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This monk began upon this wife to stare, And said, "Alas! my niece, God forbid That ye for any sorrow, or any dread, Fordo* yourself: but telle me your grief, *destroy Paraventure I may, in your mischief,* *distress Counsel or help; and therefore telle me All your annoy, for it shall be secre. For on my portos* here I make an oath, *breviary That never in my life, *for lief nor loth,* *willing or unwilling* Ne shall I of no counsel you bewray." "The same again to you," quoth she, "I say. By God and by this portos I you swear, Though men me woulden all in pieces tear, Ne shall I never, for* to go to hell, *though I should Bewray* one word of thing that ye me tell, *betray For no cousinage, nor alliance, But verily for love and affiance."* *confidence, promise Thus be they sworn, and thereupon they kiss'd, And each of them told other what them list. "Cousin," quoth she, "if that I hadde space, As I have none, and namely* in this place, *specially Then would I tell a legend of my life, What I have suffer'd since I was a wife With mine husband, all* be he your cousin. *although "Nay," quoth this monk, "by God and Saint Martin, He is no more cousin unto me, Than is the leaf that hangeth on the tree; I call him so, by Saint Denis of France, To have the more cause of acquaintance Of you, which I have loved specially Aboven alle women sickerly,* *surely This swear I you *on my professioun;* *by my vows of religion Tell me your grief, lest that he come adown, And hasten you, and go away anon."
"My deare love," quoth she, "O my Dan John, Full lief* were me this counsel for to hide, *pleasant But out it must, I may no more abide. My husband is to me the worste man That ever was since that the world began; But since I am a wife, it sits* not me *becomes To telle no wight of our privity, Neither in bed, nor in none other place; God shield* I shoulde tell it for his grace; *forbid A wife shall not say of her husband But all honour, as I can understand; Save unto you thus much I telle shall; As help me God, he is nought worth at all In no degree, the value of a fly. But yet me grieveth most his niggardy.* *stinginess And well ye wot, that women naturally Desire thinges six, as well as I. They woulde that their husbands shoulde be Hardy,* and wise, and rich, and thereto free, *brave And buxom* to his wife, and fresh in bed. *yielding, obedient But, by that ilke* Lord that for us bled, *same For his honour myself for to array, On Sunday next I muste needes pay A hundred francs, or elles am I lorn.* *ruined, undone Yet *were me lever* that I were unborn, *I would rather* Than me were done slander or villainy. And if mine husband eke might it espy, I were but lost; and therefore I you pray, Lend me this sum, or elles must I dey.* *die Dan John, I say, lend me these hundred francs; Pardie, I will not faile you, *my thanks,* *if I can help it* If that you list to do that I you pray; For at a certain day I will you pay, And do to you what pleasance and service That I may do, right as you list devise. And but* I do, God take on me vengeance, *unless As foul as e'er had Ganilion of France."
This gentle monk answer'd in this mannere; "Now truely, mine owen lady dear, I have," quoth he, "on you so greate ruth,* *pity That I you swear, and plighte you my truth, That when your husband is to Flanders fare,* *gone I will deliver you out of this care, For I will bringe you a hundred francs." And with that word he caught her by the flanks, And her embraced hard, and kissed her oft. "Go now your way," quoth he, "all still and soft, And let us dine as soon as that ye may, For by my cylinder* 'tis prime of day; *portable sundial Go now, and be as true as I shall be ." "Now elles God forbidde, Sir," quoth she; And forth she went, as jolly as a pie, And bade the cookes that they should them hie,* *make haste So that men mighte dine, and that anon. Up to her husband is this wife gone, And knocked at his contour boldely. *"Qui est la?"* quoth he. "Peter! it am I," *who is there?* Quoth she; "What, Sir, how longe all will ye fast? How longe time will ye reckon and cast Your summes, and your bookes, and your things? The devil have part of all such reckonings! Ye have enough, pardie, of Godde's sond.* *sending, gifts Come down to-day, and let your bagges stond.* *stand Ne be ye not ashamed, that Dan John Shall fasting all this day elenge* gon? *see note What? let us hear a mass, and go we dine." "Wife," quoth this man, "little canst thou divine The curious businesse that we have; For of us chapmen,* all so God me save, *merchants And by that lord that cleped is Saint Ive, Scarcely amonges twenty, ten shall thrive Continually, lasting unto our age. We may well make cheer and good visage, And drive forth the world as it may be, And keepen our estate in privity, Till we be dead, or elles that we play A pilgrimage, or go out of the way. And therefore have I great necessity Upon this quaint* world to advise** me. *strange **consider For evermore must we stand in dread Of hap and fortune in our chapmanhead.* *trading To Flanders will I go to-morrow at day, And come again as soon as e'er I may: For which, my deare wife, I thee beseek *beseech As be to every wight buxom* and meek, *civil, courteous And for to keep our good be curious, And honestly governe well our house. Thou hast enough, in every manner wise, That to a thrifty household may suffice. Thee lacketh none array, nor no vitail; Of silver in thy purse thou shalt not fail."
And with that word his contour door he shet,* *shut And down he went; no longer would he let;* *delay, hinder And hastily a mass was there said, And speedily the tables were laid, And to the dinner faste they them sped, And richely this monk the chapman fed. And after dinner Dan John soberly This chapman took apart, and privily He said him thus: "Cousin, it standeth so, That, well I see, to Bruges ye will go; God and Saint Austin speede you and guide. I pray you, cousin, wisely that ye ride: Governe you also of your diet Attemperly,* and namely** in this heat. *moderately Betwixt us two needeth no *strange fare;* *ado, ceremony* Farewell, cousin, God shielde you from care. If any thing there be, by day or night, If it lie in my power and my might, That ye me will command in any wise, It shall be done, right as ye will devise. But one thing ere ye go, if it may be; I woulde pray you for to lend to me A hundred frankes, for a week or twy, For certain beastes that I muste buy, To store with a place that is ours (God help me so, I would that it were yours); I shall not faile surely of my day, Not for a thousand francs, a mile way. But let this thing be secret, I you pray; For yet to-night these beastes must I buy. And fare now well, mine owen cousin dear; *Grand mercy* of your cost and of your cheer." *great thanks*
This noble merchant gentilly* anon *like a gentleman Answer'd and said, "O cousin mine, Dan John, Now sickerly this is a small request: My gold is youres, when that it you lest, And not only my gold, but my chaffare;* *merchandise Take what you list, *God shielde that ye spare.* *God forbid that you But one thing is, ye know it well enow should take too little* Of chapmen, that their money is their plough. We may creance* while we have a name, *obtain credit But goldless for to be it is no game. Pay it again when it lies in your ease; After my might full fain would I you please."
These hundred frankes set he forth anon, And privily he took them to Dan John; No wight in all this world wist of this loan, Saving the merchant and Dan John alone. They drink, and speak, and roam a while, and play, Till that Dan John rode unto his abbay. The morrow came, and forth this merchant rideth To Flanders-ward, his prentice well him guideth, Till he came unto Bruges merrily. Now went this merchant fast and busily About his need, and buyed and creanced;* *got credit He neither played at the dice, nor danced; But as a merchant, shortly for to tell, He led his life; and there I let him dwell.
The Sunday next* the merchant was y-gone, *after To Saint Denis y-comen is Dan John, With crown and beard all fresh and newly shave, In all the house was not so little a knave,* *servant-boy Nor no wight elles that was not full fain For that my lord Dan John was come again. And shortly to the point right for to gon, The faire wife accorded with Dan John, That for these hundred francs he should all night Have her in his armes bolt upright; And this accord performed was in deed. In mirth all night a busy life they lead, Till it was day, that Dan John went his way, And bade the meinie* "Farewell; have good day." *servants For none of them, nor no wight in the town, Had of Dan John right no suspicioun; And forth he rode home to his abbay, Or where him list; no more of him I say.
The merchant, when that ended was the fair, To Saint Denis he gan for to repair, And with his wife he made feast and cheer, And tolde her that chaffare* was so dear, *merchandise That needes must he make a chevisance;* *loan For he was bound in a recognisance To paye twenty thousand shields* anon. *crowns, ecus For which this merchant is to Paris gone, To borrow of certain friendes that he had A certain francs, and some with him he lad.* *took And when that he was come into the town, For great cherte* and great affectioun *love Unto Dan John he wente first to play; Not for to borrow of him no money, Bat for to weet* and see of his welfare, *know And for to telle him of his chaffare, As friendes do, when they be met in fere.* *company Dan John him made feast and merry cheer; And he him told again full specially, How he had well y-bought and graciously (Thanked be God) all whole his merchandise; Save that he must, in alle manner wise, Maken a chevisance, as for his best; And then he shoulde be in joy and rest. Dan John answered, "Certes, I am fain* *glad That ye in health be come borne again: And if that I were rich, as have I bliss, Of twenty thousand shields should ye not miss, For ye so kindely the other day Lente me gold, and as I can and may I thanke you, by God and by Saint Jame. But natheless I took unto our Dame, Your wife at home, the same gold again, Upon your bench; she wot it well, certain, By certain tokens that I can her tell Now, by your leave, I may no longer dwell; Our abbot will out of this town anon, And in his company I muste gon. Greet well our Dame, mine owen niece sweet, And farewell, deare cousin, till we meet.
This merchant, which that was full ware and wise, *Creanced hath,* and paid eke in Paris *had obtained credit* To certain Lombards ready in their hond The sum of gold, and got of them his bond, And home he went, merry as a popinjay.* *parrot For well he knew he stood in such array That needes must he win in that voyage A thousand francs, above all his costage.* *expenses His wife full ready met him at the gate, As she was wont of old usage algate* *always And all that night in mirthe they beset;* *spent For he was rich, and clearly out of debt. When it was day, the merchant gan embrace His wife all new, and kiss'd her in her face, And up he went, and maked it full tough.
