Chaucer's Works, Volume 4 — The Canterbury Tales

The Prologe of the Freres tale.

This worthy limitour, this noble Frere,

He made alwey a maner louring chere

Upon the Somnour, but for honestee

No vileyns word as yet to him spak he.

But atte laste he seyde un-to the Wyf,

‘Dame,’ quod he, ‘god yeve yow right good lyf!

Ye han heer touched, al-so moot I thee,

In scole-matere greet difficultee;

Ye han seyd muchel thing right wel, I seye;

But dame, here as we ryden by the weye,

Us nedeth nat to speken but of game,

And lete auctoritees, on goddes name,

To preching and to scole eek of clergye.

But if it lyke to this companye,

I wol yow of a somnour telle a game.

Pardee, ye may wel knowe by the name,

That of a somnour may no good be sayd;

I praye that noon of you be yvel apayd.

A somnour is a renner up and doun

With mandements for fornicacioun,

And is y-bet at every tounes ende.’

‘Nay,’ quod the Somnour, ‘lat him seye to me

What so him list; whan it comth to my lot,

By god, I shal him quyten every grot.

I shal him tellen which a greet honour

It is to be a flateringe limitour;

And his offyce I shal him telle, y-wis.’

Our host answerde, ‘pees, na-more of this.’

And after this he seyde un-to the Frere,

‘Tel forth your tale, leve maister deere.’

Here endeth the Prologe of the Frere.

‘Peter! so been the wommen of the styves,’

Quod the Somnour, ‘y-put out of my cure!’

And so bifel, that ones on a day

This Somnour, ever waiting on his pray,

Rood for to somne a widwe, an old ribybe,

Feynynge a cause, for he wolde brybe.

And happed that he saugh bifore him ryde

A gay yeman, under a forest-syde.

A bowe he bar, and arwes brighte and kene;

He hadde up-on a courtepy of grene;

An hat up-on his heed with frenges blake.

‘Sir,’ quod this Somnour, ‘hayl! and wel a-take!’

‘Wel-come,’ quod he, ‘and every good felawe!

Wher rydestow under this grene shawe?’

Seyde this yeman, ‘wiltow fer to day?’

‘Artow thanne a bailly?’ ‘Ye!’ quod he.

He dorste nat, for verray filthe and shame,

Seye that he was a somnour, for the name.

‘Depardieux,’ quod this yeman, ‘dere brother,

Thou art a bailly, and I am another.

I am unknowen as in this contree;

Of thyn aqueyntance I wolde praye thee,

And eek of brotherhede, if that yow leste.

I have gold and silver in my cheste;

If that thee happe to comen in our shyre,

Al shal be thyn, right as thou wolt desyre.’

‘Grantmercy,’ quod this Somnour, ‘by my feith!’

Everich in otheres hand his trouthe leith,

For to be sworne bretheren til they deye.

In daliance they ryden forth hir weye.

This Somnour, which that was as ful of Iangles,

As ful of venim been thise wariangles,

And ever enquering up-on every thing,

‘Brother,’ quod he, ‘where is now your dwelling,

Another day if that I sholde yow seche?’

This yeman him answerde in softe speche,

‘Brother,’ quod he, ‘fer in the north contree,

Wher, as I hope, som-tyme I shal thee see.

Er we departe, I shal thee so wel wisse,

That of myn hous ne shaltow never misse.’

‘Now, brother,’ quod this Somnour, ‘I yow preye,

Teche me, whyl that we ryden by the weye,

Sin that ye been a baillif as am I,

Som subtiltee, and tel me feithfully

In myn offyce how I may most winne;

And spareth nat for conscience ne sinne,

But as my brother tel me, how do ye?’

‘Now, certes,’ quod this Somnour, ‘so fare I;

I spare nat to taken, god it woot,

But if it be to hevy or to hoot.

What I may gete in conseil prively,

No maner conscience of that have I;

Nere myn extorcioun, I mighte nat liven,

Ne of swiche Iapes wol I nat be shriven.

