Troilus and Criseyde, The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer [1 ed.]

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Troilus and Criseyde, The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer [1 ed.]

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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE Geoffrey Chaucer, Chaucer was born when Edward III was achieving his first victories in the Hundred Years' War against France. The history of the Chaucer family to some extent mirrors the rise of the burgher class during these years. His father and grandfather were prosperous wine-merchants who had obtained some standing at court and were beginning to engage in public service. The poet for most of his life held government offices,

and Thomas Chaucer, who was almost certainly the poet's son, rose to wealth and influence in the fifteenth century.


extant records of Chaucer's

that he was a busy and versatile




of affairs, but they disclose almost nothing of his personal life or of his literary career. Even the exact date of his birth is a matter of conjecture. From evidence he gave in a law-suit in 1 386 it is known that he was then "forty years old and more and had borne arms for twenty-seven years." From an early age he evidently had intimate knowledge of the court; he served successively in the households of Lionel, Duke of Clarence, Edward III, and John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. In 1 359 he was a member of Lionel's division in the largest


army which Edward

so far led into France.


Chaucer was taken

prisoner and ransomed by the King. The following year he seems to have acted as diplomatic courier in the negotiations resulting in the Peace of Calais. He may then have been chosen to receive special training for government service, perhaps education at the Inns of Court, for by 1367 he had become a servant to the King with a pension for life. Chaucer's social position was advanced by his marriage, perhaps in 1366, to Philippa de Roet, a lady in waiting on the Queen and sister of Katherine Swynford, afterwards the third wife of John of Gaunt, from whose issue the Tudors traced their descent. Chaucer had already be-


win some reputation as a poet and on the death of Gaunt's first wife in 1369, he wrote, supposedly at the Duke's request, the Boo{ of the Duchess, in which he shows an intimate knowledge of the French court poetry. During the first ten years of his service as a King's esquire Chaucer was frequently employed for diplomatic missions to the continent, to



"on the King's secret affairs." He went several times toFranceand the Low Countries, but perhaps the most important for his literary develop-

ment were

the two missions that he



Italy in 1372 and 1378. The first of these took him to Genoa on a commercial assignment, but

he also visited Florence and was there when the city was arranging for Boccaccio's lectures on Dante. On his second journey to Italy, regarding "certain affairs touching the expedition of the King's war," he visited Milan, where Petrarch had lived and worked the last twenty years of his life. Even before his second Italian mission Chaucer

had begun

to receive offices at

home. In

1374 he had been appointed Comptroller of Customs and Subsidy of Wools, Skins, and Hides. That same year he obtained rent-free the house above the city gate of Aldgate and was awarded by the King a daily pitcher of wine. A few years later he was also given charge of the customs on wines. In his position in the Custom House, which he held for almost twelve years, Chaucer came into close association with the great merchants who were then beginning to come into prominence, and seems to have been particularly intimate with the merchants who actually controlled the city government of London. Yet there is little indication that he ever became strongly partisan in politics. He

appointment under Edward the power behind the throne; it was confirmed by Richard II, and Chaucer received several preferments from him; yet he also continued to receive favors from Henry IV after Richard's deposition. The twelve years passed in the tower above Aldgate were among the most productive for Chaucer as a writer. Besides the two court poems, the House of Fame and the Parliament of received his III,


when John of Gaunt was

Fowls, Chaucer, as the result of his Italian journeys and reading of Boccaccio and Petrarch, was inspired to work upon "the storye of Pala-

mon and Arcyte" and

the Troilus




dedication of the Troilus to "moral Gower" and "philosophical Strode" disclose something of his intellectual friendships. He seems to have been rather intimate with


that poet acted as his deputy at the



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE House during one of his missions. Strode, who was known lor his work in logk .it hcfbfd, was business trans also associated with Chaucer in


action. Chaucer's interest in philosophy

obliged to travel constantly and was twice robbed by highwaymen on the same day. Mis clerkship ceased in 391, and he became administrative director ol North Pethcrton forest in Somerset. This was his last regular office, and although he spent some time in Somerset, he was frequently in London, where he continued to enjoy royal favor. His pensions were somewhat irregular, for as was common at the time it was difficult to exact payment from the Exchequer, but there is little evidence that he suffered any real want. During his last years he presumably continued to work on the Canterbury Tales, and wrote a few minor poems and the Treatise on the Astrolabe, written for "litel



luularlv shown

in his

translation of the



De Con-

which pro vided the inspiration for several of his shorter poems. In the Legend of Good Women Chaucer proposed to atone to Love for his portraval of the "false Cressida" by celebrating the lives 1 nineteen of "Cupid's saints," nine of which he completed. In 1385, having obtained deputies for his comptrollerships, Chaucer appears to have retired to the country, perhaps to Greenwich. He became justice of the peace for Kent and the following year was elected to parliament as one of the knights of the shire. By the end of that solaltonc Philosophise of Boethius,

year, however,

Chaucer had ceased




the customs, perhaps because of the hostility of the Duke of Gloucester to the King's appointments, and for three years he was without employment. During this period of leisure is probable that he began the Canterbury it Tales.

Chaucer entered upon a new series of governmental posts in 1389 when Richard II assumed direct control of the government. As Clerk of the King's Works, he supervised the mainten-

repair of the royal buildings

and parks,

including the construction of scaffolds for the tournaments at Smithiit-ld. In this office he was





In 1399, shortly after the coronation of Henry IV, Chaucer leased for fifty-three years a in the garden of Westminster Abbey. He had previously received several gifts from Henry, and his pensions were approved and increased by the new King. Chaucer lived for less


than a year in the Abbey garden. He died on October 25, 1 400, and as a tenant of the grounds, was buried in Westminster Abbey in the place

now known

as the Poet's






W. W. Skeat Thomas Tyrwhitt

Edited by

Sequence by


Page 159

W. W. Skeat Thomas Tyrwhitt

Edited by

Sequence by




George Philip Krapp

THE CANTERBURY TALES, Page Translated by


U. Nicolson



Book Book

I, p. i

III, p.



Book V,


II, p. 21

Book p.









The double sorwe of Troilus to tellen,


That was the king Priamus sone of Troye,

Unhappy son of Priam, king of Troy, And how he fared, when first in love he fell, From woe to weal, then back again from joy, Until we part my time I shall employ. Tisiphone, now help me to endite

how his aventures fellen wo to wele, and after out of joye,

In lovinge,


My purpos is, er that I parte fro ye. Thesiphone, thou help me for t'endyte Thise woful vers, that wepen as I wryte! 2 To thee clepe I, thou goddesse of torment, Thou cruel Furie, sorwing ever in peyne; Help me, that am the sorwful instrument That helpeth lovers, as I can, to pleyne! For wel sit it, the sothe for to seyne, A woful wight to han a drery fere, And, to a sorwful tale, a sory chere. that god dar to Love, for



3 of Loves servaunts serve,


myn unlyklinesse,

Preyen for speed, al sholde I therfor sterve, So fer am I fro his help in derknesse; But nathelees, if this may doon gladnesse To any lover, and his cause avayle, Have he my thank, and myn be this travayle!

4 But ye loveres, that bathen in gladnesse, If any drope of pitee in yow be, Remembreth yow on passed hevinesse That ye han felt, and on the adversitee Of othere folk, and thenketh how that ye

Han felt that Love dorste yow displese; Or ye han wonne him with to greet an ese.

double sorrow of Troilus to

These woful

lines, that



e'en as


faces sad, those


sad tales relate. 3

For I to serve Love's servants ever try, Yet dare not seek, for my unlikeliness,


aid of Love, although for love



The thanks be


and mine

this toilsome tale.



O ye lovers, bathed in bliss always,

If any dr.ops of pity in



Recall the griefs gone by of other days, And think sometimes upon the adversity

Of other Have

folk, forgetting

not that ye

yourselves Love's power to displease, Lest ye might win Love's prize with too great ease. felt


And pray for those who suffer in the Of Troilus, as I shall tell you here,

That I have might to shewe, in som manere, Swich peyne and wo as Loves folk endure,


In Troilus unsely aventure.

How dark may be love's ways and

In love, that never nil recovered be, And eek for hem that falsly been apeyred Thorugh wikked tonges, be it he or she; Thus biddeth god, for his benignitee, To graunte hem sone out of this world to pace, That been despeyred out of Loves grace.


am I from prospect of success. But yet if this may make the sorrows less Of any lover, or may his cause avail, So


And biddeth eek for hem that been despeyred


Help me, who am the sorrowful instrument That lovers use their sorrows to complain; For truly this is not a saying vain, A gloomy man should have a gloomy mate,

And preyeth for hem that ben in the cas Of Troilus, as ye may after here, That love hem bringe in hevene to solas, And eek for me preyeth to god so dere,



2 On thee I call, Goddess malevolent, Thou cruel Fury, grieving ever in pain!


Beseeching Love to bring them to delight; pray for me as well, to God so dear,



In this

may have





of Troilus,


make appear, treacherous.

6 And pray for those that dwell in love's despair, From which they never hope to be restored; And pray for them who must the burden bear

Of slanderous tongue of lady or of lord Pray God that he the faithful may reward. And to the hopeless grant a quick release And bring them from unrest to lasting peace.


who are al case. continue t be to,


biddeth eek for hem that been at esc, That god hem graunte ay good perseveraunce,

lor lovers all

Thai the] tnaj


And praj that the) theii ladies still may And unto Love a reverent honor show




or thus








ing lor those



truth shall grow,



setting forth their fates in




till till,




hem might

hir ladies so to plese,

That it to Love be worship and plesaunce. For so hope I my soule best avaunce, To preye for hem that Loves servaunts be, And wryte hir wo, and live in charitee.




and compassion in my heart, As though brother were to lovers all. Now take. pra\ mv storv in good part; Henceforth I shall endeavor to recall What sorrows once on Troilus must fall



As though





love, but tor





love this old love spurned.


W ell known

the storv, how the Greeks so strong went with a thousand vessels sailing To Troy, and there the Trojan citv long iesieged, and alter ten years' siege prevailing. In divers ways, but with one wrath unfailing. Avenged on Troy the wrong to Helen done By Pans, when at last great Troy was won. In arms,


Now so it

chanced that in the Trojan town, There dwelt a lord of rank and high degree, A priest named Calchas, of such great renown


in all science such proficiency,

That he knew what the fate of Trov would For at the shrine at Delphi he had heard Phoebus Apollo's dire foreboding word.


hem compassioun

were hir owene brother dere.

Now herkeneth with a gode entencioun,


In loving Crcssida,

for to have of


For now wol


In whiche ye

may the double sorwes


streight to

Of Troilus, in loving of Criseyde, And how that she forsook him er she

Calchas found

fil it

so, that in


his priestly


So whan

this Calkas

knew by calculinge,

And eek by answere of this Appollo,


He caste anoon out of the toun to go;

straight resolved the Trojans to forsake; his divinations well

That Troy was doomed,



for all that

Troy might do.

That Grekes sholden swich a peple bringe, Thorugh which that Troye moste been for-do, For wel wiste he, by sort, that Troye sholde Destroyed been, ye, wolde who-so nolde.




10 the toun ther was Dwellinge a lord of greet auctoritee, A gret devyn that cleped was Calkas, That in science so expert was, that he Knew wel that Troye sholde destroyed be, By answere of his god, that highte thus, Daun Phebus or Apollo Delphicus.


Confirmed the oracle Apollo spake, That with the Greeks came such a mighty nation, That in the end the city thev would take, For by


9 It is wel wist, how that the Grekes stronge In armes with a thousand shippes wente To Troye-wardes, and the citee longe Assegeden neigh ten yeer er they stente, And, in diverse wyse and oon entente, The ravisshing to wreken of Eleyne, By Paris doon, they wroughten al hir peyne.



my matere,

stealth to leave the city he prepared,

For cunning plans he knew well to devise; In secret to the Grecian host he fared, Where they received him in most courtly wise, As one of high distinction in their eyes; For they had hope that by his priestly skill, He might ward off their future harm and ill.


For which, for to departen softely Took purpos ful this forknowinge wyse, And to the Grekes ost ful prively He stal anoon; and they, in curteys wyse, Him deden bothe worship and servyse, In trust that he hath conning hem to rede In every peril which that is to drede.


Great cry arose when it was first made known 1 hrough all the town, and everywhere was told, That Calchas had turned traitor and had flown, And to the Greeks his faithless honor sold; And every Trojan, both the young and old, hx lared that Calchas, with his wicked kin, Deserved to burn alive for this great sin. 1


The noyse up







Thorugh al the toun, and generally was spoken, That Calkas traytor fled was, and allyed With hem of Grece; and casten to ben wroken On him that falsly hadde his feith so broken;

And seyden, he and

al his

kin at ones fel and bones.

Ben worthy for to brennen, 14

Now Calchas left

Now hadde Calkas left, in this meschaunce,

Innocent of this His daughter, who in grief her life now led, For mortal fear she felt in her great need, And had no one in Troy her cause to plead,

Al unwist of this false and wikked dede, His doughter, which that was in gret penaunce, For of hir lyf she was ful sore in drede, As she that niste what was best to rede;

behind him when he fled, so false and wicked deed,


15-22] For bothe a widowe was she, and allone Of any freend, to whom she dorste hir mone. Criseyde was this lady

name this lady bore, And in the Trojan city, to my mind, Was none so fair, for in her heauty more Angelical she seemed than human kind,

Cressida was the

name a-right;

As to my dome, in al Troyes citee Nas noon so fair, for passing every wight So aungellyk was



For she a widow was without a friend Who might hear aid and helpful counsel lend.

hir natyf beautee,

That lyk a thing immortal semed she, As doth an hevenish parfit creature, That doun were sent in scorning of nature.

As though a thing immortal were combined

Of all of heaven's gifts of choicest worth, And sent down here in scorn of our poor earth. 16


This lady, which that al-day herde at ere Hir fadres shame, his falsnesse and tresoun, Wei nigh out of hir wit for sorwe and fere, In widewes habit large of samit broun, On knees she fil biforn Ector a-doun; With pitous voys, and tendrely wepinge, His mercy bad, hir-selven excusinge.

This lady could in no way close her ears To her own father's evil deed and fame, And driven near distracted by her fears, In widow's sober habit dressed, she came Before great Hector, where she doth proclaim Her loyalty with tearful voice and eye, And pleads for grace and treason doth deny.



Now was this Ector pitous of nature,

Now Hector was a man of kindly

And saw that she was sorwfully bigoon, And that she was so fair a creature; Of his goodnesse he gladed hir anoon, And seyde, "lat your fadres treson goon

And when he saw how great was her distress, And then her beauty likewise played a part,

Forth with mischaunce, and ye your-self, in


These words of comfort to her did address: "About your father's wicked deeds, the less That's said the better! But you yourself in joy


Dwelleth with


whyl you good


in Troye.

Dwell here with us the while you

will in




As fer

as I may ought enquere or here." And she him thonked with ful humble chere, And ofter wolde, and it hadde ben his wille, And took hir leve, and hoom, and held hir stille

"And all respect that men owe unto you, As though your father still were dwelling here, That shall you have, and all regard that's due Your person, I assure you without fear." She humbly thanked him for these words of cheer, And would have thanked him more had he desired, And took her leave and to her home retired.

And in hir hous she abood with swich meynee


As to hir honour nede was to holde; And whyl she was dwellinge in that citee, Kepte hir estat, and bothe of yonge and olde Ful wel beloved, and wel men of hir tolde. But whether that she children hadde or noon,


And al th'onour that men may doon yow have, ferforth as your fader dwelled here, Ye shul han, and your body shal men save,


nought; therfore I lete it goon. 20 The thinges fellen, as they doon of werre, Bitwixen hem of Troye and Grekes ofte; For som day boughten they of Troye it derre, And eft the Grekes founden no thing softe The folk of Troye; and thus fortune onlofte, And under eft, gan hem to wheelen bothe After hir cours, ay whyl they were wrothe. I



there she dwelt with such a retinue

was for one of her high station, kept good house, as she was wont to do, Enjoying love and honest reputation As much as any in the Trojan nation; But if she children had, I do not know, I have not heard, and therefore let it go. 20 The fates of war were there exemplified Between the Trojan and the Grecian forces, For one day those of Troy were sorely tried, But next the Greeks, for all their great resources, Must yield; for Fortune hath uncertain courses, And now her wheel goes up, and now goes down, And now she wears a smile and now a frown. fitting




But how this toun com to destrucioun Ne falleth nought to purpos me to telle; For it were here a long disgressioun Fro my matere, and yow to longe dwelle. But the Troyane gestes, as they felle, In Omer, or in Dares, or in Dyte,

Who-so that


may rede hem as they wryte.

But how Is


And hir citee


hem of Troye shetten,



town came to

its final end time to tell, that lengthy tale would bend

purpose at


For much too far Me from my point, and weary you as well; But all the Trojan deeds, as there they fell, Do Homer, Dares and Dictys all narrate, For future time to read and contemplate. 22


But though that Grekes




though the Greeks the Trojan city hold, Emprisoned by a siege set all around,



observe their customs old, Honoring their gixls with worshipping profound; Anil o! their relics one the must renowned he Trojans



Was called Palladion, to which/ they prayed In trust ot heaven'l protection ind .nd.


And so it clunccd when April heralds Spring, And clothes the meadows with new pleasant green, And when tresh tlowers, white and red, now bring C



their tragranccs so

The throngs


pure and clean. Trojan folk might then he seen,

All going forth Palladion's feast to hold, >rding to their rites and customs old.

And The

to the



And And


24 in their very best,











And so bifel, whan comen was the tyme Of Aperil, whan clothed is the mede With newe grene, of lusty Ver the pryme, swote smellen floures whyte and rede,


In sondry wyses shewed, as I rede, folk of Trove hir observaunces olde, Palladiones feste for to holde.


24 right,

to Palladion themselves addressed;


a lusty knight,

and maiden bright, All well arrayed, from greatest unto least, In honor of the season and the feast. a ladv lair

And to the temple, in al hir beste wyse, In general, ther wente many a wight, To herknen of Palladion the servyse; And namely, so many a lusty knight, So many a lady fresh and mayden bright, Ful wel arayed, bothe moste and leste, Ye, bothe for the seson and the feste.



the folk was Cressida that day, All clothed in black, in widow's proper wise, Yet as the alphabet begins with A, So stood her beauty peerless in men's eyes;

And all folk gazed at her in glad surprise, To sec in her how fair the fairest are, And under inky cloud, so bright a star 26

As was fair Cressida, so brightly shone Her beauty there beneath her widow's weeds, And yet she stood apart and all alone, Behind the throng, which she but little heeds, And by the door through which the crowd proceeds, Quite simply dressed, but with the sprightly air take good care. 27 Now I roilus, the leader of a band ( )t \ outhful knights, went with them up and down In this great temple, where on every hand They eyed the beauties of the Trojan town; For Troilus prized neither smile nor frown Of one particular, and fancy free,

Ot one who of herself can


praised or criticized impartially.


And as he roamed



about, he kept an eye the members of his retinue,

And if some knight or squire heaved a sigh, Or longing glances towards some maiden threw, 1 hen he would smile and make a great ado,





"God knows she






Hir olde usage woldc they not letten, As for to honoure hir goddes ful devoute; But aldermost in honour, out of doute, They hadde a relik hight Palladion, That was hir trist a-boven everichon.


Among thise othere folk was Criseyda, In widewes habite blakj but nathelees, Right as our firste lettre is now an A, In beautee first so stood she, makelees; Hir godly looking gladede al the prees. Nas never seyn thing to ben preysed derre, Nor under cloude blak so bright a sterre 26 As was Criseyde, as folk seyde everichoon That hir bihelden in hir blake wede; And yet she stood ful lowe and stille alloon, Bihinden othere folk, in litel brede, And neigh the dore, ay under shames drede, Simple of a-tyr, and debonaire of chere, With ful assured loking and manere. 27

This Troilus, as he was wont to gyde His yonge knightes, ladde hem up and doun In thilke large temple on every syde, Biholding ay the ladyes of the toun, Now here, now there, for no devocioun Hadde he to noon, to reven him his reste, But gan to preyse and lakken whom him leste. 28 And in his walk ful fast he gan to wayten If knight or squyer of his companye Gan for to syke, or lete his eyen bayten On any woman that he coude aspye; He wolde smyle, and holden it folye, And seye him thus, "god wot, she slepeth softe

of thee, though thou shalt twist and writhe!


"The fashion of you lovers I have heard, And heard of all your foolish gaits and ways, And what great toils to win love are incurred, In keeping it, what dangers and dismays, For when your prey is lost, come woful daysl Whal fools ve be, and in your follv blind, W ho can no lesson in each other find."

For love of thee, whan thou tornest ful ofte! 29 "I have herd told, pardieux, of your livinge, Ye lovers, and your lewede observaunces, And which a labour folk han in winninge Of love, and, in the keping, which doutaunces; And whan your preye is lost, wo and penaunces; O verrey foles! nyce and blinde be ye; Ther nis not oon can war by other be."


3 Up-on hir fo, that highte Poliphete, So heynous, that men mighte on it spete. 232 Answerde of this ech worse of hem than other, And Poliphete they gonnen thus to warien, "An-honged be swich oon, were he my brother;

And so he shal, for it ne may not varien."


And Helen,

holding Cressida's right hand, Spoke first. "O, do!" with sympathy she cried, As side by side together there they stand. "By Jupiter, an evil fate betide The wretches who to injure you have tried!


sure, if


have anything to


They'll see good reason to regret the day."


"You state the case," remarked Deiphebus To Pandar, "since you know it all so well."

"My lords and ladies all, it standeth thus, No need," he said, "too long on it to dwell" Then rang them out a story like a bell About this Poliphete, and made it stretch So



felt like

spewing on the wretch. 232

They all abused him, each worse than the other, And right and left the scoundrel they did curse: "He should and shall be hanged, were he my brother!"


that's too good, if anything

were worse I"



But why should I a length) talc rehearse? For each and .ill assured hex in the end. They'd do their best and In- her staunchesl

What sholde



lenger in this tale tarien? Pleynly, alle at ones, they hir highten, To been hir helpe in al that ever they mighten. I



Pandar." Helen said, "pray tell to us. Is my good lord and brother— Hector. I mean Informed ol this affair? And Troilus?" "Why, ves," be said, "but that reminds me, queen! It seems to me, it Troilus can be seen, It might be best, that is. it all assent, It stu- herself saw him before she went.

"For he If


have the matter more

he should know the lady

at heart,

he can hear her story

He seyde, "ye, but wole ye now me here?

Me thinketh this, sith Troilus is here, It were good, if that ye wolde assente, She tolde hir-self him al this, er she wente.

234 For he wole have the more hir grief at herte,

By cause, lo, that she

in the case,

Anil by your leave, right tor his room I'll start, And let you know within a second's space, If

Spak than Eleyne, and seyde, "Pandarus, Woot ought my lord, my brother, this matere, I mene, Ector? or woot it Troilus?"

in that place."

If that he slepe, or

And in he ran and whispered in his car. "God bless thy soul, I've brought thy pillow

a lady is;

And, by your leve, I wol but right in sterte, And do yow wite, and that anoon, y-wis, wole ought here of this."

And in he lepte, and seyde him in his ere, "God have thy soule, y-brought have I thy



235 This joke drew torth a smile from Troilus, And Pandar, lacking cause for long delay, Went back to Helen and Deiphebus, And said, "If she can come now right away, But with no crowd, then come, he says, she may, And he will hear what it is all about,

As long





237 be the better plan

"But still. I think 'twill For none to go in first except you two, And maybe me, who in a second can

Rehearse her case better than she can do;

don't think this will overtax his strength.


might exert but not for his own kin, Besides I'm almost sure he will revert To secret plans for helping Troy to win Her way from out the siege that we are in." And all unwitting of his deep intent, Without ado to Troilus they went.



too, since she


strange, he

for her,


And Helen, always

gently soft and sweet, Began with him to chat and lightly play, And said, "O, we'll soon have you on your


Now, brother, tor my sake, be well, pra\ !" And on his shoulder doth her white arm lay. And strives with gentle art as one who fain Would somewhat ease him on his couch of pain. I


"We've come,"


my lady, that is here;

236 But wel ye woot, the chaumbre

she said, "to ask some help from you,




And fewe folk may lightly make it warm;

Now loketh ye, (for I wol have no wyte, To bringe in prees that mighte doon him harm Or him disesen, for my bettre arm), Wher it be bet she byde til eft-sones;

Now loketh ye, that knowen what to doon is. 237 can knowe, That no wight in ne wente but ye tweye, But it were I, for I can, in a throwe, Reherce hir cas, unlyk that she can seye; And after this, she may him ones preye To ben good lord, in short, and take hir leve; This may not muchel of his ese him reve. 238 And eek, for she is straunge, he wol forbere His ese, which that him thar nought for yow; Eek other thing, that toucheth not to here, He wol me telle, I woot it wel right now, That secret is, and for the tounes prow." I

And when vou leave him, she can follow you And ask for his support at no great length I

Out wente anoon t'Eleyne and Deiphebus,

And seyde hem, "so there be no taryinge, Ne more pres, he wol wel that ye bringe And as he may enduren, he wole here.

able to hold out.

236 you know the chamber is but small, And people crowding in might make it hot, I would not have the blame on me to fall That I had added to his heavy lot, No, not for all the arms and legs I've got. Perhaps we'd better try some other day; But that, of course, is all for you to say.


To smylen of this gan tho Troilus, And Pandarus, with-oute rekeninge,

sey for me, best




And they, that no-thing knewe of this entente, With-oute more, to Troilus in they wente. 239 Eleyne in al hir goodly softe wyse, Gan him saluwe, and womanly to pleye, And seyde, "ywis, ye moste alweyes aryse! Now fayre brother, beth al hool, I preye!" And gan hir arm right over his sholder leye, And him with al hir wit to recomforte; As she best coude, she gan him to disporte. 240

So after this quod


"we yow biseke,



My dere brother, Deiphebus, and I, For love of god, and so doth Pandare eke.

To been good lord and freend, right hertely. Un-to Criseyde, which that certeinly Receyveth wrong, as woot wel here Pandare, That can hir cas wel bet than I declare.




brother dear Deiphebus and I, For love ot— O, and so does Paodar, too, To be a friend to one whom we hold high.

To Cressida, who no one can deny Has been much wronged, and Pandar Her


over there,

and situation can declare."


This Pandarus gan newe his tunge affyle, And al hir cas reherce, and that anoon; Whan it was seyd, sone after, in a whyle, Quod Troilus, "as sone as I may goon, I wol right fayn with al my might ben oon, Have god my trouthe, hir cause to sustene." "Good thrift have ye," quod Eleyne the quene. 242 Quod Pandarus, "and it your wille be, That she may take hir leve, er that she go?" "Or elles god for-bede," tho quod he, "If that she vouche sauf for to do so." And with that word quod Troilus, "ye two. Deiphebus,and my suster leef and dere. To yow have I to speke of o matere 243 To been avysed by your reed the bettre": And fond, as hap was, at his beddes heed,

The copie of a tretis and a lettre, That Ector hadde him sent to axen reed, If swich a man was worthy to ben deed, Woot I nought who; but in a grisly wyse He preyede hem anoon on it avyse.

Then Pandar once

again his tongue must

In Cressida's behalf to intervene."



success to you!" replied the queen.

"Perhaps," said Pandar, "if you can her see say goodbye before she hence doth go" "O yes, of course she must," responded he, "If she will be so good as to do so!" Then turning, said, "To you I want to show, Deiphebus and Helen, sister dear, A matter of importance I have here,



"And ask you what course seems to you the better," And fished out from his bed a document, And handed it, together with a letter Which Hector to him recently had sent, Whether a sentence of death he should prevent, I know not whose, and with some agitation

He begged them


their consideration.



Deiphebus gan


To tell his tale convincingly vet brief; When this was done, thinking a little while, Troilus said, "When I have some relief, Of all my duties that shall be the chief,


this lettre to unfolde

In ernest greet; so dide Eleyne the quene;

And rominge outward, fast it gan biholde, Downward a steyre, in-to an herber grene. This ilke thing they redden hem bi-twene; And largely, the mountaunce of an houre,


hastens to unfold



letter, and then together with the queen Downstairs he goes, a conference to hold,


in a little quiet

arbor green,


talk the

Now lat hem rede, and turne we anoon



To Pandarus, that gan ful faste prye


That al was wel, and out he gan to goon In-to the grete chambre, and that in hye, And seyde, "god save al this companye! Com, nece myn; my lady quene Eleyne Abydeth yow, and eek my lordes tweyne.

How well all went. He hastened out and when

They gonne on it to reden and to poure.

matter out themselves between And for an hour's span, or less or more, This document they read and on it pore. 2 45

245 let






He came into the room where thev had dined, He cried, "To all of you may heaven be kind But come,

my niece, Queen

And both our

Helen waits for you, gracious lords are waiting, too.

246 Rys, take with


yow your nece Antigone,

Or whom yow list, or no fors, hardily; The lasse prees, the bet; com forth with me,

And loke that ye thonke humblely Hem alle three, and, whan ye may goodly Your tyme y-see, taketh of hem your leve, Lest

we to longe his restes him

us turn again

so jubilant to find


247 Al innocent of Pandarus entente, Quod tho Criseyde, "go we, uncle dere"; And arm in arm inward with him she wente, Avysed wel hir wordes and hir chere; And Pandarus, in ernestful manere, Seyde, "alle folk, for goddes love, I preye, Stinteth right here, and softely yow pleye.

"Just take with

you your niece Antigone,

Or whom you will — or rather come alone, The less the crowd the better. Come now with me, And when to them your gratitude you've shown. With Troilus you breifly may condone. And take your leave of him when you think best, Though we must not disturb too long his rest." 2 47

Of Pandar'sdark design



"Come, uncle, let us go!" arm out of the room thev went,

Cressida said,

And arm With


decorum, dignified and slow, And Pandar said, as they passed down the row, "Good friends, your patience we shall not abuse. If for a time yourselves you will amuse. all






"But don't

forget what folk arc there within them, ( tad help him. in what plight "I tau niece," he murmured in her ear. "begin Hut Rntly with this man and do him right. And by the Lord who grants us life and light, And by the crowning power ot virtues twain. Let him not lie here in this mortal

And one



Aviseth yow what falk ben here with-inne, And in what plyt oon is, god him amende! And inward thus ful softely biginne; Nece, I conjure and heighly yow defende,

On his half, which that sowle us alle sende, And in the vertue of corounes tweyne, Slee nought this


man, that hath




peyne! 2 -4«

"Defy the devil! Keep Troilus in mind. And in what state he lies! Don't sit so tight! A chance once lost, you never again will find. You'll both be glad when you give up the fight. There's no suspicion yet, however slight. About you two, and count it time well won When all the world is blind to what is done. 2 5°

and delays, Men read deep meanings from a wagging straw. For you at last are coming merry days, Yet you hold back and timidly withdraw, "In hesitations,

false starts

And of vain gossip stand in such great awe, You waste the time you never can recover. Have pity now upon this sorrowing lover!" 25 !

But now I bid you, lovers far and near, Regard poor Troilus and his sad state. Who lay and all this whispering could hear,

And thought, "O Lord, I soon shall know my To live in love, or else to die in hate!" His time was come



for her love to pray,

And, mighty God, what


he do and say!

Fy on the



devel! thenk

what plyt he

249 which oon he



com of anoon;

Thenk al swich taried tyd, but lost it


That wol ye bothe seyn, whan ye ben oon. Secoundelich, ther yet devyneth noon Up-on yow two; com of now, if ye conne; Whyl folk is blent, lo, al the tyme is wonne! 250 In titering, and pursuite, and delayes, The folk devyne at wagginge of a stree; And though ye wolde han after merye dayes, Than dar ye nought, and why? for she, and she Spak swich a word; thus lokd he, and he; Lest tyme I loste, I dar not with yow dele; Com of therfore, and bringeth him to hele." 251 But now to yow, ye lovers that ben here, Was Troilus nought in a cankedort, That lay, and mighte whispringe of hem here, And thoughte, "O lord, right now renneth my sort Fully to dye, or han anoon comfort"; And was the firste tyme he shulde hir preye Of love; O mighty god, what shal he seye?





O happy light, of which



so clear

Illume the third expanse of heaven's air, Loved of the sun, of Jove the daughter dear, Love's Delight, thou goodly one and fair, In gentle hearts abiding everywhere, Thou primal cause of joy and all salvation, Exalted be thy name through all creation!



lacking love, lack






of Jove to that so happy end, Through which all earthly creatures live and be, When mortal love upon him thou didst send, as


wilt, the


the thridde hevene faire!

In gentil hertes ay redy to repaire!

O verray cause of hele and of gladnesse, Y-heried be thy might and thy goodnesse!

In hevene and helle, in erthe and sake see Is felt thy might, if that I wel descerne; As man, brid, best, fish, herbe and grene tree Thee fele in tymes with vapour eterne. God loveth, and to love wol nought werne; And in this world no lyves creature, With-outen love, is worth, or may endure. 3




O sonnes leef, O Joves doughter dere, Pleasaunce of love, O goodly debonaire.


and hell, on earth and salty sea, All creatures answer to thy might supernal, For man, bird, beast, fish, herb and leafy tree, Their seasons know from thy breath ever vernal. God loves, and grants that love shall be eternal. All creatures in the world through love exist, In heaven


O blisful fight, of whiche the bemes clere Adorneth


with thee

Ye Joves first to thilke effectes glade, Thorugh which that thinges liven alle and Comeveden, and amorous him made On mortal thing, and as yow list, ay ye



4-io] Yeve him


in a

For love

in love ese or adversitee;

thousand formes doun him sente and whom yow liste, he heme.

in erthe,



Of ease in love or love's adversity, And in a thousand forms is thv descent


earth, in love to favor or prevent!



Ye fierse Mars apeysen of his ire, And, as yow list, ye maken hertes



wol sette a-fyre, They dreden shame, and vices they resigne; Ye do hem corteys be, fresshe and benigne, And hye or lowe, after a wight entendeth; The joyes that he hath, your might him sendeth. Algates,

that ye

Fierce Mars for thee must subjugate his ire, from thee receive their fates condign; Yet ever when they feel thy sacred fire. All hearts

In dread of shame, their vices thev resign,

And And

more brave and more benign; high or low, as each in his rank strives, All owe to thee the joys of all their lives. gentler grow,


Ye holden regne and hous in unitee; Ye soothfast cause of frendship been also; Ye knowe al thilke covered qualitee Of thinges which that folk on wondren so, Whan they can not construe how it may jo, She loveth him, or why he loveth here; As why this fish, and nought that, cometh to were


6 folk a lawe han set in universe,





by hem that loveres be,

That who-so stryveth with yow hath the werse. Now, lady bright, for thy benignitee, At reverence of hem that serven thee, Whos clerk I am, so techeth me devyse Som joye of that is felt in thy servyse.

Houses and realms

5 in greater unify,

And faith in friendship thou canst make to grow. Thou understandest likings hard to see, Which cause much wonder that they should be so, As when in puzzlement, one seeks to know. Why this loves that, why she by him is sought,

Why one and

not the other




From thee comes law for all the universe, And this I know, as all true lovers see, That who opposeth, ever hath the worse. Now, lady bright, in thy benignitv. Help me to honor those who honor thee, And teach me, clerk of love, that I may tell The joy of those who in thy service dwell.






my naked herte sentement

Inhelde, and do me shewe of thy swetnesse. Caliope, thy vois be now present, For now is nede; sestow not my destresse, How I mot telle anon-right the gladnesse Of Troilus, to Venus heryinge? To which gladnes, who nede hath, God him bringe

True That


naked heart infuse hands thy glory grow not less!

feeling in in


Calliope, thy voice let

For great



Who strive, in

me now


Now all my effort


praise of Venus, this gladness

Of Troilus in fitting words to sing! May God all lovers to such gladness bring!

HERE ENDETH THE PROEM TO THE THIRD BOOK HERE BEGINNETH THE THIRD BOOK al this mene whyle Troilus, Recordinge his lessoun in this manere, "Ma fey!" thought he, "thus wole I seye and thus; Thus wole I pleyne un-to my lady dere; That word is good, and this shal be my chere; This nil I not foryeten in no wyse." God leve him werken as he gan devyse.


Now all



time poor Troilus



lord, so that his herte

Heringe hir come, and shorte for to syke!

Com neer, and gan in at the curtin pyke, And seyde, "god do bote on alle syke! See, who is here yow comen to visyte; is

she that




gan to quappe,

And Pandarus, that ladde hir by the lappe,

Lo, here


most industriously; "I think," he planned, "just so and so I'll say Thus will I lead her my deep love to see; This word sounds good, 'twill help in some degree, And this by all means I must not neglect" And so on, all to much the same effect. his lesson

your deeth to wyte."

Hearing her come, how he begins to quake, And how he sighs, with sighings short and quick, While Pandar by the sleeve his niece doth take, And peeping at him through the curtains thick, He cries, "Now, God have mercy on the sick! See



Behold the

come a

visit here to pay! cause of all this fray!"




semed as he wepte almost; "A ha," quod Troilus so rewfully, "Wher me be wo, O mighty god, thou wost!

With tearful weeping Pandar's eyes o'erflow, "Oh, Oh!" groans Troilus, most groanfully, "How bad I feel, O Lord, no one does know!

Who is al there? I

Who all is there





nought trewely." "it is Pandare and I."

quod Criseyde,




hard for

sir," said Cressida,


to see."

"Pandar and me."



"What, you. my dear! Alas that can't And do you honor in a fitting wise." I





him up, but she a^oncedrcw nigh, Her two restraining hands on him to lay. "(





please," shecried, "for


(O, what was that I


sake please don't try!








to say!)




then ask you as my lord Your favor and protection to accord."

To thank you


"Ye, swete herte? alias, I may nought ryse To knele, and do yow honour in som wyse."


And Gan

dressede him upward, and she right tho bothe here hondes softe upon him leye, "O, for the love of god, do ye not so To me," quod she, "ey! what is this to seye? Sire, come am I to yow for causes tweye; First, yow to thonke, and of your lorshipe eke Continuaunce I wolde yow biseke."



Hearing his lady to him humbly pray For lordship, Troilus from shame near dead, lad not a single word to her to saw For he could think of none to save his head But suddenly he flushed a crimson red, And all the clever things he'd counted on, Fled from his mind, completely lost and gone.

This Troilus, that herde his lady preye Of lordship him, wex neither quik ne deed, Ne mighte a word for shame to it seye, Al-though men sholde smyten of his heed. But lord, so he wex sodeinliche reed, And sire, his lesson, that he wende conne, To preyen hir, is thurgh his wit y-ronne.

Cressida understood this well enough,

Criseyde al this aspyede wel y-nough, For she was wys, and lovede him never-the-lasse, Al nere he malapert, or made it tough, Or was to bold, to singe a fool a masse.



For she was wise, and liked him none the less Because he was not pert or quick and rough, Nor yet so bold he lacked all humbleness. But when his shame had passed its first excess, His words, as in my way they can be told, And as the old books say, I shall unfold.

With strange and trembling

voice, from simple dread Abashed, and blushing now from ear to ear, But changing often too, now pale, now red, To Cressida, his chosen lady dear, Submissive standing at his side so near Lo, all he said when he his lips could part, Was, twice, "O mercy, mercy, my sweetheart!"


paused, and

'5 tried again at length,

when he

His next word was, "God knows that I have been All yours, with all I have of wit and strength, And shall be yours, by him who saves from sin, Until they dig my grave and put me in! And though I'm slow of speech and hesitate, My love b\ that you must not estimate. 16

"So much I


With If



at present,





O thou woman true,

my own life I'll make the payment due, my death may your wrath appease, I

bring your heart again to rest and ease.


care not




me have my



In chaunged vois, right for his verrey drede, vois eek quook, and ther-to his manere


Goodly abayst, and now his hewes rede,

Now pale, un-to Criseyde, his lady dere, With look doun cast and humble yolden chere, Lo, th'alderfirste word that him asterte Was, twyes, "mercy, mercy, swete herte!" 15

And stinte a whyl, and whan he mighte out-bringe, The nexte word was, "god wot, for I have, As feythfully as I have had konninge, Ben youres, also god my sowle save;

And shal, til that I, woful wight, be grave. And though I dar ne can un-to yow pleyne, Y-wis,



nought the




these words displease,

For now that you have

But whan his shame gan somwhat to passe, His resons, as I may my rymes holde, I yow wol telle, as techen bokes olde.



Thus muche as now, O wommanliche wyf, I may out-bringe, and if this yow displese, That shal I wreke upon myn owne lyf Right sone, I trowe, and doon your herte an ese, If with my deeth your herte I may apese. But sin that ye han herd me som-what seye, Now recche I never how sone that I deye." 17

Such manly sorrow in his bosom burned, Tears from a heart of stone it would have drawn, And I'andar wept as though to water turned, And nudged his niece anon and yet anon,


"Was ever man


For God's


so woe-begone!

sake, bring this matter to an end,

slav us both,

and on your ways then wend I"

Ther-with his manly sorwe to biholde, It mighte han maad an herte of stoon to rewe; And Pandare weep as he to watre wolde, And poked ever his nece newe and newe, And seyde, "wo bigon ben hertes trewe! For love of god, make of this thing an ende, Or slee us bothe at ones, er that ye wende."



"What's that ?" cried she, "I know not for my part Just what it is you're asking me to say I" "What's that?" he said, "just show you havea heart,

"I? what?" quod she, "by god and by my trouthe, I noot nought what ye wilne that I seye." "I? what?" quod he, "that ye han on him routhe,



and doth him nought to deye." thanne thus," quod she, "I wolde him preye

For goddes


"Now To telle me the fyn of his entente; Yet wiste


never wel what that he mente."

"What that I mene, O swete herte dere?" Quod Troilus, "O goodly fresshe free!




poor creature pitilessly slay I" "Well, then," she said, "I'd ask him, it may, To tell mc clearly what he has in mind. For never yet his meaning could I find." this



That, with the stremes of your eyen clere, Ye wolde som-tyme freendly on me see, And thanne agreen that I may ben he, With-oute braunche of vyce in any wyse, In trouthe alwey to doon yow my servyse 20

sweetheart dear!" "Just what I have in mind, Cried Troilus. "That thou so fair to see, But with the beamings of thine eyes so clear Sometimes wilt turn a kindly gaze on mc, And that, besides, to this thou wilt agree That I in root and branch, and every way In truth, may serve thee well from day today, 20

As to my lady right and chief resort, With al my wit and al my diligence,

"As rightful lady and my chief resort, With all my wit and all my diligence,

I to han, right as yow list, comfort, Under your yerde, egal to myn offence, As deeth, if that I breke your defence; And that ye deigne me so muche honoure, Me to comaunden ought in any houre.

And as you


will, may have from you support, According as you judge my competence Or death lor any disobedience And that this honor you to me will show,

To seek my

aid in


things high or low, 21




to been your verray



humble trewe,

my paynes pacient,


Eager to

And ever-mo desire freshly newe, To serven, and been y-lyke ay diligent, And, with good herte, al holly your talent Receyven wel, how sore that me smerte, Lo, this mene I, myn owene swete herte." 22

Quod Pandarus, "lo, here an hard request, And resonable, a lady for to werne! Now, nece myn, by natal Joves fest, Were I a god, ye sholde sterve as yerne, That heren wel, this man wol no-thing yerne But your honour, and seen him almost

And been

so looth to suffren

him yow

"And let me be your servant sworn and true, Humble and secret, patient in endeavor,



find occasions fresh

W ith good intent, however sore 7


this I




that she gan hir eyen



And In

not feyne: hool, no lenger ye ne pleyne. I nil

25 this



yow," quod she,

"A kinges Ye

sone al-though ye be, y-wis, shul na-more have soverainetee

Of me

in love,

than right in that cas


Ne I nil forbere, if that ye doon a-mis, To wrathen yow; and whyl that ye me serve, Cherycen yow

right after ye deserve.


And shortly,

dere herte and


my knight,

Cressida would not be pushed too fast,

manner not at all severe, two on Troilus she cast, And answered soberly and plain and Yet

From hennes-forth, y-wis,

But nathelees,



on him

Ful esily, and ful debonairly, Avysing hir, and hyed not to faste With never a word, but seyde him softely, "Myn honour sauf, I wol wel trewely, And in swich forme as he can now devyse, Receyven him fully to my servyse, 24 Biseching him, for goddes love, that he Wolde, in honour of trouthe and gentilesse, As I wel mene, eek mene wel to me, And myn honour, with wit and besinesse, Ay kepe; and if I may don him gladnesse,

Now beeth al


my own sweetheart!"

22 "Indeed," said Pandar, "that's a hard request, And something any lady would deny! My dearest niece, as I look to be blessed, If I were God, I'd let you pine and die, If honor, honor were your sole reply To such a man, so faithfully approved, By whom the hardest heart might well be moved!"



and new

To serve, and in my service slacken never, And what you will and bid receiving ever

in a

A glance or "Saving



honor, which I hold most dear, formalities observed and kept,










24 "Beseeching him, for love of God, that he By all the truth and honor of his birth. As I mean well, may mean as well by me, And ever hold my honor at high worth. if I




increase his joy




and mirth,

thereto assent;

Take courage then, and

cease your sad lament.

25 warning note I yet must sound— A king's son though you be in all men's sight, In love I shall be only so far bound As would in any case be just and right; And if you do amiss, I shall requite




With blame, yet Shall cherish

also as

vou and

you knightly serve, you deserve.

praise as

26 "In short, dear heart, and now


worthy knight,




Rejoice and put aside your fear and dread, For truly I shall stri\c with all mv might,

For bitter days to give you sweet instead, And if through me to joy you can be led. For each past woe you shall receive bliss"— And scaled her words with an embrace and kiss. .1

and up his eyes with hands extended high. "Immortal God," he cried, "within the skies,

Pandar on


To heaven Cupid



And Venus, Mclhinks

To mark

his knees,


whom all men


with melody! the town, with no hand swinging,

too, rejoice

in all

this miracle, the bells are ringing!



soft! we'll wait until

Because Deiphebus


another day,

come back soon


hark, I hear them coming up this way. But, Cressida, some morn or afternoon, And Troilus, too, at season opportune, A meeting at my house I shall arrange, The remnant of your pledges to exchange, "V\ hen you can ease your troubled hearts at leisure; let us see then which shall bear the bell


In boasts of love which love alone can measure, For there you'll both have time your tale to tell."

"How long," asked Troilus, "am I to dwell In this suspense ?" "As soon as you get up," Said Pandar,


to dine with

me or



Beth glad, and draweth yow to lustinesse, And I shal trewcly, with al my might, Your bittre tornen al in-to swetnesse; If I be she that may yow do gladnessc, For every wo ye shal recovere a blisse"; And him in armes took, and gan him kisse. 27 Fil Pandarus on knees, and up his yen To hevene threw, and held his hondes hye, " Immortal god!" quod he, "that mayst nought dyen, Cupide I mene, of this mayst glorifye; And Venus, thou mayst make melodye; With-outen hond, me semeth that in towne, For this merveyle, I here ech belle sowne. 28 But ho! no more as now of this matere, For-why this folk wol comen up anoon, That han the lettre red: lo, I hem here. But I conjure thee, Criseyde, and oon, And two, thou Troilus, whan thow mayst goon, That at myn hous ye been at my warninge, For I ful wel shal shape your cominge; 29 And eseth ther your hertes right y-nough; And lat see which of yow shal bere the belle To speke of love a-right!" ther-with he lough. "For ther have ye a layser for to telle."

Quod Troilus, "how longe shal I dwelle Er this be doon?" Quod he, "whan thou mayst ryse, This thing shal be right as I yow devyse." 30

\\ ith these

words, Helen and Deiphebus Appear, as they the topmost stairs ascend,

With that Eleyne and also Deiphebus Tho comen upward, right at the steyres ende;

And now again deep groans from


Troilus Burst forth, as he bethinks him illness to pretend; But Pandar says, "It's time for us to end Our visit, niece, so take leave of all three. And let them talk, and you come on with me."

lord, so than gan grone Triolus, His brother and his suster for to blende. Quod Pandarus, "it tyme is that we wende; Tak, nece myn, your leve at alle three, And lat hem speke, and cometh forth with me."

3i .







in quite the

proper way,

And they in turn, in polished manner, too, The pleasant compliments of parting pay;


she had left and closed the interview.

They still commended her with praises new, Her wit, her charm and all her general style, And Troilus listened with an inward smile.


to her palace let her

wend her way

While we go back to Troilus in bed About the letter he had naught to say That Helen and Deiphebus had read, And wished that they would go, and soon he said He thought perhaps it might for him be best To try to sleep and get a little rest.

She took

hir leve at

As she wel coude, and they hir reverence Un-to the fulle diden hardely, And speken wonder wel, in hir absence,

Of hir, in preysing of hir excellence, Hir governaunce, hir wit; and hir manere

Commendeden, it



beside his friend to make,

both wide awake,

that confidential night there lay,

For they had many pressing things to


to here.


him then and said goodby, Deiphebus likewise his leave must take; But Pandar soon, as straight as he could flv, kissed

Came back, a couch And Troilus and he,


32 Now lat hir wende un-to hir owne place, And tome we to Troilus a-yein, That gan ful lightly of the lettre passe That Deiphebus hadde in the gardin seyn. And of Eleyne and him he wolde fayn Delivered been, and seyde, that him leste To slepe, and after tales have reste.