"No more," quoth she, "by God ye have enough;" And wantonly again with him she play'd, Till at the last this merchant to her said. "By God," quoth he, "I am a little wroth With you, my wife, although it be me loth; And wot ye why? by God, as that I guess, That ye have made a *manner strangeness* *a kind of estrangement* Betwixte me and my cousin, Dan John. Ye should have warned me, ere I had gone, That he you had a hundred frankes paid By ready token; he *had him evil apaid* *was displeased* For that I to him spake of chevisance,* *borrowing (He seemed so as by his countenance); But natheless, by God of heaven king, I thoughte not to ask of him no thing. I pray thee, wife, do thou no more so. Tell me alway, ere that I from thee go, If any debtor hath in mine absence Y-payed thee, lest through thy negligence I might him ask a thing that he hath paid."
This wife was not afeared nor afraid, But boldely she said, and that anon; "Mary! I defy that false monk Dan John, I keep* not of his tokens never a deal:** *care **whit He took me certain gold, I wot it well. — What? evil thedom* on his monke's snout! — *thriving For, God it wot, I ween'd withoute doubt That he had given it me, because of you, To do therewith mine honour and my prow,* *profit For cousinage, and eke for belle cheer That he hath had full often here. But since I see I stand in such disjoint,* *awkward position I will answer you shortly to the point. Ye have more slacke debtors than am I; For I will pay you well and readily, From day to day, and if so be I fail, I am your wife, score it upon my tail, And I shall pay as soon as ever I may. For, by my troth, I have on mine array, And not in waste, bestow'd it every deal. And, for I have bestowed it so well, For your honour, for Godde's sake I say, As be not wroth, but let us laugh and play. Ye shall my jolly body have *to wed;* *in pledge* By God, I will not pay you but in bed; Forgive it me, mine owen spouse dear; Turn hitherward, and make better cheer."
The merchant saw none other remedy; And for to chide, it were but a folly, Since that the thing might not amended be. "Now, wife," he said, "and I forgive it thee; But by thy life be no more so large;* *liberal, lavish Keep better my good, this give I thee in charge." Thus endeth now my tale; and God us send Taling enough, until our lives' end!
Notes to the Shipman's Tale
1. In this Tale Chaucer seems to have followed an old French story, which also formed the groundwork of the first story in the eighth day of the "Decameron."
2. "He must us clothe": So in all the manuscripts and from this and the following lines, it must be inferred that Chaucer had intended to put the Tale in the mouth of a female speaker.
3. Dan: a title bestowed on priests and scholars; from "Dominus," like the Spanish "Don".
4. Bruges was in Chaucer's time the great emporium of European commerce.
5. The monk had been appointed by his abbot to inspect and manage the rural property of the monastery.
6. Malvesie or Malmesy wine derived its name from Malvasia, a region of the Morea near Cape Malea, where it was made, as it also was on Chios and some other Greek islands. Vernage was "vernaccia", a sweet Italian wine.
7. Contour-house: counting-house; French, "comptoir."
8. Under the yarde: under the rod; in pupillage; a phrase properly used of children, but employed by the Clerk in the prologue to his tale. See note 1 to the Prologue to the Clerk's Tale.
9. Genelon, Ganelon, or Ganilion; one of Charlemagne's officers, whose treachery was the cause of the disastrous defeat of the Christians by the Saracens at Roncevalles; he was torn to pieces by four horses.
10. Elenge: From French, "eloigner," to remove; it may mean either the lonely, cheerless condition of the priest, or the strange behaviour of the merchant in leaving him to himself.
11. Make a chevisance: raise money by means of a borrowing agreement; from French, "achever," to finish; the general meaning of the word is a bargain, an agreement.
THE PRIORESS'S TALE.
THE PROLOGUE.
"WELL said, by *corpus Domini,"* quoth our Host; *the Lord's body* "Now longe may'st thou saile by the coast, Thou gentle Master, gentle Marinere. God give the monk *a thousand last quad year!* *ever so much evil* Aha! fellows, beware of such a jape.* *trick The monk *put in the manne's hood an ape,* *fooled him* And in his wife's eke, by Saint Austin. Drawe no monkes more into your inn. But now pass over, and let us seek about, Who shall now telle first of all this rout Another tale;" and with that word he said, As courteously as it had been a maid; "My Lady Prioresse, by your leave, So that I wist I shoulde you not grieve,* *offend I woulde deeme* that ye telle should *judge, decide A tale next, if so were that ye would. Now will ye vouchesafe, my lady dear?" "Gladly," quoth she; and said as ye shall hear.
Notes to the Prologue to the Prioress's Tale.
1. A thousand last quad year: ever so much evil. "Last" means a load, "quad," bad; and literally we may read "a thousand weight of bad years." The Italians use "mal anno" in the same sense.
THE TALE.
O Lord our Lord! thy name how marvellous Is in this large world y-spread! (quoth she) For not only thy laude* precious *praise Performed is by men of high degree, But by the mouth of children thy bounte* *goodness Performed is, for on the breast sucking Sometimes showe they thy herying.* *glory
Wherefore in laud, as I best can or may Of thee, and of the white lily flow'r Which that thee bare, and is a maid alway, To tell a story I will do my labour; Not that I may increase her honour, For she herselven is honour and root Of bounte, next her son, and soules' boot.* *help
O mother maid, O maid and mother free!* *bounteous O bush unburnt, burning in Moses' sight, That ravished'st down from the deity, Through thy humbless, the ghost that in thee light; Of whose virtue, when he thine hearte light,* *lightened, gladdened Conceived was the Father's sapience; Help me to tell it to thy reverence.
Lady! thy bounty, thy magnificence, Thy virtue, and thy great humility, There may no tongue express in no science: For sometimes, Lady! ere men pray to thee, Thou go'st before, of thy benignity, And gettest us the light, through thy prayere, To guiden us unto thy son so dear.
My conning* is so weak, O blissful queen, *skill, ability For to declare thy great worthiness, That I not may the weight of it sustene; But as a child of twelvemonth old, or less, That can unnethes* any word express, *scarcely Right so fare I; and therefore, I you pray, Guide my song that I shall of you say.
There was in Asia, in a great city, Amonges Christian folk, a Jewery, Sustained by a lord of that country, For foul usure, and lucre of villainy, Hateful to Christ, and to his company; And through the street men mighte ride and wend,* *go, walk For it was free, and open at each end.
A little school of Christian folk there stood Down at the farther end, in which there were Children an heap y-come of Christian blood, That learned in that schoole year by year Such manner doctrine as men used there; This is to say, to singen and to read, As smalle children do in their childhead.
Among these children was a widow's son, A little clergion,* seven year of age, *young clerk or scholar That day by day to scholay* was his won,** *study **wont And eke also, whereso he saw th' image Of Christe's mother, had he in usage, As him was taught, to kneel adown, and say Ave Maria as he went by the way.
Thus had this widow her little son y-taught Our blissful Lady, Christe's mother dear, To worship aye, and he forgot it not; For sely* child will always soone lear.** *innocent **learn But aye when I remember on this mattere, Saint Nicholas stands ever in my presence; For he so young to Christ did reverence.
This little child his little book learning, As he sat in the school at his primere, He Alma redemptoris hearde sing, As children learned their antiphonere; And as he durst, he drew him nere and nere,* *nearer And hearken'd aye the wordes and the note, Till he the firste verse knew all by rote.
Nought wist he what this Latin was tosay,* *meant For he so young and tender was of age; But on a day his fellow gan he pray To expound him this song in his language, Or tell him why this song was in usage: This pray'd he him to construe and declare, Full oftentime upon his knees bare.
His fellow, which that elder was than he, Answer'd him thus: "This song, I have heard say, Was maked of our blissful Lady free, Her to salute, and eke her to pray To be our help and succour when we dey.* *die I can no more expound in this mattere: I learne song, I know but small grammere."
"And is this song y-made in reverence Of Christe's mother?" said this innocent; Now certes I will do my diligence To conne* it all, ere Christemas be went; *learn; con Though that I for my primer shall be shent,* *disgraced And shall be beaten thries in an hour, I will it conne, our Lady to honour."
His fellow taught him homeward* privily *on the way home From day to day, till he coud* it by rote, *knew And then he sang it well and boldely From word to word according with the note; Twice in a day it passed through his throat; To schoole-ward, and homeward when he went; On Christ's mother was set all his intent.
As I have said, throughout the Jewery, This little child, as he came to and fro, Full merrily then would he sing and cry, O Alma redemptoris, evermo'; The sweetness hath his hearte pierced so Of Christe's mother, that to her to pray He cannot stint* of singing by the way. *cease
Our firste foe, the serpent Satanas, That hath in Jewes' heart his waspe's nest, Upswell'd and said, "O Hebrew people, alas! Is this to you a thing that is honest,* *creditable, becoming That such a boy shall walken as him lest In your despite, and sing of such sentence, Which is against your lawe's reverence?"
From thenceforth the Jewes have conspired This innocent out of the world to chase; A homicide thereto have they hired, That in an alley had a privy place, And, as the child gan forth by for to pace, This cursed Jew him hent,* and held him fast *seized And cut his throat, and in a pit him cast.
I say that in a wardrobe* he him threw, *privy Where as the Jewes purged their entrail. O cursed folk! O Herodes all new! What may your evil intente you avail? Murder will out, certain it will not fail, And namely* where th' honour of God shall spread; *especially The blood out crieth on your cursed deed.
O martyr souded* to virginity, *confirmed Now may'st thou sing, and follow ever-in-one* *continually The white Lamb celestial (quoth she), Of which the great Evangelist Saint John In Patmos wrote, which saith that they that gon Before this Lamb, and sing a song all new, That never fleshly woman they ne knew.
This poore widow waited all that night After her little child, but he came not; For which, as soon as it was daye's light, With face pale, in dread and busy thought, She hath at school and elleswhere him sought, Till finally she gan so far espy, That he was last seen in the Jewery.
With mother's pity in her breast enclosed, She went, as she were half out of her mind, To every place, where she hath supposed By likelihood her little child to find: And ever on Christ's mother meek and kind She cried, and at the laste thus she wrought, Among the cursed Jewes she him sought.
