Chaucer's Works, Volume 4 — The Canterbury Tales

Lyned with taffata and with sendal;

And yet he was but esy of dispence;

He kepte that he wan in pestilence.

For gold in phisik is a cordial,

Therfore he lovede gold in special.

A good man was ther of religioun,

And was a povre Persoun of a toun;

But riche he was of holy thoght and werk.

He was also a lerned man, a clerk,

That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche;

His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche.

Benigne he was, and wonder diligent,

And in adversitee ful pacient;

And swich he was y-preved ofte sythes.

Ful looth were him to cursen for his tythes,

But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute,

Un-to his povre parisshens aboute

Of his offring, and eek of his substaunce.

He coude in litel thing han suffisaunce.

Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer a-sonder,

But he ne lafte nat, for reyn ne thonder,

In siknes nor in meschief, to visyte

The ferreste in his parisshe, muche and lyte,

Up-on his feet, and in his hand a staf.

This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf,

That first he wroghte, and afterward he taughte;

Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte;

And this figure he added eek ther-to,

That if gold ruste, what shal iren do?

For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste,

No wonder is a lewed man to ruste;

And shame it is, if a preest take keep,

A shiten shepherde and a clene sheep.

Wel oghte a preest ensample for to yive,

By his clennesse, how that his sheep shold live.

He sette nat his benefice to hyre,

And leet his sheep encombred in the myre,

And ran to London, un-to sëynt Poules,

To seken him a chaunterie for soules,

Or with a bretherhed to been withholde;

But dwelte at hoom, and kepte wel his folde,

So that the wolf ne made it nat miscarie;

He was a shepherde and no mercenarie.

And though he holy were, and vertuous,

He was to sinful man nat despitous,

Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne,

But in his teching discreet and benigne.

To drawen folk to heven by fairnesse

By good ensample, was his bisinesse:

But it were any persone obstinat,

What-so he were, of heigh or lowe estat,

Him wolde he snibben sharply for the nones.

A bettre preest, I trowe that nowher noon is.

He wayted after no pompe and reverence,

Ne maked him a spyced conscience,

But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve,

He taughte, and first he folwed it him-selve.

The Miller was a stout carl, for the nones,

Ful big he was of braun, and eek of bones;

That proved wel, for over-al ther he cam,

At wrastling he wolde have alwey the ram.

He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke knarre,

Ther nas no dore that he nolde heve of harre,

Or breke it, at a renning, with his heed.

His berd as any sowe or fox was reed,

And ther-to brood, as though it were a spade.

Up-on the cop right of his nose he hade

A werte, and ther-on stood a tuft of heres,

Reed as the bristles of a sowes eres;

His nose-thirles blake were and wyde.

A swerd and bokeler bar he by his syde;

His mouth as greet was as a greet forneys.

He was a Ianglere and a goliardeys,

And that was most of sinne and harlotryes.

Wel coude he stelen corn, and tollen thryes;

And yet he hadde a thombe of gold, pardee.

A whyt cote and a blew hood wered he.

A baggepype wel coude he blowe and sowne,

And ther-with-al he broghte us out of towne.

A gentil Maunciple was ther of a temple,

Of which achatours mighte take exemple

For to be wyse in bying of vitaille.

For whether that he payde, or took by taille,

Algate he wayted so in his achat,

That he was ay biforn and in good stat.

Now is nat that of God a ful fair grace,

That swich a lewed mannes wit shal pace

The wisdom of an heep of lerned men?

Of maistres hadde he mo than thryes ten,

That were of lawe expert and curious;

Of which ther were a doseyn in that hous,

Worthy to been stiwardes of rente and lond

Of any lord that is in Engelond,

To make him live by his propre good,

In honour dettelees, but he were wood,

Or live as scarsly as him list desire;

And able for to helpen al a shire

In any cas that mighte falle or happe;

And yit this maunciple sette hir aller cappe.

The Reve was a sclendre colerik man,

His berd was shave as ny as ever he can.

His heer was by his eres round y-shorn.

His top was dokked lyk a preest biforn.

Ful longe were his legges, and ful lene,

Y-lyk a staf, ther was no calf y-sene.

