearing. For Peter Alfonsi says: 'If anyone does you good or harm, do not be in a hurry to repay it; for in that way your friend will wait for you, and your enemy will live in fear the longer.' The proverb says: 'He hastens well who knows how to wait wisely'; and in wicked haste there is no profit."

§ 14. Melibeus answered his wife Prudence. "I do not intend," he said, "to act on your advice, for many causes and reasons. For certainly everyone would then take me for a fool—that is to say, if I were to change, because of your advice, things that have been ordained and confirmed by so many wise people. Secondly, I say that all women are wicked, and there is not a good one among them all. For 'among a thousand men,' says Solomon, 'I found one good man; but certainly, among all women, I never found a good woman.' And also, certainly, if I governed myself by your advice, it would look as if I had given you the mastery over me; and God forbid that it should be so. For Jesus son of Sirach says that 'if the wife has the mastery, she is contrary to her husband.' And Solomon says: 'Never in your life give power over yourself to your wife, or to your child, or to your friend. For it is better that your children should ask you for the things they need than that you should see yourself in the hands of your children.' And besides, if I were to act on your advice, my counsel would certainly have to be kept secret sometimes, until it was time for it to be known; and that cannot be. For it is written that 'the chatter of women can hide nothing but the things they do not know.' Furthermore, the Philosopher says, 'In wicked counsel women get the better of men'; and for these reasons I ought not to use your advice."

§ 15. Dame Prudence heard out everything her husband cared to say, very graciously and with great patience, and then she asked his leave to speak, and spoke like this. "My lord," she said, "your first reason can certainly be answered easily. For I say that it is no folly to change your counsel when the thing itself has changed, or when the thing looks otherwise than it did before. And moreover I say that even if you have sworn and promised to carry out your undertaking, and you nevertheless give it up for a just cause, nobody should say on that account that you were a liar or forsworn. For the book says that 'the wise man tells no lie when he turns his heart to the better course.' And even though your undertaking has been settled and ordained by a great multitude of people, still you need not carry out that decision unless you please. For the truth of things, and what is to our profit, are found sooner among a few people who are wise and full of reason than in a great multitude, where every man shouts and chatters whatever he likes. Truly, a multitude like that is not a respectable thing. As to the second reason, where you say that 'all women are wicked': saving your grace, in saying so you certainly despise all women; and 'he who despises all, displeases all,' as the book says. And Seneca says that 'whoever wants wisdom shall disparage no one, but shall gladly teach the knowledge he has, without presumption or pride; and such things as he does not know, he shall not be ashamed to learn, and to ask about them of people of lower standing than himself.' And, sir, it can easily be proved that there have been many good women. For certainly, sir, our Lord Jesus Christ would never have come down to be born of a woman if all women had been wicked. And afterwards, because of the great goodness there is in women, our Lord Jesus Christ, when he had risen from death to life, appeared to a woman before he appeared to his apostles. And though Solomon says that he never found a good woman, it does not follow that all women are wicked. For even if he found no good woman, certainly many another man has found many a woman thoroughly good and true. Or else perhaps what Solomon meant was this: that he found no woman of supreme goodness; that is to say, that no one has supreme goodness but God alone, as he himself records in his Gospel. For there is no creature so good that he does not fall somewhat short of the perfection of God, who is his maker. Your third reason is this: you say that 'if you govern yourself by my advice, it would look as if you had given me the mastery and lordship over your person.' Sir, saving your grace, it is not so. For if it were true that nobody should be advised except by those who had lordship and mastery over him, people would not be advised so often. For truly, the man who asks advice about a plan still has a free choice whether he will act on that advice or not. And as to your fourth reason, where you say that 'the chatter of women has hidden only the things they do not know'—as if to say that 'a woman cannot hide what she knows'—sir, those words are meant of women who are chatterboxes and wicked; of such women people say that 'three things drive a man out of his house: smoke, dripping rain, and wicked wives'; and of such women Solomon says that 'it would be better to live in the desert than with a woman who is quarrelsome.' And sir, by your leave, that is not me; for you have tested my great silence and my great patience very often, and also how well I can hide and keep close the things that ought to be kept secret. And truly, as to your fifth reason, where you say that 'in wicked counsel women get the better of men': God knows, that reason has no place here. For understand this: you are asking advice in order to do wickedness; and if you mean to do wickedness, and your wife restrains that wicked purpose and gets the better of you by reason and good advice, then certainly your wife ought to be praised rather than blamed. That is how you should understand the Philosopher when he says, 'In wicked counsel women get the better of their husbands.' And since you blame all women and their reasoning, I will show you by many examples that many a woman has been very good, and still is, and their counsels very wholesome and profitable. Some men have also said that 'the counsel of women is either too costly or else worth too little.' But even though many a woman is bad, and her counsel vile and worthless, still people have found a great many good women, very discreet and wise in counsel. Look: Jacob, by the good counsel of his mother Rebecca, won the blessing of his father Isaac and the lordship over all his brothers. Judith, by her good counsel, delivered the city of Bethulia, where she lived, out of the hands of Holofernes, who had besieged it and would have destroyed it utterly. Abigail saved her husband Nabal from King David, who would have killed him, and calmed the king's anger by her wit and her good counsel. Esther, by her good counsel, greatly raised up the people of God in the reign of King Ahasuerus. And the same goodness in giving good counsel can be told of many a good woman. Moreover, when our Lord had created Adam, our first father, he said: 'It is not good for the man to be alone; let us make him a helper like himself.' Here you can see that if women were not good, and their counsels good and profitable, our Lord God of heaven would never have made them, nor called them the help of man, but rather the ruin of man. And a scholar once said, in two lines of verse: 'What is better than gold? Jasper. What is better than jasper? Wisdom. And what is better than wisdom? Woman. And what is better than a good woman? Nothing.' And, sir, there are many other reasons by which you can see that many women are good, and their counsels good and profitable. And therefore, sir, if you will trust my advice, I will restore your daughter to you whole and sound. And besides, I will do so much for you that you will come out of this business with honour."

§ 16. When Melibeus had heard the words of his wife Prudence, he said this: "I see well that the word of Solomon is true. He says that 'words that are spoken discreetly and in good order are honeycombs, for they give sweetness to the soul and health to the body.' And, wife, because of your sweet words, and also because I have tried and proved your great wisdom and your great good faith, I will govern myself by your counsel in all things."

§ 17. "Now, sir," said Dame Prudence, "since you are willing to be governed by my counsel, I will instruct you how you should govern yourself in choosing your counsellors. First of all, in all your works, you should humbly beseech the high God to be your counsellor; and set yourself to this purpose, that he may give you counsel and comfort, as old Tobit, in the Bible, taught his son Tobias: 'At all times bless God, and pray him to direct your ways'; and see that all your counsels are in him for evermore. Saint James says too: 'If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask it of God.' And after that you should take counsel with yourself, and examine your thoughts closely about whatever seems to you best for your profit. And then you should drive out of your heart three things that are hostile to good counsel: that is to say, anger, greed and hastiness.

§ 18. "First, a man who asks counsel of himself must certainly be without anger, for many reasons. The first is this: a man who has great anger and wrath in him always thinks he can do what he cannot do. Secondly, a man who is angry and wrathful cannot judge well; and a man who cannot judge well cannot counsel well. The third is this: that 'a man who is angry and wrathful,' as Seneca says, 'can say nothing without finding fault'; and with his vicious words he stirs other people to anger and wrath. And also, sir, you must drive greed out of your heart. For the Apostle Paul says that 'greed is the root of all harms.' And you may be sure that a greedy man can neither judge nor think of anything except how to fulfil the end of his greed; and certainly that can never be accomplished, for the more abundance of riches he has, the more he wants. And, sir, you must also drive hastiness out of your heart; for certainly you cannot take a sudden thought that falls into your heart to be the best, but you must consider it carefully, many times over. For, as you heard before, the common proverb is this: 'He who judges in haste repents in haste.'

§ 19. "Sir, you are not always in the same frame of mind; for certainly something that at one time seems to you good to do will at another time seem to you the very opposite.

§ 20. "When you have taken counsel with yourself, and have judged, after good deliberation, what seems best to you, then I advise you to keep it secret. Do not reveal your counsel to anyone, unless you truly believe that by revealing it you will make your position more to your advantage. For Jesus son of Sirach says: 'Do not uncover your secret or your folly either to your enemy or to your friend; for they will listen to you, and look at you, and support you to your face, and scorn you behind your back.' Another scholar says that 'you will hardly find anyone who can keep a secret.' The book says: 'While you keep your counsel in your heart, you keep it in your prison; and when you reveal your counsel to anyone, he holds you in his snare.' And therefore it is better for you to hide your counsel in your heart than to beg the man you have revealed it to that he keep it close and quiet. For Seneca says: 'If you cannot hide your own counsel, how dare you beg anyone else to keep it secret?' But all the same, if you truly believe that revealing your counsel to someone will put your position in better shape, then you should tell him your counsel in this way. First, you should give no sign whether you would rather have peace or war, or this or that, and you should not show him your will and your intention; for you may be sure that counsellors are commonly flatterers, especially the counsellors of great lords, for they always try harder to speak pleasant words, leaning towards whatever the lord wants, than words that are true or profitable. And that is why people say that 'the rich man seldom has good counsel, unless he has it from himself.' And after that you should consider your friends and your enemies. As regards your friends, you should consider which of them are the most faithful and the wisest, the oldest and the most proven in counsel; and of them you should ask your counsel, as the case requires.

§ 21. "I say that first you should call to your council those of your friends who are true. For Solomon says that 'just as the heart of a man delights in a taste that is sweet, so the counsel of true friends gives sweetness to the soul.' He also says: 'Nothing can be compared to a true friend.' For certainly gold and silver are not worth as much as the good will of a true friend. And he says too that 'a true friend is a strong defence; whoever finds one has certainly found a great treasure.' Then you should also consider whether your true friends are discreet and wise. For the book says: 'Always ask your counsel of those who are wise.' And for this same reason you should call to your council those of your friends who are of mature age, who have seen much, and are experienced in many things, and are proven in giving counsel. For the book says that 'in old men is wisdom, and in length of days is prudence.' And Cicero says that 'great things are not always accomplished by strength or by agility of body, but by good counsel, by the authority of persons, and by knowledge; and these three things do not grow feeble with age, but certainly grow stronger and increase day by day.' And then you should keep this as a general rule. First you should call to your council a few of your friends who are especially close; for Solomon says: 'Have many friends, but out of a thousand choose one to be your counsellor.' For even though you tell your counsel only to a few at first, you can tell it to more people afterwards, if there is need. But always see that your counsellors have the three qualities I have spoken of already: that is to say, that they are true, wise, and of long experience. And do not always, in every need, act on the advice of one counsellor alone; for sometimes it is necessary to be counselled by many. For Solomon says: 'Where there are many counsellors, there things are safe.'

§ 22. "Now that I have told you by what people you should be counselled, I will teach you whose counsel you ought to avoid. First you should avoid the counsel of fools; for Solomon says: 'Take no counsel from a fool, for he can give no counsel except according to his own desire and his own feelings.' The book says that 'the nature of a fool is this: he readily believes harm of everyone, and readily believes all goodness of himself.' You should also avoid the counsel of all flatterers, those who try harder to praise your person with flattery than to tell you the truth of things.

§ 23. "That is why Cicero says: 'Among all the plagues there are in friendship, the greatest is flattery.' And so it is more necessary for you to avoid and fear flatterers than any other people. The book says: 'You should rather fear and flee the sweet words of flattering praisers than the sharp words of your friend who tells you the truth about yourself.' Solomon says that 'the words of a flatterer are a snare to catch the innocent.' He says also that 'whoever speaks to his friend in words of sweetness and pleasantness sets a net before his feet to catch him.' And therefore Cicero says: 'Do not bend your ears to flatterers, and take no counsel from words of flattery.' And Cato, in the little book of maxims every schoolboy learned, says: 'Think it over well, and shun words of sweetness and pleasantness.' And you should also avoid the counsel of your old enemies who have been reconciled. The book says that 'no one returns safely into the favour of his old enemy.' And Aesop, the teller of fables, says: 'Do not trust those you have once been at war or at enmity with, and do not tell them your counsel.' And Seneca gives the reason why. 'It cannot be,' he says, 'that where a great fire has burned for a long time, some vapour of warmth does not remain.' And that is why Solomon says: 'Never trust your old enemy.' For surely, even though your enemy is reconciled and puts on a humble face for you, and bows his head to you, never trust him. For certainly he puts on that pretended humility more for his own profit than for any love of you; because he expects to win a victory over you by such a pretended manner, a victory he could not win by strife or war. And Peter Alfonsi says: 'Keep no company with your old enemies; for if you do them a kindness, they will twist it into wickedness.' And you must also avoid the counsel of those who are your servants and show you great reverence; for perhaps they say what they say more out of fear than out of love. And that is why a philosopher says this: 'No one is perfectly true to the man he fears too much.' And Cicero says: 'There is no power of any emperor so great that it can last long, unless he has more love from the people than fear.' You should also avoid the counsel of people who are given to drink, for they can hide no secret. For Solomon says: 'There is no privacy where drunkenness reigns.' You should also be suspicious of the counsel of people who advise you one thing privately and the opposite openly. For Cassiodorus, the Roman statesman who served the Gothic king Theodoric, says that 'it is a kind of trick to hinder you, when a man makes a show of doing one thing openly and privately works the opposite.' You should also be suspicious of the counsel of wicked people. For the book says: 'The counsel of wicked people is always full of fraud.' And David says, at the very beginning of the Psalms: 'Blessed is the man who has not followed the counsel of the wicked.' You should also avoid the counsel of young people, for their counsel is not yet ripe.

§ 24. "Now, sir, since I have shown you from what people you should take your counsel, and whose counsel you should follow, I will teach you how you should examine your counsel, according to the teaching of Cicero. In examining your counsellor, then, you should consider many things. First of all you should make sure that, in the thing you intend and on which you want counsel, the plain truth is told and kept; that is to say, tell your story truthfully. For a man who says what is false cannot be well counselled in the matter he is lying about. And after this you should consider whether the things you intend to do on the advice of your counsellors agree with reason; and also whether your power can reach to them; and whether the greater part and the better part of your counsellors agree with it, or not. Then you should consider what will follow from that counsel: hatred, peace, war, favour, profit or harm, and many other things. And among all these things you should choose the best, and set all the others aside. Then you should consider from what root the matter of your counsel springs, and what fruit it may conceive and bring forth. You should also consider all these causes, and where they have sprung from. And when you have examined your counsel as I have said, and found which side is the better and more profitable, and have had it approved by many wise and old people, then you should consider whether you can carry it out and bring it to a good end. For certainly reason does not allow that any man should begin a thing unless he is able to carry it through as he ought to. Nor should anyone take on himself so heavy a load that he cannot bear it. For the proverb says: 'He who grasps too much holds little.' And Cato says: 'Try to do what you have the power to do, so that the load does not weigh on you so heavily that you have to give up what you have begun.' And if you are in doubt whether you can carry a thing out or not, choose to hold off rather than begin. And Peter Alfonsi says: 'If you have the power to do a thing you will have to repent of, it is better to say "no" than "yes"'; that is to say, it is better for you to hold your tongue than to speak. Then you can understand, by stronger reasons, that if you have the power to carry out a work you will repent of, it is better to hold off than to begin. Those who forbid anyone to attempt a thing he is in doubt of being able to carry out are right. And afterwards, when you have examined your counsel as I have said before, and know well that you can carry out your undertaking, then confirm it steadfastly until it is brought to an end.

§ 25. "Now it is reasonable, and time, for me to show you when, and why, you may change your counsel without being blamed for it. Truly, a man may change his purpose and his counsel if the cause ceases, or when a new case arises. For the law says that 'new things that happen call for new counsel.' And Seneca says: 'If your counsel has come to the ears of your enemy, change your counsel.' You may also change your counsel if you find that harm or damage may come of it, through error or some other cause. Also, if your counsel is dishonourable, or comes from a dishonourable cause, change your counsel. For the laws say that 'all promises that are dishonourable are of no value.' And also if it turns out to be impossible, or cannot well be carried out or kept.

§ 26. "And take this as a general rule: that every counsel which is confirmed so strongly that it cannot be changed, whatever may happen, is, I say, a wicked counsel."

§ 27. When this Melibeus had heard the teaching of his wife Dame Prudence, he answered her like this. "Madam," he said, "up to now you have taught me well and fittingly, in general terms, how I should govern myself in choosing and in keeping my counsellors. But now I would very much like you to come down to particulars and tell me how you like, or what you think of, the counsellors we have chosen in our present need."

§ 28. "My lord," she said, "I beseech you in all humility not to argue stubbornly against my reasons, nor to upset your heart if I say something that displeases you. For God knows that, as far as my intention goes, I say it for your good, for your honour and for your profit too. And truly I hope that your kindness will take it patiently. Believe me," she said, "your counsel in this case should not, properly speaking, be called counsel at all, but a motion, a stirring, of folly; and in this counsel you have gone wrong in many different ways.

§ 29. "First and foremost, you went wrong in assembling your counsellors. For you should first have called a few people to your council, and afterwards you could have shown it to more people, if there had been need. But certainly you called a great multitude of people to your council all at once, very burdensome and very tiresome to listen to. You went wrong also because, where you should have called to your council only your true friends, old and wise, you called strangers, and young people, false flatterers, enemies reconciled, and people who show you reverence without love. And again you went wrong because you brought anger, greed and hastiness with you to your council, three things that are hostile to all honest and profitable counsel; and you did not bring these three things to nothing or destroy them, either in yourself or in your counsellors, as you ought. You went wrong also because you showed your counsellors your wish and your desire to make war at once and to take vengeance; they spied out from your words which way you were leaning. And so they counselled you to suit your wish rather than your profit. You went wrong also because it seems to have been enough for you to be counselled by these counsellors alone, and with little thought; whereas in so great and so grave a need more counsellors were necessary, and more deliberation, before carrying out your undertaking. You went wrong also because you did not examine your counsel in the manner I have described, nor in due manner, as the case requires. You went wrong also because you made no distinction between your counsellors, that is to say between your true friends and your pretended counsellors; nor did you find out the will of your true friends, old and wise; but you threw all their words together into a hotchpotch, a stew of everything at once, and bent your heart towards the larger side and the greater number, and there you settled. And since you know well that men will always find a greater number of fools than of wise men, you can see well that in councils held among crowds and multitudes of people, where men pay more regard to the number of persons than to their wisdom, fools have the mastery."

Melibeus answered in turn, and said: "I freely grant that I have gone wrong; but since you have told me before now that a man is not to blame who changes his counsellors in certain cases and for certain just causes, I am quite ready to change my counsellors, just as you shall direct. The proverb says that 'to sin is human, but certainly to persist long in sin is the devil's work.'"

§ 30. To this Dame Prudence answered at once, and said: "Examine your counsel," she said, "and let us see which of them have spoken most reasonably and given you the best counsel. And since the examination is necessary, let us begin with the surgeons and physicians, who spoke first in this matter. I tell you that the surgeons and physicians spoke to you discreetly in your council, as they ought; and in what they said they said very wisely that it is part of their office to do honour and good to everyone and to harm no one, and, according to their craft, to take great pains over the cure of those they have in their care. And, sir, just as they answered wisely and discreetly, so I advise that they be highly and handsomely rewarded for their noble speech, and also so that they will take all the more careful pains in the curing of your dear daughter. For even though they are your friends, you should not for that reason let them serve you for nothing; you ought rather to reward them all the more and show them your generosity. And as touching the proposition the physicians put forward in this case, that is to say that in diseases one opposite is cured by another, I would very much like to know how you understand that text, and what you take it to mean." "Certainly," said Melibeus, "I understand it this way: that just as they have done me an opposite, so I should do them another. For just as they have avenged themselves on me and done me wrong, so I shall avenge myself on them and do them wrong; and then I have cured one opposite by another."

§ 31. "Look, look!" said Dame Prudence. "How easily every man leans towards his own desire and his own pleasure! Certainly," she said, "the words of the physicians should not have been understood in that way. For certainly wickedness is not the opposite of wickedness, nor vengeance of vengeance, nor wrong of wrong; they are alike. And therefore one vengeance is not cured by another vengeance, nor one wrong by another wrong; each of them only increases and aggravates the other. But certainly the words of the physicians should be understood like this: good and wickedness are two opposites, and so are peace and war, vengeance and forbearance, discord and accord, and many other things. And certainly wickedness shall be cured by goodness, discord by accord, war by peace, and so on with other things. And Saint Paul the apostle agrees with this in many places. He says: 'Do not repay harm with harm, nor wicked speech with wicked speech; but do good to the man who does you harm, and bless the man who speaks harm to you.' And in many other places he urges peace and accord. But now I will speak to you of the counsel that was given you by the men of law and the wise people, who all said with one accord, as you heard before, that above all things you should take pains to guard your person and to garrison your house. And they also said that in this case you ought to act very carefully and with great deliberation. And, sir, as to the first point, which concerns the guarding of your person: you must understand that a man who has a war on his hands must always, before all things, pray meekly and devoutly that Jesus Christ of his great mercy will take him into his protection and be his sovereign help in his need. For certainly there is no one in this world who can be counselled or guarded well enough without the keeping of our Lord Jesus Christ. The prophet David agrees with this opinion when he says: 'Unless God keeps the city, the watchman stays awake in vain.' Now, sir, you should then commit the guarding of your person to your true friends who are proven and known; and of them you should ask help to guard your person. For Cato says: 'If you need help, ask it of your friends; for there is no physician as good as your true friend.' And after this you should keep yourself away from all strangers, and from liars, and always be suspicious of their company. For Peter Alfonsi says: 'Do not take up with a stranger on the road unless you have known him for some time. And if he happens to fall in with you without your consent, then inquire, as cleverly as you can, about his conduct and his past life, and disguise your route: say that you are going where you do not mean to go; and if he carries a spear, keep to his right side, and if he carries a sword, keep to his left.' And after this you should keep yourself wisely from all the kinds of people I have spoken of before, and avoid them and their counsel. And after this you should conduct yourself in such a way that you do not, out of any overconfidence in your own strength, despise the power of your adversary or count it so little that you neglect the guarding of your person because of your overconfidence; for every wise man fears his enemy. And Solomon says: 'Happy is he who fears all men; for certainly he who, through the boldness of his heart and the boldness of himself, has too much presumption, will come to harm.' Then you must always watch out for ambushes and all spying. For Seneca says that 'the wise man who fears harms avoids harms; and he who avoids dangers does not fall into dangers.' And even if it seems that you are in a safe place, still you should always take pains in guarding your person; that is to say, do not be careless about guarding yourself, not only from your greatest enemies but from your least enemy. Seneca says: 'A man who is well advised fears his least enemy.' Ovid says that 'the little weasel will kill the great bull and the wild hart.' And the book says: 'A little thorn can prick a great king very painfully; and a hound will hold the wild boar.' But all the same, I do not say you should be such a coward that you are afraid where there is nothing to fear. The book says that 'some people have a great desire to deceive, and yet they are afraid of being deceived.' Still, you should be afraid of being poisoned, and keep away from the company of scoffers. For the book says: 'Keep no company with scoffers, but flee their words like venom.'

§ 32. "Now, as to the second point, where your wise counsellors advised you to garrison your house with great diligence, I would very much like to know how you understand those words, and what you take them to mean."

§ 33. Melibeus answered and said, "Certainly I understand it this way: that I should fortify my house with towers, such as castles have, and other kinds of buildings, and with armour and artillery, by which I can guard and defend my person and my house so well that my enemies will be afraid to come near my house."

§ 34. To this Prudence answered at once. "Fortifying with high towers and great buildings," she said, "sometimes has to do with pride; and besides, people build high towers and great buildings at great cost and with great labour, and when they are finished they are still not worth a straw unless they are defended by true friends who are old and wise. And understand this well: the greatest and strongest garrison a rich man can have, to guard his person as well as his goods, is to be loved among his subjects and by his neighbours. For this is what Cicero says: that 'there is a kind of garrison that no one can vanquish or defeat, and that is for a lord to be loved by his citizens and his people.'

§ 35. "Now, sir, as to the third point, where your old and wise counsellors said that you ought not to proceed suddenly or hastily in this need, but that you ought to provide for it and prepare yourself in this case with great diligence and great deliberation: truly, I believe they spoke very wisely and very truly. For Cicero says: 'In every undertaking, before you begin it, prepare yourself with great diligence.' Then I say that in taking vengeance, in war, in battle and in fortifying, before you begin, I advise you to prepare yourself for it, and to do it with great deliberation. For Cicero says that 'long preparation before the battle makes a short victory.' And Cassiodorus says: 'The garrison is stronger when it has been long thought out.'

§ 36. "But now let us speak of the counsel that was agreed on by your neighbours, the ones who show you reverence without love, your old enemies reconciled, your flatterers who counselled you certain things privately and openly counselled you the opposite, and the young people too, who counselled you to avenge yourself and make war at once. And certainly, sir, as I have said before, you went badly wrong in calling such people to your council; and these counsellors have been condemned enough by the reasons already given. But all the same, let us now come down to particulars. You should first proceed according to the teaching of Cicero. Certainly there is no need to inquire carefully into the truth of this matter or of this counsel; for it is well known who they are that have done you this trespass and this outrage, and how many trespassers there were, and in what way they did you all this wrong and all this outrage. And after this you should examine the second condition, which the same Cicero adds in this matter. For Cicero sets down a thing he calls 'consenting'; that is to say, who they are, and how many, and of what kind, that consented to your counsel in your wilfulness to take hasty vengeance. And let us also consider who they are, and how many, and of what kind, that consented to your adversaries. And certainly, as to the first point, it is well known what people consented to your hasty wilfulness; for truly, all those who counselled you to make sudden war are not your friends. Let us now consider who they are that you think so much of as your friends, as far as your own person goes. For although you are mighty and rich, certainly you are all alone. For certainly you have no child but a daughter; nor do you have brothers, or first cousins, or any other close kin, for fear of whom your enemies would stop going to law with you or trying to destroy you. You know also that your riches must be divided among various parties; and when everyone has his share, they will care very little about avenging your death. But your enemies are three, and they have many children, brothers, cousins and other close kin; and even if you had killed two or three of them, there would still be enough left to avenge their death and to kill you. And even if your kin were more reliable and steadfast than the kin of your adversary, nonetheless your kin are only distant kin; they are only slightly related to you, while the kin of your enemies are closely related to them. And certainly, in that respect, their position is better than yours. Then let us also consider whether the counsel of those who advised you to take sudden vengeance agrees with reason. And certainly you know well: 'No.' For by right and reason no man may take vengeance on anyone, except the judge who has jurisdiction over it, when it is granted him to take that vengeance, swiftly or with moderation, as the law requires. And moreover, as to that word Cicero calls 'consenting,' you should consider whether your might and your power can consent to, and be sufficient for, your wilfulness and your counsellors. And certainly you may well say: 'No.' For surely, properly speaking, we can do nothing except what we can do rightfully. And certainly you cannot rightfully take any vengeance on your own authority. So you can see that your power does not consent to, or agree with, your wilfulness. Let us now examine the third point, which Cicero calls 'the consequence.' You must understand that the vengeance you intend to take is the consequence. And from that there follows another vengeance, danger and war, and other damage without number, which we are not aware of at this time. And as touching the fourth point, which Cicero calls 'engendering,' you should consider that this wrong which has been done to you was engendered by the hatred of your enemies; and that taking vengeance for it would engender another vengeance, and great sorrow and waste of riches, as I said.

§ 37. "Now, sir, as to the point Cicero calls 'causes,' which is the last point, you must understand that the wrong you have received has certain causes, which scholars call Oriens and Efficiens, the cause that originates a thing and the cause that brings it about, and Causa longinqua and Causa propinqua; that is to say, the distant cause and the near cause. The distant cause is almighty God, who is the cause of all things. The nearer cause is your three enemies. The accidental cause was hatred. The material cause is the five wounds of your daughter. The formal cause is the way they went about it: they brought ladders and climbed in at your windows. The final cause was to kill your daughter; it was not their fault that they did not, as far as it lay in them. But to speak of the distant cause, as to what end they will come to, or what will finally become of them in this case, I cannot judge except by conjecture and supposition. For we must suppose that they will come to a bad end, because the Book of Decrees, the great collection of the Church's law, says: 'Things that are badly begun are seldom brought to a good end, or only with great difficulty.'

§ 38. "Now, sir, if anyone were to ask me why God allowed people to do you this outrage, certainly I cannot answer that with any certainty. For the Apostle says that 'the knowledge and the judgements of our Lord God almighty are very deep; no one can comprehend them or search them out sufficiently.' Nonetheless, by certain presumptions and conjectures, I hold and believe that God, who is full of justice and righteousness, has allowed this to happen for a just and reasonable cause.

§ 39. "Your name is Melibeus, that is to say, 'a man who drinks honey.' You have drunk so much of the honey of sweet worldly riches, and of the delights and honours of this world, that you are drunk, and you have forgotten Jesus Christ your creator; you have not given him the honour and reverence you ought. Nor have you paid much attention to the words of Ovid, who says: 'Under the honey of the goods of the body is hidden the venom that kills the soul.' And Solomon says: 'If you have found honey, eat as much of it as is enough; for if you eat it beyond measure, you will vomit,' and be needy and poor. And perhaps Christ holds you in contempt, and has turned away from you his face and his ears of mercy; and he has also allowed you to be punished in the same way that you have sinned. You have sinned against our Lord Christ; for certainly the three enemies of mankind, that is to say the flesh, the devil and the world, you have wilfully let into your heart through the windows of your body, and have not defended yourself well enough against their assaults and their temptations, so that they have wounded your soul in five places; that is to say, the deadly sins have entered your heart through your five senses. And in the same way our Lord Christ has willed and allowed your three enemies to enter your house through the windows, and to wound your daughter in the way I have described."

§ 40. "Certainly," said Melibeus, "I see well that you are working hard with words to overcome me in such a way that I shall not avenge myself on my enemies, showing me the dangers and the evils that might come of this vengeance. But if anyone were to consider, in every vengeance, the dangers and evils that might follow from taking it, no man would ever take vengeance, and that would be harmful; for it is by taking vengeance that the wicked are separated from the good. And those who have a will to do wickedness hold back their wicked purpose when they see the punishing and chastising of the trespassers." And to this Dame Prudence answered: "Certainly," she said, "I freely grant that from vengeance comes much evil and much good; but taking vengeance does not belong to everyone, but only to judges and to those who have jurisdiction over the trespassers. And I say still more: that just as a private person sins in taking vengeance on another man, so the judge sins if he does not take vengeance on those who have deserved it. For Seneca says this: 'That master,' he says, 'is good who convicts the wicked.' And as Cassiodorus says: 'A man is afraid to commit outrages when he knows and recognises that it displeases the judges and rulers.' And another says: 'The judge who is afraid to do right makes men wicked.' And Saint Paul the apostle says, in his epistle when he writes to the Romans, that 'the judges do not bear the spear without cause'; they bear it to punish the wicked and the wrongdoers, and to defend good men. If you want to take vengeance on your enemies, then, you should go back, or have recourse, to the judge who has jurisdiction over them; and he will punish them as the law asks and requires."

§ 41. "Ah!" said Melibeus. "That kind of vengeance does not please me at all. I am thinking now, and taking note, how Fortune has nursed me from my childhood, and has helped me through many a hard pass. Now I will put her to the test, trusting that, with God's help, she will help me avenge my shame."

§ 42. "Certainly," said Prudence, "if you will act on my counsel, you will not put Fortune to the test in any way, nor lean or bow to her, according to the word of Seneca; for 'things that are done foolishly, in the hope of Fortune, will never come to a good end.' And as the same Seneca says: 'The brighter and the more shining Fortune is, the more brittle she is and the sooner broken.' Do not trust in her, for she is neither steadfast nor stable; for when you think yourself most secure and most sure of her help, she will fail you and deceive you. And where you say that Fortune has nursed you since your childhood, I say that for that very reason you should trust all the less in her and in her wit. For Seneca says: 'Whatever man is nursed by Fortune, she makes a great fool of him.' Now then, since you desire and ask for vengeance, and the vengeance that is done according to the law and before the judge does not please you, and the vengeance that is done in the hope of Fortune is dangerous and uncertain, then you have no other remedy but to have recourse to the sovereign Judge who avenges all outrages and wrongs; and he will avenge you, as he himself bears witness when he says: 'Leave vengeance to me, and I will repay.'"

§ 43. Melibeus answered, "If I do not avenge myself for the outrage people have done to me, I summon, or invite, those who have done me that outrage, and everyone else too, to do me another outrage. For it is written: 'If you take no vengeance for an old outrage, you summon your adversaries to do you a new one.' And besides, because of my forbearance, people would do me so much outrage that I could neither bear it nor endure it; and so I should be put down and kept far too low. For people say: 'If you put up with much, many things will happen to you that you will not be able to put up with.'"

§ 44. "Certainly," said Prudence, "I grant you that too much forbearance is not good; but it still does not follow from that that every person to whom an outrage is done should take vengeance for it; for that belongs and pertains only to the judges, since it is they who must avenge outrages and injuries. And therefore those two authorities you quoted above are to be understood only of the judges; for when they allow wrongs and outrages to be done too freely without punishment, they do not merely summon a man to do new wrongs, they command it. A wise man also says that 'the judge who does not correct the sinner commands and bids him to sin.' And judges and rulers might put up with so much from the wicked and the wrongdoers in their land that, through such forbearance, in the course of time, the wicked would grow to such power and might that they would drive the judges and rulers out of their places, and at last make them lose their lordships.

§ 45. "But let us now suppose that you have leave to avenge yourself. I say that you are not, at present, of the might and power to avenge yourself. For if you will compare yourself with the might of your adversaries, you will find, in many of the things I have shown you before this, that their position is better than yours. And therefore I say that it is good, for now, that you should bear it and be patient.

§ 46. "Furthermore, you know well that, as the common saying goes, 'it is madness for a man to fight with a stronger or mightier man than himself; and to fight with a man of equal strength, that is to say, with a man as strong as he is, is dangerous; and to fight with a weaker man is folly.' And therefore a man should avoid fighting as much as he can. For Solomon says: 'It is a great honour to a man to keep himself out of noise and strife.' And if it should happen that a man of greater might and strength than you does you an injury, set yourself and busy yourself rather to calm that same injury down than to avenge yourself. For Seneca says that 'he puts himself in great danger who fights with a greater man than himself.' And Cato says: 'If a man of higher rank or degree, or mightier than you, does you an annoyance or an injury, put up with him; for the man who has once injured you may another time relieve you and help you.' Yet let me suppose that you have both the might and the leave to avenge yourself. I say that there are a great many things that should restrain you from taking vengeance, and make you inclined to bear it, and to have patience in the things that have been done to you. First and foremost, if you will consider the faults that are in your own person, for which faults God has allowed you to have this affliction, as I have told you before. For the poet says that 'we ought to take patiently the afflictions that come to us, when we think and consider that we have deserved to have them.' And Saint Gregory says that 'when a man considers well the number of his faults and his sins, the pains and afflictions he suffers seem less to him; and the heavier and more grievous his sins seem to him, the lighter and easier his pain seems to him.' You ought also to incline and bow your heart to take on the patience of our Lord Jesus Christ, as Saint Peter says in his epistles: 'Jesus Christ,' he says, 'suffered for us, and gave every man an example to follow and copy; for he never sinned, and never did a rude word come out of his mouth; when men cursed him, he did not curse them; and when men beat him, he did not threaten them.' Also the great patience that the saints in paradise have shown in the afflictions they suffered, without deserving them or being guilty, ought to stir you greatly to patience. Furthermore, you should strive to have patience, considering that the afflictions of this world last only a little while, and are soon passed and gone, while the joy a man seeks to win by patience in affliction is perpetual, as the Apostle says in his epistle: 'The joy of God,' he says, 'is perpetual,' that is to say, everlasting. Also, trust and believe steadfastly that a man is not well brought up or well taught if he cannot have patience or will not accept patience. For Solomon says that 'the learning and the wit of a man are known by his patience.' And in another place he says that 'he who is patient governs himself with great prudence.' And the same Solomon says: 'The angry and wrathful man makes uproars, and the patient man calms them and quiets them.' He says also: 'It is worth more to be patient than to be very strong; and the man who can have the mastery of his own heart is more to be praised than the man who takes great cities by his force or strength.' And that is why Saint James says in his epistle that 'patience is a great virtue of perfection.'"

§ 47. "Certainly," said Melibeus, "I grant you, Dame Prudence, that patience is a great virtue of perfection; but not every man can have the perfection you are looking for; and I am not one of the number of truly perfect men, for my heart can never be at peace until it is avenged. And even though it was a great danger to my enemies to do me an outrage by taking vengeance on me, still they took no heed of the danger, but carried out their wicked will and their desire. And therefore it seems to me that people ought not to blame me if I put myself in a little danger to avenge myself, and if I commit a great excess, that is to say, if I avenge one outrage with another."

§ 48. "Ah!" said Dame Prudence. "You say what you want and what you please; but in no case in the world should a man commit outrage or excess to avenge himself. For Cassiodorus says that 'the man who avenges himself by outrage does as much evil as the man who commits the outrage.' And therefore you should avenge yourself according to the order of justice, that is to say by the law, and not by excess or by outrage. And besides, if you choose to avenge yourself for the outrage of your adversaries in any other way than justice commands, you sin; and that is why Seneca says that 'a man shall never avenge wickedness with wickedness.' And if you say that justice allows a man to meet violence with violence, and fighting with fighting, certainly you are right, when the defence is made at once, without interval, without waiting or delay, in order to defend himself and not to avenge himself. And a man must use such moderation in his defence that people have no cause or reason to blame the man who defends himself for excess and outrage; for otherwise it would be against reason. By God, you know well that you are making no defence at present to defend yourself, but to avenge yourself; and so it follows that you have no wish to do your deed with moderation. And therefore it seems to me that patience is good. For Solomon says that 'he who is not patient will come to great harm.'"

§ 49. "Certainly," said Melibeus, "I grant you that when a man is impatient and angry about something that does not concern him and is none of his business, it is no wonder if it harms him. For the law says that 'he is guilty who interferes or meddles with such things as are none of his business.' And Solomon says that 'he who meddles in the uproar or strife of another man is like a man who takes a dog by the ears.' For just as a man who takes a strange dog by the ears is sometimes bitten by the dog, in the same way it is reasonable that a man should come to harm who, through his impatience, meddles in another man's uproar, where it is none of his business. But you know well that this deed, that is to say my grief and my distress, touches me very closely. And therefore, if I am angry and impatient, it is no wonder. And, saving your grace, I cannot see that it could do me much harm if I took vengeance; for I am richer and mightier than my enemies are. And you know well that all the things of this world are governed by money and by owning great possessions. And Solomon says that 'all things obey money.'"

§ 50. When Prudence had heard her husband boast of his riches and his money, and belittle the power of his adversaries, she spoke, and said this: "Certainly, dear sir, I grant you that you are rich and mighty, and that riches are good to those who have come by them well and know how to use them well. For just as a man's body cannot live without the soul, no more can it live without worldly goods. And by riches a man can get himself great friends. And that is why Pamphilus, the lover in the old Latin comedy, says: 'If a cowherd's daughter,' he says, 'is rich, she can choose out of a thousand men which one she will take for her husband; for out of a thousand men, not one will forsake her or refuse her.' And this Pamphilus also says: 'If you are truly happy, that is to say, if you are truly rich, you will find a great number of companions and friends. And if your fortune changes so that you grow poor, farewell friendship and companionship; for you will be alone, without any company, unless it is the company of poor people.' And this Pamphilus says, moreover, that 'those who are slaves and bondmen by birth will be made worthy and noble by riches.' And just as many good things come from riches, so many harms and evils come from poverty. For great poverty forces a man to do many evils. And that is why Cassiodorus calls poverty 'the mother of ruin,' that is to say, the mother of overthrowing or falling down. And that is why Peter Alfonsi says: 'One of the greatest adversities in this world is when a man who is free, by nature or by birth, is forced by poverty to eat the charity of his enemy.' And Pope Innocent says the same in one of his books; he says that 'sorrowful and unhappy is the condition of a poor beggar; for if he does not ask for his food, he dies of hunger; and if he asks, he dies of shame; and in any case necessity forces him to ask.' And that is why Solomon says that 'it is better to die than to have such poverty.' And as the same Solomon says: 'It is better to die a bitter death than to live in such a way.' By these reasons I have given you, and by many other reasons I could give, I grant you that riches are good to those who come by them well, and to those who use those riches well. And therefore I will show you how you should conduct yourself, and how you should bear yourself, in gathering riches, and in what way you should use them.

§ 51. "First, you should get them without great craving, at good leisure, little by little, and not over-hastily. For a man who is too eager to get riches gives himself up first to theft and to all other evils. And that is why Solomon says: 'He who hurries too busily to grow rich shall not be innocent.' He says also that 'the riches that come to a man hastily go and pass away from him soon and easily; but the riches that come little by little keep growing and multiplying.' And, sir, you should get riches by your wit and by your labour, to your profit, and that without wrong or harm to any other person. For the law says that 'no man makes himself rich if he does harm to another'; that is to say, that nature by right prohibits and forbids any man to make himself rich to the harm of another person. And Cicero says that 'no sorrow, no fear of death, nothing that may happen to a man, is so much against nature as for a man to increase his own profit to the harm of another man. And even though great men and mighty men get riches more easily than you, still you should not be idle or slow to do yourself good; for you should flee idleness in every way.' For Solomon says that 'idleness teaches a man to do many evils.' And the same Solomon says that 'he who labours and busies himself to till his land shall eat bread; but he who is idle and sets himself to no business or occupation shall fall into poverty, and die of hunger.' And the man who is idle and slow can never find a suitable time to do himself good. For there is a versifier who says that 'the idle man excuses himself in winter because of the great cold, and in summer on account of the heat.' For these reasons Cato says: 'Stay awake, and do not give yourself over too much to sleep; for too much rest nourishes and causes many vices.' And that is why Saint Jerome says: 'Do some good deeds, so that the devil, who is our enemy, does not find you unoccupied.' For the devil does not easily take into his service those he finds occupied in good works.

§ 52. "Then in getting riches, as I have said, you must flee idleness. And afterwards you should use the riches you have got by your wit and your labour in such a way that people do not think you too mean, or too sparing, or foolishly lavish, that is to say too free a spender. For just as people blame an avaricious man for his stinginess and his miserliness, in the same way the man who spends too freely is to blame. And that is why Cato says: 'Use the riches you have got,' he says, 'in such a way that people have no reason or cause to call you either a wretch or a miser; for it is a great shame to a man to have a poor heart and a rich purse.' He says also: 'The goods you have got, use them with measure,' that is to say, spend them in moderation; for those who foolishly waste and squander the goods they have, when they have nothing more of their own, set about taking another man's goods. I say, then, that you should flee avarice, using your riches in such a way that people do not say your riches are buried, but that you have them in your power and under your control. For a wise man reproaches the avaricious man, and says this, in two lines of verse: 'Why and for what does a man bury his goods out of his great avarice, when he knows well that he must die? For death is the end of every man in this present life.' And for what cause or reason does he join himself, or bind himself, so fast to his goods that all his wits cannot separate him or part him from his goods, when he knows well, or ought to know, that when he is dead he will carry nothing with him out of this world? And that is why Saint Augustine says that 'the avaricious man is like hell: the more it swallows, the more it wants to swallow and devour.' And just as you would wish to avoid being called an avaricious man or a miser, so you should keep yourself and govern yourself in such a way that people do not call you foolishly lavish. That is why Cicero says: 'The goods of your house,' he says, 'should not be hidden, or kept so close that they cannot be opened by pity and kindness'; that is to say, to give a share to those who are in great need; 'and yet your goods should not be so open as to be every man's goods.' Afterwards, in getting your riches and in using them, you should always have three things in your heart: that is to say, our Lord God, conscience, and a good name. First, you should have God in your heart; and for no riches should you do anything that may in any way displease God, who is your creator and maker. For according to the word of Solomon, 'it is better to have a little wealth with the love of God than to have much wealth and treasure and lose the love of the Lord his God.' And the prophet says that 'it is better to be a good man and have little wealth and treasure than to be thought a scoundrel and have great riches.' And I say further that you should always set about getting riches in such a way that you get them with a good conscience. And the Apostle says that 'there is nothing in this world we should have such great joy in as when our conscience bears us good witness.' And the wise man says: 'A man's wealth is very good when there is no sin in his conscience.' Afterwards, in getting your riches and in using them, you must take great pains and great care that your good name is always kept and preserved. For Solomon says that 'it is better, and does a man more good, to have a good name than to have great riches.' And that is why he says in another place: 'Take great pains,' says Solomon, 'in keeping your friend and your good name; for they will stay with you longer than any treasure, however precious it may be.' And certainly a man should not be called a gentleman who, after God and a good conscience, all other things set aside, does not take pains and trouble to keep his good name. And Cassiodorus says that 'it is the sign of a noble heart when a man loves and desires to have a good name.' And that is why Saint Augustine says that 'there are two things that are necessary and needful, and those are a good conscience and a good reputation; that is to say, a good conscience for your own person, inwardly, and a good reputation for your neighbour, outwardly.' And the man who trusts so much in his good conscience that he slights and sets at nothing his good name or reputation, and does not care whether he keeps his good name, is nothing but a cruel churl.

§ 53. "Sir, I have now shown you how you should act in getting riches, and how you should use them; and I see well that, because of the trust you have in your riches, you mean to stir up war and battle. I advise you to begin no war in trust of your riches; for they are not enough to keep wars going. And that is why a philosopher says: 'The man who desires war and will have it at all costs will never have enough; for the richer he is, the greater the expenses he must meet, if he wants honour and victory.' And Solomon says that 'the greater the riches a man has, the more spenders he has.' And, dear sir, even though because of your riches you can have many people at your command, still it is not fitting, and it is not good, to begin a war where you can have peace in some other way, to your honour and profit. For the victories of battles in this world do not lie in the great number or multitude of the people, or in the strength of man; they lie in the will and in the hand of our Lord God almighty. And that is why Judas Maccabeus, who was God's knight, when he was to fight against an adversary who had a great number, a greater multitude of people, and stronger, than this people of Maccabeus had, still comforted his little company, and spoke to them like this: 'Our Lord God almighty,' he said, 'can give victory as easily to a few people as to many; for victory in battle does not come by the great number of people, but it comes from our Lord God of heaven.' And, dear sir, since no man is certain whether he is worthy that God should give him victory, any more than he is certain whether he is worthy of the love of God or not, as Solomon says, every man should be greatly afraid to begin wars. And because many dangers happen in battles, and it happens sometimes that the great man is killed as soon as the little man; and, as it is written in the second Book of Kings, the book we now call Second Samuel, 'the deeds of battles are a matter of chance and nothing certain, for one man is as easily hurt with a spear as another'; and because there is great danger in war, a man should therefore flee and avoid war, as far as he decently can. For Solomon says: 'He who loves danger shall fall into danger.'"

§ 54. When Dame Prudence had spoken in this way, Melibeus answered and said, "I see well, Dame Prudence, from your fair words and from the reasons you have shown me, that war does not please you at all; but I have not yet heard your counsel as to what I should do in this need."

§ 55. "Certainly," she said, "I counsel you to come to terms with your adversaries and to make peace with them. For Saint James says in his epistles that 'by concord and peace small riches grow great, and by strife and discord great riches fall down.' And you know well that one of the greatest and most sovereign things there is in this world is unity and peace. And that is why our Lord Jesus Christ said to his apostles: 'Happy and blessed are those who love and make peace, for they shall be called the children of God.'" "Ah!" said Melibeus. "Now I see well that you do not love my honour or my good name. You know well that my adversaries began this quarrel and this strife by their outrage; and you can see well that they do not ask me or beg me for peace, nor do they ask to be reconciled. Do you want me, then, to go and humble myself and submit myself to them, and cry to them for mercy? Really, that would not be to my honour. For just as people say that 'too much familiarity breeds contempt,' so it goes with too much humility or meekness."

§ 56. Then Dame Prudence began to make a show of anger, and said, "Certainly, sir, saving your grace, I love your honour and your profit as I love my own, and always have; and neither you nor anyone else ever saw the contrary. And even if I had said that you should have sought out the peace and the reconciliation yourself, I would not have been much mistaken, nor said anything wrong. For the wise man says: 'The quarrel begins with another man, and the reconciling begins with yourself.' And the prophet David says in the Psalms: 'Flee wickedness and do good; seek peace and follow it, as far as it lies in you.' Still, I do not say that you should go after your adversaries for peace sooner than they come to you; for I know well that you are so hard-hearted that you will do nothing for my sake. And Solomon says: 'He who has too hard a heart will come to grief and misfortune in the end.'"

§ 57. When Melibeus had heard Dame Prudence make a show of anger, he spoke like this: "Madam, I beg you not to be displeased at the things I say; for you know well that I am angry and wrathful, and that is no wonder; and those who are wrathful do not know well what they do, or what they say. That is why the prophet says that 'troubled eyes have no clear sight.' But speak and counsel me as you please; for I am ready to do just as you wish; and if you reproach me for my folly, I am all the more bound to love you and to praise you. For Solomon says that 'he who reproaches a man who does folly shall find greater favour than he who deceives him with sweet words.'"

§ 58. Then Dame Prudence said, "I make no show of anger or wrath except for your great profit. For Solomon says: 'He is worth more who reproves or scolds a fool for his folly, showing him an angry face, than he who supports him and praises him in his wrongdoing and laughs at his folly.' And this same Solomon says afterwards that 'by the sorrowful face of a man,' that is to say, by a man's sorry and heavy look, 'the fool corrects and amends himself.'"

§ 59. Then Melibeus said, "I shall not know how to answer so many fine reasons as you put to me and show me. Tell me your will and your counsel briefly, and I am quite ready to fulfil it and carry it out."

§ 60. Then Dame Prudence revealed her whole mind to him, and said, "I counsel you," she said, "above all things, to make peace between God and yourself, and be reconciled to him and to his grace. For, as I told you before, God has allowed you to have this affliction and distress because of your sins. And if you do as I tell you, God will send your adversaries to you, and make them fall at your feet, ready to do your will and your commands. For Solomon says: 'When a man's ways are pleasing and agreeable to God, he changes the hearts of that man's adversaries, and compels them to beg him for peace and for favour.' And I beg you, let me speak with your adversaries in a private place; for they shall not know that it is by your will or with your consent. And then, when I know their will and their intention, I can counsel you more surely."

§ 61. "Madam," said Melibeus, "do whatever you will and like, for I put myself wholly at your disposal and under your direction."

§ 62. Then Dame Prudence, when she saw the good will of her husband, deliberated and took counsel with herself, thinking how she might bring this business to a good conclusion and a good end. And when she saw her moment, she sent for these adversaries to come to her in a private place, and wisely showed them the great good that comes of peace and the great harms and dangers there are in war; and she told them, in a kindly way, how they ought to feel great repentance for the injury and wrong they had done to Melibeus her lord, and to her, and to her daughter.

§ 63. And when they heard the kindly words of Dame Prudence, they were so astonished and so carried away, and took such great joy in her, that it was a wonder to tell. "Ah, lady!" they said. "You have shown us 'the blessing of sweetness,' as David the prophet puts it; for the reconciliation that we are in no way worthy to have, but ought to beg for with great contrition and humility, you, of your great goodness, have offered to us. Now we see well that the knowledge and the wisdom of Solomon are very true; for he says that 'sweet words multiply and increase friends, and make the wicked gentle and meek.'

§ 64. "Certainly," they said, "we put our deed and our whole matter and cause entirely in your good will, and we are ready to obey the word and command of my lord Melibeus. And therefore, dear and gracious lady, we pray you and beseech you, as meekly as we know how and are able, that it may please your great goodness to fulfil your kindly words in deed; for we consider and acknowledge that we have offended and wronged my lord Melibeus beyond all measure, so far that we have not the power to make him amends. And therefore we pledge and bind ourselves and our friends to do all his will and his commands. But perhaps he feels such heaviness and such wrath towards us because of our offence that he will lay on us such a penalty as we cannot bear or endure. And therefore, noble lady, we beseech your womanly pity to take such thought in this need that neither we nor our friends are disinherited or destroyed through our folly."

§ 65. "Certainly," said Prudence, "it is a hard thing, and a very dangerous one, for a man to put himself utterly in the arbitration and judgement, and in the might and power, of his enemies. For Solomon says: 'Believe me, and give credit to what I shall say. I say,' he says, 'you people, folk and governors of holy Church: to your son, to your wife, to your friend, or to your brother, never give power or mastery over your body while you live.' Now since he forbids a man to give his brother or his friend power over his body, by a stronger reason he forbids and prohibits a man to give himself to his enemy. And nonetheless I counsel you not to mistrust my lord. For I know well, and know truly, that he is gracious and meek, generous, courteous, and not at all desirous or greedy of goods or riches. For there is nothing in this world that he desires except good name and honour. Furthermore I know well, and am quite sure, that he will do nothing in this need without my counsel. And I shall work so hard in this cause that, by the grace of our Lord God, you shall be reconciled to us."

§ 66. Then they said with one voice, "Honoured lady, we put ourselves and our goods wholly in your will and at your disposal, and we are ready to come on whatever day it may please your nobility to set or appoint us, to make our pledge and bond as strong as it may please your goodness, so that we may fulfil the will of you and of my lord Melibeus."

§ 67. When Dame Prudence had heard the answers of these men, she told them to go back again secretly; and she returned to her lord Melibeus, and told him how she had found his adversaries thoroughly repentant, acknowledging their sins and trespasses most humbly, and how they were ready to suffer any penalty, asking and begging him for mercy and pity.

§ 68. Then Melibeus said, "He is well worthy to have pardon and forgiveness for his sin who does not excuse his sin, but acknowledges it and repents, asking for indulgence. For Seneca says: 'Where there is confession, there is remission and forgiveness'; for confession is the neighbour of innocence. And he says in another place: 'He who is ashamed of his sin and acknowledges it is worthy of remission.' And therefore I assent and commit myself to peace; but it is good that we should not do it without the assent and the will of our friends."

§ 69. Then Prudence was very glad and joyful, and said, "Certainly, sir," she said, "you have answered well and kindly. For just as you were stirred to avenge yourself and make war by the counsel, assent and help of your friends, so you should not come to terms or make peace with your adversaries without their counsel. For the law says: 'There is nothing so good by way of nature as for a thing to be unbound by the one who bound it.'"

§ 70. And then Dame Prudence, without delay or waiting, sent her messengers at once for her kin and for her old friends who were true and wise, and told them the whole matter in order, in the presence of Melibeus, just as it has been set out and declared above; and they begged them to give their advice and counsel as to what it would be best to do in this need. And when Melibeus's friends had taken thought and deliberated on the matter, and had examined it with great care and great diligence, they gave their full counsel for peace and rest, and that Melibeus should receive his adversaries with a good heart into forgiveness and mercy.

§ 71. And when Dame Prudence had heard the assent of her lord Melibeus, and the counsel of his friends, agree with her will and her intention, she was wonderfully glad in her heart, and said: "There is an old proverb," she said, "that says: 'The good you can do today, do it, and do not wait or put it off until tomorrow.' And therefore I counsel you to send your messengers, men who are discreet and wise, to your adversaries, to tell them on your behalf that if they will treat for peace and accord, they should prepare themselves to come to us without delay or waiting." And this was carried out in deed. And when these trespassers, repenting of their follies—that is to say, the adversaries of Melibeus—had heard what these messengers said to them, they were very glad and joyful, and answered most meekly and graciously, giving thanks and gratitude to their lord Melibeus and to all his company; and they prepared, without delay, to go with the messengers and obey the command of their lord Melibeus.

§ 72. And straight away they set out for the court of Melibeus, and took with them some of their true friends, to stand surety for them and be their guarantors. And when they had come into the presence of Melibeus, he said these words to them: "This is how it stands," said Melibeus, "and it is the truth: that you, without cause, and without any ground or reason, have done great injuries and wrongs to me and to my wife Prudence, and to my daughter too. For you entered my house by violence, and did such an outrage that everyone knows well you have deserved death; and therefore I want to know, and to learn from you, whether you will put the punishment, the chastising and the vengeance for this outrage in the will of me and my wife Prudence, or whether you will not."

§ 73. Then the wisest of the three answered for them all, and said: "Sir," he said, "we know well that we are unworthy to come to the court of so great a lord, and so distinguished a one, as you are. For we have gone so badly wrong, and have offended and sinned in such a way against your high lordship, that truly we have deserved death. But still, because of the great goodness and graciousness that all the world bears witness to in you, we submit ourselves to the excellence and kindness of your gracious lordship, and are ready to obey all your commands, beseeching you that of your merciful pity you will consider our great repentance and our humble submission, and grant us forgiveness for our outrageous trespass and offence. For we know well that your generous grace and mercy reach further into goodness than our outrageous guilt and trespass reach into wickedness, even though we have sinned cursedly and damnably against your high lordship."

§ 74. Then Melibeus raised them up from the ground most graciously, and received their pledges and their bonds, sworn on oath and backed by their sureties and guarantors, and appointed them a certain day to return to his court, to accept and receive the sentence and judgement that Melibeus would command to be carried out on them for the causes already stated; and when these things were arranged, every man went back to his house.

§ 75. And when Dame Prudence saw her moment, she inquired, and asked her lord Melibeus what vengeance he meant to take on his adversaries.

§ 76. To which Melibeus answered and said, "Certainly," he said, "I think, and fully intend, to disinherit them of everything they have, and to put them in exile for ever."

§ 77. "Certainly," said Dame Prudence, "that would be a cruel sentence, and very much against reason. For you are rich enough, and have no need of other men's goods; and in this way you might easily get yourself a name for greed, which is a vicious thing and ought to be avoided by every good man. For, as the word of the Apostle Paul has it, 'greed is the root of all harms.' And therefore it would be better for you to lose that much of your own goods than to take their goods in this way. For it is better to lose goods with honour than to win goods with disgrace and shame. And every man ought to take pains and trouble to win himself a good name. And yet he should not only busy himself with keeping his good name, but he should also always strive to do something by which he may renew his good name; for it is written that 'the old good reputation, or good name, of a man is soon gone and passed away when it is not renewed and refreshed.' And as touching what you say, that you will exile your adversaries, that seems to me very much against reason and beyond all measure, considering the power over themselves they have given you. And it is written that 'he deserves to lose his privilege who misuses the might and the power that is given him.' And suppose you could lay that penalty on them by right and by law, which I do not believe you can, I say you might perhaps not be able to carry it out, and then things would likely go back to war as they were before. And therefore, if you want people to obey you, you must judge more courteously; that is to say, you must give milder sentences and judgements. For it is written that 'the one who commands most courteously is the one men most obey.' And therefore I beg you, in this necessity and in this need, to set yourself to overcome your heart. For Seneca says that 'he who overcomes his heart overcomes twice.' And Cicero says: 'There is nothing so commendable in a great lord as when he is gracious and meek and is easily appeased.' And I beg you to refrain now from taking vengeance, in such a way that your good name may be kept and preserved, and that people may have cause and reason to praise you for pity and mercy, and that you have no cause to repent of anything you do. For Seneca says: 'He conquers in an evil way who repents of his victory.' And so I pray you, let mercy be in your mind and in your heart, to the effect and purpose that God almighty may have mercy on you at his Last Judgement. For Saint James says in his epistle: 'Judgement without mercy shall be done to the man who has no mercy on another.'"

§ 78. When Melibeus had heard the great arguments and reasons of Dame Prudence, and her wise instruction and teaching, his heart began to incline to the will of his wife, considering her true intention; and he came round at once, and fully agreed to act on her counsel, and thanked God, from whom all virtue and all goodness proceed, for sending him a wife of such great discretion. And when the day came for his adversaries to appear in his presence, he spoke to them most kindly, and said this: "Although you have misbehaved and trespassed against me out of your pride, presumption and folly, and out of your negligence and ignorance, still, because I see and behold your great humility, and that you are sorry and repentant for your offences, it moves me to show you grace and mercy. Therefore I receive you into my grace, and forgive you completely all the offences, injuries and wrongs you have done against me and mine, to this effect and to this end: that God, of his endless mercy, may at the hour of our dying forgive us the offences we have committed against him in this wretched world. For without doubt, if we are sorry and repentant for the sins and offences we have committed in the sight of our Lord God, he is so generous and so merciful that he will forgive us our offences and bring us to his bliss that never has an end. Amen."

The Monk's Prologue

	When I had finished, and my tale was done
	Of Melibee and Prudence, the gentle one,
	Our Host said, "As I am a faithful man,
	And by the precious corpus Madrian,
	I'd rather than a barrel of good ale
	My dear wife Goodelief had heard this tale!
	For she has nothing like the same patience
	As Melibeus's wife had, Dame Prudence.
	By God's bones! When I beat my men, then she
	Brings out the great thick cudgels, hands them to me,
	And shouts, 'Kill all the dogs! Go on, attack,
	And break their bones, each one, and break each back!'
	And if some neighbour, when he's at church, should pass
	My wife and fail to bow to her at Mass,
	Or has the nerve to do her some disgrace,
	When she comes home she rears up in my face
	And yells, 'You false coward, avenge your wife!
	By corpus bones! I'm going to take your knife,
	And you can take my distaff and go spin!'
	From dawn till dark, that's how she will begin:
	'Alas,' she says, 'that I could not escape
	Wedding a milksop, wedding a coward ape,
	Who lets himself be bullied by every man in sight!
	You don't dare stand up for your wife's right!'
	That's how I live, unless I go to war:
	I have to take myself straight out the door,
	Or else I'm lost, unless I play the part
	Of a wild lion with a reckless heart.
	I know that she will make me kill one day
	Some neighbour, and then I'll have to run away.
	For I'm a dangerous man, knife in my fist,
	Though she's the one I never dare resist,
	For she's big in the arms, by my faith, as they
	Will find who wrong her by what they do or say.
	But let's move on, and leave this matter here.

	"My lord the Monk," he said, "be of good cheer,
	For you are going to tell a tale, no lie.
	Look! Rochester stands right here, close by!
	Ride up, my own dear lord, don't spoil our game.
	But, on my word, I do not know your name:
	Shall I call you, my lord, Dom Thomas or Dom John,
	Or Dom Alban? What should I settle on?
	What house are you from, by your father's kin?
	I swear to God, you've got a lovely skin;
	Wherever you're grazing, it's pasture of the most
	Noble kind. You're no penitent, no ghost.
	Upon my faith, you are some officer,
	Some fine sacristan, or some cellarer,
	For by my father's soul, it's my opinion
	That you're the master in your own dominion;
	No poor cloisterer, no novice—none
	Of that, but a governor, a crafty, wise one,
	And on top of that, for brawn and bone,
	As fine a figure of a man as I've known.
	I pray God may confound him, bring him down,
	The man who first put you in a monk's gown!
	You'd have made a fine hen-treader, all right.
	If you had leave as great as you have might
	To use your lust for breeding, every bit,
	You'd have begotten many a creature with it.
	Alas! Why do you wear so wide a cope?
	God give me grief, but if I were the Pope,
	Not only you, but every man of might,
	However high they shave his crown, by right
	Should have a wife; for the whole world is forlorn!
	Religion's taken all the best of the corn
	Of treading, and we laymen are just shrimps!
	From feeble trees come saplings, wretched imps.
	That's why our heirs are all so thin and slender
	And feeble that they barely can engender.
	That's why our wives will try out monks, and stray,
	For you religious men can better pay
	The dues of Venus than we can ever do;
	God knows, no dud Luxembourgs come from you!
	But don't be angry, my lord, because I play:
	Many a true word is spoken in jest, they say."

	This fine monk took it all, and calmly too,
	And said, "I'll do the best that I can do,
	As far as it's consistent with decency,
	To tell you a tale, or two, or three.
	And if you'd care to listen, then come near:
	Saint Edward's life is what I'll tell you here;
	Or else, first, there are tragedies to tell,
	Of which I have a hundred in my cell.
	Tragedy, as the old books never fail
	To keep in memory, means a certain tale
	About a man who prospered, who stood tall,
	And then from his high place has had a fall
	Into misery, and wretched at the end.
	In verse these stories are most commonly penned,
	In lines of six feet, called exametron;
	And prose has been the form of many a one,
	And metre too, of many a different kind.
	There! That should be enough to bear in mind.

	"Now listen, if you'd like to; lend an ear.
	But first I beg you, in this matter here,
	If I don't keep in order all these things,
	Whether of popes, or emperors, or kings,
	In order of their ages, as you'll find
	In books, but tell some first and some behind,
	Just as they come to mind now, do not blame
	My ignorance, but pardon it, all the same."

The Monk's Tale

	In tragedy's own fashion, I'll bewail
	The harm of those who stood in high degree
	And fell so far that no help could avail
	To bring them out of their adversity;
	For certainly, when Fortune wants to flee,
	No man can check her course or keep his hold.
	Let no one trust in blind prosperity;
	Be warned by these examples, true and old.

Lucifer

	Though Lucifer was an angel, not a man,
	With Lucifer, nonetheless, I will begin;
	For though there is no angel Fortune can
	Harm, from high rank he fell, for his own sin,
	Down into hell, where he is still shut in.
	O Lucifer, the brightest angel of all,
	Now you are Satan, and you cannot win
	Your way out of the misery of your fall.

Adam

	Look at Adam: in the field of Damascene
	God's finger shaped him; he did not come to be
	Begotten of man's seed, which is unclean;
	And he ruled all of Paradise but one tree.
	No mortal ever stood in such degree
	As Adam, till for his misgovernance
	He was driven out of his prosperity
	To labour, and to hell, and to mischance.

Samson

	Look at Samson, whom the angel had foretold
	Long before his birth; to God Almighty he
	Was consecrated, and he was noble and bold,
	And stood in honour while he still could see.
	There never was another such as he
	In strength, and in the hardihood to dare;
	But he told his wives his secret, foolishly,
	And by it killed himself, in his despair.

	This noble, almighty champion, Samson, tore
	A lion apart and killed it, on his way
	To his wedding, with no weapon, nothing more
	Than his two hands. His false wife could so play
	Upon him—please him, coax him, beg and pray—
	Till she learned his secret; and, untrue,
	To his enemies she gave his secret away,
	And left him, and went and took somebody new.

	Samson took three hundred foxes in his ire
	And bound their tails together in one band,
	And set the foxes' tails, every one, on fire,
	For on each tail he'd tied a burning brand;
	And they burned up all the grain in that land,
	And all their olive groves and vines; and then,
	With just an ass's jawbone in his hand
	He killed, all by himself, a thousand men.

	When they were slain, he was so parched, so near
	To death, that he began to pray and cry
	To God to pity him in his pain, and hear,
	And send him drink, or else he'd have to die;
	And from this ass's jawbone, which was dry,
	Out of a back tooth there sprang up a well;
	From that he drank his fill; and so, from on high,
	God helped him, as the Book of Judges can tell.

	By sheer force, one night, at Gaza, in spite
	Of all the Philistines in that city,
	He tore the town gates up with all his might
	And carried them away upon his back, to be
	Set high on a hill, where everyone could see.
	O noble, almighty Samson, loved and dear,
	Had you kept your secret from women, there would be
	In all this world no man to be your peer!

	This Samson never drank strong drink or wine,
	And no razor or shears ever came near his hair,
	By order of the messenger divine,
	For all his strength lay in it, and only there.
	For twenty winters, year by year, his care
	Was Israel, and all its governance.
	But soon he'll weep many a tear in his despair,
	For women are going to bring him to mischance!

	It was his mistress, Delilah, whom he told
	That in his hair the whole of his strength lay;
	And to his enemies she falsely sold
	Him: while he lay asleep in her lap one day,
	She had his hair clipped short, or shaved away,
	And let his foes find out where his strength lies;
	And when they found him in this sorry way,
	They bound him fast, and they put out his eyes.

	But until his hair was clipped or he was shaved,
	No bond that men could make would hold him confined;
	But now he's shut in prison, in a cave,
	Where they have made him work the mill and grind.
	O noble Samson, strongest of mankind,
	Once judge, in glory and in wealth, no less,
	Now you may weep with both your eyes gone blind,
	Since from good fortune you have fallen to distress.

	Now this is how the wretch's ending came:
	His enemies held a feast upon a day,
	And made him play their fool, to his great shame,
	And this was in a temple, in great array.
	But in the end he made a dreadful fray:
	He shook two pillars, and he made them fall,
	And down came temple and all, and there it lay,
	And he killed himself, and his enemies, one and all.

	That is to say, the princes, every one,
	And three thousand bodies with them, all were slain
	By the fall of the great temple made of stone.
	And now of Samson I won't speak again.
	Be warned by this example, old and plain,
	That men should never tell secrets to their wives
	Of things they would much rather should remain
	Unspoken, if those things touch their limbs or lives.

Hercules

	Of Hercules, the sovereign conqueror,
	His labours sing his praise and his high fame,
	For in his time, for strength, he was the flower.
	He killed the lion and skinned it; he made tame
	The Centaurs' boasting; he killed, and overcame,
	The cruel Harpies, those fierce birds; as well,
	He took the dragon's golden apples; then came
	And dragged out Cerberus, the hound of hell:

	He killed the cruel tyrant Busiris, and fed
	Him to his horses to devour, flesh and bone;
	He struck the venomous, fiery serpent dead;
	He broke one of the two horns Achelous had grown;
	And he killed Cacus in a cave of stone;
	He killed the giant, Antaeus the strong;
	He killed the grisly boar in no time, on his own,
	And bore the heavens on his neck, and bore them long.

	No one, since the time the world began,
	Has ever killed as many monsters as he.
	Throughout this whole wide world his name ran,
	For strength, and goodness too, in high degree,
	And every kingdom he went out to see.
	He was so strong that no one could stand in his way.
	At both ends of the world, according to Trophee,
	He set a pillar, to mark where the boundaries lay.

	This noble champion had a love, whose name
	Was Deianira, and she was fresh as May;
	And, as the learned writers all proclaim,
	She sent him a shirt, all fresh and fine, one day.
	Alas, this shirt! Alas, to my dismay!
	It was poisoned with such cunning, through it all,
	That, before he had worn it half a day,
	It made his flesh come off his bones and fall.

	Some scholars, though, have found her an excuse
	By blaming one called Nessus, by whom it was made;
	Be that as it may, she's not the one I'll accuse;
	But on his naked back the shirt was laid
	Till the venom had turned his flesh to a blackened shade;
	And when he saw that all remedies were in vain,
	He raked hot coals all over himself, and stayed,
	For to die by poison was something he'd disdain.

	So died this fine and mighty Hercules.
	Who can trust Fortune for an hour or so?
	For he who follows the world, its crowds, its ease,
	Before he knows it, is often brought down low.
	Wise is the man who knows himself; and so
	Beware: when Fortune puts on a flattering pose,
	She's waiting for her man, to overthrow
	Him in a way that he'd least of all suppose.

Nebuchadnezzar

	The mighty throne, the precious treasure,
	The glorious sceptre and royal majesty
	That King Nebuchadnezzar had, no tongue can measure
	Or well describe. Twice over it was he
	Who took Jerusalem, and from its sanctuary
	He bore the sacred vessels off. He had
	His sovereign seat in Babylon, the city
	Of all his glory, and all that made him glad.

	He had the fairest children, royal by birth,
	In Israel, castrated; when that was done,
	He made each one his slave, for all their worth.
	Among them there was Daniel, a royal son,
	The wisest of the children, every one;
	For he explained the king's dreams and their intent,
	When, of Chaldea's scholars, there was none
	Who knew what it was those dreams of his had meant.

	This proud king had a statue made of gold,
	Sixty cubits long and seven cubits spread,
	And he commanded people, young and old,
	To bow before this image and hold it in dread;
	Or in a furnace full of flames of red
	They'd burn alive, whoever would not bow and pray.
	But Daniel would not do as the king had said,
	Nor would his two young comrades; they would not obey.

	This king of kings was proud, and so elate
	He thought that God, who sits in majesty,
	Could never take from him his high estate:
	But suddenly he lost his dignity,
	And seemed to be a beast, for all to see,
	And ate hay like an ox, and slept out;
	He roamed in the rain with wild beasts, and that would be
	His life until the set time came about.

	His hair grew like the feathers on an eagle's wing,
	His nails like a bird's claws, until the appointed year
	When God at last released him, and the king
	Received his wits again; and with many a tear
	He thanked God, and lived the rest of his life in fear
	Of doing wrong or sinning, from that hour;
	And till the time when he was laid on his bier,
	He knew that God was full of grace and power.

Belshazzar

	And then his son, whose name was Belshazzar,
	Who held the kingdom after his father's day,
	Took no warning from his father; he was far
	Too proud, in heart and also in array;
	He was an idolater, and stayed that way.
	His high estate made him secure in pride.
	But Fortune cast him down, and there he lay,
	And suddenly his kingdom began to divide.

	He held a feast once for his lords, one and all,
	And told them to be merry and carefree;
	And then he called his officers into the hall.
	"Go, bring the vessels out," he said, "that he,
	My father, in his great prosperity,
	Took from the temple in Jerusalem by theft;
	And to our high gods let us give thanks, since we
	Have the honour that our forefathers left."

	His wife, his lords, and his concubines
	Kept drinking, for as long as their thirst would last,
	From these noble vessels, various wines;
	And then upon a wall the king's eye was cast,
	And saw a hand with no arm, writing fast,
	And at the sight he shook with fear, and sighed heart-sore.
	This hand, which left Belshazzar so aghast,
	Wrote Mane, techel, phares, and nothing more.

	In all that land no magician found a way
	To tell the king what all this writing meant;
	But Daniel explained it straight away,
	And said, "O king, to your father God lent
	Glory and honour, kingdom, treasure, rent;
	And he was proud, and feared God not one bit,
	And therefore God's great vengeance on him was sent,
	And robbed him of the kingdom, all of it.

	"He was cast out from men, cast out to lie
	With asses: that became his dwelling place;
	And he ate hay like a beast, in wet and dry,
	Till he came to know, by reason and by grace,
	That God in heaven rules in every place
	Over every kingdom and every living thing;
	And then God pitied him: his human face
	And form came back, and he was once more king.

	"And you, his son, are proud as well, although
	You know all this, for you have heard it told,
	And you're a rebel against God, and his foe.
	You drank out of his vessels, too, and were bold;
	Your wife and wenches too, in sin, would hold
	Those vessels and drink wines of every strain,
	And you praise false gods, a cursed thing to behold;
	And so there is prepared for you great pain.

	"This hand was sent from God that on the wall
	Wrote Mane, techel, phares, trust me:
	Your reign is done," he said, "you weigh nothing at all;
	Your kingdom is divided, and shall be
	Given to Medes and Persians, by decree."
	And that same night the king himself was slain,
	And Darius took his throne and his degree,
	Though he'd no right or law by which to reign.

	My lords, from this example you may take
	The lesson: lordship is no shield from distress;
	For when Fortune makes up her mind to forsake
	A man, she takes his kingdom, all that he'd possess,
	And his friends as well, the greater and the less;
	For anyone whose friends come by Fortune's grace,
	Misfortune turns them into enemies, I guess:
	This proverb's very true, and commonplace.

Zenobia

	Zenobia, who was Palmyra's queen,
	So noble, as the Persians all profess,
	Was so distinguished in battle, and so keen,
	That no one could surpass her in boldness,
	Or birth, or any other nobleness.
	From Persian kings, by blood, she was descended;
	I don't claim she was the fairest, I confess,
	But there was nothing in her shape that could be mended.

	From childhood, so I find, she always fled
	The work of women; to the woods she went,
	And many a wild hart's blood she shed
	With the broad arrows that her bowstring sent.
	She was so fast she caught them as they went,
	And when she was older, she would kill
	Lions, leopards, and bears, all torn and rent,
	And hold them in her arms, and bend them to her will.

	She dared to seek the dens where wild beasts hide,
	And run across the mountains all the night,
	And sleep beneath a bush on the mountainside;
	And she could wrestle, with all her force and might,
	With any young man, however strong in a fight;
	There was nothing that her arms could not withstand.
	She kept her virginity from every man in sight;
	She would not deign to be bound by any man's hand.

	But in the end her friends saw her married
	To Odenathus, a prince of that country,
	Although she'd held them off for long, and tarried;
	And you should understand that he
	Had the same notions and the same tastes as she.
	But nonetheless, once joined as man and wife,
	They lived in joy and in felicity,
	For each of them held the other dear as life.

	Except for one thing: she would not consent,
	In any way, to have him come and lie
	With her but once; for it was her plain intent
	To have a child, to help the world multiply;
	And as soon as it was plain before her eye
	That she was not with child by that night's deed,
	Then she would let him have his wish, and try
	Once more, but only once; no more would she concede.

	And if she was with child from that cast,
	Then he was not allowed to play that game
	Till a full forty days had come and passed;
	Then she would let him, once, do the same.
	Whether this Odenathus was wild or tame,
	He got no more of her; for she would say,
	"It's lechery for wives, and it's a shame,
	For men to play with them in any other way."

	By Odenathus she had two sons, and so
	She raised them both in virtue and in lore;
	But now back to our story we must go.
	I say there never was a creature worthier, nor
	So wise, and generous—within bounds, no more—
	So tireless in war, and courteous too,
	Or who could bear more of the toil of war,
	Though you went searching the whole wide world through.

	Her rich array was more than could be told,
	In her plate and in her clothes, her whole display;
	She was dressed all in precious stones and gold;
	And yet she did not let her hunting get in the way
	Of a full knowledge of tongues; and any day
	She had some leisure, all her thoughts would tend
	To learning books—her whole delight—to weigh
	How she could spend her life in virtue to the end.

	And so, to keep this story short and straight,
	Her husband was so valiant, and so was she,
	That they conquered kingdoms, many of them great,
	In the East, and many a fair city, rightfully
	Belonging to Rome and to her majesty;
	And they held on to them with strong hands, fast;
	And never could their enemies make them flee,
	As long as Odenathus's days would last.

	Her battles, if anyone would like to read
	Of them, against King Sapor, and many a foe,
	And how this whole affair turned out in deed,
	Why she conquered, what claim she had to show,
	And afterwards her misfortune and her woe,
	How she was besieged at last, and how she was taken,
	Then to my master Petrarch let him go,
	Who writes enough of this, I'm not mistaken.

	When Odenathus was dead, with all her might
	She held the kingdoms, and she took command
	Herself, and fought her foes so cruelly in fight
	That there was not a king or prince in all that land
	Who wasn't glad if her grace would stay her hand
	From making war upon his lands; and they
	Made binding treaties with her, made them stand,
	To be at peace, and let her ride and play.

