Chaucer's Works, Volume 4 — The Canterbury Tales

And never cessed hem the feith to teche;

That she hadde fostred, hem she gan to preche;

Whan ended was the lyf of seint Cecyle,

Er we had riden fully fyve myle,

At Boghton under Blee us gan atake

A man, that clothed was in clothes blake,

And undernethe he hadde a whyt surplys.

His hakeney, that was al pomely grys,

So swatte, that it wonder was to see;

It semed he had priked myles three.

The hors eek that his yeman rood upon

So swatte, that unnethe mighte it gon.

Aboute the peytrel stood the foom ful hye,

He was of fome al flekked as a pye.

A male tweyfold on his croper lay,

It semed that he caried lyte array.

Al light for somer rood this worthy man,

And in myn herte wondren I bigan

What that he was, til that I understood

How that his cloke was sowed to his hood;

For which, when I had longe avysed me,

I demed him som chanon for to be.

His hat heng at his bak doun by a laas,

For he had riden more than trot or paas;

He had ay priked lyk as he were wood.

A clote-leef he hadde under his hood

For swoot, and for to kepe his heed from hete.

But it was Ioye for to seen him swete!

His forheed dropped as a stillatorie,

Were ful of plantain and of paritorie.

And whan that he was come, he gan to crye,

‘God save,’ quod he, ‘this Ioly companye!

Faste have I priked,’ quod he, ‘for your sake,

By-cause that I wolde yow atake,

To ryden in this mery companye.’

His yeman eek was ful of curteisye,

And seyde, ‘sires, now in the morwe-tyde

Out of your hostelrye I saugh you ryde,

And warned heer my lord and my soverayn,

Which that to ryden with yow is ful fayn,

For his desport; he loveth daliaunce.’

‘Who, sire? my lord? ye, ye, withouten lye,

He can of murthe, and eek of Iolitee

Nat but ynough; also sir, trusteth me,

And ye him knewe as wel as do I,

Ye wolde wondre how wel and craftily

He coude werke, and that in sondry wyse.

He hath take on him many a greet empryse,

Which were ful hard for any that is here

To bringe aboute, but they of him it lere.

As homely as he rit amonges yow,

If ye him knewe, it wolde be for your prow;

Ye wolde nat forgoon his aqueyntaunce

For mochel good, I dar leye in balaunce

Al that I have in my possessioun.

He is a man of heigh discrecioun,

I warne you wel, he is a passing man.’

‘Why?’ quod this yeman, ‘wherto axe ye me?

God help me so, for he shal never thee!

(But I wol nat avowe that I seye,

And therfor kepe it secree, I yow preye).

He is to wys, in feith, as I bileve;

That that is overdoon, it wol nat preve

Aright, as clerkes seyn, it is a vyce.

Wherfor in that I holde him lewed and nyce.

For whan a man hath over-greet a wit,

Ful oft him happeth to misusen it;

So dooth my lord, and that me greveth sore.

God it amende, I can sey yow na-more.’

Whyl this yeman was thus in his talking,

This chanoun drough him neer, and herde al thing

Which this yeman spak, for suspecioun

Of mennes speche ever hadde this chanoun.

For Catoun seith, that he that gilty is

Demeth al thing be spoke of him, y-wis.

That was the cause he gan so ny him drawe

To his yeman, to herknen al his sawe.

And thus he seyde un-to his yeman tho,

‘Hold thou thy pees, and spek no wordes mo,

For if thou do, thou shalt it dere abye;

Thou sclaundrest me heer in this companye,

And eek discoverest that thou sholdest hyde.’

With this chanoun I dwelt have seven yeer,

And of his science am I never the neer.

Al that I hadde, I have y-lost ther-by;

And god wot, so hath many mo than I.

Ther I was wont to be right fresh and gay

Of clothing and of other good array,

Now may I were an hose upon myn heed;

And wher my colour was bothe fresh and reed,

Now is it wan and of a leden hewe;

Who-so it useth, sore shal he rewe.

