Chaucer's Works, Volume 4 — The Canterbury Tales

Up sterte hir Alison, and Nicholay,

And cryden ‘out’ and ‘harrow’ in the strete.

The neighebores, bothe smale and grete,

In ronnen, for to gauren on this man,

That yet aswowne he lay, bothe pale and wan;

For with the fal he brosten hadde his arm;

But stonde he moste un-to his owne harm.

For whan he spak, he was anon bore doun

With hende Nicholas and Alisoun.

They tolden every man that he was wood,

He was agast so of ‘Nowelis flood’

Thurgh fantasye, that of his vanitee

He hadde y-boght him kneding-tubbes three,

And hadde hem hanged in the roof above;

And that he preyed hem, for goddes love,

To sitten in the roof, par companye.

The folk gan laughen at his fantasye;

In-to the roof they kyken and they gape,

And turned al his harm un-to a Iape.

For what so that this carpenter answerde,

It was for noght, no man his reson herde;

With othes grete he was so sworn adoun,

That he was holden wood in al the toun;

For every clerk anon-right heeld with other.

They seyde, ‘the man is wood, my leve brother;’

And every wight gan laughen of this stryf.

The prologe of the Reves tale.

Whan folk had laughen at this nyce cas

Of Absolon and hende Nicholas,

Diverse folk diversely they seyde;

But, for the more part, they loughe and pleyde,

Ne at this tale I saugh no man him greve,

But it were only Osewold the Reve,

By-cause he was of carpenteres craft.

A litel ire is in his herte y-laft,

He gan to grucche and blamed it a lyte.

‘So theek,’ quod he, ‘ful wel coude I yow quyte

With blering of a proud milleres yë,

If that me liste speke of ribaudye.

But ik am old, me list not pley for age;

Gras-tyme is doon, my fodder is now forage,

This whyte top wryteth myne olde yeres,

Myn herte is al-so mowled as myne heres,

But-if I fare as dooth an open-ers;

That ilke fruit is ever leng the wers,

Til it be roten in mullok or in stree.

We olde men, I drede, so fare we;

Til we be roten, can we nat be rype;

We hoppen ay, whyl that the world wol pype.

For in oure wil ther stiketh ever a nayl,

To have an hoor heed and a grene tayl,

As hath a leek; for thogh our might be goon,

Our wil desireth folie ever in oon.

For whan we may nat doon, than wol we speke;

Yet in our asshen olde is fyr y-reke.

Whan that our host hadde herd this sermoning,

He gan to speke as lordly as a king;

He seide, ‘what amounteth al this wit?

What shul we speke alday of holy writ?

The devel made a reve for to preche,

And of a souter a shipman or a leche.

Sey forth thy tale, and tarie nat the tyme,

Lo, Depeford! and it is half-way pryme.

Lo, Grenewich, ther many a shrewe is inne;

It were al tyme thy tale to biginne.’

‘Now, sires,’ quod this Osewold the Reve,

‘I pray yow alle that ye nat yow greve,

Thogh I answere and somdel sette his howve;

For leveful is with force force of-showve.

This dronke millere hath y-told us heer,

How that bigyled was a carpenteer,

Peraventure in scorn, for I am oon.

And, by your leve, I shal him quyte anoon;

Right in his cherles termes wol I speke.

I pray to god his nekke mote breke;

He can wel in myn yë seen a stalke,

But in his owne he can nat seen a balke.

A doghter hadde they bitwixe hem two

Of twenty yeer, with-outen any mo,

Savinge a child that was of half-yeer age;

In cradel it lay and was a propre page.

This wenche thikke and wel y-growen was,

With camuse nose and yën greye as glas;

With buttokes brode and brestes rounde and hye,

But right fair was hir heer, I wol nat lye.

Gret soken hath this miller, out of doute,

With whete and malt of al the land aboute;

And nameliche ther was a greet collegge,

Men clepen the Soler-halle at Cantebregge,

Ther was hir whete and eek hir malt y-grounde.

And on a day it happed, in a stounde,

Sik lay the maunciple on a maladye;

Men wenden wisly that he sholde dye.

For which this miller stal bothe mele and corn

An hundred tyme more than biforn;

For ther-biforn he stal but curteisly,

But now he was a theef outrageously,

For which the wardeyn chidde and made fare.

But ther-of sette the miller nat a tare;

He craketh boost, and swoor it was nat so.

This Aleyn maketh redy al his gere,

And on an hors the sak he caste anon.

Forth goth Aleyn the clerk, and also Iohn,

With good swerd and with bokeler by hir syde.

Iohn knew the wey, hem nedede no gyde,

And at the mille the sak adoun he layth.

