Chaucer's Works, Volume 4 — The Canterbury Tales

Abyding ever his lust and his plesaunce,

To whom that she was yeven, herte and al,

As to hir verray worldly suffisaunce;

But shortly if this storie I tellen shal,

This markis writen hath in special

A lettre in which he sheweth his entente,

And secrely he to Boloigne it sente.

To the erl of Panik, which that hadde tho

Wedded his suster, preyde he specially

To bringen boom agayn his children two

In honurable estaat al openly.

But o thing he him preyede outerly,

That he to no wight, though men wolde enquere,

Sholde nat telle, whos children that they were,

But seye, the mayden sholde y-wedded be

Un-to the markis of Saluce anon.

And as this erl was preyed, so dide he;

For at day set he on his wey is goon

Toward Saluce, and lordes many oon,

In riche array, this mayden for to gyde;

Hir yonge brother ryding hir bisyde.

‘Certes, Grisilde, I hadde y-nough plesaunce

To han yow to my wyf for your goodnesse,

As for your trouthe and for your obeisaunce,

Nought for your linage ne for your richesse;

But now knowe I in verray soothfastnesse

That in gret lordshipe, if I wel avyse,

Ther is gret servitute in sondry wyse.

I may nat don as every plowman may;

My peple me constreyneth for to take

Another wyf, and cryen day by day;

And eek the pope, rancour for to slake,

Consenteth it, that dar I undertake;

And treweliche thus muche I wol yow seye,

My newe wyf is coming by the weye.

Be strong of herte, and voyde anon hir place,

And thilke dower that ye broghten me

Tak it agayn, I graunte it of my grace;

Retourneth to your fadres hous,’ quod he;

‘No man may alwey han prosperitee;

With evene herte I rede yow tendure

The strook of fortune or of aventure.’

The remenant of your Iewels redy be

In-with your chambre, dar I saufly sayn;

Naked out of my fadres hous,’ quod she,

‘I cam, and naked moot I turne agayn.

Al your plesaunce wol I folwen fayn;

But yet I hope it be nat your entente

That I smoklees out of your paleys wente.

Ye coude nat doon so dishoneste a thing,

That thilke wombe in which your children leye

Sholde, biforn the peple, in my walking,

Be seyn al bare; wherfor I yow preye,

Lat me nat lyk a worm go by the weye.

Remembre yow, myn owene lord so dere,

I was your wyf, thogh I unworthy were.

Wherfor, in guerdon of my maydenhede,

Which that I broghte, and noght agayn I bere,

As voucheth sauf to yeve me, to my mede,

But swich a smok as I was wont to were,

That I therwith may wrye the wombe of here

That was your wyf; and heer take I my leve

Of yow, myn owene lord, lest I yow greve.’

‘The smok,’ quod he, ‘that thou hast on thy bak,

Lat it be stille, and ber it forth with thee.’

But wel unnethes thilke word he spak,

But wente his wey for rewthe and for pitee.

Biforn the folk hir-selven strepeth she,

And in hir smok, with heed and foot al bare,

Toward hir fader hous forth is she fare.

The folk hir folwe wepinge in hir weye,

And fortune ay they cursen as they goon;

But she fro weping kepte hir yën dreye,

Ne in this tyme word ne spak she noon.

Hir fader, that this tyding herde anoon,

Curseth the day and tyme that nature

Shoop him to been a lyves creature.

For out of doute this olde povre man

Was ever in suspect of hir mariage;

For ever he demed, sith that it bigan,

That whan the lord fulfild had his corage,

Him wolde thinke it were a disparage

To his estaat so lowe for talighte,

And voyden hir as sone as ever he mighte.

Agayns his doghter hastilich goth he,

For he by noyse of folk knew hir cominge,

And with hir olde cote, as it mighte be,

He covered hir, ful sorwefully wepinge;

But on hir body mighte he it nat bringe.

For rude was the cloth, and more of age

By dayes fele than at hir mariage.

[Pars Sexta.]

Fro Boloigne is this erl of Panik come,

Of which the fame up-sprang to more and lesse,

And in the peples eres alle and some

Was couth eek, that a newe markisesse

He with him broghte, in swich pompe and richesse,

That never was ther seyn with mannes yë

So noble array in al West Lumbardye.

I have no wommen suffisaunt certayn

The chambres for tarraye in ordinaunce

After my lust, and therfor wolde I fayn

That thyn were al swich maner governaunce;

Thou knowest eek of old al my plesaunce;

Though thyn array be badde and yvel biseye,

Do thou thy devoir at the leeste weye.’

‘Nat only, lord, that I am glad,’ quod she,

‘To doon your lust, but I desyre also

Yow for to serve and plese in my degree

With-outen feynting, and shal evermo.