She freined,* and she prayed piteously *asked* To every Jew that dwelled in that place, To tell her, if her childe went thereby; They saide, "Nay;" but Jesus of his grace Gave in her thought, within a little space, That in that place after her son she cried, Where he was cast into a pit beside.
O greate God, that preformest thy laud By mouth of innocents, lo here thy might! This gem of chastity, this emeraud,* *emerald And eke of martyrdom the ruby bright, Where he with throat y-carven* lay upright, *cut He Alma Redemptoris gan to sing So loud, that all the place began to ring.
The Christian folk, that through the streete went, In came, for to wonder on this thing: And hastily they for the provost sent. He came anon withoute tarrying, And heried* Christ, that is of heaven king, *praised And eke his mother, honour of mankind; And after that the Jewes let* he bind. *caused
With torment, and with shameful death each one The provost did* these Jewes for to sterve** *caused **die That of this murder wist, and that anon; He woulde no such cursedness observe* *overlook Evil shall have that evil will deserve; Therefore with horses wild he did them draw, And after that he hung them by the law.
The child, with piteous lamentation, Was taken up, singing his song alway: And with honour and great procession, They crry him unto the next abbay. His mother swooning by the biere lay; Unnethes* might the people that were there *scarcely This newe Rachel bringe from his bier.
Upon his biere lay this innocent Before the altar while the masses last';* *lasted And, after that, th' abbot with his convent Have sped them for to bury him full fast; And when they holy water on him cast, Yet spake this child, when sprinkled was the water, And sang, O Alma redemptoris mater!
This abbot, which that was a holy man, As monkes be, or elles ought to be, This younger child to conjure he began, And said; "O deare child! I halse* thee, *implore In virtue of the holy Trinity; Tell me what is thy cause for to sing, Since that thy throat is cut, to my seeming."
"My throat is cut unto my necke-bone," Saide this child, "and, as *by way of kind,* *in course of nature* I should have died, yea long time agone; But Jesus Christ, as ye in bookes find, Will that his glory last and be in mind; And, for the worship* of his mother dear, *glory Yet may I sing O Alma loud and clear.
"This well* of mercy, Christe's mother sweet, *fountain I loved alway, after my conning:* *knowledge And when that I my life should forlete,* *leave To me she came, and bade me for to sing This anthem verily in my dying, As ye have heard; and, when that I had sung, Me thought she laid a grain upon my tongue.
"Wherefore I sing, and sing I must certain, In honour of that blissful maiden free, Till from my tongue off taken is the grain. And after that thus saide she to me; 'My little child, then will I fetche thee, When that the grain is from thy tongue take: Be not aghast,* I will thee not forsake.'" *afraid
This holy monk, this abbot him mean I, His tongue out caught, and took away the grain; And he gave up the ghost full softely. And when this abbot had this wonder seen, His salte teares trickled down as rain: And groff* he fell all flat upon the ground, *prostrate, grovelling And still he lay, as he had been y-bound.
The convent* lay eke on the pavement *all the monks Weeping, and herying* Christ's mother dear. *praising And after that they rose, and forth they went, And took away this martyr from his bier, And in a tomb of marble stones clear Enclosed they his little body sweet; Where he is now, God lene* us for to meet. *grant
O younge Hugh of Lincoln! slain also With cursed Jewes, — as it is notable, For it is but a little while ago, — Pray eke for us, we sinful folk unstable, That, of his mercy, God so merciable* *merciful On us his greate mercy multiply, For reverence of his mother Mary.
Notes to the Prioress's Tale
1. Tales of the murder of children by Jews were frequent in the Middle Ages, being probably designed to keep up the bitter feeling of the Christians against the Jews. Not a few children were canonised on this account; and the scene of the misdeeds was laid anywhere and everywhere, so that Chaucer could be at no loss for material.
2. This is from Psalm viii. 1, "Domine, dominus noster,quam admirabile est nomen tuum in universa terra."
3. "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast Thou ordained strength." — Psalms viii. 2.
4. The ghost that in thee light: the spirit that on thee alighted; the Holy Ghost through whose power Christ was conceived.
5. Jewery: A quarter which the Jews were permitted to inhabit; the Old Jewry in London got its name in this way.
6. St. Nicholas, even in his swaddling clothes — so says the "Breviarium Romanum" —gave promise of extraordinary virtue and holiness; for, though he sucked freely on other days, on Wednesdays and Fridays he applied to the breast only once, and that not until the evening.
7. "O Alma Redemptoris Mater," ("O soul mother of the Redeemer") — the beginning of a hymn to the Virgin.
8. Antiphonere: A book of anthems, or psalms, chanted in the choir by alternate verses.
9. Souded; confirmed; from French, "soulde;" Latin, "solidatus."
10. "And they sung as it were a new song before the throne, and before the four beasts, and the elders: and no man could learn that song but the hundred and forty and four thousand, which were redeemed from the earth. These are they which were not defiled with women; for they are virgins. These are they which follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth. These were redeemed from among men, being the firstfruits unto God and to the Lamb." — Revelations xiv. 3, 4.
11. Freined: asked, inquired; from Anglo-Saxon, "frinan," "fraegnian." Compare German, "fragen."
12. Halse: embrace or salute; implore: from Anglo-Saxon "hals," the neck.
14 A boy said to have been slain by the Jews at Lincoln in 1255, according to Matthew Paris. Many popular ballads were made about the event, which the diligence of the Church doubtless kept fresh in mind at Chaucer's day.
CHAUCER'S TALE OF SIR THOPAS.
THE PROLOGUE.
WHEN said was this miracle, every man As sober* was, that wonder was to see, *serious Till that our Host to japen* he began, *talk lightly And then *at erst* he looked upon me, *for the first time* And saide thus; "What man art thou?" quoth he; "Thou lookest as thou wouldest find an hare, For ever on the ground I see thee stare.
"Approache near, and look up merrily. Now ware you, Sirs, and let this man have place. He in the waist is shapen as well as I; This were a puppet in an arm t'embrace For any woman small and fair of face. He seemeth elvish* by his countenance, *surly, morose For unto no wight doth he dalliance.
"Say now somewhat, since other folk have said; Tell us a tale of mirth, and that anon." "Hoste," quoth I, "be not evil apaid,* *dissatisfied For other tale certes can* I none, *know Eut of a rhyme I learned yore* agone." *long "Yea, that is good," quoth he; "now shall we hear Some dainty thing, me thinketh by thy cheer."* *expression, mien
Notes to the Prologue to Chaucer's Tale of Sir Thopas
1. This prologue is interesting, for the picture which it gives of Chaucer himself; riding apart from and indifferent to the rest of the pilgrims, with eyes fixed on the ground, and an "elvish", morose, or rather self-absorbed air; portly, if not actually stout, in body; and evidently a man out of the common, as the closing words of the Host imply.
2. Referring to the poet's corpulency.
THE TALE
The First Fit* *part
Listen, lordings, in good intent, And I will tell you verrament* *truly Of mirth and of solas,* *delight, solace All of a knight was fair and gent,* *gentle In battle and in tournament, His name was Sir Thopas.
Y-born he was in far country, In Flanders, all beyond the sea, At Popering in the place; His father was a man full free, And lord he was of that country, As it was Godde's grace.
Sir Thopas was a doughty swain, White was his face as paindemain, His lippes red as rose. His rode* is like scarlet in grain, *complexion And I you tell in good certain He had a seemly nose.
His hair, his beard, was like saffroun, That to his girdle reach'd adown, His shoes of cordewane: Of Bruges were his hosen brown; His robe was of ciclatoun, That coste many a jane.
He coulde hunt at the wild deer, And ride on hawking *for rivere* *by the river* With gray goshawk on hand: Thereto he was a good archere, Of wrestling was there none his peer, Where any ram should stand.
Full many a maiden bright in bow'r They mourned for him par amour, When them were better sleep; But he was chaste, and no lechour, And sweet as is the bramble flow'r That beareth the red heep.* *hip
And so it fell upon a day, For sooth as I you telle may, Sir Thopas would out ride; He worth* upon his steede gray, *mounted And in his hand a launcegay,* *spear A long sword by his side.
He pricked through a fair forest, Wherein is many a wilde beast, Yea, bothe buck and hare; And as he pricked north and east, I tell it you, him had almest *almost Betid* a sorry care. *befallen
There sprange herbes great and small, The liquorice and the setewall,* *valerian And many a clove-gilofre, And nutemeg to put in ale, Whether it be moist* or stale, *new Or for to lay in coffer.
The birdes sang, it is no nay, The sperhawk* and the popinjay,** *sparrowhawk **parrot That joy it was to hear; The throstle-cock made eke his lay, The woode-dove upon the spray She sang full loud and clear.
Sir Thopas fell in love-longing All when he heard the throstle sing, And *prick'd as he were wood;* *rode as if he His faire steed in his pricking were mad* So sweated, that men might him wring, His sides were all blood.
Sir Thopas eke so weary was For pricking on the softe grass, So fierce was his corage,* *inclination, spirit That down he laid him in that place, To make his steed some solace, And gave him good forage.
"Ah, Saint Mary, ben'dicite, What aileth thilke* love at me *this To binde me so sore? Me dreamed all this night, pardie, An elf-queen shall my leman* be, *mistress And sleep under my gore.* *shirt
An elf-queen will I love, y-wis,* *assuredly For in this world no woman is Worthy to be my make* *mate In town; All other women I forsake, And to an elf-queen I me take By dale and eke by down."
Into his saddle he clomb anon, And pricked over stile and stone An elf-queen for to spy, Till he so long had ridden and gone, That he found in a privy wonne* *haunt The country of Faery, So wild; For in that country was there none That to him durste ride or gon, Neither wife nor child.
Till that there came a great giaunt, His name was Sir Oliphaunt, A perilous man of deed; He saide, "Child,* by Termagaunt, *young man *But if* thou prick out of mine haunt, *unless Anon I slay thy steed With mace. Here is the Queen of Faery, With harp, and pipe, and symphony, Dwelling in this place."