And of my swink yet blered is myn yë,

Lo! which avantage is to multiplye!

That slyding science hath me maad so bare,

That I have no good, wher that ever I fare;

And yet I am endetted so ther-by

Of gold that I have borwed, trewely,

That whyl I live, I shal it quyte never.

Lat every man be war by me for ever!

What maner man that casteth him ther-to,

If he continue, I holde his thrift y-do.

So helpe me god, ther-by shal he nat winne,

But empte his purs, and make his wittes thinne.

And whan he, thurgh his madnes and folye,

Hath lost his owene good thurgh Iupartye,

Thanne he excyteth other folk ther-to,

To lese hir good as he him-self hath do.

For unto shrewes Ioye it is and ese

To have hir felawes in peyne and disese;

Thus was I ones lerned of a clerk.

Of that no charge, I wol speke of our werk.

What sholde I tellen ech proporcioun

Of thinges whiche that we werche upon,

As on fyve or sixe ounces, may wel be,

Of silver or som other quantite,

And bisie me to telle yow the names

Of orpiment, brent bones, yren squames,

That into poudre grounden been ful smal?

And in an erthen potte how put is al,

And salt y-put in, and also papeer,

Biforn thise poudres that I speke of heer,

And wel y-covered with a lampe of glas,

And mochel other thing which that ther was?

And of the pot and glasses enluting,

That of the eyre mighte passe out no-thing?

And of the esy fyr and smart also,

Which that was maad, and of the care and wo

That we hadde in our matires sublyming,

And in amalgaming and calcening

Of quik-silver, y-clept Mercurie crude?

For alle our sleightes we can nat conclude.

Our orpiment and sublymed Mercurie,

Our grounden litarge eek on the porphurie,

Of ech of thise of ounces a certeyn

Nought helpeth us, our labour is in veyn.

Ne eek our spirites ascencioun,

Ne our materes that lyen al fixe adoun,

Mowe in our werking no-thing us avayle.

For lost is al our labour and travayle,

And al the cost, a twenty devel weye,

Is lost also, which we upon it leye.

Ther is also ful many another thing

That is unto our craft apertening;

Though I by ordre hem nat reherce can,

By-cause that I am a lewed man,

Yet wol I telle hem as they come to minde,

Though I ne can nat sette hem in hir kinde;

As bole armoniak, verdegrees, boras,

And sondry vessels maad of erthe and glas,

Our urinales and our descensories,

Violes, croslets, and sublymatories,

Cucurbites, and alembykes eek,

And othere swiche, dere y-nough a leek.

Nat nedeth it for to reherce hem alle,

Watres rubifying and boles galle,

Arsenik, sal armoniak, and brimstoon;

And herbes coude I telle eek many oon,

As egremoine, valerian, and lunarie,

And othere swiche, if that me liste tarie.

Our lampes brenning bothe night and day,

To bringe aboute our craft, if that we may.

Our fourneys eek of calcinacioun,

And of watres albificacioun,

Unslekked lym, chalk, and gleyre of an ey,

Poudres diverse, asshes, dong, pisse, and cley,

Cered pokets, sal peter, vitriole;

And divers fyres maad of wode and cole;

Sal tartre, alkaly, and sal preparat,

And combust materes and coagulat,

Cley maad with hors or mannes heer, and oile

Of tartre, alum, glas, berm, wort, and argoile,

Resalgar, and our materes enbibing;

And eek of our materes encorporing,

And of our silver citrinacioun,

Our cementing and fermentacioun,

Our ingottes, testes, and many mo.

This cursed craft who-so wol exercyse,

He shal no good han that him may suffyse;

For al the good he spendeth ther-aboute,

He lese shal, ther-of have I no doute.

Who-so that listeth outen his folye,

Lat him come forth, and lerne multiplye;

And every man that oght hath in his cofre,

Lat him appere, and wexe a philosofre.