Wel coude he kepe a gerner and a binne;

Ther was noon auditour coude on him winne.

Wel wiste he, by the droghte, and by the reyn,

The yelding of his seed, and of his greyn.

His lordes sheep, his neet, his dayerye,

His swyn, his hors, his stoor, and his pultrye,

Was hoolly in this reves governing,

And by his covenaunt yaf the rekening,

Sin that his lord was twenty yeer of age;

Ther coude no man bringe him in arrerage.

Ther nas baillif, ne herde, ne other hyne,

That he ne knew his sleighte and his covyne;

They were adrad of him, as of the deeth.

His woning was ful fair up-on an heeth,

With grene treës shadwed was his place.

He coude bettre than his lord purchace.

Ful riche he was astored prively,

His lord wel coude he plesen subtilly,

To yeve and lene him of his owne good,

And have a thank, and yet a cote and hood.

In youthe he lerned hadde a good mister;

He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter.

This reve sat up-on a ful good stot,

That was al pomely grey, and highte Scot.

A long surcote of pers up-on he hade,

And by his syde he bar a rusty blade.

Of Northfolk was this reve, of which I telle,

Bisyde a toun men clepen Baldeswelle.

Tukked he was, as is a frere, aboute,

And ever he rood the hindreste of our route.

A Somnour was ther with us in that place,

That hadde a fyr-reed cherubinnes face,

For sawcefleem he was, with eyen narwe.

As hoot he was, and lecherous, as a sparwe;

With scalled browes blake, and piled berd;

Of his visage children were aferd.

Ther nas quik-silver, litarge, ne brimstoon,

Boras, ceruce, ne oille of tartre noon,

Ne oynement that wolde dense and byte,

That him mighte helpen of his whelkes whyte,

Nor of the knobbes sittinge on his chekes.

Wel loved he garleek, oynons, and eek lekes,

And for to drinken strong wyn, reed as blood.

Thanne wolde he speke, and crye as he were wood.

And whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn,

Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn.

A fewe termes hadde he, two or three,

That he had lerned out of som decree;

No wonder is, he herde it al the day;

And eek ye knowen wel, how that a Iay

Can clepen ‘Watte,’ as well as can the pope.

But who-so coude in other thing him grope,

Thanne hadde he spent al his philosophye;

Ay ‘Questio quid iuris’ wolde he crye.

He was a gentil harlot and a kinde;

A bettre felawe sholde men noght finde.

He wolde suffre, for a quart of wyn,

A good felawe to have his concubyn

A twelf-month, and excuse him atte fulle:

Ful prively a finch eek coude he pulle.

And if he fond o-wher a good felawe,

He wolde techen him to have non awe,

In swich cas, of the erchedeknes curs,

But-if a mannes soule were in his purs;

For in his purs he sholde y-punisshed be.

‘Purs is the erchedeknes helle,’ seyde he.

But wel I woot he lyed right in dede;

Of cursing oghte ech gilty man him drede—

For curs wol slee, right as assoilling saveth—

And also war him of a significavit.

In daunger hadde he at his owne gyse

The yonge girles of the diocyse,

And knew hir counseil, and was al hir reed.

A gerland hadde he set up-on his heed,

As greet as it were for an ale-stake;

A bokeler hadde he maad him of a cake.

With him ther rood a gentil Pardoner

Of Rouncival, his freend and his compeer,

That streight was comen fro the court of Rome.

Ful loude he song, ‘Com hider, love, to me.’

This somnour bar to him a stif burdoun,

Was never trompe of half so greet a soun.

This pardoner hadde heer as yelow as wex,

But smothe it heng, as dooth a strike of flex;

By ounces henge his lokkes that he hadde,

And ther-with he his shuldres overspradde;

But thinne it lay, by colpons oon and oon;

But hood, for Iolitee, ne wered he noon,

For it was trussed up in his walet.

Him thoughte, he rood al of the newe Iet;

Dischevele, save his cappe, he rood al bare.

Swiche glaringe eyen hadde he as an hare.

A vernicle hadde he sowed on his cappe.

His walet lay biforn him in his lappe,

Bret-ful of pardoun come from Rome al hoot.

A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot.