The Child said, "All so may I the,* *thrive To-morrow will I meete thee, When I have mine armor; And yet I hope, *par ma fay,* *by my faith* That thou shalt with this launcegay Abyen* it full sore; *suffer for Thy maw* *belly Shall I pierce, if I may, Ere it be fully prime of day, For here thou shalt be slaw."* *slain
Sir Thopas drew aback full fast; This giant at him stones cast Out of a fell staff sling: But fair escaped Child Thopas, And all it was through Godde's grace, And through his fair bearing.
Yet listen, lordings, to my tale, Merrier than the nightingale, For now I will you rown,* *whisper How Sir Thopas, with sides smale,* *small Pricking over hill and dale, Is come again to town.
His merry men commanded he To make him both game and glee; For needes must he fight With a giant with heades three, For paramour and jollity Of one that shone full bright.
"*Do come,*" he saide, "my minstrales *summon* And gestours* for to telle tales. *story-tellers Anon in mine arming, Of romances that be royales, Of popes and of cardinales, And eke of love-longing."
They fetch'd him first the sweete wine, And mead eke in a maseline,* *drinking-bowl And royal spicery; of maple wood Of ginger-bread that was full fine, And liquorice and eke cumin, With sugar that is trie.* *refined
He didde,* next his white lere,** *put on **skin Of cloth of lake* fine and clear, *fine linen A breech and eke a shirt; And next his shirt an haketon,* *cassock And over that an habergeon,* *coat of mail For piercing of his heart;
And over that a fine hauberk,* *plate-armour Was all y-wrought of Jewes'* werk, *magicians' Full strong it was of plate; And over that his coat-armour,* *knight's surcoat As white as is the lily flow'r, In which he would debate.* *fight
His shield was all of gold so red And therein was a boare's head, A charboucle* beside; *carbuncle And there he swore on ale and bread, How that the giant should be dead, Betide whatso betide.
His jambeaux* were of cuirbouly, *boots His sworde's sheath of ivory, His helm of latoun* bright, *brass His saddle was of rewel bone, His bridle as the sunne shone, Or as the moonelight.
His speare was of fine cypress, That bodeth war, and nothing peace; The head full sharp y-ground. His steede was all dapple gray, It went an amble in the way Full softely and round In land.
Lo, Lordes mine, here is a fytt; If ye will any more of it, To tell it will I fand.* *try
The Second Fit
Now hold your mouth for charity, Bothe knight and lady free, And hearken to my spell;* *tale Of battle and of chivalry, Of ladies' love and druerie,* *gallantry Anon I will you tell.
Men speak of romances of price* * worth, esteem Of Horn Child, and of Ipotis, Of Bevis, and Sir Guy, Of Sir Libeux, and Pleindamour, But Sir Thopas, he bears the flow'r Of royal chivalry.
His goode steed he all bestrode, And forth upon his way he glode,* *shone As sparkle out of brand;* *torch Upon his crest he bare a tow'r, And therein stick'd a lily flow'r; God shield his corse* from shand!** *body **harm
And, for he was a knight auntrous,* *adventurous He woulde sleepen in none house, But liggen* in his hood, *lie His brighte helm was his wanger,* *pillow And by him baited* his destrer** *fed **horse Of herbes fine and good.
Himself drank water of the well, As did the knight Sir Percivel, So worthy under weed; Till on a day - . . .
Notes to Chaucer's Tale of Sir Thopas
1. "The Rhyme of Sir Thopas," as it is generally called, is introduced by Chaucer as a satire on the dull, pompous, and prolix metrical romances then in vogue. It is full of phrases taken from the popular rhymesters in the vein which he holds up to ridicule; if, indeed — though of that there is no evidence — it be not actually part of an old romance which Chaucer selected and reproduced to point his assault on the prevailing taste in literature. Transcriber's note: The Tale is full of incongruities of every kind, which Purves does not refer to; I point some of them out in the notes which follow - marked TN.
2. Poppering, or Poppeling, a parish in the marches of Calais of which the famous antiquary Leland was once Rector. TN: The inhabitants of Popering had a reputation for stupidity.
3. TN: The lord of Popering was the abbot of the local monastery - who could, of course, have no legitimate children.
4. Paindemain: Either "pain de matin," morning bread, or "pain de Maine," because it was made best in that province; a kind of fine white bread.
5. Cordewane: Cordovan; fine Spanish leather, so called from the name of the city where it was prepared
6. Ciclatoun: A rich Oriental stuff of silk and gold, of which was made the circular robe of state called a "ciclaton," from the Latin, "cyclas." The word is French.
7. Jane: a Genoese coin, of small value; in our old statutes called "gallihalpens," or galley half-pence.
8. TN: In Mediaeval falconry the goshawk was not regarded as a fit bird for a knight. It was the yeoman's bird.
9. A ram was the usual prize of wrestling contests. TN: Wrestling and archery were sports of the common people, not knightly accomplishments.
10. Launcegay: spear; "azagay" is the name of a Moorish weapon, and the identity of termination is singular.
12. Clove-gilofre: clove-gilliflower; "Caryophyllus hortensis."
13. TN: The sparrowhawk and parrot can only squawk unpleasantly.
14. TN: The sudden and pointless changes in the stanza form are of course part of Chaucer's parody.
15. Sir Oliphaunt: literally, "Sir Elephant;" Sir John Mandeville calls those animals "Olyfauntes."
16. Termagaunt: A pagan or Saracen deity, otherwise named Tervagan, and often mentioned in Middle Age literature. His name has passed into our language, to denote a ranter or blusterer, as be was represented to be.
17. TN: His "fair bearing" would not have been much defence against a sling-stone.
18. TN: "Sides small": a conventional description for a woman, not a man.
19. Romances that be royal: so called because they related to Charlemagne and his family.
20. TN: A knight would be expected to have a gold or silver drinking vessel.
21. TN: The coat-armour or coat of arms should have had his heraldic emblems on it, not been pure white
22. Charboucle: Carbuncle; French, "escarboucle;" a heraldic device resembling a jewel.
23. Cuirbouly: "Cuir boulli," French, boiled or prepared leather; also used to cover shields, &c.
24. Rewel bone: No satisfactory explanation has been furnished of this word, used to describe some material from which rich saddles were made. TN: The OED defines it as narwhal ivory.
25. Spell: Tale, discourse, from Anglo-Saxon, "spellian," to declare, tell a story.
26. Sir Bevis of Hampton, and Sir Guy of Warwick, two knights of great renown.
27. Libeux: One of Arthur's knights, called "Ly beau desconus," "the fair unknown."
28. TN: The crest was a small emblem worn on top of a knight's helmet. A tower with a lily stuck in it would have been unwieldy and absurd.
29. Wanger: pillow; from Anglo-Saxon, "wangere," because the "wanges;" or cheeks, rested on it.
30. Destrer: "destrier," French, a war-horse; in Latin, "dextrarius," as if led by the right hand.
31. Sir Percival de Galois, whose adventures were written in more than 60,000 verses by Chretien de Troyes, one of the oldest and best French romancers, in 1191.
CHAUCER'S TALE OF MELIBOEUS.
THE PROLOGUE.
"No more of this, for Godde's dignity!" Quoth oure Hoste; "for thou makest me So weary of thy very lewedness,* *stupidity, ignorance That, all so wisly* God my soule bless, *surely Mine eares ache for thy drafty* speech. *worthless Now such a rhyme the devil I beteche:* *commend to This may well be rhyme doggerel," quoth he. "Why so?" quoth I; "why wilt thou lette* me *prevent More of my tale than any other man, Since that it is the best rhyme that I can?"* *know "By God!" quoth he, "for, plainly at one word, Thy drafty rhyming is not worth a tord: Thou dost naught elles but dispendest* time. *wastest Sir, at one word, thou shalt no longer rhyme. Let see whether thou canst tellen aught *in gest,* *by way of Or tell in prose somewhat, at the least, narrative* In which there be some mirth or some doctrine." "Gladly," quoth I, "by Godde's sweete pine,* *suffering I will you tell a little thing in prose, That oughte like* you, as I suppose, *please Or else certes ye be too dangerous.* *fastidious It is a moral tale virtuous, *All be it* told sometimes in sundry wise *although it be* By sundry folk, as I shall you devise. As thus, ye wot that ev'ry Evangelist, That telleth us the pain* of Jesus Christ, *passion He saith not all thing as his fellow doth; But natheless their sentence is all soth,* *true And all accorden as in their sentence,* *meaning All be there in their telling difference; For some of them say more, and some say less, When they his piteous passion express; I mean of Mark and Matthew, Luke and John; But doubteless their sentence is all one. Therefore, lordinges all, I you beseech, If that ye think I vary in my speech, As thus, though that I telle somedeal more Of proverbes, than ye have heard before Comprehended in this little treatise here, *T'enforce with* the effect of my mattere, *with which to And though I not the same wordes say enforce* As ye have heard, yet to you all I pray Blame me not; for as in my sentence Shall ye nowhere finde no difference From the sentence of thilke* treatise lite,** *this **little After the which this merry tale I write. And therefore hearken to what I shall say, And let me tellen all my tale, I pray."
Notes to the Prologue to Chaucer's Tale of Meliboeus.
1. Chaucer crowns the satire on the romanticists by making the very landlord of the Tabard cry out in indignant disgust against the stuff which he had heard recited — the good Host ascribing to sheer ignorance the string of pompous platitudes and prosaic details which Chaucer had uttered.
2. Drafty: worthless, vile; no better than draff or dregs; from the Anglo-Saxon, "drifan" to drive away, expel.
THE TALE.
A young man called Meliboeus, mighty and rich, begat upon his wife, that called was Prudence, a daughter which that called was Sophia. Upon a day befell, that he for his disport went into the fields him to play. His wife and eke his daughter hath he left within his house, of which the doors were fast shut. Three of his old foes have it espied, and set ladders to the walls of his house, and by the windows be entered, and beaten his wife, and wounded his daughter with five mortal wounds, in five sundry places; that is to say, in her feet, in her hands, in her ears, in her nose, and in her mouth; and left her for dead, and went away. When Meliboeus returned was into his house, and saw all this mischief, he, like a man mad, rending his clothes, gan weep and cry. Prudence his wife, as farforth as she durst, besought him of his weeping for to stint: but not forthy [notwithstanding] he gan to weep and cry ever longer the more.