And Helen

hem ful thriftily,


Eleyne him

and took hir leve blyve, Deiphebus eek, and hoom wente every wight; kiste,

And Pandarus, as faste as he may dryve, To Troilus tho com, as lyne right; And on a paillct, al that glade night, By Troilus he


with mery chcre,

To tale; and wel was hem they were y-fere,


34-4i] 34 Whan every wight was voided but they two, And alle the dores were faste y-shette, To telle in short, with-oute wordes mo, This Pandarus, with-outen any lette, Up roos, and on his beddes syde him sette, And gan to speken in a sobre wyse To Troilus, as I shal yow devyse. 35

"Myn alderlevest lord, and brother dere, God woot, and thou, that it sat me so sore, When I thee saw so languisshing to-yere, For love, of which thy wo wex alwey more; That I, with al my might and al my lore, Hath ever sithen doon my bisinesse

To bringe thee to joye out of distresse; 36 have it brought to swich plyt as thou wost, So that, thorugh me, thow stondest now in weye


To fare wel, I seye it for no bost, And wostow why? for shame it is to seye, bigonne a gamen pleye Which that I never doon shal eft for other, Al-though he were a thousand fold my brother.

For thee have





When And

all had left the room except these two, firmly shut and barred was every door,

Their conversation they began anew, And Pandar left his couch upon the floor, And on the bed he sat, and now once more Began to speak in his accustomed way

To Troilus,



shall to


Did ever



time for you employ


bring vou back from sorrow into joy, 36 "And have so far my plannings carried out That you to gain your end are in good way. But there is nothing here to boast about.

And know you why ? With shame

I must it say, have begun a game to play, The like of which I'd do for no one other, Although he were a thousandfold my brother.

For you



That is to


am I

bicomen, Bitwixen game and ernest, swich a mene As maken wommen un-to men to comen; Al sey I nought, thou wost wel what I mene. For thee have I my nece, of vyces clene, So fully maad thy gentilesse triste, That al shal been right as thy-selve liste. 38 But god, that al wot, take I to witnesse, That never I this for coveityse wroughte, But only for to abregge that distresse, For which wel nygh thou deydest, as me thoughte. But gode brother, do now as thee oughte, For goddes love, and keep hir out of blame, Sin thou art wys, and save alwey hir name. seye, for thee

"That is to say, I've made myself for thee Half jest, half earnest, such a go-between As oft twixt man and maid the world doth see. You know yourself what kind of thing I mean; For thee I've made my niece, so pure and clean, Such confidence and trust on thee bestow That henceforth all just as thou wilt shall go. 38


"But God omniscient here I witness take, For private ends in this I have not wrought, But only strove thy sufferings to slake,


well nigh fatal were, or so I thought. But, brother dear, remember that you ought, In every manner, keep her free from blame, And always-strive to save her honest name.


For wel thou wost, the name


35 "My lord most worshipful and brother dear, God knows, and thou, what pain and grief I bore To see thee languishing through all the vear For love that ever the longer grew the more! Thus I with all my might and all mv lore

39 as yet of here

"For well you know


woman's reputation

Among the peple, as who seyth, halwed is; For that man is unbore, I dar wel swere,

Among the people is a sacred thing, And never man, I dare make affirmation,

That ever wiste that she dide amis. But wo is me, that I, that cause

A charge of wrong on her could justly bring; But now the dreadful thought my heart doth wring,


May thenken that she is my nece dere, And


eem, and traytor eek y-fere! 40 were it wist that I, through myn engyn, I


Hadde in my nece y-put this fantasye, To do thy lust, and hoolly to be thyn,

Why, al the world up-on it wolde crye, And seye, that I the worste trecherye Dide

in this cas, that ever

was bigonne,

And she for-lost, and thou right nought y-wonne.

That she should be my niece, so dear to me, And I her uncle and her pimp should be. 40

"And were it known that I, through set design, Had put my dearest niece in such a way

To follow thee and be all wholly thine, Why, all the world would cry aloud and say, That no such treachery for many a day Was in this fashion planned and done, And she be lost, and for thee nothing won!


Wher-fore, er I wol ferther goon a pas, Yet eft I thee biseche and fully seye, That privetee go with us in this cas, That is to seye, that thou us never wreye;


so before a further step

No matter what For secrecy,

befall, I

for hers


Do not disgrace me in



ask again for



the eyes of




And be

not wroth at


now and


beg for privacy in this affair, For well you know how urgent

be nought wrooth, though I thee ofte preye holden secree swich an heigh matere;







then, prayer.


skilful is,

thow wost wel,

my preyere.

42 ther hath bitid er


and bow today men lead Their lives in griefs that burden and harass, From hour to hour, for that same wicked deed. And in the wisest clerks you well may read This proverb, useful to the old and young, 'The highest virtue is to hold your tongue.'

this, thenk what wo For makinge of avauntes, as men rede; And what mischaunce in this world yet ther Fro day to day, right for that wikked dede; For which these wyse clerkes that ben dede Han ever yet proverbed to us yonge, That 'firste vertu is to kepe tonge.'


And, nere

"And From

think what woes ot old ha\



to pass

boastful speech,

if I

would not now abbreviate

I could almost thousand ancient tales to you relate ( )f women lost through false and foolish boast. Such proverbs you yoursclt must know a host; All boastful blabbers are but fools forsooth, Even if what they say seems like the truth.

Diffusiveness in speech,




43 wilne as now t'abregge Diffusioun of speche, I coude almost A thousand olde stories thee alegge it



Of wommen lost, thorugh fals and foles bost; Proverbes canst thy-self y-nowe, and wost, Ayeins that vyce, for to been a labbe, Al seyde men sooth as often as they gabbe. 44

"One tongue, alas, hath often made to mourn And caused full many a lady bright of hue To cry, 'Alas the day that was born!' And many a maid her sorrow to renew; And ye: the things are twisted all askew Of which men boast, if they were brought to I

proof; Boasters by nature are from truth aloof.


boaster and a

tonge, alias! so often here-biforn Hastow made many a lady bright of hewe Seyd, 'welawey! the day that I was born!'

And many a maydes


Of kinde non avauntour is to leve. 45

45 one!

liar, all is

For now suppose a woman granteth me Her love, as to no other she hath done, And I am sworn to sacred secrecy, And then I go and talk to two or three, Then I'm a boaster and a liar both, For I have broken all my plighted troth.

Avauntour and a

lyere, al


womman graunte me




see right well sort of folk


ask you,

is it

are to blame,

— or scamps would be more pat-

any wonder then

fear to get involved



47 "I don't say this especially of you I hope you're not in need of all I've said. I'm thinking of the harm that people do By heedlessness, and not by malice led; For well I know no woman need to dread The vice of boasting in a man of sense; The wise learn from the fools to shun offence. 48


to the point!

Now my good

brother dear,

Keep all these things that I have said in mind, And ponder well. But now, be of good cheer, And doubt not at the proper time to find

Me true, for I shall work in such a kind That you therewith shall be well satisfied, For all shall be as you yourself decide. no doubt of thy


Hir love, and seyth that other wol she non,

Y-wis, I am avauntour at the leste, And lyere, for I breke my biheste.

Now loke thanne, if they be nought to blame, Swich maner folk; what shal I clepe hem, what, That hem avaunte of wommen, and by name, That never yet bihighte hem this ne that, Ne knewe hem more than myn olde hat? No wonder is, so god me sende hele,

Though wommen drede with us men to dele. 47 sey not this for no mistrust of yow, Ne for no wys man, but for foles nyce, And for the harm that in the world is now, As wel for foly ofte as for malyce; For wel wot I, in wyse folk, that vyce No womman drat, if she be wel avysed; For wyse ben by foles harm chastysed. 1

48 But now to purpos; leve brother dere, Have al this thing that I have seyd in minde, And keep thee clos, and be now of good chere, For at thy day thou shalt me trewe finde. I shal thy proces sette in swich a kinde, And god to-forn, that it shall thee suffyse, For it shal been right as thou wolt devyse.


"I have



how much they

Who boast of women, even by their name, Who never promised them nor this nor that, Nor knew them any more than my old hat! That women

pose, a

And I am sworn to holden it secree, And after I go telle it two or three;



sorwes for to newe;

And, for the more part, al is untrewe That men of yelpe, and it were brought to

4J integrity,

For wel


49 woot, thou menest wel, parde;





Therfore I dar this fully undertake. Thou wost eek what thy lady graunted thee, And day is set, the chartrcs up to make. How now good night, I may no lenger wake; And bid for me, sin thou art now in blisse, That god me sende deeth or sone lisse."

And therefore all this task I undertake. Thou knowesl that thy lady grants to thee

Who mighte telle half the joye or feste

Now who could


that the sowle of Troilus tho felte, Heringe th 'effect of Pandarus biheste?


His olde wo, that made his herte swelte, Gan tho for joye wasten and to-melte,

The wounds

And al the


At ones

richesse of his sykes sore

fledde, he felte of hem

no more.

A day

on winch thy settlement to make!

And now goodnight! cannot keep awake. And pray for me, since heayen doth thee bless, God send me death, or make my sorrow less!" I


one half the jubilation

Troilus within his heart then felt, Hearing the end of Pandar's protestation!


that grief unto his heart

for joy to vanish

had dealt

and to melt,

all his multitude of sighings sore Dispersed and fled away forevermore.


But right so as these holtes and these hayes, That han in winter dede been and dreye, Revesten hem in grene, whan that May is,

As when the woods and hedges everywhere, Which through the winter waited dead and dry, Reclothe themselves in green, so fresh and fair,

Whan every lusty lyketh best to pleye:

And all the folk rejoice with spirits high, The same thing now in him you might descry;

Right in that selve wyse, sooth to seye, Wex sodeynliche his herte ful of joye, That gladder was ther never man in Troye. 52 And gan his look on Pandarus up caste Ful sobrely, and frendly for to see,


seyde, "freend, in Aprille the laste, if it remembre thee,

His heart with joy to blossom so began in all Troy there was no happier man.



Then Troilus his eye on Pandar cast, Most soberly, yet in a friendly way, And said, "O friend, remember April

As wel thou wost,


How neigh the deeth for wo thou founde me; And how thou didest al thy bisinesse To knowe of me the cause of my distresse.


53 it for-bar to seye

Thou wost how longe I To thee, that art the man that I best triste; And peril was it noon to thee by-wreye, That wiste Sith



wel; but tel me, if thee liste, was that thy-self it wiste,

so looth

How dorste I mo tellen of this matere, That quake now, and no wight may us here? 54 But natheles, by that god I thee swere, That, as him list, may al this world governe, And, if I lye, Achilles with his spere Myn herte cleve, al were my lyf eterne,

As I am mortal, if I late or yerne Wolde it biwreye, or dorste, or sholde conne, For all the good that god made under sonne;




nearly mortal sorrow did

And how you


you can't forget the day,

me slay,

long and earnestly did press

Me there to tell the cause of my distress


53 "You know how long to speak I then forbore, Although you were the man I trusted best, And nothing hindered me then to declare The truth to you. Now tell me, I request, Since nothing of my love I then confessed, How durst I babble in the general ear, And tremble now, with no one by to hear? 54

"But by the God omnipotent I swear, By him who deals to every man his fate,

And if I lie, may not Achilles spare To cleave my heart, that I shan't divulgate, Though


should live forever, soon or



word of this, or hint to anyone, For all the gifts of God beneath the sun.



That rather deye I wolde, and determyne, As thinketh me, now stokked in presoun, In wrecchednesse, in filthe, and in vermyne,

end my days withal, Fettered in prison cell would rather be, In wretchedness where filthy vermin crawl,

Caytif to cruel king Agamenoun; And this, in alle the temples of this toun, Upon the goddes alle, I wol thee swere' To-morwe day, if that thee lyketh here.

And this in all our temples faithfully, By all our Gods tomorrow I will swear, And vou can go along and witness bear.



that thou hast so

muche y-doon for me,

That I ne may it never-more deserve, This knowe I wel, al mighte I now for thee A thousand tymes on a morwen sterve, I can no more, that that I wol thee serve Right as thy sclave, whider-so thou wende, For ever-more, un-to my lyves ende!


Agamemnon's harsh





rather would

"That thou hast done so very much for me That all thy service I can ne'er repay, I

understand quite well, although

for thee

died a thousand times and more a day; But as thy slave, and what more can I say, Upon thy wish and will I shall attend, Till death shall bring my life unto its end. I






"But let me now with all my heart beseech That you assign me no such attribute, As might fairly gather from your speech, That you supposed thai all mv honest suit I

Wis but a bawdy thing of ill repute. I'm not a scholar, but I'm not a fool, I've learned a thing or two outside of school.

"A man who

this affair

58 should undertake

For gold or profit, call him what you will! But what you've done, you did for pity's sake, Through goodness of your heart and not for ill. Regard it so, for men of any skill All


that the distinctions subtle are

Between two things


good deal


59 And here's another thing that I declare To wipe from all your act the shameful blot; .






Cassandra, Helen, or any of the lot, Though she be fair with never a stain or spot, Just tell me which of these you'd like to be Your very own, and leave the rest to me!



since thou hast helped

To save my


and not



in this wise

hope of meed,

So, for the love of God, this great emprise

Carry thou out, for now there is much need; In high and low, in every single deed All thy



good night, and



faithfully will keep, let us

go to sleep."

But here, with al myn herte, I thee biseche, That never in me thou deme swich folye As I shal seyn; me thoughte, by thy speche, That this, which thou me dost for companye, I sholde wene it were a bauderye; I am nought wood, al-if I lewed be; It is not so, that woot I wel, pardee. 58

But he that goth, for gold or for richesse, On swich message, calle him what thee list; And this that thou dost, calle it gentilesse, Compassioun, and felawship, and trist; Departe it so, for wyde-where is wist

How that there is dyversitee requered Bitwixen thinges lyke, as

No better

friends in

The next day,

Him And



well satisfied,

the world could be;

up and dressed, each hied

to his regular activity;

Troilus, although he longed to see

The one on whom depended all his joy, Took heed all right precautions to employ, reckless action to restrain

With manly will, and each unbridled look; There was no man alive could entertain The least suspicion, such good care he took That none might nose him out by hook or crook.

He held himself as lonely as a cloud, From policy, and not that he was proud. 63

And all this time of which I now relate, He daily strove with valor and with might The service high of Mars to cultivate arms befitting a true knight; couch when darkness followed light He lay, and thought how he might serve His lady best, and thus her thanks deserve. In deeds of

And on


64 although his couch was soft, That he in heart was fully at his ease, Or that he turned not on his pillow oft, Nor longed to grasp what was too far to seize. Such lonely nights have little power to please I

will not say,

have lered.


Parforme it out; for now is moste nede. For high and low, with-outen any drede, I wol alwey thyne hestes alle kepe; Have now good night, and lat us bothe slepe." 61

Thus held him ech with other wel apayed, That al the world ne mighte it bet amende; And, on the morwe, whan they were arayed, Ech to his owene nedes gan entende. But Troilus, though as the fyr he brende For sharp desyr of hope and of plesaunce,

He not for-gat his gode governaunce.


And every


59 And, that thou knowe I thenke nought ne wene That this servyse a shame be or jape, I have my faire suster Polixene, Cassandre, Eleyne, or any of the frape; Be she never so faire or wel y-shape, Tel me, which thou wilt of everichone, To han for thyn, and lat me thanne allone. 60 But sin that thou hast don me this servyse, lyf to save, and for noon hope of mede, So, for the love of god, this grete empryse


Thus each with other was




in him-self with

manhod gan restreyne

Ech rakel dede and ech unbrydled chere, That alle tho that liven, sooth to seyne, Ne sholde han wist, by word or by manere,

What that he mente, as touching this matere. From every wight as fer as is the cloude

He was, so wel dissimulen he coude. 63

And al the whyl which that I yow devyse, This was his lyf; with al his fulle might, By day he was in Martes high servyse, This is to seyn, in armes as a knight;

And for the more part, the longe night He lay, and thoughte how that he mighte


His lady best, hir thank for to deserve. 64 Nil I nought swerfi, al-though he lay softe, That in his thought he nas sumwhat disesed, Ne that he tornede on his pilwes ofte, And wolde of that him missed han ben sesed; But in swich cas man is nought alwey plesed,


65-72J For ought I wot, no more than was he; That can I demc of possibilitee.


So I






— and so thought he maybe;

as a possibility.



But certeyn


in this

to purpos for to go, whylc, as writen is in geste,







sure, in order not to stray


reflections manifold,

lady som-tyme; and also She with him spak, whan that she dorste or leste, And by hir bothe avys, as was the beste,

He saw his lady, yet not every day, And spoke with her, although too rash

Apoynteden ful warly in this nede, So as they dorste, how they wolde procede.


He say his

66 But it was spoken in so short a wyse, In swich awayt alwey, and in swich


or bold

neither were, and always strove 10 hold in

With proper

hand, for each one


the need

care and caution to proceed.


And when

they spoke, they spoke so quick and




Lest any wyght divynen or devyse Wolde of hem two, or to it leye an ere, That al this world so leef to hem ne were As that Cupido wolde hem grace sende To maken of hir speche aright an ende.

great reserve and with oppressive fear, (For folk are prone to jump at some belief, And strain to gather something through the ear), That all would think that nothing was so dear To them as this, that Cupid should them send An opportunity their speech to end.



But thilke litel that they speke or wroughte, His wyse goost took ay of al swich hede, It semed hir, he wiste that she thoughte With-outen word, so that it was no nede To bidde him ought to done, or ought forbede; For which she thoughte that love, al come it late. Of alle joye hadde opned hir the yate. 68

And shortly of this proces for to pace, So wel his werk and wordes he bisette, That he so ful stood in his lady grace, That twenty thousand tymes, or she lette, She thonked god she ever with him mettej So coude he him governe in swich servyse, That al the world ne mighte it bet devyse.

But though they spake but


or spake naught,

was so tuned in every deed. It seemed to her he knew of all her thought Without a word, so that there was no need To caution or for aught to intercede; For so it seemed that love, though come so late, To all their joy had opened up the gate. 68 In short, to bring the matter to a close, So faithfully he did on her attend, That high in his dear lady's grace he rose, And twenty thousand times or more on end She thanked the Lord that she had such a friend, Who could conduct himself in all his ways So well, he merited the highest praise. His



For-why she fond him so discreet in al, So secret, and of swich obeisaunce, That wel she felte he was to hir a wal Of steel, and sheld from every displesaunce; That, to ben in his gode governaunce, So wys he was, she was no more afered, I mene, as fer as oughte ben requered. 70

In truth she found


so discreet withal,

So secret ever and obedient, She felt he was to her a very wall Of steel and shield from fear or discontent; And when she saw how nicely all things went, She felt she had no need to be so wary I mean, of course, no more than necessary. 70

And Pandarus, to quike alwey the fyr, Was ever y-lyke prest and diligent; To ese his frend was set ai his desyr. He shoof ay on, he to and fro was sent; He lettres bar whan Troilus was absent.

And Pandar, ready still to feed the fire, Was ever diligent and close at hand. To please his friend was now his sole desire, He urged him on, was ready at command To carry letters, or for him to stand,

That never man, as


in his freendes nede,

Ne bar him bet than he, with-outen drede.

Troilus was busy or



But now, paraunter, som man wayten wolde That every word, or sonde, or look, or chere

Of Troilus that

I rehersen sholde, In al this whyle, un-to his lady dere; I trowe it were a long thing for to here; Or of what wight that stant in swich disjoynte.. His wordes alle, or every look, to poynte.

72 For sothe, I have not herd it doon er this, In storye noon, ne no man here, I wene;


In short, the perfect confidant to play.

But if you think that I should now relate Each word of Troilus, each hope and fear, The little nothings, sweet and intimate, That he meant only for his lady's ear, I couldn't do it if I took a year; To tell you every passage of his wooing

Would be

a labor scarcely

worth the doing.

72 I

do not

find that ever


In telling such details has been



64 'Twould be appalling

were all done! In letters thousands qJ venea I compute The) wrote, on which my author is quite mute; I [e tOO sensible and wise-lo trv To write all lovers say, and so am I. it



But to the great result As things stood thus, These two in concord and in peace complete, These lovers Cressida and Troilus, !


well content in

time so sweet,

all this

Except that only rarely they could meet, And had so little time their joys to tell, I now proceed to say what next befell. 74

Good Pandar, striving still ith all his might To lead this matter to a happy end, Thought how to bring unto his house some night v.

His niece so dear, and his still dearer friend. at their leisure they might there attend To this great love by which thev both were bound, And finally a fitting time he found.


And though





coude not, y-wis;

For ther was som epistel hem bitwene, That wolde, as seyth myn auctor, wel contene Neigh half this book, of which him list not wryte;

How sholde


thanne a lyne of it endyte?

73 than sey I thus, That stonding in concord and in quiete Thise ilke two, Criseyde and Troilus, As I have told, and in this tyme swete, Save only often mighte they not mete, Ne layser have hir speches to fulfelle,

But to the grete




befel right as


74 That Pandarus, that ever dide his might Right for the fyn that I shal speke of here. As for to bringe to his hous som night His faire nece, and Troilus y-fere, Wher-as at leyser al this heigh matere,


hir love,



for all things that



realize their expectation,

However great


toil this



And worked it out so that it could not And that for anyone through it to see, Would be a

To fool all The


sheer impossibility.

and the

gossips, all the


He had no doubts,

for all the world is blind, In such affairs, the wild ones and the tame!

And now the timbers ready are to frame! There's nothing lacking now except to know The hour


which to

house she should go.



who all

Come if hem lest, hem sholde no-thing fayle; And for to been in ought espyed there, Dredelees, it cleer was in the wind Of every pye and every lettc-game; Now al is wel, for al the world is blind In this matere, bothe fremed and tame. This timber is al redy up to frame; Us lakketh nought but that we witen wolde A certain houre, in whiche she comen sholde.


this plotting


patiently in silent waiting lay,

And Troilus, that al this purveyaunce Knew at the fulle, and waytede on it ay,

also planned with care

Hadde here-up-on eek made

also, for excuse, that

And founde his cause, and

what he would do, he would say, It he were not about some night or day, That to a certain temple he would go, His duty to the deity to show,


Ther-whyle he was aboute this servyse, That he was goon to doon his sacrifyse, 78

would watch and wake, from Apollo he might see,

solitary there



Or might behold the holy laurel shake, Or hear Apollo speaking from the tree, To tell him when the Greeks would homeward flee;

And And


gret ordenaunce,

ther-to his aray, If that he were missed, night or day,





For he with greet deliberacioun Hadde every thing that her-to mighte avayle Forn-cast, and put in execucioun, And neither laft for cost ne for travayle;


And And Had And


That, wiste he wel, an inpossible were. 76

folk his plan was well designed,




plans with great deliberation,

To help them

at the fulle

Hadde out of doute a tyme


He made his

yow telle,


And moste at swich a temple alone wake, Answered of Appollo

And Er


for to be;

to seen the holy laurer quake,

that Apollo spak out of the tree,

To telle him next whan Grekes


flee; let



pray Apollo bring






good end.

And forthy lette him no man, god forbede, But preye Apollo helpen


And now

we're coming to the point right soon! For Pandar up and with no great ado, But when there was a changing of the moon

And lightless is the world a night or two, And when the clouds foretold a rain in view, To ( Ircssida, his niece's house he went, And you well know the whole of his intent.

in this nede.


Now is ther litel more for to


But Pandare up, and shortly for to seyne, Right sone upon the chaunging of the mone, Whan lightles is the world a night or tweyne, And that the welken shoop him for to reyne,


streight a-morwe un-to his nece wente; Ye han wel herd the fyn of his entente.




65 80 accustomed wa\


Whan he was come, he gan anoon

to pleye

As he was wont, and of him-self to jape; And fynally, he swor and gan hir seye, By this and that, she sholde him not escape, Ne lenger doon him after hir to gape; But certeynly she moste, by hir leve, Come soupen in his hous with him at eve.

When be arrived, in his He joked and jested at his own finally



At whiche she lough, and gan

hir faste excuse,

seyde, "it rayneth; lo, how sholde I goon?" "Lat be," quod he, "ne stond not thus to muse; This moot be doon, ye shal be ther anoon." So at the laste her-of they felle at oon, Or elles, softe he swor hir in hir ere,


He nolde never come ther she were.



after this, to

him she gan

to rowne,

And asked him if Troilus were there? He swor hir, "nay, for he was out of towne," And seyde, "nece, I pose that he were,

Yow thurfte never have the more fere. For rather than

men mighte him ther aspye,

Me were lever a thousand-fold to dye."


laughed and in excuse replied, "It's raining, look! So how then could I go?" "That's nothing," said he. "Just let me decide. You've got to come I will not take a no!" And so at last they left the matter so, For he had whispered softly in her ear, "Don't come if you won't, but for it you'll pay dear!" 82 But she was not quite ready to give way, And asked if maybe Troilus was there. "O no," he said, "he's out of town today! But, niece, I say, supposing that he were, You have no slightest cause for fear or care, Indeed a thousand times I'd rather die, Than have folk on him at my house to spy." this she






he paused and made display Of earnestness and of great exigence, And said for no excuse and no pretence, He'd let her off, but come she must that eve To supper at his house by her good leave.


myn auctor fully to declare

What that she thoughte whan he

seyde so,

That Troilus was out of town y-fare, As if he seyde ther-of sooth or no; But that, with-oute awayt, with him to go, She graunted him, sith he hir that bisoughte, And, as his nece, obeyed as hir oughte. 84 But nathelees, yet gan she him biseche, Al-though with him to goon it was no fere, For to be war of goosish peples speche, That dremen thinges whiche that never were, And wel avyse him whom he broughte there; And seyde him, "eem, sin I mot on yow triste, Loke al be wel, and do now as yow liste."

it down, what she thought when Pandar told her That Troilus was that day out of town,

Explicitly no one has set Just

If Cressida believed his tale or no;

But that she went with him to sup we know, At least, as he so urgently besought, No matter what she knew or what she thought. 8 4. But nevertheless she did again beseech, Although to go she had no hesitation, That he forget not foolish people's speech, Who dream what never was in all creation, .


that he give this full consideration; "For, uncle," said she, "since in you I trust, Take heed, for follow where you lead I must."

8 5.


He swor hir, "yis, by stokkes and by stones, And by the goddes that in hevene dwelle, Or elles were him lever, soule and bones, With Pluto king as depe been in helle As Tantalus!" What sholde I more telle? Whan al was wel, he roos and took his leve, And she to souper com, whan it was eve,

To do all this he swore by sticks and stones, And all the gods that high in heaven dwell, Or let him be, said he, both skin and bones, As deep as Tantalus

Where Pluto

in lowest hell


is there more to tell ? and took his leave, supper came when it was eve,


All thus arranged, he rose


she to



With a certayn of hir owene men,

And with hir faire nece AntigoneAnd othere of hir wommen nyne or ten; But who was glad now, who, as trowe ye, But Troilus, that stood and mighte it see Thurgh-out a litel windowe in a stewe, Ther he bishet, sin midnight, was in mewe,

Along with certain of her household men, And with her charming niece Antigone,


others of her

Who now But

women, nine or

was glad




Who other can it

who stood where

be he could see.

Right through a little window in a room, till midnight hid in lonely gloom,

Where he


Unwist of every wight but of Pandare? But to the poynt; now whan she was y-come With alle joye, and alle frendes fare, Hir eem anoon in armes hath hir nome,


To all But

87 the folk save Pandar quite

to the point!


she had

unknown ? come at last,

With all her friends, as I before have shown, Her uncle with his arm about her cast,



66 Together with

his guests to

And when they all were seated happilv. The dainties served there were a sight to


And after to the

supper passed, see.

88 : When from the supper table they arose, At ease in mind and heart was man and maid, Anil each for her his freshest stories chose, While Pandar his most sparkling wit displayed. He sang; she played; he told the tale of Wade, But everything at last must have an end. And she prepared her homeward wav to wend.

souper, alle and some, Whan tyme was, ful softe they hem sette; God wot, ther was no deyntee for to fette.



after souper

gonnen they



Thou Chance,


to ryse,

At ese wel, with hertes fresshe and glade, And wel was him that coude best devyse To lyken hir, or that hir laughen made. He song; she pleyde; he tolde tale of Wade. But at the laste, as every thing hath ende, She took hir leve, and nedes wolde wende.

executrix of each man's weird! Influences dwelling in the sky!

All under God, our fates by these are steered, Though we poor brutes the cause cannot descry For though she said that homeward she would hie, The Gods had willed it in another wav, And willy-nilly, there she had to stay.


The curving moon, with her two horns all pale, And Saturn, Jove and Cancer so united That all the rains of heaven now assail The earth, and all these ladies were affrighted, Who by the smoky rain were thus benighted; But Pandar only laughed at them, and cried, " 'Tis fine for ducks and ladies now outside!

But O, Fortune, executrice of wierdes, influences of thise hevenes hye! Soth is, that, under god, ye ben our hierdes, Though to us bestes been the causes wrye. This mene I now, for she gan hoomward hye, But execut was al bisyde hir leve, At the goddes wil; for which she moste bleve. 90 The bente mone with hir homes pale, Saturne, and Jove, in Cancro joyned were, That swich a rayn from hevene gan avale, That every maner womman that was there

Hadde of that smoky reyn a verray fere; At which Pandare tho lough, and seyde thenne, "Now were it tyme a lady to go henne!



"But now, good niece, I hope that you will Accept my humble hospitality, As well for mine as for your greater ease,



all remain here overnight with me. Pray let my house tor once your own house be; For if you went out now, I'd feel to blame, And take it as an insult and a shame."

But goode nece,

if I

mighte ever plese

Yow any-thing, than prey I yow," quod he, "To doon myn herte as now so greet an ese As for to dwelle here al this night with me, For-why this is your owene hous, pardee. For, by my trouthe, I sey it nought a-game, To wende as now, it were to me a shame." 92


who saw how


matters stood

As well as anyone, had naught to say, For since the flooding rain had come for good, She thought, "I might as well, if I must stay, Accept the matter in a cheerful way, And have his thanks, as grumble and remain, For home we cannot go just now, that's plain." 93

"That's very kind," she



uncle dear,


if you really wish, it shall be so. We're glad to have the chance of staying here. 'Twas but a joke when I said I would go." "I thank you, niece," he answered, bowing low,

"Joking or not, the simple truth to tell, am relieved that with me you will dwell."


Criseyde, whiche that coude as muche good As half a world, tok hede of his preyere; And sin it ron, and al was on a flood, She thoughte, as good chep may I dwellen here, And graunte it gladly with a freendes chere, And have a thank, as grucche and thanne abyde;

For hoom to goon


Thus al is wel; but tho bigan aright The newe joye, and al the feste agayn;


still in


And he to get them soon to bed was fain. "Good Lord," he said, "this is a mighty rain! It's just the weather for a good long sleep! Let other things until tomorrow keep!



may nought wel bityde.

93 "I wol," quod she, "myn uncle leef and dere, Sin that yow list, it skile is to be so; 1 am right glad with yow to dwellen here; I seyde but a-game, I wolde go," "Y-wis, graunt mercy, nece!" quod he tho; "Were it a game or no, soth for to telle, Now am I glad, sin that yow fist to dwelle."


So far, so good Then they began anew The conversation in a merry strain,

But Pandar kept the main point


niece, I have a place for you to stay, Right here, where we shan't be too far asunder,

But Pandarus, if goodly hadde he might, He wolde han hyed hir to bedde fayn, And seyde, "lord, this is an huge rayn! This were a weder for to slepen inne;




rede us sone to biginne.


And nece, woot ye wher I wol yow lcye, For that we shul not liggen

fer asonder,




for ye neither shullen, dar



Heren noise of reynes nor of thonder? By god, right in my lyte closet yonder.


wol in that outer hous allone Be wardeyn of your wommen everichone. 96 And in this middel chaumbre that ye see Shul youre wommen slepen wel and softe; And ther I seyde shal your-selve be; And if ye liggen wel to-night, com ofte, I

And careth not what weder is on-lofte. The wyn anon, and whan so that yow leste, So go we





be the beste.'



And where you shan't hear in the slightest way The noise of raining or the din of thunder.

Mv little


you to a wonder.

will suit

And in that outer place alone I'll sleep, And watch and guard upon vour women "And

room between, that here you see, your women sleep both well and soft, And snug within, yourself alone shall be. And if you sleep well, come back soon and oft. No matter what the weather be aloft! Just one last drink! And when you feel inclined, Now all of you know just where your bed to find!" Shall

in this





no more, but here-after sone, The voyde dronke, and travers drawe anon, Gan every wight, that hadde nought to done More in that place, out of the chaumber gon. And ever-mo so sternelich it ron, And blew ther-with so wonderliche loude, That wel neigh no man heren other coude. nis

The night cup to the company was passed, And all the curtains then were closely drawn, And so it was not long until the last Of all the folk from out the room had gone. But


the pelting rain kept on and on,

And such a storm of wind blew all around, You could not hear a single other sound. 98


Tho Pandarus, hir eem, right as him oughte, With women swiche as were hir most aboute, Ful glad un-to hir beddes syde hir broughte,

And took his leve, and gan ful lowe loute, And seyde, "here at this closet-dore withoute, Right over-thwart, your wommen liggen alle, That, whom yow liste of hem, ye may here

chamber brought, Together with a personal maid or two, And Pandar, doing all a good host ought, With many a bow, to her then said adieu, But added, "At this door not far from you, Your women will be lodged across the hall, And if you want them, you need only Fair Cressida was to her




So whan that she was

in the closet leyd,

And alle hir wommen forth by ordenaunce A-bedde weren, ther as I have seyd, There was no more to skippen nor to traunce, But boden go to bedde, with mischaunce, If any wight was steringe any-where,

And late hem slepe that a-bedde were. 100 But Pandarus, that wel coude eche a del The olde daunce, and every poynt therinne, Whan that he sey that alle thing was wel, He thoughte he wolde up-on his werk biginne, And gan the stewe-dore al softe un-pinne,

And stille

as stoon, with-outen lenger lette, Troilus a-doun right he him sette. 101 And, shortly to the poynt right for to gon, Of al this werk he tolde him word and ende. And seyde, "make thee redy right anon,


For thou

shalt in-to




"Now blisful Venus, thou me grace sende," Quod Troilus, Hadde





"for never yet no nede now, ne halvendel the drede."

102 drede thee never a del, For it shal been right as thou wilt desyre; So thryve I, this night shal I make it wel, Or casten al the gruwel in the fyre." "Yit blisful Venus, this night thou me enspyre," Quod Troilus, "as wis as I thee serve,

Quod Pandarus, "ne

And ever bet and bet shal, til I


So Cressida was

And And


99 tucked in bed, just as Pandar planned,




have carefully explained and said; If any then would tramp about, or stand And talk, the rest did scold and all demand That those who made the racket should keep And let the others sleep who had the will. I


Now Pandar knew


game he had

And how to manage every point And all in a preliminary way

Now being well,

to play,


was ready to begin;

And first the little door he doth unpin, And entering there as still as any stone, By Troilus he sat him down alone. 101

And then he had a story to relate Of all these things, from very start "Get ready,"

to end.

said he, "heaven's joys await !"


thee, if thou wilt but attend "Saint Venus," Troilus replied, "now send Thy aid, for never have I had such need, !" Nor ever felt such fright for any deed 102 Said Pandar, "Don't be in the least afraid, For all shall turn out just as you desire; Tonight I say your fortune shall be made,

Or else


tonight the fat be in the fire."

blessed Venus,

now my

heart inspire,"

Cried Troilus, "and in thy service high My time forever I shall occupy!










Venus, queen of mirth, Saturn, or l Mars malign, Or thou wcrt quenched or hindered at my birth, Thy lather pray that he this harm of mine Will turn aside, and grant me joy divine,

And if I hadde, O Venus ful of mirthe, Aspectes badde of Mars or of Saturne, Or thou combust or let were in my birthe, Thy fader pray al thilke harm disturne

For love of him for whom thou fclt'st love's pain, Adonis, by the fateful wild boar slain!

For love of him thou lovedest in the shawe, I mene Adoon, that with the boor was slawe.



there reigned,


Of grace, and that


glad ayein



"O Jove, thou lover of Europa fair, W ho as a bull didst carrv her away, Now

may turne,

O Jove eek, for the love of faire Europe, The whiche



forme of bole away thou


Mars, who bloody cloak dost bear, For love of Venus, hinder me not I prav! Phoebus, think how Daphne pined one day


O Phebus, thenk whan Dane hir-selven shette

Beneath the bark, and to a laurel grew, help me now, for love of her so true!

Yet for hir love,







105 beg in Herse's name,

was against Aglauros

help! Diana, let not modest

Dissuade thee


to aid

me and


swaddling clothes, in this


shame abet

my destiny




ye spun,


106 Said Pandar, "O, you chicken-hearted wretch! Are you afraid because you think she'll bite? Put something on— this over-cloak just fetch Along, and follow me to see a sight!




go ahead, to make

Then he undid




a little secret door.

Troilus waiting, he went on before.

107 ..The wind so roared and rumbled round about, No other sound could anywhere be heard,

And those whose beds stood near the door They slept and not a single person stirred, For none had caught


For love of Cipris, thou


whisper or a word.

Then Pandar found the door, without a light, Where they all lay, and softlv shut it tight.

bark, and laurer wex for drede, help now at this nede!




Why, don this furred cloke up-on thy sherte, And folowe me, for I wol han the wyte; But byd, and lat me go bifore a lyte." And with that word he gan un-do a trappe, And Troilus he broughte in by the lappe. 107

The sterne wind


whispering low, he begged her to beware; he said, "that curious folk can hear! don't want meddlers now to interfere!"

"No word,"

109 the world," she asked, "did you get here, And they not know a thing about it all ?" "At this trap-door," he answered, drawing near.


so loude gan to route

That no wight other noyse mighte here;

And they that layen at the

dore withoute, Ful sikerly they slepten alle y-fere; And Pandarus, with a ful sobre chere, Goth to the dore anon with-outen lette, Ther-as they laye, and softely it shette. 108


But Cressida awoke and cried, "Who's there?" "Dear niece," he softly said, "it's only me! I hope I haven't given you a scare!"



Mercurie, for the love of Hierse eke, For which Pallas was with Aglauros wrooth, Now help, and eek Diane, I thee biseke, That this viage be not to thee looth. O fatal sustren, which, er any clooth Me shapen was, my destene me sponne, So helpeth to this werk that is bi-gonne!" 106 Quod Pandarus, "thou wrecched mouses herte, Art thou agast so that she wol thee byte?


He came again,

me nought ne lette;


O Fatal Sisters, ere my nurse made yet So help me

O Mars, thou with thy blody cope,


Under the





"Perhaps," said Cressida, "I'd better call." "What, God forbid!" he answered still and small. "If we by anyone should thus be caught, They might think what they never would have thought.

no you know— just

"Like sleeping dogs, let them sleep! Don't ever give a chance for vague surmise. Your women are in slumber sunk so deep, You might pull down the town before their eyes,

And as he com ayeinward prively, His nece awook, and asked "who goth there?"

"My dere nece," quod he, "it am I; Ne wondreth not, ne have of it no fere"; And ner he com, and seyde hir in hir ere, "No word, for love of god I yow biseche; Lat no wight ryse and heren of our speche." 109 "What! which wey be ye comen, benedicite?" Quod she, "and how thus unwist of hem alle?" "Here at this secree trappe-dore," quod he. Quod tho Criseyde, "lat me som wight calle." "Ey! god forbede that it sholde falle," Quod Pandarus, "that ye swich foly wroughte! They mighte deme thing they never er thoughte!

no nought good a sleping hound to wake, yeve a wight a cause to devyne;

It is


Your wommen slepen alle, I under-take, So that, for hem, the hous men mighte myne;




And slepen wolen til the sonne shyne. And whan my tale al brought is to an ende, Unwist, right as


com, so wol





And will sleep so until the sun shall rise; And when I've told you what have to say, I


silent as



go away.




Now nece myn, ye shul wel understonde," Quod he, "so as ye wommen demen alle, That

for to holde in love a

And him

hir 'leef


man in honde,

and 'dere




niece, I'm sure


you quite well understand,

think, agree in this," he said,

all, I

a certain man in hand, Whose hopes with honeyed words vou long have



you have



And maken him an howve above a


mene, as love an other in this whyle, She doth hir-self a shame, and him a gyle. I


yet you set a fool's cap on his head, mean, with someone else you are too thick, Why, that's a shameful and a nasty trick. I




Now wherby that I telle yow al this? Ye woot

your-self, as wel as

any wight,

How that your love al fully graunted is To Troilus, the worthieste knight, Oon of this world, and ther-to trouthe plyght, That, but it were on him along, ye nolde Him never falsen, whyl ye liven sholde. 113 Now stant it thus, that sith I fro yow wente, This Troilus, right platly for to seyn, Is thurgh a goter, by a prive wente,






say this to you.


You know

yourself as well as any wight, your love is promised and is due To Troilus, that good and noble knight, And with such pledges you your faith did plight, You never would your love to him deny,



Unless, indeed, the fault in

I went, "But This Troilus, with something on his brain, Has by a gutter, through a secret vent,

Into my chamber come in Of course unknown to all,

Save of my-self, as wisly have


And by that feith I


Pryam of Troye! 114 And he is come in swich peyne and distresse That, but he be al fully wood by this, He sodeynly mot falle in-to wodnesse, But-if god helpe; and cause why this is, He seyth him told is, of a freend of his, How that ye sholde love oon that hatte Horaste, For sorwe of which this night shalt been his laste. 115 Criseyde, which that al this wonder herde, Gan sodeynly aboute hir herte colde, And with a syk she sorwfully answerde, shal

wende, who-so tales tolde, My dere herte wolde me not holde So lightly fals! alias! conceytes wronge, "Alias!


What harm they doon, for now live


to longe!

116 Horaste! alias! and falsen Troilus? I knowe him not, god helpe me so," quod she; "Alias! what wikked spirit tolde him thus?

Now certes, eem, to-morwe, and I him see, I

shal ther-of as ful excusen


As ever dide womman, if him fyke"; And with that word she gan ful sore syke.


me alone

swear as

in all the

all this rain,




town of Troy,

have hope of heaven's joy.


"Now he has come

this night in

such great grief

That I'm afraid lest he may lose his mind, For he is hurt and wild beyond belief,

And now

the reason for

all this I find.

you a friend has undermined, Who says you love a fellow named Horast, For grief of which this night may be his last." His faith


Cressida heard this tale with great surprise, And therewithal she felt her heart grow cold,

And suddenly

exclaimed, with tears and sighs, thought, whatever tales were told, sweetheart would not me so lightly hold For false! Alas, they'll drive me to my death, These liars with their foul and poisoned breath! 116 "Alas,



"Horast! And me be false to Troilus! Indeed I never knew him," answered she. "Alas, what wicked spirit told him thus!

But Troilus tomorrow

And from


these charges

shall see, I

myself shall



"O God,"


Which scholars falsely call felicity, With bitterness are mingled and with

clerkes callen fals felicitee,

with many a bitternesse! Ful anguisshous than is, god woot," quod she, "Condicioun of veyn prosperitee; For either joyes comen nought y-fere, Or elles no wight hath hem alwey here. is


O brotel wele of marines joye unstable!


In his and in the eyes of all good men," And thereupon she sighed and sighed again.

"O god!" quod she, "so worldly selinesse, Y-medled


3. here's the point, that since to bed

In-to my chaumbre come in al this reyn, Unwist of every maner wight, certeyn, I

him should


she cried, "these blessings temporal,



only knows what anguish then hath he Who sees his empty joys before him flee! For either joys arrive inopportune, Or else thev flit and vanish all too soon! 118 "O fickle fate! worldly joy unstable!




Of men

thou makest but a sport and plav! All know that they to hold their joy are able.

Or know

it not— there is no other way. one knows it not, how mav he say That he of perfect joy perceives the spark, If ignorance still leaves him in the dark ?



119 he knows that joy is transitorv, Since joy in every worldly thing must flee, This troubling thought diminishes the glory Of earthly joy, and so in such degree, Imperfect must be his felicitv; If loss of joy he fears a jot or tittle, This proves that earthly joy is worth but little.




With what wight so thou be, or how thou pleye, Either he woot that thou, joyc, art muable, Or woot it not, it moot ben oon of tweye; Now if he woot it not, how may he seye That he hath verray joye and seliness, That is of ignoraunce ay in derknesse? 119

Now if he woot that joye is transitorie, As every

joye of worldly thing


so this verily,

No perfect


problem I must thus decide, for aught that I can see,

Wherfore I wol defryne in this matere, That trewely, for ought I can espye, Ther is no verray wele in this world here. But O, thou wikked serpent Jalousye, Thou misbeleved and envious folye, Why hastow Troilus me mad untriste, That never yet agilte him, that I wiste?"

joy can in this world abide.

But O, thou


wicked jealousy!

O folly, faithless, envious of me! Why And

hast thou bred in Troilus distrust, I

in all things

ever true and just!" 121


"You know," said Pandar, "that of Troilus"— "Why, uncle dear," she cried, "who told him so? Alas, why does my sweetheart treat me thus?" "O, well," he said, "the way of the world, you know. But what's gone wrong,



the right



Quod Pandarus, "thus fallen is this cas." "Why, uncle myn," quod she, "who tolde him this?

Why doth my dere herte thus, alias?" "Ye woot, ye nece myn," quod I

"what is; hope al shal be wel




do tomorrow," answered she, way I'm sure will satisfy."

"And in a "Tomorrow?" he cried, "as well eternity! No, no, we cannot let this thing slip by! Old clerks have written in their widsom high That peril with delaying, strikes within. No, such delayings are not worth

a pin!


shal I

do to-morwe, y-wis" quod

"And god to-forn, so



alias, that

"Nay, nay,

may not

"There comes

a fitting

a room's afire or a hall, better folk at once some help should bring, Than stand and argufy amongst them all, It's

'How chanced this candle in the straw to fall?' The harm is done the while they thus debate, the stable door


then too


124 I hope you'll let me say, you leave him in this state, Your love for him has been but vain display. That's how it seems to me at any rate. You can't abandon him to such a fate,


one thing

If all the night

You know

yourself, 'twould be the height of folly

To leave him

in this

dangerous melancholy." 125

love a vain display! You never loved have loved," indignantly she cried. "Well, that," he said, "remains yet to be proved! But since by me you think you're justified, I wouldn't let him in this sorrow bide, I


shal suffyse."

were a fayr," quod he,


time for everything,

And when

To lock


stonden in this wyse; For, nece myn, thus wryten clerkes wyse, That peril is with drecching in y-drawe; Nay, swich abodes been nought worth an hawe. it




For ye may quenche al this, if that yow leste, And doth right so, for I holde it the beste."


"So shall




The way to stop all this with you doth rest, And everything will turn out for the best."



May in no parfit selinesse be. And if to lese his joye he set a myte, Than semeth it that joye is worth ful lyte.




Than every tyme he that hath in memorie, The drede of lesing maketh him that he

Nece, al thing hath tyme, I dar avowe; For whan a chaumber a-fyr is, or an halle, Wel more nede is, it sodeynly rescowe Than to dispute, and axe amonges alle

How is this candel in the straw y-falle? A! benedicite! for al among that fare The harm is doon, and fare-wel feldefare! 124 And, nece myn, ne take it not agreef, If that ye suffre



night in this wo,

God help me so, ye hadde him never leef, That dar I seyn, now there is but we two; But wel


Ye been


woot, that ye wol not do



do so gret



To putte his lyf al night in jupartye." 125

"Hadde I him never leef? By god, I wene Ye hadde never thing so leef," quod she.

"Now by my thrift," quod

he, "that shal be sene; For, sin ye make this ensample of me, If I al night wolde him in sorwe see


126-133] For I


the tresour in the toun of Troye,

never mote have joye! 126 loke thanne, if ye, that been his love,

bidde god,



Shul putte al night his lyf in jupartye For thing of nought! Now, by that god above,

Nought only

this delay



swear by Jove who in Olympus reigns, No, not for all the gold that Troy contains! I

comth of folye,

Bui of malyce, if that I shal nought lye. What, platly, and ye suffre him in distresse, Ye neither bountee doon ne gentilesse!"




Shall put his


you who arc


only love,

night in jeopardy, Just for a trifle, by the God above, Both inconsiderate this act would be life all

And show

in you a bad propensitv. you abandon him, I'm frank to say, Nor wisdom nor yet kindness you display." If



Quod tho Criseyde, "wole ye doon o thing, And ye therwith shal stinte al his disese; here, and bereth him this blewe ring, For ther is no- thing mighte him bettre plese, Save I my-self, ne more his herte apese; And sey my dere herte, that his sorwe Is causeles, that shal be seen to-morwe."




least," said Cressida, "this

that will bring

him some




relief and ease.


to him this ring with stone of blue, For there is nothing will him better please, Except myself, or more his wrath appease,

say to my sweetheart that all his sorrow without ground, as he shall see tomorrow."

And Is



"A ring?" quod he,

"ye, hasel-wodes shaken! Ye, nece myn, that ring moste han a stoon That mighte dede men alyve maken;


swich a ring, trowe I that ye have noon. Discrecioun out of your heed is goon;

That fele I now," quod he, "and that is routhe; tyme y-lost, wel maystow cursen slouthe! 129


pshaw," said he, "a fig for all your ring! The sort of ring he needs must have a stone With power enough the dead to life to bring, And such a ring, dear niece, you do not own. Discretion from your head seems to have flown! time, O wasted opportunity,

O O cursed sloth, O heedless sluggardy!

Wot ye not wel that noble and heigh corage Ne sorweth not, ne stinteth eek for lyte?

129 not know that men of courage high, Feel strongly and are quick and sharp in action


A fool in

if a fool


in a jalous rage,

1 nolde setten at his sorwe a myte, But feffe him with a fewe wordes whyte Another day, whan that I mighte him finde: But this thing stont al in another kinde.

"Do you

jealous rage one

might pass by,

For shallow minds are shallow in distraction; A few fair words will give them satisfaction, They'll wait until you're ready to be kind, But this is quite another thing, you'll find.


That with his deeth he wol his sorwes wreke; For trusteth wel, how sore that him smerte, He wol to yow no jalouse wordes speke.