	Neither the emperor of Rome, Claudius,
	Nor Gallienus, Roman emperor before,
	Had ever dared to be so courageous,
	Nor any Armenian, nor Egyptian, nor
	Syrian, nor Arab, as to face her, or
	To go into the field with her and fight,
	For fear that she would kill them with her hands in war,
	Or with her army she would put them all to flight.

	Her two sons wore the dress of kings, to show
	Them heirs to their father's kingdoms, one and all;
	Their names were Hermanno and Thymalao,
	As the Persians call them. But, as things befall,
	Fortune has always mixed her honey with some gall;
	This mighty queen's estate could not long last.
	Out of her kingdom Fortune made her fall,
	And into wretchedness and ruin she was cast.

	Aurelian, when he gained control
	Of Rome, and in his two hands the empire lay,
	Made vengeance on this queen his goal,
	And with his legions he set out on his way
	Toward Zenobia, and made her flee away,
	And caught her at the last, as was his intent,
	And put her and her two sons in chains that day,
	And won the land, and home to Rome he went.

	Among the other things he won, this man,
	Her chariot, wrought of gold and jewels—he,
	This great Roman, this Aurelian,
	Brought it back with him, for everyone to see.
	And at the head of his triumph, it is she
	Who walks, with gilded chains around her neck, hanging;
	And she was crowned, as suited her degree,
	And jewels weighed down every piece of her clothing.

	Alas, Fortune! She who in her day
	Struck dread in kings, and emperors and their powers,
	Is gaped at now by all the people on her way!
	And she who wore a helmet in the battle's fiercest hours,
	And stormed strong cities by force, and their towers,
	Must wear a flimsy woman's cap upon her head;
	And she who bore the sceptre full of flowers
	Must carry a distaff now, to earn her bread.

Pedro, King of Spain

	O noble, O worthy Pedro, glory of Spain,
	Whom Fortune held so high in majesty,
	Well may men mourn you, so pitifully slain!
	Your brother forced you from your land, to flee;
	And later, at a siege, by trickery,
	You were betrayed, and led into his tent,
	Where with his own hand he killed you, to be
	Successor to your kingdom and your rent.

	The field of snow, with the black eagle within,
	Caught by the lime-rod coloured an ember's red,
	He brewed this wickedness and all this sin.
	The "wicked nest" was where this evil was bred:
	Not Charlemagne's Oliver, who was always led
	By truth and honour, but, from Brittany there,
	A Ganelon of an Oliver, by bribes misled,
	Brought this worthy king into such a snare.

Peter, King of Cyprus

	And Peter, King of Cyprus, worthy too,
	Who took Alexandria, masterly in fight,
	Many a heathen you made weep and rue,
	For which your own subjects felt envy and spite,
	And just because of your prowess as a knight
	They killed you in your bed early one morning.
	So Fortune rules her wheel and steers it by her might,
	And out of joy brings men to grief and mourning.

Bernabò of Lombardy

	Great Bernabò Visconti, of Milan,
	The god of pleasure, Lombardy's scourge—why
	Should I not tell of your misfortune, a man
	Who'd climbed to such a rank, and stood so high?
	Your brother's son, who was your double ally,
	Since he was both your son-in-law and nephew,
	Had you put in his prison, there to die;
	But why or how you were slain, I never knew.

Ugolino, Count of Pisa

	How Pisa's Count Ugolino languished, hour by hour,
	No tongue can tell, so great is the pity.
	Just a little way outside Pisa stands a tower,
	And in that tower they put him in prison; he
	Had his little children with him there, all three.
	The eldest was scarcely five years of age.
	Alas, Fortune! What cruelty to see
	Such birds as these put into such a cage!

	He was condemned to die in that place,
	Because Roger, Bishop of Pisa, chose to devise
	A false charge against him, to his disgrace,
	Which made the people turn on him and rise
	And put him into prison in such a guise
	As you have heard; and the food and drink he had
	Were so scant they could scarcely suffice,
	And what there was of it was poor and bad.

	And then one day it happened that, at the hour
	When his food was usually brought,
	The jailer shut and locked the doors of the tower.
	He heard it well, but said nothing, though distraught,
	And into his heart at once there fell a thought
	That they would starve him, and that he would die.
	"Alas," he said, "alas, that I was ever wrought!"
	And with that the tears came falling from his eyes.

	His young son, who was three years of age,
	Said to him, "Father, why is it you weep?
	When will the jailer bring our pottage?
	Isn't there a crust of bread that you still keep?
	I am so hungry that I cannot sleep.
	I wish to God I'd sleep, and wake no more!
	Then into my belly hunger wouldn't creep;
	Bread is the only thing I'm longing for."

	And so, day after day, this child would cry,
	Until, in his father's lap, down he lay,
	And said, "Farewell, Father, I must die,"
	And kissed his father, and he died that day.
	And when his sorrowing father saw him dead that way,
	For woe he bit his own two arms, bite after bite,
	And cried, "Alas, Fortune! Alas! Woe and dismay!
	Your false wheel is to blame for all my plight!"

	His children thought that it was hunger, then,
	That made him gnaw his arms, and not his woe,
	And said, "Father, alas, don't do that again!
	Eat the flesh on the two of us instead. You know
	You gave us our flesh: take our flesh back, and go
	And eat your fill." That's just what they said,
	And after that, within a day or so,
	They lay down in his lap, and they were dead.

	He himself, in despair, from hunger starved;
	So, at last, the mighty Count of Pisa dies;
	From his high rank, by Fortune, he was carved.
	Of this tragedy, this much should suffice.
	Whoever wants it longer, here's my advice:
	Read Italy's great poet, who tells the tale;
	His name is Dante; he sets it all out, precise,
	From point to point; he won't miss one detail.

Nero

	Although Nero was as vicious
	As any fiend that lies in hell, deep down,
	Yet he, as we are told by Suetonius,
	Held all this wide world subject to his crown,
	East, West, South, North, in country and in town;
	With rubies, sapphires, and with pearls of white
	All of his clothes were embroidered up and down;
	For jewels were his very great delight.

	More pampered, more magnificent in his array,
	More proud, there never was an emperor than he;
	Any garment that he'd worn for just one day
	Was one he never cared again to see.
	He had gold-thread nets in great quantity
	To fish the Tiber with, when he liked to play.
	His lusts were all the law in his decree,
	For Fortune was his friend, and would obey.

	He burned down Rome to please his taste; and by
	His orders the senators were killed one day,
	To hear how men would weep and how they'd cry;
	He killed his brother, and with his sister lay.
	He put his mother in a pitiful array,
	For he slit open her womb, so he could behold
	Where he had been conceived. Alas, the day,
	That he should value his mother so little, all told!

	Not one tear came from his eyes at that sight;
	But he remarked, "A lovely woman, she."
	It's a great wonder how he could, or might,
	Sit as the judge of her dead beauty. He
	Commanded wine be brought, and instantly
	He drank it down, and made no move to weep.
	Whenever might is joined with cruelty,
	Alas, the venom wades in far too deep!

	This emperor had a master in his youth
	To teach him learning and good courtesy,
	For in his day, unless the books twist the truth,
	He was the very flower of morality;
	And while this master held the mastery,
	He made him so learned and so pliant, and so bound,
	That it was long before the tyranny
	Or any vice in him dared slip its leash, like a hound.

	This Seneca, the man I'm telling of, the wise,
	Because Nero held him in such dread,
	For he would always take him to task, chastise
	His vices, tactfully, by word and not by deed—
	"Sir," he would say, "an emperor has a need
	To be virtuous, and to hate the tyrant's sway"—
	So Nero had him put in a bath to bleed
	From both his arms, until he died that way.

	This Nero, too, was bound by etiquette
	In youth to rise before his master's eyes,
	Which later was a grievance he could not forget;
	And therefore he arranged for his demise.
	But nonetheless this Seneca the wise
	Chose in a bath to die this way, instead
	Of any other torment men devise;
	And so Nero left his own dear master dead.

	Now it so happened Fortune cared no longer
	To cherish Nero's pride, so high, so great;
	For though he was strong, yet she was stronger.
	She thought, "By God, it's folly to elevate
	A man so full of vice, so reprobate,
	And call him emperor and lord of all.
	By God, I'll tear him from his throne of state;
	When he expects it least, he'll soonest fall."

	The people rose against him in the night
	For his misdeeds; when he saw it, terrified,
	He went at once out of doors, alone, in flight,
	And where he thought he had friends on his side,
	He knocked hard, and always, the more he cried,
	The faster they shut up the doors, one and all;
	Then he knew he'd been wrong, and misapplied
	His trust, and went his way, and dared no longer call.

	The people shouted and rumbled all around,
	So that he heard with his own ears what they said:
	"Where is this false tyrant, Nero, to be found?"
	For fear he almost went out of his head,
	And prayed his gods, piteously, in his dread,
	For help; but help could not come to his side.
	For fear of this, he felt as good as dead,
	And ran into a garden, there to hide.

	And in this garden he found a peasant pair
	Sitting beside a fire, great and red,
	And to these two peasants he made his prayer
	To kill him, and to cut off his head,
	So that his body, once he was dead,
	Would not be shamed, for his notorious name.
	He killed himself; he knew no better course instead;
	At which Fortune laughed, and had her game.

Holofernes

	There never was a captain under any king
	Who put more kingdoms down beneath the crown,
	Nor one more strong in the field in everything,
	In his own time, nor greater in renown,
	Nor prouder, more presumptuous, in any town,
	Than Holofernes, whom Fortune would always kiss
	So lecherously, and led him up and down
	Till his head was off before he knew what was amiss.

	Not only did this world hold him in awe
	For fear of losing wealth and liberty,
	But he made every man renounce his own God's law.
	"Nebuchadnezzar was God," he would decree;
	"No other god shall be adored but he."
	No one dared go against his order, face to face,
	Except in Bethulia, a strong city,
	Where Eliachim was a priest of that place.

	But mark the death of Holofernes. He
	Lay drunk among his army one night,
	Inside his tent, as large as a barn could be;
	And yet, for all his pomp and all his height,
	Judith, a woman, as he lay on his back, with all her might
	Struck off his sleeping head; and from his tent
	She slipped away in secret from everyone in sight,
	And with his head back to her town she went.

King Antiochus the Illustrious

	What need is there, of King Antiochus,
	To tell his high and royal majesty,
	His high pride, and his deeds so venomous?
	For there was never another such as he.
	Read in the book of Maccabees who he used to be,
	And read the proud words that he once cried,
	And why he fell from his high degree,
	And how he died a wretched death on a mountainside.

	Fortune had raised him up so high in pride
	That truly he believed he could attain
	The stars themselves, upon every side,
	And weigh in a balance every single mountain,
	And keep the floods of all the sea in rein.
	And God's people were the ones he most would hate;
	He'd kill them all in torment and in pain,
	Believing God could never make his pride abate.

	Because Nicanor and Timotheus had been
	Beaten by the Jews in a mighty fray,
	He felt such hatred for the Jews, so keen,
	That he had his chariot made ready right away,
	And swore, and in his spite, began to say
	That he'd return to Jerusalem and attack,
	And take his vengeance on it in a cruel way;
	But very soon his purpose was thrown off track.

	For his threats God struck him such a blow
	With an invisible wound, incurable,
	That in his guts it cut and bit him so
	That his pains were quite unbearable.
	And certainly the vengeance was reasonable,
	For he had made the guts of many a man feel pain;
	But from his purpose, cursed and damnable,
	For all his suffering, he would not refrain,

	But ordered at once the mustering of his host,
	And suddenly, before he was aware,
	God humbled all his pride and all his boast.
	For he fell from his chariot so badly there
	That his limbs and his skin were torn beyond repair,
	So that he could neither walk nor ride,
	But men had to carry him about in a chair,
	All bruised and battered, both his back and side.

	God's vengeance struck him with so cruel a blow
	That through his body wicked worms crept;
	And he stank so horribly with it, so
	That none of all his servants, who stood by and kept
	Watch over him, whether he woke or slept,
	Could stand his stench; it was too much to endure.
	In this misfortune he wailed and also wept,
	And knew God as the lord of every creature.

	To all his army and to him also,
	The stink of his carcass was loathsome, hard to sustain;
	No one could carry him to and fro.
	And in this stench, and in this horrible pain,
	He died most wretchedly upon a mountain.
	And so this robber, guilty of homicide,
	Who made so many men weep and complain,
	Has had the payment that belongs to pride.

Alexander

	The story of Alexander is so widely spread
	That everyone with any sense, any insight,
	Has heard some of his fortune, or all of it, read.
	In short, he won this whole wide world by might,
	Or else, because his fame stood at such a height,
	They gladly sought his peace, and envoys would send;
	He laid the pride of man and beast low in every fight,
	Wherever he came, right to the world's end.

	No comparison has ever yet been made
	Between him and any conqueror before;
	For all this world has quaked at him, afraid;
	In knighthood and in generosity none was more;
	Fortune made him heir to all the honour in her store;
	Except for wine and women, nothing could abate
	His high resolve in labour and in war:
	His heart was a lion's, and his courage great.

	What praise would it be to him, if I told
	You of Darius, and a hundred thousand more,
	Of kings and princes, earls, and dukes so bold,
	Whom he conquered, bringing sorrow to their door?
	I say, as far as anyone can ride or explore,
	The world was his. What more is there to say?
	For if I wrote or talked for evermore
	About his knighthood, I'd fall short anyway.

	Twelve years he reigned, as Maccabees says, and he
	Was Philip of Macedon's son, who won the place
	Of first king of all Greece, the whole country.
	O fine and noble Alexander, alas for your grace,
	That such a thing should ever happen, such a case!
	You were poisoned by your own people, those near;
	Fortune has turned your six into an ace,
	And yet for you she never shed a tear!

	Who'll give me tears enough to mourn, and complain
	Of nobility and generosity's demise,
	In him who held the whole world in his domain,
	And yet it seemed to him too small a prize?
	So full was his heart of high enterprise.
	Alas! Who'll help me now, in what I write
	Against false Fortune and poison, to despise
	The two I hold to blame for all this woeful plight?

Julius Caesar

	By wisdom, manhood, and by great labour,
	From a humble bed to royal majesty
	Up rose Julius, the conqueror,
	Who won the whole West, by land and sea,
	By force of arms, or else by treaty,
	And made them all to Rome a tributary;
	And then was emperor of Rome, and so would be
	Till Fortune turned and was his adversary.

	O mighty Caesar, who in Thessaly
	Met Pompey, your father-in-law, and all the array
	Of knighthood that the East sent in his company,
	From as far off as where the dawn begins the day,
	Your knighthood took and slew them in the fray,
	All but a few who, with Pompey, fled;
	And so you held the East in awe and in dismay.
	Thank Fortune, who so well has helped you on ahead!

	But now, a little while, I'll mourn, and complain
	For Pompey, this noble governor
	Of Rome, who fled the battle on that plain;
	And then one of his men, a false traitor,
	Struck off his head, to win himself the favour
	Of Julius, and the head was what he brought.
	Alas, Pompey, the East's conqueror,
	That such an end was what Fortune for you wrought!

	And back to Rome came Julius
	In triumph, laurel-crowned and raised on high;
	But on a certain day Brutus Cassius,
	Who'd always viewed his rank with an envious eye,
	Conspired against this Julius on the sly,
	Laying his plans with subtlety and guile,
	And chose the place where he was going to die
	By daggers, as I'll tell you in a while.

	One day this Julius, as was his custom, went
	To the Capitol, the way he used to go,
	And in the Capitol at once, with this intent,
	This false Brutus seized him, with every other foe,
	And stabbed him with their daggers, at once, and so
	With many a wound, and there they let him lie;
	But never once did he groan at any blow
	Except one, or two, unless his story tells a lie.

	So manly was this Julius at heart,
	And so loved stately decency, that he,
	Though his deadly wounds were beginning to smart,
	Threw his cloak over his hips, so none could see
	His private parts—a thing that should not be.
	And as he lay there dying, in a trance,
	And knew he was a dead man, certainly,
	He still kept decency in remembrance.

	For this story, Lucan's the author I recommend,
	And Suetonius, and Valerius also,
	Who wrote of it from beginning to end,
	How, to these two great conquerors, long ago,
	Fortune was first a friend, and then a foe.
	Let no man trust her favour for too long,
	But watch her always, everywhere you go.
	Witness all these conquerors, so strong.

Croesus

	This rich Croesus, once king of Lydia, eyed
	Even by Cyrus himself with fear and dread,
	Was caught all the same, amid all his pride,
	And they led him to the fire to burn him; instead,
	Such a rain poured down from the heavens overhead
	That it put out the fire and let him escape;
	But he was given no grace to heed what lay ahead
	Till Fortune had him hanging on the gallows, agape.

	Once he'd escaped, he could not rest content
	Until he'd started up a war again.
	He firmly believed, since Fortune had sent
	Such luck that he escaped through the rain,
	That by his enemies he could not be slain;
	And then one night he had a dream, of a kind
	Of which he was so proud, so glad, so vain,
	That he had vengeance only on his mind.

	He was up in a tree—or so he thought—
	Where Jupiter washed him, both his back and side,
	And Phoebus brought a towel too, finely wrought,
	To dry him with; and that swelled up his pride;
	And to his daughter, standing there beside,
	Whom he knew to be full of learning, and profound,
	He said to tell him what it signified,
	And this is how she started to expound.

	"The gallows is what's meant," she said, "by the tree you've seen,
	And Jupiter, he signifies snow and rain,
	And Phoebus, with his towel so clean,
	Those are the sun's rays, if I'm to explain;
	You will be hanged, Father, hanged, I maintain;
	The rain will wash you, and the sun will dry."
	Thus she warned him, bluntly, flat and plain,
	His daughter—Phania was the name she went by.

	So Croesus was hanged, the proud king;
	His royal throne was of no help, of no avail.
	Tragedy is no other kind of thing,
	Nor can it, in its singing, cry and bewail
	Anything but how Fortune will always assail
	With unexpected blows the kingdoms that are proud;
	For when men trust her, that is when she'll fail,
	And cover her bright face with a cloud.

The Nun's Priest's Prologue

	"Whoa!" said the Knight. "Good sir, no more of this!
	What you have said is plenty, truly it is,
	And much more; for a little bit of distress
	Is quite enough for most people, I'd guess.
	For my part, I can say it brings unease,
	When men have lived in wealth and lived at ease,
	To hear, alas, of how they came to grief;
	The opposite is joy, and great relief,
	As when a man has started out quite poor,
	And climbs, and has good fortune more and more,
	And stays there, living in prosperity:
	A thing like that is cheering, it seems to me,
	And that's the kind of thing that's good to tell."
	"Yes," said our Host, "by the great Saint Paul's bell,
	You're absolutely right! This monk talks loud;
	He spoke of how 'Fortune covered with a cloud'—
	I don't know what; and of a 'tragedy'
	You heard just now; and, Lord! there's no remedy
	In wailing, and it does no good to complain
	Of what is done; and also it's a pain,
	As you have said, to hear such gloomy stuff.
	Sir Monk, God bless you, no more of this: enough!
	Your tale annoys the whole of this company;
	Such talking isn't worth a butterfly;
	For there's no sport in it, and there's no game.
	And so, Sir Monk—Sir Piers, to give your name—
	I beg you, from the heart, tell something else;
	For honestly, but for the clinking bells
	That hang about your bridle on every side,
	By heaven's King, who for us all has died,
	I would have fallen down by now, asleep,
	No matter if the mud was ever so deep;
	And then your tale would all be told in vain.
	For certainly, as all these scholars explain,
	'Where nobody will listen to a man, he'll find
	It does no good to tell what's in his mind.'
	And I know well I've got the stuff in me
	To judge if something's told as it should be.
	Sir, tell us something about hunting, I pray."
	"No," said this monk. "I'm not in the mood to play.
	Let someone else tell now, as I have told."
	Then our Host spoke, his language rough and bold,
	And turned straight to the Nun's Priest: "You! Come on,
	Come closer, priest; come over here, Sir John!
	Tell us the kind of thing to make hearts glad;
	Cheer up, although the nag you're riding's bad.
	So what if your horse is scruffy and lean?
	If he'll carry you, then don't give a bean;
	Just see your heart is merry, free of care."
	"Yes, sir," he said, "yes, Host, I will, I swear;
	If I'm not merry, blame me, without fail!"
	And right away he started on his tale,
	And this is what he said to everyone,
	This sweet priest, this good man, Sir John.

The Nun's Priest's Tale

	A poor old widow, getting on in age,
	Was living once in a small, cramped cottage,
	Beside a grove that stood down in a dale.
	This widow, who's the subject of my tale,
	Since the day when she had last been a wife,
	Had led, in patience, a very simple life,
	For she had little property, and little rent;
	By thrift, and making do with what God sent,
	She kept herself and her two daughters from that store.
	She had three large sows, and not one more,
	Three cows, and a sheep as well whose name was Moll.
	Her bedroom was all sooty, and her hall,
	In which she ate many a frugal bite.
	No pungent sauce was needed for her appetite.
	No dainty morsel passed her throat at all;
	Her diet matched her cottage: plain and small.
	Overeating never made her ill;
	A moderate diet was her only pill,
	And exercise, and contentment with her circumstance.
	The gout was never what kept her from a dance,
	And apoplexy never harmed her head;
	She drank no wine at all, not white or red;
	Her table was mostly served with white and black—
	Milk and brown bread, of which she had no lack,
	Broiled bacon, and sometimes an egg, or a pair,
	For she was a kind of dairywoman there.

	She had a yard, enclosed with sticks all round,
	And a dry ditch outside it in the ground,
	In which she kept a rooster, Chanticleer;
	In all the land, at crowing, he had no peer.
	His voice was merrier than the organ plays
	In church, when Mass is sung, on holy days;
	His crowing from his roost was much more true
	Than any clock, or abbey clock, could do.
	By nature he knew when each degree would rise
	Of the heavens' equator, in that town's skies;
	For when fifteen degrees—an hour—had ascended,
	He crowed, so right it couldn't be amended.
	His comb was redder than the finest coral,
	And notched with battlements, like a castle wall.
	His beak was black, and shone as jet will glow;
	His legs were blue as azure, and each toe;
	His claws outdid the lily flower for white;
	His colour was like burnished gold, and bright.
	This noble rooster kept, at his command,
	Seven hens, to do his pleasure, on demand,
	Who were his sisters and his lovers too,
	And wonderfully like him in their hue;
	Of whom the fairest-coloured at her throat
	Was called the fair young damsel Pertelote.
	She was courteous, discreet, and debonair,
	And sociable, and had such a gracious air,
	Since the day when she was seven nights old,
	That she had won the heart, and kept tight hold,
	Of Chanticleer, locked fast in every limb;
	He loved her so, it was all joy to him.
	But it was such a joy to hear them sing,
	When the bright sun began its upward swing,
	In sweet harmony, "My love's gone to a far-off land."
	For in those days, as I understand,
	Both beasts and birds could talk, and sing songs too.

	And so it happened, one dawn, as day broke through,
	As Chanticleer, among his wives, one and all,
	Sat on his perch, the one inside the hall,
	And next to him sat this fair Pertelote,
	This Chanticleer began to groan in his throat,
	Like a man whose dream is troubling him more and more.
	And when this Pertelote heard him roar,
	She was alarmed, and said, "Oh, heart so dear,
	What's wrong with you, that you're groaning here?
	What a sleeper you are! Shame on you, for shame!"
	And he replied, and spoke like this: "Madame,
	Please, I beg you, don't let this cause you grief:
	By God, I dreamed of trouble past belief
	Just now, so that my heart's still sore with fright.
	Now God," he said, "make my dream turn out right,
	And keep my body out of foul imprisonment!
	I dreamed that, roaming up and down, I went
	Inside our yard, where I saw a beast that stood
	Like a hound, and would have seized me if it could,
	Laid hold of my body, and would have had me dead.
	His colour was between yellow and red,
	And his tail was tipped, and both his ears, with black,
	Unlike the rest of the fur upon his back;
	His snout was small, with two eyes glowing bright;
	His look still almost makes me die of fright.
	That's what made me groan, there's no doubt of it."

	"For shame!" she said. "Fie on you! You've no grit!
	Alas," she said, "for, by that God above,
	Now you have lost my heart and all my love;
	I cannot love a coward, by my faith, I swear.
	For certainly, whatever any woman may declare,
	We all desire, if such a thing can be,
	Husbands with courage, wisdom, generosity,
	Discreet, and not a miser, not a fool,
	Nor one who's frightened of each weapon, every tool,
	Nor any boaster, by that God above!
	How dare you say, for shame, to your own love,
	That there is anything on earth you've feared?
	Have you no man's heart—and you've got a beard?
	Alas! And can you be afraid of dreaming?
	God knows, in dreams there's nothing but empty seeming.
	Dreams come from overeating and excess,
	And often from vapours, and temperament, no less,
	When humours in a body swell beyond what's right.
	For certain, this dream that you have had tonight
	Is caused by the great superfluity
	Of your red bile, your colera—by God, believe me—
	Which makes folk frightened, in their dreams,
	Of arrows, and of fire with red gleams,
	Of great beasts that they think are going to bite,
	Of fights, and of dogs both great and slight;
	Just as black bile, melancholy, can make
	Many a man cry out in sleep, and shake
	For fear of black bears, or of bulls that are black,
	Or else that black devils are on the attack.
	Of other humours I could tell you, though,
	That bring many a man in sleep great woe;
	But I'll pass over them as lightly as I can.

	"Look at Cato, who was such a wise man:
	Didn't he say this—pay no heed to dreams?
	Now, sir," she said, "when we fly down from the beams,
	For the love of God, go take a laxative;
	On peril of my soul, as surely as I live,
	I give you the best advice, I'll tell no lie:
	That of your choler and your melancholy
	You purge yourself; and, so you needn't tarry,
	Though in this town there's no apothecary,
	I'll teach you myself what herbs to take; and they
	Will do your health good, and help you in every way;
	And I can find those herbs here in our yard, the kind
	That, by their nature, have the power assigned
	To purge you down below, and up above.
	Don't you forget this, for God's own love!
	Your temperament is choleric, by constitution;
	Beware the sun as it climbs in its ascension,
	That it doesn't find you full of humours running hot;
	And if it does, I'm willing to bet a groat
	That you'll get a fever every other day,
	Or else an ague that may carry you away.
	For a day or two you'll take worms, for digestion,
	Before your laxatives—and here's my suggestion:
	Spurge laurel, centaury, and fumitory, my dear,
	Or else the hellebore, that grows round here,
	Or caper spurge, or else the buckthorn berry,
	Or herb ive, growing in our yard, so merry;
	Peck them right up, just as they grow, and take them in.
	Be merry, husband, by your father's kin!
	Don't fear a dream; I've nothing more in store."

	"Madame," he said, "graunt mercy—many thanks—for your lore.
	But all the same, as far as Cato is concerned,
	Who has for wisdom such a name, well earned,
	Though he told us that dreams are not to dread,
	By God, in ancient books it can be read,
	Of many a man of more authority
	Than Cato ever was, so God help me,
	Who say the opposite of his opinion's sense,
	And have discovered by experience
	That dreams are signs of what will be: they show
	The joy as well as tribulation and woe
	That people suffer in this life, and lament.
	There is no call to make an argument;
	The proof itself will show it, in the very deed.

	"One of the greatest authors people read
	Says this: that once upon a time two comrades went
	On pilgrimage, with very good intent;
	And it so happened that they came into a town
	Where such a crowd of people had come down,
	And lodging was so short, that in that place
	They couldn't find a single cottage, not a space,
	Where both of them could find a place to be.
	And so they had to, of necessity,
	For that one night, break up their company;
	And each one went off to his hostelry,
	And took his lodging as it happened to fall.
	And one of them was lodged inside a stall,
	Far off in a yard, with oxen of the plough;
	The other man was lodged quite well somehow,
	As chance would have it, or his fortune, which
	Governs us all alike, the poor and rich.

	"And so it happened that, long before it was day,
	This man dreamed in his bed, there where he lay,
	That his companion started to call,
	And said, 'Alas! For in an ox's stall
	This night I shall be murdered where I lie.
	Now help me, my dear brother, before I die;
	Come to me as quickly as you can,' he said.
	The man woke from his sleep in fear and dread;
	But once he had woken up out of his sleep,
	He turned over, and his concern was not deep;
	Twice in his sleep, like this, he dreamed; but he
	Thought that his dream was just an empty fantasy.
	And yet the third time, as it seemed, again
	His friend came, and he said, 'Now I am slain;
	Look at my bloody wounds, so deep and wide!
	Get up early tomorrow, and go outside,
	And at the west gate of the town,' he said, 'you'll see
	A cart full up with dung; and there I'll be,
	My body hidden in it secretly;
	Have that cart stopped, and seized there, boldly.
	My gold caused my murder, to tell it plain';
	And told him every point of how he was slain,
	With a most pitiful face, pale in hue.
	And trust me, he found that his dream was true;
	For in the morning, as soon as it was day,
	To his friend's inn he made his way;
	And when he came to this same ox's stall,
	He shouted for his friend; he gave a call.

	"The ostler answered him straight away,
	And said, 'Sir, your friend's gone; he didn't stay;
	He went out of the town as soon as it was light.'
	This man began to suspect that something wasn't right,
	Remembering the dreams he'd had of late,
	And off he went—he would no longer wait—
	Straight to the west gate of the town, and found
	A dung cart, set out as if to dung the ground,
	That was laid out exactly the same way
	As you've already heard the dead man say;
	And with a fearless heart he began to cry
	Vengeance and justice for this felony:
	'My friend's been murdered this same night,' he cried,
	'And in this cart he lies face up, mouth open wide.
	Shame on the officers,' he said, 'whose duty
	Is keeping order and governing this city!
	Help! Alas! Here lies my friend, slain!'
	What more about this story need I explain?
	The people rushed out and threw the cart to the ground,
	And in the middle of the dung they found
	The dead man, who'd been freshly murdered, new.

	"O blissful God, who are so just and true!
	Look how you always give murder away!
	Murder will out, we see that day by day.
	Murder is so loathsome and abominable
	To God, who is so just and reasonable,
	That he will not allow it any secrecy;
	Though it may take a year, or two, or three,
	Murder will out—that's the rule I'm laying down.
	And straight away, the officers of that town
	Have grabbed the carter, and so tortured him,
	And racked the ostler too, so sore, so grim,
	That they at once confessed their wickedness, and they
	Were hanged up by the neck without delay.

	"Here you can see that dreams are things to dread.
	And certainly, in the same book I've read,
	Right in the next chapter after this
	(I'm not lying, as I hope for joy and bliss),
	Two men who would have crossed over the sea,
	For a certain reason, to a far country,
	If the wind hadn't blown the other way,
	Which made them stop inside a city and stay,
	A city standing pleasantly beside a bay.
	But toward evening, on a certain day,
	The wind changed, and blew just the way they liked best.
	Happy and glad, they went off to their rest,
	And made their plans to sail at break of day;
	But one man had a marvel come his way.
	One of them, as he slept, there where he lay,
	Dreamed an amazing dream, just before day:
	He thought a man was standing by his bed,
	And ordered him to stay behind instead,
	And said to him, 'If you go tomorrow, as you intend,
	You will be drowned. My tale is at an end.'
	He woke, and told his friend what he had dreamed, and prayed
	That he would let his voyage be delayed;
	Just for that day, he begged him to abide.
	His friend, who lay there sleeping at his side,
	Began to laugh, and mocked him thick and fast.
	'No dream,' he said, 'could make my heart so aghast
	That I will hold off doing all my chores.
	I wouldn't give a straw for dreams of yours,
	For dreams are nothing but empty jokes and japes.
	Men dream all day of owls, or else of apes,
	And many a baffling maze besides, and all;
	Men dream of what has never been, and never shall.
	But since I see that you will stay on this side,
	And lazily, on purpose, waste the tide,
	God knows I'm sorry; and have a good day.'
	And so he took his leave, and went his way.
	But before half his course had yet been sailed,
	I don't know why, or what it was that failed,
	But by some chance the ship's bottom split and rent,
	And ship and man beneath the water went,
	In sight of other ships there alongside,
	That had sailed out with them on the same tide.
	And therefore, Pertelote, so fair and dear,
	Old examples such as these will make it clear
	That no one should be careless, not a bit,
	Of dreams; for I tell you—there's no doubt of it—
	That many a dream is very much to dread.

	"Look, in the life of Saint Kenelm, I've read—
	Who was the son of Kenulph, the noble king
	Of Mercia—how Kenelm dreamed a thing;
	A little before he was murdered, one day, he
	Saw in a vision how his murder would be.
	His nurse explained his dream to him, every bit,
	And told him to watch out, and keep well clear of it—
	Of treason; but he was only seven years old,
	And so he paid scant heed to what he'd been told,
	Or any dream, his heart was so devout.
	By God, I'd give my shirt, and go without,
	If you had read his legend, as have I.
	Dame Pertelote, I tell you, and I don't lie,
	Macrobius, who wrote the dream that came
	In Africa to Scipio, of noble fame,
	Confirms that dreams are real, and says they've been
	Warnings of things that men have afterwards seen.

	"And furthermore, I beg you, look well,
	In the Old Testament, at Daniel,
	To see if he held dreams mere vanity.
	Read about Joseph too, and there you'll see
	Whether dreams are sometimes (I don't say all)
	Warnings of things that afterwards befall.
	Look at the king of Egypt, Pharaoh,
	His baker and his butler also,
	Whether they felt no effect from their dreams!
	Whoever will search the deeds of various realms
	Can read about dreams, many an amazing thing.

	"Look at Croesus, who was Lydia's king:
	Didn't he dream that he sat in a tree,
	Which meant the gallows was where he would be?
	Look here at Andromache, Hector's wife:
	The day that Hector was to lose his life,
	She dreamed, upon the very night before,
	How Hector's life would end, and he'd be no more,
	If on that day he went into the fight;
	She warned him, but her warning had no might;
	He went to fight regardless of her pleas,
	But he was killed at once by Achilles.
	But that tale is far too long to tell,
	And it's almost day; I mustn't dwell.
	To put it shortly, then, and so conclude:
	This vision means that I shall be pursued
	By adversity; and furthermore, let me say,
	I set no store by laxatives in any way,
	For they are poisonous, I'm well aware of it;
	I defy them; I don't love them, not one bit.

	"Now let's speak of something cheerful, and stop all this.
	Madame Pertelote, as I hope for bliss,
	Of one thing God has sent me great grace:
	For when I see the beauty of your face,
	You are so scarlet-red around your eyes,
	That every fear I have just up and dies;
	For, just as certain as In principio,
	Mulier est hominis confusio;
	Madame, the meaning of this Latin is—
	Woman is man's joy and all his bliss.
	For when at night I feel your soft side,
	Although I can't climb on you there and ride,
	Because the perch is made so narrow—a shame!—
	I am so full of joy and fun all the same
	That I defy both vision and dream."
	And with that word he flew down from the beam,
	For it was day; and down came his hens, one and all;
	And with a "chuck!" he gave them all a call,
	For he had found a grain that lay there on the ground.
	He was royal; not a trace of fear was to be found.
	Twenty times he covered Pertelote, and each time
	He mounted her as well, all before prime.
	He looks like a fierce lion, with a frown;
	And on his toes he struts up and down;
	He doesn't deign to set his foot on the ground.
	He gives a "chuck!" whenever corn is found,
	And then his wives come running to him, all.
	So, royal as a prince is in his hall,
	I'll leave this Chanticleer in his pasture,
	And later I will tell of his adventure.

	When the month in which the world began,
	Called March, when God first made man,
	Was over, and there had passed by too,
	Since March began, thirty days and two,
	It happened that Chanticleer, in all his pride,
	His seven wives walking by his side,
	Cast up his eyes toward the bright sun,
	Which in the sign of Taurus had run
	Twenty-one degrees, and somewhat more;
	And knew by nature, and by no other lore,
	That it was prime, and crowed with blissful glee.
	"The sun," he said, "has climbed the heavens, I see,
	Forty-one degrees, and more than this.
	Madame Pertelote, my whole world's bliss,
	Listen to these happy birds, how they sing,
	And see the fresh flowers, how they spring;
	My heart is full of pleasure and of play."
	But suddenly a sad thing came his way;
	For always the latter end of joy is woe.
	God knows that worldly joy is quick to go;
	And if a rhetorician had a fine pen,
	He could safely write it in a chronicle then,
	As something of supreme notability.
	Now every wise man, let him listen to me:
	This tale is just as true—and I would stake
	My word on it—as Lancelot of the Lake,
	That women hold in reverence and great esteem.
	Now I'll return to my story's theme.

	A coal-tipped fox, all full of sly iniquity,
	Who'd lived inside the grove for years—for three—
	As high imagination had forecast,
	Burst through the hedges that same night, and passed
	Into the yard where Chanticleer the fair
	And all his wives were used to gather there;
	And in a bed of cabbages, quite still, he lay
	Till it was past mid-morning of the day,
	Waiting for the moment when he'd fall
	On Chanticleer, as murderers will, one and all,
	Who lie in wait in ambush to murder men.
	O false murderer, lurking in your den!
	O new Iscariot, new Ganelon!
	False hypocrite, O Greek Sinon,
	Who brought all Troy to grief and utter mourning!
	O Chanticleer, accursed be that morning
	When you flew down into that yard from the beams!
	You had been warned quite plainly by your dreams
	That this day was, for you, a day of jeopardy.
	But what God has foreknown must surely be,
	According to what certain scholars hold.
	Witness any perfect scholar, who has told
	That in the schools there's great altercation
	On this matter, and great disputation,
	Debated by a hundred thousand, man by man.
	But I can't sift it to the bran, as can
	The holy doctor, Saint Augustine,
	Or Boethius, or the bishop Bradwardine,
	Whether God's worthy foreknowledge of everything
	Compels me by necessity to do a thing
	("Necessarily" meaning simple necessity);
	Or else, if free choice is granted to me
	To do that same thing, or else leave it undone,
	Though God foreknew it before it was begun;
	Or if his knowing doesn't constrain at all
	Except by a necessity that's conditional.
	I won't have any dealings with such questions here;
	My tale is of a rooster, as you'll hear,
	Who took his wife's advice, which brought him woe,
	To walk out in the yard that morning, to and fro,
	When he had dreamed the dream that I have told.
	Women's advice is often fatal, cold;
	Woman's advice first brought us all to woe,
	And made Adam leave Paradise and go,
	Where he had been so merry, and at ease.
	But since I don't know whom it might displease
	If women's advice were what I chose to blame,
	Pass over it; I only said it as a game.
	Read authors, where they deal with matters of this kind,
	And what they say of women, you will find.
	These are the rooster's words, not words of mine;
	Of any harm in women, I can see no sign.

	Out in the sand, to have a merry bath, there lie
	Pertelote and her sisters, all close by,
	In the sunshine; and noble Chanticleer, so free,
	Sang merrier than the mermaid in the sea;
	For Physiologus says, and certainly,
	That mermaids sing both well and merrily.
	And so it happened that, as he cast his eye
	Among the cabbages, on a butterfly,
	He noticed this fox, lying very low.
	He had no wish at all just then to crow,
	But cried at once, "Cock, cock!" and up he jumped with a start,
	Like one who's been alarmed deep in his heart.
	For by nature any creature longs to flee
	From its born enemy, if it can see
	That foe, though it had never seen it with its eye.

	When Chanticleer first saw the fox nearby,
	He would have run, except the fox, then and there,
	Said, "Gracious sir, alas! Are you off somewhere?
	Are you afraid of me, who am your friend?
	Now certainly, I'd be worse than a fiend
	If I wished you harm, or any injury.
	I haven't come to spy on your privacy;
	But honestly, my reason for coming was one thing:
	Only to listen to the way you sing.
	For honestly, your voice is merry; it is even
	As merry as any angel's up in heaven;
	What's more, in music you have more feeling
	Than Boethius had, or anyone who can sing.
	My lord your father—God bless his soul, I pray—
	And your mother too, in her noble way,
	Have both been in my house, much to my ease;
	And certainly, sir, it's you I'd like to please.
	But since we're speaking of singing, I'll declare,
	As I hope to keep my two eyes in good repair,
	Apart from you, I never heard anyone sing
	The way your father did, at dawn, first thing;
	It all came from the heart, every note of his song.
	And, to make his voice more powerful and strong,
	He'd strain so hard that both of his eyes
	Would have to shut, so loud were his cries;
	And he'd stand up on his tiptoes, tall,
	And stretch his neck out, long and small.
	And he was of such judgment, such discretion,
	That there was no one, anywhere, in any region,
	Whom he, in song or wisdom, didn't surpass.
	I've read, in that poem about Burnel the Ass,
	Among its verses, how there was a cock
	Who, because a priest's son gave him a knock
	Upon his leg, while he was young and foolish, the beast
	Made him lose his benefice, his living as a priest.
	But surely there is no comparison
	Between the wisdom and the judgment of that one
	And of your father, and his subtlety.
	Now sing, sir, for holy charity!
	Let's see: can you copy your father, sir? Let's hear!"
	And now his wings began to beat, this Chanticleer,
	Like a man who couldn't spot the treachery,
	He was so dazzled and swept away by flattery.

	Alas, you lords, there's many a false flatterer
	Inside your courts, and many a smooth deceiver,
	Who please you more, by my faith, by far,
	Than one who tells you truly how things are.
	Read Ecclesiastes on flattery;
	Beware, you lords, of their treachery.

	This Chanticleer stood up on tiptoe, high,
	Stretched out his neck, and shut tight either eye,
	And began to crow out loud, for the occasion;
	And Russell the fox leapt up without hesitation,
	And by the gullet grabbed Chanticleer, and away
	Toward the wood, upon his back, he bore his prey,
	For still nobody followed, none pursued.
	O Destiny, that cannot be eschewed!
	Alas, that Chanticleer flew down from the beams!
	Alas, his wife cared nothing for dreams!
	And all this happened on a Friday, by mischance.
	O Venus, goddess of pleasure and romance,
	Since Chanticleer was your servant, and would do
	All that was in his power in serving you,
	More for delight than to make the world multiply,
	Why would you let him, on your own day, die?
	O Geoffrey, dear master, supreme in your domain,
	Who, when your worthy King Richard was slain
	By a shot, lamented his death so sore,
	Why don't I have your eloquence and your lore,
	So I could rail at Friday, as you did, and chide?
	(For it was on a Friday that he died.)
	Then I would show you how I could complain
	For Chanticleer's dread, and for his pain.

	Certainly, such crying and such lamentation
	Were never made by ladies when the Trojan nation
	Was won, and Pyrrhus, sword in hand, appeared,
	And seized King Priam roughly by the beard,
	And killed him (as we're told by Virgil, the bard,
	In the Aeneid), as all the hens made in the yard
	When they had seen poor Chanticleer's plight.
	But Dame Pertelote shrieked the most, with all her might,
	Far louder than did Hasdrubal's wife,
	When her husband had lost his life,
	And the Romans had burned Carthage;
	She was so full of torment and of rage
	That of her own free will into the flames she darted,
	And burned herself to death, steadfast-hearted.
	O woeful hens, you cried as piteously
	As, when Nero burned down the city
	Of Rome, the senators' wives cried out—those wives
	Whose husbands, every one, had lost their lives;
	Though they were guiltless, Nero had them slain.
	Now I'll go back to my tale again:

	This poor widow, and her daughters, the pair,
	Heard these hens cry, lamenting in despair,
	And out of doors they rushed at once, and spied
	The fox heading toward the grove, from the yard outside,
	Carrying the rooster on his back away;
	And cried, "Help! Help! Alas! Oh, what a day!
	Ha, ha! The fox!" and after him they ran,
	And with staves too, many another man;
	Ran Colle our dog, and Talbot, and Gerland,
	And Malkin, with a distaff in her hand;
	Ran cow and calf, and even the very hogs,
	So frightened by the barking of the dogs
	And by the shouting of the men and women, too;
	They ran till they thought their hearts would break in two.
	They yelled the way that devils do in hell;
	The ducks quacked as if men were killing them pell-mell;
	The geese in fear flew over the trees;
	Out of the hive there came the swarm of bees;
	The noise was hideous—ah, benedicite!—
	Certainly, Jack Straw and his company
	Never made shouts that were half so shrill
	Whenever they were after a Fleming to kill,
	As were made that day upon the fox.
	They brought out trumpets made of brass, of box,
	Of horn, of bone, on which they blew and tooted,
	And with it all they shrieked and they hooted;
	It seemed as if the heavens were going to fall.
	Now, good men, I beg you, listen, all!

	Look how Fortune turns suddenly
	The hope and pride of her enemy!
	This rooster, on the fox's back, in all his dread,
	Spoke to the fox; and this is what he said:
	"Sir, if I were in your place, then I
	Would say (so help me God, all-wise on high),
	'Turn back, you arrogant peasants, one and all!
	May a true plague upon you all now fall!
	Now that I've come up to the woodland's side,
	In spite of you, the rooster will abide;
	I'll eat him, by my faith, and straight away!'"
	"In faith," the fox replied, "I'll do just as you say"—
	And as he spoke that word, all suddenly
	This rooster broke out of his mouth nimbly,
	And flew at once up high into a tree;
	And when the fox saw that the cock was free,
	"Alas!" he said. "O Chanticleer, alas!
	I've done you wrong," he said, "in what came to pass,
	In that I frightened you, and caught you off guard,
	When I grabbed you and brought you out of the yard;
	But, sir, I did it with no wicked intent;
	Come down, and I'll tell you what I meant.
	I'll tell you the truth, so help me God, I swear."
	"Oh no," he said, "I curse us both, the pair,
	And I curse myself first, every bone and every vein,
	If you should fool me ever once again.
	You'll never, with your flattery, any more
	Get me to sing and shut my eyes, as before.
	For anyone who shuts his eyes when he should see,
	On purpose, may God never give him prosperity!"
	"No," said the fox, "may God send trouble to
	Whoever is so indiscreet in what he'll do
	That he chatters when he ought to hold his peace."

	Look—that's what comes of letting all your caution cease,
	And being negligent, and trusting flattery.
	But you who think this tale is foolery,
	About a fox, or a rooster and a hen,
	Take the moral of it, you good men.
	For Saint Paul says that whatever has been written, it
	Was written for our teaching, every bit.
	Take the fruit, and let the chaff be still.

	Now, good God, if it should be your will,
	As my lord says, so make us all good men,
	And bring us to his high bliss. Amen.

Epilogue to the Nun's Priest's Tale

	"Sir Nun's Priest," said our Host, the moment he was done,
	"Blessed be your breeches, and your balls, each one!
	That was a merry tale of Chanticleer.
	But if you weren't in orders, by my faith, it's clear
	You'd be a champion hen-treader, all right.
	For if your appetite matches your might,
	You'd need some hens, I reckon—hens, I mean,
	Yes, more than seven times seventeen!
	Look at the brawn on this noble priest—just check
	That great broad chest, and such a massive neck!
	He looks out like a sparrowhawk with his eyes;
	He doesn't need to colour his complexion with dyes,
	With brazil-wood or Portuguese grain: he's never pale.
	Now, sir, good fortune follow you for your tale!"

	And after that, in very merry cheer,
	He spoke to someone else, as you will hear.

The Physician's Tale

	There was, as Titus Livy tells, a knight,
	Virginius, who was, in all men's sight,
	A man of honour and distinction, blessed
	With powerful friends and wealth beyond the rest.

	This knight and his wife had a daughter, one alone;
	In all his life no other child was his own.
	This girl was fair, of beauty so complete,
	Above every other person you could meet;
	For Nature, with her sovereign diligence,
	Had formed her in such great excellence
	As though she'd say, "Look! I, Nature, can
	Form and paint a creature thus, just as I plan,
	Whenever I please. Who can copy what I do?
	Not Pygmalion, though he forges and hammers too,
	Or carves, or paints; for I'll boldly maintain
	The painters Apelles and Zeuxis would toil in vain,
	To carve or paint, to forge or hammer and beat,
	If they presumed to copy me, and compete.
	For he who is the first Maker of all
	Has made me his deputy, his vicar general,
	To form and paint all earthly creatures, just
	As I please; and everything is in my trust
	Beneath the moon, which waxes and will wane;
	And for my work I ask no wage or gain;
	My lord and I are fully in accord:
	I made her to the glory of my lord.
	So I do all my other creatures too,
	Whatever their shape, whatever their hue."—
	This, it seems to me, is how Nature's words would go.

	This girl was fourteen years of age; and oh,
	The pleasure Nature took in her, the delight!
	For just as she can paint a lily white
	And a rose red, with just such painterly art
	She'd painted this noble creature, every part,
	Before her birth, upon her shapely limbs, and laid
	Each colour where by right it should be displayed;
	And Phoebus had dyed her abundant hair as bright
	As the streaming beams of his burnished heat and light.
	And if her beauty was excellent to see,
	A thousand times more virtuous was she.
	She lacked no gift, no quality of worth
	That good judgement praises in anyone on earth.
	She was as chaste in soul as in body, so that she
	Flourished in her virginity
	With all humility and abstinence,
	With all temperance and patience,
	With moderation in her bearing and her way
	Of dressing. She was discreet in all she'd say;
	Though she was wise as Pallas, I maintain,
	Her eloquence was womanly and plain;
	She used no fancy terms, put on to be
	Thought wise; but as befitted her degree
	She spoke, and all her words, without excess,
	Rang out with virtue and with nobleness.
	She had a maiden's modesty, and she
	Was steadfast in her heart, and constantly
	Busy, so idle sloth could get no hold;
	Bacchus never had her mouth in his control;
	For wine and youth make Venus grow, the same
	As when men throw oil or grease on a flame.
	And of her own virtue, by no one else's will,
	She many times pretended she was ill,
	So as to get away from company
	Where foolish, wanton talk was likely to be,
	As at feasts, at revels, and at dances,
	That give occasion for flirtatious glances.
	Such things can make young people grow to be
	Too early ripe and bold, as you can see,
	Which is a danger now, as it was long before;
	For all too soon she may learn the lore
	Of boldness, when she's grown into a wife.

	And you governesses, in your later life,
	Who have lords' daughters in your charge, I ask
	That you don't take offence or take me to task:
	Remember that you were set to govern for two
	Reasons alone, when lords' daughters came to you:
	Either because you've kept your chastity,
	Or else because you've fallen into frailty,
	And know the old dance of love well, and have given it all
	Up, and forsaken such misconduct beyond recall
	For evermore; and so, for Christ's sake,
	Don't let your teaching of virtue slacken or break.
	A poacher who has given up, at last,
	His appetite and all his crafty past
	Can keep a forest better than any man.
	Now keep them well; if you're willing, you can.
	Make sure that no vice gets your consent,
	Or you'll be damned for your wicked intent;
	For whoever does is a traitor, plain;
	And listen well to what I'll now explain:
	Of all treasons, the sovereign pestilence
	Is when someone betrays innocence.

	You fathers, and you mothers also, who
	Have children, whether it be one or two,
	Yours is the duty of all their supervision
	While they are under your rule and your provision.
	Beware lest, by example in how you live,
	Or negligence in the correction you give,
	They perish; for I dare say it, plain and clear,
	If that is so, you'll pay for it, and dear.
	Under a shepherd who is soft and lax,
	The wolf tears sheep and lambs in his attacks.
	One example, as here, is all I'll need;
	For I must turn back to my tale, and proceed.

	This girl, the subject of the tale I address,
	Kept herself so well she needed no governess;
	For in her life young girls might read, as they'd read
	A book, every good word and every good deed
	That belongs to a virtuous maiden's part;
	She was so prudent, and so good of heart.
	And so her fame spread out on every side,
	Her beauty and her goodness, far and wide,
	So that throughout that land they praised her, everyone
	Who loved virtue—except for Envy, alone,
	Who grieves at other people's happiness
	And is glad at their sorrow and distress.
	(It was Saint Augustine who wrote this down.)
	One day this girl went walking through the town
	Towards a temple, and her mother came too,
	As is the custom, as young girls always do.

	Now in that town a judge held office then,
	Who was governor of that region and its men.
	And so it happened that this judge's eye
	Fell on this girl; he studied her, close by,
	As she went past the place where the judge stood.
	At once his heart was changed, and all his mood;
	The beauty of this girl had caught him so
	That to himself he whispered, soft and low,
	"This girl is going to be mine, in spite of any man."

	The Devil ran at once into his heart, and began
	To show him swiftly how, by cunning and by sleight,
	He could bring the girl round to his will outright.
	For neither force nor bribery would do,
	He thought; with those he'd never see it through;
	For she had powerful friends, and was as well
	So firmly founded in goodness, he could tell
	He'd never manage, any way, to win
	Her over to commit a bodily sin.
	And so, after much deliberation,
	He sent for a churl in the town, of low station,
	Whom he knew for a cunning fellow, and bold too.
	The judge in secret told this churl what he'd do,
	And made him swear he'd keep it under seal
	And tell it to no one, nor the plan reveal,
	And if he did, his head would be the price he paid.
	When this accursed plan was agreed and laid,
	The judge was glad; he showed him all good cheer
	And gave him presents, precious ones and dear.

	When their conspiracy was all designed,
	Point by point—how the lust he had in mind
	Should be fulfilled with cunning (as you'll hear,
	Later on, the whole thing, laid out and clear)—
	Home goes the churl, whose name was Claudius.
	This false judge, whose name was Appius
	(That was his name, for this is no fable,
	But known as history, and notable;
	Its substance is the truth, beyond a doubt),
	This false judge goes busily about
	To speed his pleasure every way he may.
	And so it happened, soon after, one day,
	This false judge, as the story tells, sat in his chair
	In court, as usual, judging each affair,
	Giving his rulings, case after case.
	This false churl came forward at a rapid pace
	And said, "My lord, if it should be your will,
	Give me justice on this sorry bill,
	In which I bring complaint against Virginius.
	And if he says the matter isn't thus,
	I'll prove it, and I'll find good witnesses too,
	To show that what my bill sets out is true."

	The judge replied, "On this, in his absence,
	I cannot give a final sentence.
	Have him called in, and I'll hear what he'll say;
	You'll have full justice, and no wrong, today."

	Virginius came to learn the judge's will,
	And straight away they read the cursed bill;
	Its substance was as you are going to hear:

	"To you, my lord, Sir Appius so dear,
	Your humble servant Claudius sets out thus:
	How a certain knight, called Virginius,
	Against the law, against all equity,
	Is keeping, in plain defiance of me,
	My servant, who is my slave by right,
	Who from my house was stolen one night
	While she was very young. I'll prove it true
	By witnesses, my lord, if that won't trouble you.
	She's not his daughter, whatever he may say;
	And so, my lord the judge, I beg and pray,
	Give me my slave, if that should be your will."
	And that was the whole substance of his bill.

	Virginius turned and looked the churl in the eye;
	But hastily, before he could reply—
	And he'd have proved it, as befits a knight,
	With many witnesses, as was his right,
	That what his adversary said was untrue—
	This cursed judge would make no more ado,
	Nor hear a single word more from Virginius,
	But gave his judgement, and he spoke out thus:

	"I rule at once that the churl shall have his slave;
	You'll keep her in your house no more; she's not yours to save.
	Go, bring her out, and put her in our ward;
	The churl shall have his slave: that's my award."

	And when this distinguished knight Virginius,
	Through the sentence of this justice Appius,
	Was forced to give his daughter into the hand
	Of the judge, to live in lechery as he planned,
	He goes back home, and sits down in his hall,
	And sends for his dear daughter, first of all,
	And, with a face like ashes, dead and cold,
	Upon her humble face his eyes took hold,
	With a father's pity stabbing through his heart,
	Though from his purpose he would not depart.

	"Daughter," he said, "Virginia, by your name,
	There are two ways, either death or shame,
	That you must suffer. Alas that I was ever born or bred!
	For you never deserved, for anything you did or said,
	To die by a sword or by a knife.
	O dear daughter, ender of my life,
	Whom I have raised up with so much delight
	That you were never out of my thoughts or sight!
	O daughter, who are now my final woe,
	And in my life my final joy also,
	O gem of chastity, in patience take
	Your death, for this is the judgement that I make.
	For love and not for hate, you must be dead;
	My pitying hand must strike off your head.
	Alas, that Appius ever looked your way!
	That's how he has falsely judged you today"—
	And told her the whole case, as you heard before;
	No need to tell it to you anymore.

	"Oh, mercy, my dear father!" said the maid,
	And with that word she went to him and laid
	Both arms around his neck, as she'd done before;
	The tears burst from her eyes and began to pour,
	And she said, "Good father, must I die?
	Is there no grace? Is there no remedy?"

	"No, there is none, my dear daughter," he replied.

	"Then give me time, my father," the girl cried,
	"To mourn my death a little while, a space;
	For Jephthah, by God, gave his daughter grace
	To mourn before he killed her, alas!
	And God knows she had committed no trespass,
	Except that she ran to her father first, to see
	And welcome him with great ceremony."
	And with that word she fainted, there and then,
	And when she came back to herself again
	She rose, and to her father this is what she said:
	"Blessed be God, that I shall die a maid.
	Give me my death, before I come to shame;
	Do your will with your child, in God's name!"

	And with that word she begged him, again and again,
	To strike her gently with his sword; and then,
	With that word, she fainted, and lay still.
	Her father, with a sorrowful heart and will,
	Struck off her head, and seized it by the hair,
	And went to the judge, and presented it there,
	As he sat, still in judgement, holding court.
	And when the judge saw it, so the stories report,
	He ordered them to seize and hang him fast;
	But at once a thousand people pushed in, massed,
	To save the knight, for pity and sympathy,
	For everyone knew of the false iniquity.
	The people at once suspected in this thing,
	From the manner of the churl's challenging,
	That it was done with the consent of Appius;
	They knew quite well that he was lecherous.
	And so they go to Appius, and at once they cast
	Him into prison, where by his own hand he breathed his last;
	And then the churl, whose name was Claudius,
	Who was a servant to this Appius,
	Was sentenced to be hanged upon a tree;
	But Virginius, out of his pity,
	So pleaded for him that he was exiled instead;
	Otherwise, for certain, he'd have been dead.
	The rest were hanged, the greater and the less,
	Who had consented to this wickedness.—

	Here you can see how sin gets its pay!
	Beware, for no one knows whom God will strike one day,
	Of any rank, or how, or in what guise
	The worm of conscience may awake and rise
	Against a wicked life, however hidden it may be,
	So that no one knows of it but God and he.
	For whether he's ignorant or he's well-read,
	He doesn't know how soon he'll be in dread.
	Therefore here is the counsel I would have you pursue:
	Forsake sin, before sin forsakes you.

The Words of the Host

	Our Host began to swear as if he'd lost his head.
	"Help! By the nails, and by the blood!" he said.
	"That was a lying wretch, a lying judge likewise!
	As shameful a death as any heart can devise
	Come to such judges and the lawyers they retain!
	Anyway, alas, this innocent girl is slain!
	Alas, her beauty cost her much too dear!
	That's why I'm always saying, and the proof is clear,
	That the gifts that fortune or that nature gave
	Have sent a lot of creatures to the grave.
	Her beauty was her death, I'd dare to say.
	Alas, that she was slain in such a pitiful way!
	From both the gifts I'm speaking of, again
	And again people get far more harm than gain.
	But honestly, my own dear master here,
	That was a pitiful tale for us to hear.
	But still, let's pass it over; it's all the same.
	I pray to God to save your noble frame,
	And all your urine flasks, and every chamber pot,
	Your Hippocrates and Galen tonics, the lot,
	And every box filled up with your electuary;
	God bless them, and our blessed lady, Saint Mary!
	As I hope to prosper, you're a fine-looking man,
	And like a bishop, by Saint Ronyan!
	Well said, wasn't it? I can't talk the jargon, though;
	But you've made my heart ache, this much I know,
	So that I've just about had a cardiac attack.
	By corpus bones! Unless some cure-all brings me back,
	Or else a drink of fresh and malty ale,
	Or else I hear, and quickly, a merry tale,
	Pity for this girl will leave my heart for dead.
	You, my handsome friend, you Pardoner," he said,
	"Tell us something cheerful, or some jokes—come on!"
	"It shall be done," he said, "by Saint Ronyon!
	But first," he said, "here by this tavern sign, I'll make
	A stop, and have a drink, and eat a cake."

	But right away the gentlefolk began to shout,
	"No! Let him tell us nothing dirty—leave that out;
	Tell us something moral, so that we can learn
	Some wisdom, and we'll gladly listen in return."
	"All right," he said, "I will; but I must think
	Of something decent to tell you while I drink."

The Pardoner's Prologue

Radix malorum est Cupiditas: Ad Thimotheum, sexto: Greed is the root of all evil (Paul's First Letter to Timothy, chapter six).

	"Gentlemen," he said, "in churches, when I preach,
	I take good care to make a grand, high-sounding speech,
	And ring it out as roundly as a bell,
	For I know by heart every word I tell.
	My theme's the same—greed's the root of evil—and always was:
	'Radix malorum est Cupiditas.'

	"First I announce where I've come from; when that's done,
	I show them my bulls, the papal licences, every one.
	My licence has our liege lord's seal, which I display
	First of all, to keep myself safe that way,
	So no man, priest or cleric, has the gall
	To interfere with Christ's holy work at all;
	And after that, I tell the stories I have in store:
	Bulls of popes, and of cardinals, and more:
	Of patriarchs and bishops—I show those too;
	And I speak some Latin, just a word or two,
	To spice my sermon, the way saffron colours food,
	And stir the people to a devout mood.
	Then I bring out my long glass jars, my crystal stones,
	Crammed to the top with rags and bones;
	They're relics, so they all believe, the things I've shown.
	Then, set in brass, I have a shoulder-bone
	Which came from a holy Jew's own sheep.
	'Good men,' I say, 'pay heed; these words are yours to keep:
	If this bone is washed in any well,
	Then if a cow or calf or sheep or ox should swell
	From eating a worm, or because a worm has stung,
	Take water from that well and wash its tongue,
	And it's healed at once. And furthermore,
	From pox and scab and every kind of sore
	Each sheep that takes a drink from this same well
	Will be made whole. And mark what else I tell:
	If the farmer who owns these animals will go,
	Each week, before the cock begins to crow,
	And drink some, fasting, as that holy Jew
	Taught our forefathers long ago to do,
	His herds and all his stock will multiply and thrive.
	And, sirs, it heals the most jealous man alive;
	For though a man's gone jealous, mad as he can be,
	Let his soup be made with this water, and he
	Will never mistrust his wife again, although
	The truth about her lapse is what he's come to know—
	Even if she'd had priests as lovers, two or three.

	"And here's a mitten too, as you can see.
	Whoever puts his hand in this mitten will gain
	A harvest that will multiply his grain,
	Once he has sown it, whether wheat or oats,
	As long as he offers pennies, or else groats.

	"Good men and women, one thing I must warn you:
	If there is anyone in this church now who
	Has done a sin so horrible he's afraid,
	For shame, to have confession of it made,
	Or any woman, whether young or old,
	Who has made her husband a cuckold,
	Such people will have neither power nor grace
	To make an offering to my relics in this place.
	And whoever finds that he is free of such blame
	Will come up and make his offering in God's name,
	And I'll absolve him by the authority
	That has been granted by papal bull to me.'

	"This trick of mine has won me, year by year,
	A hundred marks, in my pardoner's career.
	I stand there in my pulpit like a scholar; then,
	When they've sat down, the ignorant women and men,
	I preach, the way that you have heard before,
	And tell a hundred lying stories more.
	Then I take care to crane my neck, just so,
	And east and west I bob at the people below,
	Just like a dove that's sitting on a barn.
	My hands and tongue go fast as I spin my yarn;
	It's a joy to see the busy state I'm in.
	Avarice, and every cursed sin of its kin—
	That's all I preach about, to make them free
	To give their pennies, and especially to me.
	For my one aim is only what I win,
	And nothing to do with correcting sin.
	I don't care, once they're buried in the ground,
	If their souls go blackberrying, wandering around!
	For certainly, a lot of sermons have their start
	In evil motives, very often, in the heart:
	Some to please people, flattering, to win their praise,
	To be advanced by hypocritical ways,
	And some for vanity, and some for hate.
	For when I dare not otherwise retaliate,
	Then I'll sting him with my tongue, sharp as it can be,
	In preaching, so he cannot get off free
	From being falsely slandered, if he's someone who
	Has wronged my brother pardoners, or me too.
	For though I don't say his actual name,
	Everyone will know he's the man, all the same,
	By signs and other details that I cite.
	That's how I pay back people who do us spite;
	That's how I spit my venom out, disguised in the hue
	Of holiness, to seem holy and true.

	"But briefly, let me make my purpose plain:
	I preach for nothing but my greed for gain.
	And so my theme is still, and always was,
	'Radix malorum est Cupiditas.'
	So I can preach against the vice, the very same
	One that I practise: avarice is its name.
	But though I'm guilty of that very sin,
	Yet I can get other people to begin
	To turn from avarice, and bitterly repent.
	But that is not my principal intent.
	I preach for nothing but my greed for gain;
	On this, enough; there's no more to explain.

	"Then I tell them stories with morals, one by one,
	Old stories from a time that's long since done:
	For ignorant folk love old tales from times before;
	That kind of thing they can retell and keep in store.
	What? Do you think that while I'm able to preach
	And win gold and silver for the things I teach,
	That I will live in poverty of my own design?
	No, no! That never was a thought of mine!
	For I will preach and beg in many different lands;
	I won't do a stroke of labour with my hands,
	Or make baskets, and live on that—and why?
	Because I won't do my begging in vain, not I.
	Apostles? I will copy none of these!
	I'll have money, wool, and wheat, and cheese,
	Even if it's given by the poorest page,
	Or by the poorest widow in a village,
	Even if her children were to starve and pine.
	No! I'll be drinking the liquor of the vine,
	And keep a lively girl in every town.
	But listen, gentlemen: to wind things down,
	It's your desire that I should tell a tale.
	Now that I've had a drink of malty ale,
	By God, I hope I'll tell you something good,
	One that you'll like, and so you rightly should.
	For though I am, myself, wicked through and through,
	I can still tell a moral tale to you,
	One I preach regularly, for the cash I win.
	Now hold your peace, and let my tale begin."

The Pardoner's Tale

	In Flanders, once, there was a company
	Of young folk given up to every folly,
	Wild living, dice, the brothels, and the bars,
	Where, to the sound of harps and lutes and guitars,
	They dance and play at dice both day and night,
	And eat and drink, too, far beyond their might,
	Through which they offer the devil sacrifice
	Within the devil's temple, in cursed vice,
	By an excess that is abominable;
	Their oaths are so enormous and so damnable
	That it is horrible to hear them swear;
	Our blessed Lord's own body they will tear;
	They think the Jews had not torn him through and through;
	And each one laughs at the sins the others do.
	And then at once the girl acrobats appear,
	Shapely and slim, and young fruit-girls come near,
	Singers with harps, and bawds, and cake-sellers, who
	Are the devil's very officers, tried and true,
	To kindle and to fan the fire of lechery,
	Which is attached so closely to gluttony;
	I take the holy scriptures as my witness
	That lechery's in wine and drunkenness.

	Look how Lot, drunk, against all natural law,
	Lay with his two daughters, and never saw;
	He was so drunk he didn't know what he'd done.

	Herod (search out the histories, every one),
	When, at his feast, he was full up with wine,
	Right at his own table gave the sign
	To kill John the Baptist, who was free of blame.

	And Seneca says a good word on the same:
	He says there's no distinction he can find
	Between a man who's gone out of his mind
	And a man who's drunk the whole year round,
	Except that madness, once a wretch is bound
	By it, lasts longer than does drunkenness.
	O gluttony, so full of cursedness,
	O first cause of our ruin, and the source
	Of our damnation, which would run its course
	Till Christ redeemed us with his blood again!
	Look how dearly, to put it short and plain,
	That cursed wickedness was paid for: see,
	The whole world was corrupted by gluttony!

	Adam, our father, and his wife also,
	Were driven out to labour and to woe
	From Paradise for that vice—there's no doubt;
	For while Adam fasted, as the books point out,
	He was in Paradise; but when he
	Ate of the fruit forbidden on the tree,
	At once he was cast out to woe and pain.
	O gluttony, we've every right to complain!
	Oh, if a man knew how many an ill
	Comes from excess, and eating more than his fill,
	He would be more restrained, and much more able
	To curb his diet, sitting at his table.
	Alas! The short throat and the tender mouth
	Make men, East and West, and North and South,
	Toil hard on land, in air, and in the brine,
	To get a glutton dainty food and wine!
	O Paul, how well you treat this, and how true:
	"Food for the belly, the belly for food, too,
	And God will destroy them both," says he.
	Alas! It is a foul thing, by my faith, to me,
	To say this word, and fouler still the deed,
	When a man drinks the white and red with greed
	Till he makes his throat into a privy, through
	The cursed excess that he's given to.

	The apostle says with pity, weeping too,
	"There are many walking, of whom I've told you—
	I say it now, weeping, with pitiful voice, again—
	That they are enemies of Christ's cross, those men,
	Whose end is death; their belly is their god."
	O belly! O gut! O stinking pod,
	Filled up with dung, and with corruption too!
	From either end, a foul sound comes from you.
	What toil and cost it takes to keep you lined!
	These cooks, how they pound and strain and grind,
	And turn the substance into accident,
	To satisfy your every greedy bent!
	They knock the marrow from the hard bones; they
	Will not throw anything at all away
	That might slide down the gullet, soft and sweet;
	With spice, with leaf and bark and root, they meet
	His taste, and make his sauce for pure delight,
	To give him yet another appetite.
	But the man who goes in for such dainty ways
	Is dead, while living in those vices, all his days.

	Wine is a lecherous thing, and drink is rife
	With wretchedness, and full of fights and strife.
	O drunken man, how ugly is your face,
	How sour your breath, how foul you are to embrace,
	And through your drunken nose there comes a sound
	As if you said "Samson, Samson," round and round;
	And yet, God knows, Samson never drank wine.
	You topple over like a stuck swine;
	Your tongue is lost, and all your decency;
	For drunkenness entombs, most thoroughly,
	A man's good sense and judgement. And when
	Drink has the upper hand of someone, then
	He cannot keep a secret, it is plain.
	So from white wine and from red wine abstain,
	And above all from Lepe's white wine, the kind
	That's sold in Fish Street and in Cheapside, you'll find.
	This Spanish wine will creep in on the sly
	Into the other wines that grow nearby,
	From which there rise such fumes, so strong, that when
	A man has drunk three draughts of it, and then
	Thinks that he's at home in Cheapside—he's not there;
	He's in Spain, in the town of Lepe—that's where!—
	Not at La Rochelle, nor on Bordeaux ground;
	And then he'll say "Samson, Samson"—that sound.

	But listen, gentlemen: one word, if I may;
	The greatest acts of all—I dare to say—
	The victories in the Old Testament,
	Through the true God, who is omnipotent,
	Were won by abstinence and by prayer;
	Look in the Bible, you can learn it there.

	Look how Attila, the great conqueror,
	Died in his sleep in shame and in dishonour,
	Bleeding at the nose, in his drunken state;
	A captain should be sober, and sedate.
	And, more than all of this, consider well
	What was commanded to King Lemuel—
	Not Samuel, but Lemuel, I say—
	Read the Bible, where it's as plain as day,
	About giving wine to judges: it's precise.
	No more of this, for that will well suffice.

	And now that I have spoken of gluttony,
	I'll warn you off from gambling: hear it from me.
	Gambling is the very mother of lying,
	Deceit, and cursed oaths, and false denying,
	Blaspheming Christ, and killing; and it throws away
	Both goods and time; and further, let me say,
	It's a disgrace, the opposite of a good name,
	To be known as a common gambler, to your shame.
	And the higher up he stands in rank and state,
	The more men think of him as reprobate.
	If any prince makes gambling his affair,
	In all his rule and statecraft, everywhere,
	He is, as everyone will commonly say,
	Held lower in repute in every way.

	There was a wise ambassador, Stilbon, sent
	To Corinth in great honour, and he went
	From Sparta, to bind the two cities as allies;
	And when he came, it happened, to his surprise,
	That all the greatest men in all that land
	He found were gambling there, with dice in hand.
	And so, as soon as ever it could be,
	He stole off home again to his own country,
	And said, "I will not throw away my name;
	Nor will I take upon myself the shame
	Of tying you to gamblers, every one;
	Send other wise ambassadors; I'm done.
	For, on my word, I'd rather die straight away
	Than ally you with gamblers in that way.
	For you, so glorious and so high in fame,
	Shall not ally with gamblers in their game,
	Not by my will, nor by my treaty, no."
	This wise philosopher put it to them so.

	And look how, to the king Demetrius,
	The king of Parthia, as the book tells us,
	Sent him, in scorn, a pair of golden dice,
	Because, before then, gambling was his vice;
	By which he showed he held that king's fame and worth
	As having no value, no repute, on earth.
	Lords can find other kinds of games to play,
	Decent enough to pass the time away.

	Now I will speak of oaths, both false and great,
	A word or two, as the old books relate.
	Heavy swearing is a loathsome thing to do,
	And false swearing is more blameworthy, too.
	High God forbade all swearing, every kind—
	Witness Saint Matthew; but especially, you'll find
	That holy Jeremiah, on swearing, will say,
	"You shall swear truly, and not lie in any way,
	And swear with judgement, swear in what is right";
	But idle swearing is cursed in God's sight.
	Look and see: on the first tablet of stone,
	Of the high commandments God has made known,
	The second of his commandments is this:
	"Do not take my name in vain, or amiss."
	So, look: he bans such swearing even first,
	Before murder, or many a thing that's cursed.
	I say that, in the order, that's how it stands,
	As anyone who knows his commands understands:
	The second of God's commandments is just that.
	And furthermore, I'll tell you, plain and flat,
	That vengeance won't depart from any house where
	A man is too outrageous when he'll swear.
	"By God's precious heart, and by his nails,
	And by Christ's blood that's in the abbey at Hailes,
	Seven is my number, and yours is five and three;
	By God's arms, if you play false with me,
	This dagger's going straight through your heart!"—so
	This is the fruit those two damned dice bestow:
	Perjury, rage, deceit, and homicide.
	Now, for the love of Christ, who for us died,
	Give up your oaths, the great and small, wholesale;
	But, sirs, now I'll go on and tell my tale.

	These three rioters, the ones of whom I tell,
	Long before prime had rung on any bell,
	Had sat down in a tavern for a drink;
	And as they sat, they heard a hand-bell clink
	In front of a corpse being carried to the ground;
	And one of them shouted to his boy to come round:
	"Go on," he said, "and ask them straight away
	Whose corpse it is that's passing by this way;
	And make sure you report his name back clear."

	"Sir," said the boy, "there's no need for that here.
	I heard, two hours before you came through the doors;
	He was, by God, an old companion of yours;
	And suddenly he was killed, last night,
	Dead drunk, as he sat on his bench upright.
	There came a secret thief—men call him Death—
	Who in this country kills all who draw breath,
	And with his spear he split his heart in two,
	And went off on his way, with no more ado.
	He's killed a thousand in this pestilence;
	And, master, before you come into his presence,
	It seems to me that it is necessary
	To be on guard against such an adversary:
	Be ready to meet him, now and evermore.
	That's what my mother taught me; I'll say no more."
	"By holy Mary," said the tavern-keeper, "it's clear
	The child is right, for Death has killed this year,
	A mile or more from here, in a large town,
	Man and woman, child, farmhand, and page, cut down.
	I'd guess he has his dwelling over there;
	It would be very wise to be aware,
	Before he does a man some injury."
	"Yes, by God's arms!" the rioter said. "Can it be
	So dangerous, that man, for us to meet?
	I'll hunt him down by road and every street,
	I swear by God's own holy bones—I vow!
	Listen, my friends: we three are one; so now,
	Let each of us hold up his hand to the other,
	And each of us become the other's brother,
	And we will kill this traitor, this false Death;
	The killer of so many—we will stop his breath,
	By God's own dignity, before it's night!"

	Together the three pledged their word outright,
	To live and die, each one for every other,
	As if each one had been born his brother.
	And up they jumped, drunk, raging, to a man,
	And off towards that village they all ran,
	The one the tavern-keeper had spoken of before,
	And on the way they swore grim oaths galore,
	And tore Christ's blessed body limb from limb—
	"Death shall be dead, if they can catch him."

	When they had gone not fully half a mile,
	Just as they were about to cross a stile,
	An old man, and a poor one, met them there.
	This old man greeted them with humble air,
	And said, "Now, lords, may God look after you!"

	The proudest of the rioters, of that crew,
	Answered, "What, peasant? God give you no grace!
	Why are you all wrapped up, except your face?
	Why have you lived to such old age? Tell me."

	This old man looked him in the face, and he
	Said this: "Because I cannot find a man—
	Though I walked all the way to Hindustan—
	Not in a city, nor a village, who would be
	Willing to trade his youth for my old age with me;
	And so I have to keep my old age still,
	For as long a time as it is God's will.

	"Nor will Death, alas, take my life away;
	So like a restless wretch I walk, and stray,
	And on the ground, which is my mother's gate,
	I knock with my staff, both early and late,
	And say, 'Dear mother, let me in!
	Look how I waste away, flesh, blood, and skin!
	Alas! When will my bones be laid to rest?
	Mother, I'd give you in exchange my chest
	That's stood inside my room for many a year,
	Yes! for a haircloth rag to wrap me here!'
	But still she will not do me that one grace;
	That's why I wear this pale and withered face.

	"But, sirs, it shows no courtesy in you
	To speak to an old man rudely, as you do,
	Unless he's wronged you, in word or in deed.
	In holy scripture you yourselves can read:
	'Before an old man, grey-haired, you should rise';
	And therefore, here is my advice: be wise,
	So do no harm to an old man in any way,
	No more than you'd want done to you some day
	When you grow old, if you should live that far;
	And God go with you, on foot or horse, wherever you are.
	I must go there, to where I have to go."

	"No, you old peasant, by God, it won't be so,"
	Said the second gambler, and he carried on:
	"You won't get off so lightly, by Saint John!
	You spoke just now of Death, that traitor, who
	Kills all our friends here in this land. And you,
	On my word, since you're his spy, had better say
	Where he is, or else you're going to pay,
	By God, and by the holy sacrament!
	For you're in league with him, his accomplice, bent
	On killing us young people, you lying cheat!"