No berd hadde he, ne never sholde have,

As smothe it was as it were late y-shave;

I trowe he were a gelding or a mare.

But of his craft, fro Berwik into Ware,

Ne was ther swich another pardoner.

For in his male he hadde a pilwe-beer,

Which that, he seyde, was our lady veyl:

He seyde, he hadde a gobet of the seyl

That sëynt Peter hadde, whan that he wente

Up-on the see, til Iesu Crist him hente.

He hadde a croys of latoun, ful of stones,

And in a glas he hadde pigges bones.

But with thise relikes, whan that he fond

A povre person dwelling up-on lond,

Up-on a day he gat him more moneye

Than that the person gat in monthes tweye.

And thus, with feyned flaterye and Iapes,

He made the person and the peple his apes.

But trewely to tellen, atte laste,

He was in chirche a noble ecclesiaste.

Wel coude he rede a lessoun or a storie,

But alderbest he song an offertorie;

For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe,

He moste preche, and wel affyle his tonge,

To winne silver, as he ful wel coude;

Therefore he song so meriely and loude.

Now have I told you shortly, in a clause,

Thestat, tharray, the nombre, and eek the cause

Why that assembled was this companye

In Southwerk, at this gentil hostelrye,

That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle.

But now is tyme to yow for to telle

How that we baren us that ilke night,

Whan we were in that hostelrye alight.

And after wol I telle of our viage,

And al the remenaunt of our pilgrimage.

But first I pray yow, of your curteisye,

That ye narette it nat my vileinye,

Thogh that I pleynly speke in this matere,

To telle yow hir wordes and hir chere;

Ne thogh I speke hir wordes properly.

For this ye knowen al-so wel as I,

Who-so shal telle a tale after a man,

He moot reherce, as ny as ever he can,

Everich a word, if it be in his charge,

Al speke he never so rudeliche and large;

Or elles he moot telle his tale untrewe,

Or feyne thing, or finde wordes newe.

He may nat spare, al-thogh he were his brother;

He moot as wel seye o word as another.

Crist spak him-self ful brode in holy writ,

And wel ye woot, no vileinye is it.

Eek Plato seith, who-so that can him rede,

The wordes mote be cosin to the dede.

Also I prey yow to foryeve it me,

Al have I nat set folk in hir degree

Here in this tale, as that they sholde stonde;

My wit is short, ye may wel understonde.

Greet chere made our hoste us everichon,

And to the soper sette he us anon;

And served us with vitaille at the beste.

Strong was the wyn, and wel to drinke us leste.

A semely man our hoste was with-alle

For to han been a marshal in an halle;

A large man he was with eyen stepe,

A fairer burgeys is ther noon in Chepe:

Bold of his speche, and wys, and wel y-taught,

And of manhod him lakkede right naught.

Eek therto he was right a mery man,

And after soper pleyen he bigan,

And spak of mirthe amonges othere thinges,

Whan that we hadde maad our rekeninges;

And seyde thus: ‘Now, lordinges, trewely,

Ye been to me right welcome hertely:

For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye,

I ne saugh this yeer so mery a companye

At ones in this herberwe as is now.

Fayn wolde I doon yow mirthe, wiste I how.

And of a mirthe I am right now bithoght,

To doon yow ese, and it shal coste noght.

‘Lordinges,’ quod he, ‘now herkneth for the beste;

But tak it not, I prey yow, in desdeyn;

This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn,

That ech of yow, to shorte with your weye,

In this viage, shal telle tales tweye,

To Caunterbury-ward, I mene it so,

And hom-ward he shal tellen othere two,

Of aventures that whylom han bifalle.

And which of yow that bereth him best of alle,

That is to seyn, that telleth in this cas

Tales of best sentence and most solas,

Shal have a soper at our aller cost

Here in this place, sitting by this post,

Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbury.

And for to make yow the more mery,

I wol my-selven gladly with yow ryde,

Right at myn owne cost, and be your gyde.

And who-so wol my Iugement withseye

Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye.

And if ye vouche-sauf that it be so,

Tel me anon, with-outen wordes mo,

And I wol erly shape me therfore.’

