Chaucer's Works, Volume 4 — The Canterbury Tales

And for as muchel as this gode man

And eek this monk, of which that I bigan,

Were bothe two y-born in o village,

The monk him claimeth as for cosinage;

And he again, he seith nat ones nay,

But was as glad ther-of as fowel of day;

For to his herte it was a greet plesaunce.

Thus been they knit with eterne alliaunce,

And ech of hem gan other for tassure

Of bretherhede, whyl that hir lyf may dure.

Free was daun Iohn, and namely of dispence,

As in that hous; and ful of diligence

To doon plesaunce, and also greet costage.

He noght forgat to yeve the leeste page

In al that hous; but, after hir degree,

He yaf the lord, and sitthe al his meynee,

When that he cam, som maner honest thing;

For which they were as glad of his coming

As fowel is fayn, whan that the sonne up-ryseth.

Na more of this as now, for it suffyseth.

The thridde day, this marchant up aryseth,

And on his nedes sadly him avyseth,

And up in-to his countour-hous goth he

To rekene with him-self, as wel may be,

Of thilke yeer, how that it with him stood,

And how that he despended hadde his good;

And if that he encressed were or noon.

His bokes and his bagges many oon

He leith biforn him on his counting-bord;

Ful riche was his tresor and his hord,

For which ful faste his countour-dore he shette;

And eek he nolde that no man sholde him lette

Of his accountes, for the mene tyme;

And thus he sit til it was passed pryme.

This faire wyf gan for to shake hir heed,

And seyde thus, ‘ye, god wot al,’ quod she;

‘Nay, cosin myn, it stant nat so with me.

For, by that god that yaf me soule and lyf,

In al the reme of France is ther no wyf

That lasse lust hath to that sory pley.

For I may singe “allas” and “weylawey,

That I was born,” but to no wight,’ quod she,

‘Dar I nat telle how that it stant with me.

Wherfore I thinke out of this land to wende,

Or elles of my-self to make an ende,

So ful am I of drede and eek of care.’

This monk bigan up-on this wyf to stare,

And seyde, ‘allas, my nece, god forbede

That ye, for any sorwe or any drede,

Fordo your-self; but telleth me your grief;

Paraventure I may, in your meschief,

Conseille or helpe, and therfore telleth me

Al your anoy, for it shal been secree;

For on my porthors here I make an ooth,

That never in my lyf, for lief ne looth,

Ne shal I of no conseil yow biwreye.’

‘Cosin,’ quod she, ‘if that I hadde a space,

As I have noon, and namely in this place,

Than wolde I telle a legende of my lyf,

What I have suffred sith I was a wyf

With myn housbonde, al be he your cosyn.’

‘Nay,’ quod this monk, ‘by god and seint Martyn,

He is na more cosin un-to me

Than is this leef that hangeth on the tree!

I clepe him so, by Seint Denys of Fraunce,

To have the more cause of aqueintaunce

Of yow, which I have loved specially

Aboven alle wommen sikerly;

This swere I yow on my professioun.

Telleth your grief, lest that he come adoun,

And hasteth yow, and gooth your wey anon.’

This gentil monk answerde in this manere;

‘Now, trewely, myn owene lady dere,

I have,’ quod he, ‘on yow so greet a routhe,

That I yow swere and plighte yow my trouthe,

That whan your housbond is to Flaundres fare,

I wol delivere yow out of this care;

For I wol bringe yow an hundred frankes.’

And with that word he caughte hir by the flankes,

And hir embraceth harde, and kiste hir ofte.

‘Goth now your wey,’ quod he, ‘al stille and softe,

And lat us dyne as sone as that ye may;

For by my chilindre it is pryme of day.

Goth now, and beeth as trewe as I shal be.’

‘Wyf,’ quod this man, ‘litel canstow devyne

The curious bisinesse that we have.

