Chaucer's Works, Volume 4 — The Canterbury Tales

Thyn Ypocras, and eek thy Galianes,

And every boist ful of thy letuarie;

God blesse hem, and our lady seinte Marie!

So mot I theen, thou art a propre man,

And lyk a prelat, by seint Ronyan!

Seyde I nat wel? I can nat speke in terme;

But wel I woot, thou doost my herte to erme,

That I almost have caught a cardiacle.

By corpus bones! but I have triacle,

Or elles a draught of moyste and corny ale,

Or but I here anon a mery tale,

Myn herte is lost for pitee of this mayde.

Thou bel amy, thou Pardoner,’ he seyde,

‘Tel us som mirthe or Iapes right anon.’

‘It shall be doon,’ quod he, ‘by seint Ronyon!

But first,’ quod he, ‘heer at this ale-stake

I wol both drinke, and eten of a cake.’

First I pronounce whennes that I come,

And than my bulles shewe I, alle and somme.

Our lige lordes seel on my patente,

That shewe I first, my body to warente,

That no man be so bold, ne preest ne clerk,

Me to destourbe of Cristes holy werk;

And after that than telle I forth my tales,

Bulles of popes and of cardinales,

Of patriarkes, and bishoppes I shewe;

And in Latyn I speke a wordes fewe,

To saffron with my predicacioun,

And for to stire men to devocioun.

Than shewe I forth my longe cristal stones,

Y-crammed ful of cloutes and of bones;

Reliks been they, as wenen they echoon.

Than have I in latoun a sholder-boon

Which that was of an holy Iewes shepe.

“Good men,” seye I, “tak of my wordes kepe;

If that this boon be wasshe in any welle,

If cow, or calf, or sheep, or oxe swelle

That any worm hath ete, or worm y-stonge,

Tak water of that welle, and wash his tonge,

And it is hool anon; and forthermore,

Of pokkes and of scabbe, and every sore

Shal every sheep be hool, that of this welle

Drinketh a draughte; tak kepe eek what I telle.

If that the good-man, that the bestes oweth,

Wol every wike, er that the cok him croweth,

Fastinge, drinken of this welle a draughte,

As thilke holy Iewe our eldres taughte,

His bestes and his stoor shal multiplye.

And, sirs, also it heleth Ialousye;

For, though a man be falle in Ialous rage,

Let maken with this water his potage,

And never shal he more his wyf mistriste,

Though he the sooth of hir defaute wiste;

Al had she taken preestes two or three.

By this gaude have I wonne, yeer by yeer,

An hundred mark sith I was Pardoner.

I stonde lyk a clerk in my pulpet,

And whan the lewed peple is doun y-set,

I preche, so as ye han herd bifore,

And telle an hundred false Iapes more.

Than peyne I me to strecche forth the nekke,

And est and west upon the peple I bekke,

As doth a dowve sitting on a berne.

Myn hondes and my tonge goon so yerne,

That it is Ioye to see my bisinesse.

Of avaryce and of swich cursednesse

Is al my preching, for to make hem free

To yeve her pens, and namely un-to me.

For my entente is nat but for to winne,

And no-thing for correccioun of sinne.

I rekke never, whan that they ben beried,

Though that her soules goon a-blakeberied!

For certes, many a predicacioun

Comth ofte tyme of yvel entencioun;

Som for plesaunce of folk and flaterye,

To been avaunced by ipocrisye,

And som for veyne glorie, and som for hate.

For, whan I dar non other weyes debate,

Than wol I stinge him with my tonge smerte

In preching, so that he shal nat asterte

To been defamed falsly, if that he

Hath trespased to my brethren or to me.

For, though I telle noght his propre name,

Men shal wel knowe that it is the same

By signes and by othere circumstances.

Thus quyte I folk that doon us displesances;

Thus spitte I out my venim under hewe

Of holynesse, to seme holy and trewe.

But shortly myn entente I wol devyse;

I preche of no-thing but for coveityse.

Therfor my theme is yet, and ever was—

“Radix malorum est cupiditas.”

Thus can I preche agayn that same vyce

Which that I use, and that is avaryce.

But, though my-self be gilty in that sinne,

Yet can I maken other folk to twinne

From avaryce, and sore to repente.

But that is nat my principal entente.

I preche no-thing but for coveityse;

Of this matere it oughte y-nogh suffyse.

Herodes, (who-so wel the stories soghte),

Whan he of wyn was replet at his feste,

Right at his owene table he yaf his heste

To sleen the Baptist Iohn ful giltelees.

Adam our fader, and his wyf also,

Fro Paradys to labour and to wo

Were driven for that vyce, it is no drede;

For whyl that Adam fasted, as I rede,

He was in Paradys; and whan that he

Eet of the fruyt defended on the tree,

Anon he was out-cast to wo and peyne.

O glotonye, on thee wel oghte us pleyne!

O, wiste a man how many maladyes

Folwen of excesse and of glotonyes,

He wolde been the more mesurable

Of his diete, sittinge at his table.