	"Now, sirs," he said, "if you're so keen to meet
	With Death, then turn up this crooked path—that's where,
	In that grove, upon my word, I left him there,
	Under a tree, and there he will abide;
	Your boasting won't make him go off and hide.
	You see that oak? That's where he'll be, you'll find.
	God save you, he who bought back all mankind,
	And make you better!" So said this old man.
	And every one of these three rioters ran
	Till he came to that tree, and there they found
	Florins of fine gold, minted and round,
	Almost eight bushels' worth, or so they thought.
	No longer, then, was Death the thing they sought,
	But each of them was so glad at the sight,
	Because the florins were so fair and bright,
	That down they sat beside this precious store;
	The worst of them spoke first, and took the floor.

	"Brothers," he said, "pay attention to what I say;
	My wits are sharp, although I joke and play.
	Fortune has given us this treasure here
	To live our lives in mirth and jolly cheer,
	And lightly as it comes, so let it go.
	Hey! God's precious dignity! Who'd know,
	Today, that we would have such luck and grace?
	But if this gold could be carried from this place
	Home to my house, or else to yours, my friend—
	For you know all this gold is ours to spend—
	Then we'd be in the height of luck, all three.
	But honestly, by day that cannot be;
	People would say that we were robbers, bold and strong,
	And hang us for our own treasure before long.
	This treasure has to be carried off by night,
	As cleverly and slyly as we might.
	And so I say, let's draw straws among us all,
	And see to whom the shortest straw will fall;
	And he who draws it, happily, must race
	Off to the town, and at a rapid pace,
	And bring us bread and wine, without a sound;
	And two of us will cunningly stay around
	To guard the treasure; and if he doesn't delay,
	When it is night, we'll carry it away
	To where we all agree is best, as planned."
	Then one of them held out the straws in his hand,
	And told them to draw, and see where it would fall;
	And it fell to the youngest of them all;
	And right away he left for town, straight on.
	And just as soon as ever he had gone,
	One of them spoke like this to the other:
	"You know quite well that you're my sworn brother;
	I'll tell you right away what you can profit on:
	You know quite well our friend has left us and is gone;
	And here is gold, and plenty, as you see,
	That's to be divided among us three.
	But all the same, if I can manage to
	Arrange it so it's shared between us two,
	Wouldn't that be a friendly turn from me?"

	The other answered, "I don't see how that can be;
	He knows quite well the gold is with us two—
	What shall we say to him? What shall we do?"

	"Is it a secret?" said the first, the bad lot,
	"Then in a few words I'll tell you what we've got
	To do, and how to bring it all about."

	"Agreed," the other said, "beyond all doubt,
	That, on my word, I'll keep it close, and true."

	"Now," said the first, "you know that we are two,
	And two of us are stronger than one man;
	Watch till he sits, and then, as soon as you can,
	Get up, as if to fool around with him in play;
	And I'll stab him through both his sides, straight away,
	While you're struggling with him, as if in a game,
	And with your dagger, you be sure to do the same;
	Then all this gold will be divided equally,
	My dear friend, between just you and me;
	Then both of us can have our pleasures' fill,
	And play at dice just when and as we will."
	And these two villains made their deal, that day,
	To kill the third, as you have heard me say.

	This youngest one, who went into the town,
	Kept turning in his heart, both up and down,
	The beauty of these florins, new and bright.
	"O Lord!" he said, "if only I might
	Have all this treasure to myself alone,
	There is no man who lives beneath the throne
	Of God, who'd live as happily as I!"
	And in the end the fiend, our enemy,
	Put in his mind that he should buy, somewhere,
	Some poison, and with it kill the other pair;
	Because the fiend had found him living so
	That he had leave to bring him down to woe,
	For it was wholly, fully his intent
	To kill them both, and never to repent.
	And off he went, no longer would he tarry,
	Into the town, to an apothecary,
	And begged the man that he would kindly sell
	Him poison, so he could kill his rats as well;
	And there was a polecat, too, about his shed,
	That, so he said, had left his capons dead,
	And he would gladly take revenge, if he might,
	On vermin that were ruining him by night.

	The apothecary answered, "You can have, my friend,
	A thing that—God save my soul in the end—
	In all this world there isn't any creature
	That's ever eaten or drunk of this mixture
	Even the amount of a single grain of wheat,
	Who won't lose his life at once, in a heartbeat;
	Yes, he will die, and in a shorter while
	Than you could walk at a normal pace a mile;
	This poison is so strong and violent."

	This cursed man snatched up the box and went
	Off with the poison in it; then he ran
	Into the next street, over to a man,
	And borrowed three big bottles from him; he
	Then poured his poison into two of the three;
	He kept the third one clean, for his own drink,
	For he planned to work all night, not sleep a wink,
	Carrying the gold away out of that place.
	And when this rioter—God give him no grace!—
	Had filled the three big bottles up with wine, then he
	Went back to his friends, there by the tree.

	What need is there to preach about it more?
	For just as they had planned his death before,
	So they have killed him, and at once; and when
	That was done, this is what one of them said then:
	"Now let us sit and drink, and let's be merry,
	And afterwards, we've got his corpse to bury."
	And with that word, by chance, it happened he
	Took the bottle with the poison, out of the three,
	And drank, and gave his comrade some to drink too,
	From which they both died at once, the two.

	But certainly, I don't think Avicen
	Ever wrote, in his Canon, in any fen,
	Signs of poisoning more strange and dire
	Than these two wretches showed, before they'd expire.
	Thus ended these two murderers, these two,
	And the false poisoner, the third one, too.

	O cursed sin, of all things the most cursed!
	O treacherous murder! Wickedness, the worst!
	O gluttony, and lechery, and dice!
	Blasphemers of Christ, with insult and with vice,
	And great oaths, sworn from habit and from pride!
	Alas, mankind! How could such a thing betide,
	That to your Maker, by whom you were made,
	And who with his own precious heart's blood paid,
	You are so false, and so unkind, alas!

	Now, good men, God forgive you your trespass,
	And guard yourselves against the sin of avarice.
	My holy pardon can cure you all of this,
	So long as you make offerings of nobles, sterlings,
	Or else of silver brooches, spoons, and rings.
	Bow down your heads beneath this papal bull!
	Come up, you wives, and offer of your wool!
	I'll enter your names in my roll at once, and so
	Into the bliss of heaven you shall go;
	I absolve you, by my high authority, here,
	Those who will offer, as clean and as clear
	As you were born.—And that, sirs, is how I preach.
	And Jesus Christ, who heals the soul, grant each
	Of you the grace of his pardon to receive;
	For that is best; I'm not here to deceive.

	But, sirs, there's one word I forgot in my tale:
	I have relics and pardons in my bag, for sale,
	As fine as any man's in all this land,
	Which were given to me by the Pope's own hand.
	If any of you wants, out of devotion,
	To make an offering and have my absolution,
	Come forward now, and kneel down here, and then
	Receive my pardon meekly, gentlemen;
	Or else take pardon as you go, my friend,
	All new and fresh, at every town's end,
	As long as you keep offering, fresh and new,
	Nobles and pennies, ones that are good and true.
	It's an honour for everyone who's here
	That you can have a qualified pardoner near
	To absolve you, out in the country as you ride,
	For mishaps that may happen far and wide.
	Perhaps there may be one, or maybe two,
	Who'll fall off his horse and break his neck in two.
	Look what a safeguard it is for you all
	That into your fellowship I happened to fall,
	Who can absolve you all, both high and low,
	When the soul's about to leave the body and go.
	I advise that our Host here should begin,
	For he's more tangled up than anyone in sin.
	Come up, Sir Host, and offer first, before anyone,
	And you shall kiss the relics, every one,
	Yes, for a groat—just fourpence! Unbuckle your purse."

	"No, no," he said, "then I'd have Christ's curse!
	Let be," he said, "no chance, as I hope for riches!
	You'd make me kiss the seat of your old breeches,
	And swear it was a relic of a saint,
	Though your own arse had daubed it with its paint!
	But by the cross Saint Helen found, in the Holy Land,
	I wish I had your balls here in my hand
	Instead of relics, or a reliquary;
	Have them cut off; I'll help you, then, to carry
	Them; they'll be enshrined in a hog's turd!"

	The Pardoner didn't answer, not a word;
	He was so angry he had nothing to say.

	"Now," said our Host, "I'm through; I will not play
	With you, or with any other angry man."
	But right away the distinguished knight began,
	When he saw all the people laughing: "Stop—
	No more of this; that's plenty; let it drop.
	Sir Pardoner, be glad, and show good cheer;
	And you, Sir Host, a man I hold so dear,
	I beg you, kiss the Pardoner, right here;
	And, Pardoner, I beg you, come, draw near,
	And, as we did before, let's laugh and play."
	At once they kissed, and rode off on their way.

The Wife of Bath's Prologue

	"Experience, though no authority
	Were in this world, would be enough for me
	To speak about the woe in married life;
	For, gentlemen, since twelve I've been a wife—
	Thanks be to God, eternally alive—
	Husbands at the church door I have had five;
	For I have been a bride so frequently;
	And all were decent men in their degree.
	But I was told for certain, not long ago,
	That since Christ went (and only once, you know)
	To a wedding, at Cana in Galilee,
	By that example he was teaching me
	That I should marry once, and never twice.
	And listen too: a sharp word, and concise,
	Beside a well, that Jesus, God and man,
	Spoke as a reproof to the Samaritan:
	'You've had five husbands,' Jesus said, 'and he
	Who has you now'—he said it pointedly—
	'Is not your husband.' Those were his words, quite plain;
	But what he meant by them I can't explain;
	But this I ask: why was it that the fifth man
	Was not a husband to the Samaritan?
	How many husbands could she have, all told?
	I've never heard, not even now I'm old,
	Of any number fixed by definition;
	Men guess and gloss, and shift their position.
	But this I know for certain, it's no lie:
	God told us to increase and multiply;
	That noble text I understand, God knows;
	I also know he said, as the text goes,
	My husband should leave father and mother and take me;
	But he named no number, not two, not three,
	No bigamy, no eight wives, no octogamy;
	Why should men speak of that as infamy?

	"Look at the wise king, Lord Solomon;
	I'd guess he had more wives than anyone;
	And I wish to God it were allowed to me
	To be refreshed half as often as he!
	What a gift from God he had, with all his wives!
	No man has had the like in all our lives.
	God knows, I'd say this noble king had quite
	A lot of merry bouts on the first night
	With each of them—what luck to be alive!
	Blessed be God that I have married five!
	Welcome the sixth, whenever he may call!
	I won't keep chaste forever, not at all;
	When my husband has left this world, why, then
	Some Christian man will marry me again;
	For then, the apostle tells me, I am free
	To wed, in God's name, where it pleases me.
	He says that being married is no sin;
	Better to marry than to burn within.
	What do I care if people heap obloquy
	On wicked Lamech and his bigamy?
	I know that Abraham was holy, and
	Jacob as well, as far as I understand;
	And each of them had more wives than two,
	And many another holy man did too.
	When did you ever see, in any age you've read,
	That God on high forbade the world to wed
	In so many words? Come on, I beg you, tell me;
	Or where did he command virginity?
	I know as well as you, beyond all doubt,
	The apostle, when it's virgins he talks about,
	Said he had no commandment on it, not one.
	Men may advise a woman to have none,
	But counsel isn't a command; instead
	He left it to our own judgement, as he said.
	If God had ordered maidenhood, he'd need
	To have condemned all marriage by that deed;
	And surely, if no seed were ever sown,
	Virginity—from what would it be grown?
	Paul didn't dare command it, not at all,
	A thing for which his Master gave no call.
	The prize is set out for virginity:
	Catch it who can; who runs the best, let's see.

	"But this word isn't meant for everyone in sight,
	Only for those God gives it to, by his might.
	I know the apostle was a virgin, never wed;
	But even so, though he wrote it, and he said
	He wished that everyone could be as he,
	It's all just counsel toward virginity;
	And as for being a wife, he made concession,
	By special leave; so it is no transgression
	To marry me, if death should set me free,
	With no exception made for bigamy.
	Though it is good not to touch a woman, he meant
	In bed, or on a couch: that was his intent.
	For fire and flax are perilous to assemble;
	You know what this example might resemble.
	That's the whole of it: he held virginity
	More perfect than to marry out of frailty.
	Frailty, I call it, unless both he and she
	Mean to live out their lives in chastity.

	"I grant it, and I don't begrudge them, no,
	If maidenhood ranks over a second go;
	They like to keep both soul and body clean;
	I won't make any boast of mine, I mean.
	For as you know, a lord in his household
	Doesn't have every vessel made of gold;
	Some are of wood, and serve their master still.
	God calls folk to him in many ways, at will,
	And each of us has from God a special gift,
	Some this, some that, as it pleases him to shift.

	"Virginity is great perfection, true,
	And continence with devotion is too.
	But Christ, who is perfection's spring and well,
	Didn't tell every person to go and sell
	All that he had and give it to the poor,
	And in that way follow where he walked before.
	He spoke to those who'd live the perfect life;
	And, gentlemen, if you'll allow, that's not this wife.
	I'll give the flower of my years, my age,
	To the acts and fruit of marriage, every stage.

	"And tell me this as well: what were they for,
	The organs that we breed with? And what's more,
	Why were we human beings made? For what gain?
	Believe me, they were not made in vain.
	Gloss it who will, and argue to and fro
	That they were made for purging, to let go
	Of urine, and that both our little things were planned
	To tell a female from a male, you understand,
	And for no other cause—you'd tell me no?
	Experience knows well it isn't so;
	And so the scholars won't be cross, I'll state
	That they were made for both, to set things straight:
	That is, for duty, and for the delight
	Of breeding, where it doesn't offend God's sight.
	Why else would people write in books and set
	It down, that a man must pay his wife her debt?
	Now how else should he make his payment
	If he didn't use his innocent instrument?
	So they were put on creatures, as I've said,
	To pass urine, and for getting young ones bred.

	"But I don't say that every person who
	Has such equipment as I've described to you
	Is bound to go and use it to procreate;
	Then chastity would carry no more weight.
	Christ was a virgin, and made like any man,
	And many saints, too, since the world began,
	And yet they always lived in perfect chastity.
	Virginity? I don't begrudge it, not me.
	Let them be loaves of pure white wheat instead,
	And let us wives be called just barley bread;
	And yet it's barley bread, as Mark has said,
	With which our Lord refreshed the crowd he fed.
	In the state God has called us to, each of us,
	I'll persevere; I'm not the kind to fuss.
	In wifehood I will use my instrument
	As freely as my Maker has it sent.
	If I play hard to get, God send me mourning!
	My husband shall have it evening and morning,
	Whenever he likes to come and pay his debt.
	A husband I will have—on that I'm set—
	Who shall be both my debtor and my slave,
	And have his tribulation, which I'll save
	For his own flesh, as long as I'm his wife.
	I have the power, for the whole of my life,
	Over his body—I do, and not he.
	That's just what the apostle told to me,
	And told our husbands to love us well, and true.
	I like this teaching, every word, right through—"

	Up jumped the Pardoner, just like that, upon
	Her words: "Now madam, by God and by Saint John,
	You're a noble preacher on this score!
	I was about to wed a wife; alas, what for?
	Why should my flesh have to pay for it so dear?
	I'd rather wed no wife at all this year!"

	"Wait!" she said. "My tale has not begun.
	No, you'll be drinking from another barrel, one
	That tastes worse than ale, before I'm through.
	And when I've told my tale, the whole of it, to you,
	Of trouble and tribulation in married life,
	On which I'm an expert, all my years a wife—
	That is to say, it's me who's been the whip—
	Then you can choose if you would like to sip
	From that same barrel that I'm going to broach.
	Be careful of it, then, as you approach;
	For I'll give you examples, more than ten.
	Whoever won't be warned by other men
	Will be the warning that corrects the rest; and see,
	The very same words are written by Ptolemy;
	Read them in his Almagest; you'll find them there."

	"Madam, I'd ask you, if you'd like to share,"
	Said the Pardoner, "to keep on as you began;
	Go on with your tale, and spare no man,
	And teach us younger men your own technique."

	"Gladly," she said, "since you would like me to speak.
	But still I ask the company, all of you:
	If I should talk as my fancy leads me to,
	Don't take offence at anything I say;
	For all I mean by it is just to play.

	"Now, sirs, I'll go on now and tell my tale.—
	As I hope ever to drink wine or ale,
	I'll tell the truth: of the husbands that I had,
	Three of them were good, and two were bad.
	The three good men were rich, and they were old;
	And they could barely manage to uphold
	The statute by which they were bound to me.
	You know what I mean by that, by God! You agree?
	So help me God, I laugh to think again
	How pitifully at night I worked those men!
	And by my faith, I didn't care a jot;
	They'd given me their gold and all they'd got;
	I had no need to labour now, or court
	Their love, or show them deference of any sort.
	They loved me so much, by God above,
	That I placed no value on their love!
	A wise woman will keep at it, never done,
	To win a love wherever she has none.
	But since I had them wholly in my hand,
	And since they'd given me all of their land,
	Why should I bother trying hard to please,
	Except for my own profit and my ease?
	I put them so to work, by my faith, that they
	Spent many a night lamenting, 'Woe the day!'
	They never won the bacon, I'd guess, though,
	That some men get in Essex at Dunmow.
	I governed them so well, by my own plan,
	That each was blissfully happy, every man,
	To bring me pretty things back from the fair.
	They were very glad when I spoke to them fair;
	For God knows, I scolded them—and cruelly too.

	"Now listen how I handled things, and what I'd do,
	You wives who're wise, and able to understand.

	"Here's how to talk, and blame them falsely, out of hand;
	For no man can be half as bold—no man—
	To swear and lie the way a woman can.
	I don't say this of wives who are wise,
	Except when they've been foolish and unwise.
	A wise wife, if she knows what's for her good,
	Will swear to him the crow is mad, and could
	Call her own maid as witness to agree;
	But listen now to what was said by me.

	"'You doddering old sir, is this your way?
	Why is my neighbour's wife in such display?
	She's honoured everywhere she goes;
	I sit at home, I have no decent clothes.
	What are you doing at my neighbour's house?
	Is she so pretty? Are you so amorous?
	Whispering with our maid? Benedicite!
	Sir, you old lecher, let your antics be!
	And if I have a confidante or friend,
	All innocent, you scold me like a fiend
	If I go walking or have fun at his house!
	You come home just as drunk as a mouse,
	And sermonize on your bench—bad luck to you!
	You tell me it's a great mistake to do,
	To wed a poor woman, because she'll cost so much;
	And if she's rich, from noble stock and such,
	Then you complain it's torment, it's a hell
	To bear her pride, her sulky moods as well.
	And if she's pretty, you rotten rogue, then you
	Say every lecher will have her too;
	She can't keep chaste for long, can't stay inside
	Her chastity, attacked on every side.

	"You say that some want us for what we possess,
	Some for our figure, some for loveliness;
	And some because she sings, or she can dance,
	And some for nobility and romance;
	Some for her hands, her arms so slim and small—
	To hear you tell it, the devil takes it all.
	You say no one can hold a castle wall
	Attacked so long, on every side; it's bound to fall.

	"And if she's ugly, then you say that she
	Lusts after every man that she may see;
	For like a spaniel she'll leap on him, and keep
	On leaping till some man will buy her cheap;
	There's not a goose so grey upon the lake,
	You say, that it won't find a mate to take.
	And you say it's a hard thing to handle and to hold
	A thing no man would willingly enfold.
	That's what you say, you wretch, when you go to bed;
	And that no man who's wise has need to wed,
	Nor any man who's set on heaven on high.
	With savage thunder, lightning from the sky,
	May your old withered neck be broken by the stroke!

	"You say that leaky houses, and also smoke,
	And scolding wives, are things that make men flee
	Out of their homes. Ah, benedicite!
	What makes an old man like that scold and chide?

	"You say that we wives keep our faults inside
	Till we're tied fast, and then we let them show;
	That might well be a scoundrel's proverb, though!

	"You say that oxen, asses, horses, hounds,
	Are tested, all of them, in several rounds;
	Basins and washbowls, before people buy,
	Spoons, stools, and all such household stuff, they try,
	And so with pots, and clothes, and fine display;
	But folk don't try out wives in the same way
	Till they are wedded—you old dotard, you!—
	And then, you say, our vices come into view.

	"You also say that it displeases me
	Unless you're always praising my beauty,
	And unless you always gaze upon my face,
	And call me "lovely lady" in every place;
	And unless you hold a feast upon the day
	I was born, and dress me in some new array,
	And unless you do my old nurse honour, and
	My chambermaid, who's in my room at hand,
	And my father's family and his allies—
	That's what you say, you old barrel full of lies!

	"And yet, about our apprentice, Jankin,
	For his curly hair that shines like gold, so fine,
	And since he walks me out, and squires me round,
	You've caught a false suspicion, with no ground;
	I wouldn't want him, if you died tomorrow.

	"But tell me this—bad luck to you and sorrow!—
	Why do you hide the keys of your chest from me?
	It's mine as well as yours, my property.
	What, do you think you'll make a fool of me, your dame?
	Now by that lord who's called Saint James by name,
	You won't, though you go mad—no, you will not—
	Be master of my body and what I've got;
	One of the two you'll have to lose—damn your eyes!
	What need is there to question me, or play at spies?
	I think you'd like to lock me in your chest!
	You ought to say, "Wife, go wherever you think best;
	Have your fun; I won't believe the tales of malice;
	I know you for a faithful wife, Dame Alice."
	We love no man who keeps an eye, in charge
	Of where we go; we want to be at large.

	"Blessed above all men may that one be,
	The wise astrologer, Lord Ptolemy,
	Who gives this proverb in his Almagest:
	"Of all men, his wisdom is the best
	Who never cares who has the world in hand."
	And by this proverb you should understand:
	If you have enough, why should you care
	How merrily the other people fare?
	For certainly, you old fool, if you will,
	At night you'll have cunt enough, your fill.
	He's too much of a miser who'd say no
	To a man who'd light his candle at his lantern's glow;
	He'll have no less light for it, by God, not he;
	If you have enough, don't you complain to me.

	"You also say that if we dress up fine
	In clothes and precious jewels that shine,
	That it puts our chastity at risk, you say;
	And then, bad luck to you, you go out of your way
	To quote these words, and in the apostle's name:
	"In clothing made with chastity and shame
	You women shall array yourselves," said he,
	"And not with braided hair and jewellery,
	With pearls, or gold, or clothing rich and fine";
	But by your text, and by your rubric line,
	I won't obey it, not so much as a gnat.
	You said this too: that I was like a cat;
	For if you were to singe a cat's skin,
	Then the cat would gladly stay at home, within;
	But if the cat's skin is sleek and fine, she'll stray:
	She won't stay in the house for half a day,
	But off she'll go before the dawn, to prowl,
	To show her skin off, caterwaul and yowl;
	That is to say, sir scoundrel, if I'm dressed fine,
	I'll run outside to show these rags of mine.

	"Sir, you old fool, what good are all your spies?
	Though you ask Argus, with his hundred eyes,
	To be my bodyguard, and do his best,
	In faith, he'd only keep me at my own behest;
	I'd still make a fool of him, take it from me.

	"You also said that there are things, just three,
	That trouble and disturb this whole wide earth,
	And no one can endure the fourth, for all he's worth;
	O dear sir scoundrel, Jesus cut short your life!
	And still you preach, and say a hateful wife
	Is counted one of these misfortunes. Can't you find
	Comparisons of any other kind
	That you can use to liken your parables to,
	Except that a poor wife must be one too?

	"You liken woman's love to hell,
	To barren land, where water cannot dwell.
	You liken it to wildfire too; that fire,
	The more it burns, the more is its desire
	To burn up every burnable thing it can see.
	You say that, just as worms will ruin a tree,
	Just so a wife will ruin her husband's life;
	And every man knows this who's bound to a wife.'

	"Just like this, gentlemen, as you understand,
	I'd stubbornly convince my old men, out of hand,
	That this was what they'd said in drunkenness;
	And all was false, but I would call as witness
	Jankin, and my own niece too, you know.
	O Lord, the pain I gave them, and the woe,
	And they were innocent, by God's sweet pain!
	For like a horse I'd bite and neigh, and complain.
	I could complain when I was guilty—or
	I'd have been ruined many times before.
	First come to the mill is first to grind, they say;
	I'd complain first, and that would end the fray.
	They were quite glad to apologize, and fast,
	For things they'd never done in all their past.

	"I'd accuse him of the girls he kept on hand,
	When he was so sick that he could hardly stand.
	And yet it tickled his heart, because he
	Imagined I was fond of him so dearly.
	I swore my walking out at night was done
	To spy on wenches he'd been bedding, one by one;
	Under that cover I had a lot of mirth.
	For all such cleverness is given us at birth;
	Deceit, tears, spinning—these God chose to give
	To women as their nature, while they live.
	And of one thing I boast: I guarantee
	I had the better in the end, in each degree,
	By trickery, by force, or some such way,
	Like grumbling and complaining every day;
	In bed, especially, they'd come to grief:
	I'd scold, and give them no pleasure or relief;
	I wouldn't stay in bed, I'd slip aside,
	If I felt his arm reach over my side,
	Until he'd paid his ransom, in full, to me;
	Then I'd let him have his fun, his foolery.
	And so to every man I tell this tale:
	Win if you can, for everything's for sale.
	No hawk was ever lured with empty hands;
	For gain I'd bear his lust and its demands,
	And fake an appetite, put on a show of it,
	Though I never had a taste for bacon, not a bit;
	And that is why I'd always scold and chide.
	For even if the Pope had sat by their side,
	I wouldn't spare them, even at their own board;
	For on my word, I paid them back word for word.
	So help me God, the true and the omnipotent,
	If I were making my last will and testament
	Right now, there's not a word I owe; we're quits;
	I brought it all about by my own wits,
	So they'd give up, as being for the best,
	Or else we never would have had any rest.
	For though he looked like a lion in a rage,
	Still he would fail to get his way, at any stage.

	"Then I would say, 'My dear, now take a peep:
	How meek he looks, Wilkin, our little sheep!
	Come here, my husband, let me kiss your cheek!
	You ought to be all patient now, and meek,
	And have a sweet and nicely spiced conscience,
	Since you preach so much about Job's patience.
	Be patient always, since you're good at preaching;
	And if you're not, then we'll set about teaching
	You that it's good to have a peaceful wife.
	One of us has to bow, upon my life;
	And since a man's more reasonable by far
	Than woman is, you must bear things as they are.
	What's wrong with you, to grumble so and groan?
	Is it that you want my cunt for you alone?
	Why, take it, then—go on, have every part!
	By Peter, curse you if it's not dear to your heart!
	For if I'd sell my pretty thing, my bele chose,
	I could go round as fresh as any rose;
	But I'll keep it for your own sweet tooth.
	You're to blame, by God; I'm telling you the truth.'

	"Such were the words we always had on hand.
	Now I will speak about my fourth husband.

	"My fourth husband was a playboy to the core;
	That is to say, he had a paramour;
	And I was young, and frisky, spirits high,
	Stubborn and strong, and lively as a magpie.
	To a little harp I'd dance, and never fail,
	And sing, I swear, like any nightingale,
	When I had drunk a draught of good sweet wine.
	Metellius, that filthy lout, that swine,
	Who took a staff and beat his wife till she was dead
	For drinking wine—why, if I'd been the one he'd wed,
	He'd never have scared me off from wine of any kind;
	And after wine, I must have Venus on my mind:
	For just as sure as cold weather breeds the hail,
	A wanton mouth must have a wanton tail.
	A drunken woman's got no defences—none;
	Lechers know this by experience, every one.

	"But, Lord Christ! When I remember, when I see
	My youth again, and all my jollity,
	It tickles me right down to my heart's root.
	To this day it does my heart good, to boot,
	That I have had my world while in my prime.
	But age, alas, that poisons all in time,
	Has robbed me of my beauty and my zest;
	Let it go, goodbye, and the devil take the rest!
	The flour is gone; there is no more to tell;
	The bran, as best I can, is what I now must sell;
	But I mean to be merry yet—I'll try my hand.
	Now I will tell you of my fourth husband.

	"I tell you, it filled my heart with bitter spite
	That in any other woman he took delight.
	But he was paid back, by God and by Saint Joce!
	I made him, from the same wood, a cross;
	Not with my body, not in any filthy way,
	But I put on, for others, such a warm display
	That in his own grease I made him fry and stew
	With anger, and with jealousy, through and through.
	By God, on earth I was his purgatory,
	For which I hope his soul is now in glory.
	For God knows, he would often sit and sing
	When his shoe was pinching him like anything.
	There was no one but God and him who knew
	How many ways I wrung him, and how cruelly too.
	He died when I came home from Jerusalem,
	And lies in his grave beneath the cross, the rood-beam,
	Although his tomb is not as luxurious
	As was the sepulchre of Darius,
	Which Apelles made with subtle, skilful hand;
	It's only waste to bury him in something grand.
	Let him fare well! God give his soul its rest;
	He's in his grave now, shut up in his chest.

	"Now, my fifth husband—of him I will tell.
	God never let his soul come into hell!
	And yet he was the worst to me; I know,
	I feel it on my ribs, all in a row,
	And always will, until my dying day.
	But in our bed he was so fresh, so full of play,
	And he could sweet-talk me so well, God knows,
	Whenever he wanted my bele chose,
	That even if he'd beaten me black and blue,
	He could win back my love in a minute or two.
	I think I loved him best for this: that he
	Was standoffish, held back his love from me.
	We women—let me tell it to you straight—
	Have in this matter a strange and curious trait:
	Notice: whatever's hard for us to get,
	We'll cry for it all day, and crave, and fret.
	Forbid a thing, and that's what we'll pursue;
	Press hard on us, and we'll run off from you.
	We lay out all our wares with a hard-to-get air;
	A great crowd makes goods costly at the fair,
	And what's too cheap is little worth in people's eyes;
	Every woman knows this who is wise.

	"My fifth husband—God bless his soul above!—
	Whom I married not for money, but for love,
	Had been a student once, up at Oxford,
	And had left school, and come home to board
	With my good friend, my gossip, in our town, the one—
	God rest her soul!—whose name was Alison.
	She knew my heart and all my secrets; she
	Knew them better than our priest did, so help me!
	I'd tell her every secret, great and small;
	For if my husband had pissed against a wall,
	Or done a thing that would have cost his life,
	To her, and to another respectable wife,
	And to my niece, whom I loved with all my heart,
	I'd have told his secret, every single part.
	And so I did, God knows, and often; that's what
	So often made his face go red and hot
	For sheer shame, and he'd blame himself that he
	Had ever told so big a secret to me.

	"And so it happened that once, during Lent
	(Often and often to my gossip's house I went,
	For I always loved to dress up and be on display,
	And to go walking, in March, April and May,
	From house to house, to hear the tales folks tell),
	That Jankin the scholar, my gossip Alis as well,
	And I myself, out to the fields we went.
	My husband was in London all that Lent;
	I had more leisure, then, to go and play,
	And see, and to be seen along the way
	By lively folk; how could I know where my grace
	Was destined to be found, or in what place?
	So I made my visits, here, there and everywhere,
	To vigils and processions—I'd be there—
	To sermons, too, and all these pilgrimages,
	To miracle plays, and to marriages,
	And wore my gaudy scarlet gowns—what sights!
	And all these worms, these moths, these mites—
	On my life, they never got a single meal
	From them; you know why? They were worn a great deal.

	"Now I'll go on and tell what happened to me.
	As I was saying, we walked in the fields, we three,
	Until we'd flirted, honestly, in such a way,
	This scholar and I, that, thinking of a rainy day,
	I spoke to him, and told him how he'd be
	The man, if I were widowed, to marry me.
	For certainly—I'm not saying this out of pride—
	I never yet was without some plan put aside
	For marriage, or for other things I'd seek;
	I think a mouse's heart's not worth a leek
	That has just one hole to run into,
	And if that fails, there's nothing it can do.

	"I swore he had bewitched me—made him think it true;
	My mother taught me that subtle thing to do.
	And I said, too, that all night long I'd dreamed
	He'd tried to kill me on my back, or so it seemed,
	And all my bed was full of real blood;
	But still I hoped that he would do me good,
	For blood means gold—at least, that's what I was taught.
	And all was false; I'd dreamed nothing of the sort,
	But I was following my mother's lore,
	In this, as well as in a good deal more.

	"But now, sir, let me see: what shall I say then?
	Aha! By God, I've got my tale again.

	"When my fourth husband was laid out on his bier,
	I wept anyway, and let my grief appear,
	As wives must do; it's customary in such a case;
	And with my kerchief I covered up my face;
	But since I'd already got myself a mate,
	I wept only a little, I can tell you straight.

	"Next morning, to the church my husband was borne
	With neighbours, who had come to grieve and mourn;
	And Jankin, our scholar, was one of them also.
	So help me God, when I saw him go
	Behind the bier, I thought he had a pair
	Of legs and feet so shapely and so fair
	That I gave my whole heart over to his hold.
	He was, I'd guess, some twenty winters old,
	And I was forty, if I'm to tell the truth;
	But all the same I always had a colt's tooth.
	I was gap-toothed, and it had its appeal;
	I had the print of Saint Venus's seal.
	So help me God, I was lively, I won't deny,
	And pretty, and rich, and young, and riding high;
	And honestly, as all my husbands told me,
	I had the best quoniam—the best whatsit—that could be.
	For certainly I'm Venus's child through and through
	In feeling, and my heart is Mars's too.
	Venus gave me my lust, my lecherousness,
	And Mars gave me my sturdy hardiness.
	My ascendant was Taurus, with Mars within.
	Alas! Alas! That love was ever sin!
	I always followed my inclination
	By virtue of my constellation;
	That made me so I never could deny
	My chamber of Venus to a decent guy.
	I've got the mark of Mars upon my face,
	And also in another private place.
	For, as I hope that God will save my soul,
	I never loved with discretion or control,
	But always followed my appetite,
	Whether he was short or tall, or dark or light;
	I didn't care, so long as he pleased me,
	How poor he was, or what his rank might be.

	"What more is there to say? By the month's last day
	This jolly scholar Jankin, so charming in his way,
	Had married me with ceremony and great state,
	And I gave him all the land and the estate
	That anyone had ever given me till then;
	But afterward I'd regret it, again and again.
	He wouldn't stand for anything I held dear;
	By God, he hit me once, right on the ear,
	Because I'd torn a page out of the book he read,
	So that the blow left one ear stone-deaf in my head.
	I was as stubborn as a lioness,
	And with my tongue I'd chatter on to excess,
	And I'd go walking, just the way I'd done before,
	From house to house, no matter how he swore.
	For which he'd often lecture me and preach,
	And tell me old Roman tales, so as to teach
	How Simplicius Gallus left his wife
	And forsook her for the rest of his life,
	For nothing but that he'd seen her once with her head bare,
	Looking out of his door, just standing there.

	"He told me of another Roman, by his name,
	Who, since his wife had been at a summer game
	Without his knowledge, abandoned her too.
	And then he'd go to his Bible and look through
	For that same proverb of Ecclesiasticus
	Which strictly forbids, and lays it down for us:
	A man must not allow his wife to roam about.
	Then he would say just this, without a doubt:
	'Whoever builds his house all out of willows,
	And spurs his blind horse over the fallows,
	And lets his wife go traipsing off to shrines and hallows,
	Deserves to be hanged up on the gallows!'
	But all for nothing: I didn't give a straw
	For his proverbs, or for any old saw;
	Nor would I be corrected by him at all.
	I hate the man who tells my vices, great or small,
	And so do plenty more of us, God knows, than me;
	This drove him wild with me, as mad as he could be.
	I'd never spare him anything—that I promise.

	"Now I'll tell you the truth, by Saint Thomas,
	Why I tore a page out of his book—the page
	For which he hit me deaf in his rage.

	"He had a book that, gladly, night and day,
	He'd read for his amusement, to while the time away.
	He called it Valerius and Theophrastus, that book,
	And he would always laugh at it until he shook.
	And there was once a scholar too at Rome,
	A cardinal, by the name of Saint Jerome,
	Who wrote a book against Jovinian;
	And in that book there was Tertullian,
	Chrysippus, Trotula, and Heloise,
	Who was an abbess not far from Paris;
	And also the Proverbs of Solomon,
	Ovid's Art of Love, and many another one,
	And all of these were bound up in a single tome.
	And every night and day it was his rule, at home,
	Whenever he had leisure and vacation
	From his other worldly occupation,
	To read in this book of wicked wives.
	He knew more stories of them, and more lives,
	Than there are of good wives in the Bible.
	For believe me, it's impossible
	That any scholar will speak well of wives,
	Unless it's in the holy saints' lives,
	Or any other woman—no, they never do.
	Who painted the lion? Tell me: who?
	By God, if women had written stories,
	As scholars have in their oratories,
	They'd have written of men more wickedness
	Than all the sons of Adam could redress.
	The children of Venus and of Mercury
	Are opposites in their work, as different as can be;
	Mercury loves wisdom and study, books and sense,
	And Venus loves riot and expense.
	And, being so unlike in their disposition,
	Each falls in the other's exaltation;
	And so, God knows, Mercury is desolate
	In Pisces, where Venus is in her highest state;
	And Venus falls where Mercury is raised;
	That's why no woman is by any scholar praised.
	The scholar, when he's old, and cannot do
	The works of Venus worth his old shoe,
	Then down he sits, and in his dotage writes
	That women never honour their marriage rites!

	"But now, back to the point—I've told you, haven't I,
	That I was beaten for a book, by God? Here's why:
	One night Jankin—the man of the house, our sire—
	Was reading in his book, as he sat by the fire,
	Of Eve first, how through her wickedness
	All mankind was brought to wretchedness,
	For which Jesus Christ himself was slain,
	Who bought us back with his heart's blood again.
	Look, here's the proof about women, plain to find:
	That woman was the ruin of all mankind.

	"Then he read me how Samson lost his hair:
	While he slept, his mistress cut it, sheared it bare;
	And through that treason he lost both his eyes.

	"Then he read me, if I'm not to tell you lies,
	Of Hercules, and how his Deianira
	Caused him to set himself on fire.

	"He didn't forget the penance and the woe
	That Socrates had with his two wives, long ago;
	How Xanthippe poured piss on his head;
	This poor man sat still, as if he were dead;
	He wiped his head, and didn't dare to complain,
	Except, 'Before the thunder stops, here comes the rain!'

	"Of Pasiphae, who was the queen of Crete—
	For sheer malice, he thought that tale was sweet;
	Ugh! No more—it's a grisly thing to tell,
	Of her horrible lust, and what she liked so well.

	"Of Clytemnestra—how her lust ran high,
	And how she falsely made her husband die—
	He read that with the deepest devotion.

	"He told me, too, on what occasion
	Amphiaraus at Thebes came to lose his life;
	My husband had a story about his wife,
	Eriphyle, who, for a brooch of gold,
	Had secretly informed the Greeks, and told
	Where her husband had hidden himself away,
	For which at Thebes he came to grief that day.

	"He told me of Livia and Lucilia—and why
	Both of them made their husbands die:
	The one for love, the other out of hate;
	Livia, one evening, when it was late,
	Poisoned her husband, since she was his foe.
	Lucilia, lecherous, loved her husband so
	That, wanting her to be all he would think
	About, she gave him such a kind of love-drink
	That he was dead before the night was through;
	And so husbands have sorrow, whatever they do.

	"Then he told me how one Latumius
	Complained to his friend Arrius
	That in his garden there grew such a tree
	On which, he said, his wives, all three,
	Had hanged themselves, their hearts were so malicious.
	'Oh, my dear brother,' said this Arrius,
	'Give me a cutting from that blessed tree,
	And my own garden's where it's going to be!'

	"And of more recent wives he'd also read,
	How some had killed their husbands in their bed,
	And let their lover have them all night in the gloom
	While the corpse lay face up on the floor of the room.
	And some had driven nails into their brain
	While they were sleeping, and so they were slain.
	Some had given them poison in their drink.
	He spoke more evil than a heart could think.
	And on top of that, he knew more proverbs
	Than there's grass growing in the world, or herbs.
	'It's better,' he said, 'to make your home and share
	It with a lion, or a foul dragon in its lair,
	Than with a woman who's always quick to chide.
	Better,' he said, 'to live up on the roof, outside,
	Than with an angry wife down in the house; for they
	Are so wicked and contrary in every way;
	They hate whatever their husbands love, all day.'
	He said, 'A woman throws her shame away
	When she pulls off her slip'; and he would tell,
	'A pretty woman, unless she's chaste as well,
	Is like a gold ring in a sow's nose.'
	Who would believe, or who would suppose
	The woe that filled my heart, and all the pain?

	"And when I saw that he would never refrain
	From reading in that cursed book all night,
	All of a sudden I ripped three pages right
	Out of his book, just as he was reading, and, not meek,
	I hit him with my fist so hard upon the cheek
	That he fell backward into our fire, down and flat.
	And up he jumped like a raging lion at that,
	And with his fist he hit me on the head,
	So that I lay on the floor as if dead.
	And when he saw how still I lay,
	He was aghast, and would have fled away,
	Until at last I started from my faint, and woke:
	'Oh! Have you killed me, you false thief?' I spoke,
	'And for my land, you've murdered me like this?
	Before I'm dead, I'll still give you a kiss.'

	"And he came near, and knelt there, gently, upon
	The floor, and said, 'Dear sister Alison,
	So help me God, I'll never hit you any more!
	What I did is your own fault—what you asked for.
	Forgive me, I beg you, please; it's all I seek'—
	And yet again I hit him on the cheek,
	And said, 'Thief, that's the vengeance I can wreak;
	Now I'm going to die. I can no longer speak.'
	But finally, with much distress and woe,
	We settled it, the two of us alone; and so
	He gave me the bridle, all of it, into my hand,
	To have the governing of house and land,
	And of his tongue, and of his hand, likewise;
	And made him burn his book right then, before my eyes.
	And when I'd won, and taken it for me—
	By mastery—the whole of the sovereignty,
	And when he said, 'My own true wife,
	Do as you please for the rest of your life;
	Look after your honour, and look after my estate'—
	After that day we never had a debate.
	God help me, I was to him as kind and good
	As any wife from Denmark to India could,
	And just as faithful, and so was he to me.
	I pray to God who sits in majesty
	To bless his soul, in his mercy so dear!
	Now I will tell my tale, if you would like to hear."

The Words Between the Summoner and the Friar

	The Friar laughed, when he had heard all this:
	"Now, madam," he said, "as I hope for joy and bliss,
	This is a long preamble for a tale!"
	And when the Summoner heard how the Friar would rail,
	"Look!" said the Summoner, "By God's two arms—look there!
	A friar will always butt in, everywhere.
	Good people, look: a fly and a friar, as a pair,
	Will fall into every dish and every affair.
	What's this 'preambling' talk of yours, you clown?
	What! Amble, or trot, or shut up, or sit down;
	You're getting in the way of the fun that we desire."

	"Oh, is that what you want, Sir Summoner?" said the Friar.
	"Now, by my faith, I will, before I'm through,
	Tell such a tale about a summoner, or two,
	That all the company will laugh, in this place."

	"Right, Friar! Then I curse your face,"
	Said this Summoner, "and curse myself—curse me—
	Unless I tell some tales, two or three,
	About friars before I come to Sittingbourne,
	That I'll make that heart of yours grieve and mourn;
	For I know well your patience is all gone."

	Our Host cried, "Quiet! And that means now—come on!"
	And said, "Let the woman tell her tale.
	You're acting like people drunk on ale.
	Go on, madam, tell your tale; that is best."

	"All ready, sir," she said, "just as you request,
	If I have the leave of this fine Friar here."

	"Yes, madam," he said, "tell on, and I will hear."

The Wife of Bath's Tale

	In the old days of Arthur, the great king
	Whose praises all the Britons like to sing,
	This land was full of fairy magic. She,
	The elf-queen, with her merry company,
	Danced often in green meadows far and near;
	That was the old belief, as I read here;
	I'm talking of many hundred years before;
	But now no one can see the elves any more.
	For now the great charity and prayer
	Of licensed beggars and holy friars to spare,
	Who search through every land and every stream,
	As thick as motes of dust in a sunbeam,
	Blessing halls, chambers, kitchens, ladies' bowers,
	Cities and boroughs, castles, and high towers,
	Villages, barns, and cattle sheds, and dairies—
	This is the reason why there are no fairies.
	For in the places where there used to walk an elf,
	There walks the licensed beggar now himself,
	Late in the morning, and at early light,
	And says his matins and each holy rite
	As he goes round the patch he's licensed to cover.
	Women can safely walk, the country over,
	In every bush, or under every tree;
	There's no incubus—no demon lover—but he,
	And he will do them nothing but dishonour.

	And so it happened that this King Arthur
	Had in his household a lively young knight, who one day
	Came riding from the river, hawking; on his way,
	And as it happened, he saw, walking alone,
	A girl ahead of him, all on her own;
	And there and then, whatever she did or said,
	By sheer brute force he took her maidenhead.
	For this outrage there was an outcry so strong,
	And such appeals to King Arthur, loud and long,
	That the knight was condemned to be dead
	By course of law, and would have lost his head—
	Perhaps; such was the statute in that day—
	But that the queen and other ladies, they
	So long implored the king to show him grace
	That he granted him his life there, in that place,
	And gave him to the queen, all at her will,
	To choose to save his life, or else to kill.

	The queen thanks the king with all her might,
	And after this she spoke thus to the knight,
	When she saw her moment, on a certain day:
	"You're still," she said, "in such a sorry way
	That your life still has no security.
	I'll grant you life, if you can answer me:
	What is the thing that women want the most?
	Beware, and save your neck, or it is lost.
	And if you cannot tell me it today,
	I'll still give you my leave to go your way
	For a year and a day, to search and to learn
	A satisfactory answer in this concern.
	And before you go I'll take a guarantee
	That you'll yield up your body here to me."

	This knight was wretched, and he sighs for woe;
	But what! He can't have everything just so.
	And in the end he chose to go away,
	And come back at the year's end, to the day,
	With such an answer as God would provide;
	And takes his leave, and sets off on his ride.

	He searches every house and every place
	Where he has hopes he will be shown some grace,
	To learn what thing it is that women love most;
	But no land that he came to, and no coast,
	Was one where he could find, in this affair,
	Two people in agreement, as a pair.

	Some said that women love riches the best;
	Some said honour, some said fun and zest;
	Some, rich clothes; some said, pleasure in bed,
	And many times to be widowed and wed.

	Some said that our hearts are most at ease
	When we are flattered, and when men aim to please.
	He's very near the truth; I will not lie:
	It's flattery a man should win us by;
	And with attentions, and with eagerness,
	We're caught like birds in birdlime, every one, no less.

	And some say what we love best is to be free
	To do just as we please, and have it be
	That no one ever scolds us when we stray,
	But calls us wise, and never foolish in any way.
	For honestly, there's not one of us who can
	Be rubbed upon a sore spot by a man
	And not kick out at him for speaking true;
	Just try it, and you'll find that's what we do.
	For however wicked we may be within,
	We want to be thought wise, and clean of sin.

	And some say that we take great joy to be
	Thought steady, and discreet, and good at secrecy,
	And stick steadfastly to one purpose as well,
	And never blab the things that people tell.
	But that tale isn't worth the handle of a rake;
	We women can hide nothing, for God's sake!
	Take Midas as our witness—shall I tell?

	Ovid, among some other little things as well,
	Said Midas had, beneath his long locks of hair,
	Two ass's ears growing on his head up there,
	And he hid this defect as best as he might,
	Most cleverly, from everybody's sight,
	So that, apart from his wife, nobody knew;
	He loved her most, and he trusted her too;
	He begged her that she'd tell no living creature
	Of his disfigurement, that ugly feature.

	She swore to him: "No! Not for all the world to win
	Would I do such a shameful thing, or such a sin,
	As give my husband such a filthy name;
	I wouldn't tell, for it would be my own shame."
	But all the same, she felt as if she'd died,
	Having to keep a secret so long inside;
	It seemed to swell so sorely all about
	Her heart, that some word simply had to come out;
	And since she dared not tell it to a man,
	Down to a marsh close by she quickly ran;
	Until she got there, her heart was on fire,
	And, as a bittern booms out in the mire,
	She laid her mouth down to the water, bowed:
	"Don't give me away, water, by sounding it aloud,"
	She said. "I'm telling you, and only you:
	My husband has long ass's ears—he has two!
	Now my heart is whole again; now it's out.
	I couldn't keep it any longer, without a doubt."
	Here you can see that, though we keep it inside
	A while, it must come out: there's nothing we can hide.
	If you would like to hear the rest of it,
	Read Ovid, and you'll learn it there, every bit.

	This knight, the special subject of my tale,
	When he saw that in this he was going to fail—
	That is to say, the thing that women most adore—
	Within his breast his spirit was sad and sore;
	But home he goes; he couldn't stay around.
	The day had come when he must be homeward bound,
	And on his way it so happened that he'd ride,
	In all his trouble, by a forest's side,
	Where he saw a dance of ladies, there before
	His eyes—some four and twenty, and still more;
	He hurried eagerly towards the dance, and yearned
	To find some wisdom there that could be learned.
	But certainly, before he'd quite got there,
	The dance had vanished, he did not know where.
	No creature that had life was to be seen,
	Except a woman sitting on the green;
	No one could imagine an uglier sight.
	This old woman got up to meet the knight,
	And said, "Sir knight, there is no road this way.
	What are you looking for? By your faith, now, say.
	Perhaps it may turn out the better for you;
	We old folk know a lot of things," she said, "we do."

	"Dear mother," said the knight, "the truth is plain:
	I'm as good as dead, unless I can explain
	What thing it is that women most desire;
	If you could teach me, I'd pay whatever you require."

	"Pledge me your word," she said, "here in my hand:
	The next thing that I make as my demand
	You'll do, if it lies within your might,
	And I'll tell you what it is before it's night."
	"Here is my word," the knight said. "I agree."

	"Then," she said, "I can boast, and guarantee
	Your life is safe, for I will stand by you;
	Upon my life, the queen will say so too.
	Let's see which is the proudest one who wears
	A kerchief or a hairnet, and if she dares
	To say no to the thing that I will teach;
	Let's go along, and waste no further speech."
	Then she whispered a message in his ear,
	And told him to be glad, and have no fear.

	When they had reached the court, this knight was heard
	To say he'd kept his day, as he'd given his word,
	And that his answer was ready, he conveyed.
	And many a noble wife, and many a maid,
	And many a widow, since they are so wise,
	With the queen herself as judge, to supervise,
	Were gathered there, all of them waiting to hear;
	And then the knight was ordered to appear.

	Silence was ordered for everyone in court,
	And that the knight should publicly report
	What thing it is that worldly women love the best.
	This knight did not stand dumb, as does a beast,
	But answered the question promptly, every word,
	In a manly voice, so that the whole court heard:

	He said, "My liege lady, generally,
	Women desire to have sovereignty
	As much over their husband as their love,
	And to be in mastery, the one above;
	This is your greatest desire, though you kill
	Me for it. Do as you like; I'm at your will."

	In all the court there wasn't a wife or maid,
	Or widow, to deny the case he'd made,
	But all said, "He deserves to keep his life."

	And at those words up jumped the old wife,
	Whom the knight had seen sitting on the green:
	"Mercy," she said, "my sovereign lady queen!
	Before your court breaks up, give me my right.
	It was I who taught this answer to the knight;
	And for that, there, he pledged his word to me:
	The first thing I'd ask, whatever it might be,
	He'd do it, if it lay within his might.
	Before the court, then, I ask you, sir knight,"
	She said, "to take me now to be your wife;
	For you know well that I have saved your life.
	If I say anything false, upon your faith, say no!"

	The knight replied, "Alas! Alas, and woe!
	I know quite well I promised what you've said;
	For God's love, choose a new request instead;
	Take all my goods, and let my body go."

	"No? Then curse us both," she said, "if that is so!
	For even though I'm ugly, old, and poor,
	I wouldn't take all the metal or the ore
	That's buried underground, or lies above,
	Unless I were your wife, and also your love."

	"My love?" he said. "No—my damnation!
	Alas, that anyone of my birth and station
	Should be so foully matched beneath his own degree!"
	But it was all for nothing; in the end, he
	Was forced, and had no choice: he had to wed,
	And takes his old wife, and goes to bed.

	Now there are those, perhaps, who would declare
	That, through my negligence, I take no care
	To tell you of the joy and all the display
	That there was at the feast that very day.
	To which I'll briefly answer: there was none;
	I say there was no joy or feast, not one;
	There was just heaviness and great sorrow instead;
	For privately, one morning, the two were wed,
	And all day after, he hid like an owl;
	He was so wretched, his wife looked so foul.

	Great was the woe inside the knight's head
	When he and his wife were brought to bed;
	He writhes and turns, and tosses all night long;
	His old wife lay there smiling all along,
	And said, "Dear husband, benedicite—bless you!
	Does every knight treat his wife the way you do?
	Is this the custom in King Arthur's house?
	Is every knight of his so cold to his spouse?
	I am your own love, and also your wife;
	I am the one who has saved your life;
	And I've never done you anything but right;
	Why do you treat me like this, on our first night?
	You're acting like a man who's lost his wit.
	What is my fault? For God's sake, out with it!
	And I will put it right, if it lies in me."

	"Put right?" the knight said. "Alas! No! It can't be!
	It never can be put right, whatever you do!
	You are so loathsome, and so old, too,
	And born, besides, of such a lowly kind,
	It's little wonder that I writhe and wind.
	I wish to God my heart would burst in my breast!"

	"Is this," she said, "the cause of your unrest?"

	"Yes, certainly," he said; "small wonder, too."

	"Now, sir," she said, "I could put all this right for you,
	If I wished, before three days were out—you'll see—
	So long as you behaved yourself well towards me.

	"But since you speak of nobility, the kind
	That comes down from old wealth, and have it in mind
	That because of it you should be noble men,
	Such arrogance is not worth a hen.
	Look who is always the most virtuous, and who,
	In private and in public, strives the most to do
	Whatever noble deeds he possibly can,
	And take him for the greatest noble man.
	Christ wills we claim nobility from him, and not
	From our ancestors, for the old wealth they got.
	For though they leave us all they own, their whole estate,
	For which we claim that our descent is great,
	Yet there is no way they can bequeath or give
	To any one of us the virtuous way they'd live,
	That got them called noble men; they told us we
	Should follow them, and live to that degree.

	"The wise poet of Florence, Dante by name,
	Can speak well on this point, and says the same;
	Look, in a rhyme like this, here is Dante's tale:
	'Seldom up through the branches, small and frail,
	Does a man's worth rise; for God, in his goodness, has said
	That we must claim our nobility from him instead.'
	For from our ancestors there's nothing we can claim
	Except worldly things, that men can hurt and maim.

	"And everyone knows this as well as I do:
	If nobility were planted by nature, through
	A certain lineage, all down the line,
	Privately or publicly, they'd never decline
	To do the noble duties of their race;
	They could do nothing vicious, nothing base.

	"Take fire, and carry it into the darkest house
	Between here and the mountains of the Caucasus,
	And let men shut the doors, and leave it there;
	The fire will lie and burn as bright and fair
	As if twenty thousand men could see it; it stays
	True to its natural function, all its days,
	Upon my life, it will, until it dies out.

	"Here you can see quite well, beyond a doubt,
	That nobility isn't tied to what men own,
	Since people don't always do the work that's theirs alone,
	As fire does—look!—according to its kind.
	For, God knows, men can very often find
	A lord's son doing deeds of shame and disgrace;
	And he who wants praise for his noble birth and place,
	Because he was born to a house of high estate,
	With forebears who were virtuous, noble and great,
	And won't do noble deeds himself, or be led
	To follow his noble ancestor, who is dead,
	He isn't noble, whether he's duke or earl;
	For base and sinful deeds are what make a churl.
	For that nobility is nothing but the renown
	Of your forebears, for their goodness, handed down,
	Which is a thing that's foreign to you, not your own.
	Your nobility comes from God alone.
	So our true nobility comes from grace;
	It wasn't left to us along with our place.

	"Think how noble, as Valerius tells us,
	Was that same Tullius Hostilius,
	Who rose from poverty to high nobility.
	Read Seneca, and read Boethius, and you'll see
	Set out in plain words—there's no doubt of it, none—
	That the one who does noble deeds is the noble one;
	And therefore, my dear husband, I conclude:
	Even if my forebears were simple folk and crude,
	Yet God on high, I hope, will grant to me
	The grace to live my life virtuously.
	Then I am noble, when I begin
	To live in virtue, and abandon sin.

	"And when you blame me because I am poor,
	High God, whom we believe in and adore,
	Chose by his own will to live a poor man's life.
	And surely every man, and maiden, and wife,
	Can understand that Jesus, heaven's king,
	Would not have chosen a sinful way of living.
	Cheerful poverty is a decent thing, it's plain,
	As Seneca and other scholars maintain.
	Whoever is content with his poverty, I'd assert,
	Is rich, although he hasn't got a shirt.
	The man who covets is a poor man in my sight,
	Because he wants what isn't in his might.
	But he who has nothing, and doesn't crave
	To have, is rich, though you think him a lowly knave.

	"True poverty, by its nature, likes to sing;
	Juvenal says, of poverty, a merry thing:
	'The poor man, when he goes along the way,
	In front of thieves can sing his songs and play.'
	Poverty's a hateful good, and, I'd suppose,
	A great deliverer from cares and woes;
	A great improver, too, of wisdom in the mind
	Of anyone who takes it patiently, resigned.
	Poverty is this, although it may seem grim:
	A property that no one will contest with him.
	Poverty very often, when a man is low,
	Makes him know his God, and himself also.
	Poverty is a lens, as it seems to me,
	Through which he can see who his true friends will be.
	And therefore, sir, since I don't cause you to grieve,
	About my poverty, give me a reprieve.

	"Now, sir, you blame me for my age; you're scolding me.
	But surely, sir, though no authority
	Were in a book, you honourable nobles hold
	That men should show some kindness to the old,
	And call an old man 'father', out of your nobleness;
	And I'll find authors who say so, I'd guess.

	"Now, since you say that I am ugly and old,
	Then you've no need to fear being a cuckold;
	For ugliness and age, believe you me,
	Are mighty guardians of chastity.
	But nonetheless, since I know your delight,
	I shall fulfil your worldly appetite.

	"Choose now," she said, "one of these two, and say:
	To have me ugly and old till my dying day,
	And be to you a true and humble wife,
	And never displease you in all my life,
	Or else you'll have me both young and fair,
	And take your chances on the crowds who'll repair
	To your house, as they will, because of me,
	Or to some other place, as it may well be.
	Now choose yourself whichever you like best."

	The knight thinks it over, sighing, sorely distressed,
	But at last he spoke like this, for her to hear:
	"My lady and my love, my wife, my dear,
	I put myself in your wise governance;
	Choose for yourself whichever will enhance
	Your pleasure most, and bring honour to me and you;
	I don't care which one you choose of the two;
	For what pleases you is enough for me."

	She said, "So I have won the mastery,
	Since I may choose, and govern at my own behest?"

	"Yes, certainly, wife," he said, "I think it's best."

	"Kiss me," she said, "our anger's over and done;
	For, on my word, I'll be both things in one:
	That is to say, yes, both fair and good.
	I pray to God I die stark mad—and so I should—
	Unless I am as good and true to you
	As any wife since the world was new.
	And if, tomorrow, I'm not as fair to be seen
	As any lady, any empress, or any queen
	That lives between the east and the west,
	Do with my life and death as you think best.
	Pull back the curtain: look at how it is."

	And when the knight saw clearly all of this—
	That she was so beautiful, and so young—
	For joy he took her in his arms and clung;
	His heart bathed in a bath of bliss;
	A thousand times in a row he gave her a kiss.
	And she obeyed him in everything that might
	Bring him pleasure, or give him delight.

	And so they live, right to their lives' end,
	In perfect joy. And may Jesus Christ send
	Us husbands who are meek, young, fresh in bed,
	And grace to outlive the men we wed.
	And I pray Jesus, too, to cut short the lives
	Of those who won't be governed by their wives;
	And old, bad-tempered misers who won't pay,
	God send them a real plague, and straight away!

The Friar's Prologue

	This fine licensed beggar, this noble Friar,
	Kept glowering at the Summoner with a sort of ire;
	But out of decency he had not yet spoken
	One rude word to him; the peace was still unbroken.
	But finally he spoke up to the Wife:
	"Madam," he said, "God give you a good life!
	You've touched here, as I hope to prosper, on
	Hard questions that the schools are split upon;
	You've said a great deal, and said it well, I'd say;
	But, madam, here, as we ride along the way,
	We needn't talk of anything but sport and game,
	And leave authorities alone, in God's name,
	To preachers, and to the schools of learned men.
	But if this company would like it, then
	I'll tell a tale about a summoner, as a game.
	By God, you can tell well enough from the name
	That no one has a good word for a summoner's trade;
	I pray that none of you is offended or dismayed.
	A summoner is a man who runs here and there
	With summonses for fornication everywhere,
	And gets a beating at the end of every town."

	Our Host spoke then: "Ah, sir, now, tone it down,
	And be courteous, as befits your rank and state;
	In company we'll have no quarrel or debate.
	Tell us your tale, and let the Summoner be."

	"No," said the Summoner, "let him say to me
	Whatever he likes; and when it falls to my lot,
	By God, I'll pay him back to the very last jot.
	I'll tell him how great an honour it is to be
	A flattering licensed beggar, such as he;
	And I'll tell him, too, just what his business is."

	Our Host replied, "Quiet! No more of this."
	And after this he turned to the Friar and said,
	"Tell us your tale, dear master. Go ahead."

The Friar's Tale

	Once, in my part of the country, there used to be
	An archdeacon, a man of high degree,
	Who boldly put the law into operation
	In punishing every case of fornication,
	Of witchcraft, and of keeping bawdy houses,
	Of slander, and adultery between spouses,
	Of robbing churches, and of wills and testaments,
	Of contracts, and of neglecting the sacraments,
	And many other kinds of crime as well
	That at this time there is no need to tell;
	Of usury, and of simony also.
	But lechers, above all, he caused the greatest woe;
	They'd have to sing for it, if they were caught;
	And those who skimped their tithes were harshly taught.
	If any parson brought a complaint, then they
	Could not escape a fine that they must pay.
	For a short tithe, or a small offering,
	He made the people pitifully sing.
	For long before the bishop caught them with his crook,
	They were written down in the archdeacon's book.
	And then, through his jurisdiction, he had might
	To discipline the sinners and to set them right.
	He had a summoner ready at his hand;
	There was no slyer rascal in all England;
	For he kept spies, and kept them on the sly,
	To tell him where it was worth his while to try.
	He knew to spare a lecher, maybe two,
	So they would lead him to two dozen new.
	For though this Summoner goes as mad as a hare,
	I'll lay his roguery completely bare;
	For we're outside his power; it's not his place;
	They have no jurisdiction over us in any case,
	Nor ever will, not till the day they've died.

	"By Peter! So are the brothel women," cried
	The Summoner, "put out of my care and cure!"

	"Quiet! Bad luck to you, and misadventure!"
	Our Host said then. "And let him tell his tale.
	Now go on, though the Summoner may yell and rail;
	And don't hold back, my own dear master; go ahead."

	This false thief, this summoner, the Friar said,
	Had always bawds on call at his command,
	As quick as any hawk to the lure in England,
	Who told him every secret that they knew;
	For their acquaintance wasn't something new.
	They were his secret informers, every one,
	And he made a fat profit out of what they'd done;
	His master didn't always know how much he'd won.
	Without a warrant, he could summon anyone
	Who was unlearned, on pain of Christ's own curse;
	And they were glad enough to fill his purse,
	And stand him great feasts, with ale and all;
	And just as Judas had his purses, which were small,
	And was a thief, this man was a thief, too;
	His master got only half of what was his due.
	If I'm to give him credit, I'll applaud:
	He was a thief, a summoner, and a bawd.
	He also kept some girls in his retinue,
	So that whether it was Sir Robert or Sir Hugh,
	Or Jack, or Ralph, or whoever it was who lay
	With them, they'd whisper it to him straight away;
	So the girl and he were in it, of one intent;
	And then he'd fetch a summons he'd invent,
	And summon the two of them to the chapter, and so
	He'd fleece the man, and let the girl go.
	Then he'd say, "Friend, for your sake I'll erase
	Her name from our black records, every trace;
	You needn't trouble any more about this case;
	I'm your friend, if I can help you, in any place."
	He knew of more kinds of bribery, that's true,
	Than anyone could tell you in a year or two.
	For in this world there's not a bowman's hound
	That tells a wounded deer from one that's sound
	Better than this summoner knew a sly lecher, or
	An adulterer, or a paramour.
	And since that was the fruit of everything he earned,
	That's where his whole attention always turned.

	And it so happened, on a certain day,
	This summoner, always lying in wait for prey,
	Rode off to summon a widow, an old crone, on a fake
	Charge, since he had a bribe in mind to take.
	And as it happened, he saw ahead of him ride
	A smartly dressed yeoman, along the forest's side.
	He carried a bow, and arrows bright and keen;
	He had a short coat on, all in green;
	A hat upon his head with fringes of black.

	"Sir," said this summoner, "hail! Well met, on the track!"
	"Welcome," he said, "to you, and all good men!
	Where are you riding, under the greenwood, then?"
	Said this yeoman. "Are you going far today?"

	The summoner answered him: "No, not far away;
	I mean," he said, "to ride near here, with this intent:
	To raise some money, to collect a rent
	That's owing to my lord, part of his due."

	"So you're a bailiff?" "Yes," he said, "that's true."
	He didn't dare, out of sheer filth and shame,
	Say he was a summoner, because of the name.

	"Depardieux," said this yeoman, "my dear brother,
	You are a bailiff, and I am another.
	No one around here knows me; I'm new;
	I'd like to ask to be acquainted with you,
	And to be brothers, too, if you think best.
	I've got gold and silver in my chest;
	If you should ever happen to come to our shire,
	It's all yours, everything you could desire."

	"Many thanks," the summoner said. "By my faith, it's grand!"
	And each one laid his pledge in the other's hand,
	To be sworn brothers till the day they died.
	Chatting pleasantly, they went on with their ride.

	This summoner, whose chatter was just like
	The venom that fills the butcher-bird, the shrike,
	And always nosing into everything there was,
	"Brother," he said, "where do you live? Because,
	If I should come looking for you some other day?"

	This yeoman answered him, in a gentle way,
	"Brother," he said, "far in the north; it's there
	I hope I'll see you someday. I'll take care,
	Before we part, to make the way so plain
	That you will never look for my house in vain."

	"Now, brother," said this summoner, "I pray,
	Teach me, while we are riding on our way,
	Since you're a bailiff, just the same as I,
	Some trick or other, and don't tell me a lie,
	How I can best, in my office, rake it in;
	And don't hold back for conscience or for sin,
	But, as my brother, tell me: what do you do?"

	"Now, on my word, dear brother," he said, "to you
	I'll give the honest, faithful account:
	My wages are tiny, a pitiful amount.
	My lord is hard on me, and overbearing,
	And my job is laborious and wearing;
	And so it is by extortion that I live;
	The truth is, I take all that men will give.
	Somehow, by trickery or by violence,
	From year to year I cover all my expense.
	I can't tell it more truly; that's all I know."

	"Well, certainly," said this summoner, "with me it's so.
	I never hold back from taking, God knows I do not,
	Unless it is too heavy or too hot.
	And what I get in secret, on the sly,
	I'm not the least bit troubled in conscience by.
	If it weren't for extortion, I couldn't live,
	And I won't confess such tricks, for a priest to forgive.
	I have no pity and no conscience—none;
	I curse these father-confessors, every one.
	Well met, by God and by Saint James, and how!
	But, my dear brother, tell me your name now,"
	Said this summoner; and in the meanwhile
	The yeoman started, just a little, to smile.

	"Brother," he said, "do you want me to tell?
	I am a fiend; my dwelling is in hell.
	And here I ride around, out on the make,
	To see if men will give me anything to take.
	My pickings are the whole of what I get as rent.
	Look how you ride with just the same intent:
	To get your hands on goods, you never care how;
	And I'm the same; for I would ride right now
	To the end of the world, if I could find some prey."

	"Ah, benedicite!" he said. "What's that you say?
	I thought you were a yeoman, really—why,
	You have a man's shape just the same as I.
	Then do you have a shape that's fixed, determinate,
	In hell, where you're at home, in your own state?"

	"No, certainly," he said, "there we have none;
	But when it suits us, we can take on one,
	Or else we make you think we have a shape
	Sometimes like a man, or like an ape;
	Or like an angel I can ride or go.
	It isn't any wonder if it's so;
	Some lousy conjuror can fool you easily,
	And, by God, I know more of the craft than he."

	"Why," said the summoner, "do you ride or walk about
	In different shapes, and not in one throughout?"

	"Because," he said, "the kind of shape we make
	Is whatever's best for the prey we want to take."

	"What makes you go to all this labour, sir?"

	"For many reasons, my dear Sir Summoner,"
	Said this fiend, "but everything has its time.
	The day is short, and it is after prime,
	And yet I haven't made a thing all day.
	I'll put my mind to winning, if I may,
	And not on explaining our ideas. I'll spare
	You that; for, brother, your wits are far too bare
	To understand them, even if I told them to you.
	But, since you ask why we labour as we do:
	For sometimes we're the instruments God uses,
	The means to carry out the orders that he chooses
	Upon his creatures, whenever he so desires,
	In different ways and shapes, as the case requires.
	Without him we have no strength at all, it's true,
	If he decides to stand against what we would do.
	And sometimes, when we ask, we're given leave
	To harm the body, but not to make the soul grieve;
	Witness Job, who suffered what we put him through.
	And sometimes we have power over the two,
	That is to say, of soul and body both alike.
	And sometimes we're allowed to go and strike
	At a man, and give his soul no rest,
	But not his body; and all is for the best.
	And when he stands against our temptation,
	It helps to bring about his salvation,
	Even though it was never our intent
	That he'd be saved: to grab him was what we meant.
	And sometimes we are servants to a man,
	As to the archbishop, Saint Dunstan;
	And I was the apostles' servant too."

	"But tell me," said the summoner, "and tell me true,
	Do you always make yourselves new bodies, though,
	Out of the elements?" The fiend replied, "Oh, no;
	Sometimes we fake it, and sometimes we rise
	In corpses, in all sorts of different guise,
	And speak as sensibly and fair and well
	As, to the Witch of Endor, did Samuel.
	And yet some men will say it wasn't he;
	Your theology means nothing to me.
	But here's one warning—and I'm not joking: you
	Will learn how we are shaped, whatever you do;
	Later, my dear brother, you'll come to where
	You won't need me to teach you anything there.
	For you'll know, by your own experience, so well
	You could lecture from a chair on it, and tell
	It better than Virgil, while he was a living man,
	Or Dante either. Now let's ride as fast as we can.
	For I will keep you company, and be
	With you until you choose to abandon me."

	"No," said this summoner, "that will never happen—no;
	I am a yeoman, known wherever you go;
	I'll keep my word in this, and keep it well;
	For even if you were Satan, the devil of hell,
	I'll keep my word, my promise, to my brother,
	As I have sworn, and each of us to the other,
	To be true brothers here, in this affair,
	And both go hunting pickings everywhere.
	You take your share of what men want to give,
	And I'll take mine; that way we both can live.
	And if either one of us gets more than the other,
	Let him be true, and share it with his brother."

	"Agreed," the devil said, "by my faith!" And they
	Rode on, with that word, upon their way.
	And right at the entrance, at the edge of town,
	Where this summoner was heading, riding down,
	They saw a cart that had been loaded up with hay,
	Which a carter was driving along the way.
	The road was deep, and so the cart just stood.
	The carter whipped and yelled, as a madman would:
	"Gee up, Brock! Gee up, Scot! Why stop for stones?
	The fiend," he said, "take you, body and bones,
	As sure as ever you were foaled! You two—
	The trouble I've put up with, thanks to you!
	The devil take it all, horses, cart and hay!"

	This summoner said, "Now here's a game to play!"
	And casually, as though it was nothing, he drew near
	The fiend, and quietly whispered in his ear:
	"Listen, my brother, listen, upon your word!
	Don't you hear the carter? Haven't you heard?
	Grab it at once, for he has given it to you,
	The hay, the cart, and his three horses too."

	"No," said the devil, "God knows, not a jot;
	He doesn't mean it, trust me, he does not.
	Ask him yourself, if you don't believe me,
	Or else wait just a little, and you'll see."

	The carter slaps his horses on the croup,
	And they begin to pull, and bend, and stoop.
	"Come on, now!" he said. "Jesus Christ bless you all,
	And all his handiwork, the great and small!
	That was a good pull, my own grey boy!
	I pray God save you, and Saint Loy!
	Now my cart's out of the mud—by God, it's free!"

	"Look, brother," said the fiend, "what did I tell you? See?
	Here you can see, my own dear brother,
	The fellow said one thing, but he meant another.
	Let's go on our way, and finish our voyage;
	Here I've won nothing—not even the carriage."

	When they had gone a little way outside the town,
	This summoner told his brother, keeping his voice down,
	"Brother," he said, "here lives an old woman, a wreck,
	Who'd almost just as soon lose her neck
	As give away one penny that she had;
	I'll have twelve pence, even if it drives her mad,
	Or else I'll summon her to our court of law;
	And yet, God knows, in her I've found no flaw.
	But since you can't, round here, earn what you spend,
	Take an example from me, my friend."

	This summoner raps on the widow's gate.
	"Come out," he said, "you old hag! Don't make me wait!
	I'll bet there's a friar or priest with you—let me see!"

	"Who's knocking?" said the widow. "Benedicite!
	God keep you, sir! What is your gracious will?"

	"I have," he said, "a summons here, a bill:
	On pain of being cursed, make sure you'll be
	Tomorrow at the archdeacon's knee
	To answer to the court on certain things."

	"Now, Lord," she said, "Christ Jesus, King of kings,
	Help me as truly as I can't obey;
	I've been sick, and that for many a day.
	I can't walk so far," she said, "and I can't ride,
	Or I'll be dead, it stabs so in my side.
	Can't I ask for the written charge, Sir Summoner,
	And answer there through my proctor, my lawyer, sir,
	To whatever charges they bring against me?"

	"Yes," said this summoner, "pay up—let's see—
	Twelve pence to me, and I'll acquit you: done.
	I'll get no profit out of it, or next to none;
	My master gets the profit, and not I.
	Come on, let me be off—I have to fly;
	Give me twelve pence; I can't stay; I mustn't tarry."

	"Twelve pence!" she said. "Now, Lady, holy Saint Mary,
	So surely help me out of care and sin,
	Though this whole wide world were mine to win,
	I haven't got twelve pence in all I hold.
	You know quite well that I am poor and old;
	Show your charity to me, a poor wretch."

	"Then no," he said, "and may the foul fiend fetch
	Me if I let you off, though it should be your end!"

	"Alas," she said, "God knows I've nothing to amend."

	"Pay me," he said, "or else, by sweet Saint Anne,
	I'll take away with me your brand-new pan
	For the debt you've owed me now for years—as old
	As the day you made your husband a cuckold:
	I paid your fine at home, to spare you condemnation."

	"You lie!" she said. "As I hope for my salvation,
	Never before now, as widow or as wife,
	Have I been summoned to your court in all my life;
	And with my body I've always been true!
	To the black devil, rough and hairy too,
	I give your body, and my pan also!"

	And when the devil heard her curse him so
	Upon her knees, he said to her, "My dear
	Mabel, my own good mother, let me hear:
	Is this your earnest wish, the thing you say?"

	"May the devil," she said, "take him, before his dying day,
	And pan and all, unless he will repent!"

	"No, you old nag, that's not what I meant,"
	Said this summoner, "to repent, myself, at all
	For anything I've had from you, great or small;
	I wish I had your smock and every thread!"

	"Now, brother, don't be angry," the devil said;
	"Your body and this pan are mine by right.
	You'll go with me to hell, this very night,
	Where you will come to know more of our secret lore
	Than any master of divinity knew before."
	And with that word this foul fiend grabbed him there;
	Body and soul, he went with the devil to where
	Summoners come into their heritage;
	And God, who made, in his own image,
	Mankind, save and guide us all, I pray,
	And grant this Summoner may turn good, someday!

	Gentlemen, I could have told you, said this Friar,
	Had this Summoner left me the time I'd desire,
	According to the texts of Christ and Paul and John
	And all our other doctors that we rely upon,
	Such torments that your hearts would shake with fright—
	Although no tongue could ever describe them right,
	Even if I could spend a thousand years to tell—
	The pain of that accursed house of hell.
	But to keep us from that cursed place,
	Keep watch, and pray to Jesus for his grace
	That he may keep us from Satan, the tempter, too.
	Hear what I say, and watch what you do:
	The lion always lies in wait for prey,
	To kill the innocent, if he finds a way.
	So always make your hearts ready to withstand
	The fiend, who'd make you slaves at his command.
	He cannot tempt you past your power to fight;
	For Christ will be your champion and knight.
	And pray that these Summoners repent and mend
	Their ways, before the fiend seizes them in the end.

The Summoner's Prologue

	This Summoner rose up in his stirrups and stood;
	He was so furious at the Friar, his blood
	Boiled, and like an aspen leaf he shook with ire.

	"Gentlemen," he said, "there's only one thing I desire:
	I beg you, by your courtesy, that I,
	Since you have heard this false Friar lie,
	May be allowed to tell my tale as well!
	This Friar boasts that he knows all about hell,
	And God knows that it's hardly any wonder;
	Friars and fiends are never far asunder.
	For, by God, you've often heard people tell
	How a friar was carried off once down to hell
	In spirit, in a vision; and as his guide,
	An angel, took him round hell, far and wide,
	To show him all the torments of the fire,
	In the whole place he didn't see a single friar;
	He saw plenty of other people suffering instead;
	Then the friar turned to the angel, and he said:

	"'Now, sir,' he said, 'do friars have such grace
	That none of them will ever come to this place?'

	"'Oh, they come,' this angel said, 'by the million!' So
	He led him down to Satan, far below.
	'And Satan,' he says, 'has got a tail
	Broader than a great ship's—a carrack's—sail.
	Hold up that tail of yours, you Satan!' said he,
	'Show us your arse, and let the friar see
	Where the friars have their nest, here in this place!'
	And in less time than you'd walk half a furlong's space,
	Just as the bees come swarming out of a hive,
	Out of the devil's arse there began to drive
	Twenty thousand friars, in a mob, streaming out,
	And swarmed through hell, all over, roaming about;
	And came back again as fast as they could run,
	And crept back up into his arse, every one.
	He clapped his tail down again, and lay quite still.
	This friar, when he'd looked at it his fill,
	At all the torments of this sorry place,
	God sent his spirit back, out of his grace,
	Into his body again, and he came awake;
	But even so, the fear still made him quake,
	So the devil's arse stayed always in his mind,
	Which is, by nature, the heritage of his kind.
	God save you all—all but this cursed Friar, I pray!
	And I will end my prologue in this way."