"This man is of such high and gentle heart, His sorrows with his death he well may wreak; Be sure, however sorely he may smart, No jealous word to you he'll ever speak.

And for-thy, nece, er that his

And now no



so gentil and so tendre of herte,

herte breke,

So spek your-self to him of this matere; For with o word ye may his herte stere. 131


Now have I told what peril he is inne, his coming unwist is t' every wight; Ne, pardee, harm may ther be noon ne sinne; I wol my-self be with yow al this night. Ye knowe eek how it is your owne knight, And that, by right, ye moste upon him triste, I al

prest to fecche

you now the peril he is in, And not a soul of him has caught a sight. Besides there need be neither harm nor sin, For I shall be at hand through all the night. "I've told



further subterfuges seek,

no longer on your wilful pride, But say the word his heart to cheer and guide.


him whan yow liste."

You know he never will transgress his right, And as your knight, you must in him confide. I'll


him here as soon


you decide."

*3 2



This accident so pitous was to here,

Now so distressing was all

And eek so lyk a sooth, at pryme face, And Troilus hir knight to hir so dere,

And And

His prive coming, and the siker place, That, though that she dide him as thanne a grace, Considered alle thinges as they stode,

So secret, too, his coming and the place, That though there was a risk of some disgrace,

No wonder is, sin she dide al for gode. 133

Cryseyde answerde, "as wisly god

this to hear,

seemed, besides, so likely on its face, Troilus, her knight, to her so dear,

Considering everything, just how it stood, No wonder if she took it all for good. '.33

at reste

My sowle bringe, as me is for him wo! And eem, y-wis, fayn wolde I doon the


"God knows," said Cressida, "it makes me sad To hear of my dear love's distress and woe; To help him in his sorrow I'd be glad,






was best to do I could but know; But whether you should stay or lor him go, .mi. nil heaven some direction send, Bui at Dulcarnon, at my wife' last end." \sliat




for such folk this saving



For verray slouthe or othere wilful tecches; This seyd by hem that be not worth two fecches. But ye ben wys, and that we han on honde Nis neither hard, ne skilful to withstonde."


But you are wise, and what we have in hand, no subtle wit to understand."

Calls for




134 Pandarus, "ye, nece, wol ye here? Dulcarnon called is 'fleminge of wrecches'; It semeth hard, for wrecches wol not lere

"Dulcarnon" said he, "let me tell you, dear, That means, 'last hope of those of feeble mind.' Such persons m their heads are never clear, But stay for very sloth perverselv blind,



hadde grace to do so. But whether that ye dwelle or for him go, I am, til god mc bettre minde sende, At Dulcarnon, right at my wittes ende." If that

'35 uncle," said she, "do as you think


"Thanne, eem," quod





And And




before he comes, arise.

But er he come I wil up first aryse; And, for the love of god, sin al my trist Is on yow two, and ye ben bothe wyse, So wircheth now in so discreet a wyse, That I honour may have, and he plesaunce; For I am here al in your governaunce."

you two all doth rest, since you both are most discreet and wise, I beg you will this matter so devise, My honor and his wish to satisfy, For everything in vour hands now doth lie." trust in

'36 "\\


spoken that," he said, "my niece so dear! You've shown you have a wise and gentle heart But just lie still and let him come right here, Your messages you can as well impart, And may you ease each other's pain and smart. And now at last, O Venus, praise to thee, For soon some happy times we here shall see." ell


"That is wel seyd," quod he, "my nece dere, Ther good thrift on that wyse gentil herte! But liggeth stille, and taketh him right here, It nedeth not no ferther for him sterte;

And ech of yow ese otheres

sorwes smerte,

For love of god; and, Venus, I thee herie; For sone hope I we shulle ben alle merie."




she, "doth her-of as




beside his lady kneeling, Full soberly beside his lady's bed,

This Troilus ful sone on knees him sette Ful sobrely, right by hir beddes heed,

Extends to her his greetings with such feeling, She waxes all at once a rosy red She could not speak a word, to save her head, On seeing him so sudden and unbidden, Come from the place in which he had been hidden.

And in his beste wyse his lady grette; But lord, so she wex sodeynliche reed! Ne, though men sholden smyten of hir heed, She coude nought a word a-right out-bringe So sodeynly, for his sodeyn cominge.


But Pandar always knew



what to do,

And now to break the ice, his jokes began, And said, "See how this lord doth kneel to you! your eyes upon this gentleman!" And quickly then, he for a cushion ran, And said, "Take this, and on it kneel your fill! And may your hearts be purged of every ill!" Just rest

139 Just why she did not order him to rise,— If sorrow drove the thought out of her mind, I cannot say, or kneeling in this wise

She thought as manners only was designed, But this I know, she was in so far kind, That though she sighed, nevertheless she kissed



140 "All's ready now," said Pandar, "to begin! That's right, dear niece, these curtains interfere,


It's easier


upon your bed within;

so each other's words to hear."

Then he withdrew and


And seyde, "nece, see how this lord can knele! Now, for your trouthe, seeth this gentil man!" And with that word he for a quisshen ran, And seyde, "kneleth now, whyl that yow leste, Ther god your

hertes bringe sone at reste!"

139 not seyn, for she bad him not ryse, If sorwe it putte out of hir remembraunce, Or elles if she toke it in the wyse Of dufitee, as for his observaunce; But wel finde I she dide him this plesaunce, That she him kiste, al-though she syked




to a seat beside her did assist him.

Just let

But Pandarus, that so wel coude fele In every thing, to pleye anoon bigan,

took a light and As though to read he

the way all clear, down by the fire,



felt a

great desire.

And bad him


a-doun with-outen more. 140

Quod Pandarus, "now wol ye wel


Now doth him sitte, gode nece dere, Upon your beddes



there withinne,

That ech of yow the bet may other here." And with that word he drow him to the fere, And took a light, and fond his contenaunce As for to loke up-on an old romaunce.






73 141


Criseyde, that was Troilus lady right, And cleer stood on a ground of sikernesse, Al thoughte she, hir servaunt and hir knight Ne sholde of right non untrouthe in hir gesse, Yet nathelees, considered his distresse, And that love is in cause of swich folye, Thus to him spak she of his jelousye:

And And

was right. and solid ground. Yet thinking as her servant and her knight No lack of faith in her he should have found, Now felt herself constrained in duty bound. Though faithful love had caused this thing to To speak to him about his jealousy. C.ressida, assured that all

that she stood





wolde the excellence Of love, ayeins the which that no man may, Ne oughte eek goodly maken insistence; And eek bycause I felte wel and say Your grete trouthe, and servyse every day; And that your herte al myn was, sooth to seyne, This droof me for to rewe up-on your peyne. "Lo, herte myn,



love," she said, "should be of such a kind,

That no true lover ever ought or may Encourage opposition in his mind. Yet still, because I've seen in every way Your faithfulness and service day by day, And that your heart was mine has been so This led me to have pity on your pain. '4?


And your goodnesse have I founde alwey yit,


Of whiche, my dere herte and al my

For which,

since I've ever found


thank you now


as far as in

My heart

grief hereafter is

But, herte myn, what al this is to seyne Shal wel be told, so that ye noght yow greve, Though I to yow right on your-self compleyne. For ther-with mene I fynally the peyne. That halt your herte and myn in hevinesse, Fully to sleen, and every wrong redresse.

To say



wikked wivere.

his refut in so digne a place,

Ther Jove him sone out of your herte

But you must not thereat too deeply grieve, Although I seem upon you to complain; For in the end this present grief and pain That holds your heart and mine in heaviness, I shall remove and every harm redress.

"But precious one, I know not how nor why That viper jealousy, insidious thief, Should thus into your bosom creep so sly,

The which

to both of us


cause of grief.

Alas, that thou shouldst thus



Exalt low jealousy to such a place! May Jove such thoughts from out your heart erase


But O, thou Jove,



146 auctor of

"But O, thou


Jove, from

whom all

things have



to thy deitee,

And who that giltif is,


quit goth he?

O were it leful for to pleyne on thee, That undeserved suffrest jalousye, I wolde up-on thee pleyne and

And that

an honor to thy deity, should suffer here in strife And yet the guilty one all free goes he ? O, were it lawful to complain on thee, This charge I'd bring against thy mighty name, Of causeless jealousy I bear the blame. Is this


folk ungiltif suffren here injure,


guiltless folk



Eek al

will believe.

sweetheart, goes against the grain,


Thus causelees is cropen in-to yow; The harm of which I wolde fayn delivere! Alias! that he, al hool, or of him slivere, Should have

befall, all in all.

I'm sure, you do and



My goode, myn, not I for-why ne how alias!




That Jalousye,

me lies,

yours and shall be



my wo is this, that folk now usen

To seyn right thus, 'ye, Jalousye is Love!' And wolde a busshel venim al excusen,

"Another shame is this, that folk abuse True love and say, 'Yea, jealousy is love!'


bushel of venom such folk will excuse but a grain of love therein they shove.

For that o greyn of love is on it shove! But that wot heighe god that sit above,


be lyker love, or hate, or grame; And after that, it oughte bere his name.

be liker love or liker hate, And by its name we should it designate.



But God knows





and reigns above,

If it


som maner jalousye excusable more than som, y-wis.

But certeyn Is



not as much, perhaps, as were your right, according to my wit and might,

Yet still Whatever

And dredelees, that shal be founde at preve.

Is this

you good and

my precious heart and my



thonke it yow, as fer as I have wit, Al can I nought as muche as it were right; And I, emforth my conninge and my might, Have and ay shal, how sore that me smerte, Ben to yow trewe and hool, with al myn herte; I





sorts of jealousy,


will confess,

Are more excusable than other kinds,



74 As when

there's cause, or



Some harsh fantastic notion in their minds. Which in expression no free outlet finds, And on itself it thus doth grew and feed;

As whan cause is, and som swich fantasye With pietee so wel repressed is, That it unnethe dooth or seyth amis, But goodly drinketh up al his distresse;

For such repression



folk long repress

a gentle deed.

•49 "And some are filled with fury and despite So full that it surpasses all restraint— But, sweetheart, you are not in such plight,

Thank God, and an


your grieving and vour


illusive lover's taint




there that


wol not

so ful of furie


can say ?"


tears with that, like shining drops of dew, from her eyes, but only two or three, "Thou knowest, God, that Cressida untrue


To Troilus is not, nor e'er shall be!" And then upon her couch she laid her head, And sighing sore, covered it with the sheet, And held her peace in silence quite complete.

May heaven bring relief for all this sorrow! There's ground for hope, for such is heaven's way; For I have seen on many a misty morrow Following oft a merry summer's day, after winter, comes along the May.


'Tis known, and vouched for by authorities, That storms are presages of victories.

but illusioun,

That dooth your herte

bisy cure,

this disese endure.

150 but not wrooth; But, for my devoir and your hertes reste, Wher-so yow list, by ordal or by ooth, By sort, or in what wyse so yow leste, For love of god, lat preve it for the beste! And if that I be giltif, do me deye, Alias! what mighte I more doon or seye?" 151 With that a fewe brighte teres newe Out of hir eyen fille, and thus she seyde, "Now god, thou wost, in thought ne dede untrewe To Troilus was never yet Criseyde." With that hir heed doun in the bed she leyde, And with the shete it wreigh, and syghed sore, And held hir pees; not a word spak she more. 152 But now help god to quenchen al this sorwe, So hope I that he shal, for he best may; For I have seyn, of a ful misty morwe Folwen ful ofte a mery someres day; And after winter folweth grene May. Men seen alday, and reden eek in stories, That after sharpe shoures been victories.

Of which I am right sory,



Poor Troilus, when he heard how she spoke, Imagine how her chiding words struck deep! A heavy stick it was that struck this stroke, To hear and see his lady-love thus weep; The cramp of death he felt upon him creep, And every tear he saw his lady shed, Strangled his heart till it lay cold and dead.

This Troilus, whan he hir wordes herde,

Have ye no

care, him liste not to slepe; thoughte him no strokes of a yerde To here or seen Criseyde his lady wepe; But wel he felte aboute his herte crepe, For every teer which that Criseyde asterte, The crampe of deeth, to streyne him by the




•54 And mentally the hour he did curse That he came there, or that when he was born! For what was bad, was now turned into worse, And for love's labors lost, he could but mourn, And count him of all creatures most forlorn. Pandar, thought he, all thy cunning guile,


Has come



Of habundaunce of love and

"At which I grieve, but do no anger feel. But now, if this will set your heart at rest, Just as you will, by oath or by ordeal, By lot, or any way you think the best, I'm ready here to undergo the test. If I am guilty, take my life away alas,

for the gentilesse.

and despyt, That it sourmounteth his repressioun; But herte myn, ye be not in that plyt, That thanke I god, for whiche your passioun I

From love's excess, and from anxiety, From which this long time you have not been

What more,



And som


I call it

that excuse


naught but


alack the while!


At these sad thoughts he humbly hung


And in his minde he gan the tyme acurse That he cam there, and that he was born; For now is wikke y-turned in-to worse, And al that labour he hath doon biforn, He wende it lost, he thoughte he nas but lorn.

"O Pandarus," thoughte he, "alias! thy wyle Serveth of nought, so weylawey the whyle!" 155

And fell upon his knees and deeply sighed. What could he say All life from him had fled,

And therwithal he heng a-doun the heed, And fil on knees, and sorwfully he sighte; What mighte he seyn? he felte he nas but deed,

Her chiding words his grief so magnified, But when he could, at last he thus replied: "\\ hen all is known, I swear in heaven's name, Then you will see that I am not to blame."

For wrooth was she that shulde his sorwes lighte. But nathelees, whan that he speken mighte, Than seyde he thus, "god woot, that of this game. Whan al is wist, than am I not to blame!"

his head,






And every spirit his vigour in-knette,

.56 Though sorrow at his heart so sternly pressed, There fell not from his eye a single tear, His inmost nature was so strained and stressed

So they astoned and oppressed were.

No movement of his spirit

The feling of his sorwe, or of his fere, Or of ought elles, fled was out of towne; And doun he fel al sodeynly a-swowne.



Ther-with the sorwe so his herte shette. That from his eyen fil ther not a tere,


could appear; of sorrow or of fear

Or aught beside, all fled was out of town, And in a swoon he suddenly fell down.



This was no litel sorwe for to see; But al was hust, and Pandare up as taste, "O nece, pees, or we be lost," quod he, "Beth nought agast"; but certeyn, at the laste, For this or that, he in-to bedde him caste,

O, what

And seyde, "O theef, is this a mannes herte?" And of he rente al to his bare sherte;

Him in

158 seyde, "nece, but ye helpe us now, Alias, your owne Troilus is lorn!" "Y-wis, so wolde I, and I wiste how,

was to see! but Pandar got up fast,

a dreadful thing this

How still



"Hush, niece! Keep still or we are lost!" said he; "Don't be afraid!" and took him at the last,


tearing off his clothes, he quickly cast

her bed.

"O Cressida,"

"Have you a human

he cried,

heart in vour inside!



"Dear niece, unless you try to help us now, Your Troilus is ever lost and lorn." "That would I gladly do if I knew how,"

Ful fayn," quod she; "alas! that I was born!" "Ye, nece, wol ye pullen out the thorn That stiketh in his herte?" quod Pandare; "Sey 'al foryeve,' and stint is all this fare!"


cried. "Alas that I was ever born!" "There's naught to do except pull out the thorn That sticketh in his heart," wise Pandar said.


'All's forgiven,'




him from

"Ye, that to me," quod she, "ful lever were Than al the good the sonne aboute gooth"; And therwith-al she swoor him in his ere, "Y-wis, my dere herte, I am nought wrooth, Have here my trouthe and many another ooth; Now speek to me, for it am I, Criseyde!" But al for nought; yet mighte he not a-breyde. 160 his pous and pawmes of his hondes They gan to frote, and wete his temples tweyne, And, to deliveren him from bittre bondes, She ofte him kiste; and, shortly for to seyne,


Him to revoken she dide al hir peyne. And at the laste, he gan his breeth to drawe, And of his swough sone after that adawe,

"That were to me," she




"a thing more dear

the gold the circling sun goes round."

And thereupon she swore him in his ear, "By all the oaths by which I can be bound, I am not angry," — yet he made no sound. "It's Cressida,

But from

O speak, my precious heart!"

could not make him start. 160 His wrists and palms they then began to chafe, With water both his temples they did lave, From out his bitter bonds to bring him safe, And many a loving kiss to him she gave, To call him from his lethargy so grave, Until a breath he drew, and none too soon, And so began to come out of his swoon. his trance she



And gan bet minde and reson to him take,

And when some notice he began

But wonder sore he was abayst, y-wis. And with a syk, whan he gan bet a-wake, He seyde, 'O mercy, god, what thing is this?" "Why do ye with your-selven thus amis?" Quod tho Criseyde, "is this a mannes game? What, Troilus! wol ye do thus, for shame?"

Full sore he was abashed and mortified,

162 therwith-al hir arm over

And him she leyde, And al foryaf, and ofte tyme him keste. He thonked hir, and to hir spak, and seyde As

to purpos for his herte reste.


And she to that answerde him as hir leste; And with hir goodly wordes him dispone She gan, and ofte

Quod Pandarus, This

his sorwes to comforte.

163 "for ought


to take,


with a sigh, when he was quite awake, "Where am I ?" first with feeble voice he cried. "What trouble for you all I've made," he sighed. "O Troilus, now be a man!" said she.

"Why do vou act like


For shame on thee!"

162 Her arm around his neck she gently laid, Forgiving him with many a soft embrace,


he humbly made, time and place. These she received at once with right good grace, And spoke to him so kindly and so well, Her loving words his sorrow soon dispel. In

his apologies


fitting to the


can espyen, ne serven here of nought; I

nor I not good for syke folkes yen. But for the love of god, sin ye be brought In thus good plyt, lat now non hevy thought light


the dead."


"This candle and I, so far as I can spy," Said Pandar, "are no longer here required! The light is harmful to a sick man's eye! But now you have the chance so long desired, Before the fleeting time shall be expired,



Lei joy alone- within vour hearts abide," And took his candle to the chimney-side. 164


mind was

well, will

do the


many a cas; for every wight,







her by

She bade him

tell and not a thing denv, she said, she saw no other way,

She'd have to think a trick he tried to play. 166 And when he saw she would not be denied, Or if she were, her doubts would be increased, Choosing the lesser evil, he replied, "It was," he said, "at such and such a feast"— And thought she might have looked at him at least


after this,

That loveth wel meneth but

she asked, insisting she

He jealous was, and no cause to And also all the signs he judged Or else,

though it no nede were, Whan she swich othes as hir list devyse Hadde of him take, hir thoughte tho no fere, Ne cause eek non, to bidde him thennes ryse. Yet lesse thing than othes may suffyse In

best he can.

would know, What man, and where, and also why, first





candel to the chimeneye.



In such a case as this, for every

Who loveth

And bar the


in the hertes of yow tweye":


and clear! Since he all oaths she could or would devise Had sworn to her and banished all her fear, She saw no reason now to bid him rise. Yet less than oaths quite often satisfies last this lady's

Ben hanginge

But in effect she wolde wite anoon Of what man, and eek where, and also why He jelous was, sin ther was cause noon; And eek the signe, that he took it by, She bad him that to telle hir bisily, Or elles, certeyn, she bar him on honde, That this was doon of malis, hir to fonde. 166

With-outen more, shortly for to seyne, He moste obeye un-to his lady heste; And for the lasse harm, he moste feyne. He seyde hir, whan she was at swiche a feste She mighte on him han loked at the leste;

don't know, he said some thing or other, 'Twas all as well, one answer or another.

Not I not what, al dere y-nough a risshe, As he that nedes moste a cause fisshe.

"My dearest heart," she said, "though it were true, Whv such an imputation must you draw?

And she answerde, "swete, al were it so,



For by the

No harm

God above who made

us two,

ever meant or saw! Your vain suspicions are not worth a straw! Such childish reasons scarce deserve the thanking,


in that





have a right good spanking!" 168

Then Troilus began again to sigh, And new fears at his heart began to "Alas," he said,






Upon my conscience, precious sweetheart mine, But now all foolish thoughts I will resign, And shall hereafter not again offend.

Do what you

will— I'm yours unto the end!"

What harm was that, sin I non yvel mene? For, by that god that boughte us bothe two, In alle thinge is myn entente clene. Swich arguments ne been not worth a bene; Wol ye the childish jalous contrefete? Now were it worthy that ye were y-bete." 168 Tho Troilus gan sorwfully to syke, Lest she be wrooth, him thoughte his herte deyde; And seyde, "alias! upon my sorwes syke Have mercy, swete herte myn, Criseyde! And if that, in tho wordes that I seyde,

Be any wrong, I wol no more trespace; Do what yow list, I am al in your grace."


"True mercy,"


said she, "is not slow or strained,

Forgiven and forgotten be the past! But let this night in mind be long retained; Of jealous doubts, let this one be the last!" "O yes, dear heart!" he promised quick and fast. "And now," she said, "the pain I've given thee, Sweetheart, I beg that you forgive it me!" Troilus


170 such glad relief at

With trust in God and in And courage drawn from

He seized and And

his lady's grace,

his so



held her in a close embrace.



said, "If

again, or others

you are






That is

to seyn, that



al this;

And ever-more on this night yow recorde, And beth wel war ye do no more amis." "Nay, dere herte myn," quod he, "y-wis." "And now," quod she, "that I have do yow smerte, Foryeve it me, myn owene swete herte." 170


Pandar, feeling somewhat out of place,

l^y down to Don't swoon

And she answerde, "of gilt misericorde!

what can it do or say After the hawk hath caught it in his claw

This Troilus, with blisse of that supprysed, Put al in goddes hond, as he that mente No-thing but wel; and, sodeynly avysed, He hir in armes faste to him hente. And Pandarus, with a ful good entente, Leyde him to slepe, and seyde, "if ye ben wyse, Swowneth not now, lest more folk aryse." 171

What mighte or may the

helpless lark,


sely larke seye,

Whan that the sparhauk hath it in his foot?






tarie a yeer,


Like I


myn auctor, tcllen hir gladnesse,

As wel




Not otherwise

can no more, but of thise ilke tweye, To whom this tale Sucre be or soot, I



have told hir hevinesse.

172 Criseyde, which that felte hir thus y-take, As writen clerkes in hir bokes olde, Right as an aspes leef she gan to quake, Whan she him felte hir in his armes folde. But Troilus, al hool of cares colde, Gan thanken tho the blisful goddes sevene; Thus sondry peynes bringen folk to hevene.



was with her that day;

or not, this

And though my Lo, I, as does my After their grief,

is all

nature's law.

throughout a year I draw, author, still must tell, their time of joy as well.


Cressida in his arms thus boldly taken, As all wise clerks have said in books of old, Shook like an aspen leaf by breezes shaken,


strong arms about her body fold; all freed of care so cold, to those bright Gods, glorious seven In sundry ways thus folk are brought to heaven his

And Troilus, Gave thanks


This Troilus in armes gan hir streyne,

And seyde, "O swete, as ever mote I


Now be ye caught, now is ther but we tweyne; Now yeldeth yow, for other boot is noon." To that Criseyde answerde thus anoon, "Ne hadde Ben



now, my swete herte dere, I were now not here!"

yolde, y-wis,

Troilus in arms his love doth hold and strain, And whispers, "Precious heart, now are you

caught! all the world there liveth but we twain! Now you must yield, evasion helpeth naught!" But of evasion she had little thought; "Had I not yielded," said she, "sweetheart dear, Before this night, I would not now be here!" In


O! sooth


seyd, that heled for to be of a fevre or othere greet syknesse, is

Men moste drinke, as men may often see, Ful

bittre drink;


for to

han gladnesse,

Men drinken often peyne and greet distresse; I




peyne hath founden

O true

it is,

before they can be cured,

Whether of fever or other great disease, The sick must drink, for all they have endured, Full bitter drink, and for their better ease, Must oft partake of things that do not please. All this to Troilus

here, as for this aventure,

That thourgh

al his cure.


be applied,

Who after pain is glad and satisfied.



And now swetnesse semeth more swete,


That bitternesse assayed was biforn; For out of wo in blisse now they flete.


And now

Non swich they felten, sith they were born;

In joy so great,

Now is this bet, than bothe two be lorn! For love of god, take every womman hede

Or better pay for all the griefs they bore. And here I beg that lovers all will heed

To werken thus, if it comth to the nede.

This good example at their time of need!

176 Criseyde, al quit from every dredeand tene, As she that juste cause hadde him to triste, Made him swich feste, it joye was to sene, Whan she his trouthe and clene entente wiste. And as aboute a tree, with many a twiste, Bitrent and wryth the sote wode-binde, Gan eche of hem in armes other winde.

177 And as the newe abaysshed nightingale, That stinteth first whan she biginneth singe, Whan that she hereth any herde tale, Or in the hegges any wight steringe, And after siker dooth hir voys out-ringe; Right so Criseyde, whan hir drede stente,

Opned hir herte, and tolde him

hir entente.

sweetness all

For al

this world, in swich present gladnesse Troilus, and hath his lady swete; With worse hap god lat us never mete!


now seemed more than

ever sweet, the bitterness that went before; the time goes by on winged feet, it never could be more,



from fear and dread all free, With faith and trust in him now absolute, Made him such feast that it was good to see Such faithful service bear such happy fruit. And as the woodbine, growing near its root, Cressicja,


clasp the tree with tendrils intertwined,

So they



like the

arms about each other wind. hushed expectant nightingale,

Who ceases after she

begins to sing

sound of voices loud her ears assail, Or in the hedges stirreth anything, But then thereafter lets her song out-ring, So Cressida, released from all her fear, Opened her heart for him to look and hear. If


And right as he that seeth his deeth y-shapen, And deye moot, in ought that he may gesse, And sodeynly rescous doth him escapen, And from his deeth is brought in sikernesse,




And like the man who sees his death impending, And die he must, for aught that he can tell, Yet sudden rescue brings



So now For now



happy ending,

the things he dreaded, turn out well, to Troilus like fortune fell, at last he hath his lady sweet


we may with no worse fortune meet!






Her slender arms, her back so straight and soft, Her yielding sides, solongaiul smooth and bright.

He gently Her snowy

stroked, nor failed to note full oft throat, her rounding breasts so white.

Whereon he gazed

in heavenly delight. he scarce knew what to do, A thousand kisses seemed to him but lew. 180 "O Love," cxclaimeth he, "O Charity Thy mother also, Citherea sweet,

Such joy he


After thyself exalted


she be,

Venus, gracious planet, I repeat. And next to Venus, Hymen, I thee greet! For never man was to you Gods more bound (



who from mv


cares relief have found.


His armes smale, hir streyghte bak and softe, Hir sydes longe, fleshly, smothe, and whyte He gan to stroke, and good thrift bad ful ofte Hir snowish throte, hir brestes rounde and lyte; Thus in this hevenc he gan him to delyte, And ther-with-al a thousand tyme hir kiste; That, what to done, for joye unnethe he wiste. 180

Than seyde he thus, "O, Love, O, Charitec, Thy moder eek, Citherea the swete, After thy-self next heried be she, Venus mene I, the wel-willy planete; And next that, Imeneus, I thee grete; For never man was to yow goddes holde As I, which ye han brought fro cares colde.



"O Love

benign, thou holy bond of things, All they who seek thy grace, but scorn thy aid,

Their love shall fly but feebly without wings. By thy goodwill man's fortune must be made; For faithful service ne'er so well displayed, Were all for naught, this dare I well assert, Did not thv gift surpass our poor desert.

Benigne Love, thou holy bond of thinges, Who-so wol grace, and list thee nought honouren, Lo, his desyr wol flee with-outen winges. For, noldestow of bountee hem socouren That serven best and most alwey labouren, Yet were al lost, that dar I wel seyn, certes, But-if thy grace passed our desertes.



"And since that I, who merited the least To win thy gracious favor and support, Have had my joys extended and increased And am exalted in such loftv sort

And for thou me, that coude leest deserve Of hem that nombred been un-to thy grace, Hast holpen, ther

That widest bounds to hold my joys fall short, What can I do, but words of reverent praise Unto thv bounty and thv goodness raise!"




And therwith-al Criseyde anoon he kiste, Of which, certeyn, she felte no disese. And thus seyde he, "now wolde god I wiste, Myn herte swete, how I yow mighte plese! What man," quod he, "was ever thus at ese As I, on whiche the faireste and the beste That ever I say, deyneth hir herte reste.



"Here one may see that mercy passeth right. As my experience tells me feelingly, Who am unworthy of you, lady bright; But sweetheart mine, in your benignity, Believe that all unworthy though I be, Yet needs I must amend and still improve, But through the loftv virtue of my love.


185 favor more, dear heart,



hath wrought




ever-present, helpful guide,

This dare






say, that truth



and diligence

thou shalt within


with injury prepense, Present or absent, I shall waive defence, if



And for the love of god, my lady dere, Sin god hath wrought me for I shal yow serve, I mene, that ye wol be my stere, To do me live, if that yow liste, or sterve,

As thus

186 truly, fairest of all

Here may men seen that mercy passeth right; The experience of that is felt in me, That am unworthy to so swete a wight. But herte myn, of your benignitee, So thenketh, though that I unworthy be, Yet mot I nede amenden in som wyse, Right thourgh the vertu of your heyghe servyse. 185

beg beside, but to do thy I

For thou hast power of good and power of ill. So teach me, sweetheart mine, that I may still Deserve thy thanks, and thy good counsel lend To save me from all acts that mav offend.



I can no more, but laude and reverence Be to thy bounte and thyn excellence!"

l8 3

His prayer he ended with a kiss or two, Which part of it at least was well received, And then he said, "I would to God I knew How you of every grief might be relieved! Was ever man," he said, "so little grieved As I, on whom the fairest and the best Deigneth her loving heart to bring to rest!

Be thou

was to

And me bistowed in so heygh a place That thilke boundes may no blisse pace,


So techeth me how that

Your thank,


may deserve

thurgh myn ignoraunce, Ne do no-thing that yow be displesaunce. 186 For certes, fresshe wommanliche wyf, This dar I seye, that trouthe and diligence, That shal ye finden in me al my lyf, Ne I wol not, certeyn, breken your defence;

And if I

so that


do, present or in absence,



187-194] For love of god, If that


lat slee

me with the dede,

lyke un-to your




79 yield myself to thee at that

As humblv subject

to thv


womanlv power."


"Y-wis," quod she, "myn owne hertes list, My ground of ese, and al myn herte dere, Graunt mercy, for on that is al my trist; But late us falle awey fro this matere; For it suffyseth, this that seyd is here. And at o word, with-outen repentaunce,


same hour,

my knight, my pees, my suffisaunce!"

188 Of hir delyt, or joyes oon the leste Were impossible to my wit to seye; But juggeth, ye that han ben at the feste Of swich gladnesse, if that hem liste pleye! I can no more, but thus thise ilke tweye That night, be-twixen dreed and sikernesse, Felten in love the grete worthinesse.

189 blisful night, of hem so longe y-sought, How blithe un-to hem bothe two thou were! Why ne hadde I swich on with my soule y-bought, Ye, or the leeste joye that was there? A-wey, thou foule daunger and thou fere,

"Enough," she





richest treasure,


ground of ease, and all I hold most dear, I trust in thee beyond all bound and measure! But let us talk no more of future fear, There needs no more than thou hast promised here. I am content, befall what may befall;






mv all

in all!"




For But

the limits of their great delight

me were sheer impossibility, all can guess who such a festal

night ever known, I trust, in some degree; And of these lovers twain, I merely say to thee, That night twixt joy and fear they realize


How love may be a serious enterprise. 189

O night of love, by them so long time sought, So happy now



my own

at last in




gladly would have bought

least division of its delectation

And lat hem in this hevene blisse dwelle,

Away now every check to inclination, And let them in this bliss of heaven dwell,

That is so heygh, that al ne can

Too great

But sooth




I telle!

190 can not tellen

In every thing


I, at

mortal tongue to sing or


hoolly his sentence.

loves reverence,

Have any word in eched for the beste, Doth therwith-al right as your-selven leste.

But though I cannot tell you everything, As might my author with his greater gift, The burden of his song yet shall I sing, And all his thought employ with proper thrift, And if I've added to his general drift In praise of love, I leave it in your hand, Remove it from my tale or let it stand.


For myne wordes, here and every part, 1 speke hem alle under correccioun Of yow, that feling han in loves art, And putte it al in your discrecioun T' encrese or maken diminucioun Of my langage, and that I yow bi-seche; But now to purpos of my rather speche. 192 two, that ben in armes laft, So looth to hem a-sonder goon it were, That ech from other wende been biraft.




As can myn auctor, of his excellence, Yet have I seyd, and, god to-forn, I shal

And if that



Or elles, lo, this was

hir moste fere, That al this thing but nyce dremes were; For which ful ofte ech of hem seyde, "O swete, Clippe ich yow thus, or elles I it mete?"


For all my words, in this and every part, Are spoken under your correction all,

Who better know Than

the secrets of the heart

and therefore I upon you call To change Or take away in general, Such words as seem to you were best omitted; But now to come back where our tale we quitted. I,


These two whom we have left in love's embrace, Could not endure the thought of separation; They scarce believed that they were in that place, Or else were filled with fear and consternation That all this night was but hallucination, And oft they said, for doubt this was but seeming, "O art thou there, or am I only dreaming ?"


And, lord! so he gan goodly on hir see, That never his look ne bleynte from hir face,

And seyde, "O dere herte, may it



be sooth, that ye ben in this place?" "Ye, herte myn, god thank I of his grace!" Quod tho Criseyde, and therwith-al him kiste, That where his spirit was, for joye he niste. 194 This Troilus ful ofte hir eyen two Gan for to kisse, and seyde, "O eyen clere. it

With such

intentive look he on her gazed, His eyes were fixed unmoving on her face; "O sweetheart," he exclaimed, "the Gods be praised,


is it true that thou art in this place?" "Yes, sweetheart mine, and all by heaven's grace!" She says, and therewithal a kiss bestows, That where his spirit is, he scarcely knows.


And he neglected not to kiss her eyes, And when he did, he said, "O eyes so clear,





you the cause of all my sorrow lies, ^ double weapons l my lady dear Though mercy scemcth to he written here,

Though ther be mercy writen







very hard to rind. without bonds thou couldst me bind?"

text, forsooth,


is it,



were ye that wroughte

Ye humble

nettes of



he doth take, And full a thousand times he gently sighed, Not sighs of sorrow, such as sad men make



grief, or

his lady

when by

sickness they are tried,

But easy sighs, which showed how satisfied He, and how his love was deeply seated, Such sighs he drew, and oft and oft repeated.

Therwith he gan hir faste in armes take, And wel an hundred tymes gan he syke,

Nought swiche sorwful sykes as men make For wo, or elles whan that folk ben syke, But esy sykes, swiche as been to lyke, That shewed his affeccioun with-inne; Of swiche sykes coude he nought bilinne.


And As

then they spoke of

in this situation




196 varied things,


playfully they interchanged their rings,

But what the mottoes were, you may surmise;


brooch ot gold, as azure as the

Set with a ruby heart, she gave

And pinned





to his shirt as love pledge true.


Do you suppose that any grasping wretch, Who chides at love and holds it in despite, From all the profit he from gold can fetch, Was ever so enriched with pure delight As these two knew, in measure infinite ? Nay, they can never know, so God me save, Such perfect joy who niggardly behave. 198


they say they do, they merely lie, Those busy wretches, full of woe and dread; if


call love madness and against it cry, But ever they in grief shall make their bed, Nor yet have joy of money, white nor red So let them live in grief and in mischance, But lovers' joys may heaven still enhance.


after this they speke of sondry thinges,


to purpos of this aventure,


And pleyinge entrechaungeden hir ringes, Of which I can nought tellen no scripture; But wel I woot a broche, gold and asure, In whiche a ruby set was lyk an herte, Criseyde him yaf, and stak it on his sherte. 197 Lord! trowe ye, a coveitous, a wrecche, That blameth love and holt of it despyt, That, of tho pens that he can mokrc and kecche, Was ever yet y-yeve him swich delyt, As is in love, in 00 poynt, in som plyt?

Nay, doutelees, for also god me save, So parfit joye may no nigard have! 198 sey "yis," but lord! so that they lye, Tho bisy wrecches, ful of wo and drede! They callen love a woodnesse or folye,

They wol

But it shal falle hem as I shal yow rede; They shul forgo the whyte and eke the rede,

And live in wo, ther god yeve hem mischaunce, And every lover in his trouthe avaunce!

199 \\





those wretches


who despise


gentle works of love had ears as long As Mulas had, that king so penny-wise; Or might be served with drink as hot and strong As Crassus drank, for deeds so harsh and wrong; For greed is vice, as all old stories show,




virtue, let


will say no.

200 These happy two, whose joys I've been reporting, Who now at last in love were so secure, They fell to talking, and in playful sporting They told how, when and where they first were sure

They knew each other, and how they did endure The griefs now passed; for all that might annoy This night was turned at last to perfect joy!


of joy they came abrupt any woe of times now past and gone,

If in their talk



kisses all their tale

my lady dere!

in your chere, wot, the text ful hard is, sooth, to finde, How coude ye with-outen bond me binde?"



me swich wo,

they interrupt,

And thus again to joy are brought anon. One thing alone their hearts were set upon, To free their joy trom all its base alloys, And former grief with joy to counterpoise.

As wolde god, tho wrecches, that dispyse Servyse of love, hadde eres al-so longe

As hadde Myda, ful of coveityse; And ther-to dronken hadde as hoot and stronge As Crassus dide for his affectis wronge,

To techen hem that they ben in the vyce, And loveres nought, al-though they holde hem nyce!

200 Thise ilke two, of whom that I yow seye, Whan that hir hertes wel assured were, Tho gonne they to speken and to pleye, And eek rehercen how, and whanne, and where, They knewe hem first, and every wo and fere That passed was; but al swich hevinesse, I thanke it god, was tourned to gladnesse. 201 And ever-mo, whan that hem fel to speke Of any thing of swich a tyme agoon,


kissing al that tale sholde breke,

And fallen in a newe joye anoon, And diden al hir might, sin they were oon, blisse and been at ese, with joye countrepeyse.

For to recoveren

And passed wo

— — BOOK

202-209] Reson wil not that I speke of sleep, For it accordeth nought to my matere;

God woot, they toke of that

ful litel keep,

hem so dere, Ne sholde in veyn escape in no manere, But It

lest this night, that


biset in joye





You'll scarce expect that I should speak of sleep, topic seems, indeed, not pertinent. A night of vigil they were glad to keep,



time, that so much to them meant, away betore they could prevent,

lest this



The happy hours were

and bisinesse

Of al that souneth in-to gentilnesse.


203 But whan the cok, comune astrologer, Gan on his brest to bete, and after crowe,


And Lucifer, the dayes messager, Gan for to ryse, and out hir bemes throwe; And estward roos, to him that coude it knowe, Fortuna maior, than anoon Criseyde, sore, to Troilus thus seyde:

With herte




the gentle arts to love allied.

own way, and then to crow, And Lucifer, the messenger of day, Began to rise and forth her beams to throw, And eastward rose, as you perhaps may know, Fortuna Major for the night was fled, cock, astrologer in his


to beat his breast


Cressida to Troilus thus said:



"Myn hertes lyf, my trist and my plesaunce, That I was born, alias! what me is wo,

"Life of my heart, my trust and my delight, That I was born, alas, to such a woe!

That day of us mot make desseveraunce! For tyme it is to ryse, and hennes go,

For we must part with parting of the night. 'Tis time that thou must rise and hence must go, Or I am lost, and ever shall be so! O night, why wilt thou not above us hover, As long as when Jove was Alcmena's lover ? 205 "O night so black, as one in old books reads, Thou wert designed by God this world to hide At certain seasons with thy inkv weeds, That men might then in rest and peace abide; Yet beasts may well lament and men may chide, That though by toil through all the day distressed, Away thou flee'st and grantest them no rest! 206 "Thou dost, alas, thy time too quickly waste,

Or elles


am lost for evermo!

O night, alias! why niltow over us hove, As longe


whonne Almena lay by Jove ? 205

O blake night, as folk in bokes rede, That shapen art by god this world to hyde At certeyn tymes with thy derke wede, That under that men mighte in reste abyde, Wei oughte bestes pleyne, and folk thee chyde, That there-as day with labour wolbe us breste, That thou thus fieest, and deynest us nought reste! 206

Thou dost, alias! to shortly thyn offyce, Thou rakel night, ther god, makere of kinde, Thee, for thyn hast and thyn unkinde vyce, So faste ay to our hemi-spere binde, That never-more under the ground thou winde! For now, for thou so hyest out of Troye,



forgon thus hastily

my joye!"


This Troilus, that with tho wordes

As thoughte him tho, for pietous

The blody teres from his



herte melte,

As he that never yet swich hevinesse Assayed hadde, out of so greet gladnesse,


therwith-al Criseyde his lady dere In armes streyne, and seyde in this manere:


"O cruel day, accusour of the joye That night and love han stole and faste y-wryen, A-cursed be thy coming in-to Troye, For every bore hath oon of thy bright yen! Envyous day, what list thee so to spyen?

What hastow lost, why sekestow this


Ther god thy lyght so quenche, for his grace? 209 Alias!

what han

thise loveres thee agilt,

Dispitous day? thyn be the pyne of helle!

For many a lovere hastow shent, and wilt; Thy pouring in wol no-wher lete hem dwelle.

What proferestow thy light here for to


O heedless night! The maker of mankind Curse thee for thy unnecessary haste, And to our hemisphere so firm thee bind, Thy way below thou ne'er again shalt find! For through thy heedless hieing out of Troy Thus have we hastily foregone our joy!" 207 Troilus, too, at these sad bodings felt The weight of heavy sorrow on him press; His heart began in bloody tears to melt, For never yet such grievous heaviness He e'er had known or woe so comfortless; And Cressida, his lady, he did take Within his arms, and in this manner spake: 208 "O cruel day, denouncer of the joy That night and love have stolen and concealed, Accursed by thy coming into Troy, For all to thy bright eyes is now revealed! Envious day, what will thy spying yield ? What hast thou lost, and hunt for in this place? May God put out thy light in dark disgrace! 209 "Alas, with wrong thou chargest love of guilt,

Thou hateful day! May thine be all the pain For many a lover hast thou slain, and wilt Yet

slay, for light grants


must thou

them no

of hell!

place to dwell!

proffer here thy light to

sell ?





Go sell to them who tiny seals engi We want thee not. we need no daylight Titan, the sun, in like

Go selle


And cek the sonne Tytan gan he chyde, And seyde, "O fool, wel may men thee dispyse, That hast the Dawing

night by thy syde, fro thee ryse, For to disesen loveres in this wyse. What! hold your bed thcr, thou, and eek thy



What, Stay in bed, thou Titan, with thy Morrow! May heaven grant the both of you have sorrow!"



he was not done, "My lady true, and of my weal and woe The very root, thou fair and goodly one,











and must





the joy



we! bidde god, so yeve

what then

Sin that with

left to



For how sholde


yow bothe sorwe!"

myn herte moot


is al

the lyf

knows, if




seem but dead






What shal I doon, for certes,

Ne whanne, alias!

be a heavy weird to dree! so tortures



shal the

to thy


in this plyt



not how,



am deed anoon, but




How sholde I longe, alias! fro you



precious lady bright,

But nathelees,

were sure beyond the slightest doubt, That I, your servant and your faithful knight, Within your heart were compassed round about As you in mine, so naught can shut me out, The world for me could hold no greater gain, And that good thought would lighten all my pain. If




2I 3.



may be eft with yow; And of my lyf, god woot how that shal be, Sin that desyr right now so byteth me,

me, arms I turn, longer time from thee sojourn?




"What hope is left ? In truth I know Or when, alas, I may occasion see To be again with thee as I am now



my lyf an houre save,




Yit were



myn owene lady bright,

so that


wiste outrely,

your humble servaunt and your knight, Were in your herte set so fermely



As ye in myn, the which

thing, trewely,

Me lever were than thise worldes tweyne,

That Phoebus first shall fall from out his sphere, And doves and eagles as true friends appear,

my peyne." 214 To that Criseyde answerde right anoon, And with a syk she seyde, "O herte dere, The game, y-wis, so ferforth now is goon, That first shal Phebus falle fro his spere, And every egle been the dowves fere,

And every

And every roche out of his place


this fair Cressida replied

Yet sholde


And sighing said, "Beloved sweetheart dear, The game in very truth is so far gone

rock from out its station start, Ere Troilus from Cressida's poor heart!


bet enduren al

Er Troilus out of Criseydes

2, 5

"Love doth

thee in



should die,

the love oi






could accomplish naught!

him who hath



Ye be so depe in-with myn herte grave,

heart so deep engrave,

That though I would expel thee from As heaven's grace my weary soul shall

Though And lor


211 he sighte, and thus he seyde, "My lady right, and of my wele or wo The welle and rote, O goodly myn, Criseyde, And shal I ryse, alias! and shal I go?

Now fele



ful sore

twain that I must go! have abides with you,



suffrest hir so sone


said, for yet

cleft in



that smale seles graven,

We wol thee nought, us nedeth no day haven."


216 . words did be chide,

And said, "O fool, well may men thee despise, Thou hast all night fair Daybreak at thy side, And yet permit test her so soon to rise And so distress all lovers in this wise

He sighed and



us wrought,

Let no such fancy creep within your brain, thus to perish with the pain. 216 "If you hold me as firmly in your mind As I hold you, I'll be content and glad. And if it turn out so, then I shall find No further happiness for heaven to add! But, love, let's talk no more of glad and sad, Be true to mc, there's nothing more to say, For I am thine, forever and a day!

To cause me

"7 "Be thus content, and cast away all fear! Thou hast what ne'er shall have another man.


That, though



As wisly verray god


turne out of my thought,

my soule save,

To dyen in the peyne,


coude nought!

And, for the love of god that us hath wrought, Lat in your brayn non other fantasye So crepe, that it cause me to dye! 216

And that ye me wolde han as faste in minde As I have yow, that wolde I yow bi-seche; And, if I wiste soothly that to finde,

God mighte not a poynt my joyes eche! But, herte

myn, with-oute more speche,

Beth to me trewe, or elles were it routhe; For I am thyn, by god and by my trouthe! 217 Beth glad for-thy, and live in sikernesse; Thus seyde I never er this, ne shal to mo;









a gret gladnesse

To turne ayein, soone after that ye go, As fayn wolde I as ye, it were so, As wisly god myn herte bringe at reste!" And him in armes took, and ofte keste. 218

Agayns his wil, sin it mot nedes be, This Troilus up roos, and faste him cledde, And in his armes took his lady free An hundred tyme, and on his wey him spedde, And with swich wordes as his herte bledde,

He seyde, "farewel, my dere herte swete, Ther god us graunte sounde and sone to





be thy will, sweetheart dear, Come back again as soon as e'er you can, Thy pleasure here shall be no greater than My own. so may I hope for heaven's bliss! And took him in her arms with many a kiss. 218 if it


day was near, up and dressed beside the bed,

willy-nilly, since the

Troilus got


arms he took his ladv dear, times, ere on his way he sped, And with a voice as though at heart he bled, in his

A hundred

He cried aloud, "Farewell, my precious sweeting! God grant us soon a safe and happy



219 To which no word for sorwe she answerde, So sore gan his parting hir destreyne;

And Troilus un-to his palays ferde, As woo bigon as she was, sooth to seyne; So hard him wrong of sharp desyr the peyne For to ben eft there he was in plesaunce, That it may never out of his remembraunce. 220 Retorned to his rgal palais, sone He softe in-to his bed gan for to slinke, To slepe longe, as he was wont to done, But al for nought; he may wel ligge and winke, But sleep ne may ther in his herte sinke; Thenkinge how she, for whom desyr him brende, A thousand-fold was worth more than he wende.


To this no word for sorrow she replied, And grief that thus they must be rent in And Troilus unto the palace hied,



He reached the palace as the daylight grew, And softly to his bed he planned to slink And sleep as late as he was wont to do But planned

in vain, for

Of sleep into

his heart

and every contenaunce,


newe him brende, and

Gan more than erst, and yet

not a single wink

might gently


For pondering she who now his life controlled Was better than he guessed a thousandfold. 221

And fermely impressen in his minde The leste poynt that to him was plesaunce; And verrayliche, of thilke remembraunce, Desyr


As woe-begone as she, I dare maintain. So heavy was the burden of the pain Of joys remembered, but so sudden vanished, He felt as one from heaven sternly banished.


And in his thought gan up and doun to winde Hir wordes


lust to brede took he non hede.

About his loving thoughts now twist and wind Her every word and every loving glance, Impressing clear and firm upon his mind Each slightest point and circumstance; And at the memory of his happy chance, Love bursts anew in flames of high desire,


little feels




the burning



Criseyde also, right in the same wyse, Of Troilus gan in hir herte shette His worthinesse, his lust, his dedes wyse, His gentilesse, and how she with him mette, Thonkinge love he so wel hir bisette; Desyring eft to have hir herte dere In swich a plyt, she dorste make him chere.

That from this love she never can be freed; She longs again to have him in such plight That she alone may bring to him delight.

223 Pandare, a-morwe which that comen was

Now Pandar, seeing day was there at last,



his nece,

and gan hir fayre


Seyde, "al this night so reyned it, alias! That al my drede is that ye, nece swete,

Han litel layser had to slepe and mete; Al night," quod he, "hath reyn so do me wake, That som of us, I trowe, hir hedes ake." 224 And ner he com, and seyde, "how stont it now This mery morwe, nece, how can ye fare?" Criseyde answerde, "never the bet for yow, Fox that ye been, god yeve your herte care! God helpe me so, ye caused al this fare, Trow I," quod she, "for alle your wordes whyte; O! who-so seeth yow knoweth yow ful lyte!"

