Chaucer's Works, Volume 3 — The House of Fame; The Legend of Good Women; The Treatise on the Astrolabe; The Sources of the Canterbury Tales

Iuge infernal, Minos, of Crete king,

Now cometh thy lot, now comestow on the ring;

Nat for thy sake only wryte I this storie,

But for to clepe agein unto memorie

Of Theseus the grete untrouthe of love;

For which the goddes of the heven above

Ben wrothe, and wreche han take for thy sinne.

Be reed for shame! now I thy lyf beginne.

Minos, that was the mighty king of Crete,

That hadde an hundred citees stronge and grete,

To scole hath sent his sone Androgeus,

To Athenes; of the whiche hit happed thus,

That he was slayn, lerning philosophye,

Right in that citee, nat but for envye.

The grete Minos, of the whiche I speke,

His sones deeth is comen for to wreke;

Alcathoe he bisegeth harde and longe.

But natheles the walles be so stronge,

And Nisus, that was king of that citee,

So chivalrous, that litel dredeth he;

Of Minos or his ost took he no cure,

Til on a day befel an aventure,

That Nisus doghter stood upon the wal,

And of the sege saw the maner al.

So happed hit, that, at a scarmishing,

She caste her herte upon Minos the king,

For his beautee and for his chivalrye,

So sore, that she wende for to dye.

And, shortly of this proces for to pace,

She made Minos winnen thilke place,

So that the citee was al at his wille,

To saven whom him list, or elles spille;

But wikkedly he quitte her kindenesse,

And let her drenche in sorowe and distresse,

Nere that the goddes hadde of her pite;

But that tale were to long as now for me.

Athenes wan this king Minos also,

And Alcathoe and other tounes mo;

And this theffect, that Minos hath so driven

Hem of Athenes, that they mote him yiven

Fro yere to yere her owne children dere

For to be slayn, as ye shul after here.

This Minos hath a monstre, a wikked beste,

That was so cruel that, without areste,

Whan that a man was broght in his presence,

He wolde him ete, ther helpeth no defence.

And every thridde yeer, with-outen doute,

They casten lot, and, as hit com aboute

On riche, on pore, he moste his sone take,

And of his child he moste present make

Unto Minos, to save him or to spille,

Or lete his beste devoure him at his wille.

And this hath Minos don, right in despyt;

To wreke his sone was set al his delyt,

And maken hem of Athenes his thral

Fro yere to yere, whyl that he liven shal;

And hoom he saileth whan this toun is wonne.

This wikked custom is so longe y-ronne

Til that of Athenes king Egeus

Mot sende his owne sone, Theseus,

Sith that the lot is fallen him upon,

To be devoured, for grace is ther non.

And forth is lad this woful yonge knight

Unto the court of king Minos ful right,

And in a prison, fetered, cast is he

Til thilke tyme he sholde y-freten be.

Wel maystow wepe, O woful Theseus,

That art a kinges sone, and dampned thus.

Me thinketh this, that thou were depe y-holde

To whom that saved thee fro cares colde!

And now, if any woman helpe thee,

Wel oughtestow her servant for to be,

And been her trewe lover yeer by yere!

But now to come ageyn to my matere.

The tour, ther as this Theseus is throwe

Doun in the botom derke and wonder lowe,

Was ioyning in the walle to a foreyne;

And hit was longing to the doghtren tweyne

Of king Minos, that in hir chambres grete

Dwelten above, toward the maister-strete,

In mochel mirthe, in Ioye and in solas.

Not I nat how, hit happed ther, per cas,

As Theseus compleyned him by nighte,

The kinges doghter, Adrian that highte,

And eek her suster Phedra, herden al

His compleyning, as they stode on the wal

And lokeden upon the brighte mone;

Hem leste nat to go to bedde sone.

And of his wo they had compassioun;

A kinges sone to ben in swich prisoun

And be devoured, thoughte hem gret pitee.

Than Adrian spak to her suster free,

And seyde, 'Phedra, leve suster dere,

This woful lordes sone may ye nat here,

How pitously compleyneth he his kin,

And eek his pore estat that he is in,

And gilteless? now certes, hit is routhe!

And if ye wol assenten, by my trouthe,

He shal be holpen, how so that we do!'