This noble wife Prudence remembered her upon the sentence of Ovid, in his book that called is the "Remedy of Love," where he saith: He is a fool that disturbeth the mother to weep in the death of her child, till she have wept her fill, as for a certain time; and then shall a man do his diligence with amiable words her to recomfort and pray her of her weeping for to stint [cease]. For which reason this noble wife Prudence suffered her husband for to weep and cry, as for a certain space; and when she saw her time, she said to him in this wise: "Alas! my lord," quoth she, "why make ye yourself for to be like a fool? For sooth it appertaineth not to a wise man to make such a sorrow. Your daughter, with the grace of God, shall warish [be cured] and escape. And all [although] were it so that she right now were dead, ye ought not for her death yourself to destroy. Seneca saith, 'The wise man shall not take too great discomfort for the death of his children, but certes he should suffer it in patience, as well as he abideth the death of his own proper person.'"
Meliboeus answered anon and said: "What man," quoth he, "should of his weeping stint, that hath so great a cause to weep? Jesus Christ, our Lord, himself wept for the death of Lazarus his friend." Prudence answered, "Certes, well I wot, attempered [moderate] weeping is nothing defended [forbidden] to him that sorrowful is, among folk in sorrow but it is rather granted him to weep. The Apostle Paul unto the Romans writeth, 'Man shall rejoice with them that make joy, and weep with such folk as weep.' But though temperate weeping be granted, outrageous weeping certes is defended. Measure of weeping should be conserved, after the lore [doctrine] that teacheth us Seneca. 'When that thy friend is dead,' quoth he, 'let not thine eyes too moist be of tears, nor too much dry: although the tears come to thine eyes, let them not fall. And when thou hast forgone [lost] thy friend, do diligence to get again another friend: and this is more wisdom than to weep for thy friend which that thou hast lorn [lost] for therein is no boot [advantage]. And therefore if ye govern you by sapience, put away sorrow out of your heart. Remember you that Jesus Sirach saith, 'A man that is joyous and glad in heart, it him conserveth flourishing in his age: but soothly a sorrowful heart maketh his bones dry.' He said eke thus, 'that sorrow in heart slayth full many a man.' Solomon saith 'that right as moths in the sheep's fleece annoy [do injury] to the clothes, and the small worms to the tree, right so annoyeth sorrow to the heart of man.' Wherefore us ought as well in the death of our children, as in the loss of our goods temporal, have patience. Remember you upon the patient Job, when he had lost his children and his temporal substance, and in his body endured and received full many a grievous tribulation, yet said he thus: 'Our Lord hath given it to me, our Lord hath bereft it me; right as our Lord would, right so be it done; blessed be the name of our Lord."'
To these foresaid things answered Meliboeus unto his wife Prudence: "All thy words," quoth he, "be true, and thereto [also] profitable, but truly mine heart is troubled with this sorrow so grievously, that I know not what to do." "Let call," quoth Prudence, "thy true friends all, and thy lineage, which be wise, and tell to them your case, and hearken what they say in counselling, and govern you after their sentence [opinion]. Solomon saith, 'Work all things by counsel, and thou shall never repent.'" Then, by counsel of his wife Prudence, this Meliboeus let call [sent for] a great congregation of folk, as surgeons, physicians, old folk and young, and some of his old enemies reconciled (as by their semblance) to his love and to his grace; and therewithal there come some of his neighbours, that did him reverence more for dread than for love, as happeneth oft. There come also full many subtle flatterers, and wise advocates learned in the law. And when these folk together assembled were, this Meliboeus in sorrowful wise showed them his case, and by the manner of his speech it seemed that in heart he bare a cruel ire, ready to do vengeance upon his foes, and suddenly desired that the war should begin, but nevertheless yet asked he their counsel in this matter. A surgeon, by licence and assent of such as were wise, up rose, and to Meliboeus said as ye may hear. "Sir," quoth he, "as to us surgeons appertaineth, that we do to every wight the best that we can, where as we be withholden, [employed] and to our patient that we do no damage; wherefore it happeneth many a time and oft, that when two men have wounded each other, one same surgeon healeth them both; wherefore unto our art it is not pertinent to nurse war, nor parties to support [take sides]. But certes, as to the warishing [healing] of your daughter, albeit so that perilously she be wounded, we shall do so attentive business from day to night, that, with the grace of God, she shall be whole and sound, as soon as is possible." Almost right in the same wise the physicians answered, save that they said a few words more: that right as maladies be cured by their contraries, right so shall man warish war (by peace). His neighbours full of envy, his feigned friends that seemed reconciled, and his flatterers, made semblance of weeping, and impaired and agregged [aggravated] much of this matter, in praising greatly Meliboeus of might, of power, of riches, and of friends, despising the power of his adversaries: and said utterly, that he anon should wreak him on his foes, and begin war.
Up rose then an advocate that was wise, by leave and by counsel of other that were wise, and said, "Lordings, the need [business] for which we be assembled in this place, is a full heavy thing, and an high matter, because of the wrong and of the wickedness that hath been done, and eke by reason of the great damages that in time coming be possible to fall for the same cause, and eke by reason of the great riches and power of the parties both; for which reasons, it were a full great peril to err in this matter. Wherefore, Meliboeus, this is our sentence [opinion]; we counsel you, above all things, that right anon thou do thy diligence in keeping of thy body, in such a wise that thou want no espy nor watch thy body to save. And after that, we counsel that in thine house thou set sufficient garrison, so that they may as well thy body as thy house defend. But, certes, to move war or suddenly to do vengeance, we may not deem [judge] in so little time that it were profitable. Wherefore we ask leisure and space to have deliberation in this case to deem; for the common proverb saith thus; 'He that soon deemeth soon shall repent.' And eke men say, that that judge is wise, that soon understandeth a matter, and judgeth by leisure. For albeit so that all tarrying be annoying, algates [nevertheless] it is no reproof [subject for reproach] in giving of judgement, nor in vengeance taking, when it is sufficient and, reasonable. And that shewed our Lord Jesus Christ by example; for when that the woman that was taken in adultery was brought in his presence to know what should be done with her person, albeit that he wist well himself what he would answer, yet would he not answer suddenly, but he would have deliberation, and in the ground he wrote twice. And by these causes we ask deliberation and we shall then by the grace of God counsel the thing that shall be profitable."
Up started then the young folk anon at once, and the most part of that company have scorned these old wise men and begun to make noise and said, "Right as while that iron is hot men should smite, right so men should wreak their wrongs while that they be fresh and new:" and with loud voice they cried. "War! War!" Up rose then one of these old wise, and with his hand made countenance [a sign, gesture] that men should hold them still, and give him audience. "Lordings," quoth he, "there is full many a man that crieth, 'War! war!' that wot full little what war amounteth. War at his beginning hath so great an entering and so large, that every wight may enter when him liketh, and lightly [easily] find war: but certes what end shall fall thereof it is not light to know. For soothly when war is once begun, there is full many a child unborn of his mother, that shall sterve [die] young by cause of that war, or else live in sorrow and die in wretchedness; and therefore, ere that any war be begun, men must have great counsel and great deliberation." And when this old man weened [thought, intended] to enforce his tale by reasons, well-nigh all at once began they to rise for to break his tale, and bid him full oft his words abridge. For soothly he that preacheth to them that list not hear his words, his sermon them annoyeth. For Jesus Sirach saith, that music in weeping is a noyous [troublesome] thing. This is to say, as much availeth to speak before folk to whom his speech annoyeth, as to sing before him that weepeth. And when this wise man saw that him wanted audience, all shamefast he sat him down again. For Solomon saith, 'Where as thou mayest have no audience, enforce thee not to speak.' "I see well," quoth this wise man, "that the common proverb is sooth, that good counsel wanteth, when it is most need." Yet [besides, further] had this Meliboeus in his council many folk, that privily in his ear counselled him certain thing, and counselled him the contrary in general audience. When Meliboeus had heard that the greatest part of his council were accorded [in agreement] that he should make war, anon he consented to their counselling, and fully affirmed their sentence [opinion, judgement].
