Chaucer's Works, Volume 4 — The Canterbury Tales

This fresshe May, that I spak of so yore,

In warme wex hath emprented the cliket,

That Ianuarie bar of the smale wiket,

By which in-to his gardin ofte he wente.

And Damian, that knew al hir entente,

The cliket countrefeted prively;

Ther nis na-more to seye, but hastily

Som wonder by this cliket shal bityde,

Which ye shul heren, if ye wole abyde.

Swiche olde lewed wordes used he;

On Damian a signe made she,

That he sholde go biforen with his cliket:

This Damian thanne hath opened the wiket,

And in he stirte, and that in swich manere,

That no wight mighte it see neither y-here;

And stille he sit under a bush anoon.

This fresshe May, whan she thise wordes herde,

Benignely to Ianuarie answerde,

But first and forward she bigan to wepe,

‘I have,’ quod she, ‘a soule for to kepe

As wel as ye, and also myn honour,

And of my wyfhod thilke tendre flour,

Which that I have assured in your hond,

Whan that the preest to yow my body bond;

Wherfore I wole answere in this manere

By the leve of yow, my lord so dere:

I prey to god, that never dawe the day

That I ne sterve, as foule as womman may,

If ever I do un-to my kin that shame,

Or elles I empeyre so my name,

That I be fals; and if I do that lakke,

Do strepe me and put me in a sakke,

And in the nexte river do me drenche.

I am a gentil womman and no wenche.

Why speke ye thus? but men ben ever untrewe,

And wommen have repreve of yow ay newe.

Ye han non other contenance, I leve,

But speke to us of untrust and repreve.’

Bright was the day, and blew the firmament,

Phebus of gold his stremes doun hath sent,

To gladen every flour with his warmnesse.

He was that tyme in Geminis, as I gesse,

But litel fro his declinacioun

Of Cancer, Iovis exaltacioun.

And so bifel, that brighte morwe-tyde,

That in that gardin, in the ferther syde,

Pluto, that is the king of fayërye,

And many a lady in his companye,

Folwinge his wyf, the quene Proserpyne,

Ech after other, right as any lyne—

Whil that she gadered floures in the mede,

In Claudian ye may the story rede,

How in his grisly carte he hir fette:—

This king of fairye thanne adoun him sette

Up-on a bench of turves, fresh and grene,

And right anon thus seyde he to his quene.

Thus seith the king that knoweth your wikkednesse;

And Iesus filius Syrak, as I gesse,

Ne speketh of yow but selde reverence.

A wilde fyr and corrupt pestilence

So falle up-on your bodies yet to-night!

Ne see ye nat this honurable knight,

By-cause, allas! that he is blind and old,

His owene man shal make him cokewold;

Lo heer he sit, the lechour, in the tree.

Now wol I graunten, of my magestee,

Un-to this olde blinde worthy knight

That he shal have ayeyn his eyen sight,

Whan that his wyf wold doon him vileinye;

Than shal he knowen al hir harlotrye

Both in repreve of hir and othere mo.’

I woot wel that this Iew, this Salomon,

Fond of us wommen foles many oon.

But though that he ne fond no good womman,

Yet hath ther founde many another man

Wommen ful trewe, ful gode, and vertuous.

Witnesse on hem that dwelle in Cristes hous,

With martirdom they preved hir constance.

The Romayn gestes maken remembrance

Of many a verray trewe wyf also.

But sire, ne be nat wrooth, al-be-it so,

Though that he seyde he fond no good womman,

I prey yow take the sentence of the man;

He mente thus, that in sovereyn bontee

Nis noon but god, that sit in Trinitee.

‘And I,’ quod she, ‘a queene of fayërye.

Hir answere shal she have, I undertake;

Lat us na-more wordes heer-of make.

For sothe, I wol no lenger yow contrarie.’

Now lat us turne agayn to Ianuarie,

That in the gardin with his faire May

Singeth, ful merier than the papeiay,

‘Yow love I best, and shal, and other noon.’