The Summoner's Tale

	Gentlemen, up in Yorkshire, I would guess,
	There's a marshy region called Holderness,
	Where a licensed beggar used to go about
	To preach, and also beg, there is no doubt.
	And so it happened that this friar, one day,
	Had preached at a church, in his usual way,
	And, above everything, he'd been beseeching
	And stirring up the people with his preaching
	To pay for trentals, and, for God's sake, give donations
	With which men might build holy foundations,
	Where holy service would be duly honoured,
	Not where it's only wasted and devoured,
	Nor where there isn't any need to give,
	As to possessioners, who have the means to live,
	Thank God, in luxury and in abundance.
	"Trentals," he said, "deliver from their penance
	The souls of your friends, the old ones and the young,
	Yes, even when they're hurriedly sung;
	Not to keep a priest merry, in fine array—
	He only sings a single mass a day.
	Deliver the souls at once," he said, "the souls!
	It's hard to be clawed with flesh-hooks and with awls,
	To be torn like that, or else to burn or bake;
	Now hurry, quickly, for Christ's sake!"
	And when this friar had said all that he meant,
	With qui cum patre, the closing prayer, off he went.

	When people in church had given what they thought best,
	He went his way—he wouldn't stop to rest—
	With his bag and his tipped staff, his robe tucked high;
	At every house he went to peer and pry,
	And begged for meal and cheese, or else for corn.
	His companion had a staff tipped with horn,
	A pair of tablets, all of ivory,
	A stylus, polished very handsomely,
	And always wrote the names down, where he stood,
	Of everyone who gave them something good,
	As if he'd pray for them, to God on high.
	"Give us a bushel of wheat, or malt, or rye,
	A little cake for God's sake, or a slice of cheese,
	Or else whatever you like—we can't choose what we please;
	A halfpenny for God, or a mass-penny,
	Or give us some of your brawn, if you have any;
	A scrap of your woollen blanket, my good dame,
	Our dear sister—look, here, I'm writing down your name—
	Bacon or beef, or such things as you find."

	A sturdy rogue would always walk behind,
	Who was their landlord's man, and bore a sack,
	And what men gave them, he loaded on his back.
	And once out of the door, without delay,
	He'd scrape the names, every one of them, away
	That he had written down on his writing-tables;
	He fobbed them off with trifles and with fables.

	"Now there you lie, you Summoner," the Friar said.
	"Quiet," said our Host, "by Christ's dear mother! Go ahead:
	Tell on your tale, and don't spare him at all."
	As I hope to thrive, the Summoner said, I shall.—

	So long he went from house to house, till he
	Came to a house where he would often be
	Refreshed more than a hundred places could boast.
	The goodman lay there sick, the friar's host;
	Bedridden on a low couch, there he lay.
	"Deus hic—God be here!—Oh, Thomas, friend, good day,"
	Said this friar, soft and courteous as could be.
	"Thomas," he said, "God reward you! Frequently
	Upon this bench I've fared well—it's been ideal;
	Here I have eaten many a merry meal."
	And from the bench he chased away the cat,
	And laid down his staff, and then his hat,
	And then his bag, and settled softly down.
	His companion had gone off walking into town,
	With his servant, to the inn, the place where they
	Had made arrangements for that night to stay.

	"Oh, my dear master," said this sick man,
	"How have you been doing since March began?
	I haven't seen you for a fortnight, or more."
	"God knows," he said, "I've worked till I was sore;
	And especially, for your own salvation,
	I've made many a precious prayer and supplication,
	And for our other friends, God bless them, yes!
	Today I've been at your church, at Mass,
	And preached a sermon, by my simple wit,
	Not all according to the text of holy writ;
	For that's too hard for you to follow, I'd suppose;
	So I'll teach you all the gloss on it, the way it goes.
	Glossing is glorious, there's no doubt,
	For 'the letter kills,' as we scholars point out.
	There I have taught them to be charitable,
	And spend their goods where it's reasonable;
	And there I saw our dame—ah, where is she?"

	"Out in the yard, I think, is where she'll be,"
	Said this man, "and she'll be here before long."

	"Oh, master! Welcome, by Saint John!"
	Said this wife. "How are you keeping, truly?"

	The friar rises up, as courteous as can be,
	And clasps her in his arms, and hugs her tight,
	And kisses her sweetly, chirping as a sparrow might,
	With his lips. "Madam," he said, "I'm doing fine,
	As one who is your servant, all down the line.
	Thank God, who gave you soul and gave you life!
	Today I haven't seen so fair a wife
	In the whole church, so may God save me!"

	"Yes, God amend my faults, sir," answered she,
	"You're welcome anyway, by my faith, today!"
	"Thank you, madam; I've always found it that way.
	But, out of your great kindness, by your leave,
	I'd beg you not to take offence or grieve:
	I want to talk with Thomas a little, though.
	These parish priests are negligent and slow
	To probe a conscience gently, with due care;
	Confession and preaching are my whole affair,
	And studying Saint Peter's words, and Paul's.
	I walk about, and fish for Christian souls,
	To pay to Jesus Christ his proper rent;
	To spread his word is my whole intent."

	"Now, by your leave, dear sir," said she,
	"Give him a good scolding, by the Holy Trinity!
	He is as angry as an ant, a pissmire,
	Though he has everything that he could desire.
	Though I cover him at night and keep him warm,
	And lay my leg across him, or my arm,
	He groans like our boar that's lying in the sty.
	I get no other pleasure from him—none; not I.
	I can't please him in any way, in any case."

	"Oh, Thomas! Je vous dy—I tell you—Thomas! Thomas!
	This is the fiend's doing; it has to be amended.
	Anger's a sin by which high God's offended,
	And I'll have something to say on it, a word or so."

	"Now, master," said the wife, "before I go,
	What would you like to eat? I'll go and sort it out."

	"Now, madam," he said, "Je vous dy sans doute,
	If I had nothing of a capon but the liver,
	And of your soft white bread no more than a sliver,
	And after that a little roasted pig's head
	(Though for my sake I'd want no creature dead),
	Then, here with you, a homely meal would be enough;
	I'm a man who lives on little, on the meagrest stuff.
	My spirit has its nourishment in holy writ.
	My body's always so ready, and so fit
	To keep vigils, that my stomach is destroyed.
	I beg you, madam, please don't be annoyed,
	Though I so frankly share my secret with you;
	By God, I'd tell it only to a few."

	"Now, sir," she said, "just one word before I go:
	My child has died—it's not two weeks ago—
	Soon after you had left the town on your visitation."

	"I saw his death, myself, by revelation,"
	Says this friar, "at home, where we sleep. I dare say
	That less than half an hour from when he passed away
	I saw him carried up to heaven's bliss
	In my vision, so may God guide me in this!
	So did our sexton, and the friar who tends our infirmary,
	True friars for fifty years, both of them; and now they're free,
	Thanks be to God for the grace that he has shown,
	To hold their jubilee, and walk about alone.
	And I got up, and all our convent, in its place,
	With many a tear trickling down my face,
	Without a noise, or any bell that rang;
	Te Deum, 'We praise you, God,' was all we sang,
	Except that I said a prayer to Christ, a short oration,
	Thanking him for his revelation.
	For, sir and madam, trust me, this is so:
	Our prayers are more effective, as I know,
	And we see more of Christ's secret things
	Than ordinary people, even if they're kings.
	We live in poverty, and do without;
	And laymen live in riches, and lay out
	On food and drink, and in their foul delight.
	We scorn this world's pleasures; we hold them light.
	Lazarus and Dives lived their lives differently,
	And they got different rewards accordingly.
	Whoever wants to pray must fast and keep clean,
	And fatten up his soul, and make his body lean.
	We do as the Apostle says: our clothes and food
	Are all we need, though they're not very good.
	The cleanness and the fasting of us friars
	Are why it is that Christ accepts our prayers.

	"Look: Moses fasted forty days and forty nights
	Before the high God of all might
	Spoke with him on the mountain of Sinai.
	With an empty belly, fasting many a day,
	He received the law, which was written in the stone
	With God's finger; and Elijah, as is known,
	On Mount Horeb, before he talked, or heard
	High God, our lives' physician, say a word,
	Fasted long, and was rapt in contemplation.

	"Aaron, who had the temple's administration,
	And all the other priests along with him, each man,
	Whenever they went into the temple, and began
	To pray for the people and perform the rite,
	Would not drink, in any way, by day or night,
	Any drink at all that could make them drunk, but take
	Their place in abstinence, and pray, and stay awake,
	Lest they should die—take heed of what I say.
	Let those be sober, then, who intercede and pray.
	Mark what I say. No more! Enough's been said.
	Our Lord Jesus, as in holy writ we've read,
	Gave us the pattern of fasting and of prayers;
	And so we mendicants, we simple friars,
	Are wedded to poverty and continence,
	To charity, humility, and abstinence,
	To persecution for righteousness,
	To weeping, mercy, and to cleanliness.
	And so you see that our prayers—I mean the prayers
	Of us, the mendicants, I mean us friars—
	Are to high God far more acceptable
	Than yours, with all your feasting at the table.
	Man was first driven out of Paradise,
	If I'm not lying, for gluttony, his vice;
	And man was chaste in Paradise, that's plain.

	"But listen now, Thomas, to what I'll explain.
	I have no text for this, as I suppose,
	But I'll find it in a gloss of some sort, one that shows
	That our sweet Lord Jesus, especially, meant us
	Friars by this, when he spoke the words thus:
	'Blessed are the poor in spirit.' Go on that way
	Through the whole gospel, and you can see and weigh
	Whether it more resembles our profession
	Or theirs, who swim in wealth and in possession.
	Fie on their pomp, and on their gluttony!
	For their ignorance, I scorn them utterly.

	"It seems to me they're like Jovinian,
	Fat as a whale, and walking like a swan,
	Wine-soaked like a bottle in the pantry, to excess.
	Their prayer—it's full of reverence, no less!
	When for the souls they say the psalm of David,
	Look—'Burp!' they go: 'Cor meum eructavit!'
	Who follows Christ's gospel, and the path he went before,
	But we who are humble, chaste and poor,
	Doers of God's word, not just hearers? Therefore,
	Just as a hawk, when it takes off to soar,
	Springs up into the air, just so the prayers
	Of charitable and chaste and busy friars
	Go soaring up to God's two ears. And oh,
	Thomas, Thomas! As surely as I ride or go,
	And by that lord whom people call Saint Ive,
	If you weren't our brother, you would never thrive!
	In our chapter we pray both day and night
	To Christ that he may send you health and might,
	So you'll soon have the use of your body, and heal."

	"God knows," he said, "it's nothing that I feel;
	So help me Christ, in a few years, on every kind
	Of friar I've spent many a pound, and find
	I'm none the better for it, not a bit;
	My wealth, for certain, is almost all spent on it.
	Goodbye, my gold, for it has had to go!"

	The friar replied, "Oh, Thomas, is that so?
	Why do you need to go to friars of every sort?
	Why should a man with a perfect doctor resort
	To looking for other doctors in the town?
	Your fickleness is what will bring you down.
	Do you think that I, or our friars as a whole,
	Aren't up to praying for you, and for your soul?
	Thomas, that game of yours is not worth a bean;
	You're ill because our share from you has been too lean.
	'Oh, give that convent half a quarter of oats!'
	'Oh, give that convent four and twenty groats!'
	'Oh, give that friar a penny, and let him go!'
	No, no, Thomas! It mustn't be done so.
	What is a farthing worth, if it's divided twelve ways?
	Look: everything that's one, and holds together, stays
	Stronger than when it's broken up and scattered.
	Thomas, from me you won't get flattered.
	You want our labour, all of it, unbought.
	High God, by whom this whole world was wrought,
	Says that the worker's worthy of his hire.
	Thomas! It isn't your treasure I desire
	For myself, but because our whole convent
	Is in its prayers for you so diligent,
	And works to build up Christ's own church. If you,
	Thomas, would like to learn what work to do,
	Whether building churches is good, you'll find it told
	In the life of Thomas of India, of old.
	You lie here, full of anger and of ire,
	With which the devil has set your heart on fire,
	And scold this poor, simple innocent,
	Your wife, who is so meek and patient.
	And so, Thomas, believe me, if you please:
	Don't quarrel with your wife; it's for your ease;
	And by your faith, take this word with you away;
	On this, look what the wise man has to say:
	'In your own house don't play the lion's part;
	Don't press your household down with a hard heart;
	Don't make the people that you know run off and flee.'
	And, Thomas, once again I charge you: be
	Wary of her who in your bosom sleeps;
	Beware the serpent that so slyly creeps
	Under the grass, and stings with subtlety.
	Beware, my son, and listen patiently:
	Twenty thousand men have lost their lives
	Through quarrelling with their mistresses and wives.
	Now, since you have so holy and meek a wife,
	What need is there, Thomas, to make strife?
	There is no serpent that is so cruel, no,
	When a man treads on its tail, nor half so fierce a foe,
	As woman is, when she's been roused to ire;
	Then vengeance is all that women desire.
	Anger's a sin, one of the great seven,
	Abominable to the God of heaven;
	And to the man himself it's ruin, as well.
	Every ignorant vicar or parson can spell
	Out for you how anger breeds homicide.
	Anger is, in truth, the executor of pride.
	I could tell so much about anger's sorrow,
	My tale would last until tomorrow.
	And so I pray to God both day and night:
	An angry man, God send him little might!
	It is a great harm, and a great shame, to see
	An angry man set up in high degree.

	"There was once an angry ruler, a potentate,
	As Seneca tells, who, while he was head of state,
	Two knights rode out together one fine day;
	And, as Fortune would have it, it went this way:
	One of them came back home, the other, no.
	At once the knight is brought before the judge, and so
	The judge said, 'You've killed your comrade; for that, I
	Pass sentence on you: you shall surely die.'
	And then he turned to another knight and said,
	'I charge you: take him off and see him dead.'
	And it so happened, as they went on their way
	Toward the place where he was to die, that they
	Saw the knight coming whom they'd thought was dead.
	And so they thought it best, and both were led
	Together back before the judge again.
	They said, 'My lord, this knight has never slain
	His comrade; here he stands, safe and sound, alive.'
	'You shall all die,' he said, 'as I hope to thrive!
	That is to say, all of you: one, and two, and three!'
	And to the first he said: 'You're condemned by me;
	Whatever happens now, you must be dead.
	And you, as well, you'll have to lose your head,
	For you're the reason why your comrade dies.'
	And to the third knight these were his words, likewise:
	'You didn't do what I commanded.' And so he
	Had all of them put to death, all three.

	"Angry Cambyses was a drunkard, too,
	And always revelled in the wrong he'd do.
	And so it happened that a lord of his company,
	Who loved a virtuous morality,
	Spoke to him one day, alone, and his advice was this:
	'A lord is lost, my lord, if he is vicious;
	And drunkenness is a foul mark on the record
	Of any man, and most of all of a lord.
	There's many an eye, and many an ear,
	Watching a lord, and he doesn't know from where.
	For the love of God, drink more temperately;
	Wine makes a man lose, and wretchedly,
	His mind, and every limb as well, each one.'

	"'You'll see the reverse,' he said, 'before we're done,
	And prove it by your own experience
	That wine can do a man no such offence.
	There is no wine that robs me of my might
	In hand or foot, or of my eyesight'—
	And out of spite, he drank a great deal more,
	A hundred times as much as he'd drunk before;
	And straight away this angry, cursed wretch
	Sent for the knight's son, had his people fetch
	The boy, and ordered him in front of him to stand.
	And suddenly he took his bow in hand,
	And drew the string back right up by his ear,
	And with an arrow killed the child right there.
	'Well, is my hand a steady one,' he said,
	'Or not? Have all my strength and wits now fled?
	Has wine deprived me of my eyesight?'

	"Why should I tell you the answer of the knight?
	His son was killed; there's nothing more to say.
	So be careful with lords, and how you play.
	Sing Placebo; and I'll sing it, if I can,
	Except when it's addressed to a poor man.
	A poor man's the one whose vices you should tell,
	But not a lord's, even if he goes to hell.

	"Look at angry Cyrus, that Persian, and see
	How he destroyed the river Gyndes utterly
	Because a horse of his had drowned in it, when on
	His march to conquer Babylon.
	He made the river so shallow and so small
	That women could wade across it, anywhere at all.
	Look what he said, who teaches as well as anyone can:
	'Be no companion to an angry man,
	Nor walk with a madman on the way,
	Or you'll regret it'; there is no more to say.

	"Now, Thomas, brother, let your anger be; I'm fair,
	You'll find, and just and true as a carpenter's square.
	Don't always hold the devil's knife against your heart;
	Your anger gives you far too sore a smart;
	But show me your whole confession now; I want to know."

	"By Saint Simon," said the sick man, "no!
	I made my confession to my curate here today;
	I've told him everything there is to say;
	There's no need to talk about it any more," said he,
	"Unless I want to, out of my humility."

	"Then give me some of your gold, to build our cloister,"
	He said, "for many a mussel and many an oyster,
	While other men have lived in comfort, at their ease,
	Have been our food, to raise our cloister by degrees.
	And yet, God knows, the foundations are hardly laid,
	And as for our floor, the pavement isn't made—
	There's not a single tile yet in our homes;
	By God, we owe forty pounds for stones!
	Now help, Thomas, for him who harrowed hell!
	Or else our books are what we'll have to sell.
	And were you to lack our preaching and instruction,
	The whole world would go straight to destruction.
	For whoever took us from the world—you can believe,
	So God save me, Thomas, by your leave—
	He'd take the sun out of the world—the sun!
	For who can teach and work the way we've done?
	And that's no recent thing," said he.
	"Since Elijah lived, or else Elisha, we
	Friars have lived in charity—I find it on record—
	And thanks be given for it to our Lord.
	Now, Thomas, help, for holy charity!"
	And down he went at once upon one knee.

	This sick man nearly went mad with ire;
	He wished the friar had been set on fire
	For his false, hypocritical profession.
	"Such things as I have here in my possession,"
	He said, "I can give, and nothing other.
	You tell me, then, that I'm your brother?"

	"Yes, certainly," said the friar, "trust me, it's real;
	I gave the lady our letter, with our seal."

	"Well, then," he said, "there's something I will give
	To your holy convent, while I live,
	And you shall have it in your hand right away,
	On this condition, and in no other way:
	That you share it out, my own dear brother,
	So every friar has as much as every other.
	You'll swear to this upon your vows, your profession,
	With no deceit, no quibbling, no evasion."

	"I swear it," said the friar, "upon my faith, I'll stand
	By it!" And he laid his own in the sick man's hand:
	"Look, here's my pledge! In me there'll be no lack."

	"Now then, put your hand down behind my back,"
	Said this man, "and grope around behind;
	Beneath my buttock there you'll find
	A thing that I have hidden there in secrecy."

	"Ah!" thought this friar, "this will come with me!"
	And down he sends his hand into the cleft,
	Hoping to find a gift there that he'd been left.
	And when this sick man felt this friar, near,
	Groping about his hole, there and here,
	Right into his hand he let the friar a fart.
	There is no carthorse, hauling at a cart,
	That could have let a fart with such a sound.

	The friar jumped up like a mad lion, with a bound:
	"Ah, false churl," he said, "by God's bones, that was meant!
	You did this out of spite, with clear intent!
	You'll pay for this fart, if I get my way!"

	His household, who had heard this whole affray,
	Came rushing in and drove away the friar;
	And off he stormed, and his face was full of ire,
	And fetched his partner, where they'd left their store.
	He looked as if he were a wild boar;
	He ground his teeth, he was so wild with wrath;
	With sturdy strides he took the manor's path,
	Where there was living a man of great honour,
	To whom the friar had always been confessor;
	This fine man was the lord of that village.
	The friar came in, as if he were in a rage,
	To where this lord sat eating at his board.
	The friar could hardly bring out a word,
	Till at last he said, "God look on you graciously!"

	This lord looked up and said, "Benedicite!
	What, Friar John, what kind of world is this?
	I can see well that something is amiss.
	You look as if the woods were full of thieves.
	Sit down at once, and tell me what it is that grieves
	You, and it shall be set right, if I may."

	"I have," he said, "been insulted badly today—
	God reward you!—down in your village, where
	No page boy in the world, however poor, could bear
	Without disgust the way I've been done down
	And treated, sir, by people in your town.
	And yet nothing grieves me so sorely, I swear,
	As that this old churl with his grey hair
	Has blasphemed our holy convent, too."

	"Now, master," said this lord, "I beg of you—"

	"Not 'master,' sir," he said, "a servant, nothing more,
	Though I have had that honour in the schools before.
	God doesn't like it when men call us 'Rabbi,' at all,
	Not in the market, nor in your great hall."

	"Never mind," he said, "but tell me all your grief."

	"Sir," said this friar, "an outrage beyond belief
	Has happened to my order and to me,
	And so, per consequens, to each degree
	Of holy church. May God set it right, and soon!"

	"Sir," said the lord, "you know what's to be done.
	Keep calm; you are my confessor, and you
	Are the salt of the earth, and its savour too.
	For God's love, keep your patience, and don't lose hold.
	Tell me your grief." And at once the friar told
	Him all of it, as you heard before—you know that.

	The lady of the house, quite silent, sat
	Till she had heard the friar's whole tirade:
	"Ah, Mother of God," she said, "blessed maid!
	Is there anything more? Tell me honestly."

	"Madam," he said, "what do you think of it? Tell me."

	"What do I think?" she said. "As God may help me in my need,
	I'd say a churl has done a churl's deed.
	What should I say? God grant him no prosperity!
	His sick head's full of nonsense and vanity;
	I'd say he's in a sort of frenzy; that's my reply."

	"Madam," he said, "by God, I will not lie:
	Unless I can find other ways to wreak
	My vengeance, I'll slander him wherever I speak,
	This false blasphemer, who made me undertake
	To share what can't be shared, for each to take
	An equal share—and may he come to mischance!"

	The lord sat still, as if he were in a trance,
	And in his heart he turned it round, in rumination:
	"How did this churl have the imagination
	To put the friar such a problem? I never heard
	Of such a matter before today—not one word;
	I think the devil put it in his mind.
	In arithmetic no one will ever find,
	Before today, any such proposition.
	Who could produce a formal demonstration
	That every man should have an equal part
	Of the sound or the smell of a fart?
	Oh, foolish, proud churl—curse his face!
	Look, sirs," said the lord, with no good grace,
	"Who ever heard of such a thing before now?
	To every man alike? Tell me how.
	It is impossible; it cannot be!
	Ah, foolish churl! God grant him no prosperity!
	The rumbling of a fart, and every sound,
	Is nothing but the air reverberating round,
	And little by little it always dies away.
	By my faith, no man alive could judge or weigh
	Whether it had been shared out equally.
	Why, look, my churl—look how cunningly
	He talked to my confessor today, and answered back!
	I'm certain he's possessed—a demoniac!
	Now eat your meal, and let the churl go play;
	Let him go hang himself—the devil's way!"

	Now at the table stood the lord's squire, who'd heard,
	As he carved his lord's food, every word
	Of all the things that I've already said.
	"My lord," he said, "don't let this trouble your head;
	I could tell you, for the cloth to make a gown,
	And you, sir friar, so long as you don't frown,
	How this fart could be divided equally
	Among your convent, if it pleased me."

	"Tell us," said the lord, "and right away you'll have one:
	A gown-cloth, by God and by Saint John!"

	"My lord," he said, "when the weather's fair,
	Without wind, or any stirring of the air,
	Have them bring a cartwheel here into this hall,
	But make sure it's not missing any spokes at all.
	Twelve spokes, as a rule, is what a cartwheel has; and so
	Bring me twelve friars then. And why? Do you know?
	For thirteen make a convent, as I guess.
	Your confessor here, for his worthiness,
	Will make up the full number of his convent;
	Then they will kneel down, all with one assent,
	And at each spoke's end, in this manner, there
	A friar shall lay his nose, with solemn care.
	Your noble confessor, whom God may save,
	Shall hold his nose upright beneath the hub, the nave.
	Then have this churl, with belly stiff and taut
	As any drum, fetched here; and once he's brought,
	Then set him on the wheel of this same cart,
	Right on the hub, and make him let a fart.
	And you will see—I swear it, as I live—
	By proof that is demonstrative,
	That equally the sound of it will extend,
	And the stink too, out to each spoke's end,
	Except that this fine man, your confessor,
	Because he is a man of great honour,
	Shall have the first fruits, as the right thing is;
	The noble custom of friars still is this:
	Their fine men are the first ones to be served;
	And certainly, it's something he's deserved.
	He has today taught us so much good
	With preaching in the pulpit where he stood,
	That I'd say, speaking for myself, he ought to be
	Given the first smell of farts—of three!
	And so would all his convent, certainly;
	He bears himself so well, so holily."

	The lord, the lady, and everyone but the friar there
	Said Jankin had spoken, in this whole affair,
	As well as Euclid could, or Ptolemy.
	As for this churl, they said, it was subtlety
	And a high wit, that made him speak with such a knack;
	He was no fool, and no demoniac.
	And Jankin has won himself a brand-new gown.—
	My tale is done; we're nearly into town.

The Clerk's Prologue

	"Sir scholar of Oxford," our Host said, "you ride
	As shy and quiet as a maiden bride
	Just married, sitting at the table. Not one word
	Has come from your tongue today that I have heard.
	I guess you're puzzling out some sophist's reason;
	But Solomon says that everything has its season.

	"For God's sake, cheer up, put on a better face!
	This is no time for studying, and no place.
	Tell us a merry tale, by your faith, today;
	For any man who's entered in a play
	Is bound to go along with it, and consent.
	But don't you preach, the way friars do in Lent,
	To make us weep for our old sins; and keep
	Your tale from putting all of us to sleep.

	"Tell us some merry thing, adventures, fun;
	Your terms of art, your colours, figures, every one,
	Keep them in store till you compose such things
	In the high style as men address to kings.
	Speak plainly for the moment, if you would,
	So that what you say can be understood."

	This fine scholar answered with good grace.
	"Host," he said, "I'm under your rod; I know my place.
	You are the one who governs us for now,
	And therefore I'll obey you, and I'll bow,
	As far as reason asks, and certainly.
	I'll tell you a tale, one that was taught to me
	At Padua, by a scholar whose true worth
	Was proved by what he said and did on earth.
	He's dead now, nailed inside his coffin chest;
	I pray to God to give his soul good rest!

	"Francis Petrarch, the laureate, was his name,
	This scholar's, whose sweet rhetoric's bright flame
	Lit up the whole of Italy with poetry,
	As Lignano did with his philosophy,
	Or law, or other arts, each in its sphere;
	But death, which won't allow us to stay here
	For longer than the twinkling of an eye,
	Has killed them both, and all of us shall die.

	"But, to go on about this fine man, who
	Taught me this tale, as I began to do,
	I'll tell you first, before his tale's begun,
	He writes, in the high style, a proem, one
	In which he sets out Piedmont, and goes on to tell
	Of Saluzzo and its countryside as well,
	And speaks of the Apennines, high hills that stand
	As the boundaries of West Lombardy's land,
	And of Monte Viso specially, of all,
	Where the Po, out of a spring that's very small,
	Takes its beginning and its very source,
	And always grows, flowing eastward on its course
	Toward Emilia, Ferrara, Venice, which would be
	A long thing to describe in its entirety.
	And honestly, so far as I can see,
	It's quite beside the point, it seems to me,
	Except it serves to introduce his matter here:
	But this is his tale, which you are going to hear."

The Clerk's Tale

	On Italy's west side, where the land lies
	Down at the foot of Monte Viso, high and cold,
	There is a pleasant plain, abounding in supplies,
	Where there are many towers and towns to behold
	That our forefathers founded in days of old,
	And many another sight that's fair to see;
	And Saluzzo is the name of this noble country.

	A marquis was once lord there of that land,
	As his distinguished forebears were, long ago;
	And all his subjects, ready to his hand,
	Obeyed him, every one, both high and low.
	Thus he lives in delight, and has long done so,
	Beloved and feared, by Fortune's grace, by all,
	His lords and common people, great and small.

	Besides, he was, to speak of lineage,
	The noblest born of all of Lombardy,
	A handsome person, strong, and young in age,
	And full of honour and of courtesy;
	Discreet enough to rule his land, but he
	Was in some things, it must be said, to blame;
	And Walter was this young lord's name.

	I blame him in this: he never gave a thought
	To what the future held, what it might provide,
	But present pleasure was the thing he sought,
	Like hawking, hunting, out on every side;
	He let nearly all his other duties slide,
	And also—and this was the worst of all—
	He wouldn't take a wife, whatever might befall.

	That point alone his people took so sore
	That in a crowd, one day, to him they went,
	And one of them, the wisest one in lore,
	Or else the one the lord would be most content
	To hear explain to him what his people meant,
	Or else who best could make such matters clear,
	Spoke to the marquis as you're going to hear.

	"O noble marquis, your humanity
	Assures us, and it makes us bold to say,
	As often as there is necessity,
	The things that weigh on us; and so, today,
	Accept, lord, of your nobility, we pray,
	That we, with sorrowing hearts, come to complain,
	And let your ears not treat my voice with disdain.

	"Although in this I have no more to say
	Than any other man here in this place,
	Yet since you, my dear lord, have to this day
	Always shown me your favour and your grace,
	I dare the more to ask you for a space
	Of audience, to set out our request,
	And you, my lord, to do as you think best.

	"For certainly, my lord, we like you so,
	And all you do, and always have, that we
	Could not ourselves devise, or come to know,
	How we could live more happy, more carefree,
	Except for one thing, lord, if you agree:
	That you'd be pleased to marry; then, possessed
	Of perfect peace, your people's hearts would rest.

	"Bow down your neck beneath that blissful yoke
	Where sovereignty, and not service, lies,
	The thing that people call marriage, or wedlock;
	And think, lord, in those thoughts of yours, so wise,
	How our days pass in various ways; time flies;
	For whether we sleep or wake, or roam, or ride,
	It never stays; it waits at no one's side.

	"And though your green youth is flowering still,
	In creeps old age, as quiet as a stone,
	And death threatens every age, and strikes at will
	At every rank, and leaves not one alone;
	And just as certainly as each of us has known
	That we must die, just so are we, one and all,
	Uncertain of the day when death will fall.

	"So then accept from us our true intent,
	We who have never yet refused your behest,
	And we will, lord, if you will give consent,
	Choose you a wife, and quickly; we suggest
	One born of the noblest blood and of the best
	Of all this land, so that it ought to seem
	An honour to God and you, in our esteem.

	"Deliver us from all this anxious dread,
	And take a wife, for God almighty's sake;
	For if it happened, God forbid, that with you dead
	Your line should end, and your descent should break,
	And some strange successor were to take
	Your heritage—oh, woe to us, for all our life!
	And so we beg you: quickly, take a wife."

	Their humble prayer, and the pity in each face,
	Moved the marquis's heart to sympathy.
	"My own dear people," he said, "you'd have me embrace
	A yoke I never thought to put on me.
	I've always taken joy in liberty,
	Which is seldom found when men are wed;
	Where I was free, I'll be a servant instead.

	"But all the same, I see your true intent,
	And trust your wits, as I have always, to this day;
	And so, of my own free will, I'll consent
	To marry, just as soon as ever I may.
	But as for what you offered me today,
	Choosing my wife: from that I give you release,
	And ask you, please, to let that offer cease.

	"For God knows children often turn out to be
	Unlike the fine forebears who came before;
	Goodness comes all from God, not from the family tree
	From which their fathers got them, and their mothers bore;
	I trust in God's own goodness, and therefore
	My marriage, my estate, and my rest
	I give to him; let him do as he thinks best.

	"Leave me alone in choosing my wife;
	That burden's on my back, and I'll hold it fast;
	But I beg you, and charge you on your life,
	That whatever wife I take, you'll swear, steadfast,
	To honour her as long as her life may last,
	In word and deed, in every place she'll tread,
	As though she were an emperor's daughter, born and bred.

	"And furthermore, you'll swear this oath to me:
	That you'll not grumble at my choice, or make strife;
	For since I must give up my liberty
	At your request—I swear it on my life—
	Where my heart is set, there I will take a wife;
	And if you won't consent to it this way,
	I beg you, then, have nothing more to say."

	With willing hearts they swore, and gave consent
	To all of this; no one stood in the way;
	And begged him, as a favour, before they went,
	That he would grant to them a certain day
	For his wedding, as soon as ever he may;
	For all the time the people had some dread
	That, after all, the marquis would never wed.

	He granted them a day, as he thought best,
	On which he would be married, certainly,
	And said he did all this at their request;
	And they, with humble hearts, obediently,
	Kneeling upon their knees most reverently,
	All thanked him; and so they'd had their way
	In what they'd wanted, and went home that day.

	And then he tells the officers he hires
	To see to the provisions for the day,
	And to his household knights and to his squires
	He gave whatever charge he chose to lay
	On them; and they, as he commands, obey,
	And each of them, with all his diligence,
	Does all he can to give the feast due reverence.

Part Two

	Not far from that palace, honoured and grand,
	Where the marquis was arranging to be wed,
	There stood a hamlet, on a pleasant stretch of land,
	Where the poor people of the village fed
	Their beasts, and had their dwellings and their bed,
	And from their labour took their sustenance,
	As far as the earth would give them in abundance.

	Among these poor folk there lived a man
	Who was considered the poorest of them all;
	But God on high, sometimes, is one who can
	Send down his grace into a little ox's stall;
	Janicula was his name in the hamlet, known to all.
	He had a daughter, fair of face and frame,
	And Griselda was this young maiden's name.

	But, speaking of virtue's beauty, she
	Was one of the fairest under the sun;
	For she had been brought up in poverty,
	And lust for pleasure through her heart had never run;
	Far more often from the well than from the wine tun
	She drank; and since it was virtue she would please,
	She knew hard work, but never idle ease.

	But though this girl was tender in her age,
	Yet in the breast of her virginity
	There was enclosed a spirit steadfast, ripe, and sage;
	And with great reverence and charity
	She cared for her old father in his poverty;
	In the field she spun and watched a few sheep, and kept
	Herself from idleness until she slept.

	And when she came home she would often bring
	Cabbages or other herbs, which she would shred
	And boil, and that was how she made her living,
	And slept, with nothing soft, on a hard bed;
	And always kept her father going, kept him fed,
	With every obedience and diligence
	That a child can show a father in reverence.

	On Griselda, this poor creature, frequently
	The marquis set his eye, when riding by
	To hunt, as now and then it chanced to be;
	And when it happened he could see her nearby,
	He did not cast on her a foolish, wanton eye,
	But looked upon her in a sober way,
	And often would consider her bearing, and weigh,

	Commending in his heart her womanhood,
	And her virtue, too, which outdid, in his sight,
	Anyone so young, in bearing and in doing good.
	For though the common people lack insight
	In virtue, he considered, and judged right,
	Her goodness, and resolved, if ever in his life
	He married, she alone would be his wife.

	The wedding day arrived; but no one can
	Tell who the woman is that it should be;
	And at this marvel wondered many a man,
	And said, when they were talking privately,
	"Won't our lord leave off his vanity?
	Won't he marry? Alas, alas! What can we do?
	Why will he fool himself like this, and fool us too?"

	But all the same, this marquis had them make,
	Of gems set in gold and azure, rich and bright,
	Brooches and rings, all for Griselda's sake,
	And had her clothes measured to fit her right
	On a girl who was the same in build and height,
	And all the other ornaments that, as was fit,
	Belong to such a wedding, every bit.

	The hour of undern, mid-morning of that day,
	Approaches, when this wedding was to be;
	And the whole palace was put in fine array,
	Both hall and chambers, each in its degree;
	The kitchens and the storerooms stuffed with plenty;
	There you could see the daintiest supplies
	That could be found, as far as Italy lies.

	This royal marquis, richly dressed and fine,
	The lords and ladies in his company,
	Who'd been invited to the feast to dine,
	And the young knights who formed his chivalry,
	With many a sound of varied melody,
	Toward the village I have told you of made their way
	Along the proper road, in this array.

	Griselda, who, God knows, was innocent
	Of this, that it was for her, all this array,
	Has gone to fetch some water at the well, intent
	On coming home as soon as ever she may.
	For she had heard it said that, on that day,
	The marquis would be married; and, if she might,
	She'd gladly have seen something of that sight.

	She thought, "I'll stand with other girls I know,
	My friends, here in our doorway, and I'll see
	The marchioness; and therefore I will go
	And try to do at home, as quickly as can be,
	Whatever work it is that falls to me;
	And then at leisure I can see her, when she's near,
	If she should take the castle road from here."

	And as she was about to step inside her door,
	The marquis came, and she could hear him call;
	And straight away she set her water pot on the floor
	Beside the threshold, in an ox's stall,
	And down upon her knees began to fall,
	And with a sober face she kneels there, still,
	Until she'd heard what was the lord's will.

	This thoughtful marquis spoke to her; each word
	Was grave, and this is what he had to say:
	"Where is your father, Griselda?" When she heard,
	She, reverently, in a humble way,
	Answered, "My lord, he's here, not far away."
	And in she goes, and doesn't hesitate,
	And brings her father to the marquis straight.

	Then by the hand he took this poor old man,
	And said this, when he'd drawn him to one side:
	"Janicula, I neither will nor can
	Any longer keep my heart's desire inside.
	If you'll allow it, whatever may betide,
	I'll take your daughter, before I go, and intend
	To keep her as my wife until her life's end.

	I know quite well you love me; that is plain,
	And you were born my faithful liegeman; what's more,
	And all that pleases me, I'd dare maintain,
	Pleases you too; and therefore, all the more,
	Tell me about the point I raised before:
	Whether you're willing to agree to it, and draw
	Toward that purpose—take me as your son-in-law?"

	This sudden turn astonished the man so
	That he went red, abashed, and, trembling, stood;
	He scarcely said a word more, saying no
	More than this: "Lord, my will is as you would;
	Against your liking I want nothing, nor ever could;
	You are my lord, so dear; then as you please,
	Govern this matter—do it at your ease."

	"But still," the marquis said, in a voice soft and low,
	"I want us—in your room, you and I and she—
	To have a talk; and why, do you know?
	Because I'll ask her if her will would be
	To be my wife, and rule herself by me;
	And all of this will be done with you near;
	I won't say a word that you can't hear."

	And in the room, while they were working out
	Their contract, which you're later going to hear,
	The people came and gathered round about
	The house outside, and marvelled how sincere
	And how attentive she had been to her father dear.
	But Griselda was utterly bewildered, as well she might,
	For she had never seen before so great a sight.

	It is no wonder that she was amazed
	To see so great a guest come to that place;
	She was not used to guests like these; and, dazed,
	She looked at them with a very pallid face.
	But, to get on with the story at a quicker pace,
	These are the words of the marquis, as he made
	His speech to this kind, true and faithful maid.

	"Griselda," he said, "you'll clearly understand
	It pleases both your father and me
	That I should marry you; and, as things stand,
	I'd think that you'll be willing it should be.
	These are the things I'll ask you first," said he,
	Since this must all be done in haste, I ask: do you
	Consent to it, or want to think it through?

	"I'm saying this: are you prepared, with good heart,
	For all my wishes, and that I freely may,
	As I think best, make you laugh, or make you smart,
	And you will never grumble at it, night or day?
	And when I say 'yes,' you'll never answer 'nay,'
	Neither by word nor frowning countenance?
	Swear this, and I will swear to our alliance."

	Wondering at these words, and quaking with fear,
	She said, "My lord, unworthy and unfit I'd be
	For such an honour as you're offering here;
	But as you will it, so it is with me.
	And here I swear that never, willingly,
	In deed or thought, will I ever defy
	Your will—not if it killed me, though I'd hate to die."

	"That is enough, my Griselda!" said he.
	And out he goes, his face grave and austere,
	Out of the door, and after him came she,
	And to the people he said, so all could hear,
	"This is my wife," he said, "who's standing here.
	Honour her, and love her, I ask you, all who do
	Love me; that's all I have to say to you."

	And so that nothing she had used to wear
	Should come into his house with her, he had
	The women undress her then and there;
	At which these ladies were not very glad
	To handle the clothes in which she had been clad.
	But all the same, they dressed her, fair of hue,
	From foot to head, in clothing that was new.

	They combed her hair, which had hung loose and down
	All roughly, and with their fingers, slim and small,
	And on her head they placed and fixed a crown,
	And decked her out with brooches, great and small;
	Why should I tell you of her array at all?
	The people hardly knew her, she was so fair,
	Transformed as she was, with such riches to wear.

	This marquis married her, then, with a ring
	Brought for that purpose; then, without delay,
	Upon a horse, snow-white and smoothly ambling,
	He set her; and to his palace, that same day,
	With joyful crowds that led her, met her on her way,
	Conveyed her; and in revels so they spend
	The day, until the sun began to descend.

	And, to get on with the story at a quicker pace,
	I'll say that to this new marchioness
	God had sent such favour, of his grace,
	That it would never seem, by any guess,
	That she'd been raised in rustic lowliness,
	As in a hut, or in an ox's stall,
	But brought up in an emperor's hall.

	To everyone she had become so dear
	And honoured, that the folk who'd watched her grow
	Where she was born, and known her year by year,
	Could scarcely credit it, but would have sworn, though,
	That to Janicula, of whom I spoke a while ago,
	She was no daughter; for, by their conjecture,
	She seemed to them to be another creature.

	For though she'd always been virtuous, she
	Was so increased in such excellence
	Of character, set in such high nobility,
	And so discreet, so fair in eloquence,
	So kind, so worthy of reverence,
	And could so take the people's hearts in her embrace,
	That everyone loved her who looked upon her face.

	Not only in Saluzzo, in the town,
	Did people spread the goodness of her name,
	But also far beyond, in many a region, up and down,
	If one spoke well of her, another said the same;
	Her high goodness had spread so wide in fame
	That men and women, young and old, would make their way
	To Saluzzo, to gaze at her, day after day.

	So Walter, wedded humbly—no, royally—
	With fortunate respectability,
	Lives in God's peace at home, and quite easily,
	And out in the world his grace was plain to see;
	And since he saw that, under low degree,
	Virtue is often hidden, people thought him wise,
	A prudent man—which seldom meets the eyes.

	Not only did Griselda, by her wit,
	Know all the household arts a wife should possess,
	But also, when the situation needed it,
	She could promote the common good, no less.
	There was no discord, rancour, or distress
	In all that land that she could not appease,
	And wisely bring them all to rest and ease.

	Even if her husband happened to be away,
	If noblemen, or others of her country,
	Were angry, she would make them friends, and allay
	Their wrath; her words were so wise and seasoned, she
	Had judgements of such great equity,
	That people thought she'd been sent from heaven's height
	To save the people, and set each wrong to right.

	Not long after Griselda had been wed,
	There came a daughter, the first child that she bore,
	Although she'd rather have had a boy instead.
	The marquis and the people were glad therefore;
	For though a girl had come along before,
	She might, in all likelihood, have a boy as well,
	Since she was not barren, as anyone could tell.

Part Three

	It happened, as such things will often be,
	When this child had nursed a little while, or so,
	That the marquis longed in his heart so eagerly
	To test his wife, to see her steadfastness show,
	That he could not throw it from his heart, or let it go,
	This strange desire to test his wife, to bring
	Her fear—God knows, a quite unnecessary thing.

	He had already tested her enough before,
	And always found her good; what need for it
	To tempt her more, and always more and more?
	Though some men praise it as a clever piece of wit,
	As for me, I say that it's not fit
	To test a wife when there's no need, and lead
	Her into anguish and into dread.

	And so the marquis went to work with care:
	He came alone at night to where she lay,
	With a stern face, and a most troubled air,
	And spoke like this: "Griselda, on that day
	When I took you out of your poor array,
	And raised you to a rank of high nobleness,
	You haven't forgotten that, I'd guess.

	"I'm saying, Griselda, this present dignity
	In which I've placed you, as I trust is so,
	Won't make you so forgetful you won't see
	That I took you in a poor estate, quite low,
	Whatever wealth you now have; this you must know.
	Pay heed to every word I say to you;
	There's no one who can hear it but us two.

	"You know quite well yourself how you came here
	Into this house—it isn't long ago—
	And though to me you're cherished and you're dear,
	To my nobles you are not at all so;
	They say it's a great shame to them, and woe,
	To be your subjects, and be held in vassalage
	To you, who were born in a small village.

	"And since your daughter was born, all the more,
	They've spoken words like these, there is no doubt;
	But I desire, as I have done before,
	To live with them in rest and peace throughout;
	I can't be careless here, or leave this out.
	I must do with your daughter what is best,
	Not as I would, but at my people's behest.

	"And yet, God knows, this is most hateful to me;
	But all the same, without your being aware,
	I will not act; but this I want," said he,
	"That you consent to me in this affair.
	Now show your patience; let your conduct bear
	Out what you promised me and swore in your village
	That day when we were joined in our marriage."

	When she had heard all this, she did not stir
	In word, or look, or face, in any way;
	For, as it seemed, it did not trouble her.
	She said, "My lord, everything lies in your sway;
	My child and I, with hearts that will obey,
	Are wholly yours; and you may save or kill
	What is your own; act according to your will.

	"So help me God, as I hope my soul to save,
	Nothing can please you that can displease me;
	Nor is there anything I wish or crave,
	Or fear to lose, except you, utterly;
	This will is in my heart, and always shall be.
	Nothing—no length of time, not death—can erase
	This, or move my heart to another place."

	The marquis was delighted by her reply,
	But still he made a show of not being so;
	His face was gloomy, and so was his eye,
	When he was about to leave the room and go.
	Soon after, in a furlong's walk or so,
	He secretly confided his intent
	To a man, whom to his wife he then sent.

	A sort of sergeant was this confidential man,
	Whom he had often found faithful in his stead
	In great affairs; and such men also can
	Carry out evil orders, once the word is said.
	The lord knew well the man loved him, and held him in dread;
	And when this sergeant knew what was his lord's will,
	Into the chamber he stalked, very still.

	"Madam," he said, "you'll have to pardon me,
	Though I do a thing to which I am constrained;
	You are so wise that you will clearly see
	That lords' commands cannot be shirked or feigned;
	Men may lament them, and may well have complained,
	But men are bound to do their pleasure, and obey,
	And so will I; there's nothing more to say.

	"This child is what I have been ordered to take—"
	And said no more, but, roughly, with ill intent,
	Snatched up the child, and he began to make
	A face, as if he'd kill it before he went.
	Griselda must suffer it all, and consent;
	And like a lamb she sits there, meek and still,
	And let this cruel sergeant do his will.

	Suspicious was the ill fame of this man,
	Suspect his face, suspect his word also;
	Suspect the time at which all this began.
	Alas! Her daughter, whom she loved so,
	She thought he'd kill at once, before he'd go.
	But all the same, she neither wept nor sighed,
	But, as the marquis wished it, she complied.

	But in the end she spoke, and she began
	And meekly to the sergeant this request she made:
	As he was a worthy man, a gentleman,
	That she might kiss her child before its life should fade;
	And on her lap the little child was laid
	With a most steadfast face; she gave it a kiss,
	And lulled it, and then blessed it after this.

	And this is what she said, in her kind tone:
	"Goodbye, my child, whom I shall never see;
	But since I've marked you with the cross, my own,
	May you be blessed by that same Father, he
	Who died for us upon the wooden tree.
	Your soul, my little child, I give him to take,
	For you must die tonight, and for my sake."

	I think that for a nurse, in such a pass,
	It would have been a hard and pitiful thing to see;
	A mother well might then have cried, "Alas!"
	But all the same, so firm and steadfast was she
	That she endured all adversity,
	And to the sergeant said, meek and mild,
	"Here, take her back again, your little child.

	"Go now," she said, "and carry out my lord's behest;
	But one thing I will ask you, of your grace:
	That, if my lord did not forbid it, at the least
	Bury this little body in some place
	Where birds and beasts can't tear it, and leave no trace."
	But on that point he had nothing at all to say,
	But took the child, and went upon his way.

	The sergeant came back to his lord again,
	And how Griselda spoke, and how she looked, he made clear,
	Telling him point by point, both short and plain,
	And brought him his daughter, whom he held so dear.
	This lord, in his own fashion, felt a little pity here;
	But all the same, he kept his purpose still,
	As lords do when they mean to have their will;

	And told his sergeant that he should secretly
	Wrap up this child in swaddling, from foot to head,
	Most softly, with every care, and tenderly,
	And carry it in a chest, or in his cloak, he said,
	But, on pain of having them strike off his head,
	That no one was to know of his intent,
	Or where he came from, or where he went;

	But he should take it to Bologna, where
	His dear sister was then Panico's countess,
	And show her everything about this affair,
	Begging her to bend her every effort, and address
	Herself to fostering this child in all nobleness;
	And she was to hide whose child it was, and stay
	Silent to everyone, come what may.

	The sergeant goes, and carries out this thing;
	But let us now go back to the marquis; he
	Now goes about, intently wondering
	If, by his wife's demeanour, he could see,
	Or by her words perceive, that she
	Had changed; but he could never find
	Her other than the same, steadfast and kind.

	She was as glad, as humble, as quick to serve,
	And just as loving as she used to be,
	To him in every way, and did not swerve;
	And of her daughter not one word said she.
	No change, for all her great adversity,
	Was seen in her; she never spoke her daughter's name,
	Not once, either in earnest or in game.

Part Four

	In this estate four years in all went past
	Before she was with child; but, as God willed, she
	Gave Walter a son, a baby boy, at last,
	Most gracious, and as fair as fair could be.
	And when they told his father, then not only he
	But all his country too was merry for this boy,
	And thanked and praised God for him, with joy.

	When it was two years old, and from the breast
	Of its nurse had been weaned, then one day
	The marquis was again possessed
	By a wish to test his wife yet more, if he may.
	Oh, she was tested needlessly, in this way!
	But married men know nothing of restraint
	When they find a patient creature, without complaint.

	"Wife," said this marquis, "you've heard before this,
	My people bear our marriage very ill,
	And most of all since my son was born, it is
	Worse than at any time we've lived, and still
	The murmuring slays my spirit, breaks my will;
	For to my ears the voice comes with such smart
	That it has very nearly broken my heart.

	"Now this is what they say: 'When Walter's day is done,
	The blood of Janicula will then succeed
	And be our lord, since there's no other one.'
	My people speak like this, no doubt; and I need
	To pay attention to such murmurs, and take heed;
	For certainly I dread a verdict of this case,
	Though they don't say it plainly to my face.

	"I'd like to live in peace, if I might;
	So I've decided, absolutely,
	That just as I dealt with his sister by night,
	So I intend to deal with him secretly;
	I warn you of this, so that you won't suddenly
	Lose your composure for any grief, or give way;
	Be patient; this I beg of you, and pray."

	"I've said this," she said, "and always shall:
	I'll want nothing, and refuse nothing, it's plain,
	But what you please; nothing grieves me at all,
	Though both my daughter and my son are slain
	At your command, I mean; I'll say it again.
	From my two children all I've had to gain
	Was sickness first, and afterwards grief and pain.

	"You are our lord; do with your own thing
	Just as you please; ask no advice of me.
	For just as I left at home all my clothing
	When I first came to you, just so," said she,
	"I left my will, and all my liberty,
	And took your clothes; and therefore, I pray,
	Do as you please; whatever you want, I'll obey.

	"And certainly, if I'd known in advance,
	Before you told me what your wish would be,
	I'd do it, leaving nothing to chance;
	But now I know your pleasure, what you want of me,
	All that you please, I hold to firm and steadfastly;
	For if I knew my death would give you ease,
	I'd die most gladly, if that's what would please.

	"Death bears no comparison to your love." And when
	The marquis saw how constant his wife could be,
	He cast his two eyes downward, and then
	Wondered that she could suffer patiently
	All he'd arranged for her to bear; and he
	Goes out, his face all gloomy to the sight,
	But in his heart it gave him great delight.

	This ugly sergeant, in the very guise
	In which he'd seized her daughter, so did he,
	Or worse, if men can any worse devise,
	Seize her son, who was so full of beauty.
	And she remained as patient as could be,
	And showed no sign of sorrow or distress,
	But kissed her son, and blessed him, nonetheless;

	Except this: she begged him, if he might,
	To lay her little son in earth, and save
	His tender limbs, so delicate to the sight,
	From birds and beasts, by putting them in a grave.
	But no reply at all was what he gave.
	He went his way, as if he gave no thought;
	But tenderly, to Bologna, the boy was brought.

	The marquis wondered at her more and more,
	At her patience; and if he
	Had not been certain, some time before
	That she loved her children perfectly,
	He would have thought that from some subtlety,
	Of malice, or a cruel heart, in this case,
	She'd suffered all of this with steadfast face.

	But he knew well that, next to him, it's plain,
	She loved her children best, in every guise.
	But now I'd like to ask the women to explain:
	Would not these tests, by themselves, suffice?
	What more could a hard husband devise
	To prove her wifehood and her constancy,
	While he went on as stubborn as could be?

	But there are people of such a cast of mind
	Who, when they've chosen a certain course to take,
	They cannot stop, or leave their aim behind,
	But, just as if they had been bound to a stake,
	Will never let that first intention slacken or break.
	Just so this marquis had wholly set his intent
	To test his wife, as he was at first bent.

	He waited, watching for, in word or face,
	Some change of heart toward him she might show;
	But he could never find a change, a trace;
	In heart and face she was the same; and so,
	The further on in age that she would go,
	The truer, if it could be, she would prove,
	And still more diligent toward him in her love.

	So it seemed, between the two,
	There was one will; for what was Walter's request,
	The same thing was her pleasure too;
	And, God be thanked, all turned out for the best.
	She showed well that, for no worldly unrest,
	A wife, of her own accord, for any reason, should
	Want nothing, in effect, but what her husband would.

	The scandal about Walter often and widely spread,
	That, from a cruel heart, he wickedly,
	Because he'd taken a poor woman to wed,
	Had murdered both his children secretly.
	Such talk among them went round commonly.
	No wonder, for the people never heard
	That they'd been anything but murdered—not one word.

	And so, where his people had before
	Loved him well, the scandal of his ill fame
	Now made them hate him, as they never had before;
	To be a murderer is a hateful name.
	But all the same, in earnest or in game,
	He would not give up his cruel purpose, or relent;
	To tempt his wife was all of his intent.

	When his daughter was twelve, the marquis sent
	His messengers to Rome's court, in a cunning guise,
	Briefed on his wishes and on his intent,
	Commanding them that they should there devise
	Such bulls as for his cruel purpose would suffice,
	Saying the pope, so that his people might rest,
	Had told him to marry another, if he thought best.

	I mean, he ordered them to forge and fake
	The pope's bulls, in which they were to mention
	That he had leave to separate, and forsake
	His first wife, by the pope's dispensation,
	To end the rancour and dissension
	Between his people and him; so said the bull,
	And this they published, word for word, in full.

	The simple people, as is no surprise,
	Believed quite firmly that it was so;
	But when this news came to Griselda, I surmise
	That her heart was very full of woe.
	But she, as steadfast as she'd always been, even so,
	Was ready, humble creature, as before,
	To bear what Fortune's adversity had in store.

	Waiting always on his will and on his pleasure,
	To whom she had been given, heart and all,
	As to her one true worldly good and treasure;
	But, if I'm to tell this story short, I shall
	Say that the marquis wrote, especially and above all,
	A letter in which he set out his intent,
	And secretly to Bologna it was sent.

	To the Count of Panico, who by then was wed
	To his sister, he made a special plea
	To bring his two children home again, to be led
	In honourable estate, quite openly.
	But one thing he begged of him, most earnestly:
	That, though men asked, he should not aver
	To anyone whose children these two were,

	But say the girl was going to be
	Married to Saluzzo's marquis right away.
	And as the count was asked, so did he;
	For on the day appointed he set out on his way
	Toward Saluzzo, with many lords in rich display,
	To be this maiden's escort and her guide,
	Her young brother riding by her side.

	This fresh young girl was dressed, lovely to behold,
	For her marriage, set with jewels bright and clear;
	Her brother, who was seven years old,
	Was dressed up, too, in fresh new gear;
	And so, in great nobility, and with good cheer,
	Shaping their journey toward Saluzzo, they
	Rode on along their way from day to day.

Part Five

	Amid all this, after his wicked usage,
	This marquis, still to test his wife some more,
	To the very utmost proof of her courage,
	To learn by full experience, and by lore,
	If she was still as steadfast as before,
	One day, in open court, where all could hear,
	Said this to her, harshly and loud and clear:

	"Griselda, certainly, I was content and glad
	To have you as my wife for your goodness,
	For your good faith, and the obedience you had,
	Not for your birth, nor for what you possess;
	But now I know, in all truthfulness,
	That in great lordship, if I'm to be wise,
	There's great servitude, in more than one guise.

	"I can't do what any ploughman may;
	My people are compelling me to take
	Another wife, and clamour day by day;
	And the pope too, to calm their rancour, for their sake,
	Consents to it—that much I'll undertake;
	And honestly, this much I'll have to say:
	My new wife is already on her way.

	"Be strong of heart, and quickly clear her place;
	And as for the dowry that you brought to me,
	Take it back; I grant it of my grace;
	Go back to your father's house," said he;
	"No man can have prosperity eternally;
	I advise you to bear, with a steady mind,
	The blows of Fortune and chance of every kind."

	And she replied with patience, in this vein:
	"My lord," she said, "I know, and always knew,
	That between your magnificence and my plain
	Poverty there's no comparison, in anyone's view;
	No one can deny it; it is true.
	I never thought myself worthy, in any grade,
	To be your wife—no, nor your chambermaid.

	"And in this house, where it was you who made
	Me lady (I take high God to be my witness,
	And may he gladden my soul, as I have prayed)—
	I never thought myself a lady or a mistress,
	But a humble servant to your worthiness,
	And always shall, while life is mine to endure,
	Above every worldly creature.

	"That you, so long, out of your benignity,
	Have kept me honoured and in noble array,
	Where I was not worthy to be,
	For that I thank God and you, and I pray
	He will reward you; there's no more to say.
	To my father I will gladly go, and spend
	My days with him, until my life's end.

	"There, where I was brought up when I was small,
	Until I die, my life there shall be led
	As a widow, chaste in body, heart, and all.
	For since I gave you my maidenhead,
	And am, beyond all doubt, your true wife, wed,
	God forbid that a great lord's wife should, soon or late,
	Take another man as husband or as mate.

	"And with your new wife, may God, of his grace,
	Grant you well-being and prosperity:
	For I will gladly yield her my place,
	In which I used to live in such felicity;
	For since it pleases you, my lord," said she,
	"You who were once the whole of my heart's rest,
	That I should go, I'll go when you think best.

	"But where you offer me such a dowry to bear
	As I first brought, I keep it well in mind:
	It was my wretched clothes, not at all fair,
	Which would be hard for me now to find.
	O good God! how noble and how kind
	You seemed, in how you spoke, and in your visage,
	The day that saw the making of our marriage!

	"But it's rightly said—at any rate, I find it true,
	For in effect it has been proved on me—
	Love, when it's old, is not as when it's new.
	But certainly, my lord, for no adversity,
	Not if I died for it, shall it be
	That ever in word or deed I shall repent
	That I gave you my heart with whole intent.

	"My lord, you know that, in my father's place,
	You had me stripped of my poor clothes, and instead
	Had me richly clothed, out of your grace.
	To you I brought nothing else—let it be said—
	But faith, and nakedness, and maidenhead.
	And here I give my clothing back, once more,
	And my wedding ring as well, for evermore.

	"The rest of your jewels are ready; they will be
	Inside your chamber, as I can safely maintain;
	Naked from my father's house," said she,
	"I came, and naked I must go home again.
	All that you please I'll follow, and not complain;
	But still I hope it isn't your intent
	That from your palace, smockless, I'd be sent.

	"You could not do a thing so indecent, so low
	As this: that the womb in which your children lay
	Should, as I walk before the people, show
	Quite bare; and therefore, this is what I pray:
	Don't let me go like a worm along the way.
	Remember, my own lord, whom I hold dear,
	I was your wife, though unworthy to be here.

	"So, in return for my maidenhead,
	Which I brought here, and cannot take back elsewhere,
	Agree to give me, as my wage, instead,
	Only such a smock as I used to wear,
	So I can cover with it, and not leave bare,
	The womb of her who was your wife. I take my leave
	Of you, my own lord, lest I make you grieve."

	"The smock," he said, "the one there on your back—
	Keep it on, and take it with you; let it be."
	But he could hardly speak; his voice would crack,
	And he went away for sorrow and for pity.
	In front of everyone she strips; and she,
	In her smock, her head and feet both bare,
	Sets off toward her father's house from there.

	The people follow her, weeping, on her way,
	And curse at Fortune always as they go;
	But she kept her own eyes dry, held tears at bay,
	And spoke no word in all that time. And so
	Her father, who had heard at once, in woe
	Curses the day and hour when Nature
	Shaped him to be a living creature.

	For, without doubt, this poor old man
	Had always had his doubts about her being wed;
	For he had always thought, since it began,
	That once the lord's desire was fully fed,
	He'd think it brought disgrace upon his head
	And his estate, to have stooped so low; outright
	He'd send her packing, as soon as ever he might.

	He hurries out to meet his daughter; he
	Knew from the people's noise that she was in sight,
	And with her old coat, as well as it could be,
	He covered her, and wept with all his might;
	But he could not get it on her body right.
	For the cloth was coarse, and older now in age,
	By many days, than at the time of her marriage.

	So with her father, for a certain space,
	Lives this flower of wifely patience; she,
	Neither by her words nor by her face,
	Before the people, or when no one could see,
	Showed that she'd suffered any injury;
	Nor did she seem, from her expression, to recall
	Her high estate, or think of it at all.

	And that's no wonder, for in her great estate
	Her spirit was always in plain humility;
	No dainty mouth, no heart too delicate,
	No pomp, no semblance of royalty,
	But full of patient kindliness was she,
	Discreet and without pride, honourable still,
	Meek to her husband, steady in her will.

	Men talk of Job, and most of all for his humility,
	As scholars, when they please, know how to write,
	Especially of men; but in reality,
	Though scholars give women praise that's slight,
	No man can acquit himself in humbleness quite
	As well as woman can, nor be half so true
	As women are, unless that's something new.

Part Six

	The Count of Panico from Bologna has come,
	And word of it spread to everyone, more and less,
	And everyone among the people had become
	Aware, as well, that a new marchioness
	He brought with him, in such pomp and such richness
	That never had a human eye been known to see
	So noble an array in all West Lombardy.

	The marquis, who'd arranged all this, and knew,
	Before the count arrived, sent from his place
	For this poor, innocent Griselda; who,
	With humble heart, and with a happy face,
	And not a swollen thought in her, no trace,
	Came at his call, and knelt down on the floor,
	And reverently and wisely greeted him once more.

	"Griselda," he said, "it is my will, entirely,
	That this maiden, who is to marry me,
	Should be received tomorrow as royally
	As my house can possibly allow it to be,
	And also that everyone, in his degree,
	Have his due rank in seating and in service, likewise
	High pleasure, the best that I can devise.

	"I don't have women who are up to it, that's plain,
	To set the rooms in order and arrange them right,
	As I would like; and so I'd gladly ordain
	That you take charge of all of it outright;
	And you've long known what gives me delight;
	Though your clothes are poor, and not fit to display,
	Do your duty, at least, as best you may."

	"Not only, lord, am I glad," said she,
	"To do your will, but I desire also
	To serve and please you, in my degree,
	Without growing faint, and always shall do so.
	And never, for any happiness or woe,
	Will the spirit in my heart give up, or relent
	From loving you best, with all my true intent."

	And with that word she started setting the house right,
	Set up the tables, made the beds, and she'd take
	Pains to do everything she might,
	Begging the chambermaids, for God's sake,
	To hurry, and to sweep fast and shake;
	And she, the most serviceable of all,
	Had every chamber arranged, and his hall.

	At about undern, this count came to alight,
	Bringing the two noble children on their way,
	At which the people ran to see the sight
	Of their array, so richly on display;
	And then, for the first time, among themselves they'd say
	That Walter was no fool, though at his own behest
	He'd changed his wife; it was all for the best.

	For she is fairer—so they judged, one and all—
	Than is Griselda, and more tender in age,
	And fairer fruit between the two of them would fall,
	More pleasing, too, for her high lineage;
	Her brother too was so handsome in his visage
	That, seeing them, the people took delight,
	Commending now the marquis's rule as right.

	"O stormy people! fickle, never true!
	Always indiscreet, and changing like a vane,
	Always delighting in the rumour that is new,
	For like the moon you always wax and wane;
	Always full of chatter, dear at a jane;
	Your judgement's false; your constancy deceives;
	He's a great fool, whoever trusts you and believes!"

	So spoke the serious people of that city,
	When the people gazed about them, up and down,
	For they were glad, just for the novelty,
	To have a new lady of their town.
	No more of this; I'll set the subject down;
	But back to Griselda now I'll go, and tell
	Of her constancy and her diligence as well.

	Griselda busily attended to everything there
	That had to do with the feast, or was pertinent;
	She wasn't at all ashamed of what she had to wear,
	Though they were rough, and somewhat torn and rent;
	But with a cheerful face to the gate she went,
	With other folk, to greet the marchioness,
	And then went on about her business.

	She greeted his guests with such good cheer, received
	Them so expertly, each in his degree,
	That not one fault was anywhere perceived;
	But still they wondered who this woman could be,
	Who in such poor array was there to see,
	And who knew so much of honour and reverence;
	And rightly they all praised her for her prudence.

	In all this time she never ceased, but went
	On praising the girl and her brother, without end,
	With all her heart, with kind and good intent,
	So well that there was nothing anyone could amend.
	But at the last, when the lords began to wend
	Their way to dinner, he began to call
	For Griselda, as she was busy in his hall.

	"Griselda," he said, as if he were in play,
	"How do you like my wife, and her beauty?"
	"Very well, my lord," she said, "in good faith, I'd say;
	I never saw a fairer one than she.
	I pray that God may give her prosperity;
	And so I hope that God will also send
	Enough pleasure to you, to your life's end.

	"One thing I beg of you, and warn you of also:
	That you won't goad with torments of any kind
	This tender girl, as you did another, long ago;
	For she was brought up, nourished, and refined
	More tenderly; and, as it seems to my mind,
	She'd never stand adversity, nor endure
	It like a creature who was brought up poor."

	And when this Walter saw her patience,
	Her cheerful face, and no malice at all,
	And he so often had done her offence,
	And she still steady, constant as a wall,
	Continuing in her innocence through all,
	The stubborn marquis's heart began to bend
	To pity her wifely steadfastness, in the end.

	"That is enough, my Griselda," said he,
	"Don't be afraid any more, or be dismayed;
	I have your faith and your benignity,
	As well as ever any woman's was, assayed,
	In great estate, and when poorly arrayed.
	Now, dear wife, I know your steadfastness in this"—
	And took her in his arms, and began to kiss.

	And she, for wonder, paid no heed, and couldn't keep
	Track of the things that he had said;
	She was like someone started out of sleep,
	Till she woke from the daze that filled her head.
	"Griselda," he said, "by God who for us bled,
	You are my wife, and I have no other wife,
	Nor ever had, as I hope for eternal life!

	"This is your daughter, whom you thought, instead,
	Was going to be my wife; the other, faithfully,
	Shall be my heir, as I have always said;
	You bore him in your own body, certainly.
	At Bologna I have kept them secretly;
	Take them; for now you cannot say to anyone
	That of your two children you have lost one.

	"And as for those who've spoken otherwise of me,
	I warn them: it was not, as they have said,
	From any malice, or from cruelty,
	But to test your womanhood instead,
	Not to kill my children—God forbid they should be dead!—
	But to keep them hidden, secret, and still,
	Until I knew your purpose and all your will."

	When she heard this, she fainted—down she falls—
	For piteous joy; and when the faint has passed,
	Her two young children are the ones she calls,
	And, weeping piteously, she holds them fast
	In her embrace, and kisses them tenderly at last,
	And just like a mother, with salt tears to spare,
	She bathes both of their faces and their hair.

	Oh, what a piteous thing it was to see
	Her swooning, and her humble voice to hear!
	"Many thanks, my lord, I thank you," said she,
	"That you have saved my children, both so dear!
	Now I don't care if I die right here;
	Since I stand in your love and in your grace,
	Death doesn't matter, nor when my spirit leaves its place!

	"O tender, O dear, O young children of mine,
	Your grieving mother believed it, steadfastly,
	That cruel hounds, or vermin, foul, malign,
	Had eaten you; but God, in his mercy,
	And your kind father, tenderly,
	Have kept you safe"; and in that instant, straight away,
	All suddenly she fell to the ground, and lay.

	And in her faint, so firmly does she
	Keep her two children in her arms' tight hold,
	That with great skill and great difficulty
	They had to pull the children from her fold.
	Oh, many a tear on many a piteous face rolled
	Down, from the people standing by her side;
	They could hardly bear to stay, however they tried.

	Walter gladdens her, and makes her sorrow light;
	She rises up, abashed, out of her trance,
	And everyone rejoices, feasts her with delight,
	Until she has regained her countenance.
	Walter pleases her so faithfully, at every chance,
	That it was a delight to see the cheer
	Between those two, now they're together here.

	These ladies, when they saw their moment, led the way,
	Took her, and to her chamber they have gone,
	And stripped her out of her rough array,
	And in a cloth of gold that brightly shone,
	And a crown, with many a rich stone set upon
	Her head, into the hall she then was brought,
	And there she was honoured as she ought.

	So this piteous day has a blissful end,
	For every man and woman, with all their might,
	Is set on revelry and mirth, to spend
	The day, until the sky was bright with starlight.
	For, as it seemed to everyone in sight,
	This feast was grander, costlier in every way,
	Than the revels on her wedding day.

	For many a year, in high prosperity,
	These two lived in concord and in rest,
	And he married off his daughter, splendidly,
	To a lord, among the most distinguished, the best
	In all of Italy; and then, in quiet rest,
	He keeps his wife's father at his court, at ease,
	Until his soul from his body finds release.

	His son succeeded to his heritage
	In rest and peace, after his father's day,
	And he was fortunate too in marriage,
	Although he didn't test his wife that way.
	This world is not so strong—that's plain as day—
	As it was in the old days, long before;
	And hear what this author says on that score.

	This story's told, not so that wives should
	Follow Griselda in humility,
	For that would be unbearable, though they would;
	But so that everyone, in his degree,
	Should be as constant in adversity
	As Griselda was; and that's why Petrarch penned
	This story, in the high style, to that end.

	For if a woman could, with such patience, consent
	To a mortal man, how much more we ought
	To take in good part all that God has sent;
	For it's only right he test what he has wrought.
	But he tempts no one whom he redeemed and bought,
	As Saint James says, if you read his letter through;
	He tests people all day long, that's true,

	And allows us, as for our exercise,
	With the sharp scourges of adversity
	Often to be beaten, as he may devise;
	Not to know our will, for certainly he,
	Before we were born, knew all our frailty;
	And all he governs, he governs for our good;
	So let us live in virtuous patience, as we should.

	But one word, gentlemen, before I go, give ear:
	It would be very hard to find, these days,
	Two or three Griseldas in a whole town, I fear;
	For, if they were put to such assays,
	The gold in them is now so mixed, in such ways,
	With brass, that though the coin looks fair to the eye,
	It would sooner break in two than bend and comply.

	So here, for love of the Wife of Bath—and may
	God keep her life and all her sect, and hold
	Them in high mastery; a pity any other way—
	With lively heart, all fresh and green, not old,
	I'll sing a song to cheer you up, I'd hold,
	And let us drop these matters so severe;
	Listen to my song, which goes like this; now hear!

Chaucer's Envoy

	Griselda's dead, and so is her patience,
	And both lie buried in Italy, so goes the tale;
	And so I cry before this audience:
	Let no married man be so bold as to assail
	His wife's patience, in hope that he will find
	Griseldas, for he certainly will fail!

	O noble wives, so full of high prudence,
	Don't let humility hold your tongue down with a nail,
	And give no scholar cause, or diligence,
	To write about you any marvel of that scale
	As of Griselda, patient and kind,
	Lest Chichevache swallow you down into her entrail!

	Be like Echo, who keeps no silence,
	But always answers back, and gives back every hail;
	Don't be made fools of for your innocence,
	But sharply take the helm yourselves, and sail.
	Imprint this lesson well upon your mind
	For common profit, since it may avail.

	You arch-wives, stand up in your own defence,
	Since you are strong as a camel, big and hale;
	And never let a man do you offence.
	And slender wives, too weak in battle, frail,
	Be fierce, as tigers out in India are inclined;
	Keep clacking like a mill, I counsel you, and rail!

	Don't fear them, and show them no reverence;
	For though your husband's armed in coat of mail,
	The arrows of your crabbed eloquence
	Will pierce his breast, and pierce his aventail;
	In jealousy, I'd also have you bind
	Him; you will make him crouch down like a quail.

	If you are beautiful, then, in the people's presence,
	Display your face, your clothes, each fine detail;
	If you are ugly, then be free with your expense;
	To win yourself friends, always work and travail;
	Be light as a linden leaf; leave your cares behind,
	And let him care, and weep, and wring his hands, and wail!

The Merchant's Prologue

	"Weeping and wailing, care and other woe,
	Evening and morning, these are what I know,"
	The Merchant said, "and so do others who
	Are married men; I think that this is true.
	For I know well that's how it goes with me.
	I have a wife, the worst that there could be;
	Were the devil himself her husband, I would swear
	She'd overmatch him, and have some to spare.
	Why should I spell out, item by item, all
	Her towering malice? She's a shrew, wall to wall.
	There's a difference, and it's long and wide,
	Between Griselda's patience on one side
	And my own wife's surpassing cruelty.
	If I were loose again—God prosper me!—
	I'd never set my foot in the snare again.
	We married men live lives of care and pain;
	By Saint Thomas of India, let any man who'll try
	Test it, and he will find I tell no lie—
	For most of us, I mean; I don't say all.
	God forbid that such a thing should befall!

	"Ah, good sir Host! Two months, by God, no more,
	I've been a married man; and yet I'm sure
	That one who's had no wife in all his life,
	Though people ran him through with a knife
	Right to the heart, could never, in any way,
	Recount such sorrow as I, here today,
	Could tell about my wife's accursedness!"

	"Well, Merchant," said our Host, "God give you happiness!
	Since you know so much about that art,
	I beg you with all my heart, tell us part."

	"Gladly," he said, "but of my private sore,
	My heart's too sad; I can say nothing more."

The Merchant's Tale

	In Lombardy there lived a knight of renown,
	A man of standing, born in Pavia town,
	Where he lived on in great prosperity;
	For sixty years he'd lived unwed and free,
	And always followed bodily delight
	In women, wherever he had appetite,
	As laymen do, these fools, these worldly men.
	And when he'd passed the age of sixty, then,
	Whether it came from holiness or dotage,
	I cannot say, but such a hunger for marriage
	Possessed this knight, to be a wedded man,
	That night and day he does all that he can
	To find out where a marriage might be made,
	Praying the Lord—and this is what he prayed—
	That he might once know that same blissful life
	That's found between a husband and his wife,
	And live beneath that holy marriage band
	With which, at the start, God bound woman and man.
	"No other life," he said, "is worth a bean;
	For wedlock is so easy and so clean
	That in this world it is a paradise."
	So said this old knight, who was so wise.

	And certainly, as sure as God is king,
	To take a wife—it is a glorious thing,
	Above all when a man is old, his hair gone white;
	A wife's the fruit of his treasure then, by right.
	Then he should take a young wife, and a fair,
	On whom he might beget himself an heir,
	And lead his life in joy and fun, whereas
	These bachelors keep singing out "Alas!"
	When they meet any trouble, any pain,
	In love, which is nothing but childish and vain.
	And it is right and proper this is so,
	That bachelors have often pain and woe;
	They build on brittle ground, and brittle stuff
	Is what they find, when they think it's safe enough.
	They live just like a bird or like a beast,
	In liberty, and not restrained in the least,
	Whereas a married man in his estate
	Lives a life of bliss, well-ordered and sedate,
	Under the yoke of marriage, firmly bound;
	Well may his heart with joy and bliss abound!
	For who is as obedient as a wife?
	Who is so true, so eager all her life
	To nurse him, sick or sound, as is his mate?
	For better or worse, she won't leave him to his fate.
	She never wearies of her love and tending,
	Though he lies bedridden to his ending.
	And yet some scholars say it isn't so,
	Of whom Theophrastus is one. Even so,
	Why care if Theophrastus likes to lie?
	"Don't take a wife," he says, "for thrift, to try
	To save the money that your household spends;
	A loyal servant takes more pains, and tends
	Your property better than your own wife;
	For she will claim half of it all her life.
	And if you fall sick, so help me God, you'll find
	Your real friends, or a servant of the faithful kind,
	Will tend you better than she who waits, always,
	For your money, and has done so many days.
	And once you take a wife into your hold,
	It's very easy to be made a cuckold."
	This saying, and a hundred things still worse,
	This fellow writes—God give his bones a curse!
	But take no heed of all such vanity;
	Defy Theophrastus, and listen to me.

	A wife's a gift from God, it's plain to see;
	All other kinds of gifts, quite certainly,
	Like lands, rents, pasture, or a common share,
	Or furniture, are Fortune's gifts, and they're
	Gone like a shadow passing on a wall.
	But doubtless, if I'm to speak plain at all,
	A wife will last, and stay in your house too
	Much longer, maybe, than you'd want her to.

	Marriage is a sacrament, and a great one;
	A man who has no wife, I hold, is undone;
	He lives a helpless life, and desolate—
	I mean folk in the secular estate.
	And listen why, for I don't say it in vain:
	That woman was made to be man's help is plain.
	God on high, when he'd made Adam, saw that he
	Was all alone, belly-naked as could be;
	God in his great goodness then began,
	"Let us now make a helper for this man
	Like himself"; and then he made him Eve.
	Here you may see, and by this you may perceive,
	That a wife is man's help and his support,
	His paradise on earth, his fun and sport.
	She's so obedient and so virtuous, too,
	They have to live in unity, those two.
	One flesh they are, and one flesh, I'd guess,
	Has just one heart, in joy and in distress.