Cressida, also, in the selfsame wise,

The worth,

the gaiety, and every deed

Of Troilus recalled before her eyes, And all remembrances for him so plead,

223 to his niece, and fairly doth her greet. "All night," he said, "it rained so hard and fast, That I am dreadfully afraid, my sweet,

Your dreams

not be pleasant to repeat. me quite wide awake, made our heads all ache."


All night the rain kept I

greatly fear



Then he drew near and said, "How do you do This sunny morn ? How do you feel today ?" Cressida answered, "None the better for you, Fox that you are! The Lord will you repay! For you have managed things in your own way, I now can see, for all your words so fair! You fooled me well with your deceptive air!"






With With

Crcssida strove her blushing face to hide

Behind the sheet, and grewjor shame all red. Bui Pandar underneath the bedclothes pried, teal Cressida, it 1 must die," he said, lave here a sword and smite off my poor head!" Ic thrust his arm beneath her neck to twist The covers off, and then his niece he kissed. 226 Xo need to tell how they were reconciled!

And Pandarus gan under for to prye, And seyde, "nece, if that I shal ben deed, Have here a swerd, and smyteth of myn heed."



With that his arm al sodeynly he thriste Under hir nekke, and at the laste hir kiste.


God forgave his death, then should not she Forgive her uncle? Thus the time they whiled


in gieat amicability.

As good friends now as anyone could be. Till in good time to her own house she went



her uncle very well content.


To Troilus



Who long abed


passe al that which chargeth nought to seye, What! God foryaf his deeth, and she al-so Foryaf, and with hir uncle gan to pleye, I



gan hir face for to wrye the shete, and wex for shame al reed; that she

For other cause was ther noon than so. But of this thing right to the effect to go, Whan tyme was, horn til hir hous she wente, And Pandarus hath fully his entente. 227

Now torne we ayein to Troilus,

turn again,


wakeful tossing lay; For Pandar soon he sent some of his men To bid him hasten thither right away, And Pandar came without a no or nay, in

restelees ful longe

And greeting him in manner dignified, Upon his bed he sat down at his side. 228




moved by

for his friend within his heart



on his knees in absolute subjection, Xor from that humble place he will arise, But thank with grateful thank he multiplies, A thousand times, and oft the day doth bless His friend was born to save him from distress. 229 "O friend," he said, "of friends the very best That ever was or ever was heard tell, Thou hast in heaven brought my soul to rest

From Phlegethon, the fiery flood of hell; A thousand times a day if I should sell Myself to serve and honor only thee, it would not

Enough reward and pay


"The sun, which moves above in all man's sight, Saw never yet, this dare I will aver, fairer


my dearest



the deep affection




And prevely sente after Pandarus, To him to come in al the haste he may. He com anoon, nought ones seyde he "nay," And Troilus ful sobrely he grette, And doun upon his beddes syde him sette.

lady bright,

And to my death I shall be bound to her; The thanks for all this favor I refer To Love, who honors me with kind assistance, And also, Pandar, to thy wise persistence.

This Troilus, with

the affeccioun Of frendes love that herte may devyse, To Pandarus on knees fU adoun, And er that he wolde of the place aryse, He gan him thonken in his beste wyse; hondred sythe he gan the tyme blesse, That he was born to bringe him fro distresse. al



He seyde, "O frend, of frendes th' That ever was, the sothe


for to telle,

Thou hast in hevene y-brought my soule at reste Fro Flegiton, the fery flood of helle; That, though I mighte a thousand tymes selle, Upon a day, my lyf in thy servyse, It mighte nought a mote in that sufryse. 230 The sonne, which that al the world may see, Saw never yet, my lyf, that dar I leye, So inly fair and goodly as is she, Whos I am al, and shal, til that I deye;

And, that I thus am hires, dar I seye, That thanked be the heighe worthinesse Of love, and eek thy kinde bisinesse. 231

"What thou hast given is no little thing, And shall pay thee thanks forever and aye! And why? Because thy faithful help did bring Me back to life, who else were dead this day" And then upon his bed again he lay. I

Soberly Pandar listened at his side was through, and thus replied:

Till he

Thus hastow me no litel thing y-yive, Fo which to thee obliged be for ay My lyf, and why? for thorugh thyn help I live; For elles deed hadde I be many a day." And with that word doun in his bed he lay, And Pandarus ful sobrely him herde Til al was seyd, and thanne he him answerde:

2 *2

"My dearest God knows it

friend, is




aught I've done

me a



And I'm as glad of it as you can be. But now take heed that we come not For there




for thee,

to grief,

of this mischief,

"My dere frend, if I have doon for thee In any cas, god wot, it is me leef; And am as glad as man may of it be, God help me so; but tak now not a-greef



shal seyn, be

war of this myscheef,




That, there-as thou now brought art in-to blisse, That thou thy-self ne cause it nought to misse.

233 For of fortunes sharp adversitee

The worst kinde of infortune is this, A man to have ben in prosperitee, And it remembren, whan it passed is. Thou art wys y-nough, for-thy do nought amis; Be not to rakcl, though thou sitte warme, For if thou be, certeyn, it wol thee harme.



That now that thou art settled in thy Thyself ma) cause affairs to go amiss.


2 33

"Of fickle fortune's sharp adversities, The very worst misfortune of them all, Is this, to know and lose all joy and ease, And have but bitter memories to recall. Exert thy wisdom such fate to forestall; Be not too rash, nor of thyself too sure, Or harm will quickly come and long endure.


Thou art at ese, and hold thee wel ther-inne. For also seur as reed is every fyr, As greet a craft is kepe wel as winne; Brydle alwey wel thy speche and thy desyr. For worldly joye halt not but by a wyr; That prevcth wel, it brest alday so ofte; For-thy nede is to werke with it softe." 235 Quod Troilus, "I hope, and god toforn,

My dere frend, that I shal so me bere, That in my gilt ther shal no thing be lorn, N' I nil not rakle as for to greven here; nedeth not this matere ofte tere; For wistestow myn herte wel, Pandare, God woot, of this thou woldest litel care." 236 Tho gan he telle him of his glade night. And wher-of first his herte dredde, and how, And seyde, "freend, as I am trewe knight, It

And by that feyth hadde


shal to

god and yow,

never half so hote as now; And ay the more that desyr me byteth To love hir best, the more it me delyteth. I


"Thou art at ease, and hold thee well therein, For just as true that red is every fire, To keep demands as much skill as to win. Then bridle well thy speech and thy desire, For worldly joys hang by a subtle wire, And for sad proof, it breaketh quick and oft, Wherefore the need to walk both light and soft." 235 "I hope," said Troilus, "before men's eves, Dear friend, that I such heed shall take, That through my fault no danger shall arise,

And rashness I abjure for her dear sake. You need not fear my promise I shall break, If you but knew the secrets of my mind, Then mighty little cause for fear you'd find." 236

And then he told him of his happy night, And how at first he was afraid, and why, And said, "I swear upon my honor bright And by my faith in you and God on high, I never knew what loving did imply; For


my heart's desires rose in height, love and my delight.

The greater grew my

237 I

noot my-self not wisly what

237 it is;

But now I fele a newe qualitee, Ye, al another than I dide er this." Pandare answerde, and seyde thus, that he That ones may in hevene blisse be, He feleth other weyes, dar I leye, Than thilke tyme he first herde of it seye. 238 This is o word for al; this Troilus Was never ful, to speke of this matere, And for to preysen un-to Pandarus The bountee of his righte lady dere, And Pandarus to thanke and maken chere. This tale ay was span-newe to biginne Til that the night departed hem a-twinne. 239

Sone after this, for that fortune it wolde, I-comen was the blisful tyme swete, That Troilus was warned that he sholde, Ther he was erst, Criseyde his lady mete; For which he felte his herte in joye flete; And feythfully gan alle the goddes herie;

And lat


now if that he can be merie. 240

And holden was the forme and

al the wyse, eek of his also, which nedeth nought devyse.

Of hir cominge, and As




"To me myself it is a mystery, For now I feel in me a nature new, A thing that makes a different man of me." And Pandar said, "Yes, I suppose it's true, That he who once in heaven's bliss may be, He feels it all in quite another way Than when he knew it only by hear-say." 238

But now enough— though Troilus indeed To speak of this doth never stop or tire, And still to praise his lady would proceed, Exalting all her bounty higher and higher, And thanking Pandar all he could require, Then in again bran-new he ever starts, Until his friend at night



239 Soon after this, by great good luck, it fell He had a chance his night-watch to repeat, For Pandar came the happy news to tell, That Cressida, his lady, he should meet. How then his heart with sudden joy doth beat! His thanks to all the Gods he then did pay, And you can guess if he was glad and gay 240 The manner of this meeting was again Somewhat as I have told and as you know, And so I shall not bother to explain,




Hut to the end now lei us straightway 'j.>>: l(n Pandai still his faithful aid did show Ami brought then] to the place they likal the best Ami there they art- in quiefand in rest.


But playnly to the

effect right for to go,

In joyc and scurte Pandarus hem two A-bedde broughte, whan hem bothe leste, And thus they ben in quicte and in reste. 241

on have no need, now they again arc- met, To ask ol me it they were happy there. Forwhai was good before, grows better yet A thousandfold, with goodness still to spare. Ami now they know no sorrow or no care, For joy as great to them the kiml Gods send

Nought nedeth



no trifling thing that now I say, 'Tis something no man's wit can all comprise For each to other's will doth SO obey That all the joys which ancient clerks so wise lave praised, counted as nothing in their eves; 1




not be written



that heart


down in ink, may think!

"Alas," said Troilus,





is it

his altar shall





merry happy days.

In great content, in sport and




bitterly the dayes light they curse.


245 But day must come, and they must separate, And after all was said that could be said, They finally submit to their sad fate, Yet for a meeting set a time ahead; And thus for many a night their lives they led As Fortune gave to them this ample joy, To Cressida and Troilus of Troy.

Troilus passes


Quod Troilus,


the sun will hasten thus the day,

No offerings on

But cruel day, so wel-awey the stounde! Gan for to aproche, as they by signes knewe, For whiche hem thoughte felen dethes wounde; So wo was hem, that changen gan hir hewe, And day they gonnen to dispyse al newe, Calling it traytour, envyous, and worse,


That Pyroeisand his team-mates three, Which draw the bright sun's chariot in their Have gone some short cut in despite of me, And that is why the night so soon doth flee;


ben met,

242 This is no litel thing of for to seye, This passeth every wit for to devyse; For eche of hem gan otheres lust obeye; Felicitee, which that thise clerkes wyse Commenden so, ne may not here suffyse. This joyc may not writen been with inke, This passeth al that herte may bithinke.


But cruel day, alack the fateful hour, Again returns, as they by signs well knew, And they must yield to sorrow's greater power. Full sad they were, full sad and pale of hue, Reviling day with scornings ever new, Calling it traitor, envious and worse O, bitterly the light of day they curse! 2

sin they

blythc were; For if it erst was wel, tho was it bet A thousand-fold, this nedeth not enquere. A-gon was every sorwe and every fere; And bothe, y-wis, they haddc, and so they wendc, As muche joyc as hcrte may comprende.


Their joy


To aske at me if that they

As any human heart may comprehend. This



spends, he jousts, his fcastings he prolongs,

Himself in gaudy garments he arrays, He has a world of folk about always, The freshest and the best that he can find, As suiting one of his so noble kind.


now am I war

That Pirous and tho swifte stedes three, that drawen forth the sonnes char, Han goon som by-path in despyt of me; That maketh it so sone day to be; And, for the sonne him hasteth thus to ryse, Ne shal I never doon him sacrifyse!"


245 But nedes day departe moste hem sone, And whanne hir speche doon was and hir chere, They twinne anoon as they were wont to done, And setten tyme of meting eft y-fere; And many a night they wroughte in this manere. And thus Fortune a tyme ladde in joye Criseyde, and eek this kinges sone of Troye. 246 In sufhsaunce, in blisse, and in singinges, This Troilus gan al his lyf to lede; He spendeth, justeth, maketh festeyinges; He yeveth frely ofte, and chaungeth wede,


held aboute

him alwey, out of drede,

A world of folk, as cam him wel of kinde, The fressheste and the

beste he coude finde;


Such name and fame of him now circulate Throughout the world, his honor and largess, It mounts and rings at heaven's very gate; And through his lo\ e he knows so great gladness That in his heart he ever doth profess, No lover in the world is more at ease Or hath a love with greater power to please.

Though other


248 were both

That swich a voys was of him and a stevene Thorugh-out the world, of honour and largesse, That it up rong un-to the yate of hevene. And, as in love, he was in swich gladnesse, That in his herte he demede, as I gesse, That there nis loverc in this world at ese So wel as he, and thus gan love him plese. 248


and kind,

The godlihede or beautcc which that







In any other lady hadde y-set Can not the mountaunce of a knot unbinde, A-boute his hertc, of al Criseydes net.


He was

Enmeshed he

narwe y-masked and y-knet, That it undoon on any manere syde, That nil not been, for ought that may betyde. 249 And by the hond ful ofte he wolde take This Pandarus, and in-to gardin lede, And swich a fcste and swich a proces make Him of Criseyde, and of hir womanhede, so

And of hir beautee, that, with-outen


was an hevene his wordes for to here; And thanne he wolde singe in this manere: 250 "Love, that of erthe and see hath governaunce, Love, that his hestes hath in hevene hye, Love, that with an holsom alliaunce It

Halt peples joyned, as him list hem gye, Love, that knetteth lawe of companye, And couples doth in vertu for to dwelle, Bind this acord, that I have told and telle; 251 That that the world with feyth, which that is stable, Dyverseth so his stoundes concordinge, That elements that been so discordable Holden a bond perpetuely duringe, That Phebus mote his rosy day forth bringe, And that the mone hath lordship over the nightes, Al this doth Love; ay heried be his mightes! 252 That that the see, that gredy is to flowen, Constreyneth to a certeyn ende so His fiodes, that so fersly they ne growen To drenchen erthe and al for ever-mo; And if that Love ought lete his brydel go, Al that now loveth a-sonder sholde lepe, And lost were al, that Love halt now to-hepe.



the virtues in their natures set his heart one knot could not unbind

Of Cressida's so subtly woven

that auctor

His freedom, nor a single part of it, For no man's skill this net can e'er unknit.


And Pandar by the hand he oft would take, And in the garden find a quiet place, And such a glorious anthem there they'd make Of Cressida and all her woman's grace, And of the beauty of her form and face, was


a heavenly joy his praise to hear, thus he sang unto his ladv dear:



"O love,

that dost the earth and sea control, Love, that dost command the heavens high,

O O Love, of blessed harmony the soul,

All nations rest beneath thy guiding eye!

Thou with whose law societies comply, Thou in whose virtue loving couples dwell, OLove, bind this accord of which I tell! 251

"The world that stands so firm on its foundation, With all its many harmonies diverse; The elements with all their contentation, Yet held in bonds that nothing can disperse; Phoebus that doth the earth in light immerse;

The moon All these

that hath the lordship over night

depend on Love and on



sea that




falters in its flowing,

However fiercely tempests may be blowing, To drown the earth it never can ascend If aught the bridle

from Love's hand should rend, would burst asunder,

All harmonies at once


scatter all that

Love now holdeth under.


grant, the author of all natural kind,

That with the bond of Love he In circling love




hearts so firm to bind,

man shall e'er invent; And loveless hearts, let them by Love be bent To learn to love, and thus in pity grow, But faithful hearts may Love keep ever so!" Escape therefrom no



Save Ector, most y-drad of any wight; And this encrees of hardinesse and might Cam him of love, his ladies thank to winne,



floods to such a certain end,

254 nedes, for the tounes werre, was, and ay the firste in armes dight;


He And certeynly, but-if that bokes




of kinde, That, with his bond. Love of his vertu liste To cerclen hertes alle, and faste binde, That from his bond no wight the wey out wiste. And hertes colde, hem wolde I that he twiste To make hem love, and that hem leste ay rewe On hertes sore, and kepe hem that ben trewe."



was, and never shall he get


So wolde god,

altered his spirit so with-inne.

255 In tyme of trewe, on haukinge wolde he ryde, Or elles hunten boor, bere, or lyoun; The smale bestes leet he gon bi-syde. And whan that he com rydinge in-to toun, Ful ofte his lady, from hir window doun, As fresh as faucon comen out of muwe, Ful redy was, him goodly to saluwe.

events that at the siege occurred, Troilus was ready now for fray or fight, He was, indeed, unless the books have erred, Save Hector, Troy's most celebrated knight, In



this increase

of valor and of might,

came from love, his lady's thanks to win, Which thus had changed his heart and soul within. All

2 55 In times of truce, a-hawking he would ride, Or hunt the boar or lion or the bear;

From smaller beasts he always turned aside. And when he on his homeward way would fare, Full oft his lady at her




hood, Smiled salutations down from where she stood. fresh as falcon just freed of



88 256


most of love and virtue was

And be despised


his speech.

mean and


[256-2 256


what Anne nun but preach, honor those w ho first did honor show, And comfort those in sorrow and in woe; And when he heard that any man tared well In love, such news he liked to hear ami tell. Nr failed to practice


And most of love and vertu was his speche, And in despyt haddc alle wrecchednesse; And doutelees, no nede was him biscche To honouren hem that haddc worthincsse, And escn hem that weren in distresse. And glad was he if any wight wel fcrde, That lover was, whan he it wiste or herde. 257

held each man in estimation slight. Unless he were engaged in love's emprise

He I





men who ought

For sooth to seyn, he lost held every wight But-if he were in loves heigh servysc, I mene folk that oughte it been of right. And over al this, so wel coudc he devysc Of sentement, and in so unkouth wyse Al his array, that every lover thoughte, That al was wel, what-so he seyde or wroughte. 258 And though that he be come of blood royal, Him liste of pryde at no wight for to chase; Benigne he was to ech in general, For which he gat him thank in every place. Thus wolde Love, y-heried be his grace, That Pryde, Envye, Ire, and Avaryce He gan to flee, and every other vyce. 259 Thou lady bright, the doughter to Dione, Thy blinde and winged sone eek, daun Cupyde; Ye sustren nyne eek, that by Elicone In hil Parnaso listen for to abyde, That ye thus fer han deyned me to gyde, I can no more, but sin that ye wol wende, Ye heried been for ay, with-outen ende! 260 Thourgh you have I seyd fully in my song Th'effect and joye of Troilus servyse, Al be that ther was som disese among,

to be of right.

fancies he himself could well devise

dress himself in such a dashing wise



the youth there in the city thought




well, whate'er he said or 2^8



And though

he was himselt ot royal race, man with unkindly pride; Benign he was to each in every place, For which he won high praise on every side. For love demanded by its native grace, That he should shun all envy, pride and ire, All avarice and other base desire.


treated no

2 59 daughter to Dione, lady bright, And Cupid, too, thy blind and winged son; Ye sisters nine, who on Parnassus' height Abide beside the fountain Helicon, Thus far, with you to guide, my tale hath won! And now since ye on other ways will wend, Honor and praise be yours, world without end! 260 Your aid hath helped me in my song to tell

low Troilus to joy at last attained, his joy there was some grief as well, Just as my author in his day explained.



My thridde book now ende ich in this wyse;


Though with

book by your aid

end hath gained, And Troilus we leave in peace and joy, And Cressida, within the town of Trov. third



myn auctor listeth to devyse.

And Troilus Is

in luste


in quiete

with Criseyde, his owne herte swete.




[PROEM] Too short

a fleeting time, alas the while,

Great joy endures, and Fortune wills it so, Who truest seems when most she will beguile, And most allures when she will strike a blow, And from her wheel some hapless victim throw; For when some wretch slips down and disappears, She laughs at him and comforts him with jeers.

But al to litel, weylawey the whyle, Lastcth swich joye, y-thonked be Fortune! That semeth trewest, whan she wol bygyle, And can to foles so hir song entune, That she hem hent and blent, traytour comune; And whan a wight is from hir wheel y-throwe, Than laugheth she, and maketh him the mowe.


From I

Troilus she

fer face,

She made

Ami on

now began

and paid




his lady her true lover spurn,

her wheel she

At which,

him but

2 to turn

in truth,



up Diomede;

heart begins to bleed,

From Troilus she gan hir brighte face Awey to wrythe, and took of him non hede, But caste him clene outc of his lady grace, hir wheel she sette up Diomede; For which right now myn herte ginneth blede,

And on



And now my penne, alias!

with which



for drede of that

wryte, moot cndyte. I



And now my Trembles

pen, with which

for tear ot




hennes-forth ben matere of my book, folk

thorugh which

it is

in minde.

Alias! that they shulde ever cause finde

To speke hir harm; and if they on hir lye, Y-wis, hem-self sholde han the vilanye.

her Troilus forsook, how she became unkind, Henceforth must be the matter of my book, As ancient records bring the tale to mind. Alas, that ever thev a cause should find


at the least,

To speak Shame on

her harm! But

Thou cruel Mars eek, fader to Quiryne, ilke ferthe


me helpeth fyne,

that the los of lyf and love y-fere

Of Troilus


be fully shewed here.

the records lie. I cry!

the head of slanderers .

That endelees compleynen ever in pyne, Megera, Alete, and eek Thesiphone;


must enditc.


How Cressida


O ye Herines, Nightes doughtren three,


faltering write,


For how Criseyde Troilus forsook, Or at the leste, how that she was unkinde,

As wryten



Ye daughters of black night Ye furies Ye who lament in everlasting pain, !


Megacra, Alectoand Tisiphone! cruel Mars, Quirinus' father, deign To aid my fourth book to its end to gain And tell how loss of love and loss of life Mav be the final end of lovers' strife!




in ost, as I

have seyd er


The Grekes stronge, aboute Troye toun, Bifel that, whan that Phebus shyning is Up-on the brest of Hercules Lyoun, That Ector, with ful many a bold baroun, Caste on a day with Grekes for to fighte, As he was wont to greve hem what he mighte. 6 Not I how longe or short it was bitwene This purpos and that day they fighte mente; But on a day wel armed, bright and shene, Ector, and many a worthy wight out wente, With spere in hond and bigge bowes bente; And in the berd, with-oute lenger lette, Hir fomen in the feld anoon hem mette.

The Grecian

hosts, as

With arwes, fighte

Then Hector doth his barons to him call, And plan to meet the Greeks in open fight, And work such injury as there they might. 6

do not know how long it was between The day they made their plan and when they meant To fight, but with their arms all bright and keen, With spears in hand and great bows tautly bent, Hector with many a worthy warrior went I

Before the town, for battle ready set, the field their foeman soon they met.

And on


dartes, swerdes, maces felle, and bringen hors and man to grounde,

And with hir axes out the braynes But


in the laste shour, sooth for to telle,

The folk of Troye hem-selven so misledden, That with the worse at night homward they fledden.

The whole long day with all spears sharply ground, With arrow?, darts, with swords and heavy maces, They fiercely fight, and horse and man confound, While axes dash out brains and cleave men's But at the last the Trojan host retraces Its steps, faltering where their captains led,


in defeat at

At whiche day was taken Antenor, Maugre Polydamas or Monesteo, Santippe, Sarpedon, Polynestor,

daun Ripheo,

And othere lasse folk, as Phebuseo. So

that, for


harm, that day the folk of Troye

to lese a greet part of hir joye.


Of Pryamus was yeve, at Greek requeste,

A tyme of trewe, and tho they gonnen trete, Hir prisoneres to chaungen, moste and leste, surplus yeven sommes grete. This thing anoon was couth in every strete, Bothe in th'assege, in toune, and everywhere, And with the firste it cam to Calkas ere.

And for the

night they






Polyte, or eek the Trojan

before have told,

And when within the Lion beams of gold From Phoebus on the Lion's breast first fall,


The longe day, with speres sharpe y-grounde, They


St ill lay in siege about the Trojan wall;

That day Antenor yielded in the fight, And Polydamas nor yet Menestheus, Xanthippus, Sarpedon or Polynestor might, Polites nor the Trojan Sir Ripheus Withstand the Greeks, still less Sir Phebuseus, And all his like; the harm that day done Troy



hopes did very near destroy.

9 Thereafter the Greeks a truce agreed to make, As Priam asked, the purpose to debate Of changing prisoners in a give and take, And for the surplus, money payments great. This news at once began to circulate Among both Greeks and Trojans far and near, And very soon it came to Calchas' ear.




Assured that all was tnu .is it told. Into the Greek asscmhlv Galchas pressed, Where sat the Grecian lords* so wise and old,

Ami t(M)k his rightlul place among the rest, And solemnly he made them this request. That they would do him so much reverence To stop their noise and give him audience. 1









the Grekes, sone

For love of god, to don that reverence, noyse, and yeve him audience.

To stintc

Thanne seyde he thus, "lo! lordes myne, Trojan, as it is knowen out of dredc; And if that yow rcmembre, I am Calkas, That

to dispel,

alderfirst yaf



comfort to your nede,



all its

For drcdelees, thorugh yow, shal, in a stounde, Ben Troye y-brend, and beten doun to grounde.

vour future conquest to foretell; For you shall surely burn the Trojan town,



In consistoric,

He gan in thringe forth, with lordes olde, And sette him there-as he was wont to done; And with a chaunged face hem bad a bone,


in past

came here your troubles


Whan Galkas knew this tretis sholde holde,


He said, "as doubtless all ot you know well, And know that Calchas merits Grecian praise, And


walls the


shall batter


tolde wel

how that ye sholden




"And how at last the Greeks shall win this prize And seize the town and conquest full achieve, You've heard me often in detail previse; you know, my lords, as I believe, And how the Grecian fortunes to retrieve, I came in my own person here from Troy, On your behalf my knowledge to employ, All this


what forme, or in what maner wyse This town to shende, and al your lust to acheve, Ye han er this wel herd it me devyse; in

This knowe ye,

my lordes, as



And for the Grekes weren me so leve, I com my-self in my propre persone, To teche in this how yow was best to done; 13




treasure, well content

could but contribute to your ease. my goods I left with free consent, Mv onlv thought, my lords, was you to please; Nor grieve I now at loss of these, Nor shall I much be troubled at the cost If all my property in Troy is lost If


Thus all

Havinge un-to my tresour ne my rente Right no resport, to respect of your ese. Thus al my good I loste and to yow wente,

Wening in Rut

this you, lordes, for to plese.

al that lose

ne doth


you to

lese al that




my lords, have held my peace, saw no way to bring her here; But now or never must come her release, And soon I hope to see my daughter dear! To beg your aid before vou I appear! Have pity on an old man in distress, For you are cause of all mv heaviness. "And


so long,



Save of a doughter, that


many captives give to me! should you such a little thing refuse, Since all the town and folk are yours to choose? of so


I lafte, alias!

Slepinge at hoom, whanne out of Troye I sterte. cruel fader that I was sterne, How mighte I have in that so hard an herte?


I ne hadde y-brought hir in hir sherte! For sorwe of which I wol not live to morwe, But-if ye lordes rewe up-on my sorwe.


For, by that cause I say no tyme er now Hir to delivere, I holden have my pees; But now or never, if that it lyke yow, 1 may hir have right sone, doutelees. help and grace! amonges al this prees, Rewe on this olde caitif in destresse, Sin I through yow have al this hevinesse! 16 fetered in prisoun


"Trojans enough you have as captives caught, With one of these, if so your will it be, Redemption for my daughter may be bought. I beg you in your generosity,



have in Troye, 14


daughter, whom I left behind. Sleeping at home the night I slipped away. How could a father be so far unkind, So hard of heart Rather than let her Stay, Had I but dragged her forth in night array! And so, my lords, except you heed my sorrow, Methinks I ne'er shall see another morrow.


me no disese.

vouche-sauf, as wisly have

Ye have now caught and

Trojans y-nowe; and if your willes be, My child with oon may have redempcioun. Now for the love of god and of bountee, Oon of so fele, alias! so yeve him me. What nede were it this preyere for to werne, Sin ye shul bothe han folk and toun as yerne? 17

"For here again


faithfully will swear,

Just as Apollo hath

And And I





above likewise declare, auspices and auguries of old, swear by all these signs so manifold, as the stars

On peril of my lyf I shal not lye, Appollo hath me told it feithfully; ,

have eek founde it by astronomye, sort, and by augurie eek trewely, And dar wel seye, the tyme is faste by, 1




8-2 5 ]

That fyrn and flaumbe on al the toun shal sprede; And thus shal Troye turne in asshen dede.





and flame on

And Troy shall



turn to ashes,

town shall spread, cold and dead.



For certeyn, Phebus and Ncptunus bothe, That makeden the walks of the toun, Ben with the folk of Troye alwey so wrothe, That thei wol bringe it to confusioun, Right in despyt of king Lameaudoun. By-cause he nolde payen hem hir hyre, The toun of Troye shal ben set on-fyre." 19 Telling his tale alwey, this olde greye, Humble in speche, and in his lokinge eke, The sake teres from his eyen tweye Ful faste ronnen doun by eyther cheke. So longe he gan of socour hem by-seke That, for to hele him of his sorwes sore, They yave him Antenor, with-oute more.

"Phoebus on high, and watery Neptune,

Who gave



Rehearsing thus his


feeble to the


tale, this old

tears as salty as the

Fast running



Greeks doth humbly speak,

down on

ocean spray

either withered cheek.

So long he begs and earnestly doth seek, That at the last, to stop his long lament, To give to him Antenor they consent.



But who was glad y-nough but Calkas tho?

And of this thing ful sone his nedes leyde On hem that sholden for the tretis go, And hem for Antenor ful ofte preyde To brigen hoom king Toas and Criseyde; And whan Pryam his save-garde sente, Th'embassadours to Troye streyght they wente.


thus the long debate was brought to close, Calchas arrangements with the legates made for their embassy the Grecians chose, To give Antenor and take back in trade


His daughter and King Thoas,


he prayed;

And when King Priam had safe-conduct sent, To Troy the legates on their mission went.



The cause y-told of hk cominge, the olde Pryam the king ful sone in general

The purpose of their embassy they told, And Priam listened with attentive ear;

Let here-upon



parlement to holde,

Of which the effect rehersen yow



Th'embassadours ben answered for fynal, Th'eschaunge of prisoners and al this nede Hem lyketh wel, and forth in they procede. 22 This Troilus was present in the place, Whan axed was for Antenor Criseyde, For which ful sone chaungen gan his face, As he that with tho wordes wel neigh deyde. But nathelees, he no word to it seyed, Lest

men sholde his affeccioun espye;

With marines herte he gan his sorwes drye.

parliament he bade the Trojans hold, I but briefly need to dwell on here, For with one voice the Trojans spoke out clear, That they approved of this proposed exchange, And all details were ready to arrange. 22 Now Troilus was present in the place, When Cressida was being bargained for, At which it might be gathered from his face That this request had touched him deep and sore; Yet he in silence this disaster bore, And lest his speech his secret should reveal, Manfully strove his sorrow to conceal.




And ful of anguish and of grisly drede


Abood what lordes wolde un-to it



And if they wolde graunte, as god forbede, Th'eschaunge of


than thoughte he thinges



of anguish and of ghastly fear, waited what the other lords would say, full

And if from their debate it should appear, That Cressida from Troy must go away,

how to

save hk honour, and what weye might best th'eschaunge of hk withstonde;



unto the Trojan town, Arc angry at the Trojan folk untrue, And eager now to tear those same walls down; Laomedon, who bore the royal crown, Refused to pay to them their proper hire, For which their city shall be burned with fire." its

Ful faste he caste

how al this mighte



things he planned to do without delay, Both save her honest name, and keep her still

In Troy,


strength availed thereto or



Love him made

al prest to


hir byde,

And rather dye than she sholde go; But resoun seyde him, on that other syde, "With-oute assent of hir ne do not so, Lest for they werk she wolde by thy fo, And seyn, that thorugh thy medling is y-blowe Your bother love, there it was erst unknowe."



she longer might not there abide,

Then naught was left for him except to die, But Reason told him on the other side, That first for her advice he must apply; For if he brought her in the public eye, She might complain his meddling had revealed Their love, that otherwise had been concealed.


For which he gan deliberen, for the beste, That though the lordes wolde that she wente,



he came at last, the lords decreed that she must go,

this decision thus







He would

assent to


Ami then Ins lady siik and let bet know, And what slic bade lnm do, he would do so, Cost what



For what she

smle, was dearer than his

in labor or in



He wolde late hem graunte what hem leste, And telle his lady first what that they mente. And whan that she had seyd him hir entente,

law thev passed.

Thcr-after wolde he werken also blyve, Though al the world ayein it wolde stryve.




Hector, who had heard the Greeks' demand For Crcssida Antenoi to restore. Against this spoke and finnh took his stand: "Sirs, she is not a prisoner ol war! I know not what you want this lady for,





you can go back and tell we ha\ e no women here to sell!"




Ector, which that wel the Grekcs herdc, For Antenor how they wolde han Criseyde, Gan it withstonde, and sobrely answerde: "Sires, she nis no prisoner," he seyde;

"I noot on yow who that this charge leyde, But, on my part, ye may eft-sone him telle, We usen here no wommen for to sclle."

2 7.


what a stir this made. For all the folk blazed up like straw on fire; Their luck against them in this matter played, They got their wish and their confusion dire. "Hector," they said, "what's this that you can't imagine


The noyse of peple up-stirte thanne at ones, As breme as blase of straw y-set on fyre; For infortune it wolde, for the nones,

They sholden

hir confusioun desyre. "Ector," quod they, "what goost may




To shield




woman and

cause us thus to lose

you should the rather choose,


womman thus to shilde and doon us lese

Daun Antenor?


wrong wey now ye chese

28 "Who is so wise and of such great renown, And we have need of men, as ycu can see, And he among the greatest in this town! Hector, let such foolish fancies be! And Priam, king of Troy, hear our decree, That we will have Antenor, yes or no, And Cressida to her Greek friends may go!"

And to deliveren Antenor they preyde.

O Juvenal, how truly thou didst say,

O Juvenal, lord! trewe is thy sentence,

The people never know

That litel witen folk what is to yerne That they ne finde in hir desyr offence; For cloud of errour lat hem not descerne What best is; and lo, here ensample as yerne.


for what thev seek, For what they want seems right in every way,

And clouds of error ever render weak Their judgments, in whate'er they do or speak; For though Antenor now had everv voice, In time the Trojans shall repent their choice.


That is so wys, and eek so bold baroun,

And we han nede of folk, as men may see; He is eek oon, the grettest of this toun;

O Ector, lat tho fantasyfis be! O king Pryam," quod they, "thus seggen we, That


our voys


to for-gon Criseyde"]


This folk desiren now deliveraunce Of Antenor, that broughte hem to mischaunce! 30


later his


city he betrayed

brought him back to Troy too soon! foolish world, with error over laid! Poor harmless Cressida they now repugn, And now her song of jov must change its tune, For now to have Antenor all are bound, And she must go, declare both hare and hound. Alas, they


For he was

after traytour to the


Of Troye; alias! they quitte him out to rathe;


nyce world, lo, thy discrecioun! Criseyde, which that never dide hem skathe, Shal now no lenger in hir blisse bathe;

But Antenor, he shal com hoom

And she shal out:

to toune, thus seyden here and howne.



was decreed in parliament, At end of much debate and wild uproar, And thus announced there by their president, Though Hector did this action much deplore; But finally he could do nothing more, For folk and all in this were quite agreed, And by the parliament it was decreed. so


For which delibered was by parlement, For Antenor to yelden up Criseyde, And it pronounced by the president, Al-theigh that Ector "nay" ful ofte preyde. And fynaly, what wight that it withseyde, It was for nought; it moste been, and sholde; For substaunce of the parlement it wolde. 32

Discussion ended,

And And


the Trojans went,

Troilus, as well, with footsteps slow,

then about their tasks his men he sent, While he into his chamber straight did go; But first he told his men, to hide his woe, That he would rest and sleep an hour or two, And on his lonely bed himself he threw.

Departed out of parlement echone, This Troilus, with-oute wordes mo, Un-to his chaumbre spedde him faste alione, But-if it were a man of his or two, The whichc he bad out faste for to go, By-cause he wolde slepen, as he seyde, And hastely up-on his bed him leyde.





93 33


And as in winter leves been biraft, Eche after other, til the tree be bare, So that ther nis but bark and braunche y-laft, Lyth Troilus, biraft of ech wel-fare, Y-bounden in the blake bark of care, Disposed wood out of his wit to breyde, So sore him sat the chaunginge of Criseyde.

And as the leaves in winter blow away, Bv one and one, leaving the tree al! bare, And only bark and branch the winds withstay, So now unhappy Troilus doth fare, Close bound within the dismal bark of care, And wild with fear lest he dare not refuse The vote by which he Cressida must lose.



He rist him up, and every dore he shette And windowe eek, and tho this sorweful man his beddes syde a-doun him sette, Ful lyk a deed image pale and wan; And in his brest the heped wo bigan Out-breste, and he to werken in this wyse In his woodnesse, as I shal you devyse.


35 Right as the wilde bole biginneth springe Now here, now there, y-darted to the herte, And of his deeth roreth in compleyninge, Right so gan he aboute the chaumbre sterte, Smyting his brest ay with his festes smerte; His heed to the wal, his body to the grounde Ful ofte he swapte, him-selven to confounde.

Then up he rose and fastened every door, And window, too, and then this wretched man Upon his bedside sat him down once more, And sat as still as any image can, And looked as wan, until his woe began At

to break forth in a raging storm,


And how he acted,



you inform.

35 otherwise than as the fierce wild bull

Not Doth roar and leap and spring, when from his heart The huntsman forth the fatal spear doth pull, So Troilus doth from his bedside start, And beat his breast, and here and yonder Striking his head



to the floor his


hard against the wall,





36 His eyen two, for pitee of his herte, Out stremeden as swifte wells tweye; The heighe sobbes of his sorwes smerte His speche him rafte, unnethes mighte he seye, "O deeth, alias! why niltow do me deye? A-cursed be the day which that nature

36 His eyes for very sorrow turned to fountains, From which the tears in double streamlets well, And from his breast, as if from bursting mountains, The sobs broke forth, scarce leaving breath to tell His grief. "O death," he said, "thou traitor fell,

Shoop me to ben


a lyves creature!"


must I stay alive who curse the day was born this hapless part to play!"






whan the furie and the rage

Which that his herte twiste and faste threste, By lengthe of tyme somwhat gan asswage, Up-on his bed he leyde him doun to reste; But tho bigonne his teres more out-breste, That wonder is, the body may suffyse To half this wo, which that I yow devyse.

But when the fury and the blinding rage


thus his heart afflicted and oppressed,

Wuh time began a little to assuage, Upon his bed he laid him down to rest, And now the flood of tears attained its crest; It



marvel that the body could grief in which he stood.

Endure the woe and


Than seyde he thus, "Fortune! alias the whyle! What have I doon, what have I thus a-gilt?

How mightestow for reuthe me bigyle? no grace, and shal I thus be spilt? Shal thus Criseyde awey, for that thou wilt? Is ther


how maystow in thyn herte finde

To been to me thus cruel and unkinde?

Fortune," he exclaimed, "alas the while! What have I done ? What crime have I committed How didst thou have the heart me to beguile ? Shall I by thee be evermore outwitted ? Must thou so strong 'gainst Cressida be pitted ? Alas, that thou, so cruel and unkind, Shouldst towards me cherish such a hostile mind!



Have I thee nought honoured al my lyve, As thou wel wost, above the goddes alle?

Why wiltow me fro joye thus depryve? O Troilus, what may men now thee calle But wrecche of wrecches, out of honour falle In-to miserie, in which I wol biwayle Criseyde,

alias! til



that the breeth

me fayle?

"To honor thee do I not ever strive, Above the other Gods and powers all ? Why dost thou of my blessing me deprive? O Troilus, well may mankind thee call Most wretched of all wretches, who dost fall To such a depth, in which thou must bewail Lost Cressida,




breath shall


40 Alias, Fortune! if that

my lyf in joye

Displesed hadde un-to thy foule envye, Why ne haddestow my fader, king of Troye, By-raft the lyf, or doon my bretheren dye,

Or slayn

my-self, that thus compleyne and aye,

was it lor my delight have lost thy favor high? Why didst thou not my father in despite Deprive of life, or let my brother die, Or me myself, who on thee thus do cry ? "Fortune,


In love that






cumber-world, whose happy days arc Forever dying, vet never fullv dead I,




Crcssida alone to

I'd care not.


thus I'm

lost, all

hopeless of defence.

"O Lord of lov e O very God on !

Thou knowest best my What shall do my life

heart ami

Criseyde allone were me laft, Nought roughte I whider thou w oldest me stere; And hir, alias! than hastow me biraft. But ever-more, lo! this is thy manere, To reve a wight that most is to him dere, To preve in that thy gerful violence. Thus am I lost, ther helpeth no defence. If that


high all




to occupy,


O verray lord of love, O god, alias!


myn herte and al my thought, my sorwful lyf don in this cas

That knowesi best


It forego what I so dear have bought? Since thou mv love and me hast safely brought Into thy hand, and both our hearts hast sealed. How could thy act then ever be repealed ?


If I for-go that I so dere have bought? Sin ye Cryseyde and me han fully brought In-to your grace, and bothe our hertes seled,

How may ye suffre, alias! it be repeled?


"W hat The


And But

I do? And shall I never master torment and the cruel pain so unforeseen and great disaster?



Of this

in solitude let

never see



shine or see



Oedipus of old, and sorrows manifold!

in the dark, like

Fnd both mv







to destruction

go? lurking soul, fly forth from out thy nest! Abandon this sad heart and wearv breast,



may doon,



follow Cressida, thy lady dear,

For now thy proper home no more

"O weary eyes, since all your



and jov

But ende


wil, as

Edippe, in derknesse

O wery goost, that errest to and fro, Why niltow fleen out of the wofulleste Body, that ever mighte on grounde go?

O soule, lurkinge in this wo, unneste, Flee forth out of myn herte, and lat it breste, And folwe alwey Criseyde, thy lady dere; Thy righte place is now no lenger here!

O wofulle eyen two, sin your disport Was al to seen Criseydes eyen brighte, What shal ye doon but, for my discomfort, Stonden for nought, and wepen out your sighte? Sin she is queynt, that wont was yow to lighte, In veyn fro-this-forth have I eyen tweye Y-formed,


no one! But when


doth cry.

thou art not here?

heart shall die,

My spirit straight To

to thee alone shall fly, serve thee as thy everlasting slave,

my grave.



"O all

47 ye lovers, high upon the wheel

shall lie forgotten in

Of Fortune set in joy and bliss secure, God grant that ye may find your love of steel,

Of thilke woful soule Alias,

no wight; but when


in gree, for that shal ay

For-thy no fors



old, enfeebled,



God leve that ye finde ay love of steel, And longe mot your lyf in joye endure! But whan ye comen by my sepulture, Remembreth



though the body sterve. 47 O ye loveres, that heighe upon the wheel Ben set of Fortune, in good aventure,


mis behaving man Calchas I mean— what wickedness led thee To leave thy Troy and join the Grecian clan?

myn herte dyeth,

My spirit, which that so un-to yow hyeth,


my share.

that thus cryeth,

Who shal now yeven comfort to my peyne?

And may your joyous life full long endure; And when ye come upon my sepulture, Remember that your comrade resteth there, loved, too, though sorrow was

your vertue is a-weye. 46

O my Criseyde, O lady sovereyne

sovereign ladv dear,

this grieving soul that thus

Who shall give comfort when Alas,

may dure

My sorwful lyf, and dyen in distresse.


"O Cressida, my




Was but in Cressida's reflected light, What will ye do, since I cannot employ You as I would, but weep out all your sight ? Since she is quenched who was my lamp so bright, From this time forth, my eyes are but in vain, And all their virtue can me nothing gain.



This infortune or this disaventure, Allone as I was born, y-wis, compleyne; Ne never wil I seen it shyne or reyne;






wilt thou seek elsewhere a place of rest

let this



On lyve in torment and in cruel peyne,


"O weary spirit, And





were left, Fortune, what course- you might steer! Hut ol nn love you have me now bereft, For 'tis your way, to keep man Mill in tear. To rob him ol the one he holds most dear. You prove your strength by wanton violence, "


combre- world, that may of no- thing But ever dye, and never fully sterve?



and hardy

But for to


Diomede: on the tenthe day,

tellen forth of

tenth day came since that sad parting day When to the Greeks this lady he did lead, And Diomede, fresh as the flowers in May, Came to the tent where wise old Calchas lav, And teigned that he had business with the priest,

And feyned him with

Calkas han to done;

But of his

But what he mente,


plans, the business

was the




that after,

Sin that Criseyde out of the citee yede,

This Diomede,

as fresshe as



Now Cressida,

in all things

neat and nice,


war he then began to speak Between the Creeks and the besieged in Troy,

First of the


her opinion doth he humblv seek methods in the siege one should employ; then he asked her if she did enjov






telle sone.


Received him there, and bade him take a seat, Nor had she any need to ask him twice; And in the proper way a guest to treat, Spices and wine she served in manner meet; In friendly conversation then they fell, A part of which I shall proceed to tell.



Com to the tente ther-as Calkas lay,

Her life among the Greeks, and if their ways Seemed strange, and how she passed her days,

Criseyde, at shorte wordes for to


Welcomed him, and doun by hir him sette; And he was ethe y-nough to maken dwelle.

And after this, with-outen longe lette, The spyces and the wyn men forth hem fette; And forth they speke of this and that y-fere, As freendes doon, of which som

shal ye here. 123 He gan first fallen of the werre in speche Bitwixe hem and the folk of Troye toun; And of th'assege he gan hir eek byseche, To telle him what was hir opinioun.

Fro that demaunde he so descendeth doun

To asken hir, if that hir straunge thoughte The Grekes gyse, and werkes that they wroughte?

124 And why her father should delay so long To marry her to some good worthy knight.

And why hir fader tarieth so longe To wedden hir un-to som worthy wight?

But Cressida, who felt the pain still strong For absent Troilus, her heart's delight, Cave answer to his questions as she might, But of his deeper purpose and intent, Perhaps she had no inkling what he meant.

Criseyde, that was in hir peynes stronge For love of Troilus, hir owene knight, As fer-forth as she conning hadde or might, Answerde him tho; but, as of his entente, It semed not she wiste what he mente.


I2 5


But nevertheless the dauntless Diomede Pressed bravely on, and this attempt essayed: "If I have rightly of you taken heed, Dear Cressida, I'm very much afraid, Since hand upon your bridle first I laid, When you came forth from Troy upon that morrow, You have been sore oppressed by some deep sorrow. 126

what the cause may be, Unless perhaps some Trojan you hold dear, Yet let me say, it truly would grieve me If you for any Trojan, far or near, Should ever spill a quarter of a tear, Or let one from your face drive off the smile, For, Cressida, it isn't worth the while. "I cannot say just


"The Trojans, one might




and some,

But natheles,


this ilke


in him-self assure, and thus he seyde, "If ich aright have taken of yow hede, Me thinketh thus, O lady myn, Criseyde, That sin I first hond on your brydel leyde, Whan ye out come of Troye by the morwe, Ne coude I never seen yow but in sorwe. 126 Can I not seyn what may the cause be But-if for love of som Troyan it were, The which right sore wolde athinken me That ye, for any wight that dwelleth there, Sholden spille a quarter of a tere, Or pitously your-selven so bigyle; For dredelees, it is nought worth the whyle. 127 The folk of Troye, as who seyth, alle and some


128-134] In preson been, as ye your-selven see; For thennes shal not oon on-lyve come For al the gold bitwixen sonne and see. Trusteth wel, and understondeth me, Ther shal not oon to mercy goon on-lyve, Al were he lord of worldes twyfis fyve! 128 Swich wreche on hem, for fecching of Eleyne,

Ther shal be take, er that we hennes wende, That Manes, which that goddes ben of peyne, Shal been agast that Grekes wol hem shende. And men shul drede, un-to the worldes ende, From hennes-forth to ravisshe any quene, So cruel shal our wreche on hem be sene.

129 with ambages, That is to seyn, with double wordes slye, Swich as men clepe a 'word with two visages,' Ye shul wel knowen that I nought ne lye, And al this thing right seen it with your ye, And that anoon; ye nil not trowe how sone; Now taketh heed, for it is for to done. 130 What wene ye your wyse fader wolde Han yeven Antenor for yow anoon, If he ne wiste that the citee sholde Destroyed been? Why, nay, so mote I goon! He knew ful wel ther shal not scapen oon

And but-if Calkas lede us

That Troyan



for the grete fere,

He dorste not, ye dwelte lenger there.


Are prisoners, and never shall be free, For out of Troy not one alive shall come, For all the gold between the sun and sea;


can take this for utter certainty, from thence alive, Although he were the lord of worlds twice five. 128 "The rape of Helen we shall so repay. Ere we upon our homeward way shall wend, The Manes, Gods of pain, shall be afraid Lest Grecian wrath with theirs should e'er contend; And men shall fear, until this world shall end, Henceforth forever to abduct a queen, Such vengeance on the Trojans shall be seen.

No single one shall come

"For either Calchas tricks us with ambages, That is, with words of double meaning sly, Such as we call a word with two visages, Or that I speak the truth, none can deny; For all of this you'll see with your own eye, And you shan't need to wait for many a moon, Mind what I say, you'll be surprised how soon! 130 suppose your father, old and wise, Would give Antenor for vou in this war, Unless he knew just how the matter lies, And what fate for the Trojans is in store ? He knows full well that there is no hope for A single Trojan, and so he didn't dare To let you stay among them over there.

"Do you


What wole ye more, lufsom lady


Lat Troye and Troyan fro your herte pace! Dryf out that bittre hope, and make good chere, And clepe ayein the beautee of your face. That ye with sake teres so deface. For Troye is brought in swich a jupartye, That, it to save, is now no remedye.