So longe aboute the aleyes is he goon,

Til he was come agaynes thilke pyrie,

Wher-as this Damian sitteth fill myrie

An heigh, among the fresshe leves grene.

And she answerde, ‘sir, what eyleth yow?

Have pacience, and reson in your minde,

I have yow holpe on bothe your eyen blinde.

Up peril of my soule, I shal nat lyen,

As me was taught, to hele with your yën,

Was no-thing bet to make yow to see

Than strugle with a man up-on a tree.

God woot, I dide it in ful good entente.’

‘Strugle!’ quod he, ‘ye, algate in it wente!

God yeve yow bothe on shames deeth to dyen!

He swyved thee, I saugh it with myne yën,

And elles be I hanged by the hals!’

‘Thanne is,’ quod she, ‘my medicyne al fals;

For certeinly, if that ye mighte see,

Ye wolde nat seyn thise wordes un-to me;

Ye han som glimsing and no parfit sighte.’

‘I see,’ quod he, ‘as wel as ever I mighte,

Thonked be god! with bothe myne eyen two,

And by my trouthe, me thoughte he dide thee so.’

‘Ye maze, maze, gode sire,’ quod she,

‘This thank have I for I have maad yow see;

Allas!’ quod she, ‘that ever I was so kinde!’

‘Now, dame,’ quod he, ‘lat al passe out of minde.

Com doun, my lief, and if I have missayd,

God help me so, as I am yvel apayd.

But, by my fader soule, I wende han seyn,

How that this Damian had by thee leyn,

And that thy smok had leyn up-on his brest.’

‘Ye, sire,’ quod she, ‘ye may wene as yow lest;

But, sire, a man that waketh out of his sleep,

He may nat sodeynly wel taken keep

Up-on a thing, ne seen it parfitly,

Til that he be adawed verraily;

Right so a man, that longe hath blind y-be,

Ne may nat sodeynly so wel y-see,

First whan his sighte is newe come ageyn,

As he that hath a day or two y-seyn.

Til that your sighte y-satled be a whyle,

Ther may ful many a sighte yow bigyle.

Beth war, I prey yow; for, by hevene king,

Ful many a man weneth to seen a thing,

And it is al another than it semeth.

He that misconceyveth, he misdemeth.’

And with that word she leep doun fro the tree.

This Ianuarie, who is glad but he?

He kisseth hir, and clippeth hir ful ofte,

And on hir wombe he stroketh hir ful softe,

And to his palays hoom he hath hir lad.

Now, gode men, I pray yow to be glad.

Thus endeth heer my tale of Ianuarie;

God bless us and his moder Seinte Marie!

Here is ended the Marchantes Tale of Ianuarie.

‘Ey! goddes mercy!’ seyde our Hoste tho,

‘Now swich a wyf I pray god kepe me fro!

Lo, whiche sleightes and subtilitees

In wommen been! for ay as bisy as bees

Ben they, us sely men for to deceyve,

And from a sothe ever wol they weyve;

By this Marchauntes Tale it preveth weel.

But doutelees, as trewe as any steel

I have a wyf, though that she povre be;

But of hir tonge a labbing shrewe is she,

And yet she hath an heep of vyces mo;

Ther-of no fors, lat alle swiche thinges go.

But, wite ye what? in conseil be it seyd,

Me reweth sore I am un-to hir teyd.

For, and I sholde rekenen every vyce

Which that she hath, y-wis, I were to nyce,

And cause why; it sholde reported be

And told to hir of somme of this meynee;

Of whom, it nedeth nat for to declare,

Sin wommen connen outen swich chaffare;

And eek my wit suffyseth nat ther-to

To tellen al; wherfor my tale is do.’

And so bifel that, whan this Cambinskan

Hath twenty winter born his diademe,

As he was wont fro yeer to yeer, I deme,

He leet the feste of his nativitee

Don cryen thurghout Sarray his citee,

The last Idus of March, after the yeer.

Phebus the sonne ful Iory was and cleer;

For he was neigh his exaltacioun

In Martes face, and in his mansioun

In Aries, the colerik hote signe.