	A wife! Ah, holy Mary, benedicite!
	How could a man have any misery
	Who has a wife? I certainly can't say.
	The bliss between those two—there is no way
	A tongue could tell it, or a heart could weigh.
	If he is poor, she helps him earn his pay;
	She guards his goods and never wastes a bit;
	Whatever her husband likes, she's pleased with it;
	When he says "yes," her "no" is never heard.
	"Do this," he says; "At once, sir," is her word.
	O blissful order of wedlock, so precious,
	You are so merry, and also so virtuous,
	And so approved and praised by all who speak,
	That every man who thinks he's worth a leek
	Ought, on his bare knees, all his life,
	To thank his God, who's sent him a wife;
	Or else pray God that he will send
	A wife to last until his life's end.
	For then his life is safe from all distress;
	He can't be cheated, as far as I can guess,
	If he will only do as his wife has said;
	Then he can boldly hold up his head,
	They are so true, and at the same time so wise;
	For which, if you would do what the wise advise,
	Always be guided where the women lead.

	Look how Jacob, as the scholars read,
	By the good counsel of Rebecca, his mother,
	Tied a kid's skin round his neck to pass for his brother,
	By which his father's blessing came his way.

	Look, Judith too, as the story has to say,
	By wise counsel kept God's people safe, then crept
	In and killed Holofernes while he slept.

	Look at Abigail, how by good counsel she
	Saved Nabal, her husband, when he
	Would have been slain; and Esther, look, did so:
	By good counsel she delivered out of woe
	God's people, and made sure that Mordecai
	Was raised by Ahasuerus to rank on high.

	Nothing ranks higher, anywhere in life,
	As Seneca says, than a humble wife.

	Endure your wife's tongue, Cato tells us to;
	She'll give the orders, and you'll see them through;
	And yet she will obey, from courtesy;
	A wife's the steward of your husbandry;
	Well may the sick man wail and weep, and moan,
	Where no wife's there to keep the house, alone.
	Love your wife as Christ loves his church: I warn you,
	If you would act wisely, that's what you must do.
	If you love yourself, you love your wife;
	No man hates his own flesh, but all his life
	He fosters it; and so I bid you, strive
	To cherish your wife, or you will never thrive.
	Husband and wife, whatever jokes men play,
	Of all worldly folk, hold to the surest way;
	They are so knit, no harm will ever betide;
	And especially not upon the wife's side.
	And so this January, of whom I told,
	Considered, in the days when he was old,
	The lively life, the virtuous peace we meet
	Inside a marriage, which is honey-sweet;
	And for his friends, one day, he sent,
	To tell them the gist of his intent.

	With a grave face he spoke to them this way:
	"My friends," he said, "I'm old now, and I'm grey,
	And almost, God knows, on my grave's brink;
	About my soul, now, I must stop and think.
	I've wasted my body, foolishly expended;
	Blessed be God, that it shall be amended!
	For I will be, for certain, a married man,
	And that at once, as quickly as I can,
	To some young girl, fair and of tender age.
	I beg you, make arrangements for my marriage
	Quickly, for I can't wait, I won't abide;
	And I will try to look around, on my side,
	For someone I can marry speedily.
	But since there are more of you than me,
	You'll spot a thing like that before I would,
	And where an alliance would do me the most good.

	"But one thing I warn you, dear friends, and declare:
	I'll have no old wife, none, not anywhere.
	She won't be over twenty, and that's flat;
	Old fish and young flesh—I'd be glad of that.
	A pike," he said, "beats a pickerel any day,
	And tender veal beats old beef all the way.
	I'll have no woman thirty years of age:
	That's only bean-straw and coarse forage.
	And these old widows, God knows, have by rote
	So many tricks, the craft of Wade's boat,
	So much petty mischief, whenever they please,
	That I would never live with them at ease.
	For many schools make clever scholars, true;
	A woman of many schools is half one too.
	But a young thing, certainly, men can guide,
	The way you work warm wax, with hands applied.
	And so I tell you plainly, in short, that I
	Will have no old wife, and this is the reason why:
	For if I suffered such a sad mischance
	That I could get no pleasure from her, no dalliance,
	Then I'd be living in adultery
	And go straight to the devil when I die.
	Nor would I father any child on her; instead
	I'd rather dogs had eaten me, and I were dead,
	Than that my heritage should fall
	Into a stranger's hands; and this I tell you all.
	I'm not senile; I know the reason why
	Men ought to marry; and moreover, I
	Know many a man who talks about marriage
	Who knows no more of it than does my page,
	About the reasons a man should take a wife.
	If he can't live in chastity all his life,
	Let him take a wife with great devotion,
	For the sake of lawful procreation
	Of children, to the honour of God above,
	And not only for passion or for love;
	And to keep away from lechery, and to
	Pay one another their debts when they are due;
	Or so that each of them should help the other
	In trouble, as a sister helps her brother;
	And live as chaste and holy as can be.
	But, sirs, by your leave, that isn't me.
	For, God be thanked, I dare to boast, and state
	I feel my limbs are strong and adequate
	To do all that a man is suited to;
	I know myself best what I'm able to do.
	Though I'm grey-headed, I'm just like a tree
	That blossoms before its fruit has come to be;
	A blossoming tree is neither dry nor dead.
	I'm nowhere white-haired but on my head;
	My heart and all my limbs are just as green
	As laurel all year long is to be seen.
	And now that you have heard all my intent,
	I beg you, give my wishes your consent."

	Various men gave various views, and told
	Him many a story of marriage, very old.
	Some blamed it, and some praised it, true enough;
	But at the last, to cut short all this stuff,
	As every day there's some altercation
	Between friends in a disputation,
	His two brothers fell into a row;
	One of these two was called Placebo,
	And Justinus was what they called the other.

	Placebo said, "O January, brother,
	You had little need, my lord, my dear,
	To ask for counsel from anyone who's here;
	Except that you're so full of sapience
	That you're unwilling, in your high prudence,
	To stray from what was said by Solomon,
	Who said this word to all of us, each one:
	'Do everything by counsel,' he said, 'and you
	Will never have to repent of what you do.'
	But though Solomon spoke such a word,
	My own dear brother and my lord,
	As surely as God brings my soul to rest,
	I hold that your own counsel is the best.
	For, brother, take this from me as a cue:
	I've been a courtier all my life, right through.
	And, God knows, though I am unworthy, I
	Have stood in rank and favour very high
	Among great lords of very high estate,
	And yet with none of them did I once debate.
	I never contradicted them; that's no lie;
	I know quite well my lord knows more than I.
	Whatever he says, I hold it firm and stable;
	I say the same, or as near as I am able.
	A perfect fool is any counsellor who'd be
	In service to a lord of high degree,
	Who dares presume, or even thinks of it,
	That his advice could top his master's wit.
	No, lords are no fools, by my faith, not they;
	You yourself have shown us here today
	So high a judgement, so holy and so sound,
	That I consent to, and confirm, all round,
	Your every word, and the view that you've laid down.
	By God, there isn't a man in all this town,
	Or in all Italy, who could have spoken so well;
	Christ thinks highly of this advice, I can tell.
	And truly, it's a mark of high courage
	In any man who's bent and stooped with age
	To take a young wife; by my father's kin,
	Your heart is tuned up on a jolly pin.
	Do in this matter just as you please, I swear,
	For in the end I hold it's best, and fair."

	Justinus, who sat still all this time and heard,
	Replied to Placebo, and this was his word:
	"Now, brother, be patient, I pray,
	Since you have spoken, and hear what I say.
	Among the wise things Seneca has said,
	He says a man should think it through ahead
	To whom he gives his land or his estate.
	And since I ought to think, and deliberate,
	To whom I give my goods away from me,
	Then much more careful still I ought to be
	To whom I give my body. I always say,
	And warn you, that it is no child's play
	To take a wife without thinking it through.
	You must find out (and that's my point of view)
	Whether she's wise, or sober, or fond of the brew,
	Or proud, or else in some other way a shrew;
	A scold, or one who squanders all you've had,
	Or rich, or poor, or else gone man-mad.
	Although it's true no man will ever find
	One in this world that trots sound, fore and behind,
	Neither man nor beast, as one might devise;
	But all the same, it ought to suffice
	With any wife, if it turned out she had
	More virtues than her vices, good than bad;
	And all this asks for leisure to make clear.
	For, God knows, I have wept many a tear
	In private, since I've had a wife.
	Let anyone who likes praise a married man's life,
	For certain, I find in it only cost and care,
	And duties, and of every joy it's bare.
	And yet, God knows, the neighbours round me, and
	Especially the women, a whole band,
	Say that I have the most steadfast wife,
	And the meekest one who ever lived a life.
	But I know best where the shoe pinches; you
	Can, for all I care, do as you want to do.
	Think hard—you are a man advanced in age—
	How you are going into marriage,
	And above all with a young wife and a fair.
	By him who made the water, earth, and air,
	The youngest man in this whole crowd, no doubt,
	Has all that he can manage to bring about
	That his wife is his alone—you can trust me there.
	You won't please her fully for three years, I swear;
	That is to say, to please her in every way.
	A wife asks many duties, every day.
	I pray you not to be offended or upset."

	"Well," said this January, "are you finished yet?
	A straw for your Seneca, straw for your proverbs!
	I don't count a basketful of herbs
	Your schoolroom jargon. Much wiser men than you
	Have just agreed, as you heard them do,
	To my plan. Placebo, what do you say to me?"

	"I say that he's an accursed man," said he,
	"Who'd hinder matrimony, certainly."
	And with that word they rose up suddenly,
	And were agreed, entirely, that he should
	Be married when he pleased and where he would.

	Lofty fancies and an eager restlessness
	Began, from day to day, to stamp and press
	On January's soul about his marriage.
	Many a lovely shape, and many a lovely visage
	Passed through his heart, night after night,
	As if a man took a mirror polished bright
	And set it in a common market-place:
	Then he would see so many figures pace
	Past his mirror; and in the very same way
	January in his thoughts began to survey
	The girls who lived around him, on every side.
	He didn't know on which one to decide.
	For if one had real beauty in her face,
	Another stood so high in people's grace
	For her good sense and kindness, that she won
	The people's loudest voice of anyone.
	And some were rich, and had a bad name.
	But all the same, half in earnest, half in game,
	He settled in the end upon one,
	And let all others from his heart be gone,
	And chose her on his own authority;
	For love is always blind, and cannot see.
	And when he had been brought to his bed,
	He pictured in his heart and in his head
	Her fresh beauty and her youth so tender,
	Her little waist, her arms long and slender,
	Her wise self-governance, her nobleness,
	Her womanly bearing and her steadfastness.
	And once he'd settled on her, his thought was this:
	No better choice was possible than his.
	For when he'd once concluded, it seemed to him
	That every other man's wit was so dim
	That it would be impossible to reply
	Against his choice; this was his fantasy.
	He sent for his friends, and urged and begged them all
	To do him the favour of coming at his call,
	And hurrying over to him, every one;
	He'd spare them all their labour: he was done.
	There was no need for him to walk or ride;
	He'd fixed where he intended to abide.

	Placebo came, and his friends too, quite soon,
	And first of all he asked them all a boon:
	That not a single one of them would make
	Arguments against the purpose he'd now take;
	"This purpose pleases God," he said, "and it's the ground
	On which his whole prosperity is found."

	He said there was a maiden in the town
	Who for her beauty had a great renown,
	Although she was of humble birth and place;
	Her youth sufficed him, and her lovely face.
	This girl, he said, he wanted for his wife,
	With whom to lead an easy, holy life,
	And thanked God he could have her, every bit,
	And no one else would share his bliss in it,
	And begged them to work hard for him in this need,
	And arrange things so he'd be sure to succeed;
	For then, he said, his spirit would be at ease.
	"Then nothing," he said, "is left that can displease,
	Except one thing that's pricking my conscience,
	Which I will go through here, in your presence.

	"I have heard said," he went on, "long ago,
	Two perfect blisses no one man can know—
	That is to say, on earth and up in heaven.
	For though a man keeps clear of the deadly seven,
	And every branch that grows from that same tree,
	Yet there is such a perfect felicity,
	So much ease and delight, when a man is wed,
	That, now I'm old, I'm always filled with dread
	That I shall lead now such a merry life,
	So delicate, without all woe and strife,
	That I shall have my heaven on earth here.
	For since true heaven is bought so dear,
	With tribulation and great penance, how
	Could I, who live in pleasure here and now
	As all the married men do with their wives,
	Come to the bliss where Christ eternal lives?
	This is my fear; and you, my brothers, the pair
	Of you, resolve this question, is my prayer."

	Justinus, who hated his folly, right away
	Answered him back, in his own mocking way;
	And since he wanted his long tale cut short,
	He would cite no authority of any sort,
	But said, "Sir, if there is no obstacle
	Other than this, God, by his high miracle
	And by his mercy, may so work for you
	That, before the last rites of holy church are due,
	You may repent of wedded life,
	In which you say there's neither woe nor strife.
	And otherwise, God forbid that he should not
	Send married men the grace to repent their lot
	Much sooner, often, than a single man!
	And therefore, sir, the best advice I can:
	Don't despair, but keep this in your memory:
	Perhaps she'll turn out to be your purgatory!
	She may be God's instrument, and God's whip;
	Then up to heaven your soul will take a skip,
	Swifter than an arrow from the bow!
	I hope to God that afterwards you'll know
	That there is no such great felicity
	In marriage, nor ever more will be,
	That will hinder you from being saved, as long
	As you, with reason, as is right, not wrong,
	Enjoy your wife's delights with moderation,
	And don't please her with too much passion,
	And keep yourself as well from other sin.
	My tale is done—for my wit is thin.
	Don't be afraid of this, my brother dear."
	(But let us wade out of this matter here.
	The Wife of Bath, if you understand,
	On marriage, the matter we have in hand,
	Has set it out quite well, in little space.)
	"Farewell now; God keep you in his grace."

	And with these words Justinus and his brother
	Took their leave, and each of them of the other.
	For when they saw it had to happen, they
	Arranged it all, in their sly, wise way,
	That she, this maiden, who was known as May,
	Should, as quickly as possible, without delay,
	Be married to this January.
	I think you'd find it far too long to tarry
	If I told you every writ and deed they signed
	To give her rights in his land, of every kind,
	Or made you hear about her rich array.
	But finally there came the wedding day,
	When both of them were off to church, intent
	To receive the holy sacrament.
	Out came the priest, his stole about his neck, and told
	Her to be like Sarah and Rebecca of old
	In wisdom and in faithfulness in marriage;
	And said his prayers, as was the usage,
	And made the cross on them, and prayed that God would bless,
	And made all safe enough with holiness.

	So they are married with solemnity,
	And at the feast both he and she
	Sit with other fine people on the dais.
	All full of joy and bliss is the palace,
	And full of instruments and food—such fare,
	The daintiest in Italy, was there.
	Before them there were instruments of such sound
	That Orpheus, or Amphion on Theban ground,
	Never in all their lives made such a melody.

	At every course there came loud minstrelsy,
	Such as Joab never trumpeted for men to hear,
	Nor Theodamas either, half so clear,
	At Thebes, when the city's fate was in doubt.
	Bacchus poured out the wine all round about,
	And Venus smiles on everyone in sight,
	For January had become her knight,
	And wanted to try the vigour of his heart
	In freedom, and in marriage; and, for her part,
	With her firebrand in her hand, she dances along
	Before the bride and all the wedding throng.
	And certainly, I'll be so bold as to bet
	That Hymen, god of weddings, never yet
	In all his life saw such a merry married man.
	Keep quiet, poet Martianus, if you can,
	Who write for us about that wedding, merry,
	Of her, Philology, and him, Mercury,
	And of the songs that the Muses had sung:
	Your pen's too small for it, and so's your tongue,
	To set down a description of this marriage.
	When tender youth has married stooping age,
	There's so much mirth, it can't be written; try
	It for yourselves, and then you'll know if I
	Am telling lies, or not, in this affair.

	May, who sits there with such a gentle air,
	To look at her, she seemed a fairy thing;
	Queen Esther never gazed like that at her king,
	Ahasuerus; so meek a look has she.
	To picture all her beauty is past me;
	But this much of her beauty I can say:
	That she was like the bright morning of May,
	Brimming with every beauty and every pleasure.

	This January is ravished beyond measure
	Each time he looked at her face; but, inside,
	His heart began to threaten her, his bride:
	That in his arms that night he would employ
	More strength than Paris did with Helen of Troy.
	But all the same he pitied her outright,
	That he must do her injury that night,
	And thought, "Alas! O tender creature!
	I wish to God that you could well endure
	All my desire—it is so sharp and strong—
	I'm afraid you won't sustain it for long.
	But God forbid that I used all my might!
	I wish to God that it had turned to night,
	And that the night would last for evermore.
	I wish these people were all out of the door."
	And finally he laboured with all his power,
	As best he could, while saving his honour,
	To rush them from the table, in some clever guise.

	The time came when it was reasonable to rise;
	And after that, they dance, and drink hard and fast,
	And all around the house the spices are cast;
	And full of joy and bliss is every man,
	All but a squire whose name was Damian,
	Who'd carved before the knight for many a day.
	He was so ravished by his lady May
	That he was nearly mad with pain, and could
	Almost have fainted, swooning where he stood,
	Venus had hurt him so badly with her brand,
	As she went dancing, bearing it in her hand.
	He went off to his bed as fast as he could go;
	Of him, for now, I'll say no more, and so
	I leave him there to weep and to complain
	Till fresh May takes pity on his pain.

	O perilous fire that breeds in the bedstraw, hidden!
	O household foe, whose service comes unbidden!
	O traitor servant, false familiar, who
	Is like the snake in your bosom, sly, untrue,
	From knowing you, may God keep us all free!
	O January, drunk on the ecstasy
	Of marriage, see how your Damian,
	Your own squire, born to be your man,
	Is aiming to do you a foul disgrace;
	God grant you see the household foe's true face!
	For in this world there is no plague so great
	As a household foe, there always, early and late.

	The sun has finished his daily arc, the day's run;
	No longer can the body of the sun
	Stay on the horizon, in that latitude.
	Night, with his mantle, which is dark and crude,
	Began to spread across the hemisphere, about;
	At which this lively company moved out
	From January, with thanks on every side.
	Home to their houses, cheerfully, they ride,
	Where they get on with things as they think best,
	And, when they see the time, they go to rest.
	Soon after that, this hasty January
	Wants to go to bed; he will no longer tarry.
	He drinks hippocras, and clarry, and vernage,
	Hot with spices, to stoke up his courage;
	He had a lot of electuaries, too, and fine,
	Such as the cursed monk, Constantine,
	Has written up in his book De Coitu;
	There wasn't one of them he would say no to.
	And he said to his closest friends, privately,
	"For God's love, as quickly as can be,
	Have the whole house cleared, in a courteous way."
	And they did just what he'd ordered, right away.
	They drink; the curtain's drawn; and the bride's shown
	To bed, and lies there, still as any stone;
	And once the bed had been blessed by the priest,
	They all left the room, from the greatest to the least.
	And January has his arms wrapped tight around
	His fresh May, his paradise, the mate he's found.
	He lulls her and he kisses her—and often—
	With thick beard-bristles nothing could soften,
	Rough as a dogfish skin, as sharp as briar,
	For he'd been newly shaved, to his desire.
	He rubs them round about her tender face,
	And says, "Alas! I must, in this embrace,
	Do wrong to you, my wife, and greatly offend,
	Before the time comes when I will descend.
	But all the same," he said, "consider this:
	There's not a workman, whoever he is,
	Who can work well and fast at once; and we
	Will do this at our leisure, perfectly.
	It doesn't matter how long we may play;
	We two are joined in true wedlock today;
	And blessed be the yoke that we are in,
	For in our acts we can commit no sin.
	A man can do no sin with his own wife,
	Nor hurt himself with his own knife;
	For we have permission by law to play."
	Thus he labours till the dawning of the day;
	And then he dips a sop in fine clarry,
	And sits up in his bed, upright as can be,
	And after that he sang out loud and clear,
	And kissed his wife, all frisky, full of cheer.
	He was all coltish, full of lechery,
	And full of chatter as a speckled magpie.
	The slack skin round his neck would shake about
	While he sang; so he chants and croaks it out.
	But God knows what May's heart was thinking, when he
	Sat up in his shirt for her to see,
	In his nightcap, his neck so thin and lean;
	She didn't rate his playing worth a bean.
	Then he said this: "Some rest is what I'll take;
	Now day has come, I can't keep awake."
	And down he laid his head, and slept till prime.
	And afterwards, when he saw it was time,
	Up gets January; but fresh May
	Keeps to her chamber until the fourth day,
	As is the custom of wives, for the best.
	For every labourer sometimes must have rest,
	Or else he cannot for very long endure;
	That is to say, no living creature,
	Whether it's fish, or bird, or beast, or man.

	Now I will speak of woeful Damian,
	Who languishes for love, as you will hear;
	And so I'll speak to him directly, here:
	I say: "O hapless Damian, alas!
	Answer my question, now it's come to this pass:
	How will you tell your lady, fresh May, and show
	Your woe? She's always going to tell you 'no.'
	And if you speak, she'll give your woe away;
	God help you—that's the best that I can say."

	This sick Damian in Venus's fire
	So burns that he is dying of desire;
	And so he risked his life, as he was sure
	That he could not, like this, any longer endure;
	But on the quiet he managed to borrow
	A pen-case; and in a letter wrote his sorrow,
	In the form of a lover's lament, a lay,
	To his fair and fresh lady May.
	And in a silken purse, he hid it, slung
	Inside his shirt, and on his heart it hung.

	The moon, which at noon, on that same day
	That January married fresh May,
	From two of Taurus, had glided to Cancer's side;
	So long had May been keeping to her room inside,
	As is the custom of the nobles, one and all:
	A bride must never eat down in the hall
	Until four days, or three days at the least,
	Have passed; then let her go to the feast.
	The fourth day done, completed noon to noon,
	When high mass ended in the forenoon,
	In the hall sit January, and May
	As fresh as is the bright summer's day.
	And so it happened that this good man
	Remembered, all at once, this Damian,
	And said, "Saint Mary! How can this be,
	That Damian doesn't wait on me?
	Is he still ill? Or what has happened? Tell!"
	His squires, who were standing there as well,
	Excused him on account of his sickness,
	Which kept him from performing his business;
	No other reason could have made him tarry.

	"I'm sorry," said this January;
	"He's a noble squire, I swear by my good name!
	If he should die, it would be a pity and a shame;
	He's as wise, discreet, and trustworthy
	As any man I know of his degree;
	And manly besides, and serviceable,
	And to be a thriving man, quite able.
	But after dinner, as soon as I can get away,
	I'll go and visit him myself, with May,
	To give him all the comfort that I can."
	And for that word they blessed him, every man,
	That, in his kindness and his nobleness,
	He'd comfort in his illness and distress
	His squire, for it was a noble deed.
	"Madam," said this January, "take good heed:
	After dinner, with your women, one and all,
	When you've gone to your room, out of this hall,
	All of you go and see this Damian;
	Cheer him up—he is a noble man;
	And tell him that I'll visit him—I'll do
	So once I've rested for a moment or two;
	And hurry, for I'm waiting—I'll abide
	Till you are fast asleep there by my side."
	And with that word he began to call
	A squire, who was marshal of his hall,
	And told him certain things he wanted done.

	This fresh May has gone straight off, with every one
	Of her women, to visit Damian.
	Down by his bed she sat, and then began
	To comfort him as kindly as she may.
	This Damian, the moment he saw his way,
	Has secretly put his purse, and his note as well,
	In which he'd written all he wished to tell,
	Into her hand, without a word more,
	Except he sighed, wonderfully deep and sore,
	And softly he said this to her, plaintively:
	"Mercy! And don't let anyone know of me;
	I'm dead, if this gets out, if anyone knows."
	She hid the purse in her bosom, under her clothes,
	And went her way; you'll get no more from me.
	But she's come back to January, and he
	Is sitting on the bedside, comfortably.
	He takes her, and he kisses her repeatedly,
	And then lies down to sleep without delay.
	She made as if she had to go and pay
	A visit where, you know, all people need;
	And when she'd read this letter and taken heed,
	She tore it all to pieces at the last,
	And quietly into the privy it was cast.

	Who's thinking now but fair, fresh May?
	Down by old January she lay,
	Who slept until he woke up with a cough,
	And asked her straight away to take everything off;
	He'd like some pleasure of her, so he said,
	And said her clothes were in his way, in bed;
	And she obeys, like it or not, as told.
	But lest the prudish folk should start to scold,
	How he went at it, I don't dare to tell,
	Or whether she thought it paradise or hell;
	But here I leave them working, as they devise,
	Till evensong rang out, and they had to rise.

	Whether by destiny or by accident,
	By planetary influence or by nature's bent,
	Or constellation, that in such a state
	The heavens stood, that the time was fortunate
	To hand a letter on the works of Venus' kind
	(For all things have their time, as scholars find)
	To any woman, so as to win her love,
	I cannot say; but the great God above,
	Who knows that no act ever comes without cause, may
	He judge it all; for I'll have nothing to say.
	But this is true, that this fresh May
	Took such an impression on that day,
	Of pity for this lovesick Damian,
	That from her heart she can't drive, try as she can,
	The thought of doing something for his ease.
	"Certainly," she thought, "whoever this displease,
	I couldn't care less, for here I assure
	Him that I'll love him best of any creature,
	Though he had nothing to his name but his shirt."
	Look, pity runs swiftly in a noble heart.

	Here you can see how fine a generosity
	Women have when they consider carefully.
	Some tyrant woman (there are many a one)
	Who has a heart as hard as any stone
	Would sooner have let him die before her face
	Than ever have granted him her grace,
	And they'd rejoice in their cruel pride,
	And not care if they committed homicide.

	This noble May, so full of pity, wrote
	With her own hand a letter, a short note,
	In which she grants him her true grace;
	There's nothing lacking but the day and place
	Where she might satisfy his lust's desire:
	For it will be exactly as he'll require.
	And when she saw her moment, on a day,
	Off to visit Damian goes May,
	And slyly pushed the letter, out of sight,
	Under his pillow, to read when he thought right.
	She takes him by the hand, and squeezes it so
	Secretly, that no one there could know,
	And told him to get well, and off she went
	Back to January, at the summons he had sent.

	Up gets Damian the following day;
	His sickness and his sorrow have passed away.
	He combs himself, he preens and primps, and spruces,
	And does whatever his lady likes and chooses;
	And he goes to January, crouching as low
	As any hunting dog before the bow.
	He is so pleasant to every man
	(For craft is all, for anyone who can)
	That everyone is glad to say he's good;
	And fully in his lady's grace he stood.
	So I'll leave Damian to see to his need,
	And with my tale I'm going to proceed.

	Some scholars hold that true felicity
	Consists in pleasure; therefore, certainly, he,
	This noble January, with all his might,
	In seemly fashion, as befits a knight,
	Set out to live as sumptuously as he could;
	His house, his clothes, as seemly and as good,
	For one of his rank, were made like a king's.
	Among the other fine and seemly things,
	He made a garden, all walled in with stone;
	A garden so fair as that I've never known.
	For without doubt, I truly suppose
	That he who wrote the Romance of the Rose
	Could not do justice to its beauty; likewise
	Priapus himself would never quite suffice,
	Though he's the god of gardens, to tell
	The beauty of the garden and the well
	That stood beneath a laurel, always green.
	And very often Pluto and his queen,
	Proserpina, and all their fairy company,
	Would amuse themselves and make their melody
	Around that well, and danced, as people told.

	This noble knight, this January the old,
	Takes such delight in walking there, at play,
	That no one else may bear the key, he'll say,
	Except himself; for he always carried a small
	Silver latchkey for the wicket in the wall,
	With which he'd open it, whenever he was set
	On going in. And when he'd pay his wife her debt
	In summer, it was there that he would go,
	With May his wife, and no one else in tow;
	And things that weren't accomplished in their bed
	He did and finished in the garden instead.
	And in this way, for many a merry day,
	This January lived, and fresh young May.
	But worldly joy can't always endure
	For January, or for any creature.

	O sudden chance! O fickle Fortune, you
	Who are like the scorpion, false, untrue,
	Who flatter with your head when you mean to sting;
	Your tail is death, by the poison that you bring.
	O brittle joy! O sweet and cunning taint!
	O monster, who so subtly can paint
	Your gifts in the colours of steadfastness,
	That you deceive the greater and the less!
	Why have you so deceived this January, who
	Received you as his friend, entire and true?
	And now you've robbed him of both his eyes, and so
	He longs to die from sorrow and from woe.

	Alas! This noble January, generous and free,
	In all his pleasure and prosperity,
	Has gone blind, and gone blind quite suddenly.
	He weeps and he laments most piteously;
	And with it, jealousy's fire—the fear his wife
	Might fall into some folly in her life—
	So burned his heart, he'd have been glad, instead,
	If someone killed them both, and left them dead.
	For neither after his death, nor in his life,
	Did he want her to be anyone's love or wife,
	But live forever as a widow, dressed in black,
	Alone, like the dove whose mate will not come back.
	But at the last, after a month or two,
	His sorrow began to ease, it's true;
	For when he saw that nothing else could be,
	He patiently accepted his adversity;
	Except, no doubt, he simply could not cease
	From jealousy, which never gave him peace;
	This jealousy of his was so outrageous
	That neither in his hall, nor any other house,
	Nor in any other place, not ever—no!—
	Would he allow her out, to ride or go,
	Unless he had his hand on her all day;
	For which she often weeps, the fresh young May,
	Who loves Damian so tenderly
	That she must either die immediately,
	Or else must have him, just as she'd like best;
	She waits for her heart to burst inside her breast.

	And on the other side, this Damian
	Has turned into the most sorrowful man
	That ever was; for neither night nor day
	Could he say a single word to fresh May
	About his purpose, any such affair,
	But January would have to hear it there,
	Who always kept a hand on her, and wouldn't let go.
	But all the same, by writing to and fro
	And private signs, he knew what she meant;
	And she knew too the aim of his intent.

	O January, what could it avail
	If you could see as far as ships can sail?
	For it's as good to be blind, and fooled, as to be
	Fooled when a man is able to see.
	Look, Argus, who had a hundred eyes to spy,
	For all that he could ever peer and pry,
	Yet he was blinded; and, God knows, many go
	Fooled, who feel certain that it isn't so.
	To pass things over is a comfort; I'll say no more.

	This fresh May, whom I told of before,
	Has pressed the latchkey into warm wax—the small
	Key January carried for the wicket in the wall,
	That let him in the garden, where he often went.
	And Damian, who knew all her intent,
	Made a copy of the latchkey on the sly;
	There's nothing more to say, but, by and by,
	Something remarkable will come of this key,
	Which you will hear about, if you'll wait and see.

	O noble Ovid, God knows you're right, and what
	Trick is there, though love burn long and hot,
	That love won't find a way to it, somewhere?
	As Pyramus and Thisbe's tale lays bare:
	Though they were strictly watched, and long, by all,
	They came to terms by whispering through a wall,
	Where no one could have found out such a sleight.

	But to the point: before eight days took flight—
	Before July, that is—it so occurred
	That January, egged on by his wife, was stirred
	With such desire to go into his garden and play,
	Alone, the two of them, with no one in the way,
	One morning, this is what he says to May:
	"Rise up, my wife, my love, my lady, come away;
	The turtledove's voice is heard, my dove so sweet;
	The winter's gone, with all its rain and sleet;
	Come out now with your dove's eyes, lady of mine!
	How much more lovely are your breasts than wine!
	The garden is enclosed, walled all about;
	Come out, my white spouse! Without a doubt,
	You have wounded me in my heart, O wife!
	I never knew a spot in you all my life.
	Come out, and let us have some fun and sport;
	I chose you for my wife, and my support."

	Such were the ignorant old words he'd say;
	And she made Damian a sign, straight away,
	To go in first, ahead of them, with his key;
	And Damian has opened the wicket, quietly,
	And in he slipped—he did it with such care
	That nobody could see or hear him there—
	And there he sits, quite still, beneath a bush, alone.

	This January, as blind as any stone,
	With May in hand, and nobody else at all,
	Has gone into his fresh garden, through the wall,
	And clapped the wicket shut, so suddenly.

	"Now, wife," he said, "there's no one here but you and me,
	And you're the creature that I most dearly love;
	For, by the Lord who sits in heaven above,
	I would much rather die by a knife
	Than do you wrong, my true and dear wife!
	For God's sake, think how I chose you, and how
	It wasn't out of greed, I'll swear it now,
	But only for the love you'd won from me.
	And though I'm old, and though I cannot see,
	Be true to me, and I'll tell you the reason why:
	There are three things you'll certainly win thereby:
	First, love of Christ, and to yourself, honour,
	And all my heritage, both town and tower;
	I give it you; draw up the deeds as you think best;
	It shall be done tomorrow, before the sun's at rest.
	As surely as God brings my soul to bliss,
	I beg you first, in covenant, give me a kiss.
	And though I'm jealous, don't blame me; I'm caught:
	You're printed in me so deep, in all my thought,
	That when I think of all your beauty, and compare
	It with the ill-matched age that I must bear,
	I can't, for certain, even if I died,
	Bear to be anywhere but by your side,
	For true love; this is beyond all doubt.
	Now kiss me, wife, and let us roam about."

	When this fresh May had heard what he had to say,
	She answered January in a gracious way,
	But first of all she began to weep:
	"I have," she said, "a soul as well to keep,
	As you do, and my honour, and the flower
	Of my wifehood, tender, which in that hour
	I made over to you, into your hand,
	When the priest bound my body with the marriage band;
	So I will answer you in this way here,
	With your permission, my lord, my dear:
	I pray to God, let me not live to see the day,
	But die instead, as foully as a woman may,
	If ever I bring my family that shame,
	Or else so damage my good name
	By being false; and if I do it, pack
	Me off: just strip me, put me in a sack,
	And in the nearest river let me drown.
	I am a lady, not a serving wench from town.
	Why do you speak like this? But men are always untrue,
	And women get reproaches from you, always new.
	You have no other way with us, I'd say,
	Than speaking of mistrust and blame, all day."

	And with that word she saw where Damian
	Sat in the bush; she coughed, and then began
	With her finger to make signs to him, that he,
	This Damian, should climb up into a tree
	That was loaded with fruit; and up he went;
	For truly he knew all her intent,
	And every sign she made, he understood
	Much better than her husband, January, could.
	For in a letter she'd told him every bit
	About the matter, how to manage it.
	And so I'll leave him sitting in the pear tree,
	And January and May roaming merrily.

	The day was bright, and blue the firmament;
	Phoebus in gold sent down his beams, intent
	To make each flower glad with his warmness.
	He was in Geminis, in the Twins, I guess,
	But little from his declination
	In Cancer, which is Jupiter's exaltation.
	And so it happened, in that bright morningtide,
	That in that garden, on the farther side,
	Pluto, the king of the fairies, came, and he
	Had many a lady in his company,
	Following his wife, the queen Proserpina; they wind
	One after another, in a straight line, behind—
	While she was picking flowers in the meadow-grass
	(In Claudian you can read how it came to pass),
	How in his grisly chariot he fetched her away—
	This king of fairyland sat down, as I say,
	Upon a bench of turf, all fresh and green,
	And right away said this to his queen.

	"My wife," he said, "there's no one who can gainsay
	What experience proves to us every day:
	The treachery that women do to man.
	Ten hundred thousand stories, if I began,
	I could tell, of your untruth and brittleness.
	O Solomon, wise, the richest in your richness,
	Full of wisdom, and of worldly glory,
	Your words deserve their place in the memory
	Of anyone with wit, and anyone who can
	Reason. And thus he praises the goodness of man:
	'Among a thousand men I found one,
	But among all women I found none.'

	"So says the king who knows your wickedness;
	And Jesus filius Sirach, as I guess,
	Hardly ever speaks of you with reverence.
	A wildfire and a corrupt pestilence
	May they fall upon your bodies yet tonight!
	Don't you see this honourable knight?
	Because, alas, he is blind and old,
	His own man will make him a cuckold;
	Look, here he sits, the lecher, in the tree.
	Now I will grant, out of my majesty,
	To this old, blind, distinguished knight
	That he shall have back his eyesight
	When his wife's about to wrong him shamefully;
	Then he shall know her wanton infidelity,
	As a reproach to her, and others, high and low."

	"You will?" said Proserpina. "Will you, though?
	Now, by my mother's father's soul I swear,
	I'll give her an answer, enough and to spare,
	And all women after her, for her sake;
	That, even if they're caught red-handed, they'll make
	Bold-faced excuses for themselves, and use
	Them to beat down whoever would accuse.
	For lack of an answer, none of them will die.
	Though a man saw a thing with his own eye,
	Yet we women will face it out, quite bold,
	And weep, and swear, and cunningly scold,
	So that you men will be as stupid as geese.
	What do I care for your authorities?

	"I know quite well that this Jew, this Solomon,
	Found fools among us women, many a one.
	But though he never found a good woman,
	Yet many another man, since time began,
	Has found women true, good, and virtuous.
	Witness those who dwell in Christ's own house:
	With martyrdom they proved their constancy.
	The Roman histories keep in memory
	Many a truly faithful wife, also.
	But, sir, don't be angry; even though
	He said he never found a woman who was good,
	I pray you, take his meaning as you should:
	He meant that in supreme goodness there can be
	No one but God, who sits in Trinity.

	"Hey! For the true God, who is but one,
	Why do you make so much of Solomon?
	What though he built a temple, God's own house?
	What though he was rich and glorious?
	So too he built a temple to false gods;
	What could he do that more with God's law is at odds?
	By God, however fairly you may plaster
	His name, he was a lecher and an idolater;
	And in his old age he turned his back and forsook
	The true God; and if God had not, says the book,
	Spared him for his father's sake, he should
	Have lost his kingdom sooner than he would.
	All the abuse you write of women—why,
	I don't think it's worth a butterfly.
	I am a woman, and I must speak, or I'll make
	Myself swell up until my heart will break.
	For since he called us chatterboxes, I swear,
	As sure as I hope to keep my head of hair,
	I won't hold back, out of courtesy,
	From speaking ill of one who'd slander me."
	"Madam," said Pluto, "don't be angry now;
	I give it up. But since I swore a vow
	That I would give him back his sight again,
	My word shall stand, I warn you, and that's plain.
	I am a king; it isn't right for me to lie."

	"And I," she said, "am a fairy queen, as high.
	She'll have her answer—that I undertake;
	So let's have no more words, for goodness' sake.
	Truly, I will no longer be contrary."

	Now let us turn back again to January,
	Who in the garden with his fair May
	Sings, merrier than the popinjay,
	"I love you best, and will, and no one but you."
	So long along the garden paths he's walked through
	That he had come up to that same pear tree
	Where this Damian is sitting, merrily,
	Up high, among the fresh young leaves so green.

	This fresh May, so bright and lovely to be seen,
	Began to sigh, and said, "Alas, my side!
	Now, sir," she said, "whatever may betide,
	I must have some of the pears that I see,
	Or else I'll die, the longing's so strong in me
	To eat some of the little pears, so green.
	Help, for the love of her who's heaven's queen!
	I tell you, a woman in my plight
	Can have for fruit so great an appetite
	That she may die if it can't be had."

	"Alas!" he said, "that I've no servant lad
	Here who could climb; alas! alas!" said he,
	"That I am blind!" "Yes, sir, no matter," said she;
	"But would you kindly, for God's sake, agree
	To take your arms and put them round the pear tree
	(For I know well that you mistrust me),
	Then I could climb well enough," said she,
	"If I could set my foot upon your back."

	"Certainly," he said, "there'll be no lack,
	Even if helping you cost my heart's blood."
	He stooped right down, and on his back she stood,
	And seized a branch, and up she climbed the tree.
	Ladies, I beg you, don't be angry with me;
	I can't gloss things over; I'm a rough man.
	And suddenly, at once, this Damian
	Pulled up her smock, and pushed his way in.

	And when Pluto saw this great wrong, this sin,
	To January he gave back his sight,
	And made him see as well as ever he might.
	And when he had got his sight again,
	No man was ever gladder than he was then.
	But still his wife was always on his mind;
	Up to the tree he looked, no longer blind,
	And saw that Damian had his wife addressed
	In such a way as cannot be expressed
	Unless I were to speak discourteously:
	And up he gave a roaring and a cry,
	As does the mother when her child must die:
	"Help! Out! Alas! Harrow!" he began to cry,
	"O brazen, shameless lady, what are you up to?"

	And she replied, "Sir, what's come over you?
	Have patience, and some reason in your mind;
	I've helped you, with your two eyes that were blind.
	On peril of my soul, I'll tell no lie:
	I was taught that, to heal a blinded eye,
	There was nothing better to make you see
	Than to struggle with a man up in a tree.
	God knows I did it with the best intent."

	"Struggle!" he said. "Oh yes—and in it went!
	God give you both a shameful death to die!
	He screwed you; I saw it with my own eye,
	Or else let me be hanged by the neck, if it's not true!"

	"Then," she said, "my medicine's no good, it won't do;
	For certainly, if you could truly see,
	You wouldn't say these words to me;
	You have some glimmering, and not perfect sight."

	"I see," he said, "as well as ever I might,
	Thank God, with both my eyes; I see, I know,
	And on my word, I thought he did you so."

	"You're dazed, you're dazed, my good sir," said she;
	"This is the thanks I get for making you see;
	Alas," she said, "that I was ever so kind!"

	"Now, madam," he said, "let it all pass out of mind.
	Come down, my love, and if I've said amiss,
	So help me God, I am sorry about this.
	But by my father's soul, I thought, my dear,
	That I saw Damian lying with you here,
	And that your smock was lying on his breast."

	"Yes, sir," she said, "you may think what you like best;
	But, sir, a man who's waking from his sleep
	Can't suddenly take note of things, or keep
	His mind upon a thing, or see it perfectly,
	Until he's properly awake, entirely;
	Just so, a man who's long been blind will be
	Unable all at once to see as clearly,
	When first his sight has come to him again,
	As one who's had it a day or two by then.
	Until your sight has settled for a while,
	Many a sight may come to you, and beguile.
	Be careful, I beg you; for, by heaven's king,
	Many a man thinks that he sees a thing,
	And it's another thing from what it seems;
	He who misconceives a thing, misdeems."
	And with that word she leapt down from the tree.

	This January, who is glad but he?
	He kisses her, and hugs her, time and again,
	And on her belly strokes her softly; then
	He's led her to his palace, home, his dear.
	Now, good men, I pray you, be of good cheer.
	So here ends my tale of January;
	God bless us, and his mother, Saint Mary!

Epilogue to the Merchant's Tale

	"Hey! Mercy, God!" our Host said then. "I pray
	God keep a wife like that one well away!
	Look what sly tricks, what subtleties
	There are in women! Always, busy as bees,
	They're out to deceive us hapless men, and they
	Will always swerve from the truth, and turn away;
	The proof's in what this Merchant's Tale reveals.
	But doubtless, I have a wife as true as steel,
	Though she is poor, as poor as she may be;
	But with her tongue she's a blabbing shrew, and she
	Has a whole heap of other vices, though—
	No matter; let all things of that sort go.
	But, you know what? Just between us, aside,
	I bitterly regret the knot I've tied.
	For if I counted up her every vice,
	I'd be too great a fool, and I'd pay the price,
	And here's the reason why: it would be
	Reported to her by some of this company;
	By whom, there isn't any need to declare,
	Since women know how to sell that kind of ware;
	And besides, my wits aren't equal to
	Telling it all; and so my tale is through."

The Squire's Prologue

	"Squire, come closer, if you're willing, and
	Say something about love; you understand
	As much about it, surely, as any man."
	"No, sir," he said, "but I will say what I can
	With a willing heart; for I will not rebel
	Against your wishes; I have a tale to tell.
	Excuse me if I say something amiss;
	I mean well; and listen, my tale is this."

The Squire's Tale

	At Sarai, in the land of Tartary,
	There lived a king, and Russia was his enemy,
	And in that war died many a doughty man.
	This noble king was called Cambyuskan,
	Who in his time had won such great renown
	That nowhere was there, under any crown,
	So excellent a lord in everything;
	He lacked nothing that belongs to a king.
	As for the faith in which he had been born,
	He kept its law, to which he had been sworn;
	And he was bold besides, and rich and wise,
	Merciful and just, and every day likewise
	True to his word, benign and honourable,
	His heart, like a circle's centre, fixed and stable;
	Young, fresh and strong, as eager for the fight
	As any young knight of his household might.
	He was a handsome man, and fortunate,
	And kept up always such a royal state
	That nowhere was there such another man.
	This noble king, this Tartar, Cambyuskan,
	Had two sons by Elpheta, his wife,
	Of whom the elder was called Algarsif;
	The other son was known as Cambalo.
	This fine king had a daughter also,
	The youngest one of all, called Canacee.
	But telling all her beauty is not for me:
	It lies beyond my tongue and all my learning;
	I dare not undertake so high a thing.
	My English, too, would be insufficient;
	It needs an orator who's excellent,
	Who knows the colours that belong to that art,
	If he's to describe her, every part.
	I'm no such man; I speak as best I can.

	And so it happened that, when Cambyuskan
	Had worn his diadem for twenty years,
	As was his custom yearly, so it appears,
	He had the feast of his nativity
	Proclaimed throughout Sarai, his city,
	On the last Ides of March, as falls each year.
	Phoebus the sun was jolly, bright and clear,
	For he was near his exaltation, in the face
	Of Mars, and in his mansion, in the place
	Of Aries, the hot and choleric sign.
	The weather was so lively and benign
	That all the birds, against the sun's bright sheen,
	What with the season and the young green,
	Sang out aloud their passions and affections;
	They seemed to think they'd won themselves protections
	Against the sword of winter, keen and cold.

	This Cambyuskan, of whom you have been told,
	Sits in his royal robes upon the dais,
	Wearing his diadem, high in his palace,
	And holds his feast, so solemn and so grand
	That there was nothing like it in any land.
	If I should tell you all of its array,
	It would take up a whole long summer's day;
	Nor need I spell out, course by course, for you
	The order of the service, the whole meal through.
	I'll say nothing of their strange stews, nor tell
	Of all their swans, and heron chicks as well.
	In that land, too, as old knights say, they eat
	Some food that's thought a rare and dainty treat,
	That people in this land would value small;
	There is no man alive who could report it all.
	I won't delay you, since it's already prime,
	And there's no fruit in this, just loss of time;
	To my first matter I will have recourse.

	And so it happened, after the third course,
	While the king sits there in his majesty,
	Hearing his minstrels play their melody
	Before him at the table, delightfully,
	In at the hall door, all suddenly,
	There came a knight upon a steed of brass,
	And in his hand a broad mirror of glass.
	Upon his thumb there was a golden ring,
	And by his side a naked sword was hanging.
	And up he rides to the high table, straight.
	No word was spoken in the hall, so great
	Was the wonder at the knight; and young and old
	Gazed eagerly at him, a sight to behold.

	This stranger knight, who came so suddenly,
	All armed, except his head, and splendidly,
	Greets king and queen, and then the lords, and all
	In order, as they sat there in the hall,
	With such high reverence, such a courtly grace,
	In speech as well as in his look and face,
	That Gawain, with his famous courtesy,
	Come back again from the land of fairy,
	Could not have bettered it by a single word.
	And after this, before the high board,
	He speaks, in a manly voice, his message,
	According to the forms used in his language,
	Without a fault of syllable or letter;
	And, so his speech would seem to them the better,
	His face agreed with what his words would say,
	As the art of speech instructs those who learn its way.
	Although I can't attempt to sound his style,
	Or clamber over such a lofty stile,
	Yet I will say this, as to his general intent:
	This is the sum of all of what he meant,
	If I have rightly got it in my head.

	"The king of Arabia and of India," he said,
	"My liege lord, on this solemn day
	Salutes you in the best way that he may,
	And, in your feast's honour, sends to you
	By me, who am at your command in all I do,
	This steed of brass, that easily and right
	Can, in the space of one day and one night,
	That is to say, in four and twenty hours,
	Wherever you please, in drought or else in showers,
	Carry your body into every place
	To which your heart desires to set its face,
	Without a hurt to you, through foul or fair;
	Or, if you'd like to fly as high in the air
	As an eagle does, when he likes to soar,
	This same steed will carry you evermore
	Without a scratch, wherever you think best,
	Though on his back you sleep, or sit at rest;
	And turn back home, when you twist a pin, at will.
	The man who made it had a world of skill;
	He waited for many a constellation
	Before he carried out this operation,
	And knew of many a seal and magic band.

	"This mirror, too, that I hold in my hand,
	Has such a power that men can see in it
	Whenever adversity is about to hit
	Your reign, or else yourself, in any way;
	And openly, who's your friend, who'll betray.
	And besides all this, if any lady bright
	Has set her heart on any man or knight,
	If he is false, she'll see his treachery,
	His new love, and all his subtlety,
	So plainly that he'll have nothing left to hide.
	And so, to greet this lively summertide,
	This mirror and this ring, which you can see,
	He's sent to my lady Canacee,
	Your excellent daughter, who is here.

	"The power of the ring, if you'd like to hear,
	Is this: that if she has a mind to wear
	It on her thumb, or in her purse to bear,
	There's not a bird that flies beneath the sky
	But she will understand its call and cry,
	And know its meaning openly and plain,
	And answer it in its own tongue again.
	And every herb that grows up from the ground
	She'll know as well, and whom it will make sound,
	However deep his wounds, however wide.

	"This naked sword that's hanging at my side
	Has such a power that whatever man you smite,
	Right through his armour it will carve and bite,
	Were it as thick as a branching oak;
	And any man who's wounded by the stroke
	Will never be whole until you please, of grace,
	To stroke him with the flat in that same place
	Where he was hurt: to put it simply, then,
	You have to stroke him with the flat again,
	Upon the wound itself, and it will close;
	This is the truth, no gloss, no pretty prose;
	It never fails, as long as it's in your hold."

	And when this knight's whole message had been told,
	He rides out of the hall and stops to alight.
	His steed, which shone as the sun shines, burning bright,
	Stands in the courtyard, still as any stone.
	They lead the knight off promptly to his own
	Chamber, where he's unarmed and set at his meal.

	The gifts are fetched with royal pomp and zeal,
	That is, the sword and mirror, and straight away
	Are taken to the high tower, there to stay,
	Borne by the officers appointed for their care;
	And to Canacee they solemnly bear
	The ring, where she is sitting at the table.
	But certainly, and I tell you no fable,
	The horse of brass, which can't be moved, has stood
	As if it had been glued to the ground for good.
	No one can drive it out of there, or haul
	It with a windlass or a pulley at all;
	And here's the reason why: they lack the art.
	So in that place they leave it, set apart,
	Until the knight should teach them, so it's clear,
	The way to move it, as you'll later hear.

	There was a great crowd, swarming to and fro
	To gape at the horse that stood unmoving so;
	For it was so tall, and so broad and long,
	So well proportioned, as if built to be strong,
	Just like a stallion out of Lombardy;
	And so horselike, with eyes so quick to see,
	Like a noble Apulian courser, it would appear;
	For certainly, from its tail up to its ear,
	Neither nature nor art could improve or mend
	One part of it, as all the crowd contend.
	But still their greatest wonder of all was
	How it could move, when it was made of brass.
	It came from Fairyland, or so they guessed;
	And each man judged it as he thought best.
	As many heads, as many minds; and these
	Kept murmuring like a swarm of bees,
	And argued as their fancies led them to,
	Reciting the old poems that they knew,
	And said it was like Pegasus, the horse
	That had the wings to fly with on its course;
	Or else it was the Greek horse of Sinon,
	That brought Troy down to its destruction,
	As in the old heroic tales we've read.
	"My heart," said one, "is always full of dread;
	I'd say that there are men-at-arms within
	Who've laid their plans this city's walls to win.
	It would be well if all of that were known."
	Another whispered to his friend, in a low tone,
	And said, "He's lying. What we see is a fake,
	An apparition such as magic can make,
	As conjurors perform when feasts are great."
	Of all their doubts they chatter and debate,
	As ignorant people commonly will do
	With things more subtly made than they see through
	Or in their ignorance can comprehend;
	They gladly judge them for the worse in the end.

	And some of them marvelled at the mirror's power,
	That had been carried up into the master tower,
	How men could see such marvels in it. One
	Replied it might quite naturally be done
	By angles set in subtle combination
	And cunning tricks of light and reflection,
	And said in Rome there'd been one, long ago.
	They talked of Alhazen and Witelo,
	And Aristotle, who wrote, in their lives,
	Of curious mirrors and of perspectives,
	As those who've heard their books know, word for word.

	And other people wondered at the sword
	That would go piercing right through everything,
	And started talking of Telephus the king,
	And of Achilles and his marvellous spear,
	With which he could both heal a wound and tear,
	In just the way that one can with the sword
	That you yourselves have only just now heard.
	They spoke of various ways of hardening metal,
	And talked as well of drugs for it, and all
	About how, and when, the tempering should be,
	Which is a thing completely unknown to me.

	Then they talked about Canacee's ring,
	And all agreed that of so strange a thing
	In all the craft of rings they'd heard of none,
	Except that Moses and King Solomon
	Were famous for their skill in such an art.
	So say the people, and they draw apart.
	But nonetheless, some others said it was
	As strange as making fern ash into glass,
	And yet glass isn't like the ash of fern;
	But since they've known of it so long, they turn
	From all their chatter, and they cease to wonder.
	Just as some wonder hard about the cause of thunder,
	On ebb and flood, on gossamer and mist,
	And everything, until they've got the gist.
	Thus they chatter, judge and speculate,
	Until the king rose from his table of state.

	Phoebus had left the noon point, south and high,
	And still the royal beast climbed up the sky,
	The noble Lion, with his Aldiran,
	When this Tartar king, this Cambyuskan,
	Rose from his table, where he sat on high.
	Before him goes the loud minstrelsy,
	Until he reached his chamber of rich ornaments,
	Where they are playing various instruments,
	So that it was like a heaven just to hear.
	Now dance the lovers, Venus's children dear,
	For in the Fish their lady sat up high,
	And looks on them with a friendly eye.

	This noble king is set up on his throne;
	They fetch this stranger knight to him; he's shown
	Into the dance, and dances with Canacee.
	Here are the revels, here's the jollity
	That are beyond a dull man's power to tell.
	He'd need to know love and love's service well,
	And be a festive man, as fresh as May,
	To set out for you all of this array.

	Who could describe to you the forms of dances
	So strange, and such fresh faces, such glances,
	Such subtle looks, and such dissembling too
	For fear of jealous men who'd see them through?
	No one but Lancelot, and he is dead.
	So I'll leave all this liveliness unsaid;
	I'll say no more, but leave them having fun
	Till they go in to supper, everyone.

	The steward bids them hurry with the spices; he
	Calls for the wine as well, amid this melody.
	The ushers and the squires have gone away;
	The spice and wine arrive without delay.
	They eat and drink; and when that's at an end,
	Off to the temple, as was right, they wend.

	The service done, they sup while it's still day.
	What need is there to describe their array?
	Everyone knows that at a king's feast
	There's plenty, for the greatest and the least,
	And delicacies more than I could bring
	To mind. And after supper the noble king
	Goes out to see the horse, with all the rout
	Of lords and ladies round him, all about.

	There was such marvelling at this horse of brass
	That since the great siege of Troy came to pass,
	Where men had marvelled at a horse, there'd been
	No marvelling like this, none like it seen.
	But finally the king inquires of the knight
	What powers this courser had, and what its might,
	And asked him to explain its governance.

	This horse at once began to prance and dance
	When this knight laid his hand upon its rein,
	And said, "Sir, there is nothing more to explain,
	But when you'd like to ride, far off or near,
	You have to twist a pin set in his ear,
	Which I will tell you, just between us two.
	And you must name the place you're going to,
	Or else the country where you'd like to ride.
	And when you come where you would like to abide,
	Tell him to come down, and twist another pin,
	For that is where the working lies within,
	And he will come down then and do your will,
	And in that place remain, and stand stock-still,
	Though all the world swore otherwise, he'll stay;
	He won't be dragged from there, or carried away.
	Or if you'd like to send him off, then you
	Twist this pin, and he'll vanish on cue
	Clean out of every living person's sight,
	And come again, whether by day or night,
	When you would like to call him back again
	In such a way as I will soon explain
	Between the two of us, and quickly, too.
	Ride when you like; there's nothing more to do."

	When the king had been instructed by that knight,
	And had grasped in his mind, and got it right,
	The manner and the form of all this thing,
	Then, glad and happy, this noble, doughty king
	Goes back to his revels, as he'd done before.
	The bridle's carried to the tower's store,
	And kept among his jewels, prized and dear.
	The horse vanished, how, I can't make clear,
	Out of their sight; you'll get no more from me.
	And so I leave, in pleasure and in glee,
	This Cambyuskan feasting his lords with cheer
	Until the break of day was very near.

Part Two

	The nurse of digestion, sleep, began to wink
	At them, and warned that after so much drink
	And labour, now the body wants its rest;
	And with a gaping mouth he kissed each guest,
	And said that it was time for lying down,
	For blood was now in power, and held the crown;
	"Cherish your blood, it's nature's friend," he said.
	They thank him, yawning, by twos and threes, and head
	Off, every one of them, to take his rest,
	As sleep had bid; they took it for the best.
	Their dreams will not be told you here by me;
	Their heads were full of fumes from revelry,
	Which cause the dreams that matter not; they lay
	Asleep till prime was long past, into the day,
	Most of them, except for Canacee;
	She was most temperate, as women tend to be.
	For she had asked her father for his leave
	To go to bed, soon after it was eve;
	She had no wish to look all pale, or be
	A dull and unfestive sight next day to see;
	And slept her first sleep, and then was wide awake,
	For in her heart she felt such joy, for the sake
	Both of her curious ring and of her mirror,
	That twenty times she changed her colour;
	And in her sleep, from the impression
	Her mirror made, she had a vision.
	And so, before the sun began to glide
	Up the sky, she called her governess to her side
	And told her that she wanted now to rise.

	These old women, who are generally wise,
	Her governess among them, answered her then,
	And said, "Madam, where would you be going, when
	It's so early? Everyone is still asleep."
	"I'd like," she said, "to rise; I won't keep
	On sleeping any more; I'll walk about."

	Her governess calls a great crowd of women out,
	And up they rise, ten women, or twelve;
	Up rises fresh Canacee herself,
	As rosy and bright as the young morning sun
	Four degrees up in the Ram, its climb begun;
	It was no higher when she was ready to go;
	And out she walks, at an easy pace and slow,
	Dressed for the lively season, light and sweet,
	To play and walk out on her own two feet;
	With only five or six of her household; and she
	Goes walking down a path in the park, carefree.
	The mist that rose up from the earth, and spread,
	Made the sun seem very broad and red;
	But all the same, it was so fair a sight
	That it made all their hearts feel light,
	What with the season and the early day,
	And with the birds she heard singing away;
	For at once she understood what they meant
	Just by their song, and knew all their intent.

	The knot, the reason why a tale is told,
	If it's delayed until the appetite is cold
	Of those who've listened a long time before,
	The longer it goes on, the flavour fades the more,
	From the surfeit of its prolixity.
	And by the same reasoning, it seems to me,
	I'll come down to the knot, and I intend
	To bring her walk, and quickly, to an end.

	In a dried-up tree, as white as chalk,
	As Canacee was playing on her walk,
	A falcon sat, above her head, up high,
	Who with a voice so piteous began to cry
	That all the wood around re-echoed it.
	She'd beaten herself so pitifully, and hit
	Herself with both her wings, until the blood
	Ran red right down the tree there where she stood.
	And over and over she cried and shrieked, and so
	She pierced herself with her own beak, that no
	Tiger, nor any beast so cruel, not one
	That lives in wood or forest under the sun,
	Could have held back its tears, if it knew how,
	For pity of her, she was shrieking so loud now.
	For no man living, ever, to this day—
	If I could describe a falcon the right way—
	Has heard of another of such loveliness,
	In plumage as well as in nobleness
	Of shape, and every point that one could see.
	It seemed she was a peregrine, and she
	Was from a foreign land; and as she stood
	She'd faint, again and again, for lack of blood,
	Till she had all but fallen from the tree.

	This lovely daughter of the king, Canacee,
	Who wore upon her finger the strange ring
	Through which she understood well everything
	That any bird might say in its own speech,
	And could reply in the same tongue to each,
	Has understood what this falcon said,
	And out of pity she was all but dead.
	She quickly goes up to the tree, and there
	Looks at this falcon with a pitying air,
	And held her lap out wide, quite certain that
	The falcon had to fall from where she sat
	The next time that she fainted for lack of blood.
	For a long while, waiting for her, she stood,
	Until at last she spoke, in words sincere,
	To the hawk, as you will afterwards hear.

	"What is the cause, if it is fit to tell,
	That you are in this furious pain of hell?"
	Said Canacee to this hawk above.
	"Is it for sorrow of death, or loss of love?
	For these two causes, as I believe, are those
	That bring a noble heart the most of woes;
	Of other harms there is no need to speak,
	For it's yourself on whom revenge you wreak,
	Which proves for certain that either love or fear
	Must be the reason for your cruel deed here,
	Since I see no one else giving you chase.
	For love of God, show to yourself some grace,
	Or say what might help you; for, west or east,
	Never before have I seen bird or beast
	That treated itself so pitifully.
	You kill me with your sorrow, honestly;
	So great is my compassion for your plight;
	For God's love, come down here from that height;
	And, as I am a king's daughter, and true,
	If I knew truly what has troubled you,
	And if the cure for it lay in my might,
	I'd put it right before it should be night,
	So help me the great God of all things made!
	And I will find herbs enough to give you aid,
	To heal your wounds, and heal them speedily."

	Then this falcon shrieked more piteously
	Than she had ever done, and fell down prone
	And lay unconscious, dead, just like a stone,
	Until Canacee gathered her up to take
	Into her lap, and held her till she'd wake.
	And when she'd started from her swoon, and raised her head,
	In her own hawk's language, this is what she said:
	"That pity runs swiftly in a noble heart,
	Feeling its likeness in the pains that smart,
	Is proved each day, as anyone can see,
	As much by deeds as by authority;
	For noble hearts reveal their nobleness.
	I see well that you feel for my distress
	Compassion, my lovely Canacee,
	From truly womanly benignity
	That nature in your principles has set.
	But not with any hope I'll fare better yet,
	But to obey your generous heart, and be
	A warning to others, so they'll learn by me,
	As the beaten whelp is a lesson to the lion,
	For just that cause, and to that same conclusion,
	While I have leisure, while I have the space,
	I'll confess my harm before I leave this place."
	And all the while the one told of her woe,
	The other wept, as if she'd melt and flow,
	Until the falcon told her to be still;
	And, with a sigh, she spoke out, as was her will.

	"Where I was bred—alas, that cruel day!—
	And fostered on a rock of marble grey
	So tenderly that nothing ever ailed me,
	I never knew what adversity could be,
	Until I could fly high beneath the sky.
	A tercel lived then very close by,
	Who seemed the very fount of nobleness,
	Although he was full of treason and falseness,
	It was so wrapped up in a humble air
	And in the colours of good faith, so fair,
	In charm, and in the eager pains he'd take,
	That no one would have thought his love was fake,
	So deep into the grain he dyed his colours.
	Just as a serpent hides itself under flowers
	Until he sees his moment for a bite,
	Just so this god of love, this hypocrite,
	Performs his ceremonies and obeisances,
	And keeps up, to all appearance, the observances
	That sound like true nobility in love.
	As in a tomb, all is fair above,
	And underneath, you know, the corpse and rot,
	Such was this hypocrite, both cold and hot,
	And in this way he went about his intent,
	So that (except the devil) none knew what he meant.
	Until he had so long wept and complained,
	And, many a year, served me with love he feigned,
	Until my heart, too tender and too blind,
	Innocent of the crowning malice in his mind,
	Afraid that he would die, as it seemed to me,
	Upon his oaths and on his guarantee,
	Gave him my love, on this condition: that my good name
	And honour should for ever stay free of blame,
	Preserved, in private and in open sight;
	That is to say, as he deserved, by right,
	I gave him all my heart and every thought—
	God knows, and he too, otherwise I'd not—
	And took his heart in exchange for mine, for good.
	But it's been said, and long since understood,
	'An honest man and a thief don't think as one.'
	And when he saw how far the thing had run,
	That I had fully granted him my love
	In such a way as I have said above,
	And given him my faithful heart, as free
	As he swore he gave his heart to me,
	At once this tiger, full of doubleness,
	Fell to his knees in devout humbleness,
	With such high reverence, and, by his face,
	So like a noble lover in his grace,
	So ravished, as it seemed, with joy,
	That never Jason, nor Paris of Troy,
	Jason? No, nor any other man
	Since Lamech, who was the first of all who began
	To love two women—so the old books say—
	Nor ever since the first man saw the day,
	Could any man, by a twenty-thousandth part,
	Counterfeit the sophistries of his art,
	Nor was one fit to unbuckle his shoe
	Where doubleness or feigning came into view,
	Or ever thank someone the way he thanked me!
	His manner was a heaven just to see
	For any woman, however wise;
	He painted and he combed, at every point precise,
	His words as well as his countenance;
	And I so loved him for his obeisance,
	And for the truth I thought was in his heart,
	That if it happened anything made him smart,
	However little, and I found it out,
	I seemed to feel death wring my heart about.
	In short, so far this business went,
	That my own will became his will's instrument;
	That is to say, my will obeyed his will
	In all things, as far as reason could, and still
	Kept always to the bounds of honour; never
	Did I hold anything so dear, or dearer, ever,
	As him, God knows! Nor will I, my whole life through.

	"This lasted longer than a year or two,
	That I thought nothing of him but what was good.
	But in the end, at last, this is how it stood:
	That Fortune willed that he must go, begin
	His journey from the place that I was in.
	How sad I was, there is no question;
	I can't begin to give you a description;
	For one thing I dare boldly testify:
	I know from this what pain it is to die;
	Such grief I felt because he could not stay.
	And so he took his leave of me one day,
	And so sorrowfully, too, that I was sure
	That he was suffering all that I'd endure,
	When I heard him speak, and saw his face's hue.
	But all the same, I thought him so true,
	And that he would come back to me again
	Within a little while, to put it plain;
	And reason, too, required that he should go
	For his honour, as often happens, so
	That I made a virtue of necessity,
	And took it well, since that's how it must be.
	I hid my grief from him as well as I knew how,
	And took him by the hand—Saint John be my pledge now—
	And said to him, 'Look, I am yours, all of me;
	Be such to me as I have been, and will be.'
	What he replied, there is no need to rehearse:
	Who can speak better than he, who can do worse?
	When he has said it all well, his work is through.
	'He needs a long spoon who would eat his stew
	With a fiend,' that's what I've heard people say.
	So at last he had to go his way,
	And off he flies, till he came where he thought best.
	When it suited his purpose to rest,
	I think he had that text in mind
	That 'all things, coming back to their own kind,
	Rejoice'; that's what men say, as I would guess;
	Men love, by their own nature, newfangledness,
	Like birds that people keep in cages and feed.
	For though, day and night, you give them heed,
	And line their cage as fair and soft as silk,
	And give them sugar, honey, bread and milk,
	Yet the moment that his little door is up,
	He'll use his feet to kick over his cup,
	And off to the woods he goes, for worms to eat;
	So newfangled are they about their meat,
	They love new things because it's in their kind;
	No noble blood is strong enough to bind.
	This tercel was the same, alas the day!
	Though nobly born, and fresh, and in showy array,
	And fine to see, and humble, frank and free,
	He saw one day a kite fly by, and he
	Fell for this kite so suddenly, and so deep,
	That none of his love for me was left to keep;
	And he has played his promise false this way;
	So now the kite has my love in her sway,
	And I am lost, and there's no cure for me!"
	And with that word the falcon screamed, and she
	Fainted again on Canacee's arm.

	Great was the sorrow, for the hawk's harm,
	That Canacee and all her women made;
	They knew no way to bring the falcon aid.
	But Canacee carries her home in her lap,
	And gently, in bandages, began to wrap
	Her where she had hurt herself with her beak.
	Now Canacee can only dig and seek
	Herbs from the ground, and make salves, fresh and new,
	Of precious herbs, and very fine of hue,
	To heal the hawk with; and from day to night
	She works at it with all her care and might.
	And at her bed's head she made a mew,
	A hawk's cage, covered in velvet blue,
	In token of the faith that's always seen
	In women; and outside, the mew was painted green,
	On which were painted all the faithless fowls,
	Such as the titmice, tercels, and the owls,
	And, just for spite, were painted at their side
	Magpies, to cry out at them and to chide.

	So I leave Canacee nursing her hawk, and won't bring
	Up anything more for now about her ring,
	Until the time comes round when I explain
	How this falcon got her love back again,
	Repentant, as the story tells, and so
	Through the good offices of Cambalo,
	The king's son, of whom I've already told.
	But from now on, the course I'm going to hold
	Is to speak of adventures and of war,
	Such marvels as were never heard before.

	First I will tell you of Cambyuskan,
	Who conquered many a city in his span;
	And after that I'll speak of Algarsif,
	How he won Theodora for his wife,
	Often in peril for her sake, he'd never pass
	Through it, had he not been helped by the steed of brass;
	And after that I'll speak of Cambalo,
	Who fought two brothers in the lists, foe to foe,
	For Canacee, before he won her; then
	Where I left off, I'll start to tell again.

Part Three

	Apollo whirls his chariot up so high,
	Until the house of Mercury the sly—

The Words of the Franklin

	"In faith, Squire, you have done well, and done it right,
	And I praise your wit, as any gentleman might,"
	The Franklin said, "and, seeing you're so young,
	You speak so feelingly, I praise your tongue!
	In my judgement, there is no one here
	Who'll match your eloquence or be your peer,
	If you live long. God send you luck, I pray,
	And keep you steadfast in virtue day by day!
	Your speech has been a great delight to me.
	I have a son, and, by the Trinity,
	I'd gladly give up twenty pounds' worth of land,
	Though it should fall right now into my hand,
	To see him have the good sense you have shown!
	Shame on possessions, all the things we own,
	Unless a man has virtue in him too.
	I've scolded my son, and I am not yet through,
	For he won't trouble himself to attend
	To virtue, but to play at dice, and spend,
	And lose all that he has—that is his way.
	And he would rather talk with a page any day
	Than keep the company of anyone well-bred
	From whom he'd learn true nobility instead."—

	"Straw for your nobility!" said our Host.
	"What, Franklin? By God, sir, you know as well as most
	That each of you must tell, if nothing more,
	A tale or two, or break the oath he swore."

	"I know that well, sir," said the Franklin. "I ask
	You not to hold me in contempt, or take me to task,
	Though to this man I speak a word or two."

	"Get on and tell your tale, and no more ado."
	"Gladly, Sir Host," he said, "I will obey
	Your wishes; now just listen to what I say.
	I won't go against you, sir, not one bit,
	As far as I have wits enough for it;
	I pray to God my tale will please you well;
	Then I'll know it's good enough to tell."

The Franklin's Prologue

	These old and noble Bretons, in their days,
	Of all sorts of adventures made their lays,
	Rhymed in their first language, the Breton tongue;
	And to their instruments these lays were sung,
	Or else they read them out for their own fun;
	And I have kept in mind a certain one,
	Which I will tell you gladly, as best I can.

	But, sirs, because I am a rough, unlearned man,
	Before I start, there's one thing I beseech:
	That you'll forgive me my unpolished speech;
	I never studied rhetoric, I maintain;
	And what I say must all be bare and plain.
	I never slept on Mount Parnassus, no,
	Nor studied Marcus Tullius Cicero.
	I know no colours, none of any kind,
	Except such colours as in fields you find,
	Or else such colours as men paint or dye;
	Rhetoric's colours are too strange; they pass me by.
	My spirit has no feel for such things, I fear;
	But if you like, my tale is what you'll hear.

The Franklin's Tale

	In Armorica, which is Brittany, a knight
	Once loved a lady, and laboured with all his might
	To serve her in the best way he could devise;
	And many a labour, many a great enterprise
	He undertook for her, before she could be won.
	For she was one of the fairest under the sun,
	And came of such high lineage, so far above,
	That the knight hardly dared, for fear, to tell his love
	His woe, his suffering, and his distress.
	But in the end, because of his worthiness,
	And most of all for his humble obedience,
	She took such pity on him in his penance
	That privately she came to an accord
	To take him as her husband and her lord,
	With such lordship as men have over their wives;
	And so that they might lead more blissful lives,
	Of his free will he swore to her, as a knight,
	That never in all his life, by day or night,
	Would he take on himself the mastery
	Against her will, or show her jealousy,
	But would obey her, and follow her will in all,
	As any lover should, at his lady's call;
	Except the name of sovereignty, which he
	Would keep, for shame's sake, given his degree.

	She thanked him, and, with great humility,
	She said, "Sir, since out of your nobility
	You offer me so free a rein, God grant there be
	Never, between the pair of us, you and me,
	Through any fault of mine, a war or strife.
	Sir, I will be your humble, faithful wife;
	Here is my word, till my heart breaks in my breast."
	And so the two of them are at peace and rest.

	For one thing, sirs, I can safely say:
	That friends must each let the other have his way
	If they would long keep up their company.
	Love will not be constrained by mastery;
	When mastery comes, the God of Love straightaway
	Beats his wings, and—farewell!—he's flown away!
	Love is as free a thing as any spirit can be;
	Women by nature long for liberty,
	And not to be restrained, the way a slave is bound;
	And so do men, to tell the truth, I've found.
	Look at whoever is most patient in love:
	He has the advantage, and he stands above.
	Patience is a lofty virtue, it's plain;
	For it conquers, as these scholars maintain,
	Things that rigour never could attain.
	One shouldn't scold at every word, or complain.
	Learn to endure, or else—as I live—you've got
	To learn it all the same, whether you will or not.
	For certainly no one in this world can claim
	He never says or does a thing deserving blame.
	Anger, or sickness, or the stars' position,
	Wine, woe, or a change in the body's condition
	Often cause wrongs in what we say or do;
	One can't take vengeance for each wrong done to you;
	As the time requires, there must be temperance
	In all who understand self-governance.
	And that is why this wise, distinguished knight,
	To live at ease, has promised her his patience outright,
	And she swore to him most truly, in return,
	That never a fault in her would he discern.

	Here you can see a humble, wise accord;
	So she has taken her servant and her lord,
	Her servant in love, her lord in marriage;
	So he was both a lord and in bondage.
	Bondage? No—in lordship high above,
	Since he has both his lady and his love;
	His lady, certainly, and his wife no less,
	To which the law of love itself says yes.
	And now, with all this happiness at hand,
	He goes home with his wife to his own land,
	Not far from Penmarch, where his dwelling lay,
	And there he lives in bliss and joy each day.

	Who, if he'd not been married, could ever tell
	The joy, the ease, and the good fortune as well
	That are between a husband and his wife?
	A year and more there lasted this blissful life,
	Until the knight of whom I'm speaking thus,
	The knight of Kairrud, called Arveragus,
	Made plans to go and live a year or two
	In England, which was called Britain too,
	To seek in arms distinction and honour,
	For all his pleasure lay in such labour;
	And there he stayed two years; the book says thus.

	Now I'll leave off about Arveragus,
	And tell of Dorigen, who was his wife,
	Who loves her husband as her heart's own life.
	She weeps and sighs for him while he's away,
	As noble wives do when they feel that way.
	She mourns, she lies awake, she wails, fasts, and complains;
	Longing for him so grips her, so constrains,
	That she valued all this wide world at naught.
	Her friends, who understood her heavy thought,
	Comfort her in every way they may;
	They preach to her, they tell her night and day
	That she is killing herself for nothing, alas!
	And every comfort possible in such a pass
	They offer her, with all their earnestness,
	All to make her lay aside her heaviness.

	With time, as each of you has always known,
	A man can carve so long into a stone
	That there's some figure cut in it, plain to see.
	So long they've comforted her, until she
	Has, by hope and by reason, come to bear
	The imprint of the comfort they placed there,
	Through which her heavy sorrow starts to wane;
	She cannot go on always in such pain.

	Arveragus, too, in all this time of care,
	Has sent her letters home on his welfare,
	And that he'll soon come home to her again;
	Or else this grief would have left her heart slain.

	Her friends could see her grief begin to ease,
	And begged her, for God's sake, on their knees,
	To come and walk about with them, to find
	A way to drive the dark thoughts from her mind.
	And finally she granted that request,
	For she saw well that it was for the best.

	Now her castle stood beside the sea, and there
	She often walks out with her friends to take the air
	Upon the bank, along the cliff-top high,
	From where she sees many a ship and barge go by,
	Sailing their course wherever they please to go;
	But that was then a part of all her woe.
	For to herself, "Alas!" she'd often say,
	"Is there no ship, of all I see today,
	That brings my lord home? Then my aching heart
	Would be quite healed of every bitter smart."

	At other times she'd sit there and she'd think,
	And cast her eyes down, looking from the brink.
	But when she saw the grim black rocks, she'd shake;
	For sheer fear her heart would start to quake,
	So that she could not keep standing on her feet;
	Then she would sit down, the green grass for her seat,
	And stare out pitifully at the sea below,
	And say these words, sighing cold sighs of woe:

	"Eternal God, who through your providence
	Lead the world with certain governance,
	You make nothing in vain, as men surmise;
	But, Lord, these grim black fiendish rocks that rise,
	Which look much more like a work of foul disorder
	Than a fair creation, made in perfect order
	By such a God, so perfect, wise, and stable,
	Why have you made this work unreasonable?
	For by this work, south, north, or west, or east,
	There's no one nourished, man, or bird, or beast;
	It does no good, I think; it only harms, annoys.
	Don't you see, Lord, the people it destroys?
	A hundred thousand bodies of mankind
	These rocks have killed, though they're not kept in mind;
	And mankind is so fair a part of all your art
	That you made it in your own image from the start.
	Then it would seem you had great charity
	Toward mankind; but how then can it be
	That you devise such means for it to destroy,
	Means that do no good, but always harm and annoy?
	I know quite well the scholars will protest
	By argument that all is for the best,
	Though what the causes are, I cannot know.
	But may that same God who made the wind to blow
	Keep my lord safe! That's all I have to say;
	Let scholars do the arguing, as they may.
	But I wish to God that all these black rocks might
	Be sunk to hell for his sake, out of sight!
	These rocks are killing my heart with fear."
	So she would say, with many a pitiful tear.

	Her friends saw that it gave her no relief
	To walk beside the sea, but only grief;
	So they arranged to play somewhere instead.
	Along the rivers and by springs she's led,
	And other places, too, delightful, fair;
	They dance, and play at chess and backgammon there.