A-morwe, whan that day bigan to springe,

Up roos our host, and was our aller cok,

And gadrede us togidre, alle in a flok,

And forth we riden, a litel more than pas,

Un-to the watering of seint Thomas.

And there our host bigan his hors areste,

And seyde; ‘Lordinges, herkneth, if yow leste.

Ye woot your forward, and I it yow recorde.

If even-song and morwe-song acorde,

Lat se now who shal telle the firste tale.

As ever mote I drinke wyn or ale,

Who-so be rebel to my Iugement

Shal paye for al that by the weye is spent.

Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer twinne;

He which that hath the shortest shal biginne.

Sire knight,’ quod he, ‘my maister and my lord,

Now draweth cut, for that is myn acord.

Cometh neer,’ quod he, ‘my lady prioresse;

And ye, sir clerk, lat be your shamfastnesse,

Ne studieth noght; ley hond to, every man.’

And certes, if it nere to long to here,

I wolde han told yow fully the manere,

How wonnen was the regne of Femenye

By Theseus, and by his chivalrye;

And of the grete bataille for the nones

Bitwixen Athenës and Amazones;

And how asseged was Ipolita,

The faire hardy quene of Scithia;

And of the feste that was at hir weddinge,

And of the tempest at hir hoom-cominge;

But al that thing I moot as now forbere.

I have, God woot, a large feeld to ere,

And wayke been the oxen in my plough.

The remenant of the tale is long y-nough.

I wol nat letten eek noon of this route;

Lat every felawe telle his tale aboute,

And lat see now who shal the soper winne;

And ther I lefte, I wol ageyn biginne.

The eldest lady of hem alle spak,

When she hadde swowned with a deedly chere,

That it was routhe for to seen and here,

And seyde: ‘Lord, to whom Fortune hath yiven

Victorie, and as a conquerour to liven,

Noght greveth us your glorie and your honour;

But we biseken mercy and socour.

Have mercy on our wo and our distresse.

Som drope of pitee, thurgh thy gentillesse,

Up-on us wrecched wommen lat thou falle.

For certes, lord, ther nis noon of us alle,

That she nath been a duchesse or a quene;

Now be we caitifs, as it is wel sene:

Thanked be Fortune, and hir false wheel,

That noon estat assureth to be weel.

And certes, lord, to abyden your presence,

Here in the temple of the goddesse Clemence

We han ben waytinge al this fourtenight;

Now help us, lord, sith it is in thy might.

This gentil duk doun from his courser sterte

With herte pitous, whan he herde hem speke.

Him thoughte that his herte wolde breke,

Whan he saugh hem so pitous and so mat,

That whylom weren of so greet estat.

And in his armes he hem alle up hente,

And hem conforteth in ful good entente;

And swoor his ooth, as he was trewe knight,

He wolde doon so ferforthly his might

Up-on the tyraunt Creon hem to wreke,

That al the peple of Grece sholde speke

How Creon was of Theseus y-served,

As he that hadde his deeth ful wel deserved.

And right anoon, with-outen more abood,

His baner he desplayeth, and forth rood

To Thebes-ward, and al his host bisyde;

No neer Athenës wolde he go ne ryde,

Ne take his ese fully half a day,

But onward on his wey that night he lay;

And sente anoon Ipolita the quene,

And Emelye hir yonge suster shene,

Un-to the toun of Athenës to dwelle;

And forth he rit; ther nis namore to telle.

The rede statue of Mars, with spere and targe,

So shyneth in his whyte baner large,

That alle the feeldes gliteren up and doun;

And by his baner born is his penoun

Of gold ful riche, in which ther was y-bete

The Minotaur, which that he slough in Crete.

Thus rit this duk, thus rit this conquerour,

And in his host of chivalrye the flour,

Til that he cam to Thebes, and alighte

Faire in a feeld, ther as he thoghte fighte.

But shortly for to speken of this thing,

With Creon, which that was of Thebes king,

He faught, and slough him manly as a knight

In pleyn bataille, and putte the folk to flight;

And by assaut he wan the citee after,

And rente adoun bothe wal, and sparre, and rafter;

And to the ladyes he restored agayn

The bones of hir housbondes that were slayn,

To doon obsequies, as was tho the gyse.