Phedra answerde, 'y-wis, me is as wo

For him as ever I was for any man;

And, to his help, the beste reed I can

Is that we doon the gayler prively

To come, and speke with us hastily,

And doon this woful man with him to come.

For if he may this monstre overcome,

Than were he quit; ther is noon other bote.

Lat us wel taste him at his herte-rote,

That, if so be that he a wepen have,

Wher that he dar, his lyf to kepe and save,

Fighten with this fend, and him defende.

For, in the prison, ther he shal descende,

Ye wite wel, that the beste is in a place

That nis nat derk, and hath roum eek and space

To welde an ax or swerd or staf or knyf,

So that, me thinketh, he sholde save his lyf;

If that he be a man, he shal do so.

And we shul make him balles eek also

Of wexe and towe, that, whan he gapeth faste,

Into the bestes throte he shal hem caste

To slake his hunger and encombre his teeth;

And right anon, whan that Theseus seeth

The beste achoked, he shal on him lepe

To sleen him, or they comen more to-hepe.

This wepen shal the gayler, or that tyde,

Ful privily within the prison hyde;

And, for the hous is crinkled to and fro,

And hath so queinte weyes for to go—

For hit is shapen as the mase is wroght—

Therto have I a remedie in my thoght,

That, by a clewe of twyne, as he hath goon,

The same wey he may returne anoon,

Folwing alwey the threed, as he hath come.

And, whan that he this beste hath overcome,

Then may he fleen awey out of this drede,

And eek the gayler may he with him lede,

And him avaunce at hoom in his contree,

Sin that so greet a lordes sone is he.

This is my reed, if that he dar hit take.'

What sholde I lenger sermoun of hit make?

The gayler cometh, and with him Theseus.

And whan thise thinges been acorded thus,

Adoun sit Theseus upon his knee:—

'The righte lady of my lyf,' quod he,

'I, sorweful man, y-dampned to the deeth,

Fro yow, whyl that me lasteth lyf or breeth,

I wol nat twinne, after this aventure,

But in your servise thus I wol endure,

That, as a wrecche unknowe, I wol yow serve

For ever-mo, til that myn herte sterve.

Forsake I wol at hoom myn heritage,

And, as I seide, ben of your court a page,

If that ye vouche-sauf that, in this place,

Ye graunte me to han so gret a grace

That I may han nat but my mete and drinke;

And for my sustenance yit wol I swinke,

Right as yow list, that Minos ne no wight—

Sin that he saw me never with eyen sight—

Ne no man elles, shal me conne espye;

So slyly and so wel I shal me gye,

And me so wel disfigure and so lowe,

That in this world ther shal no man me knowe,

To han my lyf, and for to han presence

Of yow, that doon to me this excellence.

And to my fader shal I senden here

This worthy man, that is now your gaylere,

And, him to guerdon, that he shal wel be

Oon of the grettest men of my contree.

And yif I dorste seyn, my lady bright,

I am a kinges sone, and eek a knight;

As wolde god, yif that hit mighte be

Ye weren in my contree, alle three,

And I with yow, to bere yow companye,

Than shulde ye seen yif that I ther-of lye!

And, if I profre yow in low manere

To ben your page and serven yow right here,

But I yow serve as lowly in that place,

I prey to Mars to yive me swiche a grace

That shames deeth on me ther mote falle,

And deeth and povert to my frendes alle;

And that my spirit by nighte mote go

After my deeth, and walke to and fro;

That I mote of a traitour have a name,

For which my spirit go, to do me shame!

And yif I ever claime other degree,

But-if ye vouche-sauf to yive hit me,

As I have seid, of shames deeth I deye!

And mercy, lady! I can nat elles seye!'

A seemly knight was Theseus to see,

And yong, but of a twenty yeer and three;

But who-so hadde y-seyn his countenaunce,

He wolde have wept, for routhe of his penaunce;

For which this Adriane in this manere

Answerde to his profre and to his chere.

'A kinges sone, and eek a knight,' quod she,

'To been my servant in so low degree,

God shilde hit, for the shame of women alle!

And leve me never swich a cas befalle!

But sende yow grace and sleighte of herte also,

Yow to defende and knightly sleen your fo,

And leve herafter that I may yow finde

To me and to my suster here so kinde,

That I repente nat to give yow lyf!