"What further can you ask ,my lady dear ? Both Troy and Trojans from your heart erase! Drive out this futile hope and make good cheer, Restore again your beauty to

To save her now,

it is


A more parfit love, er it be night, Than any Troyan is, and more kinde, And bet to serven yow wol doon his might. And if ye vouche sauf my lady bright, I wol ben he to serven yow my-selve, ,

Ye, lever than be lord of Greces twelve!"


you shall among us Grecians find A love more perfect, and a truer knight Than any Trojan is, and one more kind, To honor you with all his strength and might; If you will listen to me, lady bright, Myself will be the man, and for the price, A dozen Greeces I would sacrifice." "Besides,



And with that word he gan to waxen reed, And in his speche a litel wight he quook, And caste a-syde a litel wight his heed, And stinte a whyle; and afterward awook, And sobreliche on hir he threw his look, And seyde, "I am, al be it yow no joye, As gentil man as any wight in Troye.

And with that word he blushed a bashful red, And as he spoke, his voice trembled and shook, The while he turned aside and bowed his head, And paused, but soon new courage took, And with a serious, but gentle look,

He said,

"I am, though this gives you no joy,

As good



134 For if my fader Tydeus," he seyde, "Y-lived hadde, I hadde been, er this, Of Calidoine and Arge a king, Criseyde!

Of Calydon and



so hope I that I shal yet, y-wis. But he was slayn, alias! the more harm Unhappily at Thebes al to rathe, Polymites and many a man to scathe.


too late a date.


And thenketh wel, ye shal in Grekes finde


Which with the salt of tears you now deface! For Troy is brought at last to such a state,


as dwells in r







father Tydeus," he said, I would have been ere Argos king and head,

longer lived,


be yet, unless

my guess



But he was slain, and lost all earthly bliss, At Thebes, where Polynices and his men Good reason had to grieve in sorrow then.








"But, lady dear, since .mi vour man, in my bean you hold the chiefesi place, I shall serve you every way can. As long as exist 111 time and space, So look upon me with a kindly face,

the ferste of whom I seche grace, To serven you as hcrtely as I can, And ever shal, whyl I to live have space, So, er that I departe out of this place,

And And

Ye wol me graunte, that I may to-morwe, At bettre leyser, telle yow my sorwe."

But herte myn,


And And



grant thai


may come again tomorrow

you more


at leisure of


sin that





hy should I all his pretty speeches tell? le spoke enough tor one day, that is sure, And what he said to her, he said so well, That her consent he doth at last procure To come again, though first she did adjure Him not to raise the topic he had broached. At which, no doubt, he felt himself reproached! \\



He spak y-now, for



her heart was set on Troilus,

And his dear image she could not erase From out her mind, and so she answered




love that



happy place

was born! May heaven in Deliver it from out its sorry state




wordes that he seyde? o day at the meste;

telle his

It preveth wel, he spak so that Criseyde Graunted, on the morwe, at his requeste, For to speken with him at the leste, So that he nolde speke of swich matere;

And thus to him she seyde, as ye may





know that very well! But after all, It may not happen as you say and speak, And God forbid that such thing should befall; I know my father did me to him call, And that he dearly bought me, as you say, And for all this, I shall him well repay!

That Grekes wolde

hir wraththe


As worthy folk within the Trojan town, As able, too, as perfect and as kind, As any twixt the Orcades and Ind. And that some lady gladly would receive Your service, that I'm ready to believe. as for love," she said,

a lord,




trowe eek wel, hir thank for to deserve. 140 But as to speke of love, y-wis," she seyde, I

and gently sighed,


That Grekes been of heigh condicioun, I woot eek wel; but certein, men shal finde As worthy folk with-inne Troye toun, As conning, and as parfit and as kinde, As been bitwixen Orcades and Inde.

And that ye coude wel your lady serve,



"I hadde a lord, to


To whom my

heart was pledged until he died; other love than that in all my life

But There hath not been, nor shall I seek love's strife. And that you are of high and noble birth, That have I heard, and know you for your worth.

whom I wedded was,

The whos myn herte al was, til that he deyde; And other love, as helpe me now Pallas, Ther in myn

herte nis, ne never was.

And that ye been of noble and heigh kinrede, I

have wel herd




Though how my heart may change, I cannot The luturc may, of course, my grief dispel.

And that doth me to han so gret a wonder, That ye wol scornen any womman so. Eek, god wot, love and I be fer a-sonder; I am disposed bet, so mote I go, Un-to my deeth, to pleyne and maken wo. tell;



shal after doon,

But trewely,



as yet


can not seye;

me list not pleye. 142

and cast down, And you in arms are busy day by t mortal battles he had fought fifteen, And he'd fought for our faith at Tramissene 3 Three times in lists, and each time slain his foe. This selt-same worthy knight had been also Atone time with the lord of Palatye 4 Against another heathen in Turkev And always won he sovereign tame for prize. Though so illustrious, he was very wise And bore himself as meekly as a maid. He never yet had any vilencss said, In all his lite, to whatsoever wight. He was a truly perfect, gentle knight. But now, to tell you all of his array, His steeds were good, but yet he was not gay. Ot simple fustian wore he a jupon Sadly discoloured by his habergeon; For he had lately come from his voyage And now was going on this pilgrimage. At


At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye,Whan they were wonne; and in the Grete See At many a noble aryve hadde he be. At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene, And foughten for our feith at Tramissene3 In listes thryes, and ay slayn his fo. This ilke worthy knight had been also

Somtyme with the lord of Palatye,' Ageyn another hethen in Turkye:

And evermore he hadde a sovereyn prys. And though that he were worthy, he was wys, And of his port as meke as is a mayde. He never yet no vileinye ne sayde In

al his lyf,

un-to no maner wight.

He was a verray parfit gentil knight. But for to tellen yow of his array, His hors were gode, but he was nat gay. Of fustian he wered a gipoun Al bismotered with his habergeoun; For he was late y-come from his viage, And wente for to doon his pilgrimage.

THE SQUIRE With him there was his son, a youthful squire, A lover and a lusty bachelor, With locks well curled, as if they'd laid in press.

Some twenty In stature he

years of age he was,


With him ther was

his sone, a

young Squyer,

A lovyere, and a lusty bacheler, With lokkes

crulle, as

they were leyd in presse.

Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. Of his stature he was of evene lengthe,


was of an average length,

Wondrously active, aye, and great of strength. He'd ridden sometime with the cavalry

And wonderly deliver, and greet of strengthe. And he had been somtyme in chivachye,

In Flanders, in Artois, and Picardy,

In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Picardye,

And borne him

And born him wel, as of so litel space,

well within that little space

hope to win thereby his lady's grace. Prinked out he was, as if he were a mead, All full of fresh-cut flowers white and red. Singing he was, or fluting, all the day; He was as fresh as is the month of Mi v. Short was his gown, with sleeves both long and wide. Well could he sit on horse, and fairly ride. He could make songs and words thereto indite, Joust, and dance too, as well as sketch and write. So hot he loved that, while night told her tale, He slept no more than does a nightingale. Courteous he, and humble, willing and able, And carved before his father at the table. In

A vcoman had At that time,


he, nor


servants, no,

he chose to travel


In hope to stonden in his lady grace.

Embrouded was he, as it were a mede ful of fresshe fioures, whyte and rede. Singinge he was, or floytinge, al the day; He was as fresh as is the month of May. Short was his goune, with sieves longe and wyde. Wel coude he sitte on hors, and faire ryde. He coude songes make and wel endyte, Juste and eek daunce, and wel purtreye and wryte. So hote he lovede, that by nightertale He sleep namore than dooth a nightingale. Curteys he was, lowly, and servisable, And carf biforn his fader at the table.


THE YEOMAN A Yeman hadde he, and servaunts namo At that tyme,

'henimnrim (the name of a tribe), in Morocco. 'Modern Tlemcen, in Algeria.

Modcrn 4 Modcrn



him liste ryde


Adalia, in Asia Minor. Balat.


in cote

Upon his arm he bar a gay bracer, And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler, And on that other syde a gay daggere, Harneised wel, and sharp as point of spere;

A Cristofre on his brest of silver shene. An horn he bar, the bawdrik was of grene; I



belt he bar ful thriftily;

(Wei coude he dresse his takel yemanly: His arwes drouped noght with fetheres lowe), And in his hand he bar a mighty bowe. A not-heed hadde he, with a broun visage. Of wode-craft wel coude he al the usage.

A forster was he, soothly, as


And he was clad in coat and hood of green. A s1h-.iI (it peacock arrows bright and keen

and hood of grene; sheef of pecok-arwes brighte and kene

Under his




And he was clad




his bell he bore right carefully Well could he keep his tackle yeomanly His arrows had no draggled feathers low), And in his hand he bore a mighty bow A cropped head had he and a sun -browned face. Of woodcraft knew he all the useful ways. Upon his arm he bore a bracer gay, And at one side a sword and buckler, yea, And at the other side a dagger bright, Well sheathed and sharp as spear point in the light; On breast a Christopher of silver sheen. He bore a horn in baldric all of green; A forester he truly was, I guess. (

THE PRIORESS Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioress, That of hir smyling was ful simple and coy; Hir gretteste ooth was but by seynt Loy;

There was also a nun,

a prioress,

And she was cleped madame Eglentyne.

Who, in her smiling, modest was and coy; Her greatest oath was but "By Saint Eloy!" And she was known as Madam Eglantine.

Ful wel she song the service divyne,

Full well she sang the services divine,

Entuned in hir nose ful semely; And Frensh she spak ful faire and fetisly, After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, For Frensh of Paris was to hir unknowe. At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle; She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle,

Intoning through her nose, becomingly; fair she spoke her French, and fluently, After the school of Stratford-at-the-Bow, For French of Paris was not hers to know. At table she had been well taught withal, And never from her lips let morsels fall, Nor dipped her fingers deep in sauce, but ate With so much care the food upon her plate That never driblet fell upon her breast. In courtesy she had delight and zest. Her upper lip was always wiped so clean That in her cup was no iota seen

Ne wette hir fingres in hir sauce depe. Wel coude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe, That no drope ne fille up-on hir brest. In curteisye was set ful muche hir lest.


Hir over lippe wyped she so clene, That in hir coppe was no ferthing sene Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte. Ful semely after hir mete she raughte, And sikerly she was of greet disport, And ful plesaunt, and amiable of port, And peyned hir to countrefete chere Of court, and been estatlich of manere, And to ben holden digne of reverence. But, for to speken of hir conscience, She was so charitable and so pitous, She wolde wepe, if that she sawe a mous Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. Of smale houndes had she, that she fedde With rosted flesh, or milk and wastel-breed. But sore weep she if oon of hem were deed, Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte: And al was conscience and tendre herte. Ful semely hir wimpel pinched was; Hir nose tretys; hir eyen greye as glas; Hir mouth ful smal, and ther-to softe and reed; But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed; It was almost a sparine brood, I trowe; For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe. Ful fetis was hir cloke, as I was war. Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene; And ther-on heng a broche of gold ful shene, On which ther was first write a crowned A,

She was right pleasant, amiable in short. She was at pains to counterfeit the look Of courtliness, and stately manners took, And would be held worthy of reverence. But, to say something of her moral sense, She was so charitable and piteous That she would weep if she but saw a mouse Caught in a trap, though it were dead or bled. She had some little dogs, too, that she fed On roasted flesh, or milk and fine white bread. But sore she'd weep if one of them were dead, Or if men smote it with a rod to smart For pity ruled her, and her tender heart. Right decorous her pleated wimple was; Her nose was fine; her eyes were blue as glass; Her mouth was small and therewith soft and red But certainly she had a fair forehead; It was almost a full span broad, I own, For, truth to tell, she was not undergrown. Neat was her cloak, as I was well aware. Of coral small about her arm she'd bear A string of beads and gauded all with green And theretrom hung a brooch of golden sheen Whereon there was first written a crowned "A,"

And after, Amor vincit omnia.


Of grease, when she had drunk her draught of wine. Becomingly she reached




to dine.

certainly delighting in good sport,


Amor vincit omnia.







THE NUN, THE THREE PRIESTS, AND THE nun with her had she was ber chaplain and ol priests she'd






A monk there was, one made lor mastery, An on ruler, who loved his veiut \ A manly man. to he abbot able. Full many a blooded horse had he in stable: And when he rode men might his bridle hear

A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrye, An out-rydere, that lovede venerye;





A manly man, to been an abbot able.


Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable: And, whan he rood, men mighte his brydel here Ginglen in a whistling wind as clere,

A-jingling in the whistling wind as clear, Aye, and as loud as docs tlie chapel bell

Where this brave monk was master of the The ruleol Maurus or Saint Benedict, By reason it was old and somewhat strict,

And eek as loude as dooth the chapel-belle cell. J

monk let such old things slowlv pace followed new world manners in their place. He cared not for that text a clean-plucked hen Which holds that hunters are not holy men; And

monk, when he iscloisterless, untoa fish that's waterless;

as swift as bird in flight.

Since riding and the hunting of the hare

Were all I



no cost would he spare. were purfled at the hand

his love, for

his sleeves

fur of grey, the finest in the land;

Also, to fasten

hood beneath

his chin,

He had

of good wrought gold a curious pin A love-knot in the larger end there was. His head was bald and shone like any glass,

And smooth as one anointed was his face. Fat was this lord, he stood in goodly case. His bulging eyes he rolled about, and hot They gleamed and red, like fire beneath a pot; His boots were soft his horse of great estate. Now certainly he was a fine prelate: He was not pale as some poor wasted ghost. A fat swan loved he best of any roast. His palfrey was as brown as is a berry. ;

A friar

wanton and a merry, A limiter, 4 a very festive man. In all the Orders Four is none that can Equal his gossip and his fair language. there was, a

He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen, That

seith, that

hunters been nat holy men;



a fish



This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloistre. But thilke text held he nat worth an oistre; And I seyde, his opinioun was good. What sholde he studie, and make him-selven wood, Upon a book in cloistre alwey to poure, Or swinken with his handes, and laboure, As Austin 1 bit? How shal the world be served? Lat Austin have his swink to him reserved. Therfore he was a pricasour aright; Grehoundes he hadde, as swifte as fowel in flight; Of priking and of hunting for the hare Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. I seigh his sieves purfiled at the hond With grys, and that the fyneste of a lond; And, for to festne his hood under his chin,

He hadde of gold y-wroght a curious pin:

A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was. His heed was balled, that shoon as any glas,

And eek his face, as he had been anoint. He was a lord ful fat and in good point; His eyen stepe, and rollinge in his heed, That stemed as a forneys of a leed; His botes souple, his hors in greet estat. Now certeinly he was a fair prelat; He was nat pale as a for-pyned goost. A fat swan loved he best of any roost. His palfrey was as broun as is a berye.

THE FRIAR A Frere ther was, a wantown and a merye, A limitour,

4 a ful solempne man. the ordres foure is noon that can So muche of daliaunce and fair langage.



He had arranged full many a marriage M women young, and this at his own cost.

He hadde maad ful many a manage Of yonge wommen, at his owne cost.

Unto his order he was a noble



Well liked by


and intimate was he With franklins everywhere in his country, And with the worthv women of the town: all



his ordre he was a noble post. Ful wel biloved and famulier was he

With frankeleyns over-al in his


And eek with worthy wommen of the toun:

privileged to ride abroad on the business of his order. *A small priory. 4 A friar licensed to beg within a certain district -within limits.

'Saint Augustine.


By-cause that it was old and som-del streit, This ilke monk leet olde thinges pace, And held after the newe world the space.


That is to say, a monk out of his cloister. But this same text he held not worth an oyster; And I said his opinion was right good. What ? Should he study as a madman would Upon a book in cloister cell? Or yet Go labour with his hands and swink and sweat, As Austin 3 bids? How shall the world be served ? Let Austin have his toil to him reserved. Therefore he was a rider day and night

Greyhounds he had,

lord was keper of the celle.-

Ne that a monk, whan he is cloisterlees,

that a

Is like

Ther as this

The reule of seint Maure or of seint

This said



Another Nonne with hir hadde she, That was hir chapeleyne, and Preestes Three.





For he had power of confessioun, As seyde him-self, more than a curat, For of his ordre he was licentiat. Ful swetely herde he confessioun, And plesaunt was his absolucioun; He was an esy man to yeve penaunce Ther as he wiste to han a good pitaunce; For unto a povre ordre for to yive Is signe that a man is wel y-shrive. For if he yaf, he dorste make avaunt, He wiste that a man was repentaunt. For many a man so hard is of his herte,

He may nat wepe al-thogh him sore smerte. Therfore, in stede of weping and preyeres, Men moot yeve silver to the povre freres. His tipet was ay farsed ful of knyves And pinnes, for to yeven faire wyves. And certeinly he hadde a mery note; Wel coude he singe and pleyen on a rote. Of yeddinges he bar utterly the prys. His nekke whyt was as the flour-de-lys; Ther-to he strong was as a champioun. He knew the tavernes wel in every toun, And everich hostiler and tappestere Bet than a lazar or a beggestere; For un-to swich a worthy man as he

Acorded nat,


by his


To have with seke lazars aqueyntaunce. It is nat honest, it may nat avaunce For to delen with no swich poraille, But al with riche and sellers of vitaille.

And over-al, ther as profit sholde aryse, Curteys he was, and lowly of servyse.

Ther nas no man no-wher so vertuous. He was the beste beggere in his hous; And yaf a certeyn ferme for the graunt; [2526] Noon of his bretheren cam ther in his haunt; [c For thogh a widwe hadde noght a sho, So plesaunt was his "Inprincipio," Yet wolde he have a ferthing, er he wente. His purchas was wel bettre than his rente. And rage he coude, as it were right a whelpe. In love-dayes ther coude he muchel helpe. For there he was nat lyk a cloisterer, With a thredbar cope, as is a povre scoler, But he was lyk a maister or a pope. Of double worsted was his semi-cope, That rounded as a belle out of the presse. Somwhat he lipsed, for his wantownesse, To make his English swete up-on his tonge; And in his harping, whan that he had songe, His eyen twinkled in his heed aright, As doon the sterres in the frosty night. This worthy limitour was cleped Huberd. 1


more power in gown than a good curate,

at confessing he'd

(As he himself said) For of his order he was licentiate. He heard confession gently, it was said. Gently absolved too, leaving naught of dread. He was an easy man to give penance When knowing he should gain a good pittance; For to a begging friar, money given Is sign that any man has been well shriven. For if one gave (he dared to boast of this), He took the man's repentance not amiss. For many a man there is so hard of heart He cannot weep however pains may smart. Therefore, instead of weeping and of prayer, Men should give silver to poor friars all bare. His tippet was stuck always full of knives

And And

young and pleasing wives. merry note: and play upon the rote.

pins, to give to

certainly he kept a

Well could he sing At balladry he bore the prize away. His throat was white as lily of the May; Yet strong he was as ever champion. In towns he knew the taverns, every one, And every good host and each barmaid too Better than begging lepers, these he knew. For unto no such solid man as he Accorded it, as far as he could see, To have sick lepers for acquaintances. There is no honest advantageousness In dealing with such poverty-stricken curs; It's with the rich and with big victuallers. And so, wherever profit might arise, Courteous he was and humble in men's eyes. There was no other man so virtuous. He was the finest beggar of his house; A certain district being farmed to him, None of his brethren dared approach its rim; For though a widow had no shoes to show, So pleasant was his Inprincipio, He always got a farthing ere he went.

He lived by pickings, it is evident. And he could romp as well a: any whelp.

On love days


could he be of mickle help.

For there he was not

like a cloisterer,

With threadbare cope as is the poor scholar, But he was like a lord or like a pope.

Of double worsted was his semi-cope, like a bell, as you may guess. He lisped a little, out of wantonness, To make his English soft upon his tongue; And in his harping, after he had sung, That rounded

His two eyes twinkled in his head as bright As do the stars within the frosty night. This worthv limiter was named Hubert.

THE MERCHANT There was a merchant with forked beard, and girt A Marchant was ther with a forked berd, In mottelee, and hye on horse he sat, Up-on his heed a Flaundrish bever hat; His botes clasped faire and fetisly. l

Days appointed

In motley gown, and high on horse he sat,


his head a Flemish beaver hat His boots were fastened rather elegantly.

for the settling of disputes

by arbitration.





64 his notions out right

pompously, Stressing the times when be had won, not lost. k- would the sea were held at any cost Across from Middleburgh to ( )rwell town. At money changing be could make a crown. This worth) man kept all his wits well set There was no one could sa\ he was in debt, So well he governed all his trade affairs With bargains and with borrowings and with shares Indeed, he was a worthy man withal, 1



But, sooth tO Say,


clerk from




can't recall.

Oxford was with

\\ho\l turned to getting knowledge, long ago. his horse as is a rake, Nor he himself too tat, I'll undertake, But he looked hollow mu\ went soberly. Right threadbare was his overcoat; for he Had got him yet nochurchly benefice, Nor was so worldly as to gain office. For he would rather have at his bed's head Some twenty books, all bound in black and red,




rich robes, fiddle, or

Yet, and tor

gav psaltery.

he was philosopher, He had but little gold within his coffer; But all that he might borrow from a friend On books and learning he would swiftly spend, And then he'd pray right busily for the souls ( )i those who gave him wherewithal for schools. Of study took he utmost care and heed. Not one word spoke he more than was his need And that was said in fullest reverence And short and quick and full of high good sense. Pregnant of moral virtue was his speech; And gladly would he learn and gladly teach. all

THE A sergeant

of the law, wary and wise,


often gone to Paul's walk to advise, There was also, compact of excellence. Discreet he was, and of great reverence;

At least he seemed so, his words were so wise. Often he sat as justice in assize, By patent or commission from the crown; Because of learning and his high renown, He took large fees and many robes could own. So great a purchaser was never known. All was fee simple to him, in effect,


hereforc his claims could never be suspect.

Now here a man so busy of his class, And yet he seemed much busier than

he was.

and all judgments could he cite That from King William's time were apposite. All cases


he could draw a contract so explicit Not any man could fault therefrom elicit;

And every

statute he'd verbatim quote. rode but badly in a medley coat, Belted in a silken sash, with little bars, I


But of his dress no more



THE CLERK A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also,

us also,

As meagre was

Of Aristotle and


His resons he spak ful solempnely, Souninge a way th'encrees of his winning. He wolde the see were kept for any thing Bitwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle. Wei coude he in eschaunge sheeldes selle. This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette; Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, So estatly was he of his governaunce, With his bargaynes, and with his chevisaunce. For sothe he was a worthy man with-alle, But sooth to seyn, I noot how men him calle.

That un-to logik hadde longe y-go. As lene was his hors as is a rake,

And he nas nat right fat,



But loked holwe, andther-to soberly. Ful thredbar was his overest courtepy; For he had geten him yet no benefyce, Ne was so wordly for to have offyce. For him was lever have at his beddes heed

Twenty bokes, clad in blak or reed, Of Aristotle and his philosophye, Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrye. But al be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre; But al that he mighte of his freendes heme, On bokes and on lerninge he it spente, And bisily gan for the soules preye Of hem that yaf him wher-with to scoleye. Of studie took he most cure and most hede. Noght o word spak he more than was nede, And that was seyd in forme and reverence,

And short and quik, and ful of hy sentence. Souninge in moral vertu was his speche,

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.

MAN OF LAW A Sergeant of the Lawe, war and wys, That often hadde been at the parvys, Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. Discreet he was, and of greet reverence: He semed swich, his wordes weren so wyse. Justyce he was ful often in assyse, By patente, and by pleyn commissioun; For his science, and for his heigh renoun Of fees and robes hadde he many oon. So greer a purchasour was no-wher noon. Al was fee simple to him in effect, His purchasing mighte nat been infect. No-wher so bisy a man as he ther nas, And yet he semed bisier than he was. In termes hadde he caas and domes alle, That from the tyme of king William were falle. Therto he coude endyte, and make a thing, Ther coude no wight pinche at his wryting; And every statut coude he pleyn by rote. He rood but hoomly in a medlee cote Girt with a ceint of silk, with barres smale; Of his array telle I no lenger tale.




THE FRANKLIN A Frankeleyn was in his

There was


White was

Whyt was his berd, as is the dayesye. Of his complexioun he was sangwyn. Wei loved he by the morwe a sop in wyn. To liven in delyt was ever his wone,


the white daisy.


Was verraily felicitee parfyt.



true felicity, perfect and right.

householder, and that a great, was he; Saint Julian he was in his own country. His bread and ale were always right well done; A man with better cellars there was none. Baked meat was never wanting in his house, Offish and flesh, and that so plenteous It seemed to snow therein both food and drink Of every dainty that a man could think. According to the season of the year He changed his diet and his means of cheer. Full many a fattened partridge did he mew, And many a bream and pike in fish-pond too. Woe to his cook, except the sauces were Poignant and sharp, and ready all his gear. His table, waiting in his hall alway, Stood ready covered through the livelong day. At county sessions was he lord and sire, And often acted as a knight of shire. A dagger and a trinket-bag of silk Hung from his girdle, white as morning milk. He had been sheriff and been auditor; And nowhere was a worthier vavasor. 2 1

Seint Julian he was in his contree. 1

was alwey after oon; A bettre envyned man was no-wher noon. With-oute bake mete was never his hous, Offish and flesh, and that so plentevous, It snewed in his hous of mete and drinke, Of alle deyntees that men coude thinke. his ale,

After the sondry sesons of the yeer, his


Delight tul living was the goal he'd won, For he was Epicurus" very son, That held opinion that a full delight

An housholdere, and that a greet, was he;

So chaunged he

beard as

Of sanguine temperament by every sign. He loved right well his morning sop in wine.

For he was Epicurus owne sone, That heeld opinioun, that pleyn delyt

His breed,

a franklin in his


mete and his soper.

many a fat partrich hadde he in mewe, And many a breem and many a luce in stewe. Ful

Wo was his cook, but -if his sauce were Poynaunt and sharp, and redy al his gere. His table dormant in his halle alway Stood redy covered al the longe day. At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire; Ful ofte tyme he was knight of the shire. An anlas and a gipser al of silk Heng at his girdel, whyt as morne milk. A shirreve hadde he been, and a countour; Was no-wher such a worthy vavasour,2


An Haberdassher and a Carpenter,

A Webbe, a Dyere, and a Tapicer,

An arras-maker, dyer, and weaver

Were with us eek, clothed in o liveree, Of a solempne and greet fraternitee. Ful fresh and newe hir gere apyked was;

All of one sober, great fraternity.

Were with

us, clothed in similar livery.

Their gear was new and well adorned it was; Their weapons were not cheaply trimmed with brass, But all with silver; chastely made and well Their girdles and their pouches too, I tell. Each man of them appeared a proper burgess To sit in guildhall on a high dais. And each of them, for wisdom he could span, Was fitted to have been an alderman; For chattels they'd enough, and, too, of rent; To whichtheir goodwives gave a free assent, Or else for certain they had been to blame.

Hir knyves were y-chaped noght with bras, But al with silver, wroght ful clene and weel, Hir girdles and hir pouches every-deel. Wei semed ech of hem a fair burgeys, To sitten in a yeldhalle on a deys. Everich, for the wisdom that he can, Was shaply for to been an alderman. For catel hadde they y-nogh and rente, And eek hir wyves wolde it wel assente; And elles certein were they to blame. It is ful fair to been y-clept "ma dame," And goon to vigilyes al bifore, And have a mantel royalliche y-bore.

"Madam" before one's name, church when all the world may see, Having one's mantle borne right royally. It's


And go

to hear


THE COOK A Cook they hadde with hem for the nones, To boille the chiknes with the marybones, And poudre-marchant tart, and galingale.

A cook they had with


just for the


To boil the chickens with the marrow-bones, And flavour tartly and with galingale. draught of London

Wel coude he knowe a draughte of London ale.

Well could he

He coude roste, and sethe, and broille, and frye, Maken mortreux, and wel bake a pye.

And he could roast and seethe and broil and fry, And make a good thick soup, and bake a pie.

'The patron

saint of hospitality.

*A sub-vassal, next

tell a


rank below a baron.






But very ill it was, it seemed to me. Thai on his shin a deadly sore had he; For sweet blanc-mange, Ik- pade it with the


But greet harm was




thoughte me,

That on best.

his shine a mormal hadde he; For blankmanger, that made he with the beste.

THE SHIPMAN A Shipman was ther, woning fer by weste:



There wasa sailor, living lar out west r aught know, Ik- wasol fcutmoutb town. K sadly rode hackney, in gown, I



()t thick


rough cloth

A dagger hanging on About

his neck,

A daggere hanging on a laas hadde he

cord had be

and under arm, and down.


The summer's had burned his visage brown; And certainly he wasa good fellow. Full many a draught ol wine he'd drawn, I trow,

Of Bordeaux

woot,he was of Dertemouthe.


In a gowne of falding to the knee.

railing to the knee. a

For aught

He rood up-on a rouncy, as he couthe,

vintage, while the trader


nekke under


arm adoun.

The hote somer had maad his hewe al broun; And,

certeinly, he



good felawe.

many a draughte of wyn had he y-drawe From Burdeux-ward, whyl that the chapman Ful



Nice conscience was a thing he never kept. It that he fought and got the upper hand, By water he sent them home to every land. But as for craft, to reckon well his tides, His currents and the dangerous watersides His harbours, and his moon, his pilotage, There was none such from Hull to far Carthage. Hardy, and wise in all things undertaken, By many a tempest had his beard been shaken.

He knew well all the havens, as they were, From Gottland to the Cape of Finisterre, And every creek in Brittany and Spain; His vessel had been christened Madeleine.

Of nyce conscience took he no keep. he faught, and hadde the hyer hond, sente hem hoom to every lond. But of his craft to rekene wel his tydes, His stremes and his daungers him bisydes, His herberwe and his mone, his lodemenage, Ther nas noon swich from Hulle to Cartage. Hardy he was, and wys to undertake; With many a tempest hadde his berd been shake. He knew wel alle the havenes, as they were, From Gootlond to the cape of Finistere, And every cryke in Britayne and in Spayne; His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne. If that

By water he


was a doctor of physic; In all this world was none like him to pick For talk of medicine and surgery; For he was grounded in astronomy. He often kept a patient from the pall By horoscopes and magic natural. Well could he tell the fortune ascendent Within the houses for his sick patient. He knew the cause of every maladv,



us there


With us ther was a Doctour of Phisyk, al this world ne was ther noon him lyk

To speke of phisik and of surgerye; For he was grounded

in astronomye.

He kepte his pacient a ful greet del In houres, by his magik naturel.

Wel coude he fortunen the ascendent Of his images for his pacient. He knew the cause of everich maladye, Were it of hoot or cold, or moiste, or drye,

of hot or cold, of moist or dry,

And where engendered, and of what humour; He was a very good practitioner. The cause being known, down to the deepest root, Anon he gave to the sick man his boot.

And where engendred, and of what humour; He was a verrey parfit practisour. The cause y-knowe, and of his harm the rote, Anon he yaf the seke man his bote.

Ready he was, with his apothecaries, To send him drugs and all electuaries;

Ful redy hadde he his apothecaries, To sende him drogges and his letuaries, For ech of hem made other for to winne; Hir frendschipe nas nat newe to biginne. Wel knew he th'olde Esculapius, And Deiscorides, and eek Rufus, Old Ypocras, Haly, and Galien; Serapion, Razis, and Avicen; Averrois, Damascien, and Constantyn; Bernard, and Gatesden, and Gilbertyn.


By mutual aid much gold they'd always won Their friendship was a thing not new begun. Well read was he in Esculapius, And Deiscorides, and in Rufus, Hippocrates, and Hali, and Galen, Serapion, Rhazes, and Avicen, Averrhoes, Gilbert, and Constantine, Bernard, and Gatisden, and John Damascene. In diet he was measured as could be, Including naught of superfluity. But nourishing and easy. It's no libel To say he read but little in the Bible. In blue and scarlet he went clad, withal, Lined with a taffeta and with sendal; 'Remedy,


Of his diete nesurable was he, For it was of no superfluitee, But of greet norissing and digestible. His studie was but litel on the bible. In sangwin and in pers he clad was al, Lyned with taffata and with sendal; rcliel.





For gold

in phisik



And yet he was right chary of expense; He kept the gold he gained trom pestilence.

And yet he was but esy of dispence; He kepte that he wan in pestilence.

For gold

a cordial,


Therfore he lovede gold in special.





fine cordial,

therefore loved he gold exceeding


THE WIFE OF BATH There was a housewite come from Bath, or near, A good Wyf was ther of bisyde Bathe, But she was som-del deef, and that was scathe.

Of clooth-making she hadde swiche an haunt, She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt. In



the parisshe

wyf ne was



to th'offring bifore hir sholde goon;

And if ther dide, certeyn, so wrooth was she, That she was out of alle charitee. Hir coverchiefs ful fyne were of ground; I dorste swere they weyeden ten pound That on a Sonday were upon hir heed. Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed, Ful streite y-teyd, and shoos ful moiste and newe. Bold was hir face, and fair, and reed of hewe. She was a worthy womman al hir lyve, Housbondes at chirche-dore she hadde fyve, Withouten other companye in youthe; But therof nedeth nat to speke as nouthe. And thryes hadde she been at Jerusalem; She hadde passed many a straunge streem; At Rome she hadde been, and at Boloigne, In Galice at seint Jame, and at Coloigne. She coude muche of wandring by the weye: Gat-tothed was she, soothly for to seye.

Up-on an amblere esily she


Y-wimpled wel, and on hir heed an hat As brood as is a bokeler or a targe;

A foot-mantel aboute hir hipes large, And on hir feet a pake of spores sharpe.

Who sad to say was deaf in either car. At making cloth she had so great a bent She bettered those of Ypres and even of Ghent. In all the parish there was no goodwifc Should offering make before her, on my life; And if one did, indeed, so wroth was she It put her out of all her charity. Her kerchiefs were of finest weave and ground; I dare swear that they weighed a full ten pound Which, of a Sunday, she wore on her head. Her hose were of the choicest scarlet red, Close gartered, and her shoes were soft and new. Bold was her face, and fair, and red of hue. She'd been respectable throughout her life. With five churched husbands bringing joy and strife, Not counting other company in youth But thereof there's no need to speak, in truth. Three times she'd journeyed to Jerusalem; And many a foreign stream she'd had to stem; At Rome she'd been, and she'd been in Boulogne, In Spain at Santiago, and at Cologne. She could tell much of wandering by the way: Gap-toothed was she, it is no lie to say. Upon an ambler easily she sat, Well wimpled, aye, and over all a hat As broad as is a buckler or a targe; A rug was tucked around her buttocks large, And on her feet a pair of sharpened spurs.

Of remedyes of love she knew perchaunce,

In company well could she laugh her slurs. The remedies of love she knew, perchance,

For she coude of that art the olde daunce.

For of that

In felawschip wel coude she laughe and carpe.

art she'd learned the old, old dance.

THE PARSON A good man was ther of religioun, And was a povre Persoun of a toun; But riche he was of holy thoght and werk.

He was also a lerned man, a clerk, That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche; His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche. Benigne he was, and wonder diligent,

And in adversitee ful pacient; And swich he was y-preved ofte sythes. Ful looth were him to cursen for his tythes, But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute, Un-to his povre parisshens aboute Of his offring, and eek of his substaunce. He coude in litel thing han suffisaunce. Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer a-sonder, But he ne lafte nat, for reyn ne thonder, In siknes nor in meschief, to visyte

The ferreste in his parisshe, muche and lyte, Up-on his feet, and in his hand a staf. This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf, That first he wroghte, and afterward he taughte; Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte;

There was a good man of religion,

A country parson,


warrant you; But rich he was in holy thought and work. He was a learned man also, a clerk, Who Christ's own gospel truly sought to preach Devoutly his parishioners would he teach. Benign he was and wondrous diligent. Patient in adverse times and well content, As he was ofttimes proven always blithe, He was right loath to curse to get a tithe, But rather would he give, in case of doubt, Unto those poor parishioners about, Part of his income, even of his goods. Enough with little, coloured all his moods. Wide was his parish, houses far asunder, But never did he fail, for rain or thunder, poor,



In sickness, or in sin, or


visit to



the farthest, small and great,

Going afoot, and

in his hand a stave. example to his flock he gave, That first he wrought and afterwards he taught;




of the gospel then that text he caught,






figure he added


gold rust, u





the priest he foul, in








poor iron do?

whom we


yield to lust?

And shame it is, priest take thought tor keep, A slum shepherd, shepherding clean sheep. it

Well ought priest example good to give, H\ his own cleanness, how his flock should live. le never let his benefice tor hire, Leaving his (lock to flounder in the mire. And ran to London, up toold Saint Paul's Toget himseli a chantry there tor souls. Nor in some brotherhood did he withhold; But dwelt at home and kept so well the told That never wolf could make his plans miscarry le was a shepherd and not mercenary. And holy though he was, and virtuous, To sinners he was not impiteous, .1



Nor haughtv But

in all

To lead

in his speech, nor too divine, teaching prudent and benign.

tolk into

Heaven but bv

But if some sinful one proved obstinate, Be who it might, of high or low estate, Him he reproved, and sharply, as I know. There is nowhere a better priest, I trow. had no

thirst for

That if gold ruste, what shal ircn do? For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste, No wonder is a lewed man to ruste; And shame it is, if a preest take keep, A shiten shepherde and a clene sheep. Wei oghte a preest ensample for to yive,

By his


how that his sheep shold live.

He sette nat his benefice to hyre, And leet his sheep encombred in the myre, And ran to London, un-to sfiynt Poules, To seken him a chaunterie for soules, Or with a bretherhed to been withholde; But dwelte



hoom, and kepte wel his folde,

that the wolf ne

made it nat miscarie;

He was a shepherde and no mercenarie. And though he holy were, and vertuous, He was to sinful man nat despitous, Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne, But in his teching discreet and benigne. To drawen folk to heven by fairnesse By good ensample, was his bisinesse: But it were any persone obstinat, What-so he were, of heigh or lowe estat, Him wolde he snibben sharply for the nones. A bettre preest, I trowe that nowher noon is. He wayted after no pompe and reverence,


Of good example was his busvness.



And this figure he added eek ther-to,

pomp or reverence,

Nor made himself a special, spiced conscience, But Christ's own lore, and His apostles' twelve

Ne maked him a spyced conscience,


He taughte, and first he folwed it him-selve.

taught, but

he followed




But Cristes



his apostles twelve,

THE PLOWMAN With him there was a plowman, was his brother, That many a load of dung, and many another Had scattered, for a good true toiler, he, Living

peace and perfect charitv. most, and that with his whole heart At all times, though he played or plied his art, And next, his neighbour, even as himself. He'd thresh and dig, with never thought of pelf, For Christ's own sake, for every poor wight, All without pay, if it lay in his might. in

He loved God

He paid

his taxes, fully, fairly, well,

Both by



and by stuff he'd sell. upon a mare. There were also a reeve and miller there; Asummoner, manciple 2 and pardoner, toil

In a tabard he rode



these, beside myself,

made all

With him ther was a Plowman, was his brother, That hadde y-lad of dong ful many a fother, A trewe swinker and a good was he, Livinge in pees and parfit charitee.

God loved he best with al his hole herte At


tymes, thogh him gamed or smerte,

And thanne his neighebour right as him-selve. He wolde thresshe, and ther-to dyke and delve, For Cristes sake, for every povre wight, Withouten hyre, if it lay in his might. His tythes payed he ful faire and wel, Bothe of his propre swink and his catel. In a tabard he rood upon a mere. Ther was also a Reve and a Millere, A Somnour and a Pardoner also, A Maunciple,-' and my-self; ther were namo. 1

there were.

THE MILLER The miller was a stout churl, be it known, Hardy and big of brawn and big of bone; Which was well proved, for when he went on lam At wrestling, never

He was a chunky He'd heave


he of the ram. 3

fellow, broad of build;

door from hinges if he willed, through, by running, with his head. lis beard, as any sow or fox, was red, And broad it was as if it were a spade. Upon the coping of his nose he had










The Miller was a stout carl, for the nones, Ful big he was of braun, and eek of bones; That proved wel, for over-al ther he cam, At wrastling he wolde have alwey the ram. 3 He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke knarre, Ther nas no dore that he nolde heve of harre, Or breke it, at a renning, with his heed. His berd as any sowe or fox was reed, And ther-to brood, as though it were a spade. Up-on the cop right of his nose he hade

steward or bailiff of an estate. purchases victuals for a college. 'A usual prize in wrestling.








A wart, and thereon stood a tuft of hairs, Red as the bristles in an old sou's cits;

A werte, and ther-on stood a tuft of heres, Reed as the bristles of a sowes eres; His nose-thirles blake were and wyde. A swerd and bokeler bar he by his syde; His mouth as greet was as a greet forneys. He was a janglere and a goliardeys, And that was most of sinne and harlotryes. Wei coude he stelen corn, and tollen thryes; And yet he hadde a thombe of gold, pardee. A whyt cote and a blew hood wered he. A baggepype wel coude he blowe and sowne,

His nostrils they were black and very wide. A sword and buckler bore he by his side. His mouth was like a furnace door for size. He was a jester and could poetize, But mostly all of sin and ribaldries. He could steal corn and full thrice charge his fees; And yet he had a thumb of gold, begad. A white coat and blue hood he wore, this lad. A bagpipe he could blow well, be it known, And with that same he brought us out of town.

And ther-with-al he broghte us out of towne.

THE MANCIPLE There was a manciple from an inn of court, A gentil Maunciple was ther of a temple, To whom all buyers might quite well resort To learn the art of buying food and drink;

Of which achat ours mighte take exemple For to be wyse in bying of vitaille For whether that he payde, or took by taille, Algate he wayted so in his achat, That he was ay biforn and in good stat.

For whether he paid cash or not, I think That he so knew the markets, when to buy, He never found himself left high and dry.

Now is nat that of God a ful fair grace,

Now is it not of God a full fair grace

That swich a lewed mannes wit shal pace The wisdom of an heep of lerned men? Of maistres hadde he mo than thryes ten, That were of lawe expert and curious; Of which ther were a doseyn in that hous Worthy to been stiwardes of rente and lond Of any lord that is in Engelond, To make him live by his propre good, In honour dettelees, but he were wood,

That such a vulgar man has wit to pace The wisdom of a crowd of learned men? Of masters had he more than three times ten, Who were in law expert and curious; Whereof there were a dozen in that house Fit to be stewards of both rent and land Of any lord in England who would stand Upon his own and live in manner good,

Or live as

scarsly as

In honour, debtless (save his head were wood), Or live as frugally as he might desire

him list desire;

These men were able to have helped a shire In any case that ever might befall And yet this manciple outguessed them all.

And able for to helpen al a shire In any cas that mighte falle or happe; And yit this maunciple sette hir aller cappe.

THE REEVE The Reve was a sclendre colerik man, His berd was shave as ny as ever he can. His heer was by his eres round y-shorn. His top was dokked lyk a preest biforn. Ful longe were his legges, and ful lene, Y-lyk a staf, ther was no calf y-sene. Wel coude he kepe a gerner and a binne; Ther was noon auditour coude on him winne. Wel wiste he, by the droghte, and by the reyn, The yelding of his seed, and of his greyn. His lordes sheep, his neet, his dayerye, His swyn, his hors, his stoor, and his pultrye,

Was hoolly in this reves governing, And by his covenaunt yaf the rekening, Sin that his lord was twenty yeer of age;

Ther coude no man bringe him in arrerage. Ther nas baillif, ne herde, ne other hyne, That he ne knew his sleighte and his covyne; They were adrad of him, as of the deeth. His woning was ful fair up-on an heeth, With grene trees shadwed was his place.

He coude bettre than his lord purchace. Ful riche he was astored prively, His lord wel coude he plesen subtilly, To yeve and lene him of his owne good, And have a thank, and yet a cote and hood.


reeve he was a slender, choleric man,

Who shaved his beard as close as razor can. His hair was cut round even with his ears; His top was tonsured like a pulpiteer's. Long were his legs, and they were very lean, And like a staff, with no calf to be seen. Well could he manage granary and bin; No auditor could ever on him win. He could foretell, by drought and by the rain,


yielding of his seed and ot his grain

His lord's sheep and his oxen and his dairy, His swine and horses, all his stores, his poultry, Were wholly in this steward's managing; And, by agreement, he'd made reckoning Since his young lord of age was twenty years; Yet no man ever found him in arrears. There was no agent, hind, or herd who'd cheat But he knew well his cunning and deceit; They were afraid of him as of the death. His cottage was a good one, on a heath By green trees shaded with this dwelling-place. Much better than his lord could he purchase. Right rich he was in his own private right, Seeing he'd pleased his lord, by clay or night, By giving him, or lending, of his goods, And so got thanked but yet got coats and hoods.




170 In vouth he'd learned


^o .iiul tor increase "t chivalry. Alx>ut tins king there ran. on even side, i

Man) tame And in such


and leopards

in their pride.

m sum, Sunday, to the citj come About the prime, and m the town did light. Tins Theseus, tins duke, this noble knight, When he'd conducted them to his city, And quai tered them, according to degree, h feasted them, and .it so much pains hem ease and honour, of his gains, e .


wise these mighty lords,








reckoned that

was the eighteenth day harbinger to May; And saw well that the shadow of each tree Was, as to length, of even quantity As was the body upright causing it. And therefore by the shade he had the wit To know that Phoebus, shining there so (

M \pril, which



Our Hoste sey wel that the brighte sonne Th'ark of his artificial day had ronne The fourthc part, and half an houre, and more; And though he were not depe expert in lore, He wiste it was the eightetethe day Of April, that is messager to May; And sey wel that the shadwe of every tree 1

Was as in lengthe the same quantitee That was the body erect that caused it. And therfor by the shadwe he took his wit That Phebus, which that shoon so clere and



Had climbed degrees full forty-five in height; And that, that day, and in that latitude, was ten of the clock, he did conclude, And suddenly he put his horse about. "Masters," quoth he, "I warn all of this It


al this


'For chattels



of Saint John,



yet recovered be,

lost ruins us for aye,'

says he.

It will not come again, once it has fled, Not any more than will Mag's maidenhead

she has lost



her wantonness;

grow mouldy thus in idleness. "Sir Lawyer," said he, "as you have hope of bliss Tell us a tale, as our agreement is; You have submitted, by your free assent, To stand, in this case, to my sole judgment; Let's not

Acquit yourself, keep promise with the you'll have done your duty, at the



was ten of the clokke, he gan conclude, sodeynly he plighte his hors aboute. "Lordinges," quod he, "I warne yow,

Lose no more time, or little as vou may; Masters, the time is wasting night and day, And steals away from us, what with our sleeping And with our sloth, when we awake are keeping, As does the stream, that never turns again, Descending from the mountain to the plain. And well may Seneca, and many more, Bewail lost time far more than gold in store.


And for that day, as in that latitude, And


A quarter of this present day Now for the love of God and

But time

Degrees was fyve and fourty clombe on highte;

host," said he,

"by the gods,





To break a promise is not my intent. A promise is a debt, and by my fay I keep all mine; I can no better say. For such law as man gives to other wight, He should himself submit to it, by right; Thus says our text; nevertheless, 'tis true I can relate no useful tale to you,


The fourthe party of this day is goon; Now, for the love of god and of seint John, Leseth no tyme, as ferforth as ye may; Lordinges, the tyme wasteth night and day,

And steleth from us, what prively slepinge, And what thurgh necligence in our wakinge, As dooth the streem,

that turneth never agayn,

Descending fro the montaigne in-to playn. Wel can Senek, and many a philosophre Biwailen tyme, more than gold in cofre. 'For los of catel may recovered be, But los of tyme shendeth us,' quod he. It wol nat come agayn, with-outen drede, Na more than wol Malkins maydenhede, Whan she hath lost it in hir wantownesse; Lat us nat moulen thus in ydelnesse. "Sir man of lawe," quod he, "so have ye blis, Tel us a tale anon, as forward is; Ye been submitted thurgh your free assent To stonde in this cas at my jugement. Acquiteth yow, and holdeth your biheste, Than have ye doon your devoir atte leste." "Hoste," quod he, "depardieux ich assente, To breke forward is not myn entente. Biheste is dette, and I wol holde fayn Al my biheste; I can no better seyn. For swich lawe as man yeveth another wight, He sholde him-selven usen it by right; Thus wol our text; but natheles certeyn I can right now no thrifty tale seyn, sunrise to sunset.

— 4467-4525]




But Chaucer, though he can but lewcdly On metres and on ryming craftily, Hath seyd hem in swich English as he can Of olde tyme, as knoweth many a man. And if he have not seyd hem, leve brother, In o book, he hath seyd hem in another. For he hath told of loveres up and doun Mo than Ovyde made of mencioun In his Epistelles, that been ful olde. What sholde I tellen hem, sin they ben tolde? In youthe he made of Ceys and Alcion, And sithen hath he spoke of everichon, Thise noble wyves and thise loveres eke. Who-so that wol his large volume seke Cleped the Seintes Legende of Cupyde, Ther may be seen the large woundes wyde Of Lucresse, and of Babilan Tisbeej The swerd of Dido for the false Enee;

The tree of Phillis for hir Demophon; The pleinte of Dianire and Hermion, Of Adriane and of Isiphilee; The bareyne yle stonding in the see; The dreynte Leander for his Erro; The teres of Eleyne, and eek the wo Of Brixseyde, and of thee, Ladomea; The crueltee of thee, queen Medea, Thy litel children hanging by the hals

In his Epistles, that are



so old.

then retell what has been told In youth he told of Ceyx and Alcvon, And has since then spoken of evervone Of noble wives and lovers did he speak. should


Demophoon and Phyllis and her tree; The plaint of Deianira and Hermione;

Of Ariadne and Hypsipyle The barren island standing in the sea; The drowned Leander and his fair Hero; The tears of Helen and the bitter woe

Of Briseisand

that of Laodomea;


cruelty of that fair



Queen Medea,

children hanging bv the neck her love for Jason came to wreck!