(Dame Prudence, seeing her husband's resolution thus taken, in full humble wise, when she saw her time, begins to counsel him against war, by a warning against haste in requital of either good or evil. Meliboeus tells her that he will not work by her counsel, because he should be held a fool if he rejected for her advice the opinion of so many wise men; because all women are bad; because it would seem that he had given her the mastery over him; and because she could not keep his secret, if he resolved to follow her advice. To these reasons Prudence answers that it is no folly to change counsel when things, or men's judgements of them, change — especially to alter a resolution taken on the impulse of a great multitude of folk, where every man crieth and clattereth what him liketh; that if all women had been wicked, Jesus Christ would never have descended to be born of a woman, nor have showed himself first to a woman after his resurrection and that when Solomon said he had found no good woman, he meant that God alone was supremely good; that her husband would not seem to give her the mastery by following her counsel, for he had his own free choice in following or rejecting it; and that he knew well and had often tested her great silence, patience, and secrecy. And whereas he had quoted a saying, that in wicked counsel women vanquish men, she reminds him that she would counsel him against doing a wickedness on which he had set his mind, and cites instances to show that many women have been and yet are full good, and their counsel wholesome and profitable. Lastly, she quotes the words of God himself, when he was about to make woman as an help meet for man; and promises that, if her husband will trust her counsel, she will restore to him his daughter whole and sound, and make him have honour in this case. Meliboeus answers that because of his wife's sweet words, and also because he has proved and assayed her great wisdom and her great truth, he will govern him by her counsel in all things. Thus encouraged, Prudence enters on a long discourse, full of learned citations, regarding the manner in which counsellors should be chosen and consulted, and the times and reasons for changing a counsel. First, God must be besought for guidance. Then a man must well examine his own thoughts, of such things as he holds to be best for his own profit; driving out of his heart anger, covetousness, and hastiness, which perturb and pervert the judgement. Then he must keep his counsel secret, unless confiding it to another shall be more profitable; but, in so confiding it, he shall say nothing to bias the mind of the counsellor toward flattery or subserviency. After that he should consider his friends and his enemies, choosing of the former such as be most faithful and wise, and eldest and most approved in counselling; and even of these only a few. Then he must eschew the counselling of fools, of flatterers, of his old enemies that be reconciled, of servants who bear him great reverence and fear, of folk that be drunken and can hide no counsel, of such as counsel one thing privily and the contrary openly; and of young folk, for their counselling is not ripe. Then, in examining his counsel, he must truly tell his tale; he must consider whether the thing he proposes to do be reasonable, within his power, and acceptable to the more part and the better part of his counsellors; he must look at the things that may follow from that counselling, choosing the best and waiving all besides; he must consider the root whence the matter of his counsel is engendered, what fruits it may bear, and from what causes they be sprung. And having thus examined his counsel and approved it by many wise folk and old, he shall consider if he may perform it and make of it a good end; if he be in doubt, he shall choose rather to suffer than to begin; but otherwise he shall prosecute his resolution steadfastly till the enterprise be at an end. As to changing his counsel, a man may do so without reproach, if the cause cease, or when a new case betides, or if he find that by error or otherwise harm or damage may result, or if his counsel be dishonest or come of dishonest cause, or if it be impossible or may not properly be kept; and he must take it for a general rule, that every counsel which is affirmed so strongly, that it may not be changed for any condition that may betide, that counsel is wicked. Meliboeus, admitting that his wife had spoken well and suitably as to counsellors and counsel in general, prays her to tell him in especial what she thinks of the counsellors whom they have chosen in their present need. Prudence replies that his counsel in this case could not properly be called a counselling, but a movement of folly; and points out that he has erred in sundry wise against the rules which he had just laid down. Granting that he has erred, Meliboeus says that he is all ready to change his counsel right as she will devise; for, as the proverb runs, to do sin is human, but to persevere long in sin is work of the Devil. Prudence then minutely recites, analyses, and criticises the counsel given to her husband in the assembly of his friends. She commends the advice of the physicians and surgeons, and urges that they should be well rewarded for their noble speech and their services in healing Sophia; and she asks Meliboeus how he understands their proposition that one contrary must be cured by another contrary. Meliboeus answers, that he should do vengeance on his enemies, who had done him wrong. Prudence, however, insists that vengeance is not the contrary of vengeance, nor wrong of wrong, but the like; and that wickedness should be healed by goodness, discord by accord, war by peace. She proceeds to deal with the counsel of the lawyers and wise folk that advised Meliboeus to take prudent measures for the security of his body and of his house. First, she would have her husband pray for the protection and aid of Christ; then commit the keeping of his person to his true friends; then suspect and avoid all strange folk, and liars, and such people as she had already warned him against; then beware of presuming on his strength, or the weakness of his adversary, and neglecting to guard his person — for every wise man dreadeth his enemy; then he should evermore be on the watch against ambush and all espial, even in what seems a place of safety; though he should not be so cowardly, as to fear where is no cause for dread; yet he should dread to be poisoned, and therefore shun scorners, and fly their words as venom. As to the fortification of his house, she points out that towers and great edifices are costly and laborious, yet useless unless defended by true friends that be old and wise; and the greatest and strongest garrison that a rich man may have, as well to keep his person as his goods, is, that he be beloved by his subjects and by his neighbours. Warmly approving the counsel that in all this business Meliboeus should proceed with great diligence and deliberation, Prudence goes on to examine the advice given by his neighbours that do him reverence without love, his old enemies reconciled, his flatterers that counselled him certain things privily and openly counselled him the contrary, and the young folk that counselled him to avenge himself and make war at once. She reminds him that he stands alone against three powerful enemies, whose kindred are numerous and close, while his are fewer and remote in relationship; that only the judge who has jurisdiction in a case may take sudden vengeance on any man; that her husband's power does not accord with his desire; and that, if he did take vengeance, it would only breed fresh wrongs and contests. As to the causes of the wrong done to him, she holds that God, the causer of all things, has permitted him to suffer because he has drunk so much honey of sweet temporal riches, and delights, and honours of this world, that he is drunken, and has forgotten Jesus Christ his Saviour; the three enemies of mankind, the flesh, the fiend, and the world, have entered his heart by the windows of his body, and wounded his soul in five places — that is to say, the deadly sins that have entered into his heart by the five senses; and in the same manner Christ has suffered his three enemies to enter his house by the windows, and wound his daughter in the five places before specified. Meliboeus demurs, that if his wife's objections prevailed, vengeance would never be taken, and thence great mischiefs would arise; but Prudence replies that the taking of vengeance lies with the judges, to whom the private individual must have recourse. Meliboeus declares that such vengeance does not please him, and that, as Fortune has nourished and helped him from his childhood, he will now assay her, trusting, with God's help, that she will aid him to avenge his shame. Prudence warns him against trusting to Fortune, all the less because she has hitherto favoured him, for just on that account she is the more likely to fail him; and she calls on him to leave his vengeance with the Sovereign Judge, that avengeth all villainies and wrongs. Meliboeus argues that if he refrains from taking vengeance he will invite his enemies to do him further wrong, and he will be put and held over low; but Prudence contends that such a result can be brought about only by the neglect of the judges, not by the patience of the individual. Supposing that he had leave to avenge himself, she repeats that he is not strong enough, and quotes the common saw, that it is madness for a man to strive with a stronger than himself, peril to strive with one of equal strength, and folly to strive with a weaker. But, considering his own defaults and demerits, — remembering the patience of Christ and the undeserved tribulations of the saints, the brevity of this life with all its trouble and sorrow, the discredit thrown on the wisdom and training of a man who cannot bear wrong with patience — he should refrain wholly from taking vengeance. Meliboeus submits that he is not at all a perfect man, and his heart will never be at peace until he is avenged; and that as his enemies disregarded the peril when they attacked him, so he might, without reproach, incur some peril in attacking them in return, even though he did a great excess in avenging one wrong by another. Prudence strongly deprecates all outrage or excess; but Meliboeus insists that he cannot see that it might greatly harm him though he took a vengeance, for he is richer and mightier than his enemies, and all things obey money. Prudence thereupon launches into a long dissertation on the advantages of riches, the evils of poverty, the means by which wealth should be gathered, and the manner in which it should be used; and concludes by counselling her husband not to move war and battle through trust in his riches, for they suffice not to maintain war, the battle is not always to the strong or the numerous, and the perils of conflict are many. Meliboeus then curtly asks her for her counsel how he shall do in this need; and she answers that certainly she counsels him to agree with his adversaries and have peace with them. Meliboeus on this cries out that plainly she loves not his honour or his worship, in counselling him to go and humble himself before his enemies, crying mercy to them that, having done him so grievous wrong, ask him not to be reconciled. Then Prudence, making semblance of wrath, retorts that she loves his honour and profit as she loves her own, and ever has done; she cites the Scriptures in support of her counsel to seek peace; and says she will leave him to his own courses, for she knows well he is so stubborn, that he will do nothing for her. Meliboeus then relents; admits that he is angry and cannot judge aright; and puts himself wholly in her hands, promising to do just as she desires, and admitting that he is the more held to love and praise her, if she reproves him of his folly)
Then Dame Prudence discovered all her counsel and her will unto him, and said: "I counsel you," quoth she, "above all things, that ye make peace between God and you, and be reconciled unto Him and to his grace; for, as I have said to you herebefore, God hath suffered you to have this tribulation and disease [distress, trouble] for your sins; and if ye do as I say you, God will send your adversaries unto you, and make them fall at your feet, ready to do your will and your commandment. For Solomon saith, 'When the condition of man is pleasant and liking to God, he changeth the hearts of the man's adversaries, and constraineth them to beseech him of peace of grace.' And I pray you let me speak with your adversaries in privy place, for they shall not know it is by your will or your assent; and then, when I know their will and their intent, I may counsel you the more surely." '"Dame," quoth Meliboeus, '"do your will and your liking, for I put me wholly in your disposition and ordinance."
Then Dame Prudence, when she saw the goodwill of her husband, deliberated and took advice in herself, thinking how she might bring this need [affair, emergency] unto a good end. And when she saw her time, she sent for these adversaries to come into her into a privy place, and showed wisely into them the great goods that come of peace, and the great harms and perils that be in war; and said to them, in goodly manner, how that they ought have great repentance of the injuries and wrongs that they had done to Meliboeus her Lord, and unto her and her daughter. And when they heard the goodly words of Dame Prudence, then they were surprised and ravished, and had so great joy of her, that wonder was to tell. "Ah lady!" quoth they, "ye have showed unto us the blessing of sweetness, after the saying of David the prophet; for the reconciling which we be not worthy to have in no manner, but we ought require it with great contrition and humility, ye of your great goodness have presented unto us. Now see we well, that the science and conning [knowledge] of Solomon is full true; for he saith, that sweet words multiply and increase friends, and make shrews [the ill-natured or angry] to be debonair [gentle, courteous] and meek. Certes we put our deed, and all our matter and cause, all wholly in your goodwill, and be ready to obey unto the speech and commandment of my lord Meliboeus. And therefore, dear and benign lady, we pray you and beseech you as meekly as we can and may, that it like unto your great goodness to fulfil in deed your goodly words. For we consider and acknowledge that we have offended and grieved my lord Meliboeus out of measure, so far forth that we be not of power to make him amends; and therefore we oblige and bind us and our friends to do all his will and his commandment. But peradventure he hath such heaviness and such wrath to usward, [towards us] because of our offence, that he will enjoin us such a pain [penalty] as we may not bear nor sustain; and therefore, noble lady, we beseech to your womanly pity to take such advisement [consideration] in this need, that we, nor our friends, be not disinherited and destroyed through our folly."