Aleyn spak first, ‘al hayl, Symond, y-fayth;

How fares thy faire doghter and thy wyf?’

‘Aleyn! welcome,’ quod Simkin, ‘by my lyf,

And Iohn also, how now, what do ye heer?’

‘Symond,’ quod Iohn, ‘by god, nede has na peer;

Him boës serve him-selve that has na swayn,

Or elles he is a fool, as clerkes sayn.

Our manciple, I hope he wil be deed,

Swa werkes ay the wanges in his heed.

And forthy is I come, and eek Alayn,

To grinde our corn and carie it ham agayn;

I pray yow spede us hethen that ye may.’

‘It shal be doon,’ quod Simkin, ‘by my fay;

What wol ye doon whyl that it is in hande?’

‘By god, right by the hoper wil I stande,’

Quod Iohn, ‘and se how that the corn gas in;

Yet saugh I never, by my fader kin,

How that the hoper wagges til and fra.’

Aleyn answerde, ‘Iohn, and wiltow swa,

Than wil I be bynethe, by my croun,

And se how that the mele falles doun

In-to the trough; that sal be my disport.

For Iohn, in faith, I may been of your sort;

I is as ille a miller as are ye.’

Out at the dore he gooth ful prively,

Whan that he saugh his tyme, softely;

He loketh up and doun til he hath founde

The clerkes hors, ther as it stood y-bounde

Bihinde the mille, under a levesel;

And to the hors he gooth him faire and wel;

He strepeth of the brydel right anon.

And whan the hors was loos, he ginneth gon

Toward the fen, ther wilde mares renne,

Forth with wehee, thurgh thikke and thurgh thenne.

This miller gooth agayn, no word he seyde,

But dooth his note, and with the clerkes pleyde,

Til that hir corn was faire and wel y-grounde.

And whan the mele is sakked and y-bounde,

This Iohn goth out and fynt his hors away,

And gan to crye ‘harrow’ and ‘weylaway!

Our hors is lorn! Alayn, for goddes banes,

Step on thy feet, com out, man, al at anes!

Allas, our wardeyn has his palfrey lorn.’

This Aleyn al forgat, bothe mele and corn,

Al was out of his mynde his housbondrye.

‘What? whilk way is he geen?’ he gan to crye.

‘Allas,’ quod Iohn, ‘Aleyn, for Cristes peyne,

Lay doun thy swerd, and I wil myn alswa;

I is ful wight, god waat, as is a raa;

By goddes herte he sal nat scape us bathe.

Why nadstow pit the capul in the lathe?

Il-hayl, by god, Aleyn, thou is a fonne!’

This sely clerkes han ful faste y-ronne

To-ward the fen, bothe Aleyn and eek Iohn.

And whan the miller saugh that they were gon,

He half a busshel of hir flour hath take,

And bad his wyf go knede it in a cake.

He seyde, ‘I trowe the clerkes were aferd;

Yet can a miller make a clerkes berd

For al his art; now lat hem goon hir weye.

Lo wher they goon, ye, lat the children pleye;

They gete him nat so lightly, by my croun!’

Thise sely clerkes rennen up and doun

With ‘keep, keep, stand, stand, Iossa, warderere,

Ga whistle thou, and I shal kepe him here!’

But shortly, til that it was verray night,

They coude nat, though they do al hir might,

Hir capul cacche, he ran alwey so faste,

Til in a dich they caughte him atte laste.

Wery and weet, as beste is in the reyn,

Comth sely Iohn, and with him comth Aleyn.

‘Allas,’ quod Iohn, ‘the day that I was born!

Now are we drive til hething and til scorn.

Our corn is stole, men wil us foles calle,

Bathe the wardeyn and our felawes alle,

And namely the miller; weylaway!’

‘Now, Symond,’ seyde Iohn, ‘by seint Cutberd,

Ay is thou mery, and this is faire answerd.

I have herd seyd, man sal taa of twa thinges

Slyk as he fyndes, or taa slyk as he bringes.

But specially, I pray thee, hoste dere,

Get us som mete and drinke, and make us chere,

And we wil payen trewely atte fulle.

With empty hand men may na haukes tulle;

Lo here our silver, redy for to spende.’

This miller in-to toun his doghter sende

For ale and breed, and rosted hem a goos,

And bond hir hors, it sholde nat gon loos;

And in his owne chambre hem made a bed

With shetes and with chalons faire y-spred,

Noght from his owne bed ten foot or twelve.

His doghter hadde a bed, al by hir-selve,

Right in the same chambre, by and by;

It mighte be no bet, and cause why,

Ther was no roumer herberwe in the place.

They soupen and they speke, hem to solace,

And drinken ever strong ale atte beste.

Aboute midnight wente they to reste.