Ypermistra, Penelopee, Alceste, Your wyfhod he comendeth with the beste! But certeinly no word ne wryteth he Of thilke wikke ensample of Canacee, That lovede hir owne brother sinfully; Of swiche cursed stories I sey 'fy'j Or elles of Tyro Apollonius, How that the cursed king Antiochus Birafte his doghter of hir maydenhede,

O Hypermnestra, Penelope, Alcestis,

a tale for to rede,


Your wifehood does he honour, since it best "But certainly no word has written he Of that so wicked woman, Canace, Who loved her own blood brother sinfullv.

Of suchlike cursed

tales, I

say 'Let be!'

Bereft his daughter of her maidenhead



so horrible a tale to read),

When down


And therefore he, advisedlv, truth owns, Would never write, in one of his creations.

Nolde never wryte


none of his sermouns

he flung her on the paving stones.

Of swiche unkinde abhominaciouns, Ne I wol noon reherse, if that I may. But of my tale how shal I doon this day?

Of such And I'll

Me were looth be lykned, doutelees,

Any comparison would me displease To Muses whom men call Pierides

To Muses that men

clepe Pierides

Metamorphoseos wot what I mene: But nathelees, I recche noght a bene Though I come after him with hawe-bake; 1 speke in prose, and lat him rymes make." And with that word he, with a sobre chere, Bigan his tale, as ye shal after here.

THE PROLOGUE OF THE O hateful harm! condicion of poverte! With

thurst, with cold, with hunger so confounded! To asken help thee shameth in thyn herte; If thou noon aske, with nede artow so wounded, That verray nede unwrappeth al thy wounde hid! Maugree thyn heed, thou most for indigence Or stele, or begge, or borwe thy despence!


Nor yet of Tyrian Apollonius; Nor how the wicked King Antiochus

Whan he hir threw up-on the pavement. therfor he, of ful avysement,


And whoso will that weighty volume seek Called Legend of Good Women, need not chide: There may be ever seen the large wounds wide Of Lucrece, Babylonian Thisbe; Dido's for false Aeneas when fled he;

For thy Jason, that was of love so fals!

That is so horrible


But Chaucer, though be speaks but vulgarly In metre and in rhyming dcxtrouslv, Has told them in such English as he can, In former years, as knows lull main a man. For if he has not told them, mv dear brother. In one book, why he's done so in another. For he has told of lovers, up and down. More than old Ovid mentions, of renown,


unnatural abominations. tell them, if I may.

refuse to for










(The Metamarphases show what I mean). I do not care a bean


Though I'll


come after him with my plain fare. Let him his rhymes prepare."

stick to prose.

And thereupon, with sober face and cheer, He told his tale, as vou shall read it here.




hateful evil! State ol Povertv! With thirst, with cold, with hunger


confounded To ask help shameth thy heart's delicacv; If none thou ask, by need thou art so wounded That need itself uncovereth all the wound hid! Spite of thy will thou must, for indigence, Go steal, or beg, or borrow thine expense.





Thou blamesi

Christ, and thou say'si bitterly, [e misdistributes riches temporal;


I'hv neighbour ilost thou censure, sinfull) Saying thou hast too hide and be bath all.

Thou blamest Crist, and scyst ful bitterly, He misdeparteth richesse temporal; Thy neighebour thou wytest sinfully, And seyst thou hast to lyte, and he hath al.


"Parfay," seistow, "somtyme he rekne



nyesi thou, "sometime the reckoning



lome 011 bim, when his tail shall burn for greed, N' having helped the needy in their need."








judgment of the

"Better to die than live

Whan that his tayl shal brennen For he noght helpeth needfulle

in the glede,

in hir


Herkne what is the sentence of the wyse: is to dyen than have indigence";


indigence"; "Thy very pauper neighbours thee despise." If thou be poor, farewell thy reverence! Still ot the wise man take this full sentence:


"The days

"Alle the dayes of povre


"Thy selve neighebour wol

thee despyse";

If thou be povre, farwel thy reverence!

Yet of the wyse

ot the afflicted are all sin."

Beware, therefore, that thou come not therein!

Be war

man tak this sentence: men ben wikke";

therfor, er thou


in that prikke!

"If thou be poor, thy brother hateth thee,

"If thou be povre, thy brother hateth thee,


And alle thy freendes fieen fro thee, alas!"

thy friends will flee from thee, alas!" wealthy merchants, full of weal vc be, noble, prudent folk in happier case! Your dice-box doth not tumble out ambsace, 1 But with six-cing- ye throw against your chance; (




And Ye

so, at




ve dance!

land and sea for your winnings,



well the estate

realms; ye are sires of happenings

of peace and tales of war's debate. were now of tales all desolate, ere't not a merchant, gone this manv a vear,

But YA


as wise folk,

Of all And

Christmas, merrily



Taught me the story which you now

shall hear.


O riche marchaunts, ful of wele ben ye, noble, o prudent folk, as in this cas!

Your bagges been nat

filled with ambes as, But with sis cink, 2 that renneth for your chaunce; At Cristemasse merie may ye daunce! 1

Ye seken lond and see for your winninges, As wyse folk ye knowen al th'estaat Of regnes; ye ben fadres of tydinges And tales, bothe of pees and of debat. were right now of tales desolat, a marchaunt, goon is many a yere, Me taughte a tale, which that ye shal here. 1

Nere that 2

Six and five.

THE TALE OF THE MAN OF LAW HERE BEGINNETH THE In Syria, once, there dwelt a company Of traders rich, all sober men and true,

That tar abroad did send their spicery, cloth of gold, and satins rich in hue;


Their wares were all so excellent and new That everyone was eager to exchange With them, and sell them divers things and strange It



they all would wend, Were it for business or for only sport; No other message would they thither send, But went themselves to Rome; this is the end. And there they found an inn and took their rest As seemed to their advantage suited best.

Sojourned have now these merchants

in that

A certain time, as fell to their pleasance. And so it happened that the high renown Of th' emperor's daughter, called the fair Constance Reported was, with every circumstance,


In Surrie whylom dwelte a companye Of chapmen riche, and therto sadde and trewe, That wyde-wher senten her spycerye, Clothes of gold, and satins riche of hewe; Her chaffar was so thrifty and so newe, That every wight hath deyntee to chaffare With hem, and eek to sellen hem hir ware.

Now fel it, that the maistres of that sort

to pass, the masters of this sort

Decided that to



Han shapen hem to Rome for to wende; Were it for chapmanhode or for disport,

Non other message wolde they thider sende, But comen hem-self to Rome, this is the ende; in swich place, as thoughte hem avantage For her entente, they take her hcrbergage.


Sojourned han thise marchants in that toun

A certein tyme, as fel to hir plesance. And so bifel, that th'excellent renoun Of th'emperoures doghter, dame Custance,

Reported was, with every circumstance,

— Un-to thise Surrien marchants in swich wyse, Fro day to day, as I shal yow dcvyse.

commune vois of every man

of Rome, god him see, A doghter hath that, sin the world bigan, To rekne as wel hir goodnesse as beautee, Nas never swich another as is she; I prey to god in honour hir sustene, And wolde she were of al Europe the quene.

"Our Empcrour

In hir





This was the


heigh beautee, with-oute pryde,

Yowthe, with-oute grenehede or




these Syrian merchants, in such wise,

From day today,






common voice ol every man "Our emperor of Rome, ( ! by Ins countenance. Nc\ erthelest, by God our Heavenly King, I never thought to ask him such a thing. I pray you, wife, never again do so; But always tell me, ere away 1 go, It any debto» has, in my absence, Repaid to you, lest through your negligence I might demand a sum already paid." This wife was not astounded nor afraid, But boldly she spoke up and that anon "Marry, I challenge that false monk, Dan John! I kept, of all his coins, not one to tell. He brought me certain gold that know I well! Because At least





For that




him spak of chevisaunce,

Me semed so, as by his contenaunce. But nathclees, by god our hevene king, thoghte nat to axe of him no-thing. prey thee, wyf, ne do namore so; Tel me alwey, er that I fro thee go, If any dettour hath in myn absence Y-payfid thee; lest, thurgh thy necligence, I mighte him axe a thing that he hath payed." This wyf was nat afered nor affrayed, But boldely she seyde, and that anon: "Marie, I defye the false monk, daun John! I kepe nat of hise tokenes never a deel; He took me certein gold, that woot I weel! I I

For God knows that I thought, with never a doubt. That he had given it me because of you, To advance thus my honour, and vours too, In cousinhood, and for the merry cheer That he has found so many a time right here. But since I see our peace is thus disjoint, I'll answer you but briefly, to the point. You have far slacker debtors than am I For I will pay you well and readily From day to day; and if it be I fail, I am your wife, tally it on my tail, And I will pay as soon as ever I may. For by my truth I have, on new arrav, And not on rubbish, spent it, every sou.

What! yvel thedom on his monkes snoute! For, god it woot, I wende, withouten doute, That he had yeve it me bycause of yow, To doon ther-with myn honour and my prow, For cosinage, and eek for bele chere That he hath had ful ofte tymes here. But sith I see I stonde in this disjoint, I wol answere yow shortly, to the point. Ye han mo slakker dettours than am I! For I wol paye yow wel and redily Fro day to day; and, if so be I faille, I am your wyf; score it up-on my taille, And I shal paye, as sone as ever I may. For, by my trouthe, I have on myn array, And nat on wast, bistowed every deel.


And for



his friar's snout!

since so well I've spent

it, all

for vou,

your honour, for God's sake, I say, Do not be angry, but let's laugh and play. My jolly body's yours in pledge," she said, "By God, I will not pay you, save in bed! Forgive me, then, my own sweet husband dear; Let us be happy now turn over here!" This merchant saw there was no remedy, And, thought he, chiding were but great folly, Since that the thing might not amended be. "Now wife," he said, "I do forgive, you see; But on your life, don't run so far at large; Conserve our wealth hereafter, so I charge." Thus ends my tale, and may the good God send Tales fair enough until our lives shall end! Amen. All for


have bistowed


so weel

For your honour, for goddes sake, I seye, As be nat wrooth, but lat us laughe and pleye. Ye shal my joly body have to wedde; By god, I wol nat paye yow but a-bedde. Forgive it me, myn owene spouse dere; Turne hiderward and maketh bettre chere." This marchant saugh ther was no remedye, And, for to chyde, it nere but greet folye,

may nat amended be. "Now, wyf," he seyde, "and I foryeve it thee;

Sith that the thing

But, by thy lyf, ne be namore so large; Keep bet our good, this yeve I thee in charge."

Thus endeth now my tale, and god us sende Taling y-nough, un-to our lyves ende, Amen.






corpus dominus" said our host, time may you sail along the coast, Sir gentle master, gentle mariner! God give this monk a thousand years bitter! Aha, comrades, beware of such a jape! The monk put into that man's hood an ape, And in the wife's too, by Saint Augustine! Invite no more monks to your house or inn. "But let that pass, and let us look about

"Now long

"Wel seyd, by corpus dominus," quod our hoste, "Now longe moot thou sayle by the coste, Sir gentil maister, gentil marineer!


yeve this

monk a thousand last quad


A ha! felawes! beth ware of swiche a jape! The monk putte in the mannes hood an And in his wyves eek, by seint Austin! Drawcth no monkes more un-to your But now passe over, and




us seke aboute,




Who shal now telle first, of al this route, Another



and with that word he sayde, it had been a mayde, lady Prioresse, by your leve,

So that I wiste I sholde yow nat greve, wolde demen that ye tellen sholde A tale next, if so were that ye wolde. Now wol ye vouche-sauf, my lady dere?" "Gladly," quod she, and seyde as ye shal here. I



be next, of all this rout,

And alter that he said, had been a maid "My lady prioress, and by your leave, So that I knew I should in no way grieve, I would opine that tell a tale you should. The one that follows next if you but would. Now will you please vouchsafe it, ladv dear?" 'Gladly," said she, and spoke as you shall hear. As courteously

curteisly as



To sec who shall To tell a talc."







O Lord our lord, thy name how merveillous


worlde y-sprad quod she: For noght only thy laude precious Parfourned is by men of dignitee, But by the mouth of children thy bountee Parfourned is, for on the brest soukinge Som tyme shewen they thyn heryinge. Is in this large

Wherfor in laude, as


best can or may,

Of Thee and

Not that For she


wol do

my labour;

I tell a tale as best

may encresen hir honour;

hir-self is

I can or may, of that pure white Lily-flower

in praise, as best

Who bore Thee, and is yet a maid alway, is in my power,

Which that thee bar, and is a mayde alway, I

Our Lord, Thy name how marvelous


Of thee, and of the whyte lily flour

To telle a storie


spread through

all this mighty world," said she; "For not alone Thy praise so glorious Is given by men of worth and dignity, But from the mouths of children Thy bounty Is hymned, yea, even sucklings at the breast Do sometimes Thy laudation manifest. Is


that I may increase Her heavenly dower, For She Herself is honour and the one From Whom spring wealth and goodness, next Her

honour, and the rote

Of bountee, next hir sone, and soules bote.


O moder mayde! o mayde moder free! O bush unbrent, brenninge in Moyses sighte,

"O Mother-Maid! O Maiden-Mother free! O bush unburnt, burning in Moses' sight,

Who ravished so the Soul of Deity,


ravisedest doun fro the deitee, Thurgh thyn humblesse, the goost that in

With Thy meekness, the


Spirit of

the Light,

Of whos vertu, whan he thyn herte lighte,

That His virtue, which was Thy soul's delight, Conceived in Thee the Father's wise Essence, Help me to speak now with all reverence!

Conceived was the fadres sapience, Help me to telle it in thy reverence! Lady! thy bountee, thy magnificence,

"Lady, Thy goodness and Thy generous grace, Thy virtue and Thy great humilityNo tongue may say, no pen may fully trace; For sometimes, Lady, ere men pray to Thee, Thou goest before, of Thy benignitv, And givest us the true light, by Thy prayer, To guide us all unto Thy Son so dear.

Thy vertu, and thy grete humilitee Ther may no tonge expresse in no science; For som-tyme, lady, er men praye to thee, Thou goost biforn of thy benignitee, And getest us the light, thurgh thy preyere, To gyden us un-to thy sone so dere.

My conning is so wayk, o blisful quene,

"I cannot bear the burden, blessed Queen, praising all Thy worthiness,

For to declare thy grete worthinesse, That I ne may the weighte nat sustene, But as a child of twelf monthe old, or lesse, That can unnethes any word expresse, Right so fare I, and therfor I yow preye, Gydeth my song that I shal of yow seye.


Of fitly

My wisdom and my knowledge are too mean; But as a child of twelve months old, or less, That scarcely any word can well express, So fare I now, and therefore do I pray, Guide Thou that song of Thee which I shall say!"






HERE BEGINKETH THE PRIORESS'S TALE and great There was a [ewry set amidsl the town, E stablished by a rich lord oi the state lor usury and gain of ill renown, fateful to Christ and those who arc I lis own; And through that street a man might ride or wend, For it was tree and open at each end.

Ther was in Asie, in a greet citec, Amonges Cristcn folk, a Jewerye,

A little school for Christian folk there stood, Down at the farther end, in which there were A many children born of Christian blood,


Who learned

That lerned in that scole yeer by yere Swich maner doctrine as men used there, This is to seyn, to singen and to rede, As smale children doon in hir childhede.


\m.i. in a city rich


in that

Such teachings







current there,

and to read, whatsoever creed.

Among these children was a widow's son, A little choir boy, seven years of age.

Who went

to school as days passed one


at the ferther

Among thise children was a widwes


A litel clergeon, seven yeer of age,

by one,

And who, whenever saw he the image Of Jesus' Mother, it was his usage, As he'd been taught, to kneel down there and Ave Maria, ere he went

scole of Cristen folk ther stood

ende, in which ther were Children an heep, y-comen of Cristen blood,

to say, to sing well

A^ children do



school, year after year,

men were

Sustcned by a lord of that contree For foule usure and lucre of vilanye, Hateful to Crist and to his companye; And thurgh the strete men mightc ryde or wende, For it was free, and open at either ende.

That day by day to





And eek also, wher-as he saugh th'image Of Cristes moder, hadde he in usage, say


As him was taught, to knele adoun and seye His Ave Marie, as he goth by the weye.

this widow her small son well taught Our Blessed Lady, Jesus' Mother dear, To worship always, and he ne'er forgot,

Thus hath this widwe hir litel sone y-taught Our blisful lady, Cristes moder dere,

For simple child learns easily and clear; But ever, when I muse on matters here. Saint Nicholas stands aye in my presence, For he, when young, did do Christ reverence.

For But


Sat at his primer in the school, and there,

This litel child, his litel book lerninge, As he sat in the scole at his prymer,

While boys were taught theantiphons, kept turning

As children lerned

And heard the Alma redemptoris fair, And drew as near as ever he did dare,

He Alma redemptoris herde singe,

Thus had

little child, his little lesson

To worshipe ay, and he forgat it naught, sely child



wol alday sone lere; remembre on this matere,


Seint Nicholas stant ever in

my presence,

For he so yong to Crist did reverence.




hir antiphoner;

he dorste, he drough him ner and ner, ay the wordes and the note,

Marking the words, remembering every note, Until the first verse he could sing by rote.

And herkned

He knew

Noght wiste he what this Latin was

not what this Latin meant to sav, Being so young and of such tender age, But once a young school-comrade did he pray To expound to him the song in his language, Or tell him why the song was in usage; Asking the boy the meaning of the song, On his bare knees he begged him well and long. J


fellow was an older lad than he,

And answered thus: "This song, as I've heard Was made to praise Our Blessed Lady free,


and ever Her to prav be our help when comes our dying day. I can expound to you only so far; I've learned the song; I know but small grammar." I

ler to salute


"And Ot






"Now truly To learn it all I



in all


" asked this innocent;


work with diligence

ere Christmas sacrament,

Til he the firste vers coude al by rote. to seye,

For he so yong and tendre was of age; But on a day his felaw gan he preye T'expounden him this song in his langage, Or telle him why this song was in usage; This preyde he him to construe and declare Ful ofte tyme upon his knowes bare. His felaw, which that elder was than he, Answerde him thus: "this song, I have herd

Was maked

of our blisful lady free, Hir to salue, and eek hir for to preye To been our help and socour whan we deye. I can no more expounde in this matere; I lerne song, I can but smal grammere."

"And is this song maked in reverence Of Cristes moder?" seyde this innocent;

"Now certes, I wol do my diligence To conne it al, er Cristemasse is went;



Though that

And I



THE PRIORESS'S TALE my prymer shal be shent, Though for my

shal be beten thryes in an houre,



conne, our lady for to honoure."

His felaw taughte him homward prively, til he coude it by rote, And than he song it wel and boldely Fro word to word, acording with the note; Twyes a day it passed thurgh his throte, To scoleward and homward whan he wente;

Fro day to day,






his entente.


I have seyd, thurgh-out the Jewerye This litel child, as he cam to and fro, Ful merily than wolde he singe, and crye O Alma redemptoris ever-mo. The swetnes hath his herte perced so Of Cristes moder, that, to hir to preye, He can nat stinte of singing by the weye.

Our firste fo, the

Is this to

yow a thing that is

His fellow taught him on their homeward Until he learned theantiphon bv rote.


boy shal walken as him lest In your despyt, and singe of swich sentence. Which is agayn your lawes reverence?" a


clear and bold he sang it dav bv day, Each word according with its proper note; And twice each day it welled from out his throat, As schoolward went he and as homeward went; On Jesus' Mother was his fixed intent.





through the Jewry went school-boy, out the song would ring, joyously the notes he upward sent; said, as


And Alma redemptoris would he sing; To his heart's core it did the sweetness bring Of Christ's dear Mother, and, to Her to pray, He could not keep from singing on his way. orimal foe, the serpent Sathanas, Jewish heart his hornets' nest, Swelled arrogantly: "O Jewish folk, alas!

Who has in

Is it to you a good thing, and the best, That such a boy walks here, without protest, In your despite and doing such offense Against the teachings that you reverence?"

Fro thennes forth the Jewes nan conspyred This innocent out of this world to chace; An homicyde ther-to han they hyred, That in an aley hadde a privee place; And as the child gan for-by for to pace, This cursed Jew him hente and heeld him faste,

This cursed Jew did seize and hold him

And kitte his throte, and in a pit him



From that time forth the Jewish folk conspired Out of the world this innocent to chase;

A murderer they found, and thereto hired, Who in an alley had a hiding-place; And


the child went by at sober pace,

cut his throat, and in a pit


I seye that in a wardrobe they him threwe Wher-as these Jewes purgen hir entraille. O cursed folk of Herodes al newe,

O cursed folk of Herod, born anew,

What may your yvel

How can

Mordre wol




serpent Sathanas,

That hath in Jewes herte his waspes nest, Up swal, and seide, "O Hebraik peple, alias! That swich


primer I take punishment And though I'm beaten ihrice within the hour, Yet will I learn it by Our Lady's power!"

yow availle?



1 say, that in a cesspool him they threw, Wherein these Jews did emptv their entrails.

you think your


intent avails?

wol nat faille, And namely ther th'onour of god shal sprede, The blood out cryeth on your cursed dede.

nor ever fails, And chiefly when God's honour vengeance needs, The blood cries out upon your cursed deeds.

"O martir, souded to virginitee,

"O martyr firm in thy virginity, Now mayest thou sing, and ever follow on

out, certein,


Now maystou singen, folwing ever in oon The whyte lamb celestial," quod she, "Of which the grete evangelist, seint John, In Pathmos wroot, which seith that they that goon Biforn this lamb, and singe a son al newe, That never, fleshly, wommen they ne knewe."

This povre widwe a awaiteth al that night After hir litel child, but he cam noght; For which, as sone as it was dayes light, With face pale of drede and bisy thoght, She hath at scole and elles-wher him soght, Til finally she gan so fer espye That he last seyn was in the jewerye.

With modres pitee in hir brest enclosed, She gooth, as she were half out of hir minde,


will out,



The pure white Lamb


—quoth she—

"Whereof the great evangelist, Saint John, In Patmos wrote, saying that they are gone Before the Lamb, singing a song that's new,




who never woman knew."

This widow poor awaited



that night

but he came not; For which, so soon as it was full daylight, With pale face full of dread, and busy thought, At school she sought and everywhere she sought, child's return to her,

last, from all her questioning she Learned that he last was seen in the Jewry.

Until, at

With mother's pity She

ran, as she


her breast enclosed

were half out of her mind,





To every

place where

might be supposed. In likelihood, that she hersoo should find; And ever on Christ's Mother meek and kind She called until, at last. Our Lady wrought That amongst the cursed Jews the widow sought. it

She asked and she implored,




To every place wher she

hath supposed


lyklihede hir litel child to finde; Cristes moder mcke and kinde She cryde, and atte laste thus she wroghte,

And ever on

Among the cursed

Jcwes she him soghte.

She frayneth and she preyeth pitously

Of everv Jew who dwelt in that foul place, To tell her where her little child could be.

To every Jew that dwelte in thilke place, To telle hir, if hir child wente oght for-by.

Thcv answered "Nay." But

Jesus, of His grace, Put in her mind, within a little space, That after him in that same spot she cried Where he'd been cast in pit, or near beside.


O Thou great God, Who innocents hast called

O grete god, that parfournest thy laude

To give Thee


now shown




might! This gem of chastity, this emerald.

seyde, "nay"; but Jesu, of his grace,

Yaf in hir thought, inwith a litel space, That in that place after hir sone she cryde, Wher he was casten in a pit bisyde.

By mouth

of innocents, lo heer thy


Of martyrdom

This gemme of chastitee, this emeraude, And eek of martirdom the ruby bright,

The Alma

Ther he with throte y-corven lay upright, He "Alma redemptoris" gan to singe

the ruby clear and bright, Began, though slain and hidden there from sight,


redemptoris loud to sing,

clear that all the


neighbourhood did


Christian folk that through the ghetto went

Came running for the wonder of this thing, And hastily they for the provost sent; He also came without long tarrying, And gave Christ thanks, Who is of Heaven King, And,


too, His

Mother, honour of mankind;

after that the Jews there did he bind.

So loude, that


the place gan to ringe.


Cristen folk, that thurgh the strete wente, In coomen, for to wondre up-on this thing. And hastily they for the provost sente; He cam anon with-outen tarying, And herieth Crist that is of heven king, And eek his moder, honour of mankinde, And after that, the Jewes leet he binde.

This child, with piteous lamentation, then Was taken up, singing his song alway And, honoured by a great concourse of men, Carried within an abbey near, that day. Swooning, his mother by the black bier lay, Nor easily could people who were there This second Rachel carry from the bier.

This child with pitous lamentacioun Up-taken was, singing his song alway; And with honour of greet processioun They carien him un-to the nexte abbay. His moder swowning by the bere lay; Unnethe might the peple that was there This newe Rachel bringe fro his bere.

Wit h torture and with shameful death, each one,

With torment and with shamful deth echon


provost did these cursed Hebrews serve

Who of the From

murder knew, and



justice to the villains he'd not swerve.

Evil shall have what evil does deserve.

And And

therefore, with wild horses, did he draw, after hang, their bodies,


by law.


the bier lay this poor innocent Before the altar, while the mass did last, And after that the abbot and monks went

About the coffin for to close it fast; But when the holy water they did cast, Then spoke the child, at touch of holy water,

And sang,"0 Alma This abbot,



redemptoris mater!"

who was a

monks are,

The dead young boy Saving




me how



to conjure then began,

"O dear child,

virtue of the

right holy

or as they ought to be, I do beg of Holy Trinity,


can be that thou dost sing ?" is cut, to all seeming

After thy throat

This provost dooth


Jewes for to sterve

That of this mordre wiste, and that anon; He nolde no swich cursednesse observe. Yvel shal have, that yvel wol deserve. Therfor with wilde hors he dide hem drawe, And after that he heng hem by the lawe.

Up-on his

bere ay lyth this innocent Biforn the chief auter, whyl masse laste, And after that, the abbot with his covent Han sped hem for to burien him ful faste; And whan they holy water on him caste, Yet spak this child, whan spreynd was holy water, And song "O Alma redemptoris materl"

This abbot, which that was an holy man As monkes been, or elles oghten be, This yonge child to conjure he bigan,


seyde, "o dere child, I halse thee, In vertu of the holy Trinitee, Tel me what is thy cause for to singe, Sith that thy throte is cut, to my seminge?"





"My throte is cut un-to my nekke-boon,"


this child, "and, as by wey of kinde, sholde have deyed, ye, longe tyme agoon, But Jesu Crist, as ye in bokes finde,


Seyde I


cut unto the spinal bone," Replied the child. "By nature of my kind I should have died, aye, many hours agone, throat


Jesus Christ, as




shall find,

Wil that his glorie laste and be in minde; And, for the worship of his moder dere, Yet may I singe 'O Alma' loude and clere.

Wills that His glory last in human mind; Thus for the honour of His Mother dear,

This welle of mercy, Cristes moder swete,

"This well of mercy, Jesus' Mother sweet, always loved, after my poor knowing; And when came time that I my death must meet, She came to me and bade me only sing This anthem in the pain of my dying, As you have heard, and after I had sung,


lovede alwey, as after

my conninge;

This antem verraily in

my deyinge, I



'O Alma' loud and



And whan that I my lyf sholde forlete, To me she cam, and bad me for to singe As ye nan herd, and, whan that



had songe,

Me thoughte, she leyde a greyn up-on my tonge.


Wherfor I singe, and singe I moot certeyn In honour of that blisful mayden free,

And afterward thus seyde she to me, 'My litel child, now wol I fecche thee

"Wherefore I sing, and sing I must, 'tis plain, In honour of that blessed Maiden free, Till from my tongue is taken away the grain; And afterward she said thus unto me: 'My little child, soon will I come for thee,

Whan that the greyn is fro thy tonge y-take;

When from

Til fro

Be nat

my tonge of-taken is the greyn;

agast, I

wol thee nat



laid a precious pearl

Be not

This holy monk, this abbot, him mene I, Him tonge out-caughte, and took a-wey the greyn, And he yaf up the goost ful softely. And whan this abbot had this wonder seyn, His salte teres trikled doun as reyn, And gruf he fil al plat up-on the grounde. And stille he lay as he had been y-bounde.



thy tongue the



The holy monk, this abbot, so say I, The tongue caught out and took away

Lying there


as if

he had been bound.

O yonge Hugh of Lincoln,


O you young Hugh of Lincoln,

With cursed Jewes, as




but a


all the monks lay there on the pavement, Weeping and praising Jesus' Mother dear,

And after And

that they rose and forth they went, this

martyr from

his bier,

tomb of marble, carved and clear, Did they enclose his little body sweet; Where he is now— God grant us him to meetl in a

By cursed

whyle ago;

the grain,

And he gave up the ghost, then, easily, And when the abbot saw this wonder plain, The salt tears trickled down his cheeks like rain, And humbly he fell prone upon the ground,

Taking away

slayn also

bead they take; "

afraid, thee I will not forsake.'

covent eek lay on the pavement Weping, and herien Cristes moder dere, And after that they ryse, and forth ben went, And toke awey this martir fro his bere, And in a tombe of marbul-stones clere Enclosen they his litel body swete; Ther he is now, god leve us for to mete.

it is


Jews, as





slain also



was but a little while ago, Preye eek for us, we sinful folk unstable, Pray you for us, sinful and weak, who call, That, of his mercy, god so merciable That, of His mercy, God will still let fall On us his grete mercy multiplye, Something of grace, and mercy multiply, For reverence of his moder Marye. Amen. For reverence of His Mother dear on high. Amen. deferring to a murder that had attracted much attention in England during the reign of Henry III. it










BEHOLD THE MERRY WORDS OF THE HOST TO CHAUCER Whan seyd was al this miracle, every man


As sobre was,

So sober


wonder was

to see,

Til that our hoste japen tho bigan, And than at erst he loked up-on me, And seyde thus, "what man artow?" quod he;

told was all this miracle, every


'twas wonderful to see, Until our host in jesting wise began,



for the first

Saying," What


time did he glance at me,

man are you ?"— 'twas

thus quoth





von tried to find a hare, For always on the ground I you stare.


look as





then, and look


For ever up-on the ground




host," said


it's your turn; and that anon."

"don't be,


beg, too stern,

For of good tales, indeed, sir, have I none, Save a long rhvme I learned in years agone." "Well, that is good," said he; "now shall we hear It seems to me. a thing to bring us cheer."







First Fit

Listen, lords, with good intent, I

Listeth, lordes, in good entent.

And I wol telle verrayment Of mirthe and of solas;

truly will a tale present

Of mirth and

of solace;

All of a knight was fair

and gent 1

Al of a knyght was fair and gent In bataille and in tourneyment, His name was sir Thopas.

In battle and in tournament.


name was



Born he was

in a far country,

In Flanders,


beyond the

Y-born he was


in fer contree,

In Flaundres, al biyonde the see, At Popering, in the place; His fader was a man ful free, And lord he was of that contree,


And Poperinghe the place; His father was a man full free, And lord he was of that countree, As chanced to be God's grace.



was goddes grace.

Thopas wex

Thopas was a doughty swain, White was his brow as paindemaine, 2

Whyt was

His lips red as a rose; His cheeks were like poppies in grain, And I tell you, and will maintain, He had a comely nose.

His lippes rede as rose; His rode is lyk scarlet in grayn, And I yow telle in good certayn, He hadde a semely nose.

His hair and beard were like saffron And to his girdle reached adown, His shoes were of cord wain 3 From Bruges were come his long hose brown, His rich robe was of ciclatoun 4

His heer, his berd was lyk saffroun. That to his girdel raughte adoun; His shoon of Cordewane. 3 Of Brugges were his hosen broun, His robe was of ciclatoun, 4





cost full


a jane. 6



gentle birth.


doghty swayn, payndemayn, 2

his face as


many a

jane. 5

He coude hunte at wilde deer, And ryde an hauking for riveer,

Well could he hunt the dim wild deer ride a-hawking by river, With grey goshawk on hand; Therewith he was a good archer,



With grey goshauk on honde; Ther-to he was a good archeer,

'White bread of the 4



in the

Sey now somwhat, sin other folk han sayd; Tel us a tale of mirthe, and that anoon"; "Hoste," quod I, "ne beth nat yvel apayd, For other tale certes can I noon, But of a ryme I lerned longe agoon." "Ye, that is good," quod he; "now shul we here Som deyntee thing, me thinketh by his chere."

"Since other folk have spoken,


see thee stare.

waast is shape as well as I; This were a popet in an arm t'enbrace For any womman, smal and fair of face. He semeth elvish by his contenaunce, For un-to no wight dooth he daliaunce.


Tell us a mirthful tale,


Approche neer, and loke up merily. Now war yow, sirs, and lat this man have


and let this man have place; He in the waist is shaped as well as This were a puppet in an arm's embrace For any woman, small and fair of face. \\ hv, he seems absent, by his countenance, And gossips with no one for dalliance.

Now make


lokest as thou woldest finde an hare,

finest quality.


costlv kind of thin cloth.

'A Genoese coin, current in England

in the 14th century.





Of wrastling was ther noon Ther any ram



shal stonde.


Ful many a mayde, bright in bour, They moorne for him, paramour,



the bremble-flour

That bears a

And so bifel up-on a day, Sir






they were best asleep; But chaste he was, no lecher sure, And sweet as is the bramble-flower

That bereth the rede hepe. 2

For so the,

a maiden, bright in bower,



But he was chast and no lechour, sweet as


Did long

Whan hem were bet to slepe; And


At wrestling was there none his peer Where any ram did stand.

his peer,


rich red hepe. 2

upon a day, can tell or may, Sir Thopas out would ride;

yow telle may,

so befell,

In truth, as

Thopas wolde out ryde;

He worth upon his stede gray, And in his honde a launcegay,


He mounted on his stallion grey, And held in hand a lance, I say,

A long swerd by his syde.

With longsword by

He priketh thurgh a fair forest, Ther-inne is many a wilde best, Ye, bothe bukke and hare; And, as he priketh north and est, I telle it yow, him hadde almest

He spurred

his side.

throughout a

fair forest

Wherein was many a dim wild beast, Aye, both the buck and hare; And as he spurred on, north and east, I tell you now he had, in breast,

A melancholy care.

Bitid a sory care.

Ther springen herbes


and smale,

There herbs were springing, great and The licorice blue and white set wall,

The lycorys and cetewale, And many a clowe-gilofre; And notemuge to putte in ale,

And many a gillyflower, And nutmeg for to put in ale,

Whether it be moyste or

All whether


Or for to leye in cofre.

Or lay in

The briddes singe, it is no nay, The sparhauk and the papejay, That joye it was




to here;


loude and



loud and


Thopas fell

when he heard the



to love-longing

spurred as

throstle sing,

madman would

stallion fair, for this spurring,

Did sweat till men his coat might wring, His two flanks were all blood. Thopas grown so weary was With spurring on the yielding grass, Sir

So fierce had been his speed, That down he laid him in that place To give the stallion some solace And let him find his feed.


And yaf him good forage.


was joy to hear;



Sir Thopas eek so wery was For prikinge on the softe gras, So fiers was his corage, That doun he leyde him in that plas



She sang


in love-longinge

his stede


The missel thrush he made his lay, The tender stockdove on the spray,

Al whan he herde the thrustel singe, And priked as he were wood: His faire stede in his prikinge So swatte that men mighte him wringe, His sydes were al blood.

To make

be fresh or

chest in bower.

The birds they sang, upon that day, The sparrow-hawk and popinjay,

The thrustelcok made eek his lay, The wodedowve upon the spray She sang


"O holy

seinte Marie, ben'cite!

What eyleth this love at me


To binde me so sore?




my heart

that love in


Me dremed al this night, pardee,

Should bind me now so sore ? For dreamed I all last night, pardie,

An elf-queen shal my lemman be, And slepe under my gore. 3

An elf-queen shall my darling be, And sleep beneath my gore. 3

"An elf-queen wol



love, y-wis, 4

For in this world no womman 'The usual prize



in wrestling.


l Hip.


elf-queen will in this


world no

gore of his garment.

love, ywis, 4



•Truly, certainly.





to be



And loan



Myself, bv dale and




an elf-queen I me take By dale and eek by doune!"





In-to his sadel he clamb anoon,

Into his saddle he climbed anon And spurred then over stile and stone, An elf-queen for to see, Till he so far had ridden on

And priketh over style and stoon An elf-queen for t'espye, Til he so longe had riden and goon That he fond, in a privee woon, The contree of Fairye [13,731] So wilde; [13,734] For in that contree was ther noon

found a secret place and won The land of Faery


So wild For in that country was there none That unto him dared come, not one,



my make In toune;

Allc othere



to be


In All other



to him dorste rydc or goon, Neither wyf ne childe.


either wife or child.


a greet geaunt,

Until there came a great giant, Whose name it was Sir Oliphant, 1

Til that ther

A dangerous man indeed; He said: "O Childe, by Termagant,

A perilous man of dede; He seyde, "child, by Termagaunt, But-if thou prike out of myn haunt,

Save thou dost spur from out Anon I'll slay thy steed


His name was



For here the queen of Faery, With harp and pipe and harmony,




this place."

The child seyde, "al-so mote Tomorwe wol I mete thee

hope to thrive,

We'll fight the morn, as I'm alive,

And yet



Abyen it ful

suffer strokes full sore;

pierce through,


if I


Thy mawe




And thurgh his fair beringe. Yet listeth, lordes, to my tale Merier than the nightingale, For now I wol yow roune How sir Thopas with sydes smale, Priking over hil and dale, Is come agayn to toune.


Merrier than the nightingale, Whispered to all and some, How Sir Thopas, with pride grown pale, Hard spurring over hill and dale, Came back to his own home. His merry

To make

men commanded

men comanded he To make him bothe game and glee, His merie


him both game and glee, For needs now must he fight With a great giant of heads three, for

For nedes moste he fighte

With a geaunt with hevedes For paramour and jolitee

For love in the society Of one who shone full bright.

"Do come,"







fell staff-sling;

listen yet, lords, to

if I

This geaunt

But soon escaped was Childe Thopas, And all it was by God's own grace, And by his brave bearing.



Thopas drow abak ful faste; at him stones caste Out of a fel staf-slinge; But faire escapeth child Thopas, And al it was thurgh goddes gras,

Sir Thopas drew aback full fast; This giant at him stones did cast

of a


Er it be fully pryme of day, For heer thou shalt be slawe."

it be fully prime of day, Thou'lt die of wounds most raw."





Thy maw Shall


have myn armoure; hope, par ma fay, That thou shalt with this launcegay


When I have my armour; For well I hope, and par ma fay, That thou shah by this lance well pay, And

thy stede

Dwelling in

dwelling in this place."

The Childe

Olifaunt, 1

With mace. Heer is the queen of Faygrye, With harpe and pype and simphonye

With mace.






Of oon that shoon ful brighte.

"Do come," he seyde, "my minstrales,

all, x


old form of elephant.







And gestours, for to tellen tales Anon in myn arminge; Of romances that been royales, Of popes and of cardinales, And eek of love-lykinge."

And jesters, tell me tales in hall Anon in mine arming Of old romances right royal,


They brought him, first, the And mead within a maselvn,




the swete wyn,

And mede eek in a maselyn, And royal spicerye Of gingebreed that was ful fyn, And lycorys, and eek comyn, 1

With sugre



so trye.

He dide next his whyte lere Of clooth

of lake fyn and clere A breech and eek a sherte; And next his sherte an aketoun, 2 And over that an habergeoun 3 For percinge of his herte;

And Was


over that a fyn hauberk, al y-wroght of Jewes werk, Ful strong it was of plate; And over that his cote-armour

As whyt as

a lily-flour,


In which he wol debate.

His sheeld was

Oi pope and king and



e'en of love-liking."

And royal spicery Of gingerbread that


sweet, sweet wine, 1

full fine,

Cumin and licorice, opine, And sugar so dainty. I

He drew on, next his white skin Of finest linen, clean and sheer,


His breeches and a shirt next the shirt a stuffed acton, 2 over that a habergeon 3

And And

'Gainst piercing of his heart.


over that a fine hauberk 4 all of Jewish work And reinforced with plate; And over that his coat-of-arms, As white as lily-flower that charms, Wherein he will debate.

That was wrought

of gold so reed, heed, A charbocle bisyde; And there he swoor, on ale and breed, How that "the geaunt shal be deed, Bityde what bityde!"

His shield was all of gold so red, And thereon was a wild boar's head A carbuncle beside; And now he swore, by ale and bread, That soon "this giant shall be dead, Betide what may betide!"

His jambeux 5 were of quirboilly, 6 His swerdes shethe of yvory, His helm of laton 7 bright; His sadel was of rewel-boon, 8 His brydel as the Sonne shoon,

His jambeaux 5 were of cuir-bouilli, 6 His sword sheath was of ivory, His helm of latten 7 bright, His saddle was of rewel bone, 8 And as the^un his bridle shone, Or as the full moonlight.


And ther-in was a bores

Or as


mone light.

His spere was of fyn ciprees, That bodeth werre, and no-thing pees, The heed ful sharpe y-grounde; His stede was al dappel-gray, It gooth an ambel in the way Ful softely and rounde In londe. Lo, lordes myne, heer is a fit! 9 If ye wol any more of it, To telle it wol I fonde.

His spear was of fine cypress wood, That boded war, not brotherhood,

The head full sharply ground; His steed was all a dapple grey Whose gait was ambling, on the wav, Full easily and round

In land.


my lords,




fit! 9

have any more of it, You have but to command.

If you'll

The Second Fit

Now hold your mouth, par charitee,


Bothe knight and lady

Both knight and lady


And herkneth to my spelle; Of bataille and

of chivalry,

And of ladyes love-drury 10 Anon I wol yow telle.

hold your peace, par charitee,

2 A quilted jacket. 8 long coat of mail. Leg armour. "Hardened leather. 8 Probably whale or walrus ivory *A part of a ballad.

'A maple bowl. 4





And hearken to my spell; Of battle and of chivalrv And all of ladies' love-drury 10 Anon I will vou tell. »A short coat of mail. 7


brass-like alloy. 10Love,




400 Romances men re-count of price, King Horn and oi [ypotis,

( )i

Of Horn child and of Ypotys, Of Bevis and sir Gy, Of sir Libeux and Pleyn-damour;


Bevisand Sir ( }uj Amour; ( )t Sir Libeaux and Plain d Hut Sir Thopaa is flower sure i



Of re-gal


Men speke of romances of prys,



Thopas, he bereth the flour

Of royal



he bistrood, wey he glood As sparkle out of the bronde; Up-on his crest he bar a tour,

he then bestrode, way he rode Like spark out of a brand; Upon his crest he bore a tower,

His gode stede

Wherein was

And ther-in stiked a lily-flour, God shilde his cors fro shonde!

His good horse






thrust a lily-flower;

grant he



And forth upon




And for he was a knight auntrous, He nolde slepen in non hous,


was a knight adventurous, Wherefore he'd sleep within no house, But lay down in his hood; His pillow was his helmet bright, And by him browsed his steed all night On forage fine and good.

But liggen in his hode; His brighte helm was his wonger,

And by him baiteth his dextrer Of herbes fyne and gode. Him-self drank water of the wel,

Himself drank water of the well, As did the knight Sir Percival, So worthy in his weeds, Till on a dav ...

As did the knight sir Percivel, So worthy under wede, Til on a day


PROLOGUE TO MELIBEUS "No more of this, for goddes dignitee,"

"No more of this,

for God's high dignity!" Exclaimed our host, "For you, sir, do make So wearv with your vulgar foolishness

That, as

may God


ears ache

my soul


from all your worthless speech; may such rhymes the devil have, and each!



so truly


This sort of thing is doggerel," said he. "Why so?" I asked, "Why will you hinder me In telling tales more than another man, Since I have told the best rhyme that I can?" "By God!" cried he, "now plainly, in a word, Your dirty rhyming is not worth a turd; You do naught else but waste and fritter time. Sir, in one word, you shall no longer rhyme. Let's see if you can use the country verse, Or tell a tale in prose— you might do worse— Wherein there's mirth or doctrine good and plain." "Gladly," said I, " by God's sweet tears and pain, I

will relate a little

thing in prose

That ought to please you, or so I suppose, For surely, else, you're contumelious. It is




talc, right

it is




in different

B\ ililTerent folk, as I shall you apprise. As thus: You know that each evangelist Who tells the passion of Lord Jesus ( :lirist Savs not in


things as his fellows do,

But nonetheless, each gospel





them accord

is all


in their essence,

there's in telling difference.


hoste, "for thou makest me So wery of thy verray lewednesse That, also wisly god my soule blesse, Myn eres aken of thy drasty speche;

Quod oure

Now swiche a rym the devel I


This may wel be rym dogerel," quod he. "Why so?" quod I, "why wiltow lette me More of my tale than another man, Sin that it is the beste rym I can?" "By god," quod he, "for pleynly, at a word, Thy drasty ryming is nat worth a tord! Thou doost nought elles but despendest tyme, Sir, at o word, thou shalt no lengcr ryme. Lat see wher thou canst tellen aught in geste, in prose somwhat at the leste In which ther be some mirthe or som doctryne.' "Gladly," quod I, "by goddes swete pyne, I wol yow telle a litel thing in prose, That oghte lyken yow, as I suppose, Or elles, certes, ye been to daungerous. It is a moral tale vertuous, Al be it told som-tyme in sondry wyse Of sondry folk, as I shal yow devyse. As thus; ye woot that every evangelist, That telleth us the peyne of Jesu Crist, Ne saith nat al thing as his felaw dooth, But natheles, hir sentence is al sooth, And alle acorden as in hir sentence, Al be ther in hir telling difference.

Or telle



13.877-13,894; 5§i-5]

For somme of hem seyn more, and somme


Whan they his

pitous passioun expresse; [and] Mathew, Luk and John; But doutelees hir sentence is al oon. Therfor, lordinges alle, I yow biseche, If that ye thinke I varie as in my speche, As thus, thogh that I telle som-what more Of proverbes, than ye han herd bifore, I

mene of Mark


in this

litel tretis


Included in this

To enforce with the th'effect of my matere, And thogh I nat the same wordes seye As ye han herd, yet to yow alle I preye, Blameth me nat; for, as in my sentence, Ye shul not fynden moche difference


little treatise here,

To point the morals out, as they appear, And though I do not quite the same words say That you have heard before, yet now, I pray, You'll blame me not; for in the basic sense

Fro the sentence of this tretis lyte After the which this mery tale I wryte. And therfor herkneth what that I shal seye,

And lat me tellen al my tale,


For some of them say more and some sav less When they His piteous passion would express; I mean now Mark and Matthew, Luke and John; Yet, without doubt, their meaning is all one. And therefore, masters all, I do beseech, If you should think I vary in my speech, As thus: That I do quote you somewhat more Of proverbs than you've ever heard before,


You will not find a deal of difference From the true meaning of that tale polite After the which this happy tale

And And

therefore hearken












tale, I






HERE BEGINNETH CHAUCER'S TALE OF MELIBEUS A yong man called Melibeus, mighty and riche, A young man named Melibeus,

bigat up-on his wyf that called was Prudence, a doghter which that called was Sophie. 2. Upon a day bifel, that he for his desport is went in-to the feeldes him to pleye. His wyf and eek his doghter hath he left inwith his hous, of which the dores weren fast y-shette. Three of his olde foos han it espyed, and setten laddres to the walles of his hous, and by the windowes been entred, and betten his wyf, and wounded his doghter with fyve mortal woundes in fyve sondry places; this is to seyn, in hir feet, in hir handes, in hir eres, in hir nose, and in hir mouth; and leften hir for deed, and wenten awey. 3. Whan Melibeus retourned was in-to his hous, and saugh al this meschief, he, lyk a mad man, rendinge his clothes, gan to wepe and crye. 4. Prudence his wyf, as ferforth as she dorste, bisoghte him of his weping for to stinte; but nat forthy he gan to crye and wepen ever lenger the more. 5. This noble wyf Prudence remembered hir upon the sentence of Ovide, in his book that cleped is The Remedie of Love, wher-as he seith; "he is a fool that destourbeth the moder to wepen in the deeth of hir child, til she have wept hir fille, as for a certein tyme; and thanne shal man doon his diligence with amiable wordes hir to reconforte, and preyen hir of hir weping for to stinte." For which resoun this noble wyf Prudence suffred hir nous-

bond for to wepe and crye as for a certein space; and whan she saugh hir tyme, she seyde him in this wyse. "Alias, my lord," quod she, "why make ye your-self for to be lyk a fool? For sothe, it aperteneth nat to a wys man, to maken swiche a sorwe. Your doghter, with the grace of god, shal warisshe and escape. And al were it so that she right now

mighty and


begot on Prudence, his wife, a daughter who was called Sophie. It happened one day that, for his amusement he went into the fields to play. His wife and daughter remained at home, the doors of his house being all fast shut and locked. But three of his old enemies,

having spied out the state of things, set ladders to the wall of the house and entered therein by a window; and they beat the wife and wounded the daughter with five dangerous woundsinfivedifferent places; that is to say, in her feet, in her hands, in her ears, in her nose, aad in her mouth; and they left her for dead and went away. When Melibeus returned to his house and saw all

madman, rending his clothes, began to weep and cry. Prudence his wife, so far as she dared, besought him to cease his weeping; nevertheless he wept and cried but the more. This noble wife Prudence remembered then the opinion of Ovid, in his book The Remedy for Love, wherein he says: "He is but a fool who interferes with the mother weeping for the death of her child, until she shall have wept her fill, and for a certain time; and only then may a man bediligent, with kind words, to comfort her, and pray her to forgo her tears." For which reason this noble wife Prudence suffered her husband to weep and cry for a time; and when she saw her opportunity, she spoke to him. "Alas, my this mischief, he, like a

lord!" said she,

"Why do

you allow yourself to act becomes not a wise man to show such sorrow. Your daughter, by the grace of God, shall be healed and will recover. And were she dead even now, you ought not, for this, to destroy yourself. Seneca says: 'The wise man will not take like a fool


For truly




too sorrowfully to heart the death of his children, but will suffer it with patience, fust as he awaits the death of his

nat take to greet disconfort for the deeth of his children, but certes he sholdc suffrcn it in pacience, as wel as he abydeth the deeth of his owene propre

own bod v.'


