Chaucer's Works, Volume 4 — The Canterbury Tales

This Ioly prentis with his maister bood,

Til he were ny out of his prentishood,

Al were he snibbed bothe erly and late,

And somtyme lad with revel to Newgate;

But atte laste his maister him bithoghte,

Up-on a day, whan he his paper soghte,

Of a proverbe that seith this same word,

‘Wel bet is roten appel out of hord

Than that it rotie al the remenaunt.’

So fareth it by a riotous servaunt;

It is wel lasse harm to lete him pace,

Than he shende alle the servants in the place.

Therfore his maister yaf him acquitance,

And bad him go with sorwe and with meschance;

And thus this Ioly prentis hadde his leve.

Now lat him riote al the night or leve.

And for ther is no theef with-oute a louke,

That helpeth him to wasten and to souke

Of that he brybe can or borwe may,

Anon he sente his bed and his array

Un-to a compeer of his owne sort,

That lovede dys and revel and disport,

And hadde a wyf that heeld for countenance

A shoppe, and swyved for hir sustenance.

Of this Cokes tale maked Chaucer na more.

[For The Tale of Gamelin, see the Appendix.]

The wordes of the Hoost to the companye.

Our Hoste sey wel that the brighte sonne

The ark of his artificial day had ronne

The fourthe part, and half an houre, and more;

And though he were not depe expert in lore,

He wiste it was the eightetethe day

Of April, that is messager to May;

And sey wel that the shadwe of every tree

Was as in lengthe the same quantitee

That was the body erect that caused it.

And therfor by the shadwe he took his wit

That Phebus, which that shoon so clere and brighte,

Degrees was fyve and fourty clombe on highte;

And for that day, as in that latitude,

It was ten of the clokke, he gan conclude,

And sodeynly he plighte his hors aboute.

But certeinly no word ne wryteth he

Of thilke wikke ensample of Canacee,

That lovede hir owne brother sinfully;

Of swiche cursed stories I sey ‘fy’;

Or elles of Tyro Apollonius,

How that the cursed king Antiochus

Birafte his doghter of hir maydenhede,

That is so horrible a tale for to rede,

Whan he hir threw up-on the pavement.

And therfor he, of ful avysement,

Nolde never wryte in none of his sermouns

Of swiche unkinde abhominaciouns,

Ne I wol noon reherse, if that I may.

But of my tale how shal I doon this day?

Me were looth be lykned, doutelees,

To Muses that men clepe Pierides—

Metamorphoseos wot what I mene:—

But nathelees, I recche noght a bene

Though I come after him with hawe-bake;

I speke in prose, and lat him rymes make.’

And with that word he, with a sobre chere,

Bigan his tale, as ye shal after here.

The Prologe of the Mannes Tale of Lawe.

O hateful harm! condicion of poverte!

With thurst, with cold, with hunger so confounded!

To asken help thee shameth in thyn herte;

If thou noon aske, with nede artow so wounded,

That verray nede unwrappeth al thy wounde hid!

Maugree thyn heed, thou most for indigence

Or stele, or begge, or borwe thy despence!

Thou blamest Crist, and seyst ful bitterly,

He misdeparteth richesse temporal;

Thy neighebour thou wytest sinfully,

And seyst thou hast to lyte, and he hath al.

‘Parfay,’ seistow, ‘somtyme he rekne shal,

Whan that his tayl shal brennen in the glede,

For he noght helpeth needfulle in hir nede.’

Herkne what is the sentence of the wyse:—

‘Bet is to dyën than have indigence;’

Thy selve neighebour wol thee despyse;

If thou be povre, farwel thy reverence!

Yet of the wyse man tak this sentence:—

‘Alle the dayes of povre men ben wikke;’

Be war therfor, er thou come in that prikke!

If thou be povre, thy brother hateth thee,

And alle thy freendes fleen fro thee, alas!

O riche marchaunts, ful of wele ben ye,

O noble, o prudent folk, as in this cas!

Your bagges been nat filled with ambes as,

But with sis cink, than renneth for your chaunce;

At Cristemasse merie may ye daunce!

Ye seken lond and see for your winninges,

As wyse folk ye knowen al thestaat

Of regnes; ye ben fadres of tydinges

And tales, bothe of pees and of debat.

I were right now of tales desolat,

Nere that a marchaunt, goon is many a yere,

Me taughte a tale, which that ye shal here.

Here beginneth the Man of Lawe his Tale.

In Surrie whylom dwelte a companye

Of chapmen riche, and therto sadde and trewe,

That wyde-wher senten her spycerye,

Clothes of gold, and satins riche of hewe;

Her chaffar was so thrifty and so newe,

That every wight hath deyntee to chaffare

With hem, and eek to sellen hem hir ware.