"Certes," quoth Prudence, "it is an hard thing, and right perilous, that a man put him all utterly in the arbitration and judgement and in the might and power of his enemy. For Solomon saith, 'Believe me, and give credence to that that I shall say: to thy son, to thy wife, to thy friend, nor to thy brother, give thou never might nor mastery over thy body, while thou livest.' Now, since he defendeth [forbiddeth] that a man should not give to his brother, nor to his friend, the might of his body, by a stronger reason he defendeth and forbiddeth a man to give himself to his enemy. And nevertheless, I counsel you that ye mistrust not my lord: for I wot well and know verily, that he is debonair and meek, large, courteous and nothing desirous nor envious of good nor riches: for there is nothing in this world that he desireth save only worship and honour. Furthermore I know well, and am right sure, that he shall nothing do in this need without counsel of me; and I shall so work in this case, that by the grace of our Lord God ye shall be reconciled unto us."
Then said they with one voice, ""Worshipful lady, we put us and our goods all fully in your will and disposition, and be ready to come, what day that it like unto your nobleness to limit us or assign us, for to make our obligation and bond, as strong as it liketh unto your goodness, that we may fulfil the will of you and of my lord Meliboeus."
When Dame Prudence had heard the answer of these men, she bade them go again privily, and she returned to her lord Meliboeus, and told him how she found his adversaries full repentant, acknowledging full lowly their sins and trespasses, and how they were ready to suffer all pain, requiring and praying him of mercy and pity. Then said Meliboeus, "He is well worthy to have pardon and forgiveness of his sin, that excuseth not his sin, but acknowledgeth, and repenteth him, asking indulgence. For Seneca saith, 'There is the remission and forgiveness, where the confession is; for confession is neighbour to innocence.' And therefore I assent and confirm me to have peace, but it is good that we do naught without the assent and will of our friends." Then was Prudence right glad and joyful, and said, "Certes, Sir, ye be well and goodly advised; for right as by the counsel, assent, and help of your friends ye have been stirred to avenge you and make war, right so without their counsel shall ye not accord you, nor have peace with your adversaries. For the law saith, 'There is nothing so good by way of kind, [nature] as a thing to be unbound by him that it was bound.'"
And then Dame Prudence, without delay or tarrying, sent anon her messengers for their kin and for their old friends, which were true and wise; and told them by order, in the presence of Meliboeus, all this matter, as it is above expressed and declared; and prayed them that they would give their advice and counsel what were best to do in this need. And when Meliboeus' friends had taken their advice and deliberation of the foresaid matter, and had examined it by great business and great diligence, they gave full counsel for to have peace and rest, and that Meliboeus should with good heart receive his adversaries to forgiveness and mercy. And when Dame Prudence had heard the assent of her lord Meliboeus, and the counsel of his friends, accord with her will and her intention, she was wondrous glad in her heart, and said: "There is an old proverb that saith, 'The goodness that thou mayest do this day, do it, and abide not nor delay it not till to-morrow:' and therefore I counsel you that ye send your messengers, such as be discreet and wise, unto your adversaries, telling them on your behalf, that if they will treat of peace and of accord, that they shape [prepare] them, without delay or tarrying, to come unto us." Which thing performed was indeed. And when these trespassers and repenting folk of their follies, that is to say, the adversaries of Meliboeus, had heard what these messengers said unto them, they were right glad and joyful, and answered full meekly and benignly, yielding graces and thanks to their lord Meliboeus, and to all his company; and shaped them without delay to go with the messengers, and obey to the commandment of their lord Meliboeus. And right anon they took their way to the court of Meliboeus, and took with them some of their true friends, to make faith for them, and for to be their borrows [sureties].
And when they were come to the presence of Meliboeus, he said to them these words; "It stands thus," quoth Meliboeus, "and sooth it is, that ye causeless, and without skill and reason, have done great injuries and wrongs to me, and to my wife Prudence, and to my daughter also; for ye have entered into my house by violence, and have done such outrage, that all men know well that ye have deserved the death: and therefore will I know and weet of you, whether ye will put the punishing and chastising, and the vengeance of this outrage, in the will of me and of my wife, or ye will not?" Then the wisest of them three answered for them all, and said; "Sir," quoth he, "we know well, that we be I unworthy to come to the court of so great a lord and so worthy as ye be, for we have so greatly mistaken us, and have offended and aguilt [incurred guilt] in such wise against your high lordship, that truly we have deserved the death. But yet for the great goodness and debonairte [courtesy, gentleness] that all the world witnesseth of your person, we submit us to the excellence and benignity of your gracious lordship, and be ready to obey to all your commandments, beseeching you, that of your merciable [merciful] pity ye will consider our great repentance and low submission, and grant us forgiveness of our outrageous trespass and offence; for well we know, that your liberal grace and mercy stretch them farther into goodness, than do our outrageous guilt and trespass into wickedness; albeit that cursedly [wickedly] and damnably we have aguilt [incurred guilt] against your high lordship." Then Meliboeus took them up from the ground full benignly, and received their obligations and their bonds, by their oaths upon their pledges and borrows, [sureties] and assigned them a certain day to return unto his court for to receive and accept sentence and judgement, that Meliboeus would command to be done on them, by the causes aforesaid; which things ordained, every man returned home to his house.
And when that Dame Prudence saw her time she freined [inquired] and asked her lord Meliboeus, what vengeance he thought to take of his adversaries. To which Meliboeus answered, and said; "Certes," quoth he, "I think and purpose me fully to disinherit them of all that ever they have, and for to put them in exile for evermore." "Certes," quoth Dame Prudence, "this were a cruel sentence, and much against reason. For ye be rich enough, and have no need of other men's goods; and ye might lightly [easily] in this wise get you a covetous name, which is a vicious thing, and ought to be eschewed of every good man: for, after the saying of the Apostle, covetousness is root of all harms. And therefore it were better for you to lose much good of your own, than for to take of their good in this manner. For better it is to lose good with worship [honour], than to win good with villainy and shame. And every man ought to do his diligence and his business to get him a good name. And yet [further] shall he not only busy him in keeping his good name, but he shall also enforce him alway to do some thing by which he may renew his good name; for it is written, that the old good los [reputation ] of a man is soon gone and passed, when it is not renewed. And as touching that ye say, that ye will exile your adversaries, that thinketh ye much against reason, and out of measure, [moderation] considered the power that they have given you upon themselves. And it is written, that he is worthy to lose his privilege, that misuseth the might and the power that is given him. And I set case [if I assume] ye might enjoin them that pain by right and by law (which I trow ye may not do), I say, ye might not put it to execution peradventure, and then it were like to return to the war, as it was before. And therefore if ye will that men do you obeisance, ye must deem [decide] more courteously, that is to say, ye must give more easy sentences and judgements. For it is written, 'He that most courteously commandeth, to him men most obey.' And therefore I pray you, that in this necessity and in this need ye cast you [endeavour, devise a way] to overcome your heart. For Seneca saith, that he that overcometh his heart, overcometh twice. And Tullius saith, 'There is nothing so commendable in a great lord, as when he is debonair and meek, and appeaseth him lightly [easily].' And I pray you, that ye will now forbear to do vengeance, in such a manner, that your good name may be kept and conserved, and that men may have cause and matter to praise you of pity and of mercy; and that ye have no cause to repent you of thing that ye do. For Seneca saith, 'He overcometh in an evil manner, that repenteth him of his victory.' Wherefore I pray you let mercy be in your heart, to the effect and intent that God Almighty have mercy upon you in his last judgement; for Saint James saith in his Epistle, 'Judgement without mercy shall be done to him, that hath no mercy of another wight.'"
When Meliboeus had heard the great skills [arguments, reasons] and reasons of Dame Prudence, and her wise information and teaching, his heart gan incline to the will of his wife, considering her true intent, he conformed him anon and assented fully to work after her counsel, and thanked God, of whom proceedeth all goodness and all virtue, that him sent a wife of so great discretion. And when the day came that his adversaries should appear in his presence, he spake to them full goodly, and said in this wise; "Albeit so, that of your pride and high presumption and folly, an of your negligence and unconning, [ignorance] ye have misborne [misbehaved] you, and trespassed [done injury] unto me, yet forasmuch as I see and behold your great humility, and that ye be sorry and repentant of your guilts, it constraineth me to do you grace and mercy. Wherefore I receive you into my grace, and forgive you utterly all the offences, injuries, and wrongs, that ye have done against me and mine, to this effect and to this end, that God of his endless mercy will at the time of our dying forgive us our guilts, that we have trespassed to him in this wretched world; for doubtless, if we be sorry and repentant of the sins and guilts which we have trespassed in the sight of our Lord God, he is so free and so merciable [merciful], that he will forgive us our guilts, and bring us to the bliss that never hath end." Amen.
Notes to Chaucer's Tale of Meliboeus.
1. The Tale of Meliboeus is literally translated from a French story, or rather "treatise," in prose, entitled "Le Livre de Melibee et de Dame Prudence," of which two manuscripts, both dating from the fifteenth century, are preserved in the British Museum. Tyrwhitt, justly enough, says of it that it is indeed, as Chaucer called it in the prologue, "'a moral tale virtuous,' and was probably much esteemed in its time; but, in this age of levity, I doubt some readers will be apt to regret that he did not rather give us the remainder of Sir Thopas." It has been remarked that in the earlier portion of the Tale, as it left the hand of the poet, a number of blank verses were intermixed; though this peculiarity of style, noticeable in any case only in the first 150 or 200 lines, has necessarily all but disappeared by the changes of spelling made in the modern editions. The Editor's purpose being to present to the public not "The Canterbury Tales" merely, but "The Poems of Chaucer," so far as may be consistent with the limits of this volume, he has condensed the long reasonings and learned quotations of Dame Prudence into a mere outline, connecting those portions of the Tale wherein lies so much of story as it actually possesses, and the general reader will probably not regret the sacrifice, made in the view of retaining so far as possible the completeness of the Tales, while lessening the intrusion of prose into a volume or poems. The good wife of Meliboeus literally overflows with quotations from David, Solomon, Jesus the Son of Sirach, the Apostles, Ovid, Cicero, Seneca, Cassiodorus, Cato, Petrus Alphonsus — the converted Spanish Jew, of the twelfth century, who wrote the "Disciplina Clericalis" — and other authorities; and in some passages, especially where husband and wife debate the merits or demerits of women, and where Prudence dilates on the evils of poverty, Chaucer only reproduces much that had been said already in the Tales that preceded — such as the Merchant's and the Man of Law's.
