Chaucer's Works, Volume 4 — The Canterbury Tales

Aurelius, that his cost hath al forlorn,

Curseth the tyme that ever he was born:

‘Allas,’ quod he, ‘allas! that I bihighte

Of pured gold a thousand pound of wighte

Un-to this philosophre! how shal I do?

I see na-more but that I am fordo.

Myn heritage moot I nedes selle,

And been a begger; heer may I nat dwelle,

And shamen al my kinrede in this place,

But I of him may gete bettre grace.

But nathelees, I wol of him assaye,

At certeyn dayes, yeer by yeer, to paye,

And thanke him of his grete curteisye;

My trouthe wol I kepe, I wol nat lye.’

With herte soor he gooth un-to his cofre,

And broghte gold un-to this philosophre,

The value of fyve hundred pound, I gesse,

And him bisecheth, of his gentillesse,

To graunte him dayes of the remenaunt,

And seyde, ‘maister, I dar wel make avaunt,

I failled never of my trouthe as yit;

For sikerly my dette shal be quit

Towardes yow, how-ever that I fare

To goon a-begged in my kirtle bare.

But wolde ye vouche-sauf, up-on seurtee,

Two yeer or three for to respyten me,

Than were I wel; for elles moot I selle

Myn heritage; ther is na-more to telle.’

This philosophre answerde, ‘leve brother,

Everich of yow dide gentilly til other.

Thou art a squyer, and he is a knight;

But god forbede, for his blisful might,

But-if a clerk coude doon a gentil dede

As wel as any of yow, it is no drede!

Sire, I relesse thee thy thousand pound,

As thou right now were cropen out of the ground,

Ne never er now ne haddest knowen me.

For sire, I wol nat take a peny of thee

For al my craft, ne noght for my travaille.

Thou hast y-payed wel for my vitaille;

It is y-nogh, and farewel, have good day:’

And took his hors, and forth he gooth his way.

Lordinges, this question wolde I aske now,

Which was the moste free, as thinketh yow?

Now telleth me, er that ye ferther wende.

I can na-more, my tale is at an ende.

Here is ended the Frankeleyns Tale.

And for to putte us fro swich ydelnesse,

That cause is of so greet confusioun,

I have heer doon my feithful bisinesse,

After the legende, in translacioun

Right of thy glorious lyf and passioun,

Thou with thy gerland wroght of rose and lilie;

Thee mene I, mayde and martir, seint Cecilie!

Inuocacio ad Mariam.

And thou that flour of virgines art alle,

Of whom that Bernard list so wel to wryte,

To thee at my biginning first I calle;

Thou comfort of us wrecches, do me endyte

Thy maydens deeth, that wan thurgh hir meryte

The eternal lyf, and of the feend victorie,

As man may after reden in hir storie.

Thou mayde and mooder, doghter of thy sone,

Thou welle of mercy, sinful soules cure,

In whom that god, for bountee, chees to wone,

Thou humble, and heigh over every creature,

Thou nobledest so ferforth our nature,

That no desdeyn the maker hadde of kinde,

His sone in blode and flesh to clothe and winde.

Withinne the cloistre blisful of thy sydes

Took mannes shap the eternal love and pees,

That of the tryne compas lord and gyde is,

Whom erthe and see and heven, out of relees,

Ay herien; and thou, virgin wemmelees,

Bar of thy body, and dweltest mayden pure,

The creatour of every creature.

Now help, thou meke and blisful fayre mayde,

Me, flemed wrecche, in this desert of galle;

Think on the womman Cananee, that sayde

That whelpes eten somme of the crommes alle

That from hir lordes table been y-falle;

And though that I, unworthy sone of Eve,

Be sinful, yet accepte my bileve.

And, for that feith is deed with-outen werkes,

So for to werken yif me wit and space,

That I be quit fro thennes that most derk is!

O thou, that art so fayr and ful of grace,

Be myn advocat in that heighe place

Ther-as withouten ende is songe ‘Osanne,’

Thou Cristes mooder, doghter dere of Anne!

And of thy light my soule in prison lighte,

That troubled is by the contagioun

Of my body, and also by the wighte

Of erthly luste and fals affeccioun;

O haven of refut, o salvacioun

Of hem that been in sorwe and in distresse,

Now help, for to my werk I wol me dresse.