Ascaunce that craft is so light to lere?

Nay, nay, god woot, al be he monk or frere,

Preest or chanoun, or any other wight,

Though he sitte at his book bothe day and night,

In lernyng of this elvish nyce lore,

Al is in veyn, and parde, mochel more!

To lerne a lewed man this subtiltee,

Fy! spek nat ther-of, for it wol nat be;

Al conne he letterure, or conne he noon,

As in effect, he shal finde it al oon.

For bothe two, by my savacioun,

Concluden, in multiplicacioun,

Y-lyke wel, whan they han al y-do;

This is to seyn, they faylen bothe two.

A! nay! lat be; the philosophres stoon,

Elixir clept, we sechen faste echoon;

For hadde we him, than were we siker y-now.

But, unto god of heven I make avow,

For al our craft, whan we han al y-do,

And al our sleighte, he wol nat come us to.

He hath y-maad us spenden mochel good,

For sorwe of which almost we wexen wood,

But that good hope crepeth in our herte,

Supposinge ever, though we sore smerte,

To be releved by him afterward;

Swich supposing and hope is sharp and hard;

I warne yow wel, it is to seken ever;

That futur temps hath maad men to dissever,

In trust ther-of, from al that ever they hadde.

Yet of that art they can nat wexen sadde,

For unto hem it is a bitter swete;

So semeth it; for nadde they but a shete

Which that they mighte wrappe hem inne a-night,

And a bak to walken inne by day-light,

They wolde hem selle and spenden on this craft;

They can nat stinte til no-thing be laft.

And evermore, wher that ever they goon,

Men may hem knowe by smel of brimstoon;

For al the world, they stinken as a goot;

Her savour is so rammish and so hoot,

That, though a man from hem a myle be,

The savour wol infecte him, trusteth me;

Lo, thus by smelling and threedbare array,

If that men liste, this folk they knowe may.

And if a man wol aske hem prively,

Why they been clothed so unthriftily,

They right anon wol rownen in his ere,

And seyn, that if that they espyed were,

Men wolde hem slee, by-cause of hir science;

Lo, thus this folk bitrayen innocence!

Passe over this; I go my tale un-to.

Er than the pot be on the fyr y-do,

Of metals with a certein quantite,

My lord hem tempreth, and no man but he—

Now he is goon, I dar seyn boldely—

For, as men seyn, he can don craftily;

Algate I wool wel he hath swich a name,

And yet ful ofte he renneth in a blame;

And wite ye how? ful ofte it happeth so,

The pot to-breketh, and farewel! al is go!

Thise metals been of so greet violence,

Our walles mowe nat make hem resistence,

But if they weren wroght of lym and stoon;

They percen so, and thurgh the wal they goon,

And somme of hem sinken in-to the ground—

Thus han we lost by tymes many a pound—

And somme are scatered al the floor aboute,

Somme lepe in-to the roof; with-outen doute,

Though that the feend noght in our sighte him shewe,

I trowe he with us be, that ilke shrewe!

In helle wher that he is lord and sire,

Nis ther more wo, ne more rancour ne ire.

Whan that our pot is broke, as I have sayd,

Every man chit, and halt him yvel apayd.

Another seyde, the fyr was over hoot:—

But, be it hoot or cold, I dar seye this,

That we concluden evermore amis.

We fayle of that which that we wolden have,

And in our madnesse evermore we rave.

And whan we been togidres everichoon,

Every man semeth a Salomon.

But al thing which that shyneth as the gold

Nis nat gold, as that I have herd it told;

Ne every appel that is fair at yë

Ne is nat good, what-so men clappe or crye.

Right so, lo! fareth it amonges us;

He that semeth the wysest, by Iesus!

Is most fool, whan it cometh to the preef;

And he that semeth trewest is a theef;

That shul ye knowe, er that I fro yow wende,

By that I of my tale have maad an ende.