For of us chapmen, al-so god me save,

And by that lord that cleped is Seint Yve,

Scarsly amonges twelve ten shul thryve,

Continuelly, lastinge un-to our age.

We may wel make chere and good visage,

And dryve forth the world as it may be,

And kepen our estaat in privetee,

Til we be deed, or elles that we pleye

A pilgrimage, or goon out of the weye.

And therfor have I greet necessitee

Up-on this queinte world tavyse me;

For evermore we mote stonde in drede

Of hap and fortune in our chapmanhede.

At-after diner daun Iohn sobrely

This chapman took a-part, and prively

He seyde him thus, ‘cosyn, it standeth so,

That wel I see to Brugges wol ye go.

God and seint Austin spede yow and gyde!

I prey yow, cosin, wysly that ye ryde;

Governeth yow also of your diete

Atemprely, and namely in this hete.

Bitwix us two nedeth no strange fare;

Fare-wel, cosyn; god shilde yow fro care.

If any thing ther be by day or night,

If it lye in my power and my might,

That ye me wol comande in any wyse,

It shal be doon, right as ye wol devyse.

O thing, er that ye goon, if it may be,

I wolde prey yow; for to lene me

An hundred frankes, for a wyke or tweye,

For certein beestes that I moste beye,

To store with a place that is oures.

God help me so, I wolde it were youres!

I shal nat faille surely of my day,

Nat for a thousand frankes, a myle-way.

But lat this thing be secree, I yow preye,

For yet to-night thise beestes moot I beye;

And fare-now wel, myn owene cosin dere,

Graunt mercy of your cost and of your chere.’

Thise hundred frankes he fette forth anon,

And prively he took hem to daun Iohn.

No wight in al this world wiste of this lone,

Savinge this marchant and daun Iohn allone.

They drinke, and speke, and rome a whyle and pleye,

Til that daun Iohn rydeth to his abbeye.

The morwe cam, and forth this marchant rydeth

To Flaundres-ward; his prentis wel him gydeth,

Til he cam in-to Brugges merily.

Now gooth this marchant faste and bisily

Aboute his nede, and byeth and creaunceth.

He neither pleyeth at the dees ne daunceth;

But as a marchant, shortly for to telle,

He let his lyf, and there I lete him dwelle.

This marchant, whan that ended was the faire,

To Seint Denys he gan for to repaire,

And with his wyf he maketh feste and chere,

And telleth hir that chaffare is so dere,

That nedes moste he make a chevisaunce.

For he was bounde in a reconissaunce

To paye twenty thousand sheeld anon.

For which this marchant is to Paris gon,

To borwe of certein frendes that he hadde

A certein frankes; and somme with him he ladde.

And whan that he was come in-to the toun,

For greet chertee and greet affeccioun,

Un-to daun Iohn he gooth him first, to pleye;

Nat for to axe or borwe of him moneye,

But for to wite and seen of his welfare,

And for to tellen him of his chaffare,

As freendes doon whan they ben met y-fere.

Daun Iohn him maketh feste and mery chere;

And he him tolde agayn ful specially,

How he hadde wel y-boght and graciously,

Thanked be god, al hool his marchandyse.

Save that he moste, in alle maner wyse,

Maken a chevisaunce, as for his beste,

And thanne he sholde been in Ioye and reste.

This Marchant, which that was ful war and wys,

Creaunced hath, and payd eek in Parys,

To certeyn Lumbardes, redy in hir hond,

The somme of gold, and gat of hem his bond;

And hoom he gooth, mery as a papeiay.

For wel he knew he stood in swich array,

That nedes moste he winne in that viage

A thousand frankes above al his costage.

This wyf was nat afered nor affrayed,

But boldely she seyde, and that anon:

‘Marie, I defye the false monk, daun Iohn!

I kepe nat of hise tokenes never a deel;

He took me certein gold, that woot I weel!

What! yvel thedom on his monkes snoute!