Now fel it, that the maistres of that sort

Han shapen hem to Rome for to wende;

Were it for chapmanhode or for disport,

Nan other message wolde they thider sende,

But comen hem-self to Rome, this is the ende;

And in swich place, as thoughte hem avantage

For her entente, they take her herbergage.

Soiourned han thise marchants in that toun

A certein tyme, as fel to hir plesance.

And so bifel, that thexcellent renoun

Of themperoures doghter, dame Custance,

Reported was, with every circumstance,

Un-to thise Surrien marchants in swich wyse,

Fro day to day, as I shal yow devyse.

Than sawe they ther-in swich difficultee

By wey of resoun, for to speke al playn,

By-cause that ther was swich diversitee

Bitwene hir bothe lawes, that they sayn,

They trowe ‘that no cristen prince wolde fayn

Wedden his child under oure lawes swete

That us were taught by Mahoun our prophete.’

I trowe, at Troye, whan Pirrus brak the wal

Or Ylion brende, at Thebes the citee,

Nat Rome, for the harm thurgh Hanibal

That Romayns hath venquisshed tymes thre,

Nas herd swich tendre weping for pitee

As in the chambre was for hir departinge;

Bot forth she moot, wher-so she wepe or singe.

Imprudent emperour of Rome, allas!

Was ther no philosophre in al thy toun?

Is no tyme bet than other in swich cas?

Of viage is ther noon eleccioun,

Namely to folk of heigh condicioun,

Nat whan a rote is of a birthe y-knowe?

Allas! we ben to lewed or to slowe.

To shippe is brought this woful faire mayde

Solempnely, with every circumstance.

‘Now Iesu Crist be with yow alle,’ she sayde;

Ther nis namore but ‘farewel! faire Custance!’

She peyneth hir to make good countenance,

And forth I lete hir sayle in this manere,

And turne I wol agayn to my matere.

The moder of the sowdan, welle of vyces,

Espyëd hath hir sones pleyn entente,

How he wol lete his olde sacrifyces,

And right anon she for hir conseil sente;

And they ben come, to knowe what she mente.

And when assembled was this folk in-fere,

She sette hir doun, and sayde as ye shal here.

‘Lordes,’ quod she, ‘ye knowen everichon,

How that my sone in point is for to lete

The holy lawes of our Alkaron,

Yeven by goddes message Makomete.

But oon avow to grete god I hete,

The lyf shal rather out of my body sterte

Than Makometes lawe out of myn herte!

The sowdan comth him-self sone after this

So royally, that wonder is to telle,

And welcometh hir with alle Ioye and blis.

And thus in merthe and Ioye I lete hem dwelle.

The fruyt of this matere is that I telle.

Whan tyme cam, men thoughte it for the beste

That revel stinte, and men goon to hir reste.

The tyme cam, this olde sowdanesse

Ordeyned hath this feste of which I tolde,

And to the feste cristen folk hem dresse

In general, ye! bothe yonge and olde.

Here may men feste and royaltee biholde,

And deyntees mo than I can yow devyse,

But al to dere they boughte it er they ryse.

O sodeyn wo! that ever art successour

To worldly blisse, spreynd with bitternesse;

Thende of the Ioye of our worldly labour;

Wo occupieth the fyn of our gladnesse.

Herke this conseil for thy sikernesse,

Up-on thy glade day have in thy minde

The unwar wo or harm that comth bihinde.

For shortly for to tellen at o word,

The sowdan and the cristen everichone

Ben al to-hewe and stiked at the bord,

But it were only dame Custance allone.

This olde sowdanesse, cursed crone,

Hath with hir frendes doon this cursed dede,

For she hir-self wolde al the contree lede.

A certein tresor that she thider ladde,

And, sooth to sayn, vitaille gret plentee

They han hir yeven, and clothes eek she hadde,

And forth she sayleth in the salte see.

O my Custance, ful of benignitee,

O emperoures yonge doghter dere,

He that is lord of fortune be thy stere!

She blesseth hir, and with ful pitous voys

Un-to the croys of Crist thus seyde she,

‘O clere, o welful auter, holy croys,

Reed of the lambes blood full of pitee,

That wesh the world fro the olde iniquitee,

Me fro the feend, and fro his clawes kepe,

That day that I shal drenchen in the depe.

Victorious tree, proteccioun of trewe,

That only worthy were for to bere

The king of heven with his woundes newe,

The whyte lamb, that hurt was with the spere,

Flemer of feendes out of him and here

On which thy limes feithfully extenden,

Me keep, and yif me might my lyf tamenden.’