Yet preye I yow that reden that I wryte,

Foryeve me, that I do no diligence

This ilke storie subtilly to endyte;

For both have I the wordes and sentence

Of him that at the seintes reverence

The storie wroot, and folwe hir legende,

And prey yow, that ye wol my werk amende.

Interpretado nominis Cecilie, quam ponit frater Iacobus

Ianuensis in Legenda Aurea.

First wolde I yow the name of seint Cecilie

Expoune, as men may in hir storie see,

It is to seye in English ‘hevenes lilie,’

For pure chastnesse of virginitee;

Or, for she whytnesse hadde of honestee,

And grene of conscience, and of good fame

The sole savour, ‘lilie’ was hir name.

Or Cecile is to seye ‘the wey to blinde,’

For she ensample was by good techinge;

Or elles Cecile, as I writen finde,

Is ioyned, by a maner conioininge

Of ‘hevene’ and ‘Lia’; and heer, in figuringe,

The ‘heven’ is set for thoght of holinesse,

And ‘Lia’ for hir lasting bisinesse.

Cecile may eek be seyd in this manere,

‘Wanting of blindnesse,’ for hir grete light

Of sapience, and for hir thewes clere;

Or elles, lo! this maydens name bright

Of ‘hevene’ and ‘leos’ comth, for which by right

Men mighte hir wel ‘the heven of peple’ calle,

Ensample of gode and wyse werkes alle.

For ‘leos’ ‘peple’ in English is to seye,

And right as men may in the hevene see

The sonne and mone and sterres every weye,

Right so men gostly, in this mayden free,

Seyen of feith the magnanimitee,

And eek the cleernesse hool of sapience,

And sondry werkes, brighte of excellence.

The night cam, and to bedde moste she gon

With hir housbonde, as ofte is the manere,

And prively to him she seyde anon,

‘O swete and wel biloved spouse dere,

Ther is a conseil, and ye wolde it here,

Which that right fain I wolde unto yow seye,

So that ye swere ye shul me nat biwreye.’

Valerian gan faste unto hir swere,

That for no cas, ne thing that mighte be,

He sholde never-mo biwreyen here;

And thanne at erst to him thus seyde she,

‘I have an angel which that loveth me,

That with greet love, wher-so I wake or slepe,

Is redy ay my body for to kepe.

And if that he may felen, out of drede,

That ye me touche or love in vileinye,

He right anon wol slee yow with the dede,

And in your yowthe thus ye shulden dye;

And if that ye in clene love me gye,

He wol yow loven as me, for your clennesse,

And shewen yow his Ioye and his brightnesse.’

Valerian, corrected as god wolde,

Answerde agayn, ‘if I shal trusten thee,

Lat me that angel se, and him biholde;

And if that it a verray angel be,

Than wol I doon as thou hast preyed me;

And if thou love another man, for sothe

Right with this swerd than wol I slee yow bothe.’

Cecile answerde anon right in this wyse,

‘If that yow list, the angel shul ye see,

So that ye trowe on Crist and yow baptyse.

Goth forth to Via Apia,’ quod she,

‘That fro this toun ne stant but myles three,

And, to the povre folkes that ther dwelle,

Sey hem right thus, as that I shal yow telle.

Telle hem that I, Cecile, yow to hem sente,

To shewen yow the gode Urban the olde,

For secree nedes and for good entente.

And whan that ye seint Urban han biholde,

Telle him the wordes whiche I to yow tolde;

And whan that he hath purged yow fro sinne,

Thanne shul ye see that angel, er ye twinne.’

Valerian is to the place y-gon,

And right as him was taught by his lerninge,

He fond this holy olde Urban anon

Among the seintes buriels lotinge.

And he anon, with-outen taryinge,

Dide his message; and whan that he it tolde,

Urban for Ioye his hondes gan up holde.

The teres from his yën leet he falle—

‘Almighty lord, o Iesu Crist,’ quod he,

‘Sower of chast conseil, herde of us alle,

The fruit of thilke seed of chastitee

That thou hast sowe in Cecile, tak to thee!

Lo, lyk a bisy bee, with-outen gyle,

Thee serveth ay thyn owene thral Cecile!

For thilke spouse, that she took but now

Ful lyk a fiers leoun, she sendeth here,

As meke as ever was any lamb, to yow!’