Stomak ne conscience ne knowe I noon;

I shrewe thise shrifte-fadres everichoon.

Wel be we met, by god and by seint Iame!

But, leve brother, tel me than thy name,’

Quod this Somnour; and in this mene-whyle,

This yeman gan a litel for to smyle.

‘Brother,’ quod he, ‘wiltow that I thee telle?

I am a feend, my dwelling is in helle.

And here I ryde about my purchasing,

To wite wher men wolde yeve me any thing.

My purchas is theffect of al my rente.

Loke how thou rydest for the same entente,

To winne good, thou rekkest never how;

Right so fare I, for ryde wolde I now

Un-to the worldes ende for a preye.’

‘A,’ quod this Somnour, ‘benedicite, what sey ye?

I wende ye were a yeman trewely.

Ye han a mannes shap as wel as I;

Han ye figure than determinat

In helle, ther ye been in your estat?’

‘Yet tel me,’ quod the Somnour, ‘feithfully,

Make ye yow newe bodies thus alway

Of elements?’ the feend answerde, ‘nay;

Som-tyme we feyne, and som-tyme we aryse

With dede bodies in ful sondry wyse,

And speke as renably and faire and wel

As to the Phitonissa dide Samuel.

And yet wol som men seye it was nat he;

I do no fors of your divinitee.

But o thing warne I thee, I wol nat Iape,

Thou wolt algates wite how we ben shape;

Thou shalt her-afterward, my brother dere,

Com ther thee nedeth nat of me to lere.

For thou shalt by thyn owene experience

Conne in a chayer rede of this sentence

Bet than Virgyle, whyl he was on lyve,

Or Dant also; now lat us ryde blyve.

For I wol holde companye with thee

Til it be so, that thou forsake me.’

‘Nay,’ quod this Somnour, ‘that shal nat bityde;

I am a yeman, knowen is ful wyde;

My trouthe wol I holde as in this cas.

For though thou were the devel Sathanas,

My trouthe wol I holde to my brother,

As I am sworn, and ech of us til other

For to be trewe brother in this cas;

And bothe we goon abouten our purchas.

Tak thou thy part, what that men wol thee yive,

And I shal myn; thus may we bothe live.

And if that any of us have more than other,

Lat him be trewe, and parte it with his brother.’

This carter thakketh his hors upon the croupe,

And they bigonne drawen and to-stoupe;

‘Heyt, now!’ quod he, ‘ther Iesu Crist yow blesse,

And al his handwerk, bothe more and lesse!

That was wel twight, myn owene lyard boy!

I pray god save thee and sëynt Loy!

Now is my cart out of the slow, pardee!’

‘Lo! brother,’ quod the feend, ‘what tolde I thee?

Heer may ye see, myn owene dere brother,

The carl spak oo thing, but he thoghte another.

Lat us go forth abouten our viage;

Heer winne I no-thing up-on cariage.’

This Somnour clappeth at the widwes gate.

‘Com out,’ quod he, ‘thou olde viritrate!

I trowe thou hast som frere or preest with thee!’

‘Who clappeth?’ seyde this widwe, ‘benedicite!

God save you, sire, what is your swete wille?’

‘I have,’ quod he, ‘of somonce here a bille;

Up peyne of cursing, loke that thou be

To-morn bifore the erchedeknes knee

Tanswere to the court of certeyn thinges.’

‘Now, lord,’ quod she, ‘Crist Iesu, king of kinges,

So wisly helpe me, as I ne may.

I have been syk, and that ful many a day.

I may nat go so fer,’ quod she, ‘ne ryde,

But I be deed, so priketh it in my syde.

May I nat axe a libel, sir Somnour,

And answere there, by my procutour,

To swich thing as men wol opposen me?’

‘Nay than,’ quod he, ‘the foule feend me fecche

If I thexcuse, though them shul be spilt!’

‘Alas,’ quod she, ‘god woot, I have no gilt.’