Ne never, for no wele ne no wo,

Ne shal the gost with-in myn herte stente

To love yow best with al my trewe entente.’

And with that word she gan the hous to dighte,

And tables for to sette and beddes make;

And peyned hir to doon al that she mighte,

Preying the chambereres, for goddes sake,

To hasten hem, and faste swepe and shake;

And she, the moste servisable of alle,

Hath every chambre arrayed and his halle.

Abouten undern gan this erl alighte,

That with him broghte thise noble children tweye,

For which the peple ran to seen the sighte

Of hir array, so richely biseye;

And than at erst amonges hem they seye,

That Walter was no fool, thogh that him leste

To chaunge his wyf, for it was for the beste.

For she is fairer, as they demen alle,

Than is Grisild, and more tendre of age,

And fairer fruit bitwene hem sholde falle,

And more plesant, for hir heigh linage;

Hir brother eek so fair was of visage,

That hem to seen the peple hath caught plesaunce,

Commending now the markis gouernaunce.—

Auctor. ‘O stormy peple! unsad and ever untrewe!

Ay undiscreet and chaunging as a vane,

Delyting ever in rumbel that is newe,

For lyk the mone ay wexe ye and wane;

Ay ful of clapping, dere y-nogh a Iane;

Your doom is fals, your constance yvel preveth,

A ful greet fool is he that on yow leveth!’

Thus seyden sadde folk in that citee,

Whan that the peple gazed up and doun,

For they were glad, right for the noveltee,

To han a newe lady of hir toun.

Na-more of this make I now mencioun;

But to Grisilde agayn wol I me dresse,

And telle hir constance and hir bisinesse.—

Ful bisy was Grisilde in every thing

That to the feste was apertinent;

Right noght was she abayst of hir clothing,

Though it were rude and somdel eek to-rent.

But with glad chere to the yate is went,

With other folk, to grete the markisesse,

And after that doth forth hir bisinesse.

With so glad chere his gestes she receyveth,

And conningly, everich in his degree,

That no defaute no man aperceyveth;

But ay they wondren what she mighte be

That in so povre array was for to see,

And coude swich honour and reverence;

And worthily they preisen hir prudence.

In al this mene whyle she ne stente

This mayde and eek hir brother to commende

With al hir herte, in ful benigne entente,

So wel, that no man coude hir prys amende.

But atte laste, whan that thise lordes wende

To sitten doun to mete, he gan to calle

Grisilde, as she was bisy in his halle.

‘Grisilde,’ quod he, as it were in his pley,

‘How lyketh thee my wyf and hir beautee?’

‘Right wel,’ quod she, ‘my lord; for, in good fey,

A fairer say I never noon than she.

I prey to god yeve hir prosperitee;

And so hope I that he wol to yow sende

Plesance y-nogh un-to your lyves ende.

O thing biseke I yow and warne also,

That ye ne prikke with no tormentinge

This tendre mayden, as ye han don mo;

For she is fostred in hir norishinge

More tendrely, and, to my supposinge,

She coude nat adversitee endure

As coude a povre fostred creature.’

And whan this Walter say hir pacience,

Hir glade chere and no malice at al,

And he so ofte had doon to hir offence,

And she ay sad and constant as a wal,

Continuing ever hir innocence overal,

This sturdy markis gan his herte dresse

To rewen up-on hir wyfly stedfastnesse.

‘This is y-nogh, Grisilde myn,’ quod he,

‘Be now na-more agast ne yvel apayed;

I have thy feith and thy benignitee,

As wel as ever womman was, assayed,

In greet estaat, and povreliche arrayed.

Now knowe I, dere wyf, thy stedfastnesse,’—

And hir in armes took and gan hir kesse.

And she for wonder took of it no keep;

She herde nat what thing he to hir seyde;

She ferde as she had stert out of a sleep,

Til she out of hir masednesse abreyde.

‘Grisilde,’ quod he, ‘by god that for us deyde,

Thou art my wyf, ne noon other I have,

Ne never hadde, as god my soule save!

This is thy doghter which thou hast supposed

To be my wyf; that other feithfully

Shal be myn heir, as I have ay purposed;

Thou bare him in thy body trewely.

At Boloigne have I kept hem prively;

Tak hem agayn, for now maystow nat seye

That thou hast lorn non of thy children tweye.

And in her swough so sadly holdeth she

Hir children two, whan she gan hem tembrace,

That with greet sleighte and greet difficultee

The children from hir arm they gonne arace.

O many a teer on many a pitous face

Doun ran of hem that stoden hir bisyde;

Unnethe abouten hir mighte they abyde.