Yeres and dayes fleet this creature

Thurghout the see of Grece un-to the strayte

Of Marrok, as it was hir aventure;

On many a sory meel now may she bayte;

After her deeth ful often may she wayte,

Er that the wilde wawes wole hir dryve

Un-to the place, ther she shal arryve.

Men mighten asken why she was not slayn?

Eek at the feste who mighte hir body save?

And I answere to that demaunde agayn,

Who saved Daniel in the horrible cave,

Ther every wight save he, maister and knave,

Was with the leoun frete er he asterte?

No wight but god, that he bar in his herte.

God liste to shewe his wonderful miracle

In hir, for we sholde seen his mighty werkes;

Crist, which that is to every harm triacle,

By certein menes ofte, as knowen clerkes,

Doth thing for certein ende that ful derk is

To mannes wit, that for our ignorance

Ne conne not knowe his prudent purveyance.

Now, sith she was not at the feste y-slawe,

Who kepte hir fro the drenching in the see?

Who kepte Ionas in the fisshes mawe

Til he was spouted up at Ninivee?

Wel may men knowe it was no wight but he

That kepte peple Ebraik fro hir drenchinge,

With drye feet thurgh-out the see passinge.

Who bad the foure spirits of tempest,

That power han tanoyen land and see,

‘Bothe north and south, and also west and est,

Anoyeth neither see, ne land, ne tree?’

Sothly, the comaundour of that was he,

That fro the tempest ay this womman kepte

As wel whan [that] she wook as whan she slepte.

This constable and dame Hermengild his wyf

Were payens, and that contree every-where;

But Hermengild lovede hir right as hir lyf,

And Custance hath so longe soiourned there,

In orisons, with many a bitter tere,

Til Iesu hath converted thurgh his grace

Dame Hermengild, constablesse of that place.

In al that lond no cristen durste route,

Alle cristen folk ben fled fro that contree

Thurgh payens, that conquereden al aboute

The plages of the North, by land and see;

To Walis fled the cristianitee

Of olde Britons, dwellinge in this yle;

Ther was hir refut for the mene whyle.

But yet nere cristen Britons so exyled

That ther nere somme that in hir privetee

Honoured Crist, and hethen folk bigyled;

And ny the castel swiche ther dwelten three.

That oon of hem was blind, and mighte nat see

But it were with thilke yën of his minde,

With whiche men seen, after that they ben blinde.

Bright was the sonne as in that someres day,

For which the constable and his wyf also

And Custance han y-take the righte way

Toward the see, a furlong wey or two,

To pleyen and to romen to and fro;

And in hir walk this blinde man they mette

Croked and old, with yën faste y-shette.

‘In name of Crist,’ cryde this blinde Britoun,

‘Dame Hermengild, yif me my sighte agayn.’

This lady wex affrayed of the soun,

Lest that hir housbond, shortly for to sayn,

Wolde hir for Iesu Cristes love han slayn,

Til Custance made hir bold, and bad hir werche

The wil of Crist, as doghter of his chirche.

The constable wex abasshed of that sight,

And seyde, ‘what amounteth al this fare?’

Custance answerde, ‘sire, it is Cristes might,

That helpeth folk out of the feendes snare.’

And so ferforth she gan our lay declare,

That she the constable, er that it were eve,

Converted, and on Crist made him bileve.

This constable was no-thing lord of this place

Of which I speke, ther he Custance fond,

But kepte it strongly, many wintres space,

Under Alla, king of al Northumberlond,

That was ful wys, and worthy of his hond

Agayn the Scottes, as men may wel here,

But turne I wol agayn to my matere.

Sathan, that ever us waiteth to bigyle,

Saugh of Custance al hir perfeccioun,

And caste anon how he mighte quyte hir whyle,

And made a yong knight, that dwelte in that toun

Love hir so hote, of foul affeccioun,

That verraily him thoughte he shulde spille

But he of hir mighte ones have his wille.

He woweth hir, but it availleth noght,

She wolde do no sinne, by no weye;

And, for despyt, he compassed in his thoght

To maken hir on shamful deth to deye.

He wayteth whan the constable was aweye,

And prively, up-on a night, he crepte

In Hermengildes chambre whyl she slepte.

Wery, for-waked in her orisouns,

Slepeth Custance, and Hermengild also.

This knight, thurgh Sathanas temptaciouns,

Al softely is to the bed y-go,

And kitte the throte of Hermengild a-two,

And leyde the blody knyf by dame Custance,

And wente his wey, ther god yeve him meschance!