Ther is a chanoun of religioun

Amonges us, wolde infecte al a toun,

Though it as greet were as was Ninivee,

Rome, Alisaundre, Troye, and othere three.

His sleightes and his infinit falsnesse

Ther coude no man wryten, as I gesse,

Thogh that he mighte liven a thousand yeer.

In al this world of falshede nis his peer;

For in his termes so he wolde him winde,

And speke his wordes in so sly a kinde,

Whan he commune shal with any wight,

That he wol make him doten anon right,

But it a feend be, as him-selven is.

Ful many a man hath he bigyled er this,

And wol, if that he live may a whyle;

And yet men ryde and goon ful many a myle

Him for to seke and have his aqueyntaunce,

Noght knowinge of his false governaunce.

And if yow list to yeve me audience,

I wol it tellen heer in your presence.

In London was a preest, an annueleer,

That therin dwelled hadde many a yeer,

Which was so plesaunt and so servisable

Unto the wyf, wher-as he was at table,

That she wolde suffre him no-thing for to paye

For bord ne clothing, wente he never so gaye;

And spending-silver hadde he right y-now.

Therof no fors; I wol precede as now,

And telle forth my tale of the chanoun,

That broghte this preest to confusioun.

‘What!’ quod this chanoun, ‘sholde I be untrewe?

Nay, that were thing y-fallen al of-newe.

Trouthe is a thing that I wol ever kepe

Un-to that day in which that I shal crepe

In-to my grave, and elles god forbede;

Bileveth this as siker as is your crede.

God thanke I, and in good tyme be it sayd,

That ther was never man yet yvel apayd

For gold ne silver that he to me lente,

Ne never falshede in myn herte I mente.

And sir,’ quod he, ‘now of my privetee,

Sin ye so goodlich han been un-to me,

And kythed to me so greet gentillesse,

Somwhat to quyte with your kindenesse,

I wol yow shewe, and, if yow list to lere,

I wol yow teche pleynly the manere,

How I can werken in philosophye.

Taketh good heed, ye shul wel seen at yë,

That I wol doon a maistrie er I go.’

This chanoun was my lord, ye wolden wene?

Sir host, in feith, and by the hevenes quene,

It was another chanoun, and nat he,

That can an hundred fold more subtiltee!

He hath bitrayed folkes many tyme;

Of his falshede it dulleth me to ryme.

Ever whan that I speke of his falshede,

For shame of him my chekes wexen rede;

Algates, they biginnen for to glowe,

For reednesse have I noon, right wel I knowe,

In my visage; for fumes dyverse

Of metals, which ye han herd me reherce,

Consumed and wasted han my reednesse.

Now tak heed of this chanouns cursednesse!

The coles right anon weren y-fet,

And this chanoun took out a crosselet

Of his bosom, and shewed it the preest.

‘This instrument,’ quod he, ‘which that thou seest,

Tak in thyn hand, and put thy-self ther-inne

Of this quik-silver an ounce, and heer biginne,

In the name of Crist, to wexe a philosofre.

Ther been ful fewe, whiche that I wolde profre

To shewen hem thus muche of my science.

For ye shul seen heer, by experience,

That this quik-silver wol I mortifye

Right in your sighte anon, withouten lye,

And make it as good silver and as fyn

As ther is any in your purs or myn,

Or elleswher, and make it malliable;

And elles, holdeth me fals and unable

Amonges folk for ever to appere!

I have a poudre heer, that coste me dere,

Shal make al good, for it is cause of al

My conning, which that I yow shewen shal.

Voydeth your man, and lat him be ther-oute,

And shet the dore, whyls we been aboute

Our privetee, that no man us espye

Whyls that we werke in this philosophye.’

Al as he bad, fulfilled was in dede,

This ilke servant anon-right out yede,

And his maister shette the dore anon,

And to hir labour speedily they gon.