Walter hir gladeth, and hir sorwe slaketh;

She ryseth up, abaysed, from hir traunce,

And every wight hir Ioye and feste maketh,

Til she hath caught agayn hir contenaunce.

Walter hir dooth so feithfully plesaunce,

That it was deyntee for to seen the chere

Bitwixe hem two, now they ben met y-fere.

Thise ladyes, whan that they hir tyme say,

Han taken hir, and in-to chambre goon,

And strepen hir out of hir rude array,

And in a cloth of gold that brighte shoon,

With a coroune of many a riche stoon

Up-on hir heed, they in-to halle hir broghte,

And ther she was honoured as hir oghte.

This storie is seyd, nat for that wyves sholde

Folwen Grisilde as in humilitee,

For it were importable, though they wolde;

But for that every wight, in his degree,

Sholde be constant in adversitee

As was Grisilde; therfor Petrark wryteth

This storie, which with heigh style he endyteth.

If thou be fair, ther folk ben in presence

Shew thou thy visage and thyn apparaille;

If thou be foul, be free of thy dispence,

To gete thee freendes ay do thy travaille;

Be ay of chere as light as leef on linde,

And lat him care, and wepe, and wringe, and waille!

Here endeth the Clerk of Oxonford his Tale.

The Prologe of the Marchantes Tale.

‘Weping and wayling, care, and other sorwe

I know y-nogh, on even and a-morwe,’

Quod the Marchaunt, ‘and so don othere mo

That wedded been, I trowe that it be so.

For, wel I woot, it fareth so with me.

I have a wyf, the worste that may be;

For thogh the feend to hir y-coupled were,

She wolde him overmacche, I dar wel swere.

What sholde I yow reherce in special

Hir hye malice? she is a shrewe at al.

Ther is a long and large difference

Bitwix Grisildis grete pacience

And of my wyf the passing crueltee.

Were I unbounden, al-so moot I thee!

I wolde never eft comen in the snare.

We wedded men live in sorwe and care;

Assaye who-so wol, and he shal finde

I seye sooth, by seint Thomas of Inde,

As for the more part, I sey nat alle.

God shilde that it sholde so bifalle!

A! good sir hoost! I have y-wedded be

Thise monthes two, and more nat, pardee;

And yet, I trowe, he that all his lyve

Wyflees hath been, though that men wolde him ryve

Un-to the herte, ne coude in no manere

Tellen so muchel sorwe, as I now here

Coude tellen of my wyves cursednesse!’

‘Now,’ quod our hoost, ‘Marchaunt, so god yow blesse,

Sin ye so muchel knowen of that art,

Ful hertely I pray yow telle us part.’

‘Gladly,’ quod he, ‘but of myn owene sore,

For sory herte, I telle may na-more.’

Here biginneth the Marchantes Tale.

Whylom ther was dwellinge in Lumbardye

A worthy knight, that born was of Pavye,

In which he lived in greet prosperitee;

And sixty yeer a wyflees man was he,

And folwed ay his bodily delyt

On wommen, ther-as was his appetyt,

As doon thise foles that ben seculeer.

And whan that he was passed sixty yeer,

Were it for holinesse or for dotage,

I can nat seye, but swich a greet corage

Hadde this knight to been a wedded man,

That day and night he dooth al that he can

Tespyen where he mighte wedded be;

Preyinge our lord to granten him, that he

Mighte ones knowe of thilke blisful lyf

That is bitwixe an housbond and his wyf;

And for to live under that holy bond

With which that first god man and womman bond,

‘Non other lyf,’ seyde he, ‘is worth a bene;

For wedlok is so esy and so clene,

That in this world it is a paradys.’

Thus seyde this olde knight, that was so wys.

A wyf is goddes yifte verraily;

Alle other maner yiftes hardily,

As londes, rentes, pasture, or commune,

Or moebles, alle ben yiftes of fortune,

That passen as a shadwe upon a wal.

But dredelees, if pleynly speke I shal,

A wyf wol laste, and in thyn hous endure,

Wel lenger than thee list, paraventure.

Mariage is a ful gret sacrement;

He which that hath no wyf, I holde him shent;

He liveth helplees and al desolat,

I speke of folk in seculer estaat.

And herke why, I sey nat this for noght,

That womman is for mannes help y-wroght.

The hye god, whan he hadde Adam maked,

And saugh him al allone, bely-naked,

God of his grete goodnesse seyde than,

‘Lat us now make an help un-to this man

Lyk to him-self;’ and thanne he made him Eve.

Heer may ye se, and heer-by may ye preve,

That wyf is mannes help and his confort,

His paradys terrestre and his disport.

So buxom and so vertuous is she,

They moste nedes live in unitee.

O flesh they been, and o flesh, as I gesse,

Hath but on herte, in wele and in distresse.