	So one day, early in the morning light,
	To a garden over there, close by, in sight,
	Where they had seen to it, beforehand, there
	Was food and other things laid out with care,
	They go, and play the whole long day away.
	And this was on the sixth morning of May,
	And May had painted, with his gentle showers,
	This garden full of leaves and full of flowers;
	And human craft and skill, with such fine art,
	Had laid this garden out in every part
	That there was never a garden of such price,
	Unless it was the true Paradise.
	The scent of the flowers and the lovely, fresh sight
	Would have made any heart in the world grow light
	That ever was born, unless too great a sickness,
	Or too great sorrow, held it in distress;
	It was so full of beauty, so pleasing to the glance.
	And after dinner they began to dance,
	And sing as well, except Dorigen alone,
	Who kept on making her complaint and moan;
	For she did not see him dancing, the man who
	Was both her husband and her lover too.
	But all the same, for a time she must abide,
	And with good hope let all her sorrow slide.

	In this dance, among the other men,
	There danced a squire in front of Dorigen
	Who was fresher, and more splendid in array,
	In my judgement, than the month of May.
	He sings and dances better than any man
	That is, or was, since the world began.
	And he was also, if one should contrive
	To sketch him, one of the handsomest men alive;
	Young, strong, most virtuous, and rich and wise,
	And much beloved, held high in people's eyes.
	In short, if I'm to tell the truth, laid bare,
	Without this Dorigen being at all aware,
	This lively squire, a servant to Venus,
	Who was called by the name Aurelius,
	Had loved her best of all creatures, for a span
	Of two years and more, as his fortune ran,
	But he had never dared to tell her his grievance;
	Without a cup, he drank down all his penance.
	He was in despair, and dared say nothing, though
	In his songs, now and then, he'd let a little show
	His woe, in a general complaint that named no one;
	He said he loved, and was beloved by none.
	On such a theme he made up many lays,
	Songs, and complaints, and rondels, virelays,
	How he dared not speak his sorrow, but must dwell
	In languishing, as a Fury does in hell;
	He said he'd have to die, as Echo, long ago,
	Died for Narcissus, not daring to tell her woe.
	Except the way you've heard me just explain,
	He dared not let her know about his pain;
	Except that sometimes, it may be, at dances,
	Where young people keep up their observances,
	It may well be he looked upon her face
	In such a way as a man who asks for grace;
	But she knew nothing of his real intent.
	Nevertheless, it happened, before they went,
	Because he was her neighbour, and was known
	As a man of standing and honour of his own,
	And she had known him for a long time before,
	They fell to talking; and then, more and more,
	This squire edged toward what he meant to discuss,
	And when he saw his moment, he spoke thus:

	"Madam," he said, "by God, who made the earth,
	If I knew it would give your heart some mirth,
	I'd wish that on the day your Arveragus
	Went over the sea, that I, Aurelius,
	Had gone where I should never come back again;
	For well I know my service is in vain.
	My only reward is the breaking of my heart;
	Madam, take pity on my pains, that smart;
	For with a word you can kill me, or can save;
	Here at your feet I wish to God I had my grave!
	I have no time to say more now; and I—
	Have mercy, sweet, or you will make me die!"
	She looked hard at Aurelius:
	"Is this what you want," she said, "and do you speak thus?
	I never knew before," she said, "what you meant.
	But now, Aurelius, I know your intent,
	By that God who gave me soul and life,
	I'll never be an unfaithful wife
	In word or deed, as far as I have wit:
	I'll be his, the man to whom I'm knit;
	Take this from me as my final answer, then."
	But after that, in play, she spoke again:

	"Aurelius," she said, "by high God above,
	I'd still agree, though, to become your love,
	Since I see you lament with so much pain,
	Look—the day that, through all of Brittany's domain,
	You take away the rocks, stone by stone,
	So that no ship or boat is hindered by one—
	I mean, when you have made the coast so clean
	Of rocks that not a single stone is seen,
	Then I will love you best of any man;
	Here is my word, as solemnly as I can."

	"Is there no other mercy in you?" he cried.

	"No, by the Lord who made me," she replied.
	"For well I know that it will never be done.
	Let such follies slip from your heart, every one.
	What pleasure can a man have in his life
	In going to love another man's wife,
	Whose husband has her body when he likes?"

	Aurelius sighs often, as the sorrow strikes;
	Aurelius, when he heard this, was full of care,
	And with a sorrowful heart he answered there:

	"Madam," he said, "you ask what cannot be!
	Then sudden, horrible death must come for me."
	And with that word he turned away, and was gone.
	Then many of her other friends came on,
	And up and down the garden paths they strolled about,
	Knowing nothing of how things had turned out,
	But suddenly they started revelling anew
	Until the bright sun had lost its hue;
	For the horizon had robbed the sun of light—
	Which is as much as to say that it was night.
	And home they go, all joy and pleasure, as they pass,
	All but the wretched Aurelius, alas!
	He's gone home to his house with sorrowful heart;
	He sees he can't escape his death by any art.
	It seemed to him his heart was turning cold;
	He raised his hands toward heaven, uncontrolled,
	And sank down on his bare knees there, and prayed,
	And in his raving, this is the prayer he made.
	For sheer grief, his wits had fled his head;
	He didn't know what he spoke, but this is what he said;
	With a pitiful heart, his lament's begun
	To all the gods, and first of all, the sun:

	He said, "Apollo, god and ruling power
	Of every plant, herb, tree, and flower,
	Who give to each, as you swing south and north,
	Its time and season when it may come forth,
	As your place in the heavens changes, low or high,
	Lord Phoebus, cast your merciful eye
	On wretched Aurelius, utterly forlorn.
	See, Lord! My lady has my death as good as sworn,
	Through no fault of my own—unless your grace
	Takes pity on my dying heart's sad case!
	For well I know, Lord Phoebus, at your behest,
	You, after my lady, can help me best.
	Now please allow me to describe to you
	How I can be helped, and what you'd have to do.

	"Your blessed sister, the bright moon, in her sheen,
	Lucina, the sea's chief goddess and its queen—
	Though Neptune has his godhead in the sea,
	She's empress over him, and higher than he—
	You know well, Lord, that just as her desire
	Is to be given life and light from your fire,
	Which is why she follows you so eagerly,
	In just the same way the sea, naturally,
	Longs to follow her, since she's the goddess, the one
	Of the sea, and of the rivers, great and small, that run.
	And so, Lord Phoebus, this is my request—
	Do this miracle, or my heart will burst in my breast—
	That now, at the next opposition, soon,
	When in the Lion's sign you'll face the moon,
	You pray her to bring a flood so great and deep
	That at least five fathoms over it will sweep
	The highest rock in Brittany; and may
	This flood last for two years, and not give way;
	Then I can surely go to my lady and say:
	'Keep your word now; the rocks have gone away.'

	"Lord Phoebus, work this miracle for my sake:
	Ask her to run no faster course than you take;
	I mean, beg your sister to go slow
	These two years, no faster than you go.
	Then she will always be exactly full; that way
	The spring tide will last both night and day.
	And if she won't consent to it, in this manner here,
	To grant me my own sovereign lady dear,
	Then pray her to sink each rock, and send it down
	Into her own dark region underground,
	Where Pluto has his dwelling, far below,
	Or else I'll never win my lady, I know.
	I'll make my way barefoot to Delphi, to seek
	Your temple; Lord Phoebus, see the tears on my cheek,
	And pity me for all my pain, Lord, soon."
	And with that word he fell down in a swoon,
	And for a long time he lay there in a trance.

	His brother, who knew all about his penance,
	Lifted him up and carried him to bed.
	Despairing in this torment, in this dread,
	I'll let this woeful creature lie;
	Let him choose, as far as I'm concerned, to live or die.

	Arveragus, in health and with great dignity,
	As one who was the very flower of chivalry,
	Has come back home, with other distinguished men.
	Oh, how blessed you are now, Dorigen,
	Who hold your lively husband in your arms,
	The vigorous knight, the distinguished man of arms,
	Who loves you as his own heart's life. And he
	Has no desire to brood on what might be—
	Whether anyone, while he was abroad, had set out
	To talk to her of love; that fear he was without.
	He never turns his mind to things like these,
	But dances, jousts, and does all he can to please;
	And so in joy and bliss I'll let them dwell,
	And it's of sick Aurelius I will tell.

	In weakness and in torment, furious,
	For two years and more lay wretched Aurelius,
	Before he set a foot upon the ground;
	In all this time no comfort could be found
	Except from his brother, a scholar, who
	Knew all this woe, and what it put him through.
	For certainly to no one else would he dare
	To breathe a single word of this affair.
	He hid it in his breast; no one had any idea—
	More secret than Pamphilus for Galatea.
	His breast was whole outside, as could be seen,
	But in his heart the arrow was always keen.
	And you know well that a wound skinned over and sealed
	Is perilous, in surgery, to be healed,
	Unless you reach the arrow, or come near;
	His brother wept and wailed where none could hear,
	Until at last it came into his mind, by chance,
	That, while he was at Orleans, in France,
	As young scholars do, who are greedily inclined
	To read the curious arts, the occult kind,
	Search every nook and cranny, and every turn,
	For special sciences they want to learn,
	He remembered how one day, in the study there
	At Orleans, he'd seen a book, a rare
	Book of natural magic, which his friend—and he
	Already held a bachelor's law degree,
	Although he'd come to learn a different trade—
	Had quietly left lying on his desk, where it stayed;
	A book that said a lot about the operations
	Concerning the twenty-eight mansions, or stations,
	That go with the moon, and suchlike folly, by
	Our standards nowadays not worth a fly;
	For Holy Church's faith, in our belief,
	Allows no such illusion to bring us to grief.
	And when this book came back to his remembrance,
	At once his heart, for joy, began to dance,
	And to himself he said, in privacy,
	"My brother will be cured, and speedily;
	For I am sure there are sciences that will
	Make all kinds of illusions, by their skill,
	Like those that cunning illusionists display.
	For often at feasts I've heard the people say
	That these magicians, in a hall that's large,
	Have conjured up some water, and a barge,
	And rowed it in the hall, across the floor;
	Sometimes a grim lion seemed to come through the door;
	And sometimes flowers sprang up, a meadow spread;
	Sometimes a vine, with grapes both white and red;
	Sometimes a castle, all of stone and lime;
	And when they pleased, it vanished in no time.
	That's how it seemed to everybody's sight.

	"So now I conclude like this: that if I might
	Find some old classmate at Orleans, of the kind
	Who has these mansions of the moon in mind,
	Or knew some other natural magic above,
	He'd surely make my brother have his love.
	For with illusion, as a scholar can devise,
	It may seem that all the black rocks, to men's eyes,
	Of Brittany had been removed, each one,
	And ships along the shore could come and run,
	And keep that form a day or two, and so
	My brother would be cured of all his woe.
	Then she would have to keep her word and vow,
	Or else at least he'll shame her for it, now."

	Why should I make this longer than I've said?
	He's gone to see his brother, in his bed,
	And comforted him so, to get him on his way
	To Orleans, that he jumped up right away,
	And off he goes upon his way, and bears
	The hope that he'll be eased of all his cares.

	When they had nearly reached the town—a space
	Of two or three furlongs short of the place—
	They met a young scholar strolling all alone,
	Who greeted them in Latin, in a courteous tone,
	And after that he said an amazing thing:
	"I know," he said, "the reason for your coming";
	And before they took one further step, he went
	Through all they had in mind, their whole intent.

	This Breton scholar asked about the men
	He'd known as fellow students, way back when;
	And he replied to him that they were dead,
	At which he wept, and many a tear he shed.

	Aurelius got off his horse right away,
	And went off with this magician, who led the way
	Home to his house, and made them welcome there;
	They lacked no food, and had the finest fare.
	Aurelius had never in his life seen
	A house so well arranged as this had been.

	Before they went to supper, he made appear
	Forests and parks, all full of the wild deer;
	He saw the harts there with their antlers high,
	The greatest ever seen by human eye.
	He saw a hundred of them killed by hounds,
	And some, with arrows, bleeding from bitter wounds.
	He saw, when these wild deer were whisked away,
	Some falconers by a fair river, and they
	Had flown their hawks, and a heron had been slain.

	Then he saw knights jousting on a plain;
	And after this, to please him and entrance,
	He showed him his own lady at a dance
	In which he danced himself, or so he thought.
	And when the master, by whose magic this was wrought,
	Saw it was time, he clapped his hands, one, two,
	And farewell! all our revelry was through.
	And yet they hadn't left the house; they'd stayed
	Right there while all these marvels were displayed,
	But in his study, where his books would be,
	They sat quite still, and no one but those three.

	The master called his squire to come near,
	And said to him: "Is our supper ready here?
	It's been almost an hour now, I'd say,
	Since I told you to get supper under way,
	When these distinguished men went off with me
	Into my study, where my books would be."

	"Sir," said the squire, "it's ready, whenever you say,
	All set, even if you want it right away."
	"Then let's have supper," he said, "that will be best;
	These people who're in love must sometimes rest."

	After supper they began to negotiate
	The sum to be this master's fee, the rate
	For moving all the rocks of Brittany,
	And from the Gironde to where the Seine meets the sea.

	He played hard to get, and swore, as God was his aid,
	A thousand pounds at least had to be paid,
	And even then he wasn't keen to go.

	Aurelius at once, his heart aglow,
	Replied: "Pooh! What's a thousand pounds? This wide
	World, which they say is round on every side,
	I'd give it all, if I owned every bit.
	This bargain's closed: we've shaken hands on it.
	You'll be paid faithfully, I pledge my oath!
	But see that now, through negligence or sloth,
	You don't hold us up here past one more day."
	"No," said the scholar, "my word on it: no delay."

	Aurelius went to bed when he thought best,
	And nearly all that night he had good rest;
	What with his weariness and hope of bliss,
	His heart found respite from its pain in this.

	The next morning, as soon as it was day,
	They headed for Brittany by the quickest way,
	Aurelius and the magician at his side,
	And got down at the place where they'd reside;
	And this was, as the books help me remember,
	The cold and frosty season of December.

	Phoebus grew old and brassy-coloured, though
	In his hot declination, not long ago,
	Had shone like burnished gold with streams of light;
	But now in Capricorn he'd come down from his height,
	Where he shone very pale, I'll say it plain.
	The bitter frosts, along with sleet and rain,
	Have killed the green, and every garden's cleared.
	Janus sits by the fire, with his double beard,
	And from his drinking-horn he drinks the wine;
	Before him stands the brawn of the tusked swine,
	And "Noel!" is the cry from every lively man.

	Aurelius, in every way he can,
	Fusses over his master, shows respect,
	And begs him to work hard, and not neglect
	To bring an end to his pain's bitter smart,
	Or else he'd take a sword and slit his heart.

	This clever scholar has such pity for the man
	That night and day he hurries all he can
	To watch for the hour to bring it to conclusion;
	That is to say, to work up an illusion,
	By some such apparition or trickery—
	I don't know any terms of astrology—
	That she and everyone would think and say
	That the rocks of Brittany had gone away,
	Or else that they had sunk beneath the ground.
	So in the end the proper time was found
	To play his tricks, his wretched wizardry,
	His cursed and superstitious devilry.
	He brought his Toledan tables out, the star charts,
	Well corrected, lacking none of their parts:
	Neither his tables of grouped years nor of single years,
	Nor his roots, nor any other of his gears,
	Such as his centres and his arguments,
	And all his proportional increments
	For his equations, used in everything.
	And with his eighth sphere, in his reckoning,
	He knew how far the star Alnath had been shoved
	From the head of that fixed Aries above
	(Its place is in the ninth sphere); all of this
	He calculated cleverly, nothing amiss.

	When he had found the first mansion's place,
	He knew the rest by proportion from that base;
	And knew his moon's rising well, and could tell
	In whose face and term it stood, and the rest as well;
	And knew well which mansion of the moon would suit
	The operation he would execute,
	And knew besides his other ceremonies
	For such illusions and such sorceries
	As heathen people used in those days;
	And so he made no more of his delays,
	But through his magic, for a week or two,
	It seemed the rocks had vanished, every one, from view.

	Aurelius, who's in despair still, not knowing yet
	Whether he'll win his love or end in regret,
	Waits night and day upon this miracle;
	And when he knew there was no obstacle,
	That all the rocks were cleared and swept away,
	He fell down at his master's feet without delay,
	And said, "I, wretched, woeful Aurelius,
	Thank you, my lord, and my lady Venus,
	Who've helped me out of my cold despair!"
	And to the temple he went off from there,
	To the place where he knew his lady would be;
	And when he saw his moment, instantly,
	With fearful heart and humble face, he drew near
	And greeted her, his sovereign lady dear:

	"My true lady," said this woeful man,
	"Whom I most fear and love as best I can,
	And whom I'd least of all the world displease,
	Were it not that for you I've so lost all ease
	That I must die here at your feet straightaway,
	I'd never tell how wretched I am today;
	But either I must die or else complain;
	You kill me, though I'm guiltless, with this pain.
	But though my death won't move your heart, take care
	To think before you break your word: beware.
	Repent, for the sake of God who reigns above,
	Before you kill me only for my love.
	For, madam, you know well what you have pledged outright;
	Not that I claim anything from you by right,
	From you, my sovereign lady, but your grace;
	But in a garden over there, in such a place,
	You know quite well what you promised to me;
	And in my hand you pledged your word, freely,
	To love me best—God knows, you told me so,
	Unworthy as I am of that, I know.
	Madam, I speak this for your honour's sake,
	More than to save my heart's life, now at stake;
	I have done just as you commanded me;
	And if you will consent, you may go see.
	Do as you like; but bear your promise in mind:
	Alive or dead, I'll be right there, you'll find.
	It all lies with you, to save me or to slay;
	But I know this: the rocks have gone away!"

	He takes his leave, and she stood dazed and numb;
	Into her face no drop of blood would come;
	She'd never thought she'd fall in such a trap:
	"Alas!" she said, "that I should suffer this mishap!
	For I never thought there was the possibility
	That such a monstrous marvel ever could be!
	It goes against the process of nature":
	And home she goes, a sorrowful creature.
	Her fear's so great that she can hardly go;
	She weeps and wails a day or two in woe,
	And faints, so that it was pitiful to see;
	But why it was, she told to nobody;
	For he was out of town, Arveragus.
	But to herself she spoke, and put it thus,
	With a pale face, and a look of grief severe,
	In her lament, as you will shortly hear:

	"Alas," she said, "Fortune, I complain
	Of you, who caught me unawares in your chain,
	From which I know no help, no way to flee,
	But death alone, or else my infamy;
	And one of these two things I have to choose.
	But even so, I'd much prefer to lose
	My life than have my body put to shame,
	Or know myself untrue, or lose my name;
	And with my death I'll be set free, I know.
	Haven't many noble wives, long ago,
	And many maidens killed themselves, alas,
	Rather than let their bodies' sin come to pass?

	"Yes, certainly; these stories tell it true:
	When thirty tyrants, wicked through and through,
	Had killed Phidon at a feast in Athens, they
	Commanded that his daughters be seized straight away,
	And brought before them, in contempt and spite,
	Stark naked, to fulfil their foul delight,
	And in their father's blood they made them dance
	Upon the pavement—God send them mischance!
	For which these woeful maidens, full of dread,
	Rather than they would lose their maidenhead,
	In secret leapt down into a well
	And drowned themselves, as all the books tell.

	"The men of Messene had fifty maidens sought
	From Lacedaemon, Sparta, and had them brought
	On whom they meant to practise lechery;
	But there was none in all that company
	Who wasn't killed, and with a firm intent
	Chose rather to die than to consent
	To being raped and robbed of her maidenhead.
	So why should I feel any dread of being dead?

	"Look, too, at the tyrant Aristoclides,
	Who loved a maiden called Stymphalides:
	When her father had been murdered in the night,
	She ran straight to Diana's temple in her flight,
	And clutched the statue in her hands, and so
	She held it, and would never let it go.
	No one could tear her hands from their embrace
	Until she was killed right in that same place.
	Now since these maidens felt such scorn and spite
	At being defiled to serve man's foul delight,
	Then surely a wife should kill herself, rather than be
	Defiled like that—or so it seems to me.

	"What shall I say of Hasdrubal's wife,
	Who at Carthage took her own life?
	For when she saw the Romans win the town,
	She took all of her children and leapt down
	Into the fire, and chose to die, so she
	Would suffer from no Roman indignity.

	"Didn't Lucretia kill herself, alas,
	At Rome, when that outrage had come to pass
	By Tarquin? For she thought it such a shame
	To live on, once she'd lost her own good name.

	"The seven maidens of Miletus also
	Killed themselves, out of sheer dread and woe,
	Rather than let the Gauls take them by duress.
	More than a thousand stories, I would guess,
	I could tell now about this matter here.

	"When Abradates was killed, his wife so dear
	Killed herself, and let her blood flow and glide
	Into Abradates' wounds, so deep and wide,
	And said, 'My body, at least, shall stay
	Undefiled by anyone, if I have my way.'

	"Why should I tell of more examples, when
	So many have killed themselves, time and again,
	Rather than suffer such ignominy?
	I will conclude that it is better for me
	To kill myself than be dishonoured thus.
	I will be true to Arveragus,
	Or rather kill myself, by some means, here,
	As did Demotion's daughter, his child so dear,
	Because she wouldn't be defiled, not she.

	"O Cedasus! It is a great pity
	To read of how your daughters died, alas,
	Who killed themselves when they were in that pass.

	"As great a pity it was, or much more,
	The Theban maiden who, because of Nicanor,
	Killed herself, for just that kind of woe.

	"Another Theban maiden did just so;
	For a Macedonian had raped her; she
	With her own death redeemed her chastity.

	"What shall I say of Niceratus' wife,
	Who in the same plight took her own life?

	"How true, too, was his love to Alcibiades:
	She chose to die, and would not buy her ease
	By leaving his body unburied! See
	What a wife Alcestis was!" said she.

	"What does Homer say of good Penelope?
	All Greece knows of her chastity.

	"By God, of Laodamia it's written thus:
	That when at Troy they killed Protesilaus,
	She'd live no longer after his last day.

	"The same of noble Portia I can say:
	Without Brutus, she had no wish to live;
	He had her whole heart, all she had to give.

	"Artemisia's perfect wifely constancy
	Is honoured in every barbarian country.

	"O Teuta, queen! Your wifely chastity
	Can be a mirror for all wives to see.
	The same thing I can say of Bilia,
	Of Rhodogune, and also Valeria."

	So for a day or two Dorigen made her lament,
	And all the while on dying she was bent.

	But all the same, upon the third night,
	Arveragus came home, this distinguished knight,
	And asked her why she cried so, and what for.
	And she began to weep, and weep the more.

	"Alas!" she said, "that ever I was born!
	This is what I said," she said, "what I have sworn"—
	And told him everything you've heard before;
	There's no need to repeat it to you any more.

	Her husband, cheerfully and in a friendly way,
	Answered and said what I'm about to say:
	"Is there anything else, Dorigen, but this?"

	"No, no," she said, "God help me, as I hope for bliss;
	This is too much, even if it were God's will."

	"Well, wife," he said, "let sleeping things lie still;
	Perhaps it may yet turn out well today.
	You'll keep your word, by my faith, come what may!
	For, as God may have mercy on me, wife,
	I'd rather be stabbed and lose my life,
	Out of the true love that I have for you,
	Unless you keep your word and see it through.
	Truth is the highest thing a man can keep."
	But with that word he broke down and began to weep,
	And said, "I forbid you, on pain of death,
	That ever, while you have life or breath,
	You tell anyone of this misadventure.
	As best I can, I'll suffer and endure,
	And show no sign of grief, or of distress,
	So people can't think harm of you, or guess."

	And then he called a squire and a maid to come through:
	"Go out with Dorigen," he said, "you two,
	And bring her to a certain place—go on!"
	They take their leave, and on their way they've gone;
	But they had no idea why she went;
	He wouldn't tell a soul what he meant.

	Perhaps a lot of you will think, I know,
	That he's a foolish man for acting so,
	To put his own wife in such jeopardy;
	Hear out the tale before you blame her; wait and see.
	She may turn out luckier than you suppose;
	And when you've heard the tale, judge, at its close.

	This squire, the one who was called Aurelius,
	Who was so taken with Dorigen, so amorous,
	Happened by chance to cross her path and meet
	Her in the middle of town, in the busiest street,
	As she was on her way, heading straight
	Toward the garden, where she'd sworn to wait.
	And he was heading for the garden also;
	For he kept a close watch on when she would go
	Out of her house, to any kind of place.
	But this was how they met, by chance or grace;
	And he greets her, with a happy heart's intent,
	And asked her where she was headed as she went.

	And she replied, half as if she'd gone mad,
	"To the garden, as my husband said I had
	To keep my word—alas! alas!"

	Aurelius was amazed at this sad pass,
	And in his heart he pitied her, and the way
	She wept and grieved, and all she had to say,
	And for Arveragus, the distinguished knight,
	Who told her to keep her promise, even in this plight,
	So loath he was his wife should break her word;
	And in his heart a great pity for it stirred,
	Considering what was best on every side,
	That he would rather let his own desire slide
	Than act so basely and so churlishly,
	Against generosity and all nobility;
	And so, in just a few words, he spoke thus:

	"Madam, tell this to your lord Arveragus:
	That since I see his great nobility
	Toward you, and how great your distress must be,
	That he would rather suffer shame (a pity to see)
	Than have you break the word you gave to me,
	I'd rather live in misery my whole life through
	Than break apart the love between you two.
	I release you, madam, and I set you free,
	Quit of each surety and each guarantee
	That you have made to me, or that you've sworn,
	At any time since the day that you were born.
	I swear I'll never reproach you for a vow
	Of any kind; and I take my leave of you now,
	As from the truest and the finest wife
	That I have ever known in all my life.
	But let each wife beware the promise she makes;
	Remember Dorigen, at least, for your own sakes.
	And so a squire can do a noble deed
	As well as any knight—it's guaranteed."

	She thanks him, kneeling down on her knees, bare,
	And home to her husband she goes, and there
	Tells him the whole thing, as you've heard me say;
	And be assured he was so pleased that day
	It would be quite impossible to write.
	What more is there to put in black and white?

	Arveragus and Dorigen his wife
	Lived on in perfect happiness all their life.
	Never again did anger come between
	Them; he cherished her as though she were a queen;
	And she was true to him for evermore.
	About these two, I'll tell you nothing more.

	Aurelius, his money lost, and left forlorn,
	Curses the hour, the day, that he was born:
	"Alas," he said, "alas! the promise I made,
	A thousand pounds of pure gold, by weight, to be paid
	To this philosopher! What shall I do?
	I see nothing for it but that I am through.
	My inheritance is what I'll have to sell,
	And be a beggar; here I cannot dwell,
	And shame my family, here in this place,
	Unless he shows me better terms, more grace.
	But even so, I'll ask him if I may
	On certain days, year by year, repay,
	And thank him for his great courtesy;
	I'll keep my word: I won't tell lies, not me."

	With aching heart he goes to his coffer,
	And brought the gold to this philosopher,
	Worth some five hundred pounds, so it seemed to me,
	And begs him, out of his nobility,
	To grant him time to pay the balance due,
	And said: "Master, I dare to boast to you,
	I've never failed to keep my word as yet;
	For surely I'll be quit of every debt
	To you, however badly I may fare,
	Though I go begging, with just my shirt to wear.
	But if you'd let me, on security,
	Have two or three years' respite, I would be
	All right; or else I'll have no choice but to sell
	My inheritance; there's no more to tell."

	This philosopher answered soberly,
	And said like this, when he had heard his plea:
	"Haven't I kept my side of the deal with you?"
	"Yes, certainly," he said, "well and true."
	"Didn't you have your lady, satisfied?"
	"No, no," he said, and sorrowfully sighed.
	"What was the reason? Tell me, if you can."
	And so, at once, Aurelius's story began,
	And he told him all, as you have heard before;
	There's no need to repeat it to you any more.

	He said, "Arveragus, out of true nobility,
	Would rather die in sorrow and misery
	Than see his wife prove false to what she'd sworn."
	He told him, too, how Dorigen would mourn,
	How loath she was to be a wicked wife,
	And that she'd sooner, that day, have lost her life,
	And that in innocence she'd sworn her vow:
	"She'd never heard of such illusions until now;
	That made me feel such pity, such sympathy;
	And just as freely as he sent her to me,
	Just as freely I sent her back to him again.
	That's all there is; there's nothing more to explain."

	This philosopher replied, "My dear brother,
	Each one of you behaved nobly to the other.
	You are a squire, and he is a knight;
	But God forbid, by his blessed might,
	That a scholar couldn't do a noble deed
	As well as either one of you—agreed?

	"Sir, I release you from your thousand-pound
	Debt, just as if you'd crept out of the ground,
	And never, until now, had known of me.
	For, sir, I won't accept one penny's fee
	For all my skill, nor for my toil and sweat;
	You've paid me well for my food. There is no debt.
	That is enough; farewell, and have a good day!"
	He took his horse, and went off on his way.

	My lords, here is a question I'd put to you:
	Which was the most generous, in your view?
	Now give me your answer before we ride on, my friends;
	I know no more; and here my story ends.

The Second Nun's Prologue

	That servant and that nurse of every vice
	Which we in English know as idleness,
	That porter at the gate where pleasures entice—
	To shun it, and by its opposite suppress,
	That is to say, by lawful busyness,
	We ought to give our effort and intent,
	Or else the fiend will seize us, idly spent.

	For he, who with a thousand cords of sleight
	Is always waiting for us, to entrap,
	When idleness puts a man within his sight,
	Can catch him up so easily in his trap
	That, till a man is grabbed by his coat's flap,
	He doesn't know the fiend has him in hand;
	We ought to work, and idleness withstand.

	And even if we never feared our dying day,
	We still could see by reason, beyond doubt,
	That idleness is rotten sloth and slow decay,
	From which no good increase has ever come about;
	And see that sloth has it leashed, with no way out
	But only to sleep, and eat and drink, and then
	Devour all that's been worked for by other men.

	And so, to keep us from such idleness,
	That brings so much confusion in its train,
	I've set to work here with all faithfulness,
	Following the legend, translating it plain,
	Your glorious life, your passion and your pain,
	You with your garland, rose and lily too—
	Saint Cecilia, maid and martyr, I mean you!

Invocation to Mary

	And you who are the flower of virgins all,
	Of whom Saint Bernard loved so well to write,
	To you, as I begin, I first call;
	You comfort of us wretches, help me to recite
	Your maiden's death, who won by merit and by right
	Eternal life, and triumph over the fiend of hell,
	As you'll find later, when her story I tell.

	You, maid and mother, daughter of your son,
	You well of mercy, sinful spirits' cure,
	In whom God chose, for goodness, to dwell—the one
	Humble, and high above every creature—
	You so ennobled our human nature
	That the Creator did not scorn what he had made,
	But clothed his son in blood and flesh, arrayed.

	Within the blissful cloister of your side
	The eternal love and peace took human frame,
	Who is the threefold world's lord and its guide,
	Whom earth and sea and heaven unceasingly acclaim
	In praise; and you, the virgin without blame,
	Bore from your body, staying virgin through it all,
	The Creator of every creature, great and small.

	In you is gathered all magnificence,
	With mercy, goodness, pity in such degree
	That you, who are the sun of excellence,
	Not only help the ones who bend the knee,
	But often, of your kindness, generously,
	Before men even ask, before they beseech,
	You go ahead with help, the healer of each.

	Now help, you meek and blissful, lovely maid,
	Me, exiled wretch, in this desert of gall;
	Think of the Canaanite woman, how she prayed
	And said that puppies, too, may eat the small
	Crumbs from their master's table, as they fall;
	And though I, an unworthy son of Eve,
	Am sinful, still accept what I believe.

	And, since faith is dead without its works,
	Give me the wit to work, and time and space,
	To be released from where the deepest darkness lurks!
	O you, so beautiful and full of grace,
	Be my advocate in that high place
	Where "Hosanna" is sung through a never-ending span,
	You, Christ's mother, dear daughter of Anne!

	And light my soul in prison with your light,
	My soul that's troubled by the foul infection
	Of my body, and by the heavy might
	Of earthly lust and of false affection;
	O haven of refuge, O salvation
	Of those who are in sorrow and distress,
	Now help me, for my work I now address.

	Yet I beg you, you who read the words I write,
	Forgive me that I've used no diligence
	To make this story subtle, artful, bright;
	For I have kept the words, and kept the sense
	Of him who wrote the tale in reverence
	Of the saint; I follow her legend to the end,
	And beg you, where my work is wrong, to mend.

The Meaning of the Name Cecilia, from the Golden Legend of Jacobus of Genoa

	First I would like to explain the name, Cecilia,
	To you, as anyone in her story can see:
	It means, in English, "heaven's lily,"
	For the pure chastity of virginity;
	Or, since she had the whiteness of integrity,
	And the green of conscience, and of good fame
	The sweet savour, "lily" was her name.

	Or "Cecilia" means "the way for the blind,"
	For she was an example by good teaching;
	Or else, as in the books I've read I find,
	"Cecilia" is formed by a kind of joining
	Of "heaven" and "Leah"; and here, in this figuring,
	"Heaven" stands for her thoughts of holiness,
	And "Leah" for her lasting busyness.

	Cecilia may also be explained this way:
	"Lacking blindness," for her great light
	Of wisdom, and for her virtues, clear as day;
	Or else, look, this maiden's name so bright
	Comes from "heaven" and "leos," and so, by right,
	Men might well call her "the people's heaven," then,
	Example of all good and wise works among men.

	For "leos" means "the people," as we say;
	And just as in the sky we all can see
	The sun and moon and stars in every way,
	Just so, in spirit, in this maiden, noble and free,
	Men see faith's great-hearted magnanimity,
	And the full clearness of her wisdom's sight,
	And various works with excellence made bright.

	And just as the philosophers all write
	That heaven is swift and round and full of fire,
	Just so was fair Cecilia, pure and white,
	Swift and busy in good works, and would not tire,
	And round and whole, persevering, entire,
	And always burning, bright with charity's flame;
	Now I have told you all about her name.

The Second Nun's Tale

	This shining maid, Cecilia, as her Life has told,
	Was born of Romans, and of noble kind,
	And from her cradle she was fostered in the fold
	Of the faith of Christ, and bore his gospel in her mind;
	She never ceased, as in the books I find,
	From prayer, from loving God and fearing him; she prayed
	That he would keep her always as a maid.

	And when this maiden was to marry a man
	Who was still young, of very tender age,
	And who by name was called Valerian,
	And the day had come for her marriage,
	She, most devout and humble in heart and carriage,
	Under her robe of gold, that sat so fair,
	Was wearing, next her skin, a shirt of hair.

	And while the organ's music sounded all around,
	She sang to God alone, in her heart, this plea:
	"O Lord, keep both my soul and body sound,
	Unstained, so that no ruin comes to me";
	And, for his love who died upon a tree,
	Every second or third day she would fast,
	Praying all the time, and holding fast.

	The night came, and she had to go to bed
	With her husband, as the custom goes; and here,
	In private, she at once spoke up and said:
	"O sweet, beloved husband, and so dear,
	There is a secret, if you'll lend an ear,
	Which I would very gladly tell you, if you'll say
	Upon your oath that you won't give me away."

	Valerian quickly swore to her; he swore
	That in no case, for nothing that could be,
	He'd ever betray her, now or evermore;
	And then, for the first time, she said, "Hear me:
	I have an angel who loves me, and he,
	With great love, is always ready to keep
	Watch over my body, whether I wake or sleep.

	"And if he senses—and of this be sure—
	That you touch me, or love me with base desire,
	He'll kill you in the act; there is no cure;
	And so, young as you are, you would expire;
	And if you guide me in clean love, entire,
	He'll love you as he loves me, for your chasteness,
	And show you all his joy and all his brightness."

	Valerian, corrected as God willed, made reply:
	"If I'm to trust you, then let me see
	That angel; let me look him in the eye;
	And if it truly is an angel, then I'll be
	Willing to do just as you've asked of me;
	And if it's another man you love, by my oath,
	Then with this very sword I'll kill you both."

	Cecilia answered straight away, in this guise:
	"If that's your wish, the angel you shall see,
	Provided you believe in Christ, and are baptized.
	Go out along the Appian Way," she said; "it's three
	Miles from this city, no more, and you'll be
	Among poor people there; to them as well
	Say this, exactly as I'm going to tell.

	"Tell them that I, Cecilia, have sent
	You to them, so they'll show you Urban the Old,
	For secret needs and with a good intent.
	And once you've seen Saint Urban, then unfold
	To him the very words that I have told;
	And once he's purged your sins away, you'll find
	That angel there, before you leave him behind."

	Valerian has gone off to the place she'd shown,
	And just as he'd been taught, with her to guide,
	He found this holy old Urban, at once, alone,
	Among the saints' graves, where he'd gone to hide.
	And he at once, without delay, complied
	And gave his message; and when he'd told it there,
	Urban, for joy, held up his hands in the air.

	He let the tears run from his eyes and fall—
	"Almighty Lord, O Jesus Christ," he cried,
	"Sower of chaste counsel, shepherd of us all,
	The fruit of that seed of chastity you supplied,
	Sowing it in Cecilia, take to your side!
	Look, like a busy bee, without a trace of guile,
	Your own servant Cecilia serves you all the while!

	"For this same husband, whom she has just wed,
	Who was like a fierce lion, she sends here
	To you, as meek as any lamb that's led!"
	And as he spoke, at once, an old man drew near,
	Dressed all in white, in garments bright and clear,
	Who held a book with letters of gold in his hand,
	And in front of Valerian took his stand.

	Valerian, as if dead, fell down for dread
	When he saw him; the old man raised him up again,
	And opened up his book, and from it read:
	"One Lord, one faith, one God, and none beyond; and then
	One Christendom, and one Father of all men,
	Above all, and over all, and everywhere"—
	And all these words were written in gold there.

	When this was read, then up spoke the old man:
	"Do you believe this or not? Say yes or no."
	"I believe all this," answered Valerian,
	"For nothing truer than this, I'd have you know,
	Could anyone conceive, in all the world below."
	The old man vanished then, he didn't know where,
	And Pope Urban christened him right there.

	Valerian goes home, and finds Cecilia inside
	His chamber, where she and an angel stand;
	The angel had two garlands, rose and lily, tied,
	And carried both of them in his hand;
	And first to Cecilia, as I understand,
	He gave the one; and then, there in the house,
	He took the other to Valerian, her spouse.

	"With body clean and with unblemished thought
	Keep these crowns always well," he said; "for, see,
	To you, from Paradise, these crowns were brought,
	And they will never rot, nor will they be
	Without their sweet perfume; trust in me;
	And no one shall ever see them with his eyes
	Unless he's chaste, and baseness he'll despise.

	"And you, Valerian, because so soon
	Assented to good counsel, lending an ear,
	Say what you'd like, and you shall have your boon."
	"I have a brother," answered Valerian, "and here
	In all the world there's no man I hold so dear.
	I pray you that my brother may have grace
	To know the truth, as I do in this place."

	The angel said, "God is pleased with your request,
	And both of you, with the palm of martyrdom,
	Shall come to his blissful feast, and be his guest."
	And with that word his brother Tiburce had come.
	And when he breathed the fragrance coming from
	The roses and the lilies spread abroad,
	He wondered in his heart, and was overawed,

	And said, "I wonder, at this time of year,
	Where this sweet scent can come from, I can't tell,
	Of rose and lilies, which I'm smelling here.
	For if I held them in my two hands, the smell
	Could go no deeper in me, nor more deeply dwell.
	The sweet smell that I'm finding in my heart
	Has changed me, made me different in every part."

	"There are two crowns," Valerian said, "which we
	Possess, snow-white and rose-red, shining clear,
	Which your eyes do not have the power to see;
	And, as you smell them through my prayer, my dear
	Brother, so you shall see them, too, appear,
	If, without sloth, you will believe as you ought,
	And know the very truth, as you are taught."

	Tiburce replied, "Are you saying this to me
	In earnest, or is this a dream I'm going through?"
	"In dreams," Valerian said, "we've come to be
	Until this moment, brother, I and you;
	But now for the first time we live in what is true."
	"How do you know this?" Tiburce said. "In what way?"
	And Valerian answered, "That's what I'll now say.

	"It was God's angel by whom the truth was taught
	To me, and you will see it if you renounce
	The idols and are clean; if not, you'll see naught."
	And Saint Ambrose likes, in his preface, to announce
	The miracle of these two crowns, and to pronounce
	Upon it solemnly; this doctor, noble and dear,
	Commends it, and speaks like this, as you will hear:

	To win the martyr's palm, which she would then receive,
	Saint Cecilia, filled with what God had given,
	Forsook the world and her chamber, and took her leave;
	Witness Tiburce and Valerian, confessed and shriven,
	To whom God, of his bounty, sent from heaven
	Two crowns of flowers whose sweet scent filled the air,
	And had his angel bring the two crowns there:

	The maid has brought these men to bliss above;
	The world has learned, for certain, the worth, the gain,
	Of chastity devoted wholly to love.—
	Then Cecilia showed Tiburce, open and plain,
	That all the idols are a thing in vain;
	For they are dumb, and deaf besides; and she
	Charged him to leave his idols, and let them be.

	"Whoever won't believe it, a beast is what he is,"
	Tiburce then said, "if I'm not to tell a lie."
	And she kissed his breast, when she heard him say this,
	And was most glad the truth had caught his eye.
	"This day I take you as my ally,"
	Said this blissful, lovely maiden, so dear;
	And after that she said, as you may hear:

	"Look," she said, "just as Christ's love made me take
	Your brother as my husband, in that guise,
	I take you now as my ally, for his sake,
	Since your idols are what you mean to despise.
	Go with your brother now; let them baptize
	You and make you clean, so that you may behold
	The angel's face of which your brother told."

	Tiburce answered, saying, "Brother dear,
	First tell me where I'm going, and to what man."
	"To whom?" he said. "Come on, come with good cheer;
	I'll take you to the pope, to Urban."
	"To Urban? Brother, my Valerian,"
	Said Tiburce then, "is that where you would lead
	Me? To my mind, that would be a strange deed.

	"You don't mean Urban, do you?" he said; "no—
	The one who's been so often sentenced to be dead,
	Who lives in corners, hiding, to and fro,
	And doesn't dare to once put out his head?
	They'd burn him in a fire that's flaming red
	If he were found, or anyone should spy
	Him; and we'd burn too, for standing by;

	"And while we look for that divinity that hides
	In heaven, secret, far beyond our sight,
	We'll burn in this world anyway, besides!"
	To whom Cecilia answered, bold and forthright,
	"Men might well fear, with reason and with right,
	To lose this life, my own dear brother,
	If this were the only life, and there were no other.

	"But there's a better life in another place,
	That never will be lost; don't be distraught;
	Of which God's son has told us, through his grace;
	The Father's son, by whom all things were wrought;
	And all that has been wrought with skilful thought,
	The Spirit, who from the Father did proceed,
	Has given them souls; and that is sure indeed.

	"By word and miracle, God's only son,
	When he was in this world, here made it clear
	That there's another life to live, when this is done."
	To whom Tiburce answered, "O sister dear,
	Didn't you say just now, as I could hear,
	That there's one God alone, the true lord, you said?
	Then how can you bear witness to three instead?"

	"I'll tell you that," she said, "before I go.
	Just as a man has wisdoms numbering three—
	Memory, wit, and intellect also—
	So in the one being of divinity
	Three persons may quite well together be."
	Then she began, with great zeal, to preach
	Of Christ's coming, and of his pains to teach,

	And many points about his passion; how
	God's son was kept here in this world's hold
	To give mankind full pardon—who, till now,
	Lay bound in sin and cares that chilled it cold:
	All this to Tiburce she explained and told.
	And after this Tiburce, with good intent,
	Along with Valerian, to Pope Urban went,

	Who thanked God; and with a heart glad and light
	He christened him, and made him, in that place,
	Perfect in his learning, God's own knight.
	And after this Tiburce received such grace
	That every day he saw, in time and space,
	The angel of God; and every kind of boon
	That he asked God was granted to him soon.

	It would be very hard, in order, to explain
	How many wonders Jesus for them wrought;
	But at the last, to tell it short and plain,
	The sergeants of the city of Rome sought
	Them out, and before Almachius the prefect brought
	Them; and he questioned them, and knew all their intent;
	To Jupiter's image, then, the two were sent,

	And said, "Whoever will not sacrifice, his head
	Comes off—that is the sentence I pass here."
	These martyrs I have told you of were seized and led
	By one Maximus, who was an officer
	Of the prefect's, and his clerk, his corniculer;
	And when he led the saints out, he grew sad,
	And wept himself, for the pity that he had.

	When Maximus had heard the saints' lore,
	He got leave from the torturers, and away
	He took them to his house, delaying no more;
	And with their preaching, before the end of day,
	They took the torturers' false faith away,
	And Maximus's, and his people's, every one,
	And brought them to believe in God alone.

	Cecilia came, when it had grown to night,
	With priests, who christened all of them as one, right here;
	And afterwards, when day had grown to light,
	Cecilia spoke to them, her face grave and austere:
	"Now, Christ's own knights, beloved and dear,
	Cast away all the works of darkness,
	And arm yourselves in the armour of brightness.

	"You've fought a mighty battle, and did not quail;
	You've run your course; your faith has been preserved;
	Go to the crown of life that cannot fail;
	The righteous judge, whom you have served,
	Will give it to you, as you have deserved."
	And when this had been said, as I recite,
	They led them off to do the sacrificial rite.

	But when they had been brought there, to the spot,
	To tell the outcome briefly, as I intend,
	They would not burn incense, nor sacrifice a jot,
	But on their knees they both began to bend,
	With humble hearts, devoted, steadfast to the end,
	And both of them lost their heads in that place.
	Their souls went off to the king of grace.

	This Maximus, who saw this thing betide,
	With piteous tears, at once reported the sight:
	That he had seen their souls go up and glide
	To heaven, with angels shining clear and bright;
	And by his words he turned many to the light;
	For which Almachius had him beaten, beaten sore,
	With whips of lead, until he lived no more.

	Cecilia took him and buried him right away,
	Gently beside Tiburce and Valerian,
	In her burial place, under the stone, where they lay.
	And after this, Almachius, in haste, began
	To have his officers, in full view of every man,
	Fetch Cecilia, so that she might, in his presence,
	Do sacrifice, and offer Jupiter incense.

	But they, converted by her wise lore,
	Wept bitterly, and gave full credence
	To her word, and cried out more and more,
	"Christ, God's son, without difference in essence,
	Is true God; this is all our sentence,
	Who has so good a servant here to serve;
	This, with one voice, we hold, though we die, and won't swerve!"

	Almachius, who heard about all this,
	Ordered Cecilia brought, for him to see,
	And this, look, first of all, his question is:
	"What kind of woman are you?" he asked. Then she
	Said, "I'm a woman born of noble family."
	"I ask you," he said, "though it may make you grieve,
	About your religion, and what you believe."

	"You have begun your questioning foolishly,"
	She said, "in wanting two answers to conclude
	In one demand; you asked it ignorantly."
	Almachius answered to that attitude:
	"Where does your answering come from, so rude?"
	"From where?" she said, when questioned; she maintained:
	"From conscience, and from good faith unfeigned."

	Almachius said, "Do you pay no heed to my might?"
	And she replied to him exactly so:
	"Your might," she said, "gives little cause for fright;
	For every mortal's power, I'd have you know,
	Is like a bladder full of wind, no more; and so,
	With just a needle's point, when it is blown,
	All of its boasting can be overthrown."

	"You started wrongly," he said, "and equally
	In wrong is all your perseverance;
	Don't you know how our mighty princes, noble and free,
	Have issued their command and made an ordinance
	That every Christian shall be put to penance
	Unless he will deny his faith, and may
	Go free, if he'll renounce it, on his way?"

	"Your princes err, as your nobility does too,"
	Cecilia said then, "and with a mad sentence
	You make us guilty, and it isn't true;
	For you, who know quite well our innocence,
	Because we pay to Christ our reverence
	And bear the name of Christian, still you frame
	A crime against us, and lay on us the blame.

	"But we, who know that name for good and true,
	Cannot deny it, nor that name betray."
	Almachius answered, "Choose one of the two:
	Do sacrifice, or cast the Christian faith away,
	So that you can escape now by that way."
	At which the holy, blissful, lovely maid
	Began to laugh, and answered the judge, unafraid:

	"O judge, confused in your absurdity,
	Do you want me to deny my innocence,
	To make myself a wicked person?" said she;
	"Look! Here in public he puts on a pretence;
	He stares and raves, bereft of all good sense!"
	To whom Almachius said, "You hapless wretch,
	Don't you know how far my power can stretch?

	"Haven't our mighty princes put in my hand,
	Yes, both the power and the authority,
	To make men die, or live, at my command?
	Why do you speak so proudly, then, to me?"
	She said, "I only speak with constancy,
	Not proudly; for I say, as for our side,
	We hate with deadly hatred the vice of pride.

	"And if you don't fear the truth, or fear to hear,
	Then I will show quite openly, by right,
	That you have told a great lie here.
	You say your princes have given you the might
	Both to kill a man and make him live, outright;
	You, who can only take life, only bereave,
	Have no other power, nor any leave!

	"But you may say your princes have made you their
	Minister of death; for if you speak of more,
	You lie, for all your power is stripped bare."
	"Enough of this boldness," Almachius said, "before
	You go, make sacrifice to the gods that we adore;
	I don't care what insult you may proffer,
	For I can bear it as a philosopher;

	"But those wrongs are more than I can endure
	That you speak against our gods," he said.
	Cecilia answered, "O you foolish creature,
	Since you first spoke, your every word has spread
	Before me all the folly in your head;
	And that you are, in every way, it's very plain,
	An ignorant officer, and a judge who's vain.

	"There's nothing missing from your outward eyes
	To make you blind; for what we all survey
	To be a stone, as anyone can recognise,
	That stone's a god, is what you want to say.
	I advise you: put your hand on it, and weigh
	And feel it well, and stone is what you'll find,
	Since you can't see it with your eyes so blind.

	"It is a shame that people, great and small,
	Should scorn you so, and laugh at your folly; why,
	Men commonly know well, one and all,
	That mighty God is in his heavens high;
	And these images—you can see it with your eye—
	Can't help you, or themselves; they have no might;
	For in effect they're not worth a single mite."

	These words, and others like them, she would plead,
	And he grew furious, and had her led
	Home to her house; "And in her house," he decreed,
	"Burn her right in a bath of flames so red."
	And as he bade, it was done, just as he said;
	For in a bath they shut her fast away,
	And stoked a great fire underneath it, night and day.

	All the long night, and all a day also,
	For all the fire, and all the bath's great heat,
	She sat there cold, and never felt a woe;
	It didn't bring one drop of sweat out, from head to feet.
	But in that bath her end she was to meet;
	For he, Almachius, with wicked will,
	Sent his messenger into the bath to kill.

	Three times the torturer struck her neck, and tried,
	But by no chance at all, in any way,
	Could cut her neck in two, from side to side;
	And since there was a law in force that day
	That no one should be made to pay
	The penance of a fourth stroke, soft or sore,
	This torturer did not dare do any more.

	But, half-dead, with her neck cut open there,
	He left her lying there, and off he went.
	The Christian folk who stood around her, where
	She lay, with sheets gathered the blood she'd spent;
	Three days she lived on in this torment,
	And never ceased to teach the faith, and each
	Of those she'd fostered in it heard her preach.

	And she gave them her goods, and everything,
	And to Pope Urban's care she let them go,
	And said, "I asked this of heaven's king:
	To give me three days' respite, and no more, so
	That I might commend to you, before I go,
	These souls, look—and to have my house here made
	Into a church forever, with your aid."

	Saint Urban and his deacons, without a sound,
	Fetched the body, and buried it by night
	Among his other saints, with honour, underground.
	Her house became Saint Cecilia's church, by right,
	That Saint Urban hallowed, as he well might;
	In which, to this day, in noble ways,
	Men give to Christ and to his saint their praise.

The Canon's Yeoman's Prologue

	When the life of Saint Cecilia was done,
	Before five miles of our ride had been run,
	At Boughton-under-Blean, hard on our track,
	A man caught up with us, all dressed in black,
	And underneath he wore a surplice, white.
	His hackney, dapple-grey, had sweated quite
	So hard that it was a wonder to see;
	It seemed he'd spurred it hard for miles, say three.
	The horse his yeoman rode was sweating so
	That it could scarcely manage now to go.
	Around the breast strap the foam stood piled up high;
	It was flecked with foam all over like a magpie.
	A double bag lay on his crupper, so
	It seemed he had very little gear in tow.
	This worthy man rode light, in summer gear,
	And I began to wonder, as he drew near,
	What he could be, until I understood
	That his cloak had been sewn on to his hood;
	So, once I'd given it a lot of thought,
	I judged he was some canon, of a sort.
	His hat hung down his back, held by a lace,
	For he'd been riding faster than a trot or pace;
	He'd spurred and spurred as madly as he could.
	He had a burdock leaf under his hood
	To keep the heat off, and to catch the wet.
	But it was a joy to watch the fellow sweat!
	His forehead dripped like a still, the kind that's filled
	With plantain and pellitory, to be distilled.
	And when he got to us, he called aloud,
	"God save," he said, "this jolly crowd!
	"I've spurred hard after you," he said, "to make
	Sure I'd catch up with you, all for your sake,
	And ride along in this merry company."
	His yeoman too was full of courtesy,
	And said, "Sirs, at an early hour today
	I saw you ride out from your inn, on your way,
	And warned my lord and master, who would be
	Most glad to ride along in your company
	For sport; he loves good talk, it suits him best."

	"Friend, for your warning, may God keep you blessed,"
	Then said our Host, "for certainly it's clear
	Your lord is wise—at least, so I'd judge from here;
	And very cheerful, I would bet, as well.
	Is there a merry tale or two he'd tell
	To liven up this company as we ride?"

	"Who, sir? My lord? Yes, yes—it can't be denied,
	He knows all about fun and jollity,
	More than enough; and also, sir, trust me,
	If you knew him as I do, sir, you'd stand
	Amazed how well, how skilfully his hand
	Could work, and in how many a different guise;
	He's undertaken many a great enterprise,
	Which would be very hard for one of you
	To bring about, unless he taught you to.
	Humble as he rides among you, if you got
	To know him, it would profit you a lot;
	You'd never give his friendship up, if set
	Against great wealth; I'd stake on it, I'd bet
	All that I have and hold in my possession.
	He is a man of very high discretion;
	I'm telling you, he is an outstanding man."

	"Well," said our Host, "then tell me, if you can,
	Is he a scholar, or not? Then what is he?"

	"No, he's greater than a scholar, certainly,"
	Said this yeoman, "and in a word or two,
	Host, I'll show something of his craft to you.

	"My lord, I tell you, has such subtlety
	(But all his craft you cannot learn from me,
	And yet I lend a hand in what we do)
	That all the ground that we are riding through,
	Until we come to Canterbury town,
	He could turn completely upside down,
	And pave it all with silver and with gold."

	And when the yeoman's claims had all been told
	To our Host, he said, "Benedicite!
	This is a wonder and a marvel to me,
	Since your lord is so very wise, and men
	Should honour him because of it, why then
	Should he think his own dignity so slight?
	His overcoat's not even worth a mite
	For such a man—so help me God, I swear!
	It's filthy, and it's torn beyond repair.
	Why is your lord so slovenly, I pray,
	When he could buy better cloth any day,
	If his deeds really match the words you speak?
	Tell me that; that's the answer that I seek."

	"Why?" said the yeoman, "Why put that to me?
	God help me, he will never thrive—not he!
	(But I won't own to anything I say,
	So keep it secret, please; don't give it away.)
	He's just too clever, honestly, I believe;
	And what is overdone will not achieve
	Its end—a vice, as all the scholars say;
	So I think him ignorant and foolish in that way.
	For when a man has far too great a wit,
	It often happens that he misuses it;
	So does my lord, which grieves me to the core.
	God mend it! I can tell you nothing more."

	"Never mind that, good yeoman," said our Host;
	"Since you know your lord's skill better than most,
	I beg you heartily, tell me how he'll ply
	His trade, since he's so crafty and so sly.
	Where do you live, if that can be told to me?"

	"In the suburbs of a town," said he,
	"Lurking in corners and back alleys, the kind
	Where robbers and thieves, by nature so inclined,
	Keep their secret and fearful residence,
	Like men who do not dare to show their presence;
	That's how we live, if I'm to tell it true."

	"Now," said our Host, "let me keep talking to you:
	Why is the colour so gone from your face?"

	"Saint Peter!" he said, "God give it rotten grace!
	I've blown upon the fire so long, I'm afraid
	That's what has made my colour change and fade.
	I never stand in front of mirrors, prying,
	But labour hard and learn our multiplying.
	We blunder on forever, staring in the fire,
	And for all that, we fall short of our desire,
	For we can never reach our conclusion.
	We fool a lot of people with illusion,
	And borrow gold, perhaps a pound or two,
	Or ten, or twelve, or many sums more, too,
	And make them think, at least, that we can do
	The trick of making one pound into two!
	It's false; and yet we never give up hope
	Of doing it, and after it we grope.
	But that science always runs so far before
	Our reach, that we could never, though we swore
	We would, catch up with it—it slides so fast,
	It's going to make us beggars at the last."

	While this yeoman was talking in this way,
	The canon drew near, and heard all he'd say;
	For this canon was suspicious, always in fear
	Of what men said, of every word he'd hear.
	For Cato says the guilty man, when he's heard
	Men talking, thinks he's the point of every word.
	That was the reason he came up so near
	His yeoman: so that he could overhear.
	And this is what he told his yeoman then:
	"Keep quiet, and don't speak a word again,
	For if you do, you'll pay for it, and dear;
	You're slandering me in this company here,
	And blabbing what you ought to keep from view."

	"Yes," said our Host, "tell on, whatever he may do;
	Don't care a mite for all his threats—not one!"

	"In faith," he said, "I care for them next to none."

	And when the canon saw it was no good,
	And that the yeoman would tell his secrets, all he could,
	He fled away out of sheer sorrow and shame.

	"Ah!" said the yeoman, "now we'll have some game!
	I'll tell you all I know now, right away.
	Since he is gone, the foul fiend take him, I pray!
	For I'll never meet with him again—not ever—
	For penny or for pound; I promise, never!
	And he who first brought me into that game,
	Before he dies, may he have grief and shame!
	For it's no joke to me, upon my word;
	I feel that well, whatever you have heard.
	And yet for all my pain, for all my care,
	For all the sorrow, toil and harm I bear,
	I never could give it up, at any price.
	Now, God grant that my wits might suffice
	To tell you everything that's in that art!
	But all the same, I'll tell you a part;
	Since my lord's gone, I won't hold back or spare:
	Whatever things I know, I will declare."

The Canon's Yeoman's Tale

Part One

	I've lived with this canon for seven years,
	And I'm no nearer to his science, it appears.
	Everything that I had, I've lost thereby;
	And God knows, so have many more than I.
	Where once I used to be so fresh and fine
	In clothes, and in good finery of mine,
	Now I may wear a stocking on my head;
	And where my colour was both fresh and red,
	Now it is wan and of a leaden hue;
	Whoever takes it up has much to rue.
	And from my labour I've a bleary eye—
	See what you gain when you start to multiply!
	That slippery science has stripped me so bare
	I have no goods at all, not anywhere;
	And through it I've run up such debts, for I
	Have borrowed so much gold, I won't deny,
	That while I live I'll pay them off—no, never!
	Let everyone be warned by me forever!
	Whoever throws himself into it, I hold
	That if he keeps at it, he's lost his gold.
	So help me God, there's nothing there to win
	But an empty purse, and wits worn thin.
	And when, through madness and through foolish play,
	He's gambled all his own goods away,
	Then he eggs others on to do the same,
	To lose their goods as he did in the game;
	For to the wicked it's a joy and ease
	To have their fellows in pain and in unease;
	I learned that from a scholar once. Apart
	From that, I'll tell you of our work, our art.

	When we're at work and come to exercise
	Our elvish craft, we look amazingly wise,
	Our terms are so learned and so arcane.
	I blow the fire until I faint from the strain.

	Why should I tell the proportions, every one,
	Of all the things our work is done upon,
	Say five or six ounces, as it might be,
	Of silver, or some other quantity,
	And take the trouble to tell you, in detail,
	Of orpiment, burnt bones, and iron scale,
	That have been ground into a powder, very small?
	And how into an earthen pot we put it all,
	And salt put in, and paper too, set near
	In front of these powders I'm describing here,
	And covered over with a lamp of glass,
	And many other things, that I'll let pass?
	And how we seal the pot and glass with clay,
	So that no air at all can get away?
	And of the slow fire, and the quick one, too,
	That we made, and the trouble we went through
	When we put our materials through sublimation,
	And in amalgamation and calcination
	Of quicksilver, called mercury when it's crude?
	For all our tricks, we never can conclude.
	Our orpiment and sublimated mercury,
	Our litharge, ground up on the porphyry,
	Of each of these, a certain weight—it's plain
	Nothing helps us; our labour is in vain.
	Nor do our spirits rising in the air,
	Nor our materials lying fixed down there,
	Do anything to help our work; they fail.
	For all our labour's lost, our toil, our travail,
	And all the cost—may twenty devils take it away!—
	Is lost as well, the money that we pay.

	And there are many other things, as well,
	That go along with our craft; though I can't tell
	Them over in order, as a scholar can,
	Because I am an unlearned man,
	Yet I will tell them as they come to mind,
	Though I can't sort them out each in its kind:
	Like borax, verdigris, Armenian bole,
	And sundry vessels, glass and clay, the whole
	Collection: urinals, descensories,
	Vials, crucibles, and sublimatories,
	Cucurbits and alembics, and, to speak
	Of others like them, none worth a leek.
	There is no need for me to list them all—
	Waters that turn things red, and bull's gall,
	Arsenic, sal ammoniac, and brimstone,
	And herbs—I could name many I have known,
	Like agrimony, valerian, lunary,
	And others like them, if I chose to tarry.
	Our lamps that burn all night and all day,
	To bring our craft about, if we find a way.
	Our furnaces as well, for calcination,
	And waters whitened by albification,
	Unslaked lime, chalk, egg white, an array
	Of powders, ashes, dung, and piss, and clay,
	Waxed pouches, saltpetre, and vitriol,
	And different fires made of wood and coal;
	Salt of tartar, alkali, and salt prepared,
	And matter burnt, and matter clotted hard,
	Clay mixed with horse's hair or man's, and oil
	Of tartar, alum, glass, yeast, wort, and argol,
	Realgar, and how we soak our matter through,
	And how we blend it into one mass, too,
	And how we turn our silver yellow—citrination—
	Our cementing and our fermentation,
	Our ingots, our test-crucibles, and much else too.

	And I'll tell you, as I was taught to do,
	The four spirits and the seven bodies, all
	In order, as I've so often heard my lord recall.
	The first spirit is called quicksilver; the second,
	Orpiment; the third, as it is reckoned,
	Sal ammoniac; the fourth one's brimstone.
	The seven bodies too: here each one's shown:
	Sol is gold, and Luna's silver, as we claim;
	Mars, iron; quicksilver goes by Mercury's name;
	Saturn is lead, and Jupiter is tin,
	And Venus copper, by my father's kin!

	Whoever wants to practise this cursed art
	Will never have enough wealth, for his part;
	For all the money that he spends throughout
	He'll lose; of that I haven't any doubt.
	Whoever wants to air his folly, let him try:
	Come forward, and learn how to multiply;
	And every man who's got something in his coffer,
	Let him step up, and be a philosopher.
	As if that craft were so easy to acquire?
	No, no, God knows—be he monk or friar,
	Priest or canon, or anyone else, though he might
	Sit at his book, studying day and night,
	Learning this elvish, foolish lore,
	It's all in vain—by God, and even more!
	To teach an unlearned man this subtlety—
	Pooh! Don't talk of it; it's not to be.
	Whether he's learned his letters or has none,
	In practice he will find it's all one.
	For both of them, as I hope for salvation,
	Come out the same in their multiplication,
	Exactly alike, when they've done all they can do:
	In other words, they fail—both of the two.

	And yet I forgot to give you a run-through
	Of corrosive waters, and metal filings too,
	And how we soften bodies—mollification—
	And how we harden them, their induration,
	Oils, ablutions, metals fusible:
	To tell it all would overflow the biggest bible
	There is; and so I think it would be best
	To give all of these names, for now, a rest.
	For I believe I've told you all enough
	To raise a devil, however grim and rough.

	Ah, no! Let be! We all hunt hard for the stone
	Of the philosophers, the elixir, as it's known;
	For if we had it, we would be set up now.
	But to the God of heaven I make a vow,
	For all our craft, when we have done our best,
	And all our tricks, it won't come at our request.
	It's made us spend so much of what we had
	That out of grief we'd almost all go mad,
	Except that good hope creeps into our heart,
	Supposing always, though we badly smart,
	That we'll be relieved by it some time afterward;
	Such supposing and such hope is sharp and hard;
	I'm warning you, it's always still to find;
	That future tense has made men leave behind,
	Trusting in it, all the goods they had in store.
	And yet they never tire of it, but want more,
	For to them it is a bitter sweet;
	So it seems; for if they had only a sheet
	To wrap themselves in when they go to bed at night,
	And a cloak to walk around in by daylight,
	They'd sell them both to feed this craft, and they
	Can't stop until it's all been thrown away.
	And wherever they go, by this they're known:
	Men recognise them by the smell of brimstone;
	For all the world, they stink just like a goat;
	Their stench is so rank and so hot
	That if a man's a mile from them, then he
	Will catch the smell and be tainted, trust me;
	So, if men care to, they can recognise
	These folk by smell, and by their threadbare guise.
	And if a man should ask them privately
	Why they go dressed so shabbily,
	They'll right away be whispering in his ear,
	And say that if they were spotted, they fear
	Men would kill them, all because of their science;
	See how these people take in innocence!

	Pass over this; I'll go on to my tale now.
	Before the pot is on the fire, here's how:
	My lord mixes a certain quantity
	Of metals, and no other man but he—
	Now he is gone, I'll dare to say it straight—
	For, as men say, his skill in it is great;
	At any rate, I know he has that name;
	And yet he very often gets the blame.
	And do you know how? It often happens so:
	The pot breaks, and farewell! It all must go!
	These metals are of such great violence,
	Our walls can't offer them resistance
	Unless they were made out of lime and stone;
	They pierce so hard that through the wall they're blown,
	And some of them sink down into the ground—
	That's how we've lost, at times, many a pound—
	And some get scattered on the floor and round about;
	Some jump up to the roof; and, without a doubt,
	Although the fiend may not appear to view,
	I think he's with us, that same scoundrel, too!
	In hell itself, where he is lord and sire,
	There's no more woe, no more rancour or ire.
	When our pot has broken, as I have related,
	Every man grumbles, and feels badly treated.

	Some said the fire was what had gone wrong;
	Some said no, it was the blowing, all along
	(Then I was scared—that was my job to do);
	"Rubbish!" said a third, "you're fools, the lot of you;
	It wasn't mixed the way it ought to be."
	"No!" said the fourth, "stop, and listen to me;
	It's that our fire wasn't made of beech; there
	Lies the cause, and no other, I swear!"
	I can't say what was to blame for it all,
	But I know well we quarrel, and we brawl.

	"What!" said my lord, "There's no more to be done;
	I'll watch out for these dangers next time, every one;
	I'm quite certain that the pot was cracked and crazed.
	Be that as it may, don't stand there dazed;
	As usual, sweep the floor quickly, all of you;
	Pluck up your hearts, and be glad and cheerful, too!"

	The rubbish was swept up into a pile,
	And a canvas spread on the floor meanwhile,
	And all the rubbish thrown into a sieve, and then
	Sifted, and picked through, and picked through again.

	"By God," said one, "there's still some of our metal here,
	Although we haven't got it all, I fear.
	And though this thing has gone wrong for now,
	Another time it may go well, somehow.
	We have to risk our goods, take a venture;
	A merchant, by God, can't always endure
	In his prosperity, believe you me;
	Sometimes his goods are sunk out in the sea,
	And sometimes they come safely to the land."

	"Quiet!" said my lord, "next time I'll try my hand
	To bring our craft round to another way;
	And if I don't, sirs, blame me, as you may;
	Something was faulty, I know—I'm not sure what."

	Another said the fire had been too hot—
	But, hot or cold, I'll dare to tell you this:
	That everything we finish goes amiss.
	We fail to get the thing we want and crave,
	And in our madness, we just rant and rave.
	And when we're all together, every one,
	Each man of us seems like a Solomon.
	But all that glitters like the gold
	Is not gold, as I have heard it told;
	Nor is every apple that looks good to the eye
	Good, whatever men may chatter or cry.
	And that's exactly how it goes with us:
	The one who seems the wisest, by Jesus,
	Is, when it comes to proof, the fool-in-chief;
	And he who seems most honest is a thief.
	You'll learn that—and on that you may depend—
	Before I leave you, when my tale is at an end.

Part Two

	There is a canon in religious orders, who
	Could infect a whole town, through and through,
	Though it were as big as Nineveh used to be,
	Rome, Alexandria, Troy, and another three.
	His tricks and his unbounded falseness
	No man could ever write down, I would guess,
	Though he should live to be a thousand years;
	In all the world, for falsehood, he has no peers;
	For in his jargon he would twist and wind,
	And speak his words with such a cunning mind,
	When he has dealings with a man, that he
	Will make him play the fool immediately,
	Unless the man's a fiend, as the canon is.
	He's taken in many a man before this,
	And will, if he can live a little while;
	And yet men ride and walk for many a mile
	To seek him out, and get to know the man,
	Not knowing of his falsehood or his plan.
	And if you'd care to give me audience,
	I'll tell it here before you, in your presence.

	But you, worshipful canons of religious life,
	Don't think I slander your house, or mean you strife,
	Although it's a canon that my tale is of.
	There's some rogue in every order, God above!
	And God forbid that a whole company
	Should suffer for a single man's folly.
	To slander you is no part of my intent,
	But to correct what's wrong was what I meant.
	This tale was not told only for you, now,
	But others too; for you know very well how
	That among Christ's apostles, all the twelve,
	There was no traitor but Judas himself.
	Then why should all the rest be given blame,
	Who were guiltless? Of you I say the same,
	Except this: if you're willing to give ear,
	If there's some Judas in your convent here,
	Get rid of him in time—that's my advice—
	If fear of shame or loss can make you think twice.
	And please don't be displeased at all, I pray,
	But, in this case, listen to what I'll say.

	In London was a chantry priest, who, I hear,
	Had lodged there in one house for many a year,
	And made himself so pleasant and agreeable
	To the wife of the house, where he ate at table,
	That she would never let him ever pay
	For board or clothing, however fine his array;
	And he had pocket money, enough and more.
	But never mind; I'll go on as before,
	And tell my story of the canon—the man
	Who brought this priest to ruin—as best I can.

	This false canon came along one day
	To this priest's room, the place where he would stay,
	Begging him for the loan of a certain sum
	Of gold, which he'd repay when the time had come.
	"Just lend me a mark," he said, "for three days; then
	On the day agreed I'll pay it back again.
	And if you ever find me false, you may
	Have me hanged by the neck some other day!"

	The priest gave him a mark at once, and then
	The canon thanked him over and over again,
	And took his leave, and went off down the road,
	And on the third day brought the money he owed,
	And paid the priest his gold back, every bit,
	And the priest was wonderfully glad of it.

	"Honestly," said he, "it doesn't trouble me
	To lend a man a noble, or two, or three,
	Or anything I have in my possession,
	When he's so honest by his disposition
	That not for anything will he break his day;
	A man like that I never can turn away."

	"What!" said this canon, "Should I be untrue?
	No, that would be a thing entirely new.
	Good faith is something that I'll always keep
	Until the day comes when I have to creep
	Into my grave—God forbid I'd fail in deed!
	Believe this as surely as you believe your creed.
	I thank God—and touch wood as I say this—
	That never was a man yet served amiss
	For any gold or silver that he lent,
	Nor have I ever had a false intent.
	And, sir," he said, "as for my mystery,
	Since you have been so good and kind to me,
	And shown me such nobility of heart,
	To pay your kindness back in some small part,
	I'll show you, and, if you would care to learn,
	I'll teach you, plainly, every twist and turn
	Of how I work in my philosophy.
	Pay close attention: with your eyes you'll see
	That I'll perform a master stroke before I go."

	"Yes," said the priest, "yes, sir! Will you do so?
	By Mary, yes! I beg you, heartily!"

	"At your command, sir, and most willingly,"
	Said the canon, "or else may God forbid!"

	See how this thief knew how to make his bid!
	It's very true that service offered free
	Stinks, as the wise men of old agree;
	And I will prove it to you presently
	In this canon, root of all treachery,
	Who's always glad, and takes delight with zest
	(Such fiendish thoughts are stamped into his breast)
	In how he can bring Christ's people to distress;
	God keep us from his false two-facedness!

	This priest did not know what sort of man he'd met,
	Nor sense the harm that was coming to him yet.
	O hapless priest! O simple innocent!
	Soon you'll be blinded by your greedy bent!
	O graceless man! Your blindness is complete;
	You're not aware at all of the deceit
	That this fox has devised for you—and you
	Can't flee his wily tricks, whatever you do.
	And so, to come now to the conclusion
	That has to do with your confusion,
	Unhappy man! I'll hurry now to tell
	Your foolishness and witlessness as well,
	And also the falseness of that other wretch,
	As far as my poor skill is able to stretch.

	You think this canon was my lord, you mean?
	Sir Host, in faith, and by the heavenly Queen,
	It was a different canon, and not he,
	Who's got a hundred times more subtlety!
	He's tricked a lot of people, many a time;
	It wearies me to tell his falseness in rhyme.
	Whenever I speak of his falseness, I am led
	To blush for shame of him: my cheeks go red;
	Or anyway they start to burn and glow,
	For I have no red left at all, I know,
	In my face; for the fumes, so many and diverse,
	Of metals that you've heard me list in verse,
	Have used up and consumed my ruddiness.
	Now mark this canon's cursed wickedness!

	"Sir," he said to the priest, "send your man along
	For quicksilver, so we'll have it before long;
	And have him bring two ounces of it, or three;
	And when he comes, you'll see, as fast as can be,
	A wonderful thing, which you've never seen before."

	"Sir," said the priest, "it's done—you may be sure."
	He told his servant to go and fetch the stuff,
	And he was ready at his word, and quick enough,
	And went, and came back very soon again
	With the quicksilver, to tell it plain,
	And brought the canon these three ounces, and
	He laid them down neatly, with a careful hand,
	And told the servant to bring coals, so he
	Could get to work on it immediately.

	The coals were fetched at once, the ones he'd sought,
	And this canon took out a crucible he'd brought
	Inside his shirt, and held it out for the priest to view.
	"This instrument," he said, "I'm showing you,
	Take it in your hand, and you yourself put in
	An ounce of this quicksilver, and here begin,
	In the name of Christ, to be a philosopher.
	There are very few to whom I'd ever offer
	To show this much of my science.
	For you will see here, by experience,
	That I'll take this quicksilver and mortify
	It right before your eyes—it's no lie—
	And make it as good silver, and as fine
	As any there is, in your purse or mine,
	Or anywhere, and make it malleable;
	And if not, hold me false, unfit, unable
	To show my face in public, far or near!
	I have a powder here that cost me dear,
	That will make all come right, for it's the source
	Of all my skill, which I'll show you in due course.
	Get rid of your man, and keep him out,
	And shut the door while we are about
	Our private business, so no one can see
	While we're at work in this philosophy."
	Just as he ordered, everything was done:
	The servant went straight out, at once, at a run,
	His master promptly shut the door, and so
	They got to work as fast as they could go.

	The priest, at this cursed canon's bidding, came
	And set the thing at once upon the flame,
	And blew the fire, and bustled, working fast;
	Into the crucible the canon cast
	A powder—what it was, I can't say, alas—
	Made out of chalk, perhaps, or out of glass,
	Or something else, that wasn't worth a fly,
	To fool the priest; and told him he should try,
	And quickly, to pile coals up all above
	The crucible, "because, to show my love,"
	Said this canon, "your own two hands will do
	All that is to be done here: it's up to you."

	"Thank you very much," said the priest, and he was glad,
	And piled the coals up as the canon bade.
	And while he was busy, this fiendish wretch,
	This false canon (may the foul fiend fetch
	Him!) took from his shirt a beechwood coal,
	In which there had been neatly made a hole,
	And in it there'd been put, by weight and scale,
	An ounce of silver filings, and, without fail,
	Its hole was stopped with wax, to keep them there.
	And please understand: this false device, this snare,
	Was not made there, but had been made before;
	And there were other things—I'll tell you more
	About them later on—that he had brought;
	Before he came, to trick him was his thought,
	And so he did, before the two of them split;
	He couldn't stop till he'd skinned him, every bit.
	It wearies me whenever I talk of that cheat;
	I'd gladly be revenged on his deceit,
	If I knew how; but he's here, he's there:
	He's so changeable, he stays put nowhere.

	But take heed now, sirs, for God's love!
	He took his coal, the one I spoke of above,
	And in his hand he carried it, on the sly.
	And while the priest was busy heaping high
	The coals, as I told you before this,
	This canon said, "Friend, you're doing it amiss;
	This isn't piled up the way it ought to be;
	But I'll soon put it right," said he.
	"Now let me take a turn at it a while,
	For I feel sorry for you, by Saint Giles!
	You're very hot; I can see how you sweat.
	Here, have a cloth, and wipe away the wet."
	And while the priest was wiping off his face,
	This canon took his coal—God give him rotten grace!—
	And laid it in the middle, up on top
	Of the crucible, and blew, and didn't stop
	Until the coals began to burn up fast.

	"Now give us a drink," the canon said at last;
	"All will be well quite soon, I promise you;
	Let's sit down and enjoy ourselves, we two."
	And when this canon's beechwood coal
	Burned up, then all the filings, from the hole,
	Fell straight down into the crucible below;
	And reason says that they must have done so,
	Since it was laid so squarely over it. Alas,
	The priest knew nothing of how it came to pass!
	He thought that all the coals were equally good;
	He hadn't seen the trick, nor understood.
	And when this alchemist saw his chance, said he,
	"Get up, sir priest, and stand here next to me;
	And since I know you've got no mould of your own,
	Go out, and bring us back a lump of chalk stone;
	For I will make a mould, if luck's my friend,
	The shape of an ingot, from end to end.
	And bring with you a bowl, or else a pan,
	Full of water, and you'll see, my good man,
	How well our work will prosper and come through.
	And yet, so that you won't have a wrong view
	Or false suspicion of me in your absence,
	I will not be out of your presence,
	But go with you, and come back with you again."
	The chamber door, to tell it short and plain,
	They opened and they shut, and went their way,
	And carried off the key with them that day,
	And came back with no delay of any kind.
	Why should I linger all day? Never mind.
	He took the chalk and shaped it like a mould
	For an ingot, in the way that I'll unfold.