Melibeus answered, saying: "What man should cease Ins weeping who has so greal a cause to weep? Jesus Christ Our Lord Himself wept for the death of His friend Lazarus." Prudence replied: "Indeed, well do I know that moderate weeping is not forbidden to anyone who sorrows, among sorrowing folk; but, rather, it is permitted him to weep. The Apostle Paul writes unto

Romans: 'Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep.' But though a tempered


weeping mav be granted, excessive weeping certainly is forbidden. Moderation in grief should be considered, according to the teaching of Seneca. 'When your friend is dead,' says he, 'let not your eyes be

too wet with tears, nor yet too dry; and though your tears rise to the eyes, let them not fall.' So, when vou have given over your iriend, be diligent in procuring another; and this is wiser than to weep for is lost; for therein is no profit. And vou govern yourself with wisdom, put awav sorrow out of your heart. Remember how Jesus son of Sirach says: 'A joyous and glad heart makes a

the friend





but truly a sorrowful heart says also that sorrow hath Solomon says that as moths in the

flourish in his age;

drieth the bones.' killed

many a man.


annoy the clothes, and as small worms the tree, so sorrow annoys the heart. Wherefore we ought to be patient, not less for the death of our children than for the loss of worldly goods. sheep's fleece

"Remember the patient Job, when he had lost his children and his substance, and had in his body received and endured many a grievous tribulation, yet 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath " taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.' To these things Melibeus answered, saying to Prudence his wife: "All your words are true, and likewise profitable, but verily my heart is troubled so grievously with this sorrow that I know not what said he thus:

to do."

"Call, then," said Prudence, "all of your true and those of your kindred who are wise; tell


them your trouble and hearken


what they say


council; and then govern yourself according to their advice. Says Solomon: 'Do nothing without advice,

and thou



were deed, ye ne oghte nat as for hir deeth yourself to destroye. Senek seith: 'the wise man shal

never repent.'


Then, upon the advice of his wife Prudence, Melibeus called together a great gathering of people, old and young; and some among them were surgeons and physicians; and some were of his okl enemies who seemed to have become reconciled to him; and there came some ol his neighbours who respected him more out of fear than of love, as often happens;


This Melibeus answerde anon and seyde, "What man," quod he, "sholde of his weping stinte, that hath so greet a cause for to wepe? Jesu Crist, our lord, him-self wepte for the deeth of Lazarus his freend." Prudence answerde, "Certes, well woot, attempree weping is no-thing defended to him that sorweful is, amonges folk in sorwe, but it 6.

rather graunted him to wepe. The Apostle Paul un-to the Romayns wryteth, 'man shal rejoyse with hem that maken joye, and wepen with swich folk is


wepen.' But thogh attempree weping be y-

graunted, outrageous weping certes is defended. Mesure of weping sholde be considered, after the lore that techeth us Senek. 'Whan that thy freend is deed,' quod he, 'lat nat thyne eyen to moyste been of teres, ne to muche drye; althogh the teres come to thyne eyen, lat hem nat falle.' And whan thou hast for-goon thy freend, do diligence to gete another freend; and this is more wysdom than for to wepe for thy freend which that thou hast lorn; for ther-inne is no bote. And therfore, if ye governe yow by sapience, put awey sorwe out of your herte. Remembre yow that Jesus Syrak seith: 'a man that is joyous and glad in herte, it him conserveth florisshing in his age; but soothly sorweful herte maketh his bones drye.' He seith eek thus: 'that sorwe in herte sleeth ful many a man.' Salomon seith: 'that, right as motthes in the shepes flees anoyeth to the clothes, and the smale wormes to the tree, right so anoyeth sorwe to the herte.' Wherfore us oghte, as wel in the deeth of our children as in the losse of our goodes temporels, have pacience. 7. Remembre yow up-on the pacient Job, whan he hadde lost his children and his temporel substance, and in his body endured and receyved ful many a grevous tribulacioun; yet seyde he thus:' our lord hath yeven it me, our lord hath biraft it me; right as our lord hath wold, right so it is doon; blessed be the name of our lord.' " To thise foreseide thinges answerde Melibeus un-to his wyf Prudence: "Alle thy wordes," quod he, "been sothe, and therto profitable; but trewely myn herte is troubled with this sorwe so grevously, that I noot what to

done." "Lat calle," quod Prudence, "thy trewe alle, and thy linage whiche that been wyse; telleth your cas, and herkneth what they seye in conseiling, and yow governe after hir sentence. Salomon seith: 'werk alle thy thinges by conseil, and " thou shalt never repente.' 8. Thanne, by the conseil of his wyf Prudence, this Melibeus leet callen a greet congregacioun of folk; as surgiens, phisiciens, olde folk and yonge, and somme of hise olde enemys reconsiled as by hir semblaunt to his love and in-to his grace; and freendes

ther-with-al ther comen somme of hise neighebores that diden him reverence more for drede than for



happeth ofte. Ther comen also ful many subtile flatereres, and wyse advocats lerned in the

love, as





also a great


subtle flatterers; and there were wise advocates learned in the law.


And whan this folk togidre assembled weren, Melibeus in sorweful wyse shewed hem his cas; and by the manere of his speche it semed that in herte he bar a cruel ire, redy to doon vengeaunce up-on hise foos, and sodeynly desired that the werre sholde biginne; but nathelees yet axed he hir conseil upon this matere. A surgien, by licence and assent of swiche as weren wyse, up roos and un-to Melibeus seyde as ye may here. 9.


quod he, "as to us surgiens aperteneth, that we do to every wight the beste that we can, wher-as we been with-holde, and to our patients that we do no damage; wherfore it happeth, many tyme and ofte, that whan twey men han everich wounded other, oon same surgien heleth hem 10. "Sir,"

bothe; wherefore un-to our art it is nat pertinent to norice werre, ne parties to supporte. But certes, as to the warisshinge of your doghter, al-be-it so that she perilously be wounded, we shullen do so ententif bisinesse fro day to night, that with the grace of god she shal be hool and sound as sone as possible." Almost right in the same wyse the phisiciens answerden, save that they seyden a fewe is

wordes more: "That, right


maladyes been cured

by hir contraries, right so shul men warisshe werre by vengeaunce." His neighebores, ful of envye, his feyned freendes that semeden reconsiled, and his flatereres, maden semblant of weping, and empeireden and agreggeden muchel of this matere, in preising greetly Melibee of might, of power, of and of freendes, despysinge the power of his adversaries, and seiden outrely that he anon richesse,

sholde wreken him on his foos and biginne werre. n. Up roos thanne an advocat that was wys, by leve and by conseil of othere that were wyse, and seyde: "Lordinges, the nede for which we been assembled in this place is a ful hevy thing and an heigh matere, by-cause of the wrong and of the jpikkednesse that hath be doon, and eek by resoun of the grete damages that in tyme cominge been possible to fallen for this same cause; and eek by resoun of the grete richesse and power of the parties bothe; for the whiche resouns it were a ful greet peril to erren in this matere. Wherfore, Melibeus, this is our sentence: we conseille yow aboven alle

thing, that right anon thou do thy diligence in kepinge of thy propre persone, in swich a wyse that

thou ne wante noon espye ne wacche, thy body for to save. And after that we conseille, that in thyn hous thou sette suffisant garnisoun, so that they may as wel thy body as thyn hous defende. But certes, for to moeve werre, or sodeynly for to doon vengeaunce, we may nat demen in so litel tyme that it were profitable. Wherfore we axen leyser and espace to have deliberacioun in this cas to deme. For the commune proverbe seith thus: 'he that sone demeth, sone shal repente.' And eek men seyn that thilke juge is wys, that sone understondeth a matere and juggeth by leyser. For al-be-it so that alle tary-

And when all these folks were assembled together, Melibeus, with sorrowful words and mien, told them his trouble; and by the manner of his speech it appeared that in his heart he bore a savage anger, ready to take vengeance upon his foes, and was desirous that the war upon them should quicklv come. Nevertheless, he asked their advice upon this matter. Then a surgeon, by leave and voice of all present who were up and spoke to Melibeus as you shall hear. "Sir," said he, "as for us surgeons, it belongs to us that we do for everyone the best that we can, when we have been retained, and that we do no harm to

wise, rose

our patients. Wherefore

it happens, many times and when two men have wounded one another, same surgeon heals them both. Therefore it does

oft, that

the not become us to foment warfare nor to support factions. And certainly, as to the healing of vour daughter, although she is dangerously wounded, we will be so attentive, by day and by night, that, with

God's grace, she shall be made sound and whole and that as soon as may be possible." Almost in the same words the physicians answered, save that they added: "Just as diseases are cured bv their contraries, so shall men cure war by vengeance." again,

His neighbours full of envy, his false friends who feigned to be reconciled to him, and his flatterers,

made a semblance of weeping; and thev greatly aggravated the matter by praising Melibeus. speaking of his might, his power, his wealth, and his friends, and disparaging the strength of his enemies; and thev said outright, that very swiftly he should begin the

war and wreak vengeance upon

his foes.

Then arose an advocate, a wise man, by leave and advice of others who were wise, and said: "Masters, the matter- for which we are assembled here is a heavy thing, and a high, what with the wrong and wickedness that have been done, and by reason of the great evil that may follow hereafter from this same cause; and, too, by reason of the great wealth and power of both parties. For all of these reasons it were dangerous indeed to err in this matter. Wherefore, Melibeus, this is our judgment: we counsel you above all things, that, without delay, you take steps to guard your own person in such wise that you shall lack neither spy nor watchman. And


counsel, that in your house


cient garrison, so that the house

establish a suffi-


be as well defended as you yourself. But, to say truth, as to initiating warfare in order to obtain a sudden revenge, we can give no opinion, in so short a time, on whether such a move will be profitable. Therefore we ask for leisure and time wherein to deliberate upon the matter more fully. For the common proverb runs 'Resolve in haste, in haste repent.' And besides, men hold that he is a wise udge who quickly understands a j




pronounces thereupon. For though be annoying, nevertheless it is not to be



blamed when

it is

a question of rendering just judg-




meats, or of securing vengeance, when the ilelay is both sufficient and reasonable. And 1h.1t was shown,

example, bv Our Lord Jesus Christ. For when the taken in adultery was brought into lis presence, in order to learn what He would have them to do with her, though He well knew what le would thereafter answer, yet would He not answer quickly, but deliberated; and He stooped down and wrote twice upon the ground. For all these reasons, we ask tune in which to deliberate, and thereafter we will in




counsel you, bv the grace of profitable course."


as to the mcftt


ing be anoyful, algates it is nat to rcpreve in yevinge of jugement, ne in vengeance-taking, whan it is suffisant and resonable. And that shewed our lord Jesu Crist by ensample; for whan that the



was taken

his presence, to

in avoutrie

was broght


knowen what sholde be doon with

hir persone, al-be-it so that

he wistc wel him-self

what that he wolde answere, yet ne wolde he nat answere sodeynly, but he wolde have deliberacioun, and in the ground he wroot twyes. And by thise causes we axen deliberacioun, and we shal thanne, by the grace of god, conseille thee thing that shal be profitable."

of the young folk, at once, and the greater part of them scorned the counsel of the old wise men; and they raised a clamour and said: that just as it is well to strike while the iron is


started, then,

hot, so should


men wreak their vengeance while they And they all cried loudly, "War,

are fresh in anger.

war!" this, one of the old wise ones arose, and with hand commanding silence and attention, he said

Upon his

•Masters, there





to cry 'War, War!'

of the meaning of it. War, in the beginning, has so high an entrance, and so wide, that every man may enter when he pleases, and mav find war easily. But truly, what the end of



knows but


war shall be is not so easy to know. For when a war once begun, many an unborn child shall die in the womb because of the strife, or else shall be born into sorrow and die in wretchedness. Therefore, ere any is

war begins, men should take much counsel together and act only after much deliberation." But when this old man thought to reinforce his words with reasons, then well-nigh all the younger folk arose and began to heckle him and to break up his argument, bidding him cut short his remarks. For indeed, he that preaches to those who have ears but hear not, makes of himself a nuisance. As Jesus son of Sirach says: "A tale out of season is as musick in

mourning." Which

speak to folk to



to say,


the speech

avails as is




as to

who weeps. And when this wise man understood that he lacked an audience, he sat down again, much confused. For Solomon says: "When there is none will hear thee, cease to speak." "I see well," said this wise man, "that the proverb says truth, which runs, 'Good counsel is wanting when it

sing before one


most needed.'

12. Up stirten thanne the yonge folk at-ones, and the moste partie of that companye han scorned the olde wyse men, and bigonnen to make noyse, and seyden: that, right so as whyl that iren is hoot, men sholden smyte, right so, men sholde wrcken hir wronges whyle that they been fresshe and newe; and with loud voys they cryden, "werre! werrc!" Up roos tho oon of thise olde wyse, and with his hand made contenaunce that men sholde holden hem stille and yeven him audience. "Lordinges," quod he, "ther is ful many a man that cryeth 'werre! werre!' that woot ful litel what werrc amounteth. Werre at his biginning hath so greet an entree and so large, that every wight may entre whan him lyketh, and lightly finde werre. But, certes, what ende that shal ther-of bifalle, it is nat light to knowe. For sothly, whan that werre is ones bigonne, ther is ful many a child unborn of his moder, that shal sterve yong by-cause of that ilke werre, or elles live in sorwe and dye in wrecchednesse. And ther-fore, er that any werre biginne, men moste have greet conseil and greet deliberacioun." And whan this olde man wende to enforcen his tale by resons, wel ny alle at-ones bigonne they to ryse for to breken his tale, and beden him ful ofte his wordes for to abregge. For soothly, he that precheth to hem that listen nat heren his wordes, his sermon hem anoyeth. For Jesus Syrak seith: that "musik in wepinge is anoyous thing"; this is to seyn: as muche availleth to speken bifore folk to whiche his speche anoyeth, as dooth to singe biforn him that wepeth. And whan this wyse man saugh that him wanted audience, al shamefast he sette him doun agayn. For Salomon seith: "ther-as thou ne mayst have noon

audience, enforce thee nat to speke." "I see wel," quod this wyse man, "that the commune proverbe is sooth; that 'good conseil wanteth whan it is most " nede.'

Again. Melibcus had in his council many men who said one thing in his private ear and spoke otherwise in general audience.


Yet hadde



in his conseil

folk, that prively in his ere conseilled



him certeyn

and conseilled him the contrarie

in general



Melibeus heard that the greater part of his on war, straightway he showed himself in accord with them and confirmed their judgment. Then Dame Prudence, seeing that her husband shaped his course for war and revenge, humblv and alter biding her time, said to him: "My lord, I beseech you as earnestly as I dare and can,

councillors were agreed


Melibeus hadde herd that the gretteste weren accorded that he sholde maken werre, anoon he consented to hir conseilling, and fully affermed hir sentence. Thanne dame Prudence, whan that she saugh how that hir housbonde shoop him for to wreken him on his foos, and to biginne werre, she in ful humble wyse, when

partie of his conseil




she saugh hir tyme, seide him thise wordes: "My lord," quod she, "I yow biseche as hertely as I dar and can, ne haste yow nat to faste, and for alle guerdons as yeveth me audience. For Piers Alfonce

4o 5

you go not too hastily in this matter; and lor your own good give me a hearing. For Petrus Alfonsus says: 'And it one man do to another anv good or any evil, let there be no haste to repay it in kind for then will the friend remain friendly, while the enemy that


seith: 'who-so that dooth to that other good or harm, haste thee nat to quyten it; for in this wyse thy freend wol abyde, and thyn enemy shal the lenger live in drede.' The proverbe seith: 'he hasteth wel that wysely can abyde'; and in wikked haste is no profit." 14. This Melibee answerde un-to his wyf Prudence: "I purpose nat," quod he, "to werke by thy conseil, for many causes and resouns. For certes every wight wolde holde me thanne a fool; this is to seyn, if I, for thy conseilling, wolde chaungen thinges that been ordeyned and affermed by so manye wyse. Secoundly I seye, that alle wommen been wikke and noon good of hem alle. For 'of a thousand men,' seith Salomon, 'I fond a good man: but certes, of alle wommen, good womman fond I never.' And also certes, if I governed me by thy conseil, it sholde seme that I hadde yeve to thee over me the maistrie; and god forbede that it so were. For Jesus Syrak seith; 'that if the wyf have

maistrie, she

contrarious to hir housbonde.' And thy lyf, to thy wyf, ne to thy child, ne to thy freend, ne yeve no power over thyself. For bettre it were that thy children aske of thy persone thinges that hem nedeth, than thou see thy-self in the handes of thy children.' And



seith: 'never in

wolde werke by thy conseilling, certes my conseilling moste som tyme be secree, til it were tyme that it moste be knowe; and this ne may noght also, if I

be. [For it is writen, that 'the janglerie of wommen can hyden thinges that they witen noght.' Furthermore, the philosophre seith, 'in wikked conseil wommen venquisshe men'; and for thise resouns I ne ow nat usen thy conseil."


but the longer


The proverb has And in

hastens well who wisely can delay.' haste there is no profit."




This Melibeus answered Prudence his wife "I purpose not to work by your counsel, for many causes :

and reasons. For truly every man would then take for a fool; by which I mean: if I by your advising, should change things that have been ordained and confirmed by so many wise men. Secondly, I say that all women are evil and none good. 'Behold, this have I found (saith the Preacher), counting one by one, to find out the account; which vet my soul seeketh, but I found not: one man among a thousand have I found; but a woman among all those have I not found.' And certainly, if I were to be governed by your counsel, it would appear as if I had given over to you my sovereignty; and may God forbid that such a thing should ever be. For Jesus son of Sirach says: 'A woman, if she maintain her husband, is full of anger, impudence, and much reproach.' And Solomon says: 'Give not thy son and wife, thy brother and friend, power over thee while thou livest, and give not thy goods to another lest it repent thee, and thou entreat for the same again. As long as thou livest and hast breath in thee, give not thyself over to any. For better it is that thy children should seek to thee, than that thou shouldest stand to their courtesy.' And also, if I were to work according to your counselling, certain it is that my counsels must be kept secret until the proper time to make them known; and this could not thus be. For it is written that 'The chattering of women can conceal nothing except that which they do not know.' Furthermore,



the philosopher says: 'In evil counsel women surpass men.' And for all these reasons I will not follow your

advice." 15.

Whanne dame Prudence,

ful debonairly


with greet pacience, hadde herd al that hir housbonde lyked for to seye, thanne axed she of him licence for to speke, and seyde in this wyse. "My lord," quod she, "as to your firste resoun, certes it may lightly been answered. For I seye, that it is no folie to chaunge conseil whan the thing is chaunged; or elles whan the thing semeth otherweyes than it

was biforn. And more-over I seye, that though ye han sworn and bihight to perfourne your emprise, and nathelees ye weyve to perfourne thilke same emprise by juste cause, men sholde nat seyn therefore that ye were a Iyer ne forsworn. For the book seith, that 'the wyse man maketh no lesing whan he turneth his corage to the bettre.' And al-be-it so that your emprise be establissed and ordeyned by greet multitude of folk, yet thar ye nat accomplice thilke same ordinaunce but yow lyke. For the trouthe of thinges and the profit been rather foun-

When Dame Prudence, very affably and with great patience, had heard


say, then she asked of

that her husband chose to leave to speak, and said


"My lord, as to your first reason, surely it may readily be answered. For I say that it is no folly to over-rule counsel when circumstances are changed, or when the cause appears otherwise than at the first. And, moreover, I say that though you have sworn and warranted to perform your enterprise, nevertheless, should you refuse for just cause to perform it, men will not therefore say that you are a liar and forsworn. For the book says that the wise man deals not falsely

when he changes

his first


for a better

And although your undertaking be ordained and established by a great many men, vet vou need one.

not accomplish

it, unless you like. For the truth of and the profit thereof, are found rather among a few folk who are wise and reasonable than among the multitude, where every man cries and gabbles as




not worthy ot honour. he likes. Truly such a As to the second reason, wherein you say that all women arc evil, then certainly, saving your grace, vou must despise all women bv so saying; and he that



despises all displeases all, as the book says. And Seneca savs that 'Whoso has sapience will not any man dispraise; but he will gladly impart such knowledge as he can, and that without presumption and pride. And for such things as he knows not, he will not be

ashamed to inquire of and learn from lesser folk.' And, sir, that there has been many a good woman mav be easily proved. For certainly, sir. Our Lord Jesus Christ would never have condescended to be

women had been evil. And worth that is in women, Our Lord Jesus Christ, when He had risen from death unto life, appeared to a woman, rather than to His born of



if all

thereafter, for the great

And although Solomon


found good that



any woman,



says that he never

follows not, therefore,

are wicked. For, though he


never have found a good woman, surely many another man has found full many a woman to be both good and true. Or perchance Solomon's meaning was this: that so far as the highest virtue is concerned, he

found no such woman; which is to say, that there is no one who has sovereign goodness and worth, save God alone, as He Himself has caused to be recorded in His gospels. For there is no creature so good that he is not somehow wanting in the perfection of God, Who is his Maker. Your third reason is this: You sav that if you were to be governed by my counsel, it should appear as if you had given over to me the mastery and sovereignty of your person. Sir, saving your presence, it is not so. For, if it were true, then, in order that no man should ever be advised, save by those who had mastery over his person, men could not so often be advised. For truly, every man who asks counsel concerning any purpose yet retains his freedom to choose whether he will or will not proceed by that counselling. And as to your fourth reason, wherein you say that the chattering of women can hide things of the which they are not aware, as one might say that a woman cannot hide what she knows sir, these words are only to be understood of women who are both evil and gossipy of which


women men say that three things will drive a man out of his own house: smoke, and the dripping of rain, and a wicked wife. And further, of such women, Solomon says: 'It were better to dwell in a corner of the housetop than with a brawling woman wide house.' And, sir, by your leave, that I am not; for you have often enough tested my ability to keep silence, and tried my patience, and even how I

in a

men ought to keep And, in good truth, as to your fifth reason, wherein you say that in evil counsel women surpass men, God knows that this reason has no standing here. For understand now, you ask counsel to do wickedness; and if your will is to work wickedness, and your wife restrains such an ill purpose and overcomes you by reason and good counsel given, then, certainly, your wife ought rather to be praised than can hide and conceal matters that



fewe folk that been wyse and ful of resoun, than by greet multitude of folk, ther every man cryeth and clatereth what that him lyketh. Soothly swich multitude is nat honeste. As to the seconde resoun, where-as ye seyn that 'alle wommen been wikke,' save your grace, certes ye despysen alle wommen in this wyse; and 'he that alle despyseth alle displeseth,' as seith the book. And Senek seith that 'who-so wole have sapience, shal no man dispreise; but he shal gladly techen the science that he can, with-outen presumpcioun or pryde. And swiche thinges as he nought ne can, he shal nat been ashamed to lerne hem and enquere of lasse folk than him-self.' And sir, that ther hath been many a good womman, may lightly be preved. For certes, sir, our lord Jesu Crist wolde never have descended to be born of a womman, if alle wommen hadden ben wikke. And after that, for the grete bountee that is in wommen, our lord Jesu Crist, whan he was risen fro deeth to lyve, appeered rather to a womman than to his apostles. And though that Salomon seith, that 'he ne fond never womman





folweth nat therfore that



ben wikke. For though that he ne fond no good

womman, certes, ful many another man hath founden many a womman ful good and trewe. Or elles per-aventure the entente of Salomon was this; that, as in sovereyn bountee, he fond no womman; this is to seyn, that ther is no wight that hath sovereyn bountee save god allone; as he him-self recordeth in his Evaungelie. For ther nis no creature so good that him ne wanteth somwhat of the perfeccioun of god, that is his maker. Your thridde resoun is this: ye seyn that 'if ye governe yow by my conseil, it sholde seme that ye hadde yeve me the maistrie and the lordshipe over your persone.' Sir, save your grace, it is nat so. For if it were so, that no man sholde be conseilled but only of hem that hadden lordshipe and maistrie of his persone, men wolden nat be conseilled so ofte. For soothly, thilke man that asketh conseil of a purpos, yet hath he free chois, wheither he wole werke by that conseil or

And as to your fourthe resoun, ther ye seyn that 'the janglerie of wommen hath hid thinges that they woot noght,' as who seith, that 'a womnoon.

can nat hyde that she woot'; sir, thise wordes been understonde of wommen that been jangleresses and wikked; of whiche wommen, men seyn that 'three thinges dryven a man out of his hous; that is to seyn, smoke, dropping of reyn, and wikked wyves'; and of swiche wommen seith Salomon, that 'it were bettre dwelle in desert, than with a womman that is riotous.' And sir, by your leve, that am nat I; for ye han ful ofte assayed my grete silence and my gret pacience; and eek how wel that I can hyde and hele thinges that men oghte secreely to hyde. And soothly, as to your fifthe resoun, wheras ye seyn, that 'in wikked conseil wommen venquisshe men'; god woot, thilke resoun stant here in no stede. For understond now, ye asken conseil to do wikkednesse; and if ye wole werken wikkednesse, and your wyf restreyneth thilke wikked pur-




§§i6-i 7 ]

4q 7 blamed. Thus should you understand the saw of the philosopher who says that in evil counsel women surpass their husbands. And whereas you blame all

pos, and overcometh

yow by rcsoun and by good conseil; certes, your wyf oghte rather to be preised than y-blamed. Thus sholdc ye understonde the philosophre that seith, 'in wikked conseil wommen venquisshen hir housbondes.' And ther-as ye blam-

women and their reasonings, I will show you, bv many examples, that many women have been good

en alle wommen and hir resouns, I shal shewe yow by manye ensamples that many a womman hath ben ful good, and yet been; and hir conseils ful hoolsome and profitable. Eek som men han seyd,

and are yet, and have given counsel both wholesome and profitable. True, some men have said that the advice of women is either too dear or too cheap in price. But, be it that many a woman is bad, and her counsel vile and worthless, yet men have found many a good woman, full wise and full discreet in giving counsel. Behold how Jacob, by following the good advice of his mother Rebecca, won the blessing of Isaac, his father, and came to authority over all his brethren. Judith, by her good counsel, delivered the city of Bethulia, wherein she dwelt, out of the hands of Holofernes, who besieged it and who would have completely destroyed it. Abigail delivered her husband Nabal from David the king, who would have slain him, and appeased the anger of the king by her wit and good advising. Esther, by her good counsel,

that 'the conseillinge of wommen is outher to dere, or elles to litel of prys.' But al-be-it so, that ful

many a womman is badde, and hir conseil vile and noght worth, yet han men founde ful many a good womman, and ful discrete and wise in conseillinge. Lo, Jacob, by good conseil of his moder Rebekka, wan the benisoun of Ysaak his fader, and the lordshipe over alle his bretheren. Judith, by hir good conseil, delivered the citee of Bethulie, in which she dwelled, out of the handes of Olofernus, that hadde it biseged and wolde have al destroyed it. Abigail delivered Nabal hir housbonde fro David the King, that wolde have slayn him, and apaysed the ire of the king by hir wit and by hir good conseilling. Hester by hir good conseil enhaunced

greatly exalted the people of

nat good to been a man allone; make we to him an help semblable to himself.' Here may ye se that, if that wommen were nat goode, and hir conseils goode 'it is

and profitable, our lord god of hevene wolde never han wroght hem, ne called hem help of man, but rather confusioun of man. And ther seyde ones a clerk in two vers: 'what is bettre than gold? Jaspre.

What is bettre than jaspre? Wisdom. And what is bettre than wisdom? Womman. And what is bettre than a good womman? No- thing.' And sir, by manye of othre resons may ye seen, that manye wommen been goode, and hir conseils goode and profitable.

And therfore sir, if ye wol triste to conseil, I shal restore yow your doghter hool and sound. And eek I wol do to yow so muche, that ye shul have honour in this cause."


Whan Melibee hadde

1 6.

herd the wordes of his

wyf Prudence, he seyde thus: "I see wel that the word of Salomon is sooth; he seith, that 'wordes that been spoken discreetly by ordinaunce, been honycombes; for they yeven swetnesse to the soule,

and hoolsomnesse to the body.' And wyf, by-cause of thy swete wordes, and eek for I have assayed and preved thy grete sapience and thy grete trouthe, I wol governe me by thy conseil in alle thing." 17.



quod dame Prudence, "and


ye vouche-sauf to been governed by my conseil, I wol enforme yow how ye shul governe your-self in chesinge of your conseillours. Ye shul first, in alle your werkes, mekely biseken to the heighe god that

he wol be your conseillour; and shapeth yow to swich entente, that he yeve yow conseil and confort, as

taughte Thobie his sone:


of the

our forefather, he said thus: 'It is not good that the man should be alone: I will make him a help meet

ling of

forme-fader, he seyde in this wyse:

in the reign of


same excellence of good advice in many a good woman. Moreover, when Our Lord had created Adam,

greetly the peple of god in the regne of Assuerus the king. And the same bountee in good conseil-

many a good womman may men telle. And moreover, whan our lord hadde creat Adam our


King Ahasuerus. And men may

for him.' Here you may see that, if women were not good, and their counsels good and profitable, Our

Lord God of Heaven would never have wrought them, nor called them the help of man, but, rather, the confusion of man. And once a writer said, in two verses: 'What is better than gold? Jasper. What is better than jasper? Wisdom. What is better than wisdom? Woman. And what is better than woman Nothing.' And, sir, by many other examples you may see that women are good and their counselling both good and profitable. And thereupon, sir, if you will trust to my advice, I will restore to you your daughter whole and sound. And moreover, I will do for you so much that you shall come out of this affair

with honour."

When Melibeus had listened to the words of his wife Prudence, he said: "I see well that the word of Solomon

is true. He says, 'Pleasant words are as honeycomb, sweet to the soul and health to the bones.' And, wife, because of your sweet words, and because, moreover, I have tried and proved your great wisdom and your great truthfulness, I will be governed in all things by your counsels."


"Now, sir," said Dame Prudence, "since you ^i\ e yourself to be governed by my advice, I will' tell vou how to choose your councillors. You shall first, in all your works, meekly pray to the high God that He be your adviser, and you shall mould vour under-


standing in such wise that He may give you counsel and comfort, as Tobit taught his son, that is to saj 'Bless the Lord thy God always, and desire of Him :

'at alle

tymes thou



tin paths thai ihv ways may be directed anil that all and counsels ma) prosper. cAnd look to it thai all vour counsels arc in Hun tor evermore. Saint fames, let him ask of also, says: 'If any of sou lack wisdom,

And alter that, then shall \ou take counsel within yourself, and examine well vour thoughts, concerning all things that seem to he the best lor your own profit. And then shall you drive from vour heart three things that are opposed to the following oi gcxxl counsel, and they are anger, and covctousGod.'

and hastiness. "First, he that takes counsel within himself, certainlv he must be free from anger, and this for many



and praye him to dresse thy wcyes'; and looke that alle thy conseils been in him for evermore. Seint Jame eek seith: 'if any of yow have nede of sapience, axe it of god.' And afterward thanne shul ye taken conseil in your-self, and examine wel your thoghtes, of swich thing as yow thinketh that is best for your profit. And thanne shul ye dryve fro your herte three thinges that been contrariouse to good conseil, that is to seyn, ire, coveitise, and hastifnesse. shalt blesse god,


reasons. The first one is this: He that has great ire and wrath within himself thinks always that he is

capable of doing things that he cannot do. Secondly. he that is angry and full of wrath cannot think or judge well, and he that cannot judge well cannot well

The third reason is this: That 'He that is angry,' as says Seneca, 'can speak only to berate and blame.' And thus with his vicious words he drives advise.

others into a like state.

"And too, sir, vou must drive covetousness out of vour heart. For the Apostle says that 'The love of money is the root of all evil.' And, trust me, a covetous man cannot judge correctly, nor can he think well, save ness;


only to the furtherance of his covetousthat, in truth, can never really be accom-

plished, because the richer he becomes, the greater desire has he for yet a larger abundance. And, sir, vou must drive hastiness out ot your

inmost heart. For certain it is that you cannot hold to be best the sudden thought that comes into your heart, but you must weigh it and advise upon it. For, as vou have heard before, the common proverb has it that he who resolves in haste soon repents. Sir, you are not ahvavs in like mood and of a like disposition for surely that which at one time seems good to vou. at another appears to be quite the contrary. "When you have taken counsel within yourself, ;

and have,


due deliberation, deemed such, or

such, a thing to be for the best, then, I advise you, it secret. Reveal not your intentions to any per-


son, save to such as you mav certainly know will be of help to render your position more tenable through such revelation. For Jesus son ot Sirach says: Whether it be to a friend or a foe, talk not of other men's lives; and if thou canst without offense, reveal them not. For he heard and observed thee, and when time cometh he will hate thee.' And another writer says: 'Hardly shalt thou find one person who can keep secrets.' The Book says: While thou dost keep thy counsel in thine own heart, thou keepest it imprisoned; and when thou revealest it to anyone, he hold"

eth thee imprisoned.' And thcretore it is better that you hide vour thoughts within your own heart, than pray to him to whom you have told them that he

be close and keep silence. For Seneca says: It thou canst not keep thine own counsel, how darest thou beg of another that he will do SO?' But, nevertheless, it you deem certainly that the revealing ot vour secret to anyone will better your condition.


18. First, he that axeth conseil of him-self, certes he moste been with-outen ire, for manye causes. The firste is this: he that hath greet ire and wratthe in him-self, he weneth alwey that he may do thing that he may nat do. And secoundely, he that is irous and wroth, he ne may nat wel deme; and he that may nat wel deme, may nat wel conseille. The

thridde is this; that 'he that is irous and wrooth,' as seith Senek, 'ne may nat speke but he blame thinges'; and with his viciouse wordes he stireth other folk to angre and to ire. And eek sir, ye mosre dryve coveitise out of

your herte. For the apostle

that 'coveitise

rote of alle harmes.'


that a coveitous

but only to




And trust wel

ne can noght deme ne thinke,

the ende of his coveitise; and

ne may never been accompliced; for ever the more habundaunce that he hath of richesse, the more he desyreth. And sir, ye moste also dryve out of your herte hastifnesse; for certes, ye ne may nat deme for the beste a sodeyn thought that falleth in youre herte, but ye moste avyse yow on it ful ofte. For as ye herde biforn, the commune proverbe is this, that 'he that sone demeth, sone certes, that

repenteth.' 19. Sir,

for certes,


it is

ye ne be nat alwey in lyke disposicioun;



thing that

somtyme semeth to yow tyme it semeth to

for to do, another

yow the contrarie. 20. Whan ye han taken conseil in your-self, and han demed by good deliberacion swich thing as you semeth best, thanne rede I yow, that ye kepe it secree. Biwrey nat your conseil to no persone,

but-if so be that ye


sikerly that,

thurgh your

biwreying, your condicioun shal be to yow the more profitable. For Jesus Syrak seith: 'neither to thy foo ne to thy freend discovere nat thy secree ne thy folie; for they wol yeve yow audience and loking and supportacioun in thy presence, and scorne thee

thyn absence.' Another clerk seith, that 'scarsly shaltou finden any persone that may kepe conseil secreely.' The book seith: 'whyl that thou kepest thy conseil in thyn herte, thou kepest it in thy in

whan thou biwreyest thy conseil to any wight, he holdeth thee in his snare.' And therefore prisoun: and

is bettre to hyde your conseil in your herte, than praye him, to whom ye han biwreyed your conseil, that he wole kepen it cloos and stille. For Seneca seith: 'if so be that thou ne mayst nat thyn owene conseil hyde, how darstou prayen any other


wight thy conseil secreely to kepe?' But nathelees, if thou wene sikerly that the biwreying of thy con-




wol make thy condicioun to stonden in the bettre plyt, thanne shaltou tellen him thy conseil in this wyse. First, thou shalt make no semblant whether thee were lever pees or werre, or this or that, ne shewe him nat thy wille and thyn

no indication whether you prefer peace or, or this or that, and show him not vour determination and intent; for, trust mc, councillors arc commonly

entente; for trust wel, that comunly thise conseillours been flatereres, namely the conseillours of grete lordes; for they enforcen hem alwey rather to

For they are at pains always to speak pleasantly inclining toward the lord's desire, rather than to use words that are, in themselves, true and profitable.


to a persone

speken plesante wordes, enclyninge to the lordes lust, than wordes that been trewe or profitable. And therfore men seyn, that 'the riche man hath seld good conseil but-if he have it of himself.' And after that, thou shalt considere thy freendes and thyne enemys. And as touchinge thy freendes, thou shalt considere whiche of hem been most feithful and most wyse, and eldest and most approved in conseilling. And of hem shalt thou aske thy conseil, as

that 'right as the herte of a

man delyteth in savour

sote, right so the conseil of

trewe freendes yeveth swetenesse to the soule.' He seith also: 'ther may no-thing be lykned to the trewe freend.' For certes, gold ne silver beth nat so muche worth as the gode wil of a trewe freend. And eek he seith, that 'a trewe freend is a strong deffense; who-so is

findeth, certes he findeth a greet tresour.' considere, if that your trewe freendes been discrete and wyse. For the book that


Thanne shul ye eek

'axe alwey thy conseil of


And by


that been

same resoun shul ye clepen to your conseil, of your freendes that been of age, swiche as han seyn and been expert in manye thinges, and been approved in conseillinges. For the book seith, that 'in olde men is the sapience and in longe tyme the prudence.' And Tullius seith: that 'grete thinges ne been nat ay accompfliced by strengthe, ne by delivernesse of body, but by good conseil, by auctoritee of persones, and by science; the whiche three thinges ne been nat feble by age, but certes they enforcen and encreesen day by day.' And thanne shul ye kepe this wyse.'


for a general reule. First shul ye clepen to your conseil a fewe of your freendes that been especiale; for




'manye freendes have thou; oon to be thy conseillour.' For al-be-it so that thou first ne telle thy conseil but to a fewe, thou mayst afterward telle it to mo folk, if it be nede. But loke seith:

a thousand chese thee

alwey that thy conseillours have thilke three condiciouns that I have seyd bifore; that is to seyn, that they be trewe, wyse, and of old experience. And werke nat alwey in every nede by oon counseillour allone; for somtyme bihoveth it to been conseilled


by manye. For Salomon seith: 'salvais wheras ther been manye

of thinges

conseillours'. 22.





in this wise. First,

flatterers, especially the councillors


shall give

of great lords. .




say that the rich




good counsel, save as he has it from himself. And after that, you shall consider your friends and your enemies. Touching your friends, you must consider which of them are most old and faithful, and wisest, and most approved in counselling. And of them shall you ask advice, as the event requires. ceives

the caas requireth.

21. 1 seye that first ye shul clepe to your conseil your freendes that been trewe. For Salomon seith:




sith that I

"I say that first you must call into council such of your friends as are true. For Solomon savs: "Ointment and perfume rejoice the heart; so doth the sweetness of a man's friend by heartv counsel.' He says also: 'Nothing doth countervail a faithful friend, and his excellency is invaluable.' For certain it is that neither gold nor silver are worth so much as the goodwill of a true friend. Again he savs: 'A faithful friend is a strong defence: and he that hath found such an one hath found a treasure.' "Then, too, shall you consider whether your real friends are discreet and wise. For the Book says: 'Stand in the multitude of the elders, and cleave unto






for this reason

you should


your council, of your friends that have arrived at a proper age, those who have seen and experienced many things, and who have been approved in parliaments. For the Book says: 'With the ancient is wisdom; and in length of days understanding.' And Tullius says: 'Great things are not accomplished by* strength and activity of bodv, but by counsel, authority, and knowledge; and these things do not become enfeebled with age, but rather grow stronger and increase day after to


"And then you

keep this for a general rule. your council but a few of your most special friends. For Solomon says: 'Have thou many friends, but of a thousand choose but one to be thy councillor.' And although you should, at the first, tell your secrets to but a few, afterward you may tell First,



shall call to

them to others, if there be need. But look to it always that your councillors have the three attributes that I have mentioned, namely: that they are true, wise, and experienced. And act not alwavs, and in every need, by the advice of one councillor alone; for sometimes it is well to have the advice of manv. Says Solomon: 'Without counsel purposes are disappointed: but in the multitude of councillors thevare established.'

have told yow of which folk

ye sholde been counseilled, now wol I teche yow which conseil ye oghte to eschewe. First ye shul eschewe the conseilling of foles; for Salomon seith:

"Now that I have told you of the sort of folk b\ whom you should be counselled, will teach you I

which sort of counsel you ought to eschew. First, you shall avoid the counselling of fools. For Solomon




he readily believes evil of everyone, and as readily believes all good of himself. You shall such .is also eschew the counselling of all flatterers,

The book








force themselves rather to praise your person than to tell you the truth about things.

'Wherefore Tultius says, that of all the pestilences of friendship, the greatest is flattery. And so ins more needful that you eschew and fear flatterers than any other kind of men. The Book says that one should rather flee from and fear the sweet words of flatterers

than the earnest words of the friend


one the truth. Solomon says that the words of a wherewith to catch innocents. says also, that he who speaks sweet words to his


flatterer are a snare


friend, sets before his feet a net to catch him.


therefore says Tullius Cicero: 'Incline not thine c;irs to flatterers, nor take counsel of flattering words.' And Cato says: 'Be well advised, and avoid sweet and pleasant words.' And you must also eschew the

counsels of such of your former enemies as have become reconciled to you. The Book says that no one can safely trust to the goodwill of a former enemy.

And /Esop says: 'Trust not to those with whom you have been sometime at war or in enmity, neither tell them of your intentions.' And Seneca tells us the reason for this. 'It may not be.' says he, 'that, where fire has long existed there shall remain no vapour of heat.' And thereto says Solomon: 'The kisses of an enemv are deceitful.' For, certainly, though your enemy may be reconciled, and appear before you in all humilitv, and bow his head to you, you should never trust him. Surely he feigns this humility more for his advantage than for any love of you; for he thinks to gain some victory over you by such feigning, the which he could not gain by strife of open war. And Petrus Alfonsus says: 'Have no fellowship with ancient foes; for if you do good to them, they will pervert it into evil.' And, too, you must eschew the advice of those who are your own servants and bear themselves toward you with all reverence; for perchance they speak more out of fear than for love. And therefore says a philosopher thus: 'There is no one perfectly true to him of whom he is afraid.' And Tullius says: 'There is no power of any emperor, fitted to endure, save it be founded more in the love of the people than in the fears.' You must also avoid the counselling of drunkards; for they can retain nothing. Solomon says that there is no secrecy where drunkenness reigns. You should also suspect the counsels of such as advise you privately to one thing and to a contrary thing in public. For Cassiodorus says that it is but an artifice to hinder when a man does one thing openly and its contrary in private. You should also hold suspect the counselling of the wicked. For the Book says that the advice oi the wicked is always full offraud. And David says that he



happv man who has not followed the counsellYou should also avoid and shun

ing of villains.



he ne can noght conbut after his owenc lust and his affeccioun.'

no conseil ofa

says: 'Consult not with a fool, for he cannot keep counsel.' It is saul in a book thai the characteristic

fool, for

seith: that 'the propretee of a fool is he troweth lightly harm of every wight, and lightly troweth alle bountee in himself.' Thou shalt eek eschewe the conseilling of alle flatcrcres, swiche as enforcen hem rather to preise your persone by flaterye than for to telle yow the sothfastnesse of thinges.



Wherfore Tullius





pestilences that been in freendshipe, the gretteste is flaterye.' And therfore is it more nede that thou eschewe and drede flatereres than any other peple.

'thou shalt rather drede and flee wordes of flateringe preiseres, than fro the egre wordes of thy freend that seith thee thy sothes.' Salomon seith, that 'the wordes of a

The book


fro the swete

flaterere is a snare to cacche

with innocents.'


seith also, that 'he that speketh to his freend wordes of swetnesse and of plesaunce, setteth a net biforn

And therfore seith Tullius: 'enclyne nat thynes eres to flatereres, ne taketh no conseil of wordes of flaterye.' And Caton seith: 'avyse thee wel, and eschewe the wordes of swetnesse and of plesaunce.' And eek thou shalt eschewe the conseilling of thyne olde enemys that been reconsiled. The book seith: that 'no wight retourneth saufly in-to the grace of his olde enemy.'

his feet to cacche him.'

Isope seith: 'ne trust nat to hem to whiche thou hast had som-tyme werre or enmitee, ne telle hem nat thy conseil.' And Seneca telleth the cause why. Tt may nat be,' seith he, 'that, where greet fyr hath longe tyme endured, that ther ne dwelleth som vapour of warmnesse.' And therfore seith Salomon: 'in thyn olde foo trust never.' For sikerly, though thyn enemy be reconsiled and maketh thee chere of humilitee, and louteth to thee with his heed, ne trust him never. For certes, he maketh thilke feyned humilitee more for his profit than for any love of thy persone; by-cause that he demeth to have victorie over thy persone by swich feyned contenance, the which victorie he mighte nat have by stryf or werre. And Peter Alfonce seith: 'make no felawshipe with thyne olde enemys; for if thou do hem bountee, they wol perverten it into wikkednesse.' And eek thou most eschewe the conseilling of hem that been thy servants, and


beren thee greet reverence; for peraventure they seyn it more for drede than for love. And therfore seith a philosophre in this wyse: 'ther is no wight parfitly trewe to him that he to sore dredeth.' And Tullius seith: 'ther nis no might so greet of any emperour, that longe may endure, but-if he have more love of the peple than drede.' Thou shalt also eschewe the conseiling of folk that been dronkelewe; for they ne can no conseil hyde. For Salomon seith: 'ther is no privetee ther-as regneth dronkenesse.' Ye shul also han in suspect the conseilling of

swich folk as conseille yow a

tiling priv-

the contrarie openly. For Cassidorie seith: that 'it is a maner sleighte to hindre, whan he sheweth to doon a thing openly







and werkcth prively the contrarie.' Thou shalr also have in suspect the conseilling of wikked folk. For the hook seith: 'the conseilling of wikked folk is alwey ful of fraude': And David seith: 'blisful is that



that hath nat folwed the conseilling of also eschewe the conseilling

Thou shah

of yong folk; for hir conseil is nat rype. 24. Now sir, sith I have shewed yow of which folk ye shul take your conseil, and of which folk ye shul folwe the conseil, now wol I teche yow how ye shal examine your conseil, after the doctrine of Tulhus. In the examininge thanne of your conseillour, ye shul considere manye thinges Alder.

first thou shalt considere, that in thilke thing that thou purposest, and upon what thing thou wolt have conseil, that verray trouthe be seyd and conserved; this is to seyn, telle trewely thy tale. For he that seith fals may nat wel be conseilled, in that cas of which he lyeth. And after this, thou shale considere the thinges that acorden to that thou purposest for to do by thy conseillours, if resoun accorde therto; and eek, if thy might may atteine ther-to; and if the more part and the bettre part of thy conseillours acorde ther-to, or no. Thanne

shaltou considere what thing shal folwe of that conseilling; as hate, pees, werre, grace, profit, or

damage; and manye othere thinges. And in alle thou shalt chese the beste, and weyve

thise thinges alle

other thinges.

Thanne shaltow considere of

what rote is engendred the matere of thy conseil, and what fruit it may conceyve and engendre. Thou shalt eek considere alle thise causes, fro whennes they been sprongen. And whan ye han examined your conseil as I have seyd, and which partie is the bettre and more profitable, and hast approved it by manye wyse folk and olde; thanne shaltou considere, if thou mayst parfourne it and maken of it a eood ende. For certes, resoun wol nat that any man sholde biginne a thing, but-if he mighte parfourne it as him oghte. Ne no wight sholde take up-on hym so hevy a charge that he mighte nat bere it. For the proverbe seith: 'he that to muche embraceth, distreyneth litel.' And Catoun seith: 'assay to do swich thing as thou hast power to doon,

the charge oppresse thee so sore, weyve thing that thou hast if so be that thou be in doute,wheth-

lest that

that thee bihoveth to



er thou

mayst parfourne a thing or noon, chese rather to suffre than biginne. And Piers Alphonce seith: 'if thou hast might to doon a thing of which thou most repente thee, it is bettre "nay" than "ye";' to seyn, that thee is bettre holde thy tonge than for to speke. Thanne may ye understonde by strenger resons, that if thou hast power to parfourne a werk of which thou shalt repente, thanne is it bettre that thou suffre than biginne. Wel seyn they, that defenden every wight to assaye any thing of which he is in doute, whether he may parfourne it or no. And after, whan ye han examined your conseil as I have seyd biforn, and knowen wel that ye may parfourne youre emprise, conferme it thanne sadly til it be at an ende. this




the advice of the young; for their judgments arc not mature.