But it were al to long for to devyse

The grete clamour and the waymentinge

That the ladyes made at the brenninge

Of the bodyes, and the grete honour

That Theseus, the noble conquerour,

Doth to the ladyes, whan they from him wente;

But shortly for to telle is myn entente.

Whan that this worthy duk, this Theseus,

Hath Creon slayn, and wonne Thebes thus,

Stille in that feeld he took al night his reste,

And dide with al the contree as him leste.

To ransake in the tas of bodyes dede,

Hem for to strepe of harneys and of wede,

The pilours diden bisinesse and cure,

After the bataille and disconfiture.

And so bifel, that in the tas they founde,

Thurgh-girt with many a grevous blody wounde,

Two yonge knightes ligging by and by,

Bothe in oon armes, wroght ful richely,

Of whiche two, Arcita hight that oon,

And that other knight hight Palamon.

Nat fully quike, ne fully dede they were,

But by hir cote-armures, and by hir gere,

The heraudes knewe hem best in special,

As they that weren of the blood royal

Of Thebes, and of sustren two y-born.

Out of the tas the pilours han hem torn,

And han hem caried softe un-to the tente

Of Theseus, and he ful sone hem sente

To Athenës, to dwellen in prisoun

Perpetuelly, he nolde no raunsoun.

And whan this worthy duk hath thus y-don,

He took his host, and hoom he rood anon

With laurer crowned as a conquerour;

And there he liveth, in Ioye and in honour,

Terme of his lyf; what nedeth wordes mo?

And in a tour, in angwish and in wo,

Dwellen this Palamoun and eek Arcite,

For evermore, ther may no gold hem quyte.

This passeth yeer by yeer, and day by day,

Til it fil ones, in a morwe of May,

That Emelye, that fairer was to sene

Than is the lilie upon his stalke grene,

And fressher than the May with floures newe—

For with the rose colour stroof hir hewe,

I noot which was the fairer of hem two—

Er it were day, as was hir wone to do,

She was arisen, and al redy dight;

For May wol have no slogardye a-night.

The sesoun priketh every gentil herte,

And maketh him out of his sleep to sterte,

And seith, ‘Arys, and do thyn observaunce.’

This maked Emelye have remembraunce

To doon honour to May, and for to ryse.

Y-clothed was she fresh, for to devyse;

Hir yelow heer was broyded in a tresse,

Bihinde hir bak, a yerde long, I gesse.

And in the gardin, at the sonne up-riste,

She walketh up and doun, and as hir liste

She gadereth floures, party whyte and rede,

To make a sotil gerland for hir hede,

And as an aungel hevenly she song.

The grete tour, that was so thikke and strong,

Which of the castel was the chief dongeoun,

(Ther-as the knightes weren in prisoun,

Of whiche I tolde yow, and tellen shal)

Was evene Ioynant to the gardin-wal,

Ther as this Emelye hadde hir pleyinge.

Bright was the sonne, and cleer that morweninge,

And Palamon, this woful prisoner,

As was his wone, by leve of his gayler,

Was risen, and romed in a chambre on heigh,

In which he al the noble citee seigh,

And eek the gardin, ful of braunches grene,

Ther-as this fresshe Emelye the shene

Was in hir walk, and romed up and doun.

This sorweful prisoner, this Palamoun,

Goth in the chambre, roming to and fro,

And to him-self compleyning of his wo;

That he was born, ful ofte he seyde, ‘alas!’

And so bifel, by aventure or cas,

That thurgh a window, thikke of many a barre

Of yren greet, and square as any sparre,

He caste his eye upon Emelya,

And ther-with-al he bleynte, and cryde ‘a!’

As though he stongen were un-to the herte.

And with that cry Arcite anon up-sterte,

And seyde, ‘Cosin myn, what eyleth thee,

That art so pale and deedly on to see?

Why crydestow? who hath thee doon offence?

For Goddes love, tak al in pacience

Our prisoun, for it may non other be;

Fortune hath yeven us this adversitee.

Som wikke aspect or disposicioun

Of Saturne, by sum constellacioun,

Hath yeven us this, al-though we hadde it sworn;

So stood the heven whan that we were born;

We moste endure it: this is the short and pleyn.’