2. The lines which follow are a close translation of the original Latin, which reads: "Quis matrem, nisi mentis inops, in funere nati Flere vetet? non hoc illa monenda loco. Cum dederit lacrymas, animumque expleverit aegrum, Ille dolor verbis emoderandus erit." Ovid, "Remedia Amoris," 127-131.
3. See the conversation between Pluto and Proserpine, in the Merchant's Tale.
4. "Thy name," she says, "is Meliboeus; that is to say, a man that drinketh honey."
5. Los: reputation; from the past participle of the Anglo-Saxon, "hlisan" to celebrate. Compare Latin, "laus."
THE MONK'S TALE.
THE PROLOGUE
WHEN ended was my tale of Melibee, And of Prudence and her benignity, Our Hoste said, "As I am faithful man, And by the precious corpus Madrian, I had lever* than a barrel of ale, *rather That goode lefe* my wife had heard this tale; *dear For she is no thing of such patience As was this Meliboeus' wife Prudence. By Godde's bones! when I beat my knaves She bringeth me the greate clubbed staves, And crieth, 'Slay the dogges every one, And break of them both back and ev'ry bone.' And if that any neighebour of mine Will not in church unto my wife incline, Or be so hardy to her to trespace,* *offend When she comes home she rampeth* in my face, *springs And crieth, 'False coward, wreak* thy wife *avenge By corpus Domini, I will have thy knife, And thou shalt have my distaff, and go spin.' From day till night right thus she will begin. 'Alas!' she saith, 'that ever I was shape* *destined To wed a milksop, or a coward ape, That will be overlad* with every wight! *imposed on Thou darest not stand by thy wife's right.'
"This is my life, *but if* that I will fight; *unless And out at door anon I must me dight,* *betake myself Or elles I am lost, but if that I Be, like a wilde lion, fool-hardy. I wot well she will do* me slay some day *make Some neighebour and thenne *go my way;* *take to flight* For I am perilous with knife in hand, Albeit that I dare not her withstand; For she is big in armes, by my faith! That shall he find, that her misdoth or saith. But let us pass away from this mattere. My lord the Monk," quoth he, "be merry of cheer, For ye shall tell a tale truely. Lo, Rochester stands here faste by. Ride forth, mine owen lord, break not our game. But by my troth I cannot tell your name; Whether shall I call you my lord Dan John, Or Dan Thomas, or elles Dan Albon? Of what house be ye, by your father's kin? I vow to God, thou hast a full fair skin; It is a gentle pasture where thou go'st; Thou art not like a penant* or a ghost. *penitent Upon my faith thou art some officer, Some worthy sexton, or some cellarer. For by my father's soul, *as to my dome,* *in my judgement* Thou art a master when thou art at home; No poore cloisterer, nor no novice, But a governor, both wily and wise, And therewithal, of brawnes* and of bones, *sinews A right well-faring person for the nonce. I pray to God give him confusion That first thee brought into religion. Thou would'st have been a treade-fowl* aright; *cock Hadst thou as greate leave, as thou hast might, To perform all thy lust in engendrure,* *generation, begettting Thou hadst begotten many a creature. Alas! why wearest thou so wide a cope? God give me sorrow, but, an* I were pope, *if Not only thou, but every mighty man, Though he were shorn full high upon his pan,* *crown Should have a wife; for all this world is lorn;* *undone, ruined Religion hath ta'en up all the corn Of treading, and we borel* men be shrimps: *lay Of feeble trees there come wretched imps.* *shoots This maketh that our heires be so slender And feeble, that they may not well engender. This maketh that our wives will assay Religious folk, for they may better pay Of Venus' payementes than may we: God wot, no lusheburghes paye ye. But be not wroth, my lord, though that I play; Full oft in game a sooth have I heard say."
This worthy Monk took all in patience, And said, "I will do all my diligence, As far as *souneth unto honesty,* *agrees with good manners* To telle you a tale, or two or three. And if you list to hearken hitherward, I will you say the life of Saint Edward; Or elles first tragedies I will tell, Of which I have an hundred in my cell. Tragedy *is to say* a certain story, *means* As olde bookes maken us memory, Of him that stood in great prosperity, And is y-fallen out of high degree In misery, and endeth wretchedly. And they be versified commonly Of six feet, which men call hexametron; In prose eke* be indited many a one, *also And eke in metre, in many a sundry wise. Lo, this declaring ought enough suffice. Now hearken, if ye like for to hear. But first I you beseech in this mattere, Though I by order telle not these things, Be it of popes, emperors, or kings, *After their ages,* as men written find, *in chronological order* But tell them some before and some behind, As it now cometh to my remembrance, Have me excused of mine ignorance."
Notes to the Prologue to The Monk's Tale
1. The Corpus Madrian: the body of St. Maternus, of Treves.
2. That her misdoth or saith: that does or says any thing to offend her.
3. Cope: An ecclesiastcal vestment covering all the body like a cloak.
4. Though he were shorn full high upon his pan: though he were tonsured, as the clergy are.
5. Imps: shoots, branches; from Anglo-Saxon, "impian," German, "impfen," to implant, ingraft. The word is now used in a very restricted sense, to signify the progeny, children, of the devil.
6. Lusheburghes: base or counterfeit coins; so called because struck at Luxemburg. A great importation of them took place during the reigns of the earlier Edwards, and they caused much annoyance and complaint, till in 1351 it was declared treason to bring them into the country.
THE TALE.
I will bewail, in manner of tragedy, The harm of them that stood in high degree, And felle so, that there was no remedy To bring them out of their adversity. For, certain, when that Fortune list to flee, There may no man the course of her wheel hold: Let no man trust in blind prosperity; Beware by these examples true and old.
At LUCIFER, though he an angel were, And not a man, at him I will begin. For though Fortune may no angel dere,* *hurt From high degree yet fell he for his sin Down into hell, where as he yet is in. O Lucifer! brightest of angels all, Now art thou Satanas, that may'st not twin* *depart Out of the misery in which thou art fall.
Lo ADAM, in the field of Damascene With Godde's owen finger wrought was he, And not begotten of man's sperm unclean; And welt* all Paradise saving one tree: *commanded Had never worldly man so high degree As Adam, till he for misgovernance* *misbehaviour Was driven out of his prosperity To labour, and to hell, and to mischance.
Lo SAMPSON, which that was annunciate By the angel, long ere his nativity; And was to God Almighty consecrate, And stood in nobless while that he might see; Was never such another as was he, To speak of strength, and thereto hardiness;* *courage But to his wives told he his secre, Through which he slew himself for wretchedness.
Sampson, this noble and mighty champion, Withoute weapon, save his handes tway, He slew and all to-rente* the lion, *tore to pieces Toward his wedding walking by the way. His false wife could him so please, and pray, Till she his counsel knew; and she, untrue, Unto his foes his counsel gan bewray, And him forsook, and took another new.
Three hundred foxes Sampson took for ire, And all their tailes he together band, And set the foxes' tailes all on fire, For he in every tail had knit a brand, And they burnt all the combs of that lend, And all their oliveres* and vines eke. *olive trees A thousand men he slew eke with his hand, And had no weapon but an ass's cheek.
When they were slain, so thirsted him, that he Was *well-nigh lorn,* for which he gan to pray *near to perishing* That God would on his pain have some pity, And send him drink, or elles must he die; And of this ass's check, that was so dry, Out of a wang-tooth* sprang anon a well, *cheek-tooth Of which, he drank enough, shortly to say. Thus help'd him God, as Judicum can tell.
By very force, at Gaza, on a night, Maugre* the Philistines of that city, *in spite of The gates of the town he hath up plight,* *plucked, wrenched And on his back y-carried them hath he High on an hill, where as men might them see. O noble mighty Sampson, lefe* and dear, *loved Hadst thou not told to women thy secre, In all this world there had not been thy peer.
This Sampson never cider drank nor wine, Nor on his head came razor none nor shear, By precept of the messenger divine; For all his strengthes in his haires were; And fully twenty winters, year by year, He had of Israel the governance; But soone shall he weepe many a tear, For women shall him bringe to mischance.
Unto his leman* Dalila he told, *mistress That in his haires all his strengthe lay; And falsely to his foemen she him sold, And sleeping in her barme* upon a day *lap She made to clip or shear his hair away, And made his foemen all his craft espien. And when they founde him in this array, They bound him fast, and put out both his eyen.
But, ere his hair was clipped or y-shave, There was no bond with which men might him bind; But now is he in prison in a cave, Where as they made him at the querne* grind. *mill O noble Sampson, strongest of mankind! O whilom judge in glory and richess! Now may'st thou weepe with thine eyen blind, Since thou from weal art fall'n to wretchedness.
Th'end of this caitiff* was as I shall say; *wretched man His foemen made a feast upon a day, And made him as their fool before them play; And this was in a temple of great array. But at the last he made a foul affray, For he two pillars shook, and made them fall, And down fell temple and all, and there it lay, And slew himself and eke his foemen all;
This is to say, the princes every one; And eke three thousand bodies were there slain With falling of the great temple of stone. Of Sampson now will I no more sayn; Beware by this example old and plain, That no man tell his counsel to his wife Of such thing as he would *have secret fain,* *wish to be secret* If that it touch his limbes or his life.
Of HERCULES the sov'reign conquerour Singe his workes' land and high renown; For in his time of strength he bare the flow'r. He slew and reft the skin of the lion He of the Centaurs laid the boast adown; He Harpies slew, the cruel birdes fell; He golden apples reft from the dragon He drew out Cerberus the hound of hell. |
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