	I tell you, he pulled out of his own sleeve
	A silver strip (bad luck to him, and may he grieve!)
	Which was no more than just an ounce in weight;
	And now pay attention to his cursed sleight!

	He shaped the mould, in length and breadth, to fit
	This strip exactly, without a doubt of it,
	So slyly that the priest never saw; and then
	He hid the strip inside his sleeve again;
	And took up from the fire the matter there,
	And poured it in the mould without a care,
	And into the water vessel then he cast
	It when he chose, and told the priest, as fast,
	"Look what is there; put in your hand and grope;
	You'll find there's silver in it, as I hope.
	What else, by the devil in hell, could it be?
	By God, shavings of silver are silver—you'll agree!"
	He put his hand in, and took out, clear and plain,
	A strip of fine silver; and in every vein
	The priest was glad, when he saw that it was so.
	"May God's blessing, and his mother's, go
	With you, and all the saints', sir canon," said
	This priest, "and may their curse fall on my head
	Unless you'll do me the favour of teaching me
	This noble craft, and all this subtlety;
	I'll be your man, in every way I may!"

	Said the canon, "Still, I'll make an assay
	A second time, so that you can take heed
	And be expert in this, and in your need
	Another day may try, in my absence,
	This discipline and this crafty science.
	Let's take another ounce," he said, "and do,
	Of quicksilver, without any more ado,
	And do with it as you did, a minute ago,
	With that one, which is silver now, as you know."

	This priest set to work as hard as he can
	To do as this canon, this cursed man,
	Commanded him, and blew hard on the fire
	To bring about the end of his desire.
	And this canon, meanwhile, all the while,
	Was ready to trick the priest again with guile,
	And, just for show, he held in his hand there
	A hollow stick (take note, and now beware!),
	In the end of which an ounce, and nothing more,
	Of silver filings had been put, as before
	Was in his coal, and stopped with wax again
	To keep in all the filings, every grain.
	And while the priest was busy, doing his best,
	This canon with his stick came up and pressed
	Close to him at once, and threw his powder in
	As he had before (the devil out of his skin
	Flay him, I pray to God, for his false ways,
	For he was false in thought and deed always);
	And with this stick, above the crucible, which he
	Had fitted with that false device so cunningly,
	He stirred the coals, until the wax began
	To melt against the fire, as every man,
	Unless he is a fool, knows well it has to do;
	And all that was inside the stick ran through,
	And quickly into the crucible it fell.

	Now, good sirs, what more could you want than well?
	When the priest was tricked like this again,
	Believing nothing but the truth, to tell it plain,
	He was so glad that I cannot express
	In any way his mirth and his gladness;
	And offered to the canon, once again,
	His body and his goods. "Yes," said the canon then,
	"Though poor, a man of craft you'll find in me;
	And I warn you, there's still more yet to see.
	Is there any copper in the house?" said he.
	"I think so, sir," the priest said, "yes, there should be."
	"Then go and buy us some, and quickly, too;
	Now, good sir, off you go; be quick, will you?"

	He went his way, and came back with copper, and
	The canon took it straight into his hand,
	And of that copper weighed out just an ounce.
	My tongue is far too simple to pronounce,
	As servant of my wits, the doubleness
	Of this canon, root of all cursedness.
	He seemed a friend to those who'd never caught
	His measure, but was fiendish in heart and thought.
	It wearies me to talk about his falseness,
	And yet I'm going to express it nonetheless,
	So people may be warned by it; that's why,
	And for no other reason—that's no lie.

	He put his ounce of copper in the crucible, and straight
	Away he set it on the fire—he didn't wait—
	And threw in powder, and made the priest blow,
	And, as he worked, bend down and stoop down low,
	As he'd done before—it was nothing but a jape;
	Just as he pleased, he made the priest his ape.
	And after that he poured it into the mould, and passed
	It into the pan of water at the last,
	And then into the water went his hand.
	And in his sleeve (as you've heard me tell beforehand)
	He had a silver strip, already in place;
	He slyly took it out, this wretch, this disgrace—
	The priest knew nothing of his false sleight—
	And left it on the pan's bottom, out of sight;
	And in the water fumbled to and fro,
	And, very slyly, fished out as he did so
	The copper strip, and the priest never guessed,
	And hid it, and grabbed the priest by the breast,
	And spoke to him, and said, as part of his game,
	"Stoop down, by God, you're the one to blame;
	Help me now, as I helped you just before;
	Put in your hand, and see what's there in store."

	The priest took up this silver strip at once, and so
	The canon said to him, "Now let us go
	With these three strips that we have worked and made
	To some goldsmith, and see if they make the grade.
	For, by my faith, I'd stake my hood they would
	Turn out to be silver, fine and good;
	And that will be proved at once, as you will see."

	To the goldsmith with these strips, all three,
	They went, and put the strips to the assay
	With fire and hammer; no man could gainsay
	That they were all exactly as they should be.

	This besotted priest—who was gladder than he?
	No bird was ever gladder to see the day,
	Nor nightingale, in the season of May,
	Ever more eager than the priest to sing;
	Nor any lady livelier in the dancing ring,
	Or to speak of love and things of womankind,
	Nor knight in arms, to do brave deeds, with a mind
	To stand in favour with his lady dear,
	Than this priest was, to learn this sorry craft right here;
	And to the canon he spoke out, and cried,
	"For love of God, who for us all has died,
	And as I hope to earn it, sir, from you,
	What will this recipe cost? Now tell me true!"

	"By Our Lady," said this canon, "it costs a lot,
	I warn you; for apart from me and a friar, there's not
	A man in England who can make it, no mistake."

	"No matter," he said, "now, sir, for God's sake,
	What must I pay for it? Please tell me, do."

	"Well," said he, "it's very dear, I'm telling you;
	Sir, in one word: if you'd have it, the fee
	Is forty pounds, as God may save me!
	And were it not for the kindness you showed me before,
	You'd have to pay, believe me, a good deal more."

	The priest fetched forty pounds in nobles straight away,
	And handed every coin across to pay
	This canon, for this recipe—the cheat!—
	All of whose work was only fraud and deceit.

	"Sir priest," he said, "I don't want any credit
	For my craft; I'd have it kept close—don't spread it;
	And as you love me, keep it secret, privately;
	For if men knew all of my subtlety,
	By God, they'd feel such envy, such jealousy
	Of me, because of my philosophy,
	I'd be a dead man; there'd be no other way."

	"God forbid!" said the priest, "What's that you say?
	I'd rather spend all I own—I would—
	(Or else may I go out of my mind for good!)
	Than see such harm, sir, ever come to you."

	"For your goodwill, sir, may you prosper too,"
	Said the canon, "farewell, and many thanks!" And then
	He went his way; the priest never saw him again
	After that day; and when the priest would make
	A trial, at a time he chose to take,
	Of this recipe—farewell! It wasn't to be!
	That's how he was fooled and tricked, completely!
	That's how he makes his introduction
	To bring people to their destruction.

	Consider, sirs, how, in every rank and state,
	Between men and gold the struggle is so great
	That there is scarcely any left—or none.
	This multiplying has blinded many a one,
	So that in good faith I believe it to be
	The greatest reason for such scarcity.
	The philosophers are so misty in what they say
	About this craft, men cannot find the way,
	With any wit that men have nowadays.
	They may well chatter, chatter like the jays,
	And on their jargon spend their joy and pain,
	But they will never reach the end they hope to gain.
	A man who owns a little can easily be taught
	To multiply, and bring his goods to naught!

	Look, that's the profit in this jolly game:
	It turns a man's mirth to grief and shame,
	And empties out big purses, heavy purses,
	And makes men earn themselves a lot of curses
	From those who'd lent their goods for it to be spent.
	Oh! Fie! For shame! Can those who've once been burnt,
	Alas, not get away from the fire's heat?
	You who do this, take my advice: retreat,
	Lest you lose all; for never is worse than late.
	Never to thrive is far too long a wait.
	Though you prowl forever, you will never find;
	You're just as bold as Bayard, the horse that's blind,
	Who blunders forward, never fearing a fall;
	He's just as bold to run into a stone wall
	As he would be to go around it on his way.
	So it is with you who multiply, I'd say.
	If your eyes can't see things right,
	Make sure your mind at least does not lack sight.
	For though you open your eyes wide, and stare,
	You will not gain a mite in that affair,
	But squander everything you grab and earn.
	Draw back the fire, lest it too fiercely burn;
	Meddle no more with that art, I mean—
	For if you do, your luck is wiped out clean.
	And right away I'm going to make it clear
	What the philosophers say on this. Now hear:

	See, this is what Arnold of the New Town
	Says, as in his book, the Rosary, he sets down;
	He says just this, and that's no lie:
	"There is no man who can make Mercury die
	Except with his own brother's acknowledging."
	And how the man who first said this same thing
	Was father of philosophers, Hermes, no less;
	He says the dragon, beyond all doubtfulness,
	Will never die, unless he should be slain
	Along with his brother; and, to make it plain,
	That by the dragon, Mercury and no other
	He meant; and brimstone by his brother,
	Drawn out of luna and sol, silver and gold.
	"And therefore," he said, "heed what I have told:
	Let no one busy himself, trying to reach
	This art, unless the meaning and the speech
	Of the philosophers is something he can scan;
	And if he does, he is an ignorant man.
	For this science and this skill," said he,
	"Is, by God, the secret of secrets, the mystery."

	There was a disciple, too, of Plato,
	Who said this to his master, long ago,
	As his book Senior will bear witness,
	And this was what he asked, in truthfulness:
	"Tell me the name of the secret stone."

	And at once Plato made his answer known:
	"Take the stone that men call Titanos by name."

	"Which is that?" he said. "Magnesia is the same,"
	Said Plato. "Yes, sir? Explaining the unknown, thus,
	By the more unknown—ignotum per ignotius?
	What is Magnesia, good sir? Tell me, pray."

	"It is a water that is made, I'll say,
	Of the four elements," said Plato.

	"Good sir," the pupil said, "then let me know
	The root of that water, if you are willing."

	"No, no," said Plato, "certainly I'm unwilling.
	The philosophers all swore, each one,
	That they would not reveal it to anyone,
	Nor write it in a book, or make it anywhere clear;
	For Christ holds it so precious and so dear
	That he will not allow it disclosed, unless it be
	Where it may please his divinity
	To inspire men, or, if he wants, to fend
	It off from whom he pleases; this is the end."

	So I conclude: since God in heaven above
	Will not allow philosophers to speak of
	How a man is to come by this stone,
	My advice is: for the best, leave it alone.
	For whoever makes God his adversary
	By doing anything that's contrary
	To his will, certainly will never thrive,
	Though he should multiply while he's alive.
	And there I'll stop, for that's the end of my tale;
	God send every honest man a cure for his ail!—Amen.

The Manciple's Prologue

	Don't you know where there's a little town
	Which goes by the name of Bob-up-and-Down,
	Below Blean Forest, on the Canterbury way?
	It's there our Host began to joke and play,
	And said, "What, sirs! Dun's stuck in the mire!
	Is there no man, for pleading or for hire,
	Who'll wake our fellow lagging here behind,
	Whom any thief could easily rob and bind?
	See how he naps! See, by cock's bones, he's bound
	To topple off his horse onto the ground!
	Is that a London cook? Curse his bad chance!
	Bring him up here; he knows his penance:
	He'll tell a tale, by my faith, come what may,
	Even if it isn't worth a bale of hay.
	Wake up, you cook," he said, "God give you woe!
	What's wrong, that you're asleep this morning so?
	Have you had fleas all night, or are you tight,
	Or laboured on some tart all through the night,
	So that you can't even hold up your head?"

	This cook, who was very pale, and not at all red,
	Said to our Host, "God bless my soul, I'm in distress:
	There's fallen on me such a heaviness,
	I don't know why, that I would rather sleep
	Than drink the best gallon of wine in Cheap."

	"Well," said the manciple, "if it will give you ease,
	Sir cook, and if it won't displease
	Anyone riding here in our company,
	And if our Host agrees, by his courtesy,
	I'll excuse you from telling us your tale;
	For, in good faith, your face is very pale,
	Your eyes look dazed as well, I think,
	And I know well your breath has a sour stink,
	That shows you're out of sorts and indisposed;
	I won't flatter you—the truth will be exposed.
	Look how he yawns, this drunkard, as if he might
	Be going to swallow us outright!
	Shut your mouth, man, by your father's kin!
	May the devil of hell put his foot in!
	Your cursed breath is going to infect us all;
	Fie, stinking swine, fie! May you have a bad fall!
	Ah! Just look, sirs, at this lively man!
	Now, sweet sir, will you joust at the tilting fan?
	For that, I think, you're in excellent shape!
	I'd guess you've drunk the wine that makes an ape,
	And that's when men start playing with a straw."
	And at this speech the cook was angry, rubbed raw,
	And at the manciple he nodded hard and fast,
	For lack of words, and off his horse was cast,
	And there he lay, till someone came and took
	Him up: a fine display of riding, for a cook!
	Alas! If only he'd held on to his ladle!
	And before he was back up in his saddle,
	There was a lot of shoving to and fro
	To lift him up, and much trouble and woe,
	So unwieldy was this sorry, pallid ghost.
	Then to the manciple spoke up our Host:
	"Since drink has got such domination
	Over this man, by my salvation,
	I think he'd make a stupid job of his tale.
	For whether it was wine, or old or musty ale,
	That he's been drinking, he talks through his nose,
	And sneezes hard, and has a cold—it shows.
	He'll have his work cut out, too, as they jog,
	To keep himself and his nag out of the bog;
	And if he tumbles off his nag once more,
	Then all of us will have our hands full, as before,
	In lifting up his heavy drunken load.
	Tell on your tale; I don't care if he's left on the road.

	"But still, manciple, you're a fool, to be precise,
	To scold him openly like this for his vice.
	Another day, perhaps—for who can be sure?—
	He'll call you back, like a falcon to the lure;
	I mean he'll talk about some little things,
	Such as picking holes in your reckonings,
	Which would not look so honest, if they were checked."

	"No," said the manciple, "that would leave me wrecked!
	He'd have me in a trap, an easy snare.
	I'd rather pay the price of the mare
	Which he rides on, than quarrel with him; I'd strive
	Not to make him angry, as I hope to thrive!
	What I said, I said in fun, and nothing more;
	And do you know what? Here in a gourd I store
	A draught of wine—yes, made from a ripe grape—
	And right away you'll see a joke take shape.
	This cook is going to drink some, if I may;
	On pain of death, he won't turn it away!"

	And certainly, to tell it as it came to pass,
	The cook drank from this gourd, and fast, alas!
	Why did he need it? He'd drunk plenty since the dawn.
	And when he'd finished blowing on this horn,
	He gave the gourd back to the manciple again;
	And the cook was very glad of that drink, and then
	And thanked him in such manner as his tongue allowed.

	Then our Host began to laugh, extremely loud,
	And said, "I can see that it's necessary,
	Wherever we go, to have good drink to carry;
	For that will turn our rancour and unease
	To harmony and love, and settle many wrongs with ease.

	"O Bacchus, blessed be your name,
	Who can turn serious things into a game!
	Honour and thanks be to your deity!
	On that subject you'll get no more from me.
	Now tell your tale, manciple, I pray."

	"Well, sir," he said, "now listen to what I say."

The Manciple's Tale

	When Phoebus lived down here on earth below,
	As ancient books make mention, long ago,
	He was the liveliest young knight ever seen
	In all this world, the best archer there's been;
	He killed the Python, the serpent, as it lay
	Asleep out in the sunshine one fine day;
	And many another noble, worthy deed
	He did with that bow of his, as men may read.

	He could play every instrument, and he
	Could sing so well, it was a melody
	To hear his clear voice sound. Even Amphion, who
	Was king of Thebes, and by his singing drew
	His city's walls around it, could not be
	Half such a singer, half so fine as he.
	Besides, he was the handsomest man
	That is or was, since the world first began.
	What need is there to set his features out?
	There was none so fair alive, the world throughout.
	And he was filled, as well, with nobility,
	With honour, and with perfect dignity.

	This Phoebus, flower of young knighthood, equally
	In generosity as in chivalry,
	For fun, and as a token of the victory
	Over the Python, as it says in the story,
	Was in the habit of carrying a bow.

	Now in his house this Phoebus kept a crow,
	Which he had reared in a cage for many a day,
	And taught to speak, as men will teach a jay.
	This crow was white, white as a snow-white swan,
	And it could imitate the speech of any man
	When it was called upon to tell a tale.
	Besides, in all this world no nightingale
	Could sing, not by a hundred-thousandth part,
	So wonderfully merrily, with such art.

	Now Phoebus had a wife there in his house, too,
	Whom he loved more than his own life, and he'd pursue,
	By night and day, with all his diligence,
	Her pleasure, and would do her reverence,
	Except that, if I'm to tell the truth out plain,
	He was jealous, and would gladly have kept her on a rein;
	For he'd have loathed being tricked and made a fool,
	And so would any man in his place, as a rule;
	But it's all idle; it avails him naught.
	A good wife, who is clean in deed and thought,
	Should not be put under any watch, that's plain;
	And all the trouble, frankly, is in vain
	To guard a bad one, for it cannot be.
	I hold it as the purest idiocy
	To waste one's labour on the guarding of wives;
	So the old scholars wrote down in their lives.

	But to the point, as I first began:
	This worthy Phoebus does everything he can
	To please her, thinking that, by all these pleasures,
	And by his manhood and his prudent measures,
	No other man could put him out of her grace.
	But God knows, no man can, in any case,
	Restrain a thing which nature, from the start,
	Has set by nature in a creature's heart.

	Take any bird, and put it in a cage,
	And make it all your purpose, at every stage,
	To nurse it tenderly with food and drink,
	With all the dainties you can ever think,
	And keep it just as clean as ever you may;
	And though its cage be golden, bright and gay,
	This bird would rather, twenty thousand fold,
	Be in a forest, that is rough and cold,
	Eating worms and such wretched fare.
	For always this bird will make it its affair
	To get out of its cage, if ever it may:
	This bird desires its liberty every day.

	Take a cat, and raise him well on milk
	And tender meat, and make his bed of silk,
	And let him see a mouse go by the wall:
	At once he leaves the milk, the meat, and all,
	And every dainty that is in that house,
	Such appetite he has to eat a mouse.
	See, here desire has mastery outright,
	And appetite puts judgement to flight.

	A she-wolf, too, has a base streak in her kind:
	The crudest wolf that she can ever find,
	The one of least repute, is the one she'll take
	As mate, when her desire is wide awake.

	All these examples I aim at those men
	Who are untrue, and not at all at women.
	For men have always had a greedy appetite
	For lower things on which to spend their delight
	Than on their wives, however lovely and fair,
	However true, however debonair.
	Flesh is so hungry for the new, bad luck to it,
	That nothing pleases us, not one bit,
	That leans toward virtue for more than a little while.

	This Phoebus, who had no thought at all of guile,
	Was fooled, for all his gaiety and glee;
	She had another man, behind him, secretly,
	A man of little reputation, worth
	Nothing compared with Phoebus on this earth.
	The more's the pity; it often happens so,
	And out of it there comes great harm and woe.

	And so it happened, when Phoebus was absent,
	His wife at once for her fancy man had sent.
	Her fancy man? That's crude, a low man's speech!
	Forgive me for it, I humbly beseech.

	The wise Plato says, as you may read,
	The word must always match up with the deed.
	To tell a thing correctly, as it went,
	The word must be the cousin of the event.
	I'm a blunt man, and I'll say it, so:
	There isn't any difference that I know
	Between a wife who's of a high degree,
	If she's unchaste and gives her body free,
	And a poor wench—except for only this,
	If it so happens both have done amiss—
	That the fine lady, being ranked above,
	Will be called his lady, as they say in love;
	And since the other is a woman who is poor,
	She will be called his wench, his paramour.
	And, God knows, my own dear brother,
	Men lay the one as low as lies the other.

	Just so, between a usurping tyrant, and
	An outlaw, or a thief who roams the land,
	The same holds here: there isn't any difference.
	Alexander was told this, in its essence:
	That because the tyrant has the greater might,
	By the force of his followers, to kill outright,
	And burn down house and home, and flatten the terrain,
	Look! For that, he's given the name of captain;
	And since the outlaw has a small company,
	And cannot do as great a harm as he,
	Nor bring a country into such great grief,
	Men call him an outlaw or a thief.
	But since I'm not a man who's learned in texts and lore,
	I won't quote texts at all, not a bit more;
	I'll go on with my tale, as I began.
	When Phoebus's wife had sent for her fancy man,
	At once they had their fill of lust, in their fickle way.

	The white crow, in the cage where it hung all day,
	Watched them at work, and didn't say a word.
	And when Phoebus came home again, its lord,
	This crow sang, "Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"

	"What, bird?" said Phoebus. "What song is this from you?
	Didn't you always sing so merrily, and ring
	So clear, that to my heart it was a joyful thing
	To hear your voice? Alas! What song is this?"

	"By God," he said, "I'm singing nothing amiss.
	Phoebus," he said, "for all your worthiness,
	For all your beauty and your nobleness,
	For all your songs, your playing, every art you try,
	For all your watching, someone's thrown dust in your eye:
	A man of little reputation, worth
	Nothing compared with you on all this earth,
	Not a gnat's weight, upon my life!
	For on your bed I saw him screw your wife."

	What more do you want? The crow at once told
	Him all, with solid proofs, in words both plain and bold,
	How his wife had done her lechery,
	To his great shame and his great ignominy,
	And told him over and over that he'd seen it done.
	Phoebus began to turn away, like one
	Whose sorrowing heart, it seemed, would burst in two;
	He bent his bow, and notched an arrow, and drew,
	And in his fury shot his wife, and she was slain.
	That's the whole story; there's no more to explain.
	For grief at which he broke his minstrelsy,
	Both harp, and lute, and gittern, and psaltery;
	And also broke his arrows and his bow,
	And after that, he spoke this way to the crow:

	"Traitor," he said, "with a tongue such as scorpions bear,
	You've brought me down to ruin and despair!
	Alas, that I was born! Why am I not dead?
	O my dear wife, O jewel of joy I wed,
	Who were so faithful and so steadfast too,
	Now you lie dead, with your face pale in hue,
	Wholly guiltless, that I'd dare to swear to this!
	O reckless hand, to do so foully amiss!
	O troubled wit! O rage that does not care,
	That strikes the innocent, rash and unaware!
	O mistrust, full of false suspicion,
	Where was your wit and your discretion?
	O every man, beware of rashness:
	Believe nothing without strong witness;
	Don't strike too soon, before you know the cause,
	And think it over soberly, and pause
	Before you carry out any execution
	In anger, on suspicion.
	Alas! A thousand people, through rash ire,
	Have been destroyed and dragged into the mire.
	Alas! For grief I'll kill myself—so let it be!"

	And to the crow, "You lying thief!" said he,
	"I'll pay you back at once for your false tale!
	Once you sang sweetly, like a nightingale;
	Now, you false thief, your song is done,
	And so are your white feathers, every one,
	And never in your life again will you speak.
	That's the revenge on traitors that men wreak.
	You and your offspring ever shall be black,
	And never shall you get a sweet voice back,
	But always cry ahead of storm and rain,
	As a sign that through you my wife is slain."
	He sprang straight at the crow without delay,
	And plucked its white feathers, every one, away,
	And made it black, and robbed it of all its song,
	And of its speech, and flung it out the door headlong
	Off to the devil—to him I give the wretch, and turn my back;
	And that's the reason why all crows are black.

	Gentlemen, by this example, I pray,
	Beware, and pay attention to what I say:
	Never tell any man, in all your life,
	How someone else has been bedding his wife;
	He'll hate you to the death, that much is plain.
	Lord Solomon, as the wise scholars maintain,
	Teaches a man to keep his tongue well;
	But, as I said, I'm not bookish, so I won't dwell.
	But nonetheless, here's what my mother used to make
	Me learn: "My son, think of the crow, for God's sake;
	My son, keep a guard on your tongue, and keep your friend.
	A wicked tongue is worse than any fiend.
	My son, from a fiend a man can guard himself, and bless;
	My son, God, in his endless goodness,
	Walled in the tongue with teeth and lips as well,
	So that a man would think before he'd tell.
	My son, very often, through too much speech,
	Many a man has been destroyed, as scholars teach;
	But through a little speech, spoken advisedly,
	No man is ruined, to speak generally.
	My son, your tongue is something you should restrain
	At all times, except when you labour and strain
	To speak of God, with honour, when you pray.
	The first virtue, son, if you would learn the way,
	Is to restrain and keep a good hold on your tongue.—
	That's how children learn, while they are young.—
	My son, from too much speaking, ill-advised,
	Where less speaking would well have sufficed,
	Comes plenty of harm: I was told and taught as much.
	In too much speech, sin is never out of touch.
	Do you know what a reckless tongue is good for? Hear:
	Just as a sword will cut and carve and shear
	An arm in two, my dear son, so too
	A tongue will cut a friendship right in two.
	To God a chatterer is abominable;
	Read Solomon, so wise and honourable;
	Read David's Psalms, read Seneca. Instead,
	My son, don't speak; just nod with your head.
	Pretend that you are deaf, if you should hear
	A chatterer touch on matters that you ought to fear.
	The Flemings say—learn it, if you think it best—
	That little chatter makes for lots of rest.
	My son, if no wicked word of yours has been conveyed,
	You need not be afraid of being betrayed;
	But he who's spoken ill, I dare to say it plain,
	Can in no way call his word back again.
	What's said is said; it's out, and off it's gone,
	Though he repent, or like it or loathe it, it goes on.
	He is a slave to anyone he's told
	A tale that he now wishes he could withhold.
	My son, beware, and don't be the first one who
	Spreads any tidings, whether they're false or true.
	Wherever you go, among the high or low,
	Guard your tongue, and think about the crow."

The Parson's Prologue

	By the time the manciple's tale was all ended,
	The sun from the meridian had so far descended
	That it was not, as far as I could judge by sight,
	Twenty-nine degrees above us in height.
	It was four o'clock then, as I'd guess;
	For eleven feet, or a little more or less,
	My shadow stretched just then, as I stood there,
	In feet of such a size that, measured fair,
	My height made six of them, in true relation.
	And with it, too, the moon's exaltation—
	I mean Libra—was all the while ascending,
	As we came in where a village had its ending;
	And so our host, who, as he used to do,
	In such a case, was guiding our jolly crew,
	Spoke out like this: "My lords, now, every one,
	We're short of just one tale; the rest are done.
	My plan, my ruling, and my decree
	Are done; I think we've heard from every degree.
	Almost complete is all that I have planned;
	I pray God give the best luck in the land
	To him who tells this tale with zest and glee.
	Sir priest," he said, "are you a vicar? Let's see—
	Or a parson? Tell the truth—by your faith, say!
	Whatever you are, don't go and spoil our play;
	For every man but you has told his tale;
	Undo your pack, and let's see what's in the bale;
	For honestly, I think, judging by your face,
	You'd bring a great subject to a close with grace.
	Tell us a tale at once, by cock's bones!"

	This Parson answered him at once, in plain tones:
	"You'll get no fable told by me;
	For Paul, when he writes to Timothy,
	Rebukes all those who leave the truth behind
	And tell fables, and trash of that wretched kind.
	Why should I scatter chaff out of my hand,
	When I can sow good wheat, if I choose, on the land?
	And therefore, if you're willing to give ear
	To morals and to virtuous matter here,
	And if, then, you will grant me audience,
	I'll gladly, in Christ's honour and reverence,
	Give you such lawful pleasure as I can.
	But you can take my word, I'm a Southern man:
	I can't tell tales—rum, ram, ruf—by the letter—
	And, God knows, I don't think rhyme much better;
	And so, if you don't mind, I'll use no flourish or pose;
	I'll tell you a merry tale in prose
	To knit up all this feast, and make an end.
	And may Jesus, of his grace, the wisdom send
	Me to show you, as we travel this journey's stage,
	The way of that perfect, glorious pilgrimage
	That's called Jerusalem celestial.
	And if you will allow it, right away I shall
	Begin my tale; for which, I ask you, pray
	Give me your judgement; there's no more I can say.
	But all the same, this meditation
	I always leave open to the emendation
	Of scholars, for in texts I am not well read;
	I take only the sense of what is said.
	And so I make my formal protestation
	That I will bow to any correction."

	We all agreed to this at once, as one,
	For, as it seemed to us, it was the thing to be done,
	To end upon some virtuous word, and to allow
	Him room, and give him a hearing, here and now;
	And asked our host to put it to him, and say
	That all of us begged him to tell his tale today.

	Our host spoke up and had the words for all:—
	"Sir priest," he said, "may good luck befall
	You! Say what you like, and we will gladly hear"—
	And having said that, he went on, loud and clear—
	"Tell us your meditation," he said, "but make haste:
	The sun is going down; there's no time to waste.
	Be fruitful, and keep it within a little space,
	And to do well, may God send you his grace!"

The Parson's Tale

State super vias et videte et interrogate de viis antiquis, que sit via bona; et ambulate in ea, et inuenietis refrigerium animabus vestris, &c. (Jeremiah 6:16): Stand on the ways, and look, and ask for the old paths, which is the good way; and walk in it, and you shall find refreshment for your souls.

§ 1. Our sweet Lord God of heaven, who wants no one to perish, but wants us all to come to the knowledge of him and to the blissful life that lasts for ever, admonishes us through the prophet Jeremiah, who speaks in this way: "Stand on the ways, and look, and ask for the old paths (that is to say, the old wisdom), which is the good way; and walk in that way, and you shall find refreshment for your souls," and so on. Many are the spiritual ways that lead people to our Lord Jesus Christ and to the kingdom of glory. Among these ways there is one most noble and most fitting, which cannot fail any man or woman who has strayed through sin from the right road to the heavenly Jerusalem; and this way is called penitence. We should be glad to listen to it and inquire into it with all our heart: to learn what penitence is, and why it is called penitence, and in how many ways penitence acts and works, and how many kinds of penitence there are, and what things belong to penitence and are required by it, and what things stand in its way.

§ 2. Saint Ambrose says that "penitence is a man's lament for the guilt he has incurred, and his never again doing anything he ought to lament." And one of the doctors of the Church says: "Penitence is the wailing of a man who grieves for his sin and torments himself because he has done wrong." Penitence, under certain conditions, is the true repentance of a man who keeps himself in sorrow and other pain for his offences. And to be truly penitent, he must first bewail the sins he has committed, and resolve firmly in his heart to make confession by mouth, and to make satisfaction, and never again to do anything he would have to bewail or lament, and to keep on with good works: otherwise his repentance is of no use. For as Saint Isidore says: "He is a joker and a chatterer, and no true penitent, who goes straight back and does the thing he ought to repent." Weeping, without leaving off sin, is of no use. But all the same, we must hope that every time a man falls, however often it may be, he can rise again through penitence, if he has grace; but it is certainly very much in doubt. For as Saint Gregory says: "He scarcely rises out of sin who is weighed down with the weight of bad habit." And therefore repentant people, who stop sinning and give up sin before sin gives them up, Holy Church holds sure of their salvation. And as for the man who sins, and truly repents only at his last end, Holy Church still hopes for his salvation, by the great mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ, because of his repentance; but take the sure road.

§ 3. And now that I have shown you what penitence is, you must understand that there are three actions of penitence. The first action of penitence is that a man be baptized after he has sinned. Saint Augustine says: "Unless he is penitent for his old sinful life, he cannot begin the new clean life." For certainly, if he is baptized without penitence for his old guilt, he receives the mark of baptism, but not the grace nor the forgiveness of his sins, until he has true repentance. Another failing is this, that people commit deadly sin after they have received baptism. The third failing is that people fall into venial sins, the lesser and pardonable kind, after their baptism, from day to day. Of this Saint Augustine says that "the penitence of good and humble people is the penitence of every day."

§ 4. The kinds of penitence are three. One of them is solemn, another is common, and the third is private. The penance that is solemn is of two sorts: one is to be put out of Holy Church during Lent, for the slaughter of children and that kind of thing. The other is when a man has sinned openly, so that his sin is talked about openly in the district; and then Holy Church, by its judgement, compels him to do open penance. Common penance is what priests commonly impose on people in certain cases: to go on pilgrimage, perhaps, naked, or barefoot. Private penance is what people do every day for private sins, which we confess in private and for which we receive a private penance.

§ 5. Now you shall understand what is needful and necessary to a true and perfect penitence. And this rests on three things: contrition of heart, confession of mouth, and satisfaction, which is the making of amends. As Saint John Chrysostom says of this: "Penitence obliges a man to accept humbly every pain that is laid on him, with contrition of heart, and confession of mouth, with satisfaction, and in the practice of every kind of humility." And this is fruitful penitence, against the three things by which we anger our Lord Jesus Christ: that is to say, by delight in thinking, by recklessness in speaking, and by wicked sinful doing. And against these wicked offences stands penitence, which may be likened to a tree.

§ 6. The root of this tree is contrition, which hides itself in the heart of the man who truly repents, just as the root of a tree hides itself in the earth. From the root of contrition springs a stalk that bears the branches and leaves of confession, and the fruit of satisfaction. That is why Christ says in his gospel: "Bring forth fruit worthy of penitence"; for by this fruit people may know this tree, and not by the root that is hidden in a man's heart, nor by the branches, nor by the leaves of confession. And therefore our Lord Jesus Christ says this: "By their fruits you shall know them." From this root there also springs a seed of grace, which is the mother of all assurance, and this seed is sharp and hot. The grace of this seed springs from God, through the remembrance of the Day of Judgement and of the pains of hell. On this matter Solomon says that "in the fear of God a man forsakes his sin." The heat of this seed is the love of God, and the longing for the joy that lasts for ever. This heat draws a man's heart to God, and makes him hate his sin. For truly, nothing tastes so good to a child as his nurse's milk, and nothing is more loathsome to him than that same milk when it has been mixed with other food. In just the same way the sinful man who loves his sin finds it the sweetest thing there is; but from the moment he loves our Lord Jesus Christ steadfastly, and desires the life that lasts for ever, nothing is more loathsome to him. For truly, the law of God is the love of God; and so David the prophet says: "I have loved your law and hated wickedness and hatred"; he who loves God keeps his law and his word. The prophet Daniel saw this tree in spirit, in the dream of King Nebuchadnezzar, when he counselled him to do penance. Penance is the tree of life to those who receive it, and the man who keeps himself in true penitence is blessed, as Solomon teaches.

§ 7. In this penitence, or contrition, a man must understand four things: that is to say, what contrition is; and what the causes are that move a man to contrition; and how he should be contrite; and what contrition does for the soul. It is like this: contrition is the true sorrow that a man takes into his heart for his sins, with a firm purpose to confess, and to do penance, and never to sin again. And this sorrow must be of this kind, as Saint Bernard says: "It shall be heavy and grievous, and very sharp and piercing in the heart." First, because a man has offended against his lord and his creator; and sharper and more piercing, because he has offended against his heavenly father; and sharper and more piercing still, because he has angered and offended the one who redeemed him, who with his precious blood has delivered us from the bonds of sin, and from the cruelty of the devil, and from the pains of hell.

§ 8. The causes that ought to move a man to contrition are six. First, a man should call his sins to mind; but let him make sure that this remembrance brings him no delight in any way, but great shame and sorrow for his guilt. For Job says: "Sinful men do works worthy of confession." And therefore Hezekiah says: "I will remember all the years of my life in the bitterness of my heart." And God says in the Apocalypse: "Remember from where you have fallen"; for before the time that you sinned, you were the children of God and limbs of the kingdom of God; but through your sin you have grown enslaved and foul, members of the Fiend, the hatred of angels, the disgrace of Holy Church and the food of the false serpent, everlasting fuel for the fire of hell. And fouler and more loathsome still, because you trespass so often, like the dog that goes back to eat its vomit. And you are fouler yet for your long continuance in sin and your sinful habits, by which you are rotten in your sin, like a beast in its own dung. Thoughts like these make a man ashamed of his sin, and take no delight in it, as God says through the prophet Ezekiel: "You shall remember your ways, and they shall displease you." Truly, sins are the ways that lead people to hell.

§ 9. The second cause that ought to make a man disdain sin is this: that, as Saint Peter says, "whoever sins is the slave of sin"; and sin puts a man into great slavery. And therefore the prophet Ezekiel says: "I went sorrowful, in disdain of myself." And certainly a man has good reason to disdain sin, and to draw himself back out of that slavery and degradation. And look what Seneca says on this matter. This is what he says: "Even if I knew that neither God nor man would ever know of it, I would still disdain to commit a sin." And the same Seneca also says: "I was born for greater things than to be a slave to my body, or to make a slave of my body." No man or woman can make a fouler slave of their body than by giving their body over to sin. Even if it were the foulest churl, or the foulest woman alive, and of the least worth, still that person is fouler then, and deeper in servitude. The higher the rank a man falls from, the more he is a slave, and the more vile and loathsome to God and to the world. O good God, well may a man disdain sin, since through sin, where he was free, he is now made a bondman. And therefore Saint Augustine says: "If you disdain your servant when he offends or sins, then disdain that you yourself should sin." Have regard for your own worth, so that you are not too foul in your own eyes. Alas! They have every reason, then, to disdain to be the servants and slaves of sin, and to be sorely ashamed of themselves, whom God in his endless goodness has set in high estate, or given wit, strength of body, health, beauty and prosperity, and bought back from death with his heart's blood, that they so ungratefully, in return for his nobility, repay him so basely, to the slaughter of their own souls. O good God, you women who have such great beauty, remember the proverb of Solomon, which says: "He likens a fair woman who is a fool with her body to a ring of gold in a sow's snout." For just as a sow roots about in every kind of filth, so she roots her beauty in the stinking filth of sin.

§ 10. The third cause that ought to move a man to contrition is fear of the Day of Judgement, and of the horrible pains of hell. For as Saint Jerome says: "Every time I remember the Day of Judgement, I tremble; for when I eat or drink, or whatever I do, it always seems to me that the trumpet is sounding in my ear: Rise up, you who are dead, and come to the Judgement." O good God, a man has much to fear in such a judgement, "where we shall all be," as Saint Paul says, "before the judgement seat of our Lord Jesus Christ"; where he shall hold a general assembly, from which no one may be absent. For certainly no excuse for non-attendance will be accepted there, and no plea of any kind. And not only shall our faults be judged, but all our works shall be openly known as well. And as Saint Bernard says: "No pleading shall help there, and no trickery; we shall give account of every idle word." There we shall have a judge who cannot be deceived or corrupted. And why? Because, certainly, all our thoughts are laid bare to him; and neither prayer nor bribe will corrupt him. And therefore Solomon says: "The wrath of God will spare no one, for prayer or for gift"; and therefore at the Day of Judgement there is no hope of escape.

That is why Saint Anselm says: "Very great anguish shall the sinful have at that time. There the stern and angry Judge shall sit above, and under him the horrible pit of hell lies open, to destroy the one who must acknowledge his sins, which sins are openly shown before God and before every creature. And on the left side, more devils than the heart can imagine, to harry and drag the sinful souls to the pains of hell. And within people's hearts shall be the biting conscience, and outside them the whole world shall be burning. Where then shall the wretched sinful man flee to hide himself? Certainly he cannot hide; he must come out and show himself." For certainly, as Saint Jerome says: "The earth shall cast him out of itself, and the sea too; and so shall the air, which shall be full of thunderclaps and lightning." Now truly, whoever keeps these things well in mind will find, I think, that his sin does not turn him to delight but to great sorrow, for fear of the pain of hell. And therefore Job says to God: "Allow me, Lord, to bewail and weep a while, before I go, never to return, to the dark land covered with the darkness of death; to the land of misery and darkness, where the shadow of death is; where there is no order or rule, but grisly dread that shall last for ever." Here you can see that Job prayed for a little respite, to weep over his trespass and wail for it; for truly one day of respite is better than all the treasure in the world. And since a man may acquit himself before God by penitence in this world, and not by treasure, he ought to pray God to give him a little respite, to weep for his trespass and bewail it. For certainly all the sorrow a man could make from the beginning of the world is only a little thing compared with the sorrow of hell.

As for why Job calls hell "the land of darkness": understand that he calls it "land", or earth, because it is fixed and shall never fail; "dark", because whoever is in hell lacks material light. For certainly the dark light that shall come out of the fire that burns for ever shall turn entirely to pain for whoever is in hell, because it shows him the horrible devils who torment him. "Covered with the darkness of death": that is to say, whoever is in hell shall lack the sight of God; for certainly the sight of God is life everlasting. "The darkness of death" means the sins the wretched man has committed, which keep him from seeing the face of God, just as a dark cloud does between us and the sun.

"Land of misery": because there are three kinds of want there, set against three things that people of this world have in this present life, that is to say, honours, delights and riches. Against honour, they have shame and confusion in hell. For you know well that "honour" is the name people give to the reverence one man shows another; but in hell there is no honour and no reverence. For certainly no more reverence shall be shown there to a king than to a serving boy. Of which God says through the prophet Jeremiah: "Those who despise me shall be despised." "Honour" is also the name for great lordship; there no one shall serve another except to harm and torment him. "Honour" is also the name for great dignity and high rank; but in hell they shall all be trampled underfoot by devils. And God says: "The horrible devils shall go and come upon the heads of the damned." And this is because the higher they were in this present life, the lower they shall be brought and the more defiled in hell.

Against the riches of this world, they shall have the misery of poverty; and this poverty shall lie in four things. First, in the lack of treasure, of which David says: "The rich, who embraced the treasure of this world and gave their whole heart to it, shall sleep in the sleep of death; and of all their treasure they shall find nothing in their hands." And moreover, the misery of hell shall lie in the lack of food and drink. For God says this through Moses: "They shall be wasted with hunger, and the birds of hell shall devour them with bitter death, and the gall of the dragon shall be their drink, and the venom of the dragon their food." And furthermore, their misery shall lie in the lack of clothing: for they shall be naked in body, with no clothing but the fire they burn in and other filth; and naked they shall be in soul, of every kind of virtue, which is the clothing of the soul. Where then are the showy robes, and the soft sheets, and the fine linen shirts? Look what God says of them through the prophet Isaiah: "Under them moths shall be strewn, and their coverings shall be the worms of hell." And furthermore, their misery shall lie in the lack of friends; for a man who has good friends is not poor, but there is no friend there; for neither God nor any creature shall be a friend to them, and every one of them shall hate the others with a deadly hatred. "The sons and the daughters shall rebel against father and mother, and kin against kin, and they shall quarrel with and despise one another," both day and night, as God says through the prophet Micah. And the loving children, who once loved each other so carnally, would each eat the other if they could. For how should they love one another in the pain of hell, when they hated one another in the prosperity of this life? For you may be sure their carnal love was deadly hatred, as the prophet David says: "Whoever loves wickedness hates his own soul." And whoever hates his own soul certainly cannot love any other creature in any way. And therefore in hell there is no comfort and no friendship; but the more kinsfolk there are in hell, the more curses, the more quarrels and the more deadly hatred there is among them.

And furthermore, they shall lack every kind of delight; for certainly delights follow the appetites of the five senses, that is, sight, hearing, smell, taste and touch. But in hell their sight shall be full of darkness and of smoke, and therefore full of tears; and their hearing full of wailing and gnashing of teeth, as Jesus Christ says; their nostrils shall be full of stinking stench. And as Isaiah the prophet says: "Their taste shall be full of bitter gall." And as for the touch of their whole body, it shall be covered with "fire that shall never be quenched, and with worms that shall never die," as God says by the mouth of Isaiah. And so that they shall not imagine they can die of pain, and escape from pain by their death, they may understand from the words of Job, who says: "where the shadow of death is." Certainly a shadow has the likeness of the thing whose shadow it is, but a shadow is not the same thing as what it is the shadow of. So it is with the pain of hell: it is like death because of the horrible anguish. And why? Because it torments them for ever, as though they were about to die at once; but certainly they shall not die. For as Saint Gregory says: "To the wretched captives there shall be death without death, and end without end, and want without ceasing. For their death shall always live, and their end shall for ever begin, and their want shall never cease." And therefore Saint John the Evangelist says: "They shall seek death, and they shall not find him; and they shall long to die, and death shall flee from them."

And Job also says that "in hell there is no order of rule." And although God has created all things in right order, and nothing without order, but all things are ordained and numbered, nevertheless those who are damned are not in any order, and keep no order. For the earth shall bear them no fruit. For, as the prophet David says: "God shall destroy the fruit of the earth for them"; nor shall water give them any moisture, nor the air any refreshment, nor fire any light. For as Saint Basil says: "The burning of the fire of this world God shall give in hell to those who are damned; but the light and the brightness shall be given in heaven to his children"; just as the good man gives meat to his children and bones to his dogs. And because they shall have no hope of escape, Saint Job says at the last that "there horror and grisly dread shall dwell without end." Horror is always the fear of harm to come, and this fear shall dwell for ever in the hearts of the damned. And so they have lost all their hope, for seven reasons. First, because God, who is their judge, shall be without mercy towards them; nor can they please him, nor any of his saints; nor can they give anything for their ransom; nor have they any voice to speak to him; nor can they flee from pain; nor have they any goodness in them that they could show to deliver them from pain. And therefore Solomon says: "The wicked man dies; and when he is dead, he shall have no hope of escaping from pain." Whoever, then, would truly understand these pains, and think hard about how he has deserved them for his sins, would certainly feel more like sighing and weeping than singing and playing. For as Solomon says: "Whoever had the knowledge to know the pains that are established and ordained for sin would grieve." "That knowledge," as Saint Augustine says, "makes a man lament in his heart."

§ 11. The fourth point that ought to make a man contrite is the sorrowful remembrance of the good he has failed to do here on earth, and also of the good he has lost. Truly, the good works he has lost are either the good works he did before he fell into deadly sin, or else the good works he did while he lay in sin. Truly, the good works that he did before he fell into sin are all deadened and stunned and dulled by his repeated sinning. The other good works, the ones he did while he lay in deadly sin, are utterly dead as far as the everlasting life in heaven is concerned. So then, those good works that have been deadened by repeated sinning, which he did while he was in charity, can never come back to life without true penitence. And of this God says, by the mouth of Ezekiel: "If the righteous man turns back from his righteousness and does wickedness, shall he live?" No; for none of the good works he has done shall ever be remembered, for he shall die in his sin. And on that same chapter Saint Gregory says this: "We must understand this above all: that when we commit deadly sin, it is no use then to recite or call to mind the good works we have done before." For certainly, in the doing of deadly sin there is no trusting to any good work we have done before; that is to say, no trusting to it to win us the everlasting life in heaven. But nevertheless, the good works come back to life, and return, and help, and count towards the everlasting life in heaven, when we have contrition. But truly, the good works that people do while they are in deadly sin, because they were done in deadly sin, can never come back to life. For certainly, a thing that never had life can never be brought to life; and yet, although they do nothing to win the everlasting life, they still help to shorten the pain of hell, or else to gain temporal riches, or else so that God will be the readier to enlighten and illuminate the sinful man's heart to repentance; and they also help to accustom a man to doing good works, so that the Fiend has less power over his soul. And so the courteous Lord Jesus Christ wills that no good work be lost; for in some way it shall count. But since the good works that people do while they are living a good life are all deadened by the sin that follows, and since all the good works people do while they are in deadly sin are utterly dead as far as winning the everlasting life goes, the man who does no good work may well sing that new French song: "J'ai tout perdu mon temps et mon labour", I have wasted all my time and all my work. For certainly sin robs a man both of the goodness of nature and of the goodness of grace. For truly, the grace of the Holy Spirit is like fire, which cannot be idle; for fire dies the moment it stops working, and in just the same way grace dies the moment it stops working. Then the sinful man loses the goodness of glory, which is promised only to good people who labour and work. Well may he be sorry, then, the man who owes his whole life to God, for as long as he has lived and for as long as he shall live, and has no goodness to pay his debt to God, to whom he owes his whole life. For you may be sure that "he shall give account," as Saint Bernard says, "of all the goods that have been given him in this present life, and of how he has spent them; so much so that not a hair of his head shall perish, nor a moment of an hour of his time, without his having to give a reckoning of it."

§ 12. The fifth thing that ought to move a man to contrition is the remembrance of the Passion, the suffering that our Lord Jesus Christ endured for our sins. For, as Saint Bernard says: "As long as I live I shall remember the labours that our Lord Christ suffered in preaching; his weariness in travelling, his temptations when he fasted, his long vigils when he prayed, his tears when he wept for pity of good people; the grief and the shame and the filth that people spoke to him; the foul spitting that they spat in his face, the blows they gave him, the foul grimaces, and the reproaches they spoke to him; the nails with which he was nailed to the cross, and all the rest of the Passion that he suffered for my sins, and not at all for any guilt of his own."

And you must understand that in a man's sin every kind of order and arrangement is turned upside down. For it is true that God, and reason, and sensuality, and the body of man are so ordained that each of these four things should have lordship over the next, in this way: God should have lordship over reason, and reason over sensuality, and sensuality over the body of man. But truly, when a man sins, all this order and arrangement is turned upside down. And so, since a man's reason will not be subject and obedient to God, who is its lord by right, it loses the lordship it ought to have over sensuality, and over the body of man as well. And why? Because sensuality then rebels against reason; and in that way reason loses its lordship over sensuality and over the body. For just as reason is a rebel against God, so sensuality is a rebel against reason, and the body too. And certainly our Lord Jesus Christ paid very dearly for this disorder and this rebellion with his precious body; and listen to how. Since reason is a rebel against God, man deserves to suffer sorrow and to die. This our Lord Jesus Christ suffered for man, after he had been betrayed by his disciple, and seized, and bound, "so that his blood burst out at every nail in his hands," as Saint Augustine says. And furthermore, since man's reason will not tame sensuality when it can, man deserves to be put to shame; and this our Lord Jesus Christ suffered for man when they spat in his face. And furthermore, since the wretched body of man is a rebel both against reason and against sensuality, it deserves death. And this our Lord Jesus Christ suffered for man upon the cross, where there was no part of his body free of great pain and bitter suffering. And all this Jesus Christ suffered, who had never done wrong. And therefore it may reasonably be said of Jesus in this way: "Too much am I tormented for things I never deserved, and too much defiled with the disgrace that man deserves to have." And therefore the sinful man may well say, as Saint Bernard says: "Cursed be the bitterness of my sin, for which so much bitterness had to be suffered."

For certainly, to answer the different kinds of disorder in our wickedness, the Passion of Jesus Christ was ordained in different parts, like this. Certainly the sinful man's soul is betrayed by the devil through covetousness for worldly prosperity; and mocked by deceit when it chooses the delights of the flesh; and then it is tormented by impatience in adversity, and spat on by the servitude and subjection of sin; and at the last it is slain outright. For this disorder of sinful man, Jesus Christ was first betrayed; and after that he was bound, who came to unbind us from sin and pain. Then he was mocked, who alone ought to have been honoured in all things and by all things. Then his face, which all mankind ought to long to see, the face that angels long to look upon, was basely spat on. Then he was scourged, who had done no wrong at all; and finally he was crucified and slain. Then the word of Isaiah was fulfilled: "He was wounded for our misdeeds, and defiled for our crimes." Now, since Jesus Christ took upon himself the pain of all our wickedness, the sinful man ought to weep and wail greatly, that for his sins God's son in heaven should endure all this pain.

§ 13. The sixth thing that ought to move a man to contrition is the hope of three things: that is to say, forgiveness of sin, and the gift of grace to do well, and the glory of heaven, with which God shall reward a man for his good deeds. And because Jesus Christ gives us these gifts out of his generosity and his sovereign goodness, he is called Iesus Nazarenus rex Iudeorum, Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews. "Jesus" means "saviour" or "salvation", in whom people may hope to have forgiveness of sins, which is, properly speaking, salvation from sins. And that is why the angel said to Joseph: "You shall call his name Jesus, for he shall save his people from their sins." And on this Saint Peter says: "There is no other name under heaven given to anyone by which a man may be saved, but only Jesus." Nazarenus amounts to saying "flourishing", in which a man may hope that he who gives him forgiveness of his sins shall give him grace to do well too. For in the flower is the hope of fruit to come; and in the forgiveness of sins, the hope of grace to do well. "I was at the door of your heart," says Jesus, "and called to come in; whoever opens to me shall have forgiveness of sin. I will come into him by my grace, and sup with him," by the good works he shall do, which works are the food of God; "and he shall sup with me," by the great joy that I shall give him. So a man may hope that for his works of penance God shall give him his kingdom, as he promises him in the gospel.

§ 14. Now a man must understand what kind of contrition his should be. I say that it must be universal and total; that is to say, a man must truly repent of all the sins he has committed in the delight of his thought, for delight is very dangerous. For there are two kinds of consenting. One of them is called the consent of the affections, when a man is moved to sin, and takes delight in thinking about that sin for a long time; and his reason sees clearly that it is a sin against the law of God, and yet his reason does not rein in his foul delight or desire, though he sees plainly enough that it goes against the reverence due to God. Although his reason does not consent to commit that sin in deed, still some doctors of the Church say that such delight, if it lingers long, is very dangerous, however slight it may be. And a man should sorrow, above all, for everything he has ever desired against the law of God with the full consent of his reason; for there is no doubt that this consenting is deadly sin. For certainly there is no deadly sin that was not first in a man's thought, and after that in his delight, and so on into consent and into the deed. That is why I say that many people never repent of such thoughts and delights, and never confess them, but only the outward deed of great sins. That is why I say that such wicked delights and wicked thoughts are subtle deceivers of those who shall be damned.

Moreover, a man ought to sorrow for his wicked words as well as for his wicked deeds; for certainly, to repent of one particular sin and not of all his other sins, or else to repent of all his other sins and not of one particular sin, is of no use. For certainly God almighty is all good; and therefore he forgives all, or else nothing at all. And on this Saint Augustine says: "I know for certain that God is the enemy of every sinner"; and what then? Shall the man who holds on to one sin have forgiveness for the rest of his other sins? No. And furthermore, contrition should be wonderfully sorrowful and full of anguish, and that is why God gives a man his mercy in full; and therefore, "when my soul was in anguish within me, I remembered God, so that my prayer might come to him." Furthermore, contrition must be continual, and the man must have a steadfast purpose to confess, and to amend his life. For truly, as long as contrition lasts, a man may always hope for forgiveness; and from this comes hatred of sin, which destroys sin both in himself and in other people, as far as he has power to. That is why David says: "You who love God, hate wickedness." For you may be sure that to love God is to love what he loves, and to hate what he hates.

§ 15. The last thing a man must understand about contrition is this: what contrition is good for. I say that sometimes contrition delivers a man from sin; of which David says: "I said," says David, that is to say, "I firmly resolved to confess; and you, Lord, released my sin." And just as contrition is of no use without a firm purpose of confession, if a man has the opportunity, so confession or satisfaction is worth very little without contrition. And moreover, contrition destroys the prison of hell, and makes all the strength of the devils weak and feeble, and restores the gifts of the Holy Spirit and of all good virtues; and it cleanses the soul of sin, and delivers the soul from the pain of hell, and from the company of the devil, and from the servitude of sin, and restores it to all spiritual goods, and to the company and communion of Holy Church. And furthermore, it makes the man who was once a son of wrath into a son of grace; and all these things are proved by holy scripture. And therefore anyone who set his mind on these things would be very wise; for truly he would not then have the heart to sin in all his life, but would give his body and all his heart to the service of Jesus Christ, and do him homage for it. For truly, our sweet Lord Jesus Christ has spared us so graciously in our follies that if he had no pity on man's soul, it is a sorry song we should all be singing.

The Second Part of Penitence

§ 16. The second part of penitence is confession, which is the sign of contrition. Now you shall understand what confession is, and whether it must necessarily be made or not, and what things are fitting to a true confession.

§ 17. First you must understand that confession is the true showing of sins to the priest. I say "true" because he must confess all the circumstances that belong to his sin, as far as he can. Everything must be told, nothing excused or hidden or wrapped up, and he must not boast of his good works. And furthermore, it is necessary to understand where sins spring from, and how they grow, and what they are.

§ 18. Of the springing of sins Saint Paul speaks in this way: that "just as by one man sin first entered into this world, and through that sin death, so that same death entered into all men who sinned." And this man was Adam, by whom sin entered into this world when he broke the commandment of God. And so he who was at first so mighty that he need never have died became someone who had to die, whether he wanted to or not; and so did all his offspring in this world, who sinned in that man. Look how, in the state of innocence, when Adam and Eve were naked in paradise and felt no shame at all at their nakedness, the serpent, which was the wiliest of all the beasts that God had made, said to the woman: "Why did God command you not to eat of every tree in paradise?" The woman answered: "We feed ourselves," she said, "on the fruit of the trees in paradise; but truly, of the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of paradise God forbade us to eat, or even to touch it, in case we should die." The serpent said to the woman: "No, no, you shall not die the death; for truly, God knows that on the day you eat of it your eyes shall be opened, and you shall be as gods, knowing good and harm." The woman then saw that the tree was good for food, and fair to the eyes, and delightful to look at; she took of the fruit of the tree, and ate it, and gave some to her husband, and he ate; and at once the eyes of both of them were opened. And when they knew that they were naked, they sewed fig leaves into a kind of breeches to hide their members. There you can see that deadly sin has first the suggestion of the Fiend, as is shown here by the adder; and afterwards the delight of the flesh, as is shown here by Eve; and after that the consent of reason, as is shown here by Adam. For you may be sure that even though the Fiend tempted Eve, that is to say the flesh, and the flesh took delight in the beauty of the forbidden fruit, still, certainly, until reason, that is to say Adam, consented to the eating of the fruit, he remained in the state of innocence.

From that same Adam we took that original sin; for we are all descended from him in the flesh, and engendered of vile and corrupt matter. And when the soul is put into our body, original sin is contracted at once; and what was at first only the penalty of concupiscence becomes afterwards both penalty and sin. And therefore we are all born sons of wrath and of everlasting damnation, were it not for the baptism we receive, which takes away the guilt from us; but truly the penalty stays with us, in the form of temptation, and that penalty is called concupiscence, the craving of the flesh. When it is wrongly disposed or ordered in a man, it makes him covet: with the covetousness of the flesh, fleshly sin; with the sight of his eyes, earthly things; and with pride of heart, high rank.

§ 19. Now, to speak of the first covetousness, that is, the concupiscence that follows the law of our members, which were lawfully made, and by the rightful judgement of God: I say that since man is not obedient to God, who is his lord, the flesh is disobedient to him through concupiscence, which is also called the nourishment of sin and the occasion of sin. And therefore, all the while a man has in him the penalty of concupiscence, it is impossible that he should not be tempted at times, and moved in his flesh to sin. And this cannot fail as long as he lives. It may well grow weak and fail, by virtue of baptism and by the grace of God through penitence; but it shall never be put out so completely that he shall not at times be stirred within himself, unless he has been chilled right through by sickness, or by the evil work of sorcery, or by cooling potions. For look what Saint Paul says: "The flesh lusts against the spirit, and the spirit against the flesh; they are so contrary to each other, and strive so, that a man cannot always do as he would." The same Saint Paul, after his great penance by water and by land (by water, night and day, in great peril and great pain; by land, in famine, in thirst, in cold and without clothing, and once stoned almost to death), still said: "Alas! wretched man that I am, who shall deliver me from the prison of my wretched body?" And Saint Jerome, when he had lived a long time in the desert, where he had no company but wild beasts, and no food but herbs, and water to drink, and no bed but the bare earth, so that his flesh was as black as an Ethiopian's from the heat and almost destroyed by the cold, still said that "the burning of lechery boiled through his whole body." And so I know very surely that those who say they are not tempted in their body are deceived. As witness Saint James the Apostle, who says that "everyone is tempted by his own concupiscence": that is to say, each of us has matter and occasion to be tempted by the nourishment of sin that is in his body. And therefore Saint John the Evangelist says: "If we say that we are without sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us."

§ 20. Now you shall understand in what way sin waxes or increases in a man. The first thing is that same nourishment of sin of which I spoke before, that fleshly concupiscence. And after that comes the suggestion of the devil, that is to say, the devil's bellows, with which he blows up the fire of fleshly concupiscence in a man. And after that a man considers whether he will do the thing he is tempted to, or not. And then, if a man withstands and puts aside the first enticement of his flesh and of the Fiend, it is no sin; and if he does not do so, he at once feels a flame of delight. And then it is good to be wary, and to guard himself well, or else he will fall at once into consent to sin; and then he will do it, if he can find the time and the place. And on this matter Moses says of the devil, in this way: "The Fiend says: I will chase and pursue the man by wicked suggestion, and I will seize him by the moving or stirring of sin. I will share out my prize or my prey by deliberation, and my desire shall be fulfilled in delight; I will draw my sword in consent": for certainly, just as a sword cuts a thing into two pieces, so consent cuts God off from man; "and then I will slay him with my hand in the deed of sin." So says the Fiend. For certainly, then a man is entirely dead in his soul. And so sin is fulfilled by temptation, by delight and by consent; and then the sin is called actual.

§ 21. Truly, sin is of two kinds: it is either venial or deadly sin. Truly, when a man loves any creature more than Jesus Christ our creator, then it is deadly sin. And it is venial sin if a man loves Jesus Christ less than he ought. Truly, the deed of this venial sin is very dangerous; for it diminishes, more and more, the love that people ought to have for God. And therefore, if a man loads himself with many such venial sins, then certainly, unless he unloads them now and then by confession, they may very easily diminish in him all the love he has for Jesus Christ; and in this way venial sin slips over into deadly sin. For certainly, the more a man loads his soul with venial sins, the more inclined he is to fall into deadly sin. And therefore let us not be negligent in unloading ourselves of venial sins. For the proverb says that many small things make a great one. And listen to this example. A great wave of the sea sometimes comes with such great violence that it sinks the ship. And the small drops of water that come in through a little crack into the bilge, into the bottom of the ship, sometimes do the same harm, if people are so negligent that they do not pump them out in time. And so, although there is a difference between these two causes of sinking, the ship is sunk all the same. That is how it sometimes goes with deadly sin, and with troublesome venial sins, when they multiply in a man so greatly that the worldly things he loves, through which he sins venially, are as great in his heart as the love of God, or greater. And therefore the love of everything that is not set on God, or done chiefly for God's sake, is venial sin, even though a man loves it less than God; and it is deadly sin when the love of anything weighs as much in a man's heart as the love of God, or more. "Deadly sin," as Saint Augustine says, "is when a man turns his heart away from God, who is the true sovereign goodness and cannot change, and gives his heart to a thing that can change and pass away"; and certainly that is everything except God in heaven. For it is true that if a man gives the love he owes wholly to God, with all his heart, to a creature, then certainly, as much of his love as he gives to that creature, so much he robs from God; and therefore he sins. For he who is God's debtor does not pay God all his debt, that is to say, all the love of his heart.

§ 22. Now that you understand in general what venial sin is, it is fitting to speak in particular of sins which many people perhaps do not consider sins at all, and do not confess, and which are sins all the same. Truly, as the learned write, this is how it is: every time a man eats or drinks more than suffices to sustain his body, he certainly sins. And also when he speaks more than he needs to, it is sin. Also when he does not listen kindly to the complaint of the poor. Also when he is in good health and will not fast when other people fast, without a reasonable cause. Also when he sleeps more than he needs to, or when for that reason he comes too late to church, or to other works of charity. Also when he has intercourse with his wife without the chief desire of begetting children, to the honour of God, or the intention of paying his wife the debt of his body. Also when he will not visit the sick and the prisoner, if he can. Also if he loves wife or child, or any other worldly thing, more than reason requires. Also if he flatters or fawns more than he ought for any need. Also if he cuts down or withholds the alms of the poor. Also if he prepares his food more luxuriously than there is need, or eats it too hastily out of greed. Also if he chatters about trifles at church or at God's service, or is a talker of idle words of folly or of rudeness; for he shall give account of it at the Day of Judgement. Also when he promises or gives assurance that he will do things he cannot carry out. Also when, out of levity or folly, he slanders or scorns his neighbour. Also when he harbours some wicked suspicion of a thing of which he knows nothing for certain. These things, and more without number, are sins, as Saint Augustine says.

Now you must understand that although no earthly man can avoid all venial sins, still he may restrain himself by the burning love he has for our Lord Jesus Christ, and by prayers and confession and other good works, so that they shall do him only a little harm. For, as Saint Augustine says: "If a man loves God in such a way that all he ever does is in the love of God, and truly for the love of God, because he burns in the love of God, then look: as much as a drop of water that falls into a furnace full of fire harms or troubles it, so much does a venial sin harm a man who is perfect in the love of Jesus Christ." People may also restrain venial sin by receiving worthily the precious body of Jesus Christ; by receiving holy water too; by almsgiving; by the general confession of the Confiteor, the "I confess", at Mass and at compline, the last service of the day; and by the blessing of bishops and of priests, and by other good works.

The End of the Second Part of Penitence

The Seven Deadly Sins, Their Branches, Circumstances and Kinds

§ 23. Now it is necessary to tell which are the deadly sins, that is to say, the chieftains of sins. They all run on one leash, but in different ways. They are called chieftains because they are the chief sins, and the springs of all other sins. Of the root of these seven sins, then, Pride is the general root of all harms; for from this root spring certain branches, such as Wrath, Envy, Accidie or Sloth, Avarice or Covetousness (to put it in common terms), Gluttony and Lechery. And each of these chief sins has its branches and its twigs, as shall be explained in the chapters on each that follow.

Pride

§ 24. And although no one can fully tell the number of the twigs and of the harms that come from Pride, yet I will show you a part of them, as you shall understand. There is Disobedience, Boasting, Hypocrisy, Contempt, Arrogance, Impudence, Swelling of the heart, Insolence, Elation, Impatience, Strife, Contumacy, Presumption, Irreverence, Pertinacity, Vainglory; and many another twig that I cannot explain. The disobedient man is he who out of contempt disobeys the commandments of God, and his superiors, and his spiritual father. The boaster is he who brags of the harm or the good that he has done. The hypocrite is he who hides himself from showing what he is, and shows himself as what he is not. The contemptuous man is he who disdains his neighbour, that is to say, his fellow Christian, or who scorns to do what he ought to do. The arrogant man is he who thinks he has in him good qualities that he does not have, or imagines he ought to have them by his deserts; or else he judges that he is what he is not. The impudent man is he who in his pride has no shame for his sins. Swelling of the heart is when a man rejoices in harm that he has done. The insolent man is he who in his judgement despises all other people compared with his own worth, and his knowledge, and his way of speaking, and his bearing. Elation, the puffing up of the self, is when he can bear to have neither a master nor an equal. The impatient man is he who will not be taught or rebuked for his vice, and knowingly makes war on the truth by quarrelling, and defends his folly. Contumax, the contumacious man, is he who in his indignation sets himself against every authority or power of those who are set over him. Presumption is when a man takes on an enterprise that he ought not to do, or else that he cannot do; and that is called surquidry, overweening. Irreverence is when people do not show honour where they ought to, and expect to be revered themselves. Pertinacity is when a man defends his folly and trusts too much in his own wit. Vainglory is to take pomp and delight in one's worldly high position, and to glory in this worldly estate. Jangling is when people talk too much in front of others, and clack like a mill, and take no care what they say.

§ 25. And there is also a private kind of Pride, which waits to be greeted first before it will greet, though the man may perhaps be worth less than the other; and he also waits for, or wants, the seat above his neighbour, or to walk ahead of him on the road, or to kiss the pax, the tablet passed round at Mass for the kiss of peace, or to be censed, or to go up to the offering before his neighbour, and similar things; against his duty, perhaps, except that he has set his heart and his purpose on such a proud desire to be made much of and honoured before the people.

§ 26. Now there are two kinds of Pride: one of them is within a man's heart, and the other is outside. Of these, truly, the things I have just spoken of, and more than I have spoken of, belong to the pride that is in a man's heart; and the other kinds of pride are outside. But nevertheless one of these kinds of pride is the sign of the other, just as the bright bush of leaves at the tavern is the sign of the wine that is in the cellar. And this is in many things: in speech and in looks, and in outrageous array of clothing; for certainly, if there had been no sin in clothing, Christ would not have noted and spoken of the clothing of that rich man in the gospel. And, as Saint Gregory says, precious clothing is blameworthy for its costliness, and for its softness, and for its strangeness and outlandish fashion, and for its superfluity, or for its inordinate scantiness. Alas! can we not see, in our own days, the sinful, costly array of clothing, and especially its great superfluity, or else its disorderly scantiness?

§ 27. As to the first sin, the superfluity of clothing, which makes it so dear, to the harm of the people: it is not only the cost of the embroidering, the elaborate indenting or barring, the waving, striping, winding or bending, and similar waste of cloth in vanity; but there is also the costly furring of their gowns, so much punching of holes with chisels, so much slashing with shears; and with it the superfluous length of these same gowns, trailing in the dung and the mire, on horseback and on foot, on men and women alike, so that all that trailing is, in effect, truly wasted, consumed, worn threadbare and rotten with dung, rather than given to the poor; to the great harm of those same poor people. And that in several ways: that is to say, the more cloth is wasted, the more it costs the people, because of its scarcity; and furthermore, if they were willing to give such punched and slashed clothing to the poor, it is not fit for them to wear in their station, nor enough to meet their need, to keep them from the harshness of the weather.

On the other side, to speak of the horrible disorderly scantiness of clothing, such as these cut-off smocks or short jackets, which because of their shortness do not cover a man's shameful members, with wicked intent. Alas! some of them show the bulge of their shape, and the horrible swollen members, which look like the disease of hernia, in the wrapping of their hose; and their buttocks, too, look like the hind part of a she-ape at the full of the moon. And moreover, the wretched swollen members that they show through this fashion, by dividing their hose in white and red, make it look as if half their shameful private members had been flayed. And if they divide their hose in other colours, such as white and black, or white and blue, or black and red, and so on, then it looks, by the difference of colour, as if half of their private members were corrupted by Saint Anthony's fire, the burning disease, or by cancer, or by some other such misfortune. As for the hinder part of their buttocks, it is a horrible thing to see. For certainly, that part of their body where they purge their stinking filth, that foul part they show to the people proudly, in contempt of decency, the decency which Jesus Christ and his friends took care to show in their lives. Now as for the outrageous array of women, God knows that though the faces of some of them seem very chaste and gentle, yet in their array of dress they advertise lechery and pride. I do not say that decency in the clothing of a man or a woman is unfitting, but certainly the superfluity or disorderly scantiness of clothing is to be condemned.

Also the sin of ornament or of finery is found in things that belong to riding: in too many dainty horses, kept for pleasure, which are so fair, fat and costly; and also in many a vicious groom kept on because of them; in elaborate harness, such as saddles, cruppers, breastplates and bridles covered with rich and precious cloth, and with bars and plates of gold and silver. Of which God says through Zechariah the prophet: "I will confound the riders of such horses." These people pay little regard to the riding of God's son in heaven, and to his harness when he rode upon the ass, and had no other harness but the poor clothes of his disciples; nor do we read that he ever rode on any other beast. I say this of the sin of superfluity, and not of reasonable decency, when reason requires it.

And furthermore, pride is certainly much displayed in keeping a great household of retainers, when they are of little profit or none at all. And especially when that household is criminal and harmful to the people, through the arrogance of high lordship or by way of their offices. For certainly such lords then sell their lordship to the devil of hell, when they uphold the wickedness of their households. Or else when people of low degree, such as those who keep inns, uphold the thieving of their ostlers, which is done by many kinds of deceit. That sort of people are the flies that follow the honey, or else the dogs that follow the carrion. Such people strangle their lordships spiritually; of which David the prophet says this: "May wicked death come upon those lordships, and God grant that they go down into hell, all the way down; for in their houses are iniquity and wickedness," and not God in heaven. And certainly, unless they make amends, just as God gave his blessing to Laban through the service of Jacob, and to Pharaoh through the service of Joseph, so God will give his curse to such lordships as uphold the wickedness of their servants, unless they come to amendment.

Pride of the table also shows itself very often; for certainly rich men are invited to feasts, and poor people are sent away and rebuked. Also in excess of different foods and drinks; and especially such baked dishes and made dishes as are set burning with wild fire, and painted and decked with castles of paper, and similar waste; so that it is a scandal even to think of. And also in too great a costliness of plate and elaborate music, by which a man is stirred all the more to the delights of luxury: if he sets his heart the less on our Lord Jesus Christ for them, it is certainly a sin; and certainly the delights might be so great in this case that a man could easily fall by them into deadly sin.

The kinds of sin that arise from pride, truly, when they arise from malice that is imagined, considered and planned beforehand, or else from habit, are deadly sins, there is no doubt. And when they arise suddenly out of frailty, without forethought, and are suddenly withdrawn again, then, grievous sins though they are, I think they are not deadly. Now someone might ask where Pride arises and springs from, and I say: sometimes it springs from the goods of nature, and sometimes from the goods of fortune, and sometimes from the goods of grace. Certainly the goods of nature consist either in goods of the body or in goods of the soul. Certainly the goods of the body are health of body, strength, agility, beauty, noble birth, freedom. The goods of nature in the soul are good wit, sharp understanding, subtle ingenuity, natural virtue, good memory. The goods of fortune are riches, high degrees of lordship, the praise of the people. The goods of grace are knowledge, the power to endure spiritual labour, kindness, virtuous contemplation, resistance to temptation, and similar things. And certainly it is a very great folly for a man to pride himself on any of these goods at all.

Now, to speak of the goods of nature: God knows that sometimes we have them by nature as much to our harm as to our profit. As, to speak of health of body: certainly it passes away very easily, and it is also very often the cause of sickness in our soul; for, God knows, the flesh is a very great enemy to the soul; and therefore the healthier the body is, the greater our danger of falling. And to pride oneself on strength of body is high folly; for certainly the flesh lusts against the spirit, and the stronger the flesh is, the sorrier the soul may be; and above all this, strength of body and worldly daring very often bring many a man to danger and misfortune. And to pride oneself on noble birth is very great folly; for often the nobility of the body robs the soul of its nobility; and besides, we are all of one father and one mother; and we are all of one nature, rotten and corrupt, both rich and poor. Truly, one kind of nobility is to be praised: the kind that dresses a man's heart in virtues and good morals, and makes him Christ's child. For you may be sure that any man over whom sin has the mastery is a true churl to sin.

§ 28. Now these are the general signs of nobility: the avoiding of vice and ribaldry and of servitude to sin, in word, in deed and in bearing; and the practice of virtue, courtesy and cleanness of life, and being liberal, that is to say, generous in due measure; for what goes beyond measure is folly and sin. Another is to remember the kindness he has received from other people. Another is to be gentle to his good subjects; and so, as Seneca says, "there is nothing more fitting to a man of high estate than graciousness and pity. And therefore these flies that people call bees, when they make their king, choose one that has no sting to sting with." Another is for a man to have a noble and a diligent heart, to reach high and virtuous things.

Now certainly, for a man to pride himself on the goods of grace is also an outrageous folly; for those gifts of grace that should have turned him to goodness and to healing turn him to poison and to ruin, as Saint Gregory says. Certainly, too, whoever prides himself on the goods of fortune is a very great fool; for sometimes a man is a great lord in the morning who is a captive and a wretch before nightfall; and sometimes a man's riches are the cause of his death; sometimes a man's pleasures are the cause of the grievous illness he dies of. Certainly the praise of the people is sometimes very false and very brittle to trust; today they praise, tomorrow they blame. God knows, the desire for the praise of the people has caused the death of many a busy man.

The Remedy for Pride

§ 29. Now that you have understood what pride is, and what its kinds are, and where pride arises and springs from, you shall now understand what the remedy is against the sin of pride; and that is humility, or meekness. This is a virtue through which a man has true knowledge of himself, and sets no price or value on himself with regard to his deserts, always bearing his frailty in mind. Now there are three kinds of humility: humility in the heart, and a second humility in the mouth, and the third in a man's works. Humility in the heart is of four kinds. The first is when a man holds himself as worth nothing before God in heaven. The second is when he despises no other man. The third is when he does not care if people think him worth nothing. The fourth is when he is not sorry at being humbled. Humility of the mouth, too, lies in four things: in temperate speech, and in humbleness of speech, and when he admits with his own mouth that he is just what he thinks he is in his heart. Another is when he praises another man's goodness and takes nothing away from it. Humility in works, too, is of four kinds. The first is when he puts other people before himself. The second is to choose the lowest place everywhere. The third is to agree gladly to good counsel. The fourth is to abide gladly by the decision of his superiors, or of anyone in a higher degree; certainly, this is a great work of humility.

Envy

§ 30. After Pride I will speak of the foul sin of Envy, which, in the words of the Philosopher, Aristotle, is sorrow at another man's prosperity; and in the words of Saint Augustine, it is sorrow at other men's well-being, and joy at other men's harm. This foul sin is flatly against the Holy Spirit. Although every sin is against the Holy Spirit, nevertheless, since goodness belongs properly to the Holy Spirit, and Envy comes properly from malice, it is properly against the goodness of the Holy Spirit. Now malice has two kinds. One is hardness of heart in wickedness: the flesh of man is so blind that he does not consider that he is in sin, or does not care that he is in sin; and that is the hardness of the devil. The other kind of malice is when a man makes war on the truth when he knows it to be the truth; and also when he makes war on the grace that God has given his neighbour; and all this is by Envy. Certainly, then, Envy is the worst sin there is. For truly, all other sins are sometimes against only one particular virtue; but certainly Envy is against all virtues and all goodness, for it is sorry at all the good qualities of its neighbour; and in this way it is different from all other sins. For there is hardly any sin that does not have some delight in itself, except only Envy, which always has anguish and sorrow in itself.

The kinds of Envy are these. First there is sorrow at another man's goodness and his prosperity; and prosperity is the natural matter of joy, so Envy is a sin against nature. The second kind of Envy is joy at another man's harm; and that is properly like the devil, who always rejoices at man's harm. From these two kinds comes backbiting; and this sin of backbiting, or detraction, has certain kinds, like this. One man praises his neighbour with a wicked intent, for he always ties a wicked knot at the very end. He always puts a "but" at the very end, which deserves more blame than all the praise is worth. The second kind is that if a man is good, and does or says something with a good intent, the backbiter will turn all that goodness upside down to suit his own vicious intent. The third is to belittle his neighbour's good qualities. The fourth kind of backbiting is this: if people speak well of a man, then the backbiter will say, "My word, so-and-so is even better than he is," in disparagement of the man people are praising. The fifth kind is this: to agree gladly and listen gladly to the harm people speak of others. This sin is very great, and always grows with the wicked intent of the backbiter.