For, god it woot, I wende, withouten doute,

That he had yeve it me bycause of yow,

To doon ther-with myn honour and my prow,

For cosinage, and eek for bele chere

That he hath had ful ofte tymes here.

But sith I see I stonde in this disioint,

I wol answere yow shortly, to the point.

Ye han mo slakker dettours than am I!

For I wol paye yow wel and redily

Fro day to day; and, if so be I faille,

I am your wyf; score it up-on my taille,

And I shal paye, as sone as ever I may.

For, by my trouthe, I have on myn array,

And nat on wast, bistowed every deel.

And for I have bistowed it so weel

For your honour, for goddes sake, I seye,

As be nat wrooth, but lat us laughe and pleye.

Ye shal my Ioly body have to wedde;

By god, I wol nat paye yow but a-bedde.

Forgive it me, myn owene spouse dere;

Turne hiderward and maketh bettre chere.’

Bihold the mery wordes of the Host to the Shipman and to the lady Prioresse.

‘Wel seyd, by corpus dominus,’ quod our hoste,

‘Now longe moot thou sayle by the coste,

Sir gentil maister, gentil marineer!

God yeve this monk a thousand last quad yeer!

A ha! felawes! beth ware of swiche a Iape!

The monk putte in the mannes hood an ape,

And in his wyves eek, by seint Austin!

Draweth no monkes more un-to your in.

But now passe over, and lat us seke aboute,

Who shal now telle first, of al this route,

Another tale;’ and with that word he sayde,

As curteisly as it had been a mayde,

‘My lady Prioresse, by your leve,

So that I wiste I sholde yow nat greve,

I wolde demen that ye tellen sholde

A tale next, if so were that ye wolde.

Now wol ye vouche-sauf, my lady dere?’

‘Gladly,’ quod she, and seyde as ye shal here.

Explicit.

The Prologe of the Prioresses Tale.

Domine, dominus noster.

O Lord our lord, thy name how merveillous

Is in this large worlde y-sprad—quod she:—

For noght only thy laude precious

Parfourned is by men of dignitee,

But by the mouth of children thy bountee

Parfourned is, for on the brest soukinge

Som tyme shewen they thyn heryinge.

Wherfor in laude, as I best can or may,

Of thee, and of the whyte lily flour

Which that thee bar, and is a mayde alway,

To telle a storie I wol do my labour;

Not that I may encresen hir honour;

For she hir-self is honour, and the rote

Of bountee, next hir sone, and soules bote.—

O moder mayde! o mayde moder free!

O bush unbrent, brenninge in Moyses sighte,

That ravisedest doun fro the deitee,

Thurgh thyn humblesse, the goost that in thalighte,

Of whos vertu, whan he thyn herte lighte,

Conceived was the fadres sapience,

Help me to telle it in thy reverence!

Lady! thy bountee, thy magnificence,

Thy vertu, and thy grete humilitee

Ther may no tonge expresse in no science;

For som-tyme, lady, er men praye to thee,

Thou goost biforn of thy benignitee,

And getest us the light, thurgh thy preyere,

To gyden us un-to thy sone so dere.

My conning is so wayk, o blisful quene,

For to declare thy grete worthinesse,

That I ne may the weighte nat sustene,

But as a child of twelf monthe old, or lesse,

That can unnethes any word expresse,

Right so fare I, and therfor I yow preye,

Gydeth my song that I shal of yow seye.

Explicit.

Here biginneth the Prioresses Tale.

Ther was in Asie, in a greet citee,

Amonges cristen folk, a Iewerye,

Sustened by a lord of that contree

For foule usure and lucre of vilanye,

Hateful to Crist and to his companye;

And thurgh the strete men mighte ryde or wende,

For it was free, and open at either ende.

Thus hath this widwe hir litel sone y-taught

Our blisful lady, Cristes moder dere,

To worshipe ay, and he forgat it naught,

For sely child wol alday sone lere;

But ay, whan I remembre on this matere,

Seint Nicholas stant ever in my presence,

For he so yong to Crist did reverence.