‘Pay me,’ quod he, ‘or by the swete seinte Anne,

As I wol bere awey thy newe panne

For dette, which that thou owest me of old,

Whan that thou madest thyn housbond cokewold,

I payde at hoom for thy correccioun.’

‘Thou lixt,’ quod she, ‘by my savacioun!

Ne was I never er now, widwe ne wyf,

Somoned un-to your court in al my lyf;

Ne never I nas but of my body trewe!

Un-to the devel blak and rough of hewe

Yeve I thy body and my panne also!’

And whan the devel herde hir cursen so

Up-on hir knees, he seyde in this manere,

‘Now Mabely, myn owene moder dere,

Is this your wil in ernest, that ye seye?’

Lordinges, I coude han told yow, quod this Frere,

Hadde I had leyser for this Somnour here,

After the text of Crist [and] Poul and Iohn

And of our othere doctours many oon,

Swiche peynes, that your hertes mighte agryse,

Al-be-it so, no tonge may devyse,

Thogh that I mighte a thousand winter telle,

The peyne of thilke cursed hous of helle.

But, for to kepe us fro that cursed place,

Waketh, and preyeth Iesu for his grace

So kepe us fro the temptour Sathanas.

Herketh this word, beth war as in this cas;

The leoun sit in his await alway

To slee the innocent, if that he may.

Disposeth ay your hertes to withstonde

The feend, that yow wolde make thral and bonde.

He may nat tempten yow over your might;

For Crist wol be your champion and knight.

And prayeth that thise Somnours hem repente

Of hir misdedes, er that the feend hem hente.

Here endeth the Freres tale.

The prologe of the Somnours Tale.

This Somnour in his stiropes hye stood;

Up-on this Frere his herte was so wood,

That lyk an aspen leef he quook for yre.

‘Lordinges,’ quod he, ‘but o thing I desyre;

I yow biseke that, of your curteisye,

Sin ye han herd this false Frere lye,

As suffereth me I may my tale telle!

This Frere bosteth that he knoweth helle,

And god it woot, that it is litel wonder;

Freres and feendes been but lyte a-sonder.

For pardee, ye han ofte tyme herd telle,

How that a frere ravisshed was to helle

In spirit ones by a visioun;

And as an angel ladde him up and doun,

To shewen him the peynes that ther were,

In al the place saugh he nat a frere;

Of other folk he saugh y-nowe in wo.

Un-to this angel spak the frere tho:

Whan folk in chirche had yeve him what hem leste,

He wente his wey, no lenger wolde he reste,

With scrippe and tipped staf, y-tukked hye;

In every hous he gan to poure and prye,

And beggeth mele, and chese, or elles corn.

His felawe hadde a staf tipped with horn,

A peyre of tables al of yvory,

And a poyntel polisshed fetisly,

And wroot the names alwey, as he stood,

Of alle folk that yaf him any good,

Ascaunces that he wolde for hem preye.

‘Yeve us a busshel whete, malt, or reye,

A goddes kechil, or a trip of chese,

Or elles what yow list, we may nat chese;

A goddes halfpeny or a masse-peny,

Or yeve us of your brawn, if ye have eny;

A dagon of your blanket, leve dame,

Our suster dere, lo! here I write your name;

Bacon or beef, or swich thing as ye finde.’

‘O dere maister,’ quod this syke man,

‘How han ye fare sith that March bigan?

I saugh yow noght this fourtenight or more.’

‘God woot,’ quod he, ‘laboured have I ful sore;

And specially, for thy savacioun

Have I seyd many a precious orisoun,

And for our othere frendes, god hem blesse!

I have to-day been at your chirche at messe,

And seyd a sermon after my simple wit,

Nat al after the text of holy writ;

For it is hard to yow, as I suppose,

And therfore wol I teche yow al the glose.

Glosinge is a glorious thing, certeyn,

For lettre sleeth, so as we clerkes seyn.

Ther have I taught hem to be charitable,

And spende hir good ther it is resonable,

And ther I saugh our dame; a! wher is she?’