Yit were hit better that I were your wyf,

Sin that ye been as gentil born as I,

And have a rëaume, nat but faste by,

Then that I suffred giltles yow to sterve,

Or that I let yow as a page serve;

Hit is not profit, as unto your kinrede;

But what is that that man nil do for drede?

And to my suster, sin that hit is so

That she mot goon with me, if that I go,

Or elles suffre deeth as wel as I,

That ye unto your sone as trewely

Doon her be wedded at your hoom-coming.

This is the fynal ende of al this thing;

Ye swere hit heer, on al that may be sworn.'

'Ye, lady myn,' quod he, 'or elles torn

Mote I be with the Minotaur to-morwe!

And haveth her-of my herte-blood to borwe,

Yif that ye wile; if I had knyf or spere,

I wolde hit leten out, and ther-on swere,

For than at erst I wot ye wil me leve.

By Mars, that is the cheef of my bileve,

So that I mighte liven and nat faile

To-morwe for tacheve my bataile,

I nolde never fro this place flee,

Til that ye shuld the verray preve see.

For now, if that the sooth I shal yow say,

I have y-loved yow ful many a day,

Thogh ye ne wiste hit nat, in my contree.

And aldermost desyred yow to see

Of any erthly living creature;

Upon my trouthe I swere, and yow assure,

Thise seven yeer I have your servant be;

Now have I yow, and also have ye me,

My dere herte, of Athenes duchesse!'

This lady smyleth at his stedfastnesse,

And at his hertly wordes, and his chere,

And to her suster seide in this manere,

Al softely, 'now, suster myn,' quod she,

'Now be we duchesses, bothe I and ye,

And sikered to the regals of Athenes,

And bothe her-after lykly to be quenes,

And saved fro his deeth a kinges sone,

As ever of gentil women is the wone

To save a gentil man, emforth hir might,

In honest cause, and namely in his right.

Me thinketh no wight oghte her-of us blame,

Ne beren us ther-for an evel name.'

And shortly of this matere for to make,

This Theseus of her hath leve y-take,

And every point performed was in dede

As ye have in this covenant herd me rede.

His wepen, his clew, his thing that I have said,

Was by the gayler in the hous y-laid

Ther as this Minotaur hath his dwelling,

Right faste by the dore, at his entring.

And Theseus is lad unto his deeth,

And forth un-to this Minotaur he geeth,

And by the teching of this Adriane

He overcom this beste, and was his bane;

And out he cometh by the clewe again

Ful prevely, whan he this beste hath slain;

And by the gayler geten hath a barge,

And of his wyves tresor gan hit charge,

And took his wyf, and eek her suster free,

And eek the gayler, and with hem alle three

Is stole awey out of the lond by nighte,

And to the contre of Ennopye him dighte

Ther as he had a frend of his knowinge.

Ther festen they, ther dauncen they and singe;

And in his armes hath this Adriane,

That of the beste hath kept him from his bane;

And gat him ther a newe barge anoon,

And of his contree-folk a ful gret woon,

And taketh his leve, and hoomward saileth he.

And in an yle, amid the wilde see,

Ther as ther dwelte creature noon

Save wilde bestes, and that ful many oon,

He made his ship a-londe for to sette;

And in that yle half a day he lette,

And seide, that on the lond he moste him reste.

His mariners han doon right as him leste;

And, for to tellen shortly in this cas,

Whan Adriane his wyf a-slepe was,

For that her suster fairer was than she,

He taketh her in his hond, and forth goth he

To shippe, and as a traitour stal his way

Whyl that this Adriane a-slepe lay,

And to his contree-ward he saileth blyve—

A twenty devil way the wind him dryve!—

And fond his fader drenched in the see.

Me list no more to speke of him, parde;

Thise false lovers, poison be hir bane!

But I wol turne again to Adriane

That is with slepe for werinesse atake.

Ful sorwefully her herte may awake.

Allas! for thee my herte hath now pite!

Right in the dawening awaketh she,

And gropeth in the bedde, and fond right noght.

'Allas!' quod she, 'that ever I was wroght!

I am betrayed!' and her heer to-rente,

And to the stronde bar-fot faste she wente,

And cryed, 'Theseus! myn herte swete!