Allas! the shorte throte, the tendre mouth,

Maketh that, Est and West, and North and South,

In erthe, in eir, in water men to-swinke

To gete a glotoun deyntee mete and drinke!

Of this matere, o Paul, wel canstow trete,

‘Mete un-to wombe, and wombe eek un-to mete,

Shal god destroyen bothe,’ as Paulus seith.

Allas! a foul thing is it, by my feith,

To seye this word, and fouler is the dede,

Whan man so drinketh of the whyte and rede,

That of his throte he maketh his privee,

Thurgh thilke cursed superfluitee.

A lecherous thing is wyn, and dronkenesse

Is ful of stryving and of wrecchednesse.

O dronke man, disfigured is thy face,

Sour is thy breeth, foul artow to embrace,

And thurgh thy dronke nose semeth the soun

As though thou seydest ay ‘Sampsoun, Sampsoun’;

And yet, god wot, Sampsoun drank never no wyn.

Thou fallest, as it were a stiked swyn;

Thy tonge is lost, and al thyn honest cure;

For dronkenesse is verray sepulture

Of mannes wit and his discrecioun.

In whom that drinke hath dominacioun,

He can no conseil kepe, it is no drede.

Now kepe yow fro the whyte and fro the rede,

And namely fro the whyte wyn of Lepe,

That is to selle in Fish-strete or in Chepe.

This wyn of Spayne crepeth subtilly

In othere wynes, growing faste by,

Of which ther ryseth swich fumositee,

That whan a man hath dronken draughtes three,

And weneth that he be at hoom in Chepe,

He is in Spayne, right at the toune of Lepe,

Nat at the Rochel, ne at Burdeux toun;

And thanne wol he seye, ‘Sampsoun, Sampsoun.’

And now that I have spoke of glotonye,

Now wol I yow defenden hasardrye.

Hasard is verray moder of lesinges,

And of deceite, and cursed forsweringes,

Blaspheme of Crist, manslaughtre, and wast also

Of catel and of tyme; and forthermo,

It is repreve and contrarie of honour

For to ben holde a commune hasardour.

And ever the hyër he is of estaat,

The more is he holden desolaat.

If that a prince useth hasardrye,

In alle governaunce and policye

He is, as by commune opinoun,

Y-holde the lasse in reputacioun.

Now wol I speke of othes false and grete

A word or two, as olde bokes trete.

Gret swering is a thing abhominable,

And false swering is yet more reprevable.

The heighe god forbad swering at al,

Witnesse on Mathew; but in special

Of swering seith the holy Ieremye,

‘Thou shalt seye sooth thyn othes, and nat lye,

And swere in dome, and eek in rightwisnesse;’

But ydel swering is a cursednesse.

Bihold and see, that in the firste table

Of heighe goddes hestes honurable,

How that the seconde heste of him is this—

‘Tak nat my name in ydel or amis.’

Lo, rather he forbedeth swich swering

Than homicyde or many a cursed thing;

I seye that, as by ordre, thus it stondeth;

This knowen, that his hestes understondeth,

How that the second heste of god is that.

And forther over, I wol thee telle al plat,

That vengeance shal nat parten from his hous,

That of his othes is to outrageous.

‘By goddes precious herte, and by his nayles,

And by the blode of Crist, that it is in Hayles,

Seven is my chaunce, and thyn is cink and treye;

By goddes armes, if thou falsly pleye,

This dagger shal thurgh-out thyn herte go’—

This fruyt cometh of the bicched bones two,

Forswering, ire, falsnesse, homicyde.

Now, for the love of Crist that for us dyde,

Leveth your othes, bothe grete and smale;

But, sirs, now wol I telle forth my tale.

‘Sir,’ quod this boy, ‘it nedeth never-a-del.

It was me told, er ye cam heer, two houres;

He was, pardee, an old felawe of youres;

And sodeynly he was y-slayn to-night,

For-dronke, as he sat on his bench upright;

Ther cam a privee theef, men clepeth Deeth,

That in this contree al the peple sleeth,

And with his spere he smoot his herte a-two,

And wente his wey with-outen wordes mo.

He hath a thousand slayn this pestilence:

And, maister, er ye come in his presence,

Me thinketh that it were necessarie

For to be war of swich an adversarie:

Beth redy for to mete him evermore.

Thus taughte me my dame, I sey na-more.’

‘By seinte Marie,’ seyde this taverner,

‘The child seith sooth, for he hath slayn this yeer,

Henne over a myle, with-in a greet village,

Both man and womman, child and hyne, and page.

I trowe his habitacioun be there;

To been avysed greet wisdom it were,

Er that he dide a man a dishonour.’

‘Ye, goddes armes,’ quod this ryotour,

‘Is it swich peril with him for to mete?

I shal him seke by wey and eek by strete,

I make avow to goddes digne bones!

Herkneth, felawes, we three been al ones;

Lat ech of us holde up his hond til other,

And ech of us bicomen otheres brother,

And we wol sleen this false traytour Deeth;

He shal be slayn, which that so many sleeth,

By goddes dignitee, er it be night.’