And with that worde, anon ther gan appere

An old man, clad in whyte clothes clere,

That hadde a book with lettre of golde in honde,

And gan biforn Valerian to stonde.

Whan this was rad, than seyde this olde man,

‘Levestow this thing or no? sey ye or nay.’

‘I leve al this thing,’ quod Valerian,

‘For sother thing than this, I dar wel say,

Under the hevene no wight thinke may.’

Tho vanisshed the olde man, he niste where,

And pope Urban him cristened right there.

Valerian goth hoom, and fint Cecilie

With-inne his chambre with an angel stonde;

This angel hadde of roses and of lilie

Corones two, the which he bar in honde;

And first to Cecile, as I understonde,

He yaf that oon, and after gan he take

That other to Valerian, hir make.

‘With body clene and with unwemmed thoght

Kepeth ay wel thise corones,’ quod he;

‘Fro Paradys to yow have I hem broght,

Ne never-mo ne shal they roten be,

Ne lese her sote savour, trusteth me;

Ne never wight shal seen hem with his yë,

But he be chaast and hate vileinyë.

The palm of martirdom for to receyve,

Seinte Cecile, fulfild of goddes yifte,

The world and eek hir chambre gan she weyve;

Witnes Tyburces and Valerians shrifte,

To whiche god of his bountee wolde shifte

Corones two of floures wel smellinge,

And made his angel hem the corones bringe:

The mayde hath broght thise men to blisse above;

The world hath wist what it is worth, certeyn,

Devocioun of chastitee to love.—

Tho shewede him Cecile al open and pleyn

That alle ydoles nis but a thing in veyn;

For they been dombe, and therto they been deve,

And charged him his ydoles for to leve.

‘Who so that troweth nat this, a beste he is,’

Quod tho Tiburce, ‘if that I shal nat lye.’

And she gan kisse his brest, that herde this,

And was ful glad he coude trouthe espye.

‘This day I take thee for myn allye,’

Seyde this blisful fayre mayde dere;

And after that she seyde as ye may here:

Ne menestow nat Urban,’ quod he tho,

‘That is so ofte dampned to be deed,

And woneth in halkes alwey to and fro,

And dar nat ones putte forth his heed?

Men sholde him brennen in a fyr so reed

If he were founde, or that men mighte him spye;

And we also, to bere him companye—

And whyl we seken thilke divinitee

That is y-hid in hevene prively,

Algate y-brend in this world shul we be!’

To whom Cecile answerde boldely,

‘Men mighten dreden wel and skilfully

This lyf to lese, myn owene dere brother,

If this were livinge only and non other.

But ther is better lyf in other place,

That never shal be lost, ne drede thee noght,

Which goddes sone us tolde thurgh his grace;

That fadres sone hath alle thinges wroght;

And al that wroght is with a skilful thoght,

The goost, that fro the fader gan precede,

Hath sowled hem, withouten any drede.

And many pointes of his passioun;

How goddes sone in this world was withholde,

To doon mankinde pleyn remissioun,

That was y-bounde in sinne and cares colde:

Al this thing she unto Tiburce tolde.

And after this Tiburce, in good entente,

With Valerian to pope Urban he wente,

That thanked god; and with glad herte and light

He cristned him, and made him in that place

Parfit in his lerninge, goddes knight.

And after this Tiburce gat swich grace,

That every day he saugh, in tyme and space,

The angel of god; and every maner bone

That he god axed, it was sped ful sone.

It were ful hard by ordre for to seyn

How many wondres Iesus for hem wroghte;

But atte laste, to tellen short and pleyn,

The sergeants of the toun of Rome hem soghte,

And hem biforn Almache the prefect broghte,

Which hem apposed, and knew al hir entente,

And to the image of Iupiter hem sente,

And seyde, ‘who so wol nat sacrifyse,

Swap of his heed, this is my sentence here.’

Anon thise martirs that I yow devyse,

Oon Maximus, that was an officere

Of the prefectes and his corniculere,

Hem hente; and whan he forth the seintes ladde,

Him-self he weep, for pitee that he hadde.

Whan Maximus had herd the seintes lore,

He gat him of the tormentoures leve,

And ladde hem to his hous withoute more;

And with hir preching, er that it were eve,

They gonnen fro the tormentours to reve,

And fro Maxime, and fro his folk echone

The false feith, to trowe in god allone.