This litel child, his litel book lerninge,

As he sat in the scole at his prymer,

He Alma redemptoris herde singe,

As children lerned hir antiphoner;

And, as he dorste, he drough him ner and ner,

And herkned ay the wordes and the note,

Til he the firste vers coude al by rote.

Noght wiste he what this Latin was to seye,

For he so yong and tendre was of age;

But on a day his felaw gan he preye

Texpounden him this song in his langage,

Or telle him why this song was in usage;

This preyde he him to construe and declare

Ful ofte tyme upon his knowes bare.

His felaw, which that elder was than he,

Answerde him thus: ‘this song, I have herd seye,

Was maked of our blisful lady free,

Hir to salue, and eek hir for to preye

To been our help and socour whan we deye.

I can no more expounde in this matere;

I lerne song, I can but smal grammere.’

‘And is this song maked in reverence

Of Cristes moder?’ seyde this innocent;

‘Now certes, I wol do my diligence

To conne it al, er Cristemasse is went;

Though that I for my prymer shal be shent,

And shal be beten thryës in an houre,

I wol it conne, our lady for to honoure.’

His felaw taughte him homward prively,

Fro day to day, til he coude it by rote,

And than he song it wel and boldely

Fro word to word, acording with the note;

Twyës a day it passed thurgh his throte,

To scoleward and homward whan he wente;

On Cristes moder set was his entente.

As I have seyd, thurgh-out the Iewerye

This litel child, as he cam to and fro,

Ful merily than wolde he singe, and crye

O Alma redemptoris ever-mo.

The swetnes hath his herte perced so

Of Cristes moder, that, to hir to preye,

He can nat stinte of singing by the weye.

Our firste fo, the serpent Sathanas,

That hath in Iewes herte his waspes nest,

Up swal, and seide, ‘o Hebraik peple, allas!

Is this to yow a thing that is honest,

That swich a boy shal walken as him lest

In your despyt, and singe of swich sentence,

Which is agayn your lawes reverence?’

‘O martir, souded to virginitee,

Now maystou singen, folwing ever in oon

The whyte lamb celestial,’ quod she,

‘Of which the grete evangelist, seint Iohn,

In Pathmos wroot, which seith that they that goon

Biforn this lamb, and singe a song al newe,

That never, fleshly, wommen they ne knewe.’

This povre widwe awaiteth al that night

After hir litel child, but he cam noght;

For which, as sone as it was dayes light,

With face pale of drede and bisy thoght,

She hath at scole and elles-wher him soght,

Til finally she gan so fer espye

That he last seyn was in the Iewerye.

With modres pitee in hir brest enclosed,

She gooth, as she were half out of hir minde,

To every place wher she hath supposed

By lyklihede hir litel child to finde;

And ever on Cristes moder meke and kinde

She cryde, and atte laste thus she wroghte,

Among the cursed Iewes she him soghte.

She frayneth and she preyeth pitously

To every Iew that dwelte in thilke place,

To telle hir, if hir child wente oght for-by.

They seyde, ‘nay’; but Iesu, of his grace,

Yaf in hir thought, inwith a litel space,

That in that place after hir sone she cryde,

Wher he was casten in a pit bisyde.

O grete god, that parfournest thy laude

By mouth of innocents, lo heer thy might!

This gemme of chastitee, this emeraude,

And eek of martirdom the ruby bright,

Ther he with throte y-corven lay upright,

He ‘Alma redemptoris’ gan to singe

So loude, that al the place gan to ringe.

The Cristen folk, that thurgh the strete wente,

In coomen, for to wondre up-on this thing,

And hastily they for the provost sente;

He cam anon with-outen tarying,

And herieth Crist that is of heven king,

And eek his moder, honour of mankinde,

And after that, the Iewes leet he binde,