After backbiting comes grumbling, or murmuring; and sometimes it springs from impatience against God, and sometimes against man. It is against God when a man grumbles against the pains of hell, or against poverty, or the loss of his goods, or against rain or storm; or else grumbles that the wicked prosper, or that good men suffer adversity. And people should bear all these things patiently, for they come by the rightful judgement and ordinance of God. Sometimes grumbling comes from avarice, as Judas grumbled against the Magdalene when she anointed the head of our Lord Jesus Christ with her precious ointment. This kind of murmuring is like a man's grumbling at good that he himself does, or that other people do with their own goods. Sometimes murmuring comes from pride, as when Simon the Pharisee grumbled against the Magdalene when she came near to Jesus Christ and wept at his feet for her sins. And sometimes grumbling arises from Envy, when people uncover a man's fault that was private, or accuse him of something that is false.

Murmuring is also common among servants, who grumble when their masters bid them do lawful things; and since they dare not openly refuse their masters' commandments, they will still speak ill, and grumble, and murmur in private out of pure spite; and these words people call the devil's Pater-noster, the devil's Lord's Prayer, though the devil never had a Pater-noster; it is only that ignorant people give it that name. Sometimes grumbling comes from wrath or private hatred, which nourishes rancour in the heart, as I shall explain later. Then there comes bitterness of heart too, through which bitterness every good deed of his neighbour seems bitter and distasteful to him. Then comes discord, which unbinds every kind of friendship. Then comes scorning, as when a man looks for a chance to annoy his neighbour, however well his neighbour behaves. Then comes accusing, as when a man looks for a chance to harm his neighbour, which is like the craft of the devil, who lies in wait both night and day to accuse us all. Then comes malignity, through which a man harms his neighbour in secret if he can; and if he cannot, at any rate his wicked will shall not be lacking, as in burning his house in secret, or poisoning or killing his beasts, and similar things.

The Remedy for Envy

§ 31. Now I will speak of the remedy against this foul sin of Envy. First and foremost is the love of God, and loving one's neighbour as oneself; for truly, the one cannot be without the other. And you may be sure that under the name of your neighbour you are to understand the name of your brother; for certainly we all have one father in the flesh, and one mother, that is to say Adam and Eve; and also one spiritual father, and that is God in heaven. You are bound to love your neighbour and to wish him every good; and that is why God says: "Love your neighbour as yourself," that is to say, to the salvation both of his life and of his soul. And moreover, you shall love him in word, and in kindly admonishing and correcting him; and comfort him in his troubles, and pray for him with all your heart. And in deed you shall love him in such a way that you do to him in charity as you would wish to have done to your own person. And therefore you shall do him no damage by wicked words, nor harm in his body, nor in his goods, nor in his soul by the enticement of a wicked example. You shall not desire his wife, nor any of his things.

Understand also that under the name of neighbour his enemy is included. Certainly a man must love his enemy by the commandment of God; and truly, you shall love your friend in God. I say you shall love your enemy for God's sake, by his commandment. For if it were reasonable that a man should hate his enemy, then truly God would not receive us into his love, who are his enemies. Against three kinds of wrong that his enemy does him, a man shall do three things, like this. Against hatred and rancour of heart, he shall love him in his heart. Against quarrelling and wicked words, he shall pray for his enemy. And against the wicked deed of his enemy, he shall do him good. For Christ says: "Love your enemies, and pray for those who speak ill of you, and also for those who chase and persecute you, and do good to those who hate you." Look, this is what our Lord Jesus Christ commands us to do to our enemies. For truly, nature drives us to love our friends; and my word, our enemies have more need of love than our friends; and certainly it is to those who have the greater need that people should do good. And certainly, in that deed we remember the love of Jesus Christ, who died for his enemies. And the harder that love is to carry out, the greater is the merit; and so the loving of our enemy has confounded the venom of the devil. For just as the devil is defeated by humility, so he is wounded to death by love of our enemy. Certainly, then, love is the medicine that casts the venom of Envy out of a man's heart. The kinds that belong to this step shall be explained more fully in the chapters that follow.

Wrath

§ 32. After Envy I will describe the sin of Wrath. For truly, whoever envies his neighbour will usually find himself some matter for anger at once, in word or in deed, against the man he envies. And Wrath comes from Pride as much as from Envy; for truly, a man who is proud or envious is easily angered.

§ 33. This sin of Wrath, as Saint Augustine describes it, is a wicked will to be avenged by word or by deed. Wrath, according to the Philosopher, is the fervent blood of a man stirred up in his heart, through which he wishes harm to the man he hates. For certainly a man's heart, by the heating and stirring of his blood, grows so troubled that he is beyond all judgement of reason. But you must understand that Wrath is of two kinds: one of them is good, and the other is wicked. The good Wrath comes from zeal for goodness, through which a man is angry with wickedness and against wickedness; and that is why a wise man says that "anger is better than play." This anger is gentle, and it is angry without bitterness; not angry against the man, but angry with the man's misdeed; as the prophet David says: Irascimini et nolite peccare, be angry, and do not sin.

Now understand that wicked Wrath is of two kinds. One is sudden or hasty Wrath, without forethought and the consent of reason. The meaning and sense of this is that a man's reason does not consent to that sudden Wrath; and then it is venial. The other Wrath is very wicked, which comes from villainy of the heart, considered and planned beforehand, with a wicked will to take vengeance, and his reason consents to it; and truly this is deadly sin. This Wrath is so displeasing to God that it troubles his house and chases the Holy Spirit out of a man's soul, and wastes and destroys the likeness of God, that is to say, the virtue that is in a man's soul; and it puts in him the likeness of the devil, and takes the man away from God, who is his rightful lord. This Wrath is a very great pleasure to the devil; for it is the devil's furnace, heated with the fire of hell. For certainly, just as fire is more powerful to destroy earthly things than any other element, so Wrath is powerful to destroy all spiritual things. See how the fire of small embers that are almost dead under the ashes will come alive again when they are touched with brimstone; just so Wrath will always come alive again when it is touched by the pride that lies covered in a man's heart. For certainly fire cannot come out of nothing, unless it was first naturally in that same thing, as fire is drawn out of flints with steel. And just as pride is often the matter of Wrath, so rancour is the nurse and keeper of Wrath. There is a kind of tree, as Saint Isidore says, which, when people make a fire of it and cover its coals with ashes, will truly keep its fire for a whole year or more. And so it is with rancour: once it is conceived in the hearts of some men, it will certainly last perhaps from one Easter Day to the next, and longer. But certainly that man is very far from the mercy of God all that while.

§ 34. In this devil's furnace I have spoken of, three villains are at work at the forge. Pride, who keeps blowing and increasing the fire with quarrelling and wicked words. Then Envy stands there, and holds the hot iron on a man's heart with a pair of long tongs of long rancour. And then stands the sin of contumely, or strife and wrangling, and batters and forges with villainous reproaches. Certainly this cursed sin harms both the man himself and his neighbour. For truly, almost all the harm that any man does his neighbour comes from wrath. For certainly outrageous wrath does everything the devil commands it; for it spares neither Christ nor his sweet mother. And in his outrageous anger and Wrath, alas! alas! many a man at that time feels very wickedly in his heart, both about Christ and about all his saints. Is this not a cursed vice? Yes, certainly. Alas! it robs a man of his wits and his reason, and of all the gentle spiritual life that should guard his soul. Certainly it also robs God of his due lordship, and that is man's soul, and of the love of his neighbours. It strives all day long against the truth, too. It robs him of the quiet of his heart, and overthrows his soul.

§ 35. From Wrath come these stinking offspring. First hatred, which is old wrath; discord, through which a man forsakes his old friend whom he has loved a very long time. And then comes war, and every kind of wrong that a man does his neighbour, in his body or in his goods. From this cursed sin of Wrath comes manslaughter too. And understand well that homicide, that is, manslaughter, is of different kinds. Some kinds of homicide are spiritual, and some are bodily. Spiritual manslaughter lies in six things. First, by hatred; as Saint John says: "He who hates his brother is a murderer." Homicide is also by backbiting; of which backbiters Solomon says that "they have two swords with which they kill their neighbours." For truly, it is as wicked to take away a man's good name as his life. Homicide is also in giving wicked counsel by fraud, such as giving counsel to raise wrongful dues and taxes. Of which Solomon says: "A roaring lion and a hungry bear are like the cruel lordships," in withholding or cutting short the pay, or the hire, or the wages of servants, or else in usury, or in withholding the alms of the poor. Of which the wise man says: "Feed him who is almost dying of hunger"; for truly, unless you feed him, you kill him; and all these are deadly sins.

Bodily manslaughter is when you kill a man with your tongue in another way: as when you command a man to be killed, or else give someone counsel to kill a man. Manslaughter in deed is of four kinds. One is by law, as when a justice condemns to death the man who is guilty. But let the justice take care that he does it rightfully, and that he does it not for the delight of spilling blood but to uphold justice. Another homicide is the kind done out of necessity, as when one man kills another in self-defence, and cannot otherwise escape his own death. But certainly, if he could escape without killing his adversary, and kills him, he sins, and he shall bear penance as for a deadly sin. Also, if a man by chance or accident shoots an arrow or throws a stone and kills a man with it, he is a homicide. Also, if a woman through negligence lies on her child in her sleep and smothers it, it is homicide and deadly sin. Also when a man prevents the conception of a child, and makes a woman barren by drinking poisonous herbs, so that she cannot conceive, or kills a child wilfully by potions, or else puts certain material things in her secret places to kill the child; or else commits the sin against nature, by which a man or a woman spills their seed in a manner or in a place where a child cannot be conceived; or else, if a woman has conceived and hurts herself, and kills the child, it is still homicide. What do we say, too, of women who murder their children for fear of worldly shame? Certainly, a horrible homicide. It is homicide also if a man approaches a woman out of lecherous desire, so that the child perishes, or else strikes a woman knowingly, so that she loses her child. All these are homicides and horrible deadly sins.

From Wrath come many more sins besides, in word as well as in thought and in deed: such as the man who lays at God's door, or blames God for, a thing he is guilty of himself; or despises God and all his saints, as these cursed dice-players do in various countries. They commit this cursed sin when they feel very wickedly in their hearts about God and his saints. Also, when they treat the sacrament of the altar irreverently, that sin is so great that it can scarcely be forgiven, except that the mercy of God surpasses all his works, it is so great, and he so kind. Then from Wrath comes venomous anger. When a man is sharply admonished in his confession to give up his sin, he will be angry, and answer scornfully and angrily, and defend or excuse his sin by the frailty of his flesh; or else he did it to keep company with his friends; or else, he says, the Fiend enticed him; or else he did it because he was young; or else his temperament is so ardent that he cannot hold back; or else it is his destiny, as he says, until a certain age; or else, he says, it comes to him from the noble blood of his ancestors; and similar things. All people of this sort so wrap themselves up in their sins that they will not set themselves free. For truly, no one who wilfully excuses himself for his sin can be delivered from his sin until he meekly acknowledges it.

After this comes swearing, which is expressly against the commandment of God; and this often happens out of anger and Wrath. God says: "You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain or idly." Also our Lord Jesus Christ says, in the words of Saint Matthew: "Nolite iurare omnino: do not swear at all; neither by heaven, for it is God's throne; nor by the earth, for it is the bench for his feet; nor by Jerusalem, for it is the city of a great king; nor by your head, for you cannot make one hair white or black. But let your word be 'Yes, yes' and 'No, no'; and whatever is more than this comes from evil," says Christ. For Christ's sake, do not swear so sinfully, dismembering Christ by soul, heart, bones and body. For certainly it seems you think that the cursed Jews did not dismember the precious person of Christ enough, and so you dismember him more. And if the law compels you to swear, then rule yourself by the law of God in your swearing, as Jeremiah says, quarto capitulo, in his fourth chapter: "Iurabis in veritate, in iudicio et in iusticia: you shall keep three conditions; you shall swear in truth, in judgement and in righteousness." That is to say, you shall swear what is true; for every lie is against Christ, for Christ is the very truth. And think hard on this: from every great swearer who is not lawfully compelled to swear, the wound shall not depart from his house as long as he goes on with such unlawful swearing. You shall swear in judgement too, when you are required by your judge to bear witness to the truth. And you shall not swear out of envy or favour, or for a bribe, but for righteousness: to make it known, to the honour of God and the help of your fellow Christians. And therefore every man who takes God's name in vain, or swears falsely with his mouth, or else takes on himself the name of Christ, to be called a Christian man, and lives against Christ's life and his teaching, all of them take God's name in vain. Look, too, at what Saint Peter says, Actuum quarto capitulo, in the fourth chapter of Acts: "Non est aliud nomen sub celo," and so on. "There is no other name," says Saint Peter, "under heaven, given to men, by which they may be saved"; that is to say, except the name of Jesus Christ. Take note, too, of how precious the name of Christ is, as Saint Paul says, ad Philipenses secundo, in the second chapter to the Philippians: "In nomine Iesu, and so on: that at the name of Jesus every knee of creatures in heaven, or on earth, or in hell should bow"; for it is so high and so worthy of honour that the cursed Fiend in hell should tremble to hear it named. So it seems that people who swear so horribly by his blessed name despise him more boldly than the cursed Jews did, or even the devil, who trembles when he hears his name.

§ 36. Now certainly, since swearing, unless it is done lawfully, is so strictly forbidden, false swearing is much worse, and needless as well.

§ 37. What do we say, too, of those who delight in swearing, and think it a gentlemanly or a manly deed to swear great oaths? And what of those who, out of pure habit, never stop swearing great oaths, though the cause is not worth a straw? Certainly this is a horrible sin. Swearing suddenly, without forethought, is also a sin. But let us go on now to that horrible swearing of adjuration and conjuration, the calling up of spirits, as these false enchanters or necromancers do in basins full of water, or in a bright sword, in a circle, or in a fire, or in the shoulder-blade of a sheep. I can only say that they act cursedly and damnably, against Christ and the whole faith of Holy Church.

§ 38. What do we say of those who believe in divinations, as by the flight or the noise of birds or of beasts, or by lots, by geomancy, the reading of figures marked in the earth, by dreams, by the creaking of doors or the cracking of houses, by the gnawing of rats, and such wretched stuff? Certainly all these things are forbidden by God and by all Holy Church. And so those who set their belief on such filth are accursed, until they come to amendment. As for charms for the wounds or the illnesses of men or beasts, if they take any effect, it may perhaps be that God allows it, so that people should give the more faith and reverence to his name.

§ 39. Now I will speak of lies, which in general means the false signifying of words, with the intention of deceiving one's fellow Christian. Some lies bring no advantage to anyone; and some lies turn to the ease or profit of one man, and to the discomfort and damage of another. Another lie is told to save one's life or one's goods. Another lie comes from the delight in lying, in which delight people will forge a long tale, and paint it with every circumstance, when the whole ground of the tale is false. Some lies come because a man wants to stand by his word; and some lies come from recklessness, without forethought; and similar things.

§ 40. Let us now touch on the vice of flattery, which seldom comes except out of fear or out of greed. Flattery, generally speaking, is wrongful praise. Flatterers are the devil's nurses, who nurse his children on the milk of smooth talk. For truly, Solomon says that "flattery is worse than slander." For slander sometimes makes a haughty man more humble, because he is afraid of it; but flattery, certainly, makes a man puff up his heart and his bearing. Flatterers are the devil's enchanters; for they make a man believe himself to be like what he is not like at all. They are like Judas, who betrayed God; and these flatterers betray a man in order to sell him to his enemy, that is, to the devil. Flatterers are the devil's chaplains, forever singing Placebo. I count flattery among the vices of Wrath, because often, when one man is angry with another, he will flatter someone to back him in his quarrel.

§ 41. Let us speak now of the kind of cursing that comes from an angry heart. A curse, generally, may be said to be any kind of power for harm. Such cursing robs a man of the kingdom of God, as Saint Paul says. And often such cursing wrongfully comes back on the one who curses, like a bird that returns to its own nest. And above all things people ought to avoid cursing their own children and giving their offspring to the devil, so far as it lies in them to do so; certainly it is a great danger and a great sin.

§ 42. Let us speak next of scolding and abuse, which are very great wounds in a man's heart; for they unpick the seams of friendship in a man's heart. For certainly a man can scarcely be fully reconciled with someone who has openly reviled him and reproached him and disgraced him. This is a most dreadful sin, as Christ says in the gospel. And notice now that the man who reproaches his neighbour reproaches him either for some affliction he suffers in his body, as "leper" or "crooked rogue," or for some sin that he commits. Now if he reproaches him for an affliction, then the reproach falls on Jesus Christ; for affliction is sent by the righteous ordinance of God and by his permission, whether it be leprosy, or maiming, or disease. And if he reproaches him uncharitably for sin, as "you whoremonger," "you drunken rogue," and so forth, then that belongs to the rejoicing of the devil, who always has joy when people sin. And certainly scolding can come only from a churlish heart, for out of the abundance of the heart the mouth very often speaks. And you must understand that when any man has to correct another, he must take care by every means to keep clear of scolding and reproach. For truly, unless he takes care, he may very easily kindle the fire of anger and wrath, which he ought to put out, and perhaps destroy the one he might have corrected with kindness. For as Solomon says, "the gentle tongue is the tree of life," that is to say, of spiritual life; and truly, an unbridled tongue kills the spirit of the one who reproaches and of the one reproached as well. See what Saint Augustine says: "There is nothing so like the devil's child as the man who scolds often." Saint Paul says too: "I, a servant of God, must not scold." And though scolding is a churlish thing between every sort of people, it is most unfitting of all between a man and his wife, for then there is never any rest. And therefore Solomon says, "A house with no roof, leaking everywhere, and a scolding wife are alike." A man in a house that leaks in many places, though he avoids the drip in one place, has it drip on him in another; and so it goes with a scolding wife. If she doesn't scold him in one place, she will scold him in another. And therefore "better is a mouthful of bread with joy than a house full of delicacies with scolding," says Solomon. Saint Paul says: "You wives, be subject to your husbands, as is fitting in God; and you husbands, love your wives." Ad Colossenses, tertio: Colossians, chapter three.

§ 43. After that let us speak of scorn, which is a wicked sin, and especially when a man scorns another for his good works. For certainly such scorners behave like the foul toad, which cannot bear to smell the sweet scent of the vine when it is in flower. These scorners are the devil's partners; for they rejoice when the devil wins and grieve when he loses. They are the adversaries of Jesus Christ, for they hate what he loves, that is to say, the salvation of souls.

§ 44. Let us speak now of wicked counsel; for the man who gives wicked counsel is a traitor. For he deceives the one who trusts in him, ut Achitofel ad Absolonem, as Ahithophel did Absalom. But all the same, his wicked counsel works against himself first. For, as the wise man says, every false way of living has this property in itself: that the man who means to harm another harms himself first. And people must understand that a man should not take his counsel from false folk, or from angry folk, or from spiteful folk, or from people who love their own profit too much, or from too worldly people, especially in the counselling of souls.

§ 45. Now comes the sin of those who sow and make discord among people, which is a sin that Christ hates utterly; and no wonder. For he died to make concord. And they shame Christ more than did those who crucified him; for God would rather there were friendship among people than he loved his own body, which he gave for the sake of unity. Therefore they are likened to the devil, who is forever about the business of making discord.

§ 46. Now comes the sin of the double tongue: those who speak fair to people's faces and wickedly behind their backs; or else they put on a show of speaking with good intent, or in fun and play, and yet they speak with wicked intent.

§ 47. Now comes the betraying of a confidence, by which a man is disgraced; certainly he can hardly repair the damage.

Now comes threatening, which is open folly; for the man who threatens often very often threatens more than he can carry out.

Now come idle words, which are words without profit to the one who speaks them, and to the one who listens to them as well. Or else idle words are the ones that are needless, or that have no purpose of any natural profit. And although idle words are sometimes a venial sin, people should still be wary of them; for we shall have to give an account of them before God.

Now comes chattering, which cannot be without sin. And, as Solomon says, "it is a sin of open folly." And so a philosopher, when he was asked how one should please the people, answered, "Do many good works, and chatter little."

After this comes the sin of the jesters, who are the devil's apes; for they make people laugh at their buffoonery, as people do at the tricks of an ape. Saint Paul forbids such jesters. Notice how virtuous and holy words comfort those who labour in the service of Christ; just so the churlish words and tricks of jesters comfort those who labour in the service of the devil. These are the sins that come from the tongue, which come from Wrath and from other sins besides.

The Remedy for Wrath

§ 48. The remedy against Wrath is a virtue called Mansuetude, which is Meekness; and also another virtue called Patience, or Forbearance.

§ 49. Meekness holds back and reins in the stirrings and the impulses of a man's spirit in his heart, in such a way that they do not leap out in anger or in wrath. Forbearance sweetly bears all the annoyances and the wrongs that are done to a man from outside. Saint Jerome says this of meekness: that "it does no harm to anyone, nor says any; nor, for any harm that people do or say, does it grow heated against reason." This virtue sometimes comes by nature; for, as the philosopher says, "man is a living thing, by nature meek and open to goodness; but when meekness is shaped by grace, then it is worth the more."

§ 50. Patience, which is another remedy against Wrath, is a virtue that sweetly bears every man's goodness and is not angry at any harm done to it. The philosopher says that "patience is the virtue that meekly bears all the outrages of adversity and every wicked word." This virtue makes a man like God, and makes him God's own dear child, as Christ says. This virtue defeats your enemy. And therefore the wise man says, "If you want to conquer your enemy, learn to endure." And you must understand that a man suffers four kinds of grievance in outward things, against which four he must have four kinds of patience.

§ 51. The first grievance is wicked words; Jesus Christ suffered these without grumbling, very patiently, when the Jews despised and reproached him again and again. Suffer them patiently, then; for the wise man says: "If you quarrel with a fool, whether the fool is angry or laughs, either way you will have no rest." The second outward grievance is to suffer the loss of your goods. Christ suffered that very patiently when he was stripped of all he had in this life, and that was only his clothes. The third grievance is for a man to suffer harm in his body. Christ suffered that very patiently all through his passion. The fourth grievance lies in excessive labour at work. And so I say that people who make their servants work too hard, or at the wrong times, as on holy days, truly commit a great sin. Against this, too, Christ suffered very patiently, and taught us patience, when he bore on his blessed shoulder the cross on which he was to suffer a pitiless death. Here people may learn to be patient; for certainly it is not only Christians who are patient, for the love of Jesus Christ and for the reward of the blessed life that is everlasting: the old pagans, who were never Christians, also commended and practised the virtue of patience.

§ 52. Once upon a time a philosopher meant to beat his pupil for a great misdeed, which had made him very angry, and he brought a rod to thrash the boy; and when the boy saw the rod, he said to his master, "What are you thinking of doing?" "I am going to beat you," said the master, "to correct you." "Really," said the boy, "you ought first to correct yourself, who have lost all your patience over a child's fault." "Really," said the master, weeping, "what you say is true. Take the rod, my dear son, and correct me for my impatience." From Patience comes Obedience, by which a man is obedient to Christ and to all those to whom he ought to be obedient in Christ. And understand well that obedience is perfect when a man does gladly and quickly, wholeheartedly, all that he ought to do. Obedience, generally, is to carry out the teaching of God and of one's superiors, to whom one ought to be obedient in all righteousness.

Sloth

§ 53. After the sins of Envy and of Wrath, I will now speak of the sin of Sloth, or Accidie. For Envy blinds a man's heart, and Wrath troubles a man, and Sloth makes him heavy, gloomy and peevish. Envy and Wrath make bitterness in the heart; and that bitterness is the mother of Sloth, and takes from a man the love of all goodness. So Sloth is the anguish of a troubled heart; and Saint Augustine says, "It is weariness of good and joy in harm." Certainly this is a damnable sin, for it wrongs Jesus Christ, inasmuch as it takes away the service that people ought to do to Christ with all diligence, as Solomon says. But Sloth shows no such diligence: he does everything with weariness and peevishness, with slackness and excuses, with idleness and reluctance; and that is why the book says, "Cursed be he who does the service of God negligently." So Sloth is the enemy of every estate of man; for certainly the estate of man is of three kinds. Either it is the estate of innocence, as was the estate of Adam before he fell into sin, in which estate he was bound to work at praising and worshipping God. Another is the estate of sinful men, in which men are bound to labour at praying to God for the amendment of their sins, and that he will grant them to rise out of their sins. Another is the estate of grace, in which a man is bound to works of penitence; and certainly Sloth is the enemy and the opposite of all these things, for he loves no effort at all. Now certainly this foul sin of Sloth is also a very great enemy to the livelihood of the body; for it makes no provision against worldly need, since through carelessness it lets all worldly goods go to waste with sloth and sluggishness, and destroys them.

§ 54. The fourth thing is that Sloth is like those who are in the pains of hell, because of their sluggishness and their heaviness; for those who are damned are so bound that they can neither do well nor think well. From Sloth it comes, first, that a man is wearied and hampered in doing any good; and it makes God hold such Sloth in abomination, as Saint John says.

§ 55. Now comes sluggishness, which will not put up with any hardship or any penance. For truly sluggishness is so tender and so delicate, as Solomon says, that it will not put up with any hardship or penance, and therefore it spoils everything it does. Against this rotten-hearted sin of Sloth and sluggishness people should exercise themselves in doing good works, and take heart manfully and virtuously to do well, remembering that our Lord Jesus Christ rewards every good deed, however small. The habit of labour is a great thing; for, as Saint Bernard says, it gives the labourer strong arms and hard sinews, and sluggishness makes them feeble and tender. Then comes the fear of beginning any good works; for certainly the man who is inclined to sin thinks it so great an enterprise to undertake works of goodness, and tells himself in his heart that the circumstances of goodness are so grievous and so burdensome to bear, that he dares not undertake to do works of goodness, as Saint Gregory says.

§ 56. Now comes wanhope, that is, despair of the mercy of God, which comes sometimes from too much excessive sorrow and sometimes from too much fear: a man imagines he has committed so much sin that it will do him no good even if he were to repent and give up sin; and through that despair or fear he abandons his whole heart to every kind of sin, as Saint Augustine says. This damnable sin, if it continues to the end of his life, is called sinning against the Holy Spirit. This horrible sin is so dangerous that for the man in despair there is no crime and no sin he shrinks from doing, as Judas showed well. Certainly, then, above all sins this sin is the most displeasing to Christ, and the most hostile. Truly, the man who despairs is like the cowardly champion in a trial by combat who turns recreant, crying "I yield" when there is no need. Alas! alas! needlessly he yields, and needlessly he despairs. Certainly the mercy of God is always ready for every penitent, and is above all his works. Alas! can a man not call to mind the gospel of Saint Luke, chapter 15, where Christ says that "there shall be as much joy in heaven over one sinful man who does penance as over ninety-nine righteous men who need no penance"? Look further, in the same gospel, at the joy and the feast of the good man who had lost his son, when his son came back to his father in repentance. Can they not remember too how, as Saint Luke says, xxiiiº capitulo, in the twenty-third chapter, the thief who was hanged beside Jesus Christ said, "Lord, remember me when you come into your kingdom"? "Truly," said Christ, "I say to you, today you shall be with me in Paradise." Certainly there is no sin of man so horrible that it cannot, in his lifetime, be destroyed by penitence, through the power of the passion and the death of Christ. Alas! what need has a man, then, to despair, since his mercy is so ready and so generous? Ask, and have. Then comes Somnolence, that is, sluggish slumbering, which makes a man heavy and dull in body and in soul; and this sin comes from sluggishness. And certainly the time when by reason people should not sleep is the morning, unless there is some reasonable cause. For truly the morning is the most fitting time for a man to say his prayers, and to think of God, and to honour God, and to give alms to the poor man who comes first in the name of Christ. See what Solomon says: "Whoever will wake in the morning and seek me shall find me." Then comes Negligence, or carelessness, which cares about nothing. And if ignorance is the mother of all harm, certainly Negligence is its nurse. Negligence does not care, when it has a thing to do, whether it does it well or badly.

§ 57. As for the remedy for these two sins, the wise man says that "he who fears God does not hold back from doing what he ought to do." And he who loves God will take pains to please God by his works, and give himself up, with all his might, to doing well. Then comes idleness, which is the gate of all harms. An idle man is like a place that has no walls: the devils can come in on every side and shoot at him where he lies unprotected, with temptation on every side. This idleness is the bilge where all wicked and churlish thoughts collect, and all chatter, trifles, and all filth. Certainly heaven is given to those who will labour, and not to idle folk. David says too that "they are not in the labour of men, nor shall they be whipped with men," that is to say, in purgatory. Certainly, then, it seems they shall be tormented with the devil in hell, unless they do penance.

§ 58. Then comes the sin called Tarditas, Tardiness, as when a man is too slow or puts things off before he will turn to God; and certainly that is a great folly. He is like a man who falls in the ditch and will not get up. And this vice comes from a false hope, for he thinks he will live a long time; but that hope fails very often.

§ 59. Then comes slackness: that is the man who, when he begins any good work, will soon abandon it and stop, as those do who have someone to govern and take no more care of him the moment they meet with any opposition or any trouble. These are the new shepherds, who knowingly let their sheep run off to the wolf in the briars, or take no heed of their own charge. From this come poverty and destruction, both of spiritual and of worldly things. Then comes a kind of coldness that freezes the whole heart of a man. Then comes undevotion, by which a man is so blinded, as Saint Bernard says, and has such languor in his soul, that he can neither read nor sing in holy church, nor hear nor think of any devotion, nor labour with his hands at any good work, without its being tasteless and stale to him. Then he grows slow and drowsy, and is soon angry, and soon inclined to hate and to envy. Then comes the sin of worldly sorrow, the kind called tristicia, sadness, which kills a man, as Saint Paul says. For certainly such sorrow works the death of the soul and of the body too; for from it comes a man's weariness of his own life. And so such sorrow very often cuts short a man's life before his time has come in the course of nature.

The Remedy for Sloth

§ 60. Against this horrible sin of Sloth, and its branches, there is a virtue called Fortitudo, or Strength: that is, a disposition by which a man despises troublesome things. This virtue is so mighty and so vigorous that it dares to stand firm mightily, and wisely to keep itself from dangers that are wicked, and to wrestle against the assaults of the devil. For it lifts up and strengthens the soul, just as Sloth brings it down and makes it feeble. For this Fortitudo can endure, with long forbearance, the labours that are fitting.

§ 61. This virtue has many kinds; and the first is called Magnanimity, that is to say, great heart. For certainly great heart is needed against Sloth, so that it does not swallow up the soul by the sin of sorrow or destroy it by despair. This virtue makes people undertake hard things and grievous things of their own will, wisely and reasonably. And because the devil fights against a man more by cunning and by trickery than by strength, men shall withstand him by wit and by reason and by discretion. Then there are the virtues of faith, and of hope in God and in his saints, to achieve and accomplish the good works in which he firmly means to continue. Then comes security, or assurance: that is, when a man has no fear of the labour to come in the good works he has begun. Then comes Magnificence, that is to say, when a man does and carries through great works of goodness that he has begun; and that is the end for which people should do good works, for in the accomplishing of great good works lies the great reward. Then there is Constancy, that is, steadiness of heart; and this should be in the heart by steadfast faith, and in the mouth, and in bearing, and in looks, and in deeds. There are also more particular remedies against Sloth, in various works, and in thinking on the pains of hell and the joys of heaven, and in trust in the grace of the Holy Spirit, who will give a man the strength to carry out his good intent.

Avarice

§ 62. After Sloth I will speak of Avarice and of Covetousness, the sin of which Saint Paul says that "the root of all harms is Covetousness": Ad Timotheum, sexto capitulo, the First Letter to Timothy, chapter six. For truly, when a man's heart is confounded and troubled in itself, and the soul has lost the comfort of God, then he looks for an empty comfort in worldly things.

§ 63. Avarice, by Saint Augustine's description, is a greedy craving in the heart to have earthly things. Some other people say that Avarice is to acquire many earthly things and give nothing to those who are in need. And understand that Avarice lies not only in land and goods but sometimes in learning and in glory; in every kind of excessive thing there is Avarice and Covetousness. And the difference between Avarice and Covetousness is this: Covetousness is to covet such things as you do not have, and Avarice is to withhold and keep such things as you have, without rightful need. Truly, this Avarice is a most damnable sin, for all holy scripture curses it and speaks against that vice; for it does wrong to Jesus Christ. It robs him of the love that people owe him and turns it backward, against all reason; and it makes the avaricious man put more hope in his goods than in Jesus Christ, and pay more devotion to the keeping of his treasure than he does to the service of Jesus Christ. And therefore Saint Paul says, ad Ephesios, quinto, in Ephesians five, that "an avaricious man is in the bondage of idolatry."

§ 64. What difference is there between an idolater and an avaricious man, except that an idolater perhaps has only one idol or two, and the avaricious man has many? For certainly every florin in his coffer is his idol. And certainly the sin of idolatry is the first thing God forbade in the Ten Commandments, as Exodi, capitulo xxº, Exodus twenty, bears witness: "You shall have no false gods before me, nor shall you make yourself any graven thing." So an avaricious man, who loves his treasure before God, is an idolater, through this cursed sin of Avarice. From Covetousness come these harsh lordships, by which men are squeezed with taxes, dues and carrying-services beyond what they owe or what is reasonable. And they also take fines from their bondmen, which might more reasonably be called extortions than fines. Of these fines and of the ransoming of bondmen, some lords' stewards say that it is rightful, since a churl, as they say, has no worldly thing that is not his lord's. But certainly these lordships do wrong who rob their bondfolk of things they never gave them: Augustinus de Civitate, libro nono, Augustine, The City of God, Book Nine. The truth is that the condition of bondage, and the first cause of bondage, is sin: Genesis, quinto, Genesis five.

§ 65. So you can see that it is guilt that deserves bondage, not nature. And so these lords should not glory much in their lordships, since by natural condition they are not lords of serfs; bondage comes first by the deserving of sin. And furthermore, where the law says that the worldly goods of bondfolk are the goods of their lords, yes, that is to be understood as the goods of the emperor: they are his to defend them in their right, not to rob them or plunder them. And therefore Seneca says: "Your prudence should live kindly with your slaves." Those you call your slaves are God's people; for humble folk are Christ's friends; they are contubernial with the Lord, that is, they share his tent and his table.

§ 66. Think too that from the same seed that churls spring from, lords spring. The churl may be saved as well as the lord. The same death that takes the churl takes the lord. And so I advise you: do with your churl just as you would want your lord to do with you, if you were in his plight. Every sinful man is a churl to sin. I advise you, my lord, certainly, to deal with your churls in such a way that they love you rather than fear you. I know well that there is rank above rank, as reason requires, and it is right that people do their duty where it is due; but certainly extortion and contempt for your underlings are damnable.

§ 67. And understand further that these conquerors or tyrants very often make slaves of people born of as royal blood as those who conquer them. The very name of bondage was never known until Noah said that his son Canaan should be a slave to his brothers for his sin. What do we say, then, of those who plunder holy church and practise extortion on it? Certainly the sword that is given first to a knight when he is newly dubbed signifies that he should defend holy church, not rob it or plunder it; and whoever does so is a traitor to Christ. And, as Saint Augustine says, "they are the devil's wolves, who strangle the sheep of Jesus Christ"; and they do worse than wolves. For truly, when the wolf has a full belly, he stops strangling sheep. But truly the plunderers and destroyers of God's holy church do not do so, for they never stop plundering. Now, as I have said, since sin was the first cause of bondage, it follows that at the time when all this world was in sin, all this world was in bondage and subjection. But certainly, since the time of grace came, God ordained that some people should be higher in estate and in rank and some lower, and that each should be served in his estate and his rank. And therefore in some countries where they buy slaves, when they have converted to the faith, they set their slaves free from bondage. And therefore, certainly, the lord owes his man what the man owes his lord. The Pope calls himself the servant of the servants of God; but because the estate of holy church could not have existed, nor the common good have been kept, nor peace and rest on earth, unless God had ordained that some men should have higher rank and some men lower, therefore sovereignty was ordained to keep and maintain and defend its underlings or subjects within reason, as far as lies in its power, and not to destroy them or ruin them. And so I say that those lords who are like wolves, who devour the possessions or the goods of poor people wrongfully, without mercy or measure, shall receive the mercy of Jesus Christ by the same measure that they have measured out to poor people, unless it is amended. Now comes deceit between merchant and merchant. And you must understand that trade is of two kinds: one is bodily and the other spiritual. The one is honest and lawful, and the other dishonest and unlawful. Of bodily trade, the lawful and honest kind is this: where God has ordained that a kingdom or a country is sufficient to itself, then it is honest and lawful that out of the abundance of that country people should help another country that is more in need. And so there must be merchants to bring their merchandise from the one country to the other. The other trade, which people carry on with fraud and treachery and deceit, with lies and false oaths, is cursed and damnable. Spiritual trade is properly Simony, that is, an earnest desire to buy spiritual things, that is, things that belong to the sanctuary of God and to the cure of souls. This desire, if a man takes pains to carry it out, even if his desire comes to nothing, is still a deadly sin for him; and if he is in holy orders, he is irregular, barred from exercising them. Certainly Simony is named after Simon Magus, who wanted to buy, with worldly goods, the gift that God had given by the Holy Spirit to Saint Peter and to the apostles. And therefore understand that both the man who sells and the man who buys spiritual things are called simoniacs, whether it is by goods, or by procurement, or by the fleshly prayers of his friends, fleshly friends or spiritual friends. Fleshly in two ways: as by kinship or by other friends. Truly, if they pray for one who is not worthy and able, it is Simony if he takes the benefice; and if he is worthy and able, there is none. The other way is when a man or woman pleads for people to advance them only out of a wicked fleshly affection they have for the person; and that is foul Simony. But certainly, as for service, for which people give spiritual things to their servants, it must be understood that the service must be honest, and otherwise not; and also that it be without bargaining, and that the person be able. For, as Saint Damasus says, "All the sins of the world, compared with this sin, are as a thing of nothing"; for it is the greatest sin there can be, after the sin of Lucifer and Antichrist. For by this sin God loses the church, and the soul that he bought with his precious blood, through those who give churches to men who are not worthy. For they put in thieves, who steal the souls of Jesus Christ and destroy his inheritance. Because of such unworthy priests and curates, ignorant people have the less reverence for the sacraments of holy church; and such givers of churches put out the children of Christ and put into the church the devil's own son. They sell the souls that lambs should keep to the wolf that strangles them. And therefore they shall never have a share in the pasture of the lambs, that is, the bliss of heaven. Now comes gambling with its accessories, such as backgammon and raffle, the dice game; from which come deceit, false oaths, quarrels and all kinds of robbery, blasphemy and the denying of God, and hatred of one's neighbours, waste of goods, misspending of time, and sometimes manslaughter. Certainly gamblers cannot be without great sin as long as they practise that craft. From Avarice come also lies, theft, false witness and false oaths. And you must understand that these are great sins, and expressly against the commandments of God, as I have said. False witness is in word and also in deed. In word, as to rob your neighbour of his good name by your false witness, or rob him of his goods or his inheritance by your false witness; when you, for anger or for reward or for envy, bear false witness, or accuse him or excuse him by your false witness, or else excuse yourself falsely. Beware, you jury-riggers and notaries! Certainly it was through false witness that Susanna was in very great sorrow and pain, and many another besides. The sin of theft is also expressly against God's command, and in two ways, bodily and spiritual. Bodily, as to take your neighbour's goods against his will, whether by force or by trickery, whether by false weight or by false measure. Also by stealing, by false indictments against him, and in borrowing your neighbour's goods with the intention of never paying them back, and similar things. Spiritual theft is Sacrilege, that is to say, the harming of holy things, or of things sacred to Christ, in two ways: by reason of the holy place, as churches or churchyards, for which every churlish sin that people commit in such places, or every violence in such places, may be called sacrilege. Also those who falsely withhold the dues that belong to holy church. And plainly and generally, sacrilege is to take a holy thing from a holy place, or an unholy thing out of a holy place, or a holy thing out of an unholy place.

The Relief of Avarice

§ 68. Now you must understand that the relief of Avarice is mercy, and pity, taken in a broad sense. And people might ask why mercy and pity are the relief of Avarice. Certainly the avaricious man shows no pity or mercy to the needy man; for he delights in the keeping of his treasure, and not in the rescuing or relieving of his fellow Christian. And so I speak first of mercy. Mercy, then, as the philosopher says, is a virtue by which a man's heart is stirred by the distress of one who is in distress. On this mercy follows pity, in the carrying out of charitable works of mercy. And certainly these things move a man to think of the mercy of Jesus Christ, that he gave himself for our guilt and suffered death out of mercy, and forgave us our original sins, and so released us from the pains of hell, and lessened the pains of purgatory through penitence, and gives grace to do well, and at the last the bliss of heaven. The kinds of mercy are to lend, and to give, and to forgive and release, and to have pity in the heart and compassion for the misfortune of one's fellow Christian, and also to correct where there is need. Another kind of remedy against Avarice is reasonable generosity; but truly, here we need to consider the grace of Jesus Christ, and his worldly goods, and also the everlasting goods that Christ gave us; and to remember the death that a man will receive, he does not know when, where or how; and also that he will part with everything he has, except only what he has spent on good works.

§ 69. But because some people have no sense of measure, people ought to avoid foolish generosity, which is called waste. Certainly the man who is foolishly generous does not give his goods, he loses his goods. Truly, whatever he gives out of vainglory, as to minstrels and to people who will carry his fame about the world, he has sin from it and no alms. Certainly he loses his goods foully who seeks nothing but sin by the gift of his goods. He is like a horse that would rather drink muddy or cloudy water than drink water from the clear spring. And because they give where they should not give, to them belongs the curse that Christ will pronounce on the day of judgement on those who are to be damned.

Gluttony

§ 70. After Avarice comes Gluttony, which is also expressly against the commandment of God. Gluttony is an immoderate appetite to eat or to drink, or else giving way to the immoderate appetite and disordered craving to eat or to drink. This sin corrupted the whole world, as is well shown in the sin of Adam and Eve. Look too at what Saint Paul says of Gluttony. "Many," says Saint Paul, "walk, of whom I have often told you, and now I tell you weeping, that they are the enemies of the cross of Christ; whose end is death, and whose belly is their god, and their glory is in the shame of those who so relish earthly things." The man who is used to this sin of Gluttony can withstand no sin. He must be in servitude to all vices, for it is the devil's hoard, where he hides and rests. This sin has many kinds. The first is drunkenness, which is the horrible tomb of a man's reason; and so, when a man is drunk, he has lost his reason; and this is a deadly sin. But truly, when a man is not used to strong drink, and perhaps does not know the strength of the drink, or has a weak head, or has been working hard and drinks the more for it, then even if he is suddenly caught by the drink, it is no deadly sin, but venial. The second kind of Gluttony is when a man's spirit grows all troubled; for drunkenness robs him of the discretion of his wits. The third kind of Gluttony is when a man devours his food and has no proper way of eating. The fourth is when, through the great abundance of his food, the humours in his body are thrown out of balance. The fifth is forgetfulness through too much drinking, by which a man sometimes forgets by morning what he did in the evening or the night before.

§ 71. The kinds of Gluttony are distinguished another way, according to Saint Gregory. The first is to eat before it is time to eat. The second is when a man goes after delicate food or drink. The third is when people take too much, beyond measure. The fourth is fussiness, taking great pains to prepare and dress up one's food. The fifth is to eat too greedily. These are the five fingers of the devil's hand, by which he draws people to sin.

The Remedy for Gluttony

§ 72. Against Gluttony the remedy is Abstinence, as Galen says; but I do not hold that meritorious if a man practises it only for the health of his body. Saint Augustine wants Abstinence to be practised for virtue's sake and with patience. Abstinence, he says, is worth little unless a man has good will towards it, and unless it is strengthened by patience and by charity, and unless people practise it for God's sake and in the hope of having the bliss of heaven.

§ 73. The companions of Abstinence are Temperance, which holds the mean in all things; also Shame, which shuns all indecency; Sufficiency, which looks for no rich foods or drinks and sets no store by extravagant dressing of food; Measure also, which restrains by reason the unbridled appetite for eating; Sobriety also, which restrains excess in drink; Sparingness also, which restrains the delicate pleasure of sitting long and comfortably at one's food; for which reason some people stand of their own accord to eat, so as to take less leisure over it.

Lechery

§ 74. After Gluttony, then, comes Lechery; for these two sins are such close cousins that often they will not part. God knows, this sin is a most displeasing thing to God; for he said himself, "Do no lechery." And therefore he set great punishments against this sin in the old law. If a slave woman was taken in this sin, she was to be beaten with staves to death. And if she was a gentlewoman, she was to be stoned to death. And if she was a bishop's daughter, she was to be burned, by God's commandment. Furthermore, it was for the sin of Lechery that God drowned the whole world in the Flood. And after that he burned five cities with lightning and sank them into hell.

§ 75. Now then, let us speak of that stinking sin of Lechery that is called Adultery, the sin of married people, that is to say, if one of them is married, or else both. Saint John says that adulterers shall be in hell in a lake burning with fire and brimstone: in fire for the lechery, in brimstone for the stink of their filth. Certainly the breaking of this sacrament is a horrible thing. It was made by God himself in paradise, and confirmed by Jesus Christ, as Saint Matthew bears witness in the gospel: "A man shall leave father and mother and cleave to his wife, and they shall be two in one flesh." This sacrament signifies the knitting together of Christ and holy church. And God not only forbade adultery in deed, but also commanded that you should not covet your neighbour's wife. In this commandment, says Saint Augustine, every kind of desire to commit lechery is forbidden. See what Saint Matthew says in the gospel: that "whoever looks on a woman to lust after her has committed lechery with her in his heart." Here you can see that not only the deed of this sin is forbidden, but also the desire to commit it. This cursed sin does grievous harm to those who practise it. First, to their soul; for it binds the soul over to sin and to the pain of everlasting death. It does grievous harm to the body too, for it drains a man, and wastes him, and ruins him, and he makes a sacrifice of his blood to the fiend of hell; it wastes his goods and his substance. And certainly, if it is a foul thing for a man to waste his goods on women, it is a fouler thing still when, for such filth, women spend their goods and substance on men. This sin, as the prophet says, robs man and woman of their good name and all their honour; and it is most pleasing to the devil, for by it he wins the greater part of this world. And just as a merchant takes most delight in the trade from which he gets most profit, so the fiend delights in this filth.

§ 76. This is the devil's other hand, with five fingers, to catch people for his villainy. The first finger is the foolish looking of the foolish woman and the foolish man, which kills, just as the basilisk kills people by the venom of its gaze; for the lust of the eyes follows the lust of the heart. The second finger is churlish touching in a wicked way; and so Solomon says that whoever touches and handles a woman is like a man who handles the scorpion that stings and suddenly kills with its venom; as whoever touches warm pitch spoils his fingers. The third is foul words, which are like fire, which straight away burns the heart. The fourth finger is kissing; and truly a man would be a great fool who would kiss the mouth of a burning oven or a furnace. And greater fools are those who kiss in villainy, for that mouth is the mouth of hell; and especially these old dotards, these lechers, who will still kiss though they cannot do the deed, and slobber over themselves. Certainly they are like dogs; for a dog, when he comes by the rosebush or by other bushes, though he cannot piss, will still heave up his leg and make a show of pissing. And as for the many men who think they cannot sin, whatever lustful thing they do with their wives: certainly that opinion is false. God knows, a man may kill himself with his own knife and make himself drunk from his own barrel. Certainly, whether it is wife or child or any worldly thing that he loves before God, it is his idol, and he is an idolater. A man should love his wife with discretion, patiently and temperately; and then she is as though she were his sister. The fifth finger of the devil's hand is the stinking deed of Lechery. Certainly the fiend puts the five fingers of Gluttony into a man's belly, and with his five fingers of Lechery he grips him by the loins to throw him into the furnace of hell, where they shall have the fire and the worms that shall last for ever, and weeping and wailing, sharp hunger and thirst, and the grimness of devils who shall trample them all to pieces, without respite and without end. From Lechery, as I said, spring various kinds: such as fornication, which is between man and woman who are not married; and this is deadly sin and against nature. Everything that is the enemy and destruction of nature is against nature. By my faith, a man's reason also tells him plainly that it is deadly sin, since God forbade Lechery. And Saint Paul gives them the kingdom that is due to no one but those who commit deadly sin. Another sin of Lechery is to rob a maiden of her maidenhood; for the man who does so certainly casts a maiden out of the highest rank there is in this present life, and robs her of that precious fruit that the book calls "the hundredfold fruit." I can put it no other way in English, but in Latin it is called Centesimus fructus. Certainly the man who does so is the cause of many harms and villainies, more than anyone can reckon; just as the man who breaks the hedge or the fence is sometimes the cause of all the damage that beasts do in the field; and by it he destroys what cannot be restored. For certainly maidenhood can no more be restored than an arm struck off the body can return and grow again. She may have mercy, this I know well, if she does penance; but it can never be that she was not corrupted. And although I have spoken somewhat of Adultery, it is good to show more of the dangers that belong to Adultery, so as to shun that foul sin. Adultery in Latin means approaching another man's bed, by which those who were once one flesh give up their bodies to other persons. From this sin, as the wise man says, follow many harms. First, the breaking of faith; and certainly in faith lies the key of Christendom. And when faith is broken and lost, truly Christendom stands empty and without fruit. This sin is also a theft; for theft generally is to take from someone what is his against his will. Certainly this is the foulest theft there can be, when a woman steals her body from her husband and gives it to her lecher to defile her, and steals her soul from Christ and gives it to the devil. This is a fouler theft than to break into a church and steal the chalice; for these adulterers break into the temple of God spiritually and steal the vessel of grace, that is, the body and the soul, for which Christ will destroy them, as Saint Paul says. Truly, Joseph was greatly afraid of this theft when his lord's wife begged him to commit villainy with her, when he said, "Look, my lady, how my lord has put into my keeping all that he has in this world; and nothing of his is out of my power except only you, who are his wife. How then should I do this wickedness and sin so horribly against God and against my lord? God forbid it." Alas! all too little of such faithfulness is to be found now! The third harm is the filth by which they break the commandment of God and defile the author of matrimony, who is Christ. For certainly, in so far as the sacrament of marriage is so noble and so worthy, so much the greater sin is it to break it; for God made marriage in paradise, in the estate of innocence, to multiply mankind for the service of God. And therefore the breaking of it is the more grievous. From such breaking there often come false heirs, who wrongfully take possession of people's inheritances. And therefore Christ will put them out of the kingdom of heaven, which is the inheritance of good people. From this breaking it also often comes about that people unwittingly marry or sin with their own kin; and especially those rogues who haunt the brothels of these foolish women, who may be likened to a common privy, where men purge their filth. What do we say, too, of pimps who live by the horrible sin of pimping, and force women to pay them a certain rent out of their bodily whoring, yes, sometimes his own wife or his child, as these bawds do? Certainly these are cursed sins. Understand too that adultery is fittingly set in the Ten Commandments between theft and manslaughter; for it is the greatest theft there can be, for it is theft of body and of soul. And it is like homicide, for it carves in two and breaks in two those who were first made one flesh; and therefore, by the old law of God, they were to be put to death. But nevertheless, by the law of Jesus Christ, which is the law of pity, when he said to the woman who was found in adultery, and was to have been stoned to death at the will of the Jews, as their law was: "Go," said Jesus Christ, "and have no more will to sin," or, "will no more to do sin." Truly the vengeance for adultery is assigned to the pains of hell, unless it is prevented by penitence. Yet there are more kinds of this cursed sin: as when one of the two is in a religious order, or else both; or of people who have entered holy orders, as subdeacon or deacon or priest, or the Knights Hospitaller. And always, the higher he is in orders, the greater is the sin. The thing that greatly aggravates their sin is the breaking of their vow of chastity, made when they received their orders. And furthermore, the truth is that holy orders are the chief of all God's treasury, and his special sign and mark of chastity, to show that they are joined to chastity, which is the most precious life there is. And these people in orders are specially dedicated to God, and of God's own household; for which reason, when they commit deadly sin, they are the special traitors of God and of his people; for they live off the people in order to pray for the people, and while they are such traitors, their prayers do the people no good. Priests are angels, by the dignity of their ministry; but in truth Saint Paul says that "Satan transforms himself into an angel of light." Truly the priest who makes a habit of deadly sin may be likened to the angel of darkness transformed into the angel of light: he seems an angel of light, but in truth he is an angel of darkness. Such priests are the sons of Eli, as is shown in the book of Kings, where it says they were the sons of Belial, that is, the devil. Belial means "without a judge"; and that is how they behave: they think they are free and have no judge, any more than a free bull has, that takes whichever cow he likes in the town. That is how they behave with women. For just as one free bull is enough for a whole town, so a wicked priest is corruption enough for a whole parish, or for a whole region. These priests, as the book says, do not teach the people the mystery of priesthood, nor do they know God; they were not content, as the book says, with the boiled meat that was offered to them, but took by force the meat that was raw. Certainly in the same way these villains are not content with roast meat and boiled meat, with which the people fed them in great reverence, but they will have the raw flesh of people's wives and their daughters. And certainly the women who consent to their lechery do great wrong to Christ and to holy church and all the saints, and to all souls; for they rob all these of one who should worship Christ and holy church and pray for Christian souls. And therefore such priests, and their mistresses too who consent to their lechery, have the curse of the whole church court until they come to amendment. The third kind of adultery is sometimes between a man and his wife; and that is when they have no regard in their coming together but only to their fleshly delight, as Saint Jerome says, and care about nothing but that they are together; because they are married, everything is fine, as it seems to them. But over such people the devil has power, as the angel Raphael said to Tobias; for in their coming together they put Jesus Christ out of their hearts and give themselves up to all filth. The fourth kind is the coupling of those who are of their own kin, or of those related by marriage, or else with those with whom their fathers or their kin have dealt in the sin of lechery; this sin makes them like dogs, which pay no heed to kinship. And certainly kinship is of two kinds, either spiritual or fleshly: spiritual, as to have dealings with one's godparents or fellow sponsors. For just as the man who begets a child is its fleshly father, so its godfather is its spiritual father. For which reason a woman may couple with her fellow sponsor in no less sin than with her own fleshly brother. The fifth kind is that abominable sin of which a man should scarcely speak or write; nevertheless it is openly told of in holy scripture. This cursedness men and women commit with various intents and in various ways; but though holy scripture speaks of horrible sin, certainly holy scripture cannot be defiled, any more than the sun that shines on the dunghill. Another sin belongs to lechery, which comes in sleep; and this sin often comes to those who are virgins and also to those who are corrupt; and this sin is called pollution, and it comes in four ways. Sometimes from a languishing of the body, because the humours are too rank and abundant in a man's body. Sometimes from infirmity, through the feebleness of the retentive power, as medicine mentions. Sometimes from a surfeit of food and drink. And sometimes from churlish thoughts that are shut up in a man's mind when he goes to sleep; which cannot be without sin. For which reason men must guard themselves wisely, or else they may sin very grievously.

The Remedy for Lechery

§ 77. Now comes the remedy against Lechery, and that is, generally, Chastity and Continence, which restrain all the disordered impulses that come from fleshly desires. And always the man who most restrains the wicked heats of the filth of this sin shall have the greater merit. And this is of two kinds, that is to say, chastity in marriage and chastity in widowhood. Now you must understand that matrimony is the lawful union of man and woman, who receive, by virtue of the sacrament, the bond by which they cannot be parted in all their life, that is to say, while they both live. This, as the book says, is a very great sacrament. God made it, as I have said, in paradise, and chose to be born himself within marriage. And to hallow marriage he was at a wedding, where he turned water into wine, which was the first miracle he worked on earth before his disciples. The true effect of marriage cleanses fornication and fills holy church with good offspring, for that is the end of marriage; and it changes deadly sin into venial sin between those who are wedded, and makes the hearts of those who are wedded all one, as well as their bodies. This is true marriage, which was established by God before sin began, when natural law was in its right order in paradise; and it was ordained that one man should have only one woman, and one woman only one man, as Saint Augustine says, for many reasons.

§ 78. First, because marriage is a figure of the bond between Christ and holy church. And the second is because a man is the head of a woman; at any rate, by ordinance it should be so. For if a woman had more men than one, then she would have more heads than one, and that would be a horrible thing before God; and also a woman could not please too many people at once. And also there would never be peace or rest among them, for each would ask for what was his own. And furthermore, no man would know his own offspring, or who should have his inheritance; and the woman would be the less loved from the time she was joined to many men.

§ 79. Now comes how a man should conduct himself with his wife; and especially in two things, that is to say, in forbearance and in respect, as Christ showed when he first made woman. For he did not make her from Adam's head, so that she should not claim too great a lordship. For where the woman has the mastery, she makes too much disorder; there is no need of examples of this; everyday experience ought to be enough. Also, certainly, God did not make woman from Adam's foot, so that she should not be held too low; for she cannot patiently bear it. But God made woman from Adam's rib, so that woman should be a companion to man. A man should conduct himself towards his wife in faith, in faithfulness and in love, as Saint Paul says: that "a man should love his wife as Christ loved holy church, who loved it so well that he died for it." So should a man do for his wife, if there were need.

§ 80. Now, how a woman should be subject to her husband, Saint Peter tells. First, in obedience. And also, as the canon law says, a woman who is a wife, as long as she is a wife, has no authority to swear an oath or bear witness without the leave of her husband, who is her lord; at any rate, he should be so by reason. She should also serve him in all decency, and be modest in her dress. I know well that they should set their minds on pleasing their husbands, but not by elaborate finery. Saint Jerome says that wives who are dressed in silk and in precious purple cannot clothe themselves in Jesus Christ. What does Saint John say on this matter too? Saint Gregory also says that no one goes after precious clothes except only for vainglory, to be the more honoured in front of people. It is a great folly for a woman to have fine clothes outwardly and be foul inwardly in herself. A wife should also be measured in her looks and her bearing and her laughter, and discreet in all her words and her deeds. And above every worldly thing she should love her husband with all her heart, and be faithful to him with her body; and so too should a husband be to his wife. For since the whole body is the husband's, so should her heart be, or else there is between the two of them, in that respect, no perfect marriage. Then people must understand that a man and his wife may come together in the flesh for three things. The first is with the intention of begetting children for the service of God; for certainly that is the final cause, the purpose, of matrimony. Another cause is for each of them to pay the other the debt of their bodies, for neither of them has power over his own body. The third is to avoid lechery and villainy. The fourth is, truly, deadly sin. As to the first, it is meritorious; the second also; for, as the canon law says, she has the merit of chastity who pays her husband the debt of her body, yes, even if it is against her liking and the desire of her heart. The third way is venial sin; and truly there can scarcely be any of these without venial sin, because of the corruption and the pleasure. The fourth way is to be understood thus: if they come together only for amorous love, and for none of the causes above, but to satisfy that burning pleasure, never caring how often, truly it is deadly sin; and yet, sad to say, some people will strain to do more than their appetite is up to.

§ 81. The second kind of chastity is to be a chaste widow, and shun the embraces of man, and desire the embrace of Jesus Christ. These are those who have been wives and have lost their husbands, and also women who have committed lechery and been relieved by Penitence. And certainly, if a wife could keep herself wholly chaste with her husband's leave, so that she never gave him occasion to sin, it would be a great merit to her. Women of this kind, who observe chastity, must be clean in heart as well as in body and in thought, and measured in clothing and in bearing; and be abstinent in eating and drinking, in speech and in deed. They are the vessel, the alabaster jar, of the blessed Magdalene, which fills holy church with a good scent. The third kind of chastity is virginity; and she must be holy in heart and clean in body; then she is the spouse of Jesus Christ, and she is the life of angels. She is the glory of this world, and she is the equal of the martyrs; she has in her what tongue cannot tell nor heart think. Virginity bore our Lord Jesus Christ, and he was a virgin himself.

§ 82. Another remedy against Lechery is, especially, to withdraw such things as give occasion to that villainy, such as ease, eating and drinking; for certainly, when the pot is boiling hard, the best remedy is to take away the fire. Sleeping long in great quiet is also a great nurse to Lechery.

§ 83. Another remedy against Lechery is for a man or a woman to avoid the company of those by whom he fears he may be tempted; for even if the deed is resisted, there is still great temptation. Truly, a white wall, though it does not burn outright when a candle is set against it, is still blackened by the flame. Very often I advise that no one should trust in his own perfection, unless he is stronger than Samson and holier than Daniel and wiser than Solomon.

§ 84. Now, after I have set out for you, as well as I can, the seven deadly sins, and some of their branches and their remedies, truly, if I could, I would tell you the Ten Commandments. But so high a doctrine I leave to the theologians. Nevertheless, I hope to God they have each and every one been touched on in this treatise.

Confession

§ 85. Now, since the second part of Penitence lies in Confession of mouth, as I began in the first chapter, I say: Saint Augustine says that sin is every word and every deed, and everything that people desire, against the law of Jesus Christ; and this is to sin in heart, in mouth and in deed, by your five senses, which are sight, hearing, smell, taste or savour, and touch. Now it is good to understand what it is that greatly aggravates every sin. You shall consider what you are who commit the sin: whether you are male or female, young or old, noble or slave, free or servant, healthy or sick, married or single, in holy orders or not, wise or foolish, cleric or lay; whether she is of your kin, bodily or spiritually, or not; whether any of your kin have sinned with her or not; and many more things.

§ 86. Another circumstance is this: whether it was done in fornication, or in adultery, or not; incest, or not; with a maiden, or not; by way of homicide, or not; horrible great sins, or small; and how long you have continued in sin. The third circumstance is the place where you have sinned: whether in other people's houses or in your own; in the field or in church, or in the churchyard; in a consecrated church, or not. For if the church is hallowed, and a man or woman spills his seed within that place by way of sin, or by wicked temptation, the church is laid under interdict until it is reconciled by the bishop; and the priest who did such a villainy should never again sing mass for the rest of his life; and if he did, he would commit deadly sin every time he sang mass. The fourth circumstance is through what go-betweens or what messengers, as for enticement, or for consenting to keep company with others; for many a wretch, to keep company, will go to the devil of hell. And so those who egg on or consent to the sin are partners in the sin and in the damnation of the sinner. The fifth circumstance is how many times he has sinned, if he remembers it, and how often he has fallen. For the man who often falls into sin despises the mercy of God, and increases his sin, and is ungrateful to Christ; and he grows the more feeble at withstanding sin, and sins the more easily, and is the slower to rise, and the more shy of confessing, especially to the one who is his confessor. That is why people, when they fall back into their old follies, either leave their old confessors altogether or else split up their confession in various places; but truly such split confession deserves no mercy from God for his sins. The sixth circumstance is why a man sins, as by what temptation; and whether he himself procures that temptation, or it comes by the urging of other people; or whether he sins with a woman by force or by her own consent; or whether the woman has been forced against her will, or not: this she shall tell; whether it was for greed or for poverty, and whether it was her own procuring or not; and all such equipment of the sin. The seventh circumstance is in what way he has committed his sin, or how she has allowed people to do it to her. And the man shall tell the same plainly, with all the circumstances: whether he has sinned with common brothel-women or not; or committed his sin in holy seasons or not; in fasting-times or not; or before his confession, or after his last confession, and perhaps broken the penance laid on him because of it; by whose help and whose counsel; by sorcery or by craft: everything must be told. All these things, according as they are great or small, weigh on a man's conscience. And also the priest who is your judge can the better make up his mind in his judgement when he gives you your penance, and that is according to your contrition. For understand well that after a man has defiled his baptism by sin, if he wants to come to salvation, there is no other way but by penitence and confession and satisfaction; and especially by the two, if there is a confessor to whom he can confess himself, and the third, if he has life enough to carry it out.

§ 87. Then a man must look and consider that if he means to make a true and profitable confession, there must be four conditions. First, it must be in sorrowful bitterness of heart, as King Hezekiah said to God: "I will remember all the years of my life in the bitterness of my heart." This condition of bitterness has five signs. The first is that confession must be full of shame, not to cover or hide his sin, for he has offended his God and defiled his soul. And on this Saint Augustine says: "The heart labours for shame of its sin"; and because he has great shame, he is worthy to have great mercy from God. Such was the confession of the publican, who would not lift up his eyes to heaven because he had offended the God of heaven; and for that shame he had the mercy of God at once. And on this Saint Augustine says that such shamefaced people are nearest to forgiveness and remission. Another sign is humility in confession, of which Saint Peter says, "Humble yourselves under the might of God." The hand of God is mighty in confession, for by it God forgives you your sins, for he alone has the power. And this humility shall be in the heart and in outward sign; for just as he has humility towards God in his heart, so he should humble his body outwardly to the priest who sits in God's place. And so in no way, since Christ is sovereign, and the priest is the mean and mediator between Christ and the sinner, and the sinner is the last by way of reason, should the sinner sit as high as his confessor, but kneel before him or at his feet, unless illness prevents it. For he shall pay no heed to who sits there, but to whose place he sits in. A man who has wronged a lord, and comes to ask for mercy and make his peace, and sits himself down straight away beside the lord, would be thought outrageous, and not worthy to have remission or mercy so soon. The third sign is that your confession should be full of tears, if a man can manage it; and if a man cannot weep with his bodily eyes, let him weep in his heart. Such was the confession of Saint Peter; for after he had forsaken Jesus Christ, he went out and wept most bitterly. The fourth sign is that he does not hold back out of shame from making his confession. Such was the confession of the Magdalene, who did not hold back, for any shame before those who were at the feast, from going to our Lord Jesus Christ and acknowledging her sins to him. The fifth sign is that a man or a woman be obedient in receiving the penance laid on him for his sins; for certainly Jesus Christ, for the sins of a man, was obedient to the point of death.

§ 88. The second condition of true confession is that it be made quickly; for certainly, if a man had a deadly wound, the longer he put off treating himself, the more it would fester and hasten him to his death; and the wound would also be the harder to heal. And sin that lies a long time in a man unconfessed behaves in just the same way. Certainly a man ought to confess his sins quickly, for many reasons: for fear of death, which often comes suddenly, and it is never certain at what time it will come, or in what place; and also the lingering of one sin draws in another; and also the longer he delays, the farther he is from Christ. And if he waits until his last day, he will scarcely be able to confess or remember his sins, or repent of them, for the grievous sickness of his death. And because he has not listened to Jesus Christ in his life, when Christ has spoken, he shall cry out to Jesus Christ on his last day, and Christ will scarcely listen to him. And understand that this condition must have four things. Your confession must be prepared beforehand and thought out, for wicked haste does no good; and a man must know how to confess his sins, whether of pride or of envy, and so on through the kinds and circumstances; and he must have grasped in his mind the number and the greatness of his sins, and how long he has lain in sin; and also he must be contrite for his sins, and in steadfast purpose, by the grace of God, never to fall into sin again; and also he must fear and keep watch on himself, so that he flees the occasions of sin to which he is inclined. Also you shall confess all your sins to one man, and not a portion to one man and a portion to another; that is to be understood as meaning with the intention of splitting up your confession out of shame or fear; for that is nothing but the strangling of your soul. For certainly Jesus Christ is entirely all good; in him there is no imperfection; and therefore either he forgives everything perfectly or nothing at all. I do not say that if you are assigned to the penitentiary, the priest with special powers, for a certain sin, you are bound to show him all the rest of your sins, which you have confessed to your parish priest, unless you wish to out of your humility; this is no splitting of confession. Nor do I say, where I speak of dividing confession, that if you have licence to confess to a discreet and honest priest of your choosing, with the licence of your parish priest, you may not confess all your sins to him. But let no blot be left behind; let no sin go untold, as far as you remember. And when you are to be confessed by your parish priest, tell him also all the sins you have committed since you were last confessed; this is no wicked intention of splitting confession.

§ 89. True confession also asks for certain conditions. First, that you confess of your own free will, not compelled, nor for shame before people, nor for sickness, nor such things; for it is reasonable that the man who does wrong of his own free will should confess his wrong of his own free will; and that no other man should tell his sin but he himself; and he shall not refuse to admit or deny his sin, nor get angry with the priest for warning him to give up sin. The second condition is that your confession be lawful: that is to say, that you who confess, and the priest who hears your confession, are truly in the faith of holy church; and that a man is not in despair of the mercy of Jesus Christ, as Cain or Judas were. And also a man must accuse himself of his own wrong, and not another; he shall blame and reproach himself and his own malice for his sin, and no one else. But nevertheless, if another man is the occasion or the enticer of his sin, or the rank of a person is such that his sin is aggravated by it, or else he cannot fully confess unless he tells the person with whom he has sinned, then he may tell, so long as his intention is not to backbite that person but only to make his confession plain.

§ 90. Nor shall you tell any lies in your confession, out of humility perhaps, saying that you have committed sins of which you were never guilty. For Saint Augustine says: if, because of your humility, you tell lies about yourself, then even if you were not in sin before, you are in sin now through your lies. You must also show your sin with your own mouth, unless you have become dumb, and not by any letter; for you who committed the sin shall have the shame of it. Nor shall you paint your confession with fine subtle words, to cover your sin the more; for then you deceive yourself and not the priest; you must tell it plainly, however foul or horrible it may be. You shall also confess to a priest who is discreet enough to counsel you; and also you shall not confess for vainglory, nor for hypocrisy, nor for any cause but only for the fear of Jesus Christ and the health of your soul. Nor shall you run to the priest all of a sudden to tell him your sin lightly, as someone tells a joke or a story, but thoughtfully and with great devotion. And generally, confess often. If you fall often, rise often by confession. And though you confess more than once a sin of which you have already been confessed, it is the more merit. And, as Saint Augustine says, you shall the more easily have release and the grace of God, both from sin and from punishment. And certainly, once a year at the least, it is lawful to receive communion; for certainly once a year all things are renewed.

The Third Part of Penitence: Satisfaction

§ 91. Now I have told you about true Confession, which is the second part of Penitence.

The third part of Penitence is Satisfaction; and that lies most generally in almsgiving and in bodily pain. Now there are three kinds of alms: contrition of heart, where a man offers himself to God; the second is to have pity on the want of one's neighbours; and the third is in giving good counsel, spiritual and bodily, where people have need, and especially in providing people with food. And take note that a man generally has need of these things: he has need of food, he has need of clothing and shelter, he has need of charitable counsel, and of visiting in prison and in sickness, and of burial for his dead body. And if you cannot visit the needy in person, visit him by your messenger and by your gifts. These, generally, are the alms or works of charity of those who have worldly riches or good judgement in giving counsel. Of these works you shall hear on the day of judgement.

§ 92. You shall give these alms out of your own goods, and quickly, and privately if you can; but nevertheless, if you cannot do it privately, you shall not hold back from giving alms because people see it, so long as it is not done for the thanks of the world but only for the thanks of Jesus Christ. For, as Saint Matthew bears witness, capitulo quinto, in the fifth chapter, "A city that is set on a mountain cannot be hidden; nor do people light a lantern and put it under a bushel, but they set it on a candlestick to give light to the people in the house. Just so shall your light shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your father who is in heaven."

§ 93. Now to speak of bodily pain: it lies in prayers, in vigils, in fasting, and in virtuous teaching of prayers. And you must understand that orisons, or prayers, mean a devout desire of the heart, which directs itself to God and expresses itself outwardly in words, to remove harms and to have things spiritual and lasting, and sometimes worldly things. Of these prayers, certainly, Jesus Christ has enclosed the most in the prayer of the Pater noster, the Our Father. Certainly it is privileged in its dignity in three things, for which it is worthier than any other prayer: because Jesus Christ made it himself; and it is short, so that it may be learned the more easily, and kept the more easily in the heart, and so that a man may help himself the more often with the prayer; and so that a man may be the less weary of saying it; and a man cannot excuse himself from learning it, it is so short and so easy; and because it contains in itself all good prayers. The exposition of this holy prayer, which is so excellent and so worthy, I leave to the masters of theology; except that I will say this much: when you pray that God should forgive you your trespasses as you forgive those who trespass against you, take very good care that you are not out of charity. This holy prayer also lessens venial sin; and therefore it belongs especially to penitence.

§ 94. This prayer must be said truly and in true faith, and people must pray to God in an orderly way, discreetly and devoutly; and always a man shall set his will to be subject to the will of God. This prayer must also be said with great humility and very purely; decently, and not to the annoyance of any man or woman. It must also go along with the works of charity. It is a help also against the vices of the soul; for, as Saint Jerome says, "By fasting the vices of the flesh are cured, and by prayer the vices of the soul."

§ 95. After this, you shall understand that bodily pain lies in keeping vigil; for Jesus Christ says, "Watch, and pray that you do not enter into wicked temptation." You must understand also that fasting lies in three things: in forgoing bodily food and drink, in forgoing worldly merriment, and in forgoing deadly sin; that is to say, a man shall keep himself from deadly sin with all his might.

§ 96. And you shall understand too that God ordained fasting; and to fasting belong four things: generosity to poor people; gladness of the spiritual heart; not being angry or put out, nor grumbling because he fasts; and also a reasonable hour to eat, in moderation; that is to say, a man shall not eat at the wrong time, nor sit longer at his table eating because he is fasting.

§ 97. Then you shall understand that bodily pain lies in discipline or teaching, by word or by writing, or by example. Also in wearing hair shirts, or shirts of coarse wool, or mail shirts on the naked flesh, for Christ's sake, and penances of that kind. But take good care that such penances on your flesh do not make your heart bitter or angry or fed up with yourself; for it is better to throw away your hair shirt than to throw away the assurance of Jesus Christ. And so Saint Paul says: "Clothe yourselves, as those who are chosen by God, in a heart of mercy, meekness, forbearance, and that kind of clothing"; with which Jesus Christ is better pleased than with hair shirts, or mail shirts, or hauberks.

§ 98. Then discipline lies also in beating your breast, in scourging with rods, in kneeling, in tribulations; in patiently suffering wrongs that are done to you, and also in patiently bearing sickness, or the loss of worldly goods, or of wife, or of child, or of other friends.

§ 99. Then you shall understand what things hinder penance; and this is in four ways, that is, fear, shame, hope, and wanhope, that is, despair. And to speak first of fear, by which a man thinks he can bear no penance: against it the remedy is to think that bodily penance is only short and small compared with the pain of hell, which is so cruel and so long that it lasts without end.

§ 100. Now against the shame a man has in confessing himself, and especially these hypocrites who would like to be thought so perfect that they have no need to confess: against that shame a man should think, by way of reason, that he who has not been ashamed to do foul things certainly ought not to be ashamed to do fair things, and that is confession. A man should also think that God sees and knows all his thoughts and all his works; from him nothing can be hidden or covered. People should also call to mind the shame that is to come at the day of judgement to those who are not penitent and confessed in this present life. For all the creatures on earth and in hell shall see openly everything that they hide in this world.

§ 101. Now to speak of the hope of those who are negligent and slow to confess: that lies in two things. The one is that he hopes to live long and to acquire great riches for his pleasure, and then he will confess; and, as he says, it seems to him that will be time enough to come to confession. The other is the presumption he has in Christ's mercy. Against the first vice, he shall think that our life is in no way secure; and also that all the riches in this world are at the mercy of chance and pass like a shadow on the wall. And, as Saint Gregory says, it belongs to the great righteousness of God that the pain of those who never would withdraw from sin of their own accord, but always continue in sin, shall never stop; for that perpetual will to sin they shall have perpetual pain.

§ 102. Wanhope is of two kinds: the first wanhope is of the mercy of Christ; the other is that they think they could not persevere long in goodness. The first wanhope comes from a man's judging that he has sinned so greatly and so often, and lain so long in sin, that he will not be saved. Certainly, against that cursed wanhope he should think that the passion of Jesus Christ is stronger to unbind than sin is strong to bind. Against the second wanhope he shall think that as often as he falls he may rise again by penitence. And however long he has lain in sin, the mercy of Christ is always ready to receive him to mercy. Against the wanhope by which he judges that he could not persevere long in goodness, he shall think that the feebleness of the devil can do nothing unless people will let him; and also he shall have strength from the help of God, and of all holy church, and from the protection of angels, if he will.

§ 103. Then people must understand what the fruit of penance is; and, according to the word of Jesus Christ, it is the endless bliss of heaven, where joy has no opposite of woe or grievance; where all the harms of this present life are past; where there is safety from the pain of hell; where there is the blessed company that rejoice for evermore, each in the other's joy; where the body of man, that once was foul and dark, is brighter than the sun; where the body, that once was sick, frail and feeble, and mortal, is immortal, and so strong and so whole that nothing can impair it; where there is neither hunger, thirst nor cold, but every soul is filled with the sight of the perfect knowledge of God. This blessed kingdom people may buy by poverty of spirit, and the glory by lowliness, the fullness of joy by hunger and thirst, and the rest by labour, and the life by death and the mortification of sin.

Chaucer's Retraction

§ 104. Now I pray all those who hear this little treatise or read it that, if there is anything in it that pleases them, they thank our Lord Jesus Christ for it, from whom proceeds all wit and all goodness. And if there is anything that displeases them, I pray them also to put it down to the fault of my lack of skill, and not to my will, which would very gladly have said better if I had had the skill. For our book says, "All that is written is written for our instruction"; and that is my intention. And so I beseech you meekly, for the mercy of God, that you pray for me, that Christ have mercy on me and forgive me my sins: and especially my translations and writings of worldly vanities, which I revoke in my retractions: such as the book of Troilus; the book of Fame too; the book of the nineteen Ladies; the book of the Duchess; the book of Saint Valentine's Day, of the Parliament of Birds; the Tales of Canterbury, those that tend towards sin; the book of the Lion; and many another book, if I could remember them; and many a song and many a lecherous lay; that Christ in his great mercy forgive me the sin. But for the translation of Boethius, de Consolacione, the Consolation of Philosophy, and other books of legends of saints, and homilies, and morality, and devotion, for those I thank our Lord Jesus Christ and his blessed mother, and all the saints of heaven, beseeching them that from now on, to the end of my life, they send me grace to lament my sins and to study the salvation of my soul; and grant me grace of true penitence, confession and satisfaction to perform in this present life, through the kindly grace of him who is King of kings and Priest over all priests, who bought us with the precious blood of his heart; so that I may be one of those at the day of judgement who shall be saved. Qui cum patre, &c.: who with the Father lives and reigns, and so on.¹⁴⁶