Cecilie cam, whan it was woxen night,

With preestes that hem cristned alle y-fere;

And afterward, whan day was woxen light,

Cecile hem seyde with a ful sobre chere,

‘Now, Cristes owene knightes leve and dere,

Caste alle awey the werkes of derknesse,

And armeth yow in armure of brightnesse.

Ye han for sothe y-doon a greet bataille,

Your cours is doon, your feith han ye conserved,

Goth to the corone of lyf that may nat faille;

The rightful Iuge, which that ye han served,

Shall yeve it yow, as ye han it deserved.’

And whan this thing was seyd as I devyse,

Men ladde hem forth to doon the sacrifyse.

But whan they weren to the place broght,

To tellen shortly the conclusioun,

They nolde encense ne sacrifice right noght,

But on hir knees they setten hem adoun

With humble herte and sad devocioun,

And losten bothe hir hedes in the place.

Hir soules wenten to the king of grace.

Cecile him took and buried him anoon

By Tiburce and Valerian softely,

Withinne hir burying-place, under the stoon.

And after this Almachius hastily

Bad his ministres fecchen openly

Cecile, so that she mighte in his presence

Doon sacrifyce, and Iupiter encense.

But they, converted at hir wyse lore,

Wepten ful sore, and yaven ful credence

Unto hir word, and cryden more and more,

‘Crist, goddes sone withouten difference,

Is verray god, this is al our sentence,

That hath so good a servant him to serve;

This with o voys we trowen, thogh we sterve!’

Almachius, that herde of this doinge,

Bad fecchen Cecile, that he might hir see,

And alderfirst, lo! this was his axinge,

‘What maner womman artow?’ tho quod he.

‘I am a gentil womman born,’ quod she.

‘I axe thee,’ quod he, ‘thogh it thee greve,

Of thy religioun and of thy bileve.’

‘Ful wrongfully bigonne thou,’ quod he,

‘And yet in wrong is thy perseveraunce;

Wostow nat how our mighty princes free

Han thus comanded and maad ordinaunce,

That every cristen wight shal han penaunce

But-if that he his cristendom withseye,

And goon al quit, if he wol it reneye?’

‘Your princes erren, as your nobley dooth,’

Quod tho Cecile, ‘and with a wood sentence

Ye make us gilty, and it is nat sooth;

For ye, that knowen wel our innocence,

For as muche as we doon a reverence

To Crist, and for we bere a cristen name,

Ye putte on us a cryme, and eek a blame.

But we that knowen thilke name so

For vertuous, we may it nat withseye.’

Almache answerde, ‘chees oon of thise two,

Do sacrifyce, or cristendom reneye,

That thou mowe now escapen by that weye.’

At which the holy blisful fayre mayde

Gan for to laughe, and to the Iuge seyde,

‘O Iuge, confus in thy nycetee,

Woltow that I reneye innocence,

To make me a wikked wight?’ quod she;

‘Lo! he dissimuleth here in audience,

He stareth and woodeth in his advertence!’

To whom Almachius, ‘unsely wrecche,

Ne woostow nat how far my might may strecche?

Han noght our mighty princes to me yeven,

Ye, bothe power and auctoritee

To maken folk to dyen or to liven?

Why spekestow so proudly than to me?’

‘I speke noght but stedfastly,’ quod she,

‘Nat proudly, for I seye, as for my syde,

We haten deedly thilke vyce of pryde.

And if thou drede nat a sooth to here,

Than wol I shewe al openly, by right,

That thou hast maad a ful gret lesing here.

Thou seyst, thy princes han thee yeven might

Bothe for to sleen and for to quiken a wight;

Thou, that ne mayst but only lyf bireve,

Thou hast non other power ne no leve!

But thou mayst seyn, thy princes han thee maked

Ministre of deeth; for if thou speke of mo,

Thou lyest, for thy power is ful naked.’

‘Do wey thy boldnes,’ seyde Almachius tho,

‘And sacrifyce to our goddes, er thou go;

I recche nat what wrong that thou me profre,

For I can suffre it as a philosophre;

Thise wordes and swiche othere seyde she,

And he weex wroth, and bad men sholde hir lede

Hom til hir hous, ‘and in hir hous,’ quod he,

‘Brenne hir right in a bath of flambes rede.’

And as he bad, right so was doon in dede;

For in a bath they gonne hir faste shetten,

And night and day greet fyr they under betten.