Ful lusty was the weder and benigne,

For which the foules, agayn the sonne shene,

What for the seson and the yonge grene,

Ful loude songen hir affecciouns;

Him semed han geten hem protecciouns

Agayn the swerd of winter kene and cold.

This Cambinskan, of which I have yow told,

In royal vestiment sit on his deys,

With diademe, ful heighe in his paleys,

And halt his feste, so solempne and so riche

That in this world ne was ther noon it liche.

Of which if I shal tellen al tharray,

Than wolde it occupye a someres day;

And eek it nedeth nat for to devyse

At every cours the ordre of hir servyse.

I wol nat tellen of hir strange sewes,

Ne of hir swannes, ne of hir heronsewes.

Eek in that lond, as tellen knightes olde,

Ther is som mete that is ful deyntee holde,

That in this lond men recche of it but smal;

Ther nis no man that may reporten al.

I wol nat tarien yow, for it is pryme,

And for it is no fruit but los of tyme;

Un-to my firste I wol have my recours.

And so bifel that, after the thridde cours,

Whyl that this king sit thus in his nobleye,

Herkninge his minstralles hir thinges pleye

Biforn him at the bord deliciously,

In at the halle-dore al sodeynly

Ther cam a knight up-on a stede of bras,

And in his hand a brood mirour of glas.

Upon his thombe he hadde of gold a ring,

And by his syde a naked swerd hanging;

And up he rydeth to the heighe bord.

In al the halle ne was ther spoke a word

For merveille of this knight; him to biholde

Ful bisily ther wayten yonge and olde.

This mirour eek, that I have in myn hond,

Hath swich a might, that men may in it see

Whan ther shal fallen any adversitee

Un-to your regne or to your-self also;

And openly who is your freend or foo.

And over al this, if any lady bright

Hath set hir herte on any maner wight,

If he be fals, she shal his treson see,

His newe love and al his subtiltee

So openly, that ther shal no-thing hyde.

Wherfor, ageyn this lusty someres tyde,

This mirour and this ring, that ye may see,

He hath sent to my lady Canacee,

Your excellente doghter that is here.

And whan this knight hath thus his tale told,

He rydeth out of halle, and doun he lighte.

His stede, which that shoon as sonne brighte,

Stant in the court, as stille as any stoon.

This knight is to his chambre lad anon,

And is unarmed and to mete y-set.

The presentes ben ful royally y-fet,

This is to seyn, the swerd and the mirour,

And born anon in-to the heighe tour

With certeine officers ordeyned therfore;

And un-to Canacee this ring was bore

Solempnely, ther she sit at the table.

But sikerly, with-outen any fable,

The hors of bras, that may nat be remewed,

It stant as it were to the ground y-glewed.

Ther may no man out of the place it dryve

For noon engyn of windas or polyve;

And cause why, for they can nat the craft.

And therefore in the place they han it laft

Til that the knight hath taught hem the manere

To voyden him, as ye shal after here.

And somme of hem wondred on the mirour,

That born was up in-to the maister-tour,

How men mighte in it swiche thinges see.

Another answerde, and seyde it mighte wel be

Naturelly, by composiciouns

Of angles and of slye reflexiouns,

And seyden, that in Rome was swich oon.

They speken of Alocen and Vitulon,

And Aristotle, that writen in hir lyves

Of queynte mirours and of prospectyves,

As knowen they that han hir bokes herd.

Tho speke they of Canaceës ring,

And seyden alle, that swich a wonder thing

Of craft of ringes herde they never non,

Save that he, Moyses, and king Salomon

Hadde a name of konning in swich art.

Thus seyn the peple, and drawen hem apart.

But nathelees, somme seyden that it was

Wonder to maken of fern-asshen glas,

And yet nis glas nat lyk asshen of fern;

But for they han y-knowen it so fern,

Therfore cesseth her Iangling and her wonder.

As sore wondren somme on cause of thonder,

On ebbe, on flood, on gossomer, and on mist,

And alle thing, til that the cause is wist.

Thus Iangle they and demen and devyse,

Til that the king gan fro the bord aryse.