Togidres han thise three her trouthes plight,

To live and dyen ech of hem for other,

As though he were his owene y-boren brother.

And up they sterte al dronken, in this rage,

And forth they goon towardes that village,

Of which the taverner had spoke biforn,

And many a grisly ooth than han they sworn,

And Cristes blessed body they to-rente—

‘Deeth shal be deed, if that they may him hente.’

But, sirs, to yow it is no curteisye

To speken to an old man vileinye,

But he trespasse in worde, or elles in dede.

In holy writ ye may your-self wel rede,

“Agayns an old man, hoor upon his heed,

Ye sholde aryse;” wherfor I yeve yow reed,

Ne dooth un-to an old man noon harm now,

Na-more than ye wolde men dide to yow

In age, if that ye so longe abyde;

And god be with yow, wher ye go or ryde.

I moot go thider as I have to go.’

‘Brethren,’ quod he, ‘tak kepe what I seye;

My wit is greet, though that I bourde and pleye.

This tresor hath fortune un-to us yiven,

In mirthe and Iolitee our lyf to liven,

And lightly as it comth, so wol we spende.

Ey! goddes precious dignitee! who wende

To-day, that we sholde han so fair a grace?

But mighte this gold be caried fro this place

Hoom to myn hous, or elles un-to youres—

For wel ye woot that al this gold is oures—

Than were we in heigh felicitee.

But trewely, by daye it may nat be;

Men wolde seyn that we were theves stronge,

And for our owene tresor doon us honge.

This tresor moste y-caried be by nighte

As wysly and as slyly as it mighte.

Wherfore I rede that cut among us alle

Be drawe, and lat se wher the cut wol falle;

And he that hath the cut with herte blythe

Shal renne to the toune, and that ful swythe,

And bringe us breed and wyn ful prively.

And two of us shul kepen subtilly

This tresor wel; and, if he wol nat tarie,

Whan it is night, we wol this tresor carie

By oon assent, wher-as us thinketh best.’

That oon of hem the cut broughte in his fest,

And bad hem drawe, and loke wher it wol falle;

And it fil on the yongeste of hem alle;

And forth toward the toun he wente anon.

And al-so sone as that he was gon,

That oon of hem spak thus un-to that other,

‘Thou knowest wel thou art my sworne brother,

Thy profit wol I telle thee anon.

Thou woost wel that our felawe is agon;

And heer is gold, and that ful greet plentee,

That shal departed been among us three.

But natheles, if I can shape it so

That it departed were among us two,

Hadde I nat doon a freendes torn to thee?’

‘Shal it be conseil?’ seyde the firste shrewe,

‘And I shal tellen thee, in wordes fewe,

What we shal doon, and bringe it wel aboute.’

This yongest, which that wente un-to the toun,

Ful ofte in herte he rolleth up and doun

The beautee of thise florins newe and brighte.

‘O lord!’ quod he, ‘if so were that I mighte

Have al this tresor to my-self allone,

Ther is no man that liveth under the trone

Of god, that sholde live so mery as I!’

And atte laste the feend, our enemy,

Putte in his thought that he shold poyson beye,

With which he mighte sleen his felawes tweye;

For-why the feend fond him in swich lyvinge,

That he had leve him to sorwe bringe,

For this was outrely his fulle entente

To sleen hem bothe, and never to repente.

And forth he gooth, no lenger wolde he tarie,

Into the toun, un-to a pothecarie,

And preyed him, that he him wolde selle

Som poyson, that he mighte his rattes quelle;

And eek ther was a polcat in his hawe,

That, as he seyde, his capouns hadde y-slawe,

And fayn he wolde wreke him, if he mighte,

On vermin, that destroyed him by nighte.

But, certes, I suppose that Avicen

Wroot never in no canon, ne in no fen,

Mo wonder signes of empoisoning

Than hadde thise wrecches two, er hir ending.

Thus ended been thise homicydes two,

And eek the false empoysoner also.

But sirs, o word forgat I in my tale,

I have relikes and pardon in my male,

As faire as any man in Engelond,

Whiche were me yeven by the popes hond.

If any of yow wol, of devocioun,

Offren, and han myn absolucioun,

Cometh forth anon, and kneleth heer adoun,

And mekely receyveth my pardoun:

Or elles, taketh pardon as ye wende,

Al newe and fresh, at every tounes ende,

So that ye offren alwey newe and newe

Nobles and pens, which that be gode and trewe.

It is an honour to everich that is heer,

That ye mowe have a suffisant pardoneer

Tassoille yow, in contree as ye ryde,

For aventures which that may bityde.

Peraventure ther may falle oon or two

Doun of his hors, and breke his nekke atwo.

Look which a seuretee is it to yow alle

That I am in your felaweship y-falle,

That may assoille yow, bothe more and lasse,

Whan that the soule shal fro the body passe,

I rede that our hoste heer shal biginne,

For he is most envoluped in sinne.

Com forth, sir hoste, and offre first anon,

And thou shalt kisse the reliks everichon,

Ye, for a grote! unbokel anon thy purs.’