Wher be ye, that I may nat with yow mete,

And mighte thus with bestes been y-slain?'

The holwe rokkes answerde her again;

No man she saw, and yit shyned the mone,

And hye upon a rokke she wente sone,

And saw his barge sailing in the see.

Cold wex her herte, and right thus seide she.

'Meker than ye finde I the bestes wilde!'

Hadde he nat sinne, that her thus begylde?

She cryed, 'O turne again, for routhe and sinne!

Thy barge hath nat al his meiny inne!'

Her kerchef on a pole up stikked she,

Ascaunce that he sholde hit wel y-see,

And him remembre that she was behinde,

And turne again, and on the stronde her finde;

But al for noght; his wey he is y-goon.

And doun she fil a-swown upon a stoon;

And up she rist, and kiste, in al her care,

The steppes of his feet, ther he hath fare,

And to her bedde right thus she speketh tho:—

'Thou bed,' quod she, 'that hast receyved two,

Thou shalt answere of two, and nat of oon!

Wher is thy gretter part away y-goon?

Allas! wher shal I, wrecched wight, become!

For, thogh so be that ship or boot heer come,

Hoom to my contree dar I nat for drede;

I can my-selven in this cas nat rede!'

What shal I telle more her compleining?

Hit is so long, hit were an hevy thing.

In her epistle Naso telleth al;

But shortly to the ende I telle shal.

The goddes have her holpen, for pitee;

And, in the signe of Taurus, men may see

The stones of her coroun shyne clere.—

I wol no more speke of this matere;

But thus this false lover can begyle

His trewe love. The devil quyte him his whyle!

Deus dator formarum.

Thou yiver of the formes, that hast wroght

The faire world, and bare hit in thy thoght

Eternally, or thou thy werk began,

Why madest thou, unto the slaundre of man,

Or—al be that hit was not thy doing,

As for that fyn to make swiche a thing—

Why suffrest thou that Tereus was bore,

That is in love so fals and so forswore,

That, fro this world up to the firste hevene,

Corrumpeth, whan that folk his name nevene?

And, as to me, so grisly was his dede,

That, whan that I his foule story rede,

Myn eyen wexen foule and sore also;

Yit last the venim of so longe ago,

That hit enfecteth him that wol beholde

The story of Tereus, of which I tolde.

Of Trace was he lord, and kin to Marte,

The cruel god that stant with blody darte;

And wedded had he, with a blisful chere,

King Pandiones faire doghter dere,

That highte Progne, flour of her contree,

Thogh Iuno list nat at the feste be,

Ne Ymeneus, that god of wedding is;

But at the feste redy been, y-wis,

The furies three, with alle hir mortel brond.

The owle al night aboute the balkes wond,

That prophet is of wo and of mischaunce.

This revel, ful of songe and ful of daunce,

Lasteth a fourtenight, or litel lasse.

But, shortly of this story for to passe,

For I am wery of him for to telle,

Five yeer his wyf and he togeder dwelle,

Til on a day she gan so sore longe

To seen her suster, that she saw nat longe,

That for desyr she niste what to seye.

But to her husband gan she for to preye,

For goddes love, that she moste ones goon

Her suster for to seen, and come anoon,

Or elles, but she moste to her wende,

She preyde him, that he wolde after her sende;

And this was, day by day, al her prayere

With al humblesse of wyfhood, word, and chere.

This Tereus let make his shippes yare,

And into Grece him-self is forth y-fare

Unto his fader in lawe, and gan him preye

To vouche-sauf that, for a month or tweye,

That Philomene, his wyves suster, mighte

On Progne his wyf but ones have a sighte—

'And she shal come to yow again anoon.

Myself with her wol bothe come and goon,

And as myn hertes lyf I wol her kepe.'

This olde Pandion, this king, gan wepe

For tendernesse of herte, for to leve

His doghter goon, and for to yive her leve;

Of al this world he lovede no-thing so;

But at the laste leve hath she to go.

For Philomene, with salte teres eke,

Gan of her fader grace to beseke

To seen her suster, that her longeth so;

And him embraceth with her armes two.