This Iohn answerde, ‘Alayn, avyse thee,

The miller is a perilous man,’ he seyde,

‘And gif that he out of his sleep abreyde,

He mighte doon us bathe a vileinye.’

Aleyn answerde, ‘I count him nat a flye;’

And up he rist, and by the wenche he crepte.

This wenche lay upright, and faste slepte,

Til he so ny was, er she mighte espye,

That it had been to late for to crye,

And shortly for to seyn, they were at on;

Now pley, Aleyn! for I wol speke of Iohn.

This Iohn lyth stille a furlong-wey or two,

And to him-self he maketh routhe and wo:

‘Allas!’ quod he, ‘this is a wikked Iape;

Now may I seyn that I is but an ape.

Yet has my felawe som-what for his harm;

He has the milleris doghter in his arm.

He auntred him, and has his nedes sped,

And I lye as a draf-sek in my bed;

And when this Iape is tald another day,

I sal been halde a daf, a cokenay!

I wil aryse, and auntre it, by my fayth!

“Unhardy is unsely,” thus men sayth.’

And up he roos and softely he wente

Un-to the cradel, and in his hand it hente,

And baar it softe un-to his beddes feet.

Aleyn wex wery in the daweninge,

For he had swonken al the longe night;

And seyde, ‘far wel, Malin, swete wight!

The day is come, I may no lenger byde;

But evermo, wher so I go or ryde,

I is thyn awen clerk, swa have I seel!’

‘Now dere lemman,’ quod she, ‘go, far weel!

But er thou go, o thing I wol thee telle,

Whan that thou wendest homward by the melle,

Right at the entree of the dore bihinde,

Thou shalt a cake of half a busshel finde

That was y-maked of thyn owne mele,

Which that I heelp my fader for to stele.

And, gode lemman, god thee save and kepe!’

And with that word almost she gan to wepe.

This Iohn sterte up as faste as ever he mighte,

And graspeth by the walles to and fro,

To finde a staf; and she sterte up also,

And knew the estres bet than dide this Iohn,

And by the wal a staf she fond, anon,

And saugh a litel shimering of a light,

For at an hole in shoon the mone bright;

And by that light she saugh hem bothe two,

But sikerly she niste who was who,

But as she saugh a whyt thing in hir yë.

And whan she gan the whyte thing espye,

She wende the clerk hadde wered a volupeer.

And with the staf she drough ay neer and neer,

And wende han hit this Aleyn at the fulle,

And smoot the miller on the pyled skulle,

That doun he gooth and cryde, ‘harrow! I dye!’

Thise clerkes bete him weel and lete him lye;

And greythen hem, and toke hir hors anon,

And eek hir mele, and on hir wey they gon.

And at the mille yet they toke hir cake

Of half a busshel flour, ful wel y-bake.

Thus is the proude miller wel y-bete,

And hath y-lost the grinding of the whete,

And payed for the soper every-deel

Of Aleyn and of Iohn, that bette him weel.

His wyf is swyved, and his doghter als;

Lo, swich it is a miller to be fals!

And therfore this proverbe is seyd ful sooth,

‘Him thar nat wene wel that yvel dooth;

A gylour shal him-self bigyled be.’

And God, that sitteth heighe in magestee,

Save al this companye grete and smale!

Thus have I quit the miller in my tale.

Here is ended the Reves tale.

The prologe of the Cokes Tale.

The Cook of London, whyl the Reve spak,

For Ioye, him thoughte, he clawed him on the bak,

‘Ha! ha!’ quod he, ‘for Cristes passioun,

This miller hadde a sharp conclusioun

Upon his argument of herbergage!

Wel seyde Salomon in his langage,

“Ne bringe nat every man in-to thyn hous;”

For herberwing by nighte is perilous.

Wel oghte a man avysed for to be

Whom that he broghte in-to his privetee.

I pray to god, so yeve me sorwe and care,

If ever, sith I highte Hogge of Ware,

Herde I a miller bettre y-set a-werk.

He hadde a Iape of malice in the derk.

But god forbede that we stinten here;

And therfore, if ye vouche-sauf to here

A tale of me, that am a povre man,

I wol yow telle as wel as ever I can

A litel Iape that fil in our citee.’

‘Thou seist ful sooth,’ quod Roger, ‘by my fey,

But “sooth pley, quaad pley,” as the Fleming seith;

And ther-fore, Herry Bailly, by thy feith,

Be thou nat wrooth, er we departen heer,

Though that my tale be of an hostileer.

But nathelees I wol nat telle it yit,

But er we parte, y-wis, thou shalt be quit.’

And ther-with-al he lough and made chere,

And seyde his tale, as ye shul after here.

Thus endeth the Prologe of the Cokes tale.