And therwith-al so yong and fair was she

That, whan that Terëus saw her beautee,

And of array that ther was noon her liche,

And yit of bountee was she two so riche,

He caste his fyry herte upon her so

That he wol have her, how so that hit go,

And with his wyles kneled and so preyde,

Til at the laste Pandion thus seyde:—

'Now, sone,' quod he, 'that art to me so dere,

I thee betake my yonge doghter here,

That bereth the key of al my hertes lyf.

And grete wel my doghter and thy wyf,

And yive her leve somtyme for to pleye,

That she may seen me ones er I deye.'

And soothly, he hath mad him riche feste,

And to his folk, the moste and eek the leste,

That with him com; and yaf him yiftes grete,

And him conveyeth through the maister-strete

Of Athenes, and to the see him broghte,

And turneth hoom; no malice he ne thoghte.

The ores pulleth forth the vessel faste,

And into Trace arriveth at the laste,

And up into a forest he her ledde,

And to a cave privily him spedde;

And, in this derke cave, yif her leste,

Or leste noght, he bad her for to reste;

Of whiche her herte agroos, and seyde thus,

'Wher is my suster, brother Tereus?'

And therwith-al she wepte tenderly,

And quook for fere, pale and pitously,

Right as the lamb that of the wolf is biten;

Or as the colver, that of the egle is smiten,

And is out of his clawes forth escaped,

Yet hit is afered and awhaped

Lest hit be hent eft-sones, so sat she.

But utterly hit may non other be.

By force hath he, this traitour, doon that dede,

That he hath reft her of her maydenhede,

Maugree her heed, by strengthe and by his might.

Lo! here a dede of men, and that a right!

She cryeth 'suster!' with ful loude stevene,

And 'fader dere!' and 'help me, god in hevene!'

Al helpeth nat; and yet this false theef

Hath doon this lady yet a more mischeef,

For fere lest she sholde his shame crye,

And doon him openly a vilanye,

And with his swerd her tong of kerveth he,

And in a castel made her for to be

Ful privily in prison evermore,

And kepte her to his usage and his store,

So that she mighte him nevermore asterte.

O sely Philomene! wo is thyn herte;

God wreke thee, and sende thee thy bone!

Now is hit tyme I make an ende sone.

This Tereus is to his wyf y-come,

And in his armes hath his wyf y-nome,

And pitously he weep, and shook his heed,

And swor her that he fond her suster deed;

For which this sely Progne hath swich wo,

That ny her sorweful herte brak a-two;

And thus in teres lete I Progne dwelle,

And of her suster forth I wol yow telle.

This woful lady lerned had in youthe

So that she werken and enbrouden couthe,

And weven in her stole the radevore

As hit of women hath be woned yore.

And, shortly for to seyn, she hath her fille

Of mete and drink, and clothing at her wille,

And coude eek rede, and wel y-nogh endyte,

But with a penne coude she nat wryte;

But lettres can she weven to and fro,

So that, by that the yeer was al a-go,

She had y-woven in a stamin large

How she was broght from Athenes in a barge,

And in cave how that she was broght;

And al the thing that Tereus hath wroght,

She waf hit wel, and wroot the story above,

How she was served for her suster love;

And to a knave a ring she yaf anoon,

And prayed him, by signes, for to goon

Unto the quene, and beren her that clooth,

And by signes swor him many an ooth,

She sholde him yeve what she geten mighte.

This knave anoon unto the quene him dighte,

And took hit her, and al the maner tolde.

And, whan that Progne hath this thing beholde,

No word she spak, for sorwe and eek for rage;

But feyned her to goon on pilgrimage

To Bachus temple; and, in a litel stounde,

Her dombe suster sitting hath she founde,

Weping in the castel her aloon.

Allas! the wo, the compleint, and the moon

That Progne upon her dombe suster maketh!

In armes everich of hem other taketh,

And thus I lete hem in hir sorwe dwelle.

The remenant is no charge for to telle,

For this is al and som, thus was she served,

That never harm a-gilte ne deserved

Unto this cruel man, that she of wiste.

Ye may be war of men, yif that yow liste.

For, al be that he wol nat, for his shame,

Doon so as Tereus, to lese his name,

Ne serve yow as a mordrour or a knave,

Ful litel whyle shul ye trewe him have,

That wol I seyn, al were he now my brother,

But hit so be that he may have non other.