"And now.

sir. that have shown vou as to the from whom you may take counsel, and what counsel you may accept and follow, now will I teach you how that counsel should be examined, accordI


ing to the doctrines of Tullius. In bringing a councilyou must consider many things. First, you should consider that, in this very thing that vou purpose, and upon which you are in need of advice,

lor to the test,

only the truth


case truthfully.

be told; that

For he that


to sav, state


or prevaricates



not well be counselled, at least in so far as he has deceived. And after this, you must consider die things that agree with your purpose in council; whether reason agrees therewith and whether you have power to attain your purpose; and whether the major and the better part of your council agree with it. Then shall you consider the probable result of acting upon ;


your advices:

as hate, peace, war,

honour, gain,

and many other things. And in all these things you must choose the best and avoid all else. Then must you take into consideration the root whereof is grown the matter of your counselling, and what fruit it may engender. Then, too, you shall consider all of the causes and examine into the causes of causes. And when you have examined your counselling as I have outlined to you, and have determined which part of it is the better and more profitable, and have found it to be approved by many wise and elderly men: then shall you consider whether you have power to carry it to a good end. For surely reason will not permit a man to begin a thing, save he carry it through as he should." Nor should anyone take upon himself a burden so heavy that he cannot bear it. For savs the loss,

He that too much embraces, confines but And Cato says: 'Attempt only what thou hast

proverb: little.


to do, lest the great task so oppress thee that behoove thee to forgo that which thou hast begun.' And if it be that you are in doubt whether



you can perform a thing, choose rather to suffer than For Petrus Alfonsus says: 'If you have power to do any thing which you must later regret, it is better to say nay than yea.' That is to say, it is better to keep silence than to speak. Then may vou apprehend, and for stronger reasons, that if you have the ability to carry out any work whereof it is likely that later you must repent, then it is better to suffer it to remain undone than to begin it. Well do they speak who forbid a man to attempt a thing of which he has doubt of his ability to perform it. And afterward, when you have thoroughly examined your counsels, as I have set forth, and are convinced that you can carry through your enterprise to its goal, conform to it, then, gravely and carefully to the end. to begin.



time th.u I instruct you when aiul tor what vou nr»av change yoUk intention without reproach. For truly a man may change purpose and




when the cause for them is removed, or when new condition arises. For the l.iw says thai new conditions demand new counsels. And Seneca says: it thv plan be come to the ears ot thine enemy, change plan


thy plan.'

You may

change your plan


if it


ops that, through error or for other reason, harm will ensue from following it. Also, if your counselling is dishonest, or comes of a false premise, change yolir plan. For the laws provide that all dishonest mandates are invalid. And plans may be altered if they are impossible of fulfilment, or


not well be per-


'And take sel



this for a general rule:

That every coun-

so rigorously established that

altered, for

any condition that may

that counsel



cannot be

arise, I say that


This Melibeus, when he had heard all the docDame Prudence, answered her thus: "Dame, so far you have well and agreeably taught me, in a general way, how I should govern myself in the choosing and in the rejecting ot councillors. But now I would fain have vou descend to the particular, and tell me how you like them and how thev appear to you I mean, the councillors who have been already chosen in the present need." "Mv lord," said she, "I beg of you, in all humility, that vou will not wilfully object to my reasons.nor allow anger to enter your heart, even though I should say things that must displease you. For God knows that, as for my intention, I speak to your best interest, your honour, and your advantage. And, truly, I hope that your benignity will take it all in patience. Trust me, your counselling in this case should not be called counselling, properly speaking, but only a mo tion to do follv; and you have erred in many ways trines of his wife.

"First and foremost,

you have erred

in the


and manner of assembling your councillors. For you should have called, at first, but a few, and thereafter, had there arisen a need, you might have called in more. But, indeed, you have suddenly called into council a great multitude of persons, all very burdensome and all very tiresome to hear. Also, you have erred thus: whereas you should have called into council only your true friends, elderly and wise, you have gathered here many strange men, and young men, false flatterers, reconciled enemies, and men who do you reverence without love. Again, you have erred in that you have brought with you into council anger, covetousness, and hastiness, the which three things are antagonistic to every honest and profitable parliament; nor have you voided nor destroyed them, you ought you have revealed your wishes to your councillors, and your desire to make war and obtain vengeance; they have learned from your speeches the thing toward

either in yourself or in your councillors, as to have done.

You have

erred, again, in that

Now is it resoun and tyme that


shewe yow, whanne, and wherfore, that ye may chaunge your conseil with-outen your repreve. Soothly, a man may chaungen his purpos and his conseil if the cause cesseth, or whan a newe caas bitydeth. For the lawe seith: that 'upon thinges that newely bityden bihoveth newe conseil.' And Senek seith: 'if thy conseil is comen to the eres of thyn enemy, chaunge thy conseil.' Thou mayst also chaunge thy conseil if so be that thou finde that, by errour or by other cause, harm or damage may bityde. Also, if thy conseil be dishonest, or elles cometh of dishoneste cause, chaunge thy conseil. For the lawes seyn: that 'alle bihestes that been dishonest been of no value.' And eek, if it so be that it be inpossible, or may nat goodly be parfourned or kept. 25.




take this for a general reule, that every is affermed so strongly that it may nat

conseil that

be chaunged, for no condicioun that may bityde, I seye that thilke conseil is wikked." 27. This Melibeus, whanne he hadde herd the doctrine of his wyf dame Prudence, answerde in this wyse. "Dame," quod he, "as yet in-to this tyme ye han wel and covenably taught me as in general, how I shal governe me in the chesinge and in the withholdinge of my conseillours. But now wolde I fayn that ye wolde condescende in especial, and telle me how lyketh yow, or what semeth yow, by our conseillours that we han chosen in our present nede." 28. "My lord," quod she, "I biseke yow in al humblesse, that ye wol nat wilfully replye agayn my resouns, ne distempre your herte thogh I speke thing that yow displese. For god wot that, as in myn entente, I speke it for your beste, for your

honour and for your profite eke. And soothly, I hope that your benignitee wol taken it in pacience. Trusteth me wel," quod she, "that your conseil as in this caas ne sholde nat, as to speke properly, be called a conseilling, but a mocioun or a moevyng of folye; in which conseil ye han erred in many a sondry wyse. 29. First and forward, ye han erred in th'assemblinge of your conseillours. For ye sholde first have cleped a fewe folk to your conseil, and after ye mighte han shewed it to mo folk, if it hadde been nede. But certes, ye han sodeynly cleped to your conseil a greet multitude of peple, ful chargeant and ful anoyous for to here. Also ye han erred, for there-as ye sholden only have cleped to your conseil your trewe freendes olde and wyse, ye han y-cleped straunge folk, and yong folk, false flatereres, and enemys reconsiled, and folk that doon yow reverence withouten love. And eek also ye have erred, for ye han broght with yow to your conseil ire, covetise, and hastifnesse; the whiche three thinges been contrariouse to every conseil honeste and profitable; the whiche three thinges ye han nat anientissed or destroyed hem, neither in your-self ne in your conseillours, as yow oghte. Ye han erred also, for ye han shewed to your conseillours your talent,


and your affeccioun to make werre anon do vengeance; they han espyed by your

for to



wordes to what thing ye been enclyned. And therfore han they rather conseilled yow to your talent than to your profit. Ye han erred also, for it semeth that yow suffyseth to han been conseilled by thise conseillours only, and with litel avys; wher-as, in so greet and so heigh a nede, it hadde been necessarie mo conseillours, and more deliberacioun to parfourne your emprise. Ye han erred also, for ye han nat examined your conseil in the forseyde manere, ne in due manere as the caas requireth. Ye han erred also, for ye han maked no divisioun bitwixe your conseillours; this is to seyn, bitwixen your trewe freendes and your feyned conseillours; ne ye han nat knowe the wil of your trewe freendes olde and wyse; but ye han cast alle hir wordes in an hochepot, and enclyned your herte to the more part and to the gretter nombre; and ther been ye condescended. And sith ye wot wel that men shal alwey finde a gretter nombre of foles than of wyse men, and therfore the conseils that been at congregaciouns and multitudes of folk, ther-as men take more reward to the nombre than to the sapience of persones, ye see wel that in swiche conseillinges foles han the maistrie." Melibeus answerde agayn, and seyde: "I graunte wel that I have erred; but ther-as thou hast told me heer-biforn, that he nis nat to blame that chaungeth hise conseillours in certein caas, and for certeine juste causes, I am al redy to chaunge my conseillours, right as thou wolt devyse. The proverbe seith: that 'for to do sinne is mannish, but certes for to persevere longe in sinne is werk of the devel.' " 30. To this sentence answerde anon dame Prudence, and seyde: "Examineth," quod she, "your conseil, and lat us see the whiche of hem han spoken most resonably, and taught yow best conseil. And for-as-muche as that the examinacioun is necessarie, lat us biginne at the surgiens and at the phisiciens, that first speken in this matere. I sey yow, that the surgiens and phisiciens han seyd yow in your conseil discreetly, as hem oughte; and in hir speche seyden ful wysly, that to the office of hem aperteneth to doon to every wight honour and profit, and no wight for to anoye; and, after hir craft, to doon greet diligence un-to the cure of hem whiche that they han in hir governaunce. And sir, right as they han answered wysly and discreetly, right so rede I that they been heighly and sovereynly guerdoned for hir noble speche; and eek for they sholde do the more ententif bisinesse in the curacioun of your doghter dere. For al-be-it so that they been your freendes, therfore shal ye nat suf-

fren that they serve yow for noght; but ye oghte the rather guerdone hem and shewe hem your largesse.

And as

touchinge the proposicioun which

that the phisiciens entreteden in this caas, this is to seyn, that, in maladyes, that oon contrarie is warisshed by another contrarie, I wolde fayn

knowe how ye understonde thilke text, and what is your sentence." "Certes," quod Melibeus, "I understonde it in this wyse: that, right as they han

which you


incline. Therefore,

thev have advised you agreeably to your wishes, rather than to vmr profit You have erred, also, in that it appears to have sufficed you to be counselled bv these councillors only, and with little advising; whereas, in so great and high a matter, it was really encumbent upon vou to have procured more councillors and to have deliberated longer upon the means of performing vour enterprise. Again you have erred, for you have not examined and tested your council in the manner aforesaid, nor in any manner required bv the cause. You have erred, again, in that you have made no division between your councillors; that is to sav, between your true friends and your feigned; nor have you learned the desire of your true friends, the elderly and wise of them; but you have cast the words of every man into a hotchpot, and vou have then inclined your heart toward the majoritv, and upon that side have you stooped to folly. And since you well know that men must always exhibit, in any gathering, a greater number of fools than of wise heads, therefore in those councils composed of large numbers, where rather is considered the will of the majority than the wisdom of individuals, you may see easily enough that in such cases the fools must have the mastery." Melibeus answered her again, saying: "I grant that I have erred; but since you have already told me that he is not to blame who changes councillors under certain conditions and for just causes, I stand ready to change mine, just as you shall prompt. The proverb runs: To err is human, but to persist in sin is the work of the devil."


this replied





us see

Prudence: "Examine your which of them have spoken

most reasonably and given the best advice. And since such an examination is necessary, let us begin with the surgeons and physicians who spoke the first in this cause. J say that the surgeons and physicians have spoken discreetly, as they should; and they wisely spoke when they said that to their profession belongs the duty of dealing honourably with everv man, and to his profit, and to harm no one; and, according to their skill, to set diligently about the healing of those under their care. And sir, since thev have answered wisely and discreetly, I advise that they be richly and nobly rewarded for their noble speech, and, too, that they


be the more atten-

tive to the healing of your dear daughter. For,


they are your friends, you must not suffer it that they serve you for nothing; you ought, indeed, but the more to reward them and to give them largess. And, touching the proposition that the physicians introduced into this case, namely, that, in diseases, the thing is cured by its contrary, I would fain learn how you understand that saying and what is your opinion of it." "Indeed." said Melibeus, "I understand it thus: That just as they have done me an injury, so should I do them another. For just as they have revenged themselves upon me, and have therebv done me a wrong, so shall I now take my revenge and do them



414 wrong. And then bv another."




have cured one contrary

'i.o, lo." exclaimed Dame Prudence, "how easily every man inclined toward Ins own desire and to the securing of his own pleasure! Surely the words of the physicians should not have been interpreted in this sense. For, indeed, wickedness is not the contrarv of wickedness, nor is vengeance of \ cngcanee, nor wrong of wrong; but they are their likenesses. And therefore one vengeance is not to be cured by another vengeance, nor one wrong by another wrong but, rather, each of them fructifies and engenders upon the other. But the words of the physicians should be understood in this wise: good and evil are opposites, and peace and war, revenge and forgiveness, discord and concord, and many others. But. certainly, wickedness shall be cured by goodness, discord by concord, war by peace, and so on of other things. And with this Saint Paul the Apostle accords in manv places. Says he: 'See that none render evil for evil unto any man; but ever follow that which is good, both among yourselves, and to all men.' And in many other places he admonishes to peace is

and harmony.

"But now will I speak of the counselling that was given by the lawyers and suchlike wise men, who were all of one accord, as you heard: to the effect that, above all else, you should be diligent in guarding vour person and in garrisoning and provisioning your house. And they held, also, that in these matters you ought to act advisedly and after much deliberation. Sir, as to the first point, which touches upon the safety of your person, you must understand that he who is at war should meekly and devoutly pray, above all things, that Jesus Christ, of His great mercy, will keep him under His protection and be his sovereign and verv present help in time of need. For assuredly, in this world there is no man who can be safeguarded by advice, save and except he be within the keeping of Our Lord Jesus Christ. With this opinion agrees the prophet David, who says: 'Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman wakes but in vain.' Now then, sir, you shall commit the guarding of your person to your true friends, approved and well known for of them only should you ask such help. For Cato says: 'If thou hast need of aid, ask it of thy friends; for there is no physician so valuable as thy true friend.' And hereafter you must keep always from all strange folk, and from liars, and hold them always suspect. For Petrus Alfonsus says: 'Never take company of a strange man, on the way, unless it is that you have known him longer than the present moment. And if it be that he fall in with you by accident, and without your ;

you may. into his and do you dissemble for yourself; say that you are going where you do not intend to go; and it he carry a spear, walk upon the right side ot him, and it he bear a sword, walk assent, inquire then, as subtly as

conversation and into his


doon me


doon hem another. For right as they han venged hem on me and doon me wrong, right so shal I venge me upon hem and doon hem wrong; and thanne have I cured oon contrarie by another." 31. "Lo, lo!" quod dame Prudence, "how lightly is every man enclyned to his owene desyr and to his owene plesaunce! Certes," quod she, "the wordes of the phisiciens ne sholde nat han been understonden in this wyse. For certes, wikkednesse a contrarie, right so



nat contrarie to wikkednesse, ne vengeaunce to vengeaunce, ne wrong to wrong; but they been semblable. And therfore, o vengeaunce is nat warisshed by another vengeaunce, ne o wrong by another wrong; but everich of hem encreesceth and aggreggeth other. But certes, the wordes of the phisiciens sholde been understonden in this wyse: for good and wikkednesse been two contraries, and pees and werre, vengeaunce and suffraunce, discord and accord, and manye othere thinges. But certes, wikkednesse shal be warisshed by goodnesse, discord by accord, werre by pees, and so forth of othere thinges. And heer-to accordeth Seint Paul the apostle in manye places. He seith: 'ne yeldeth nat harm for harm, ne wikked speche for wikked speche; but do wel to him that dooth thee harm, and blesse him that seith to thee harm.' And in manye othere places he amonesteth pees and accord. But now wol I speke to yow of the conseil which that was yeven to yow by the men of lawe and the wyse folk, that seyden alle by oon accord as ye han herd bifore; that, over alle thynges, ye sholde doon your diligence to kepen your persone and to warnestore your hous. And seyden also, that in this caas ye oghten for to werken ful avysely and with greet deliberacioun. And sir, as to the firste point, that toucheth to the keping of your persone; ye shul understonde that he that hath werre shal evermore mekely and devoutly preyen biforn alle thinges, that Jesus Crist of his is


mercy wol han him



in his proteccioun, and sovereyn helping at his nede. For certes, in this world ther is no wight that may be conseilled ne kept suffisantly withouten the keping of our lord Jesu Crist. To this sentence accordeth the prophete David, that seith: 'if god ne kepe the citee, in ydel waketh he that it kepeth.' Now sir, thanne shul ye committe the keping of your persone to your trewe freendes that been approved and y-knowe; and of hem shul ye axen help your persone for to kepe. For Catoun seith: 'if thou hast nede of help, axe it of thy freendes; for ther nis noon so good a phisicien as thy trewe freend.' And after this, thanne shul ye kepe yow fro alle straunge folk, and fro lyeres, and have alwey in suspect hir companye. For Piers Alfonce seith: 'ne take no companye by the weye of a straunge man, but-if so be that thou have known him of a lenger tymc. And if so be that he falle in- to thy companye paraventure withouten thyn assent, enquere thanne, as subtilly as thou mayst, of his conversacioun and of his lyf bifore, and feyne thy wey; seye that thou



goost thider as thou wolt nat go; and if he bereth a spere, hold thee on the right syde, and if he bere a swerd, hold thee on the lift syde.' And after this, thanne shul ye kepe yow wysely from alle swich manere peple as I have seyd bifore, and hem and hir conseil eschewe. And after this, thanne shul ye kepe yow in swich manere, that for any presumpcioun of your strengthe, that ye ne dispyse nat ne acounte nat the might of your adversarie so litel, that ye lete the keping of your persone for your presumpcioun; for every wys man dredeth his enemy. And Salomon seith: 'weleful is he that of alle hath drede; for certes, he that thurgh the hardinesse of his herte and thurgh the hardinesse of him-self hath to greet presumpcioun, him shal yvel bityde.' Thanne shul ye evermore countrewayte embusshements and alle espiaille. For Senek seith: that 'the wyse man that dredeth harmes escheweth harmes; ne he ne falleth in-to perils,

that perils escheweth.' And al-be-it so that it seme that thou art in siker place, yet shaltow alwey do thy diligence in kepinge of thy persone; this is to

seyn, ne be nat necligent to kepe thy persone, nat only fro thy gretteste enemys but fro thy leeste

enemy. Senek seith: 'a man that is wel avysed, he dredeth his leste enemy.' Ovide seith: that 'the litel wesele wot slee the grete bole and the wilde hert.' And the book seith: 'a litel thorn may prikke a greet king ful sore; and an hound wol holde the wilde boor.' But nathelees, I sey nat thou shalt be so coward that thou doute ther wher-as is no drede.

The book

seith: that



han greet




hereafter shall yon wisely hold yourself verily aloof from the sorts of people I have described, and eschew both them and their counsel. his left.'

Andyoushallnotpresumesomuchuponyourstrength that you are led to despise and hold as naught the might of your adversary, thus endangering your person by this presumption; for everv wise man fears his enemy. And Solomon says that it is well for him that suspects all others; for verily he that, because of the courage of his heart and the strength of his body, presumes too much upon them— him shall evil

Then, you should guard always against all all espionage. For Seneca savs: 'The wise man that fears danger avoids danger; he does not fall into peril who peril shuns.' And though it may seem that you are secure in a place, yet shall you be always upon your guard; that is to say, be not negligent either before your greatest enemy or your least. Seneca says: 'A man that is well advised befall.

ambushments and

dreads his weakest foe.' Ovid says that the little weasel may kill the great bull and the wild hart. And the Book says that a little thorn may sorely prick a great king; and that a hound will hold the wild boar. But, nevertheless, I do not say that you are to be so cowardly as to be afraid where there is no just cause for fear. It


said in a

great wish to deceive,

book that some


have a


yet fear deception. But you shall fear poisoning, and withhold yourself from the company of scoffers. For the Book says that with the scoffer one should have no fellowship, and should

avoid his words as venom.

lust to

deceyve, but yet they dreden hem to be deceyved.' Yet shaltou drede to been empoisoned, and kepe yow from the companye of scorneres. For the book seith: 'with scorneres make no companye, but flee hjr wordes as venim.' 32. Now as to the seconde point, wher-as your wyse conseillours conseilled yow to warnestore your hous with gret diligence, I wolde fayn knowe, how that ye understonde thilke wordes, and what is your sentence." 33. Melibeus answerde and seyde, "Certes I understonde it in this wise; that I shal warnestore myn hous with toures, swiche as han castelles and

othere manere edifices, and armure and artelleries, by whiche thinges I may my persone and myn hous so kepen and defenden, that myne enemys shul been in drede myn hous for to approche." 34. To this sentence answerde anon Prudence; "warnestoring," quod she, "of heighe toures and of grete edifices apperteneth som-tyme to pryde; and eek men make heighe toures and grete edifices with grete costages and with greet travaille; and whan that they been accompliced, yet be they nat worth a stree, but-if they be defended by trewe freendes that been olde and wyse. And understond wel, that the gretteste and strongeste garnison that a riche man may have, as wel to kepen his persone as hise goodes, is that he be biloved amonges his subgets and with hise neighebores. For thus seith Tullius: that 'ther is a maner garnison that no man


as to the

second point, wherein your wise

have advised you to provision and garrison your house, I would know how you understand their words, and what is your opinion of them." councillors

Melibeus answered and said "Verily, I understand in this wise: that I am to equip my house with towers, such as castles have, and other such buildings, and with armour and with artilleries; by means of which I may keep my house and may so defend and keep my person that my enemies will not dare to approach me." To this judgment Prudence then replied: "The garrisoning, provisioning, and equipping of high towers is sometimes but the pandering to pride. And it sometimes happens that even when men build high towers and great fortresses, at much cost and with untold labour, when they are completed they are not worth a straw, unless they be defended by true friends, who are both old and wise. And understand well that the greatest and strongest garrison a powerful man may have, as well to defend his person as his property, is the love of his vassals and his neighbours. For Tullius says that there is a kind of garrison which no man can vanquish or disperse, and that is :




"Now. sir. .is to the In id poini. whereof your older and wiser councillors averred thai you ought not suddenly aiul hastily to proceed in this matter, but that you should provide tor and array yourseH with great diligence and alter much careful thought, indeed I think that they spoke wisely ~u^d truthfully. ..1 Tullius says: 'In every act, or ever thou begin it. array thyself with great diligence.' Then, say 1, in seeking vengeance, in war. in battle, and in making arrangements, before you begin you must thoroughly 1


prepare yourself and do it with much forethought. For Tullius says thai a swift victory is the result of long preparation. And Cassiodorus say s that the gar rison is the stronger for being well prepared.

venquisse ne disconfite, and that is, a lord to be biloved of hise citezeins and of his peple.' 35. Now sir, as to the thridde point; wher-as your olde and wise conseillours seyden, that yow ne oghte nat sodeynly nc hastily proceden in this ncde, but that yow oghte purveyen and apparaillcn yow in this caas with greet diligence and greet deliberacioun; trewely, I trowe that they seyden right wysly and right sooth. For Tullius seith, 'in every nede, er thou biginne it, apparaille thee with greet diligence.' Thanne seye I, that in vengeance-taking, in werre, in bataille, and in warnestoring, er thow biginne, I rede that thou apparaille thee therto, and do it with greet deliberacioun. For Tullius

"But let us now speak of the counsel that was given bv your neighbours, those who do you reverence without love; by your old reconciled enemies; by your flatterers who counselled you privately to certain things and openly to quite oth?rs; and by the younger men, also, who advised a speedy taking of vengeance and an immediate opening ot hostilities. And certainly, sir, as I have said before, you were greatlv in error in calling such tolk into your council; such councillors are sufficiently discredited by the reasons hitherto adduced. But, nonetheless, let us descend to the particular. You should first proceed after the teaching of Tullius. Certainly the truth of this matter, or of this counselling,

we know


needs no long

who they are

that have



and this villainy, and how many offenders there are, and in what manner they have wrought against vou this wrong and harm. And after this, then shall vou examine the second condition which this same Tullius added. For Tullius puts forth a condition which he calls 'complying,' by which he means: who they are, and how many of them, that complied with your wishes to do hasty vengeance on your enemies, as you expressed it in council. And let us consider, also, who they are and how many, that complied with the wishes of your adversaries. As to the first group, it is well known who they are that complied with your hasty wilfulness; for truly all those who counselled you to make a sudden war are not your iriends. Let us now consider who they are that you hold so steadfastly to be friends of your person. For though you are a mighty man, and a rich, true it is that you do but stand alone. For you have no child, save a daughter; nor have you any brothers, or cousins, or other near kinsmen for the dread of whom your enemies might forgo t reating with you or at tempt ingtodestroy your person. You know also that your wealth, when apto


this injury

portioned out, will be distributed to a few men not and when each of them shall have received his share, then he will have but little incentive to avenge your death. But your enemies

closclv related to you;

and they have many children, brothers, and other near kinsmen; and though it were that vou had slain two or three of them, vet there

are three, cousins,

apparailling biforn the bataille

seith: that 'long

And Cassidorus seith: 'the stronger whan it is longe tyme avysed.' 36. But now lat us speken of the conseil that was accorded by your neighebores, swiche as doon yow reverence withouten love, your olde enemys reconsiled, your fiatereres that conseilled yow certeyne thinges prively, and openly conseilleden yow the contrarie; the yonge folk also, that conseilleden maketh short


quiry. For



the love of a lord's cm n citizens and people.



yow to venge yow and make werre anon. And certes, have seyd biforn, ye han greetly erred to han cleped swich maner folk to your conseil; which conseillours been y-nogh repreved by the resouns afore-seyd. But nathelees, lat us now descende to sir, as I

the special. Ye shuln first procede after the doctrine of Tullius. Certes, the trouthe of this matere or of this conseil nedeth nat diligently enquere; for it

wel wist whiche they been that han doon to yow and vileinye, and how manye trespassours, and in what manere they han to yow doon al


this trespas


wrong and

al this vileinye.


after this,

thanne shul ye examine the seconde condicioun, which that the same Tullius addeth in this matere. For Tullius put a thing, which that he clepeth 'consentinge,' this is to seyn; who been they and how manye, and whiche been they, that consenteden to thy conseil, in thy wilfulnesse to doon hastif vengeance.



us considere also


been they, and how manye been they, and whiche been they, that consenteden to your adversaries.


certes, as to the firste poynt,

it is

wel knowen

whiche folk been they that consenteden to your hastif wilfulnesse; for trewely, alle tho that con-

yow to maken sodeyn werre ne been nat your freendes. Lat us now considere whiche been they, that ye holde so greetly your freendes as to your persone. For al-be-it so that ye be mighty and riche, certes ye ne been nat but allone. For certes, ye ne han no child but a doghter; ne ye ne han bretheren ne cosins germayns, ne noon other neigh kinrede, wherfore that your enemys, for drede, sholde stinte to plede with yow or to destroye your persone. Ye knowen also, that your richesses moten been dispended in diverse parties; and whan that every wight hath his part, they ne wollen taken but litel reward to venge thy deeth. But thyne enemys been three, and they han manie children, bretheren, cosins, and other ny kinrede; seilleden



and, though so were that thou haddest slayn of hem two or three, yet dwellen ther y-nowe to wreken hir deeth and to slee thy persone. And though so be that your kinrede be more siker and stedefast than the kin of your adversarie, yet nathelees your kinrede nis but a fer kinrede; they been but litel sib to yow, and the kin of your enemys been ny sib to hem. And certes, as in that, hir condicioun is bet than youres. Thanne lat us considere also if the consenting of hem that conseilleden yow to taken sodeyn vengeaunce, whether it accorde to resoun? And certes, ye knowe wel 'nay.' For as by right and resoun, ther may no man taken vengeance on no wight, but the juge that hath the jurisdiccioun of it, whan it is graunted him to take thilke vengeance, hastily or attemprely, as the lawe requireth. And yet more-over, of thilke word that Tullius clepeth 'consentinge,' thou shalt considere if thy might and thy power may consenten and suffyse to thy wilfulnesse and to thy conseillours. And certes, thou mayst wel seyn that 'nay.' For sikerly, as for to speke proprely, we may do no-thing but only swich thing as we may doon rightfully. And certes, rightfully ne mowe ye take no vengeance as of your propre auctoritee. Thanne mowe ye seen, that your power ne consenteth nat ne accordeth nat with your wilfulnesse. Lat us now examine the thridde point that Tullius clepeth 'consequent.' Thou shalt understonde that the vengeance that thou purposest for to take is the consequent. And ther-of folweth another vengeaunce, peril, and werre; and othere damages with-oute nombre, of whiche we be nat war as at this tyme. And as touchinge the fourthe point, that Tullius clepeth 'engendringe,' thou shalt consi-

wrong which that is doon to thee is eogendred of the hate of thyne enemys; and of the vengeance-takinge upon that wolde engendre another vengeance, and muchel sorwe and wastinge dere, that this

of richesses, as


37. 'causes,'




should remain enough to avenge those deaths by killing you. And though it were that your own kindred arc true and more steadfast than those of your enemies, yet, nevertheless, vour own kinsmen are hut distantly related to you, whereas the kinsmen of your adversaries are closely sib to them. And, cer-

condition is better than yours. us consider, also, whether the advice of those who urged you to a sudden vengeance accords




as tor that, their


with reason. Certainly you know here that the answer is nay. For you know well that there is no man who may take vengeance upon anyone, save the judge who has proper jurisdiction, and when it has been granted to him to take such vengeance, hastily or slowly, as the law requires. And, moreover, as to that same word which Tullius calls 'complying,' you should consider whether your might and power mav consent to comply with your wilfulness and that of

your councillors. And, surely, to that also you must answer no. For indeed, properly speaking, we should do nothing save such things as we may do rightfully.

you may take no vengeance Thus you may see that your power does not rightfully consent to complv with your wilfulness. Let us now examine the third point, which Tullius calls the 'consequence.' You must understand that the vengeance which you purpose is the consequence. And from that follows another vengeance, another peril, and another war, and further injuries and damages without number whereof we are not at this time aware. And, touching the fourth point, which Tullius calls 'engendering,' you should consider that this wrong done to you was engendered of the hate of your enemies; and of the vengeance taken on that evil would be begotten another vengeance, and therewithal much sorrow and wastage of wealth, as I have pointed out.


in truth, rightfully

as of





as to the point that Tullius clepeth

which that

the laste point, thou shalt understonde that the wrong that thou hast receyved hath certeine causes, whiche that clerkes clepen Oriens and Efficiens, and Causa longinqua and Causa propinqua; this is to seyn, the fer cause and the ny cause. The fer cause is almighty god, that is cause of alle thinges. The neer cause is thy three enemys. The cause accidental was hate. The cause material been the fyve woundes of thy doghter. The cause formal is the manere of hir werkinge, that broghten laddres and cloumben in at thy windowes. The cause final was for to slee thy doghter; it letted nat in as muche as in hem was. But for to speken of the fer cause, as to what ende they shul come, or what shal finally bityde of hem in this caas, ne can I nat deme but by conjectinge and by supposinge. For we shul suppose that they shul come to a wikked ende, by-cause that the Book of Decrees seith: 'selden or with greet peyne been causes y-broght to good ende whanne they been baddely bigonne.' is


sir, as to the point which Tullius calls which is the last point to consider, vou must understand that the wrong that has been done vou had certain causes, the which scholars call Oriens and Efficens, and Causa longinqua and Causa propinqua, which is to say, the ultimate cause and the proximate cause. The ultimate cause is Almighty God, Who is the Cause of all things. The proximate cause is your three enemies. The accidental cause is hate. The material cause is the five wounds of vour daughter. The formal cause is the method of their working who brought ladders and climbed in at vour windows. The final cause was the wish to slav vour daughter;


hindered them not, in so far as they did their hest. But, to speak now of the ultimate cause, as to what end they shall reach, or what shall finally betide vour it

enemies in this case, I cannot judge, save in conjecture and supposition. Yet we may suppose that they shall come to an evil end, for the Boo\ of Decrees says: 'Seldom, and only with great pain, are causes brought to a good end, when they have been badly begun.'


41 S

'Now, sir, it men ask me why God has suffered men to do this villainy, certainly can answer noth-



Now sir, if men wolde axe

me, why that god

that the

men to do yow this vileinye, certes, I can nat well answere as for no sothfastnesse. For th'apostle seith, that 'the sciences and the jugge-

reasonable cause.

mentz of our lord god almighty been ful depe; ther may no man comprehende ne serchen hem suffisantly.' Nathelees, by ccrteyne presumpcions and conjectinges, I holde and bileve that god which that is ful of justice and of rightwisnesse, hath suffred this bityde by juste cause resonable.


ing in any reliable language. For the Apostle says

wisdom and the judgments of Our Lord God Almighty are very deep, whereof no man may comprehend anything, nor search into them. Nevertheless, by certain presumptions and conjecturing, hold and believe that God, Who is justice and righteousness, has permitted this villainy upon a just and I

"Your name is Melibee, which is to say, a maji who dunks honey. You have drunk so much of tlic sweet honey of mundane richesand delights and hon1

ours that you are intoxicated therewith, and have forgotten Jesus Christ, your Creator: you have not

honoured Him as you should have done, nor have you showed Him a proper reverence. Nor have vou well observed those words of Ovid, who says: 'Under the honey of the good things of the flesh is hidden the venom that slays the soul.' And Solomon says that if you have found honey, eat of it only a sufficiency; for if you eat of it overmuch, you shall vomit, and so be again hungry and in want. And perchance Christ holds you in scorn, and has turned away His face from you, and shut up the ears of His mercy; and also He has suffered it that you have been punished in that manner in which you have sinned. You have sinned against Our Lord Christ; for, certainly, those three enemies of mankind, the world, the flesh, and the devil, you have wilfully suffered to enter into your heart through the windows of your body, and you have not sufficiently defended yourself against their assaults and temptations, so that they have wounded your soul in five different places; that is to say, the deadly sins that have entered into your heart through your five senses. In the same manner Our Lord Christ has willed and permitted it that your three enemies have entered your house through the windows thereof, and have wounded your daughter in the manner whereof you know." "Certainly," said Melibeus, "I see well that you so strengthen your arguments that I shall not revenge myself upon my enemies, showing me thus the perils and the evils that may result from this taking of vengeance. But il everyone were to consider, in every revenge, the dangers and ills that might ensue therefrom, no man would ever take vengeance, and that would be harmful; for by vengeance-taking the wicked are set apart from the good men. And they that have the will to do wickedly restrain their evil purpose when they sec the punishment and chastisement of other wrongdoers." To this replied Dame Prudence: "Surely," said she, "I grant that much good and much evil come of vengeance; but vengeance taking does not belong to everyone, but only to judges and such as have a proper jurisdiction and authority over wrongdoers.



say, further, that just as an individual sins in

wreaking vengeance upon another man, so sins the judge il he does not fully exact payment from those who have deserved to be punished. For Seneca says:



Thy name is

Melibee, this is to seyn, 'a man Thou hast y-dronke so muchel hony of swete temporel richesses and delices and honours of this world, that thou art dronken; and hast forgeten Jesu Crist thy creatour; thou ne hast nat doon to him swich honour and reverence as thee oughte. Ne thou ne hast nat wel y-taken kepe to the wordes of Ovide, that seith: 'under the hony of the godes of the body is hid the venim that sleeth the soule.' And Salomon seith, 'if thou hast founden hony, ete of it that suffyseth; for if thou ete of it out of mesure, thou shalt spewe,' and be nedy and povre. And peraventure Crist hath thee in despit, and hath turned awey fro thee his face and hise eres of misericorde; and also he hath suffred that thou hast been punisshed in the manere that 39.

that drinketh





thow hast y-trespassed. Thou hast doon sinne agayn our lord Crist; for certes, the three enemys of mankinde, that is to seyn, the fiessh, the feend, and the world, thou hast suffred hem entre in-to thyn herte wilfully by the windowes of thy body, and hast nat defended thy-self suffisantly agayns hir assautes and hir temptaciouns, so that they han wounded thy soule in fyve places; this is to seyn, the deedly sinnes that been entred in-to thyn herte by thy fyve wittes. And in the same manere our lord Crist hath wold and suffred, that thy three enemys been entred in-to thyn hous by the windowes, and han y-wounded thy doghter in the fore-seyde manere." 40. "Certes," quod Melibee, "I see wel that ye enforce yow muchel by wordes to overcome me in swich manere, that I shal nat venge me of myne enemys; shewinge me the perils and the yveles that mighten falle of this vengeance. But who-so wolde considere in alle vengeances the perils and yveles that mighte sewe of vengeance-takinge,aman wolde never take vengeance, and that were harm; for by the vengeance-takinge been the wikked men dissevered fro the gode men. And they that han wil to do wikkednesse restreyne hir wikked purpos, whan they seen the punissinge and chastysinge of the trespassours." [And to this answerde dame Prudence: "Certes," seyde she, "I graunte wel that of vengeaunce cometh muchel yvel and muchel good; but vengeaunce-taking aperteneth nat unto everichoon, but only unto juges and unto hem that han jurisdiccioun upon the trespassours.] And yet seye I more, that right as a singuler persone sinneth in takinge vengeance of another man, right so sinneth the juge if he do no vengeance of hem that

'Meliboeus, a shepherd in Virgil's First Eclogue.



han deserved. For Senek seith thus: 'that maister,' he seith, 'is good that proveth shrewes.' And as Cassidore seith: 'A man dredeth to do outrages, whan he woot and knoweth that it displeseth to the juges and sovereyns.' And another seith: 'the juge that dredeth to do right, maketh men shrewes.' it

And Seint Paule the apostle seith in his epistle, whan he wryteth un-to the Romayns: that 'the juges beren nat the spere with-outen cause'; but they beren it to punisse the shrewes and misdoeres, and for to defende the gode men. If ye wol thanne take vengeance of your enemys, ye shul retourne or have your recours to the juge that hath the jurisdiccion up-on hem; and he shal punisse hem as the lawe axeth and requyreth." 41. "A!" quod Melibee, "this vengeance lyketh me no-thing. I bithenke me now and take hede, how fortune hath norissed me fro my childhede, and hath holpen me to passe many a strong pas. Now wol I assayen hir, trowinge, with goddes help, that she shal helpe me my shame for to venge." 42. "Certes," quod Prudence, "if ye wol by conseil, ye shul nat assaye fortune


werke by no

wey; ne ye shul nat lene or bowe unto hir, after the word of Senek: for 'thinges that been folily doon, and that been in hope of fortune, shullen never come to good ende.' And as the same Senek seith: 'the more cleer and the more shyning that fortune is, the more brotil and the sonner broken she is.' Trusteth nat in hir, for she nis nat stidefast ne stable; for whan thow trowest to be most seur or siker of hir help, she wol faille thee and deceyve thee. And wheras ye seyn that fortune hath norissed yow fro your childhede, I seye, that in so muchel shul ye the lasse truste in hir and in hir wit. For Senek seith: 'what man that is norissed by fortune, sb037-i4>°9o]

Three hundred foxes took Sampson

for ire,

And alle hir tayles he togider bond, And sette the foxes tayles alle on fire,


For he on every tayl had knit a brond; And they brende alle the comes in that lond, And alle hir oliveres and vynes eek. A thousand men he slow eek with his hond, And had no wepen but an asses cheek.


Was wel ny lorn, for which


And of this asses cheke, that was dreye, Out of a wang-tooth sprang anon a welle, Of which he drank y-nogh, shortly to seye, Thus heelp him god, zsjudicum can telle.

By verray force, at Gazan, on a night, Maugree Philistiens of that citee,

O noble almighty Sampson, leef and dere, Had thou nat told to wommen thy In

al this


worlde ne hadde been thy pere!



they were slain, he thirsted so that he well nigh lost, for which he prayed, sav

That God would on


have some pity And send him drink, or must he surelv die; And from that ass's jaw-bone, then but drv, Out ol a tooth there sprang anon a well. Whereof he drank his fill and laid it bv. Thus helped him God, us Judges, fifteen, tell.


The gates of the toun he hath up-plight, And on his bak y-caried hem hath he Hye on an hille, that men mighte hem see.

set those foxes' tails alight

For he to every one had fixed a brand; And they burned all the corn of all that land And all the olive trees and vines, each one. A thousand men he slew with his own hand, With no weapon save an ass's jaw- bone.

Whan they were slayn, so thursted him that he he gan to preye That god wolde on his peyne han som pitee, And sende him drinke, or elles moste he deye;


Three hundred foxes Samson took, for ire, Ami bound their brushes well together, and

his pain

very force at Gaza, on a night,

Maugre Philistines of that said citv, The great gates of the town he took with might,

And on

his shoulders carried

them, did he, where every man might see. O noble mighty Samson, lief and dear, Had'st thou not woman told thy privity, In all this world had never been thy peer.

High on

a hill

This Sampson never sicer drank ne wyn, Ne on his heed cam rasour noon ne shere, By precept of the messager divyn, Eer alle his strengthes in his heres were; And fully twenty winter, yeer by yere, He hadde of Israel the governaunce. But sone shal he wepen many a tere, For wommen shal him bringen to meschaunce!

This Samson never liquor drank, nor wine, Nor on his head came razor, nor a shear, Obeying thus the angel's word divine, For all his forces in his long locks were; And fully twenty winters, year by year, He held of Israel the governance. But all too soon should he weep many a tear, For women should betray him to mischance!

Un-to his lemman Dalida he tolde That in his heres al his strengthe lay, And falsly to his fo-men she him solde. And sleping in hir barme up-on a day She made to clippe or shere his heer awey, And made his fo-men al his craft espyen; And whan that they him fonde in this array, They bounde him faste, and putten out his yen.

Delilah being his darling, her he told in his unshorn locks all his strength lav, And him toioemen then she falsely sold. For, sleeping in her bosom, on a day, She clipped and sheared all his long hair away,


er his heer

were clipped or y-shave,

Ther was no bond with which men might him binde;


Then showed his state unto his enemies, And when they found him lying in this arrav They bound him fast and put out both his eves. Before his hair was sheared and shaven close, There were no bonds wherewith men might him bind;

But now is he in prisoun in a cave, Wher-as they made him at the querne grinde. O noble Sampson, strongest of mankinde, O whylom juge in glorie and in richesse, Now maystow wepen with thyn yen blinde,

But now he


lies in






at mill they

make him

O noble Samson, strongest of mankind, O judge, but late, in glory measureless, Now


may'st thou shed hot tears from thine eyes


Sith thou fro wele art falle in wrecchednesse.

For thou from wealth

Th'ende of this

This captive's end was as I now shall say; His foes they made a feast upon a dav,

caytif was as


shal seye;

His fo-men made a feste upon a day,

And made him as hir fool bifore hem pleye, And this was in a temple of greet array. But atte last he made a foul affray; For he two pilers shook, and made hem


And made him as

art fallen to wretchedness.

their fool before



All in a temple great, of rich array. But at the last he made a stern affray

For he two


took and caused them






43 6

And doun fil temple and al, and ther it lay, And slow him-self, and eek his fo-men alle.

roof and all. and there it lay, and enemies; each and all.

And down came Killing himself




to say, those princes, e\ervone,

And full three thousand Others who were By tailing of that temple built ot stone.

To Samson now




touch their limbs or touch their


to seyn, the princes everichoon, bodies wer ther slayn

And eek three thousand


not revert again. He w.n nal by this example old and plain. Men should not tell their business to their wives In such things as ot secrecv they're lam.



With falling of the grete temple of stoon. Of Sampson now wol I na-more seyn. Beth war by this ensample old and playn That no men telle hir conseil til hir wyves

Of swich If that



thing as they wolde han secree fayn, touche hir limmes or hir lyves.

HERCULES the sovereyn conquerour Singen his workes laude and heigh renoun; For in his tyme of strengthe he was the flour.

Of Hercules

M lerculcs. the sovereign conquering power. Sing his deeds' praise and sing his high renow n; For in his time of strength he was the flower. He slew, and made a lion's skin his own; )l centaurs laid he all the boastings down (


He slow, and rafte the skin of the leoun; He of Centauros leyde the boost adoun; He Arpies slow, the cruel briddes felle; He golden apples rafte of the dragoun; He drow out Cerberus, the hound of helle:


le killed


the cruel Harpies, those birds


Brought golden apples from the dragon thrown


he stole Cerberus, the hound of Hell.

He slew the cruel tyrant Busiris And made his horses eat him, flesh and bone; To a fierv, venomous worm he wrote finis;

He slow the cruel tyrant Busirus, And made his hors to frete him, flesh and boon; He slow the firy serpent venimous;

Achelous had two horns, but he broke one; Cicusheslcw within his cave of stone; He slew the giant Anthaeus the strong; He killed the Erymanthian boar anon; And bore the heavens upon his shoulders long.

Of Achelois two homes, he brak oon; And he slow Cacus in a cave of stoon;

Was never man, since this old world began, That slew so many monsters as did he. Throughout all earth's w ide realms his honour What of his strength and his high chivalry, And everv kingdom went he out to see. him; 1 le was so strong no man could hinder At both ends of the world, as says Trophy,

Was never wight, sith that the world bigan, That slow so many monstres as dide he.

He slow the geaunt Antheus the stronge; He slow the grisly boor, and that anoon, And bar the heven on his nekke longe.


Thurgh-out this wyde world his name ran, What for his strengthe, and for his heigh bountee, And every reaume wente he for to see. He was so strong that no man mighte him lette; At bothe the worldes endes, seith Trophee,

In lieu of limits he set pillars grim.

In stede of boundes, he a piler

noble champion, is the May; And as these ancient writers say, each one, She sent to him a new shirt, fresh and gay.

A lemman hadde this noble champioun,

A darling had


)eianira, sweet as


Alas that shirt, alas and welawayl Envenomed was so cunninglv withal

worn the thing but half a day, the flesh from off his bones to fall.

That, ere he'd It



are there

Because 1

low e'er

w ritcrs who do her excuse who the shirt had made;

ot Nessus, it




not her accuse;

naked hack this poison flayed Until the flesh turned black, and torn, and frayed. \nd when he saw no other remedy, Upon a pyre of hot brands he was laid, But



all his

of no poison would he deign to die.

Thus died




he's aware, he's often

That highte Dianira, fresh as May; And, as thise clerkes maken mencioun, She hath him sent a sherte fresh and gay. Alias! this sherte, alias and weylaway! Envenimed was so subtilly with-alle, That, er that he had wered it half a day, It made his flesh al from his bones falle. But nathelees somme clerkes hir excusen By oon that highte Nessus, that it maked; Be as be may, I wol hir noght accusen; But on his bak this sherte he wered al naked, Til that his flesh was for the venim blaked. And whan he sey noon other remedye, In hote coles he hath him-selven raked, For with no venim deyned him to dye. starf this worthy mighty Hercules, Lo, who may truste on fortune any throwe? For him that folwcth al this world of prees, Er he be war, is ofte y-leyd ful lowe.


mighty worthy, Hercules.

who may trust to Fortune any throw And he who seeks on earth for fame and ease


brought dow n low





Ful wys is he that can him-selven knowe. Beth war, for whan that fortune list to glose, Than wayteth she hir man to overthrowe By swich a wey as he wolde leest suppose.


Right wise is he that can his own heart know. Beware, when Fortune may her smile disclose,


wait her man to overthrow. such wise as he would least suppose.

lies in



NEB UCHADNEZZAR The mighty trone, the precious tresor, The glorious ceptre and royal magestee

The The

That hadde the king Nabugodonosor, With tonge unnethe may discryved be.

That Nebuchadnezzar counted as his own With tongue or pen not easily told mav be. Twice of Jerusalem the victor he; The Temple's vessels took he and was glad. And Babylon was the ancient sovereign see Wherein his glory and delight he had.

He twyes wan Jerusalem the citee; The vessel of the temple he with him ladde. At Babiloyne was his sovereyn see, In which his glorie and his delyt he hadde.

The fairest children of the blood royal Of Israel he leet do gelde anoon, And maked ech of hem to been his thral. Amonges othere Daniel was oon,

precious treasure and the mighty throne, glorious sceptre and royal majesty

The fairest children of the blood royal Of Israel, he gelded them anon, And made each one of them to be his thrall. Among the number Daniel thus was one, Of all the youth the nation's wisest son;

That was the wysest child of everichoon; For he the dremes of the king expouned, Wher-as in Chaldey clerk ne was ther noon That wiste to what fyn his dremes

For he the dreams of the great king expounded When in Chaldea wise clerk was there none Who knew to what end those dreams were propounded.


This proude king

leet niake a statue of golde, Sixty cubytes long, and seven in brede,

To which image bothe yonge and olde

made a statue of pure gold Full sixty cubits long by seven wide, Unto which image both the young and old

This proud king

Comaunded he to loute, and have in drede; Or in a fourneys ful of flambes rede


He shal be brent, that wolde noght obeye.

And burn

he to bow down, nor deride, Else in a furnace full of flames go bide to ashes, who would not obey. But no assent to that, whate'er betide, Would Daniel and his pair of comrades say.

But never wolde assente to that dede Daniel, ne his yonge felawes tweye. This king of kinges proud was and elaat, He wende that god, that sit in magestee, Ne mighte him nat bireve of his estaat: But sodeynly he loste his dignitee,

In reyn with wilde bestes walked he, Til certein tyme was y-come aboute.

This king of kings right proud was and elate, that God, Who sits in majesty, Could not bereave him of his high estate: Yet suddenly he lost all dignity, And like a brute beast then he seemed to be, And ate hay like an ox, and lay without In rain and storm with all wild beasts walked he, Until a certain time was come about.

And lyk an egles


And thought

And lyk a beste him semed for to be, And eet hay as an oxe, and lay ther-oute;



his heres,

His nayles lyk a briddes clawes were; Til

god relessed him


a certein yeres,



tyme he leyd was on

an eagle's feathers were


bird's claws

his hairs,

hooked were;

God released him after certain years And gave him sense; and then, with many a tear, He gave God thanks; thereafter all in fear He lived of doing ever again trespass, And till the time they laid him on his bier, He knew that God was full of might and grace. Till

And yaf him wit; and than with many a tere He thanked god, and ever his lyf in fere Was he to doon amis, or more trespace, And,


nails like

his bere,

He knew that god was ful of might and grace.

BELSHAZZAR His sone, which that highte Balthasar, That heeld the regne after his fader day, He by his fader coude nought be war, For proud he was of herte and of array; And eek an ydolastre was he ay. His hye estaat assured him in pryde. But fortune caste him doun, and ther he lay,

And sodeynly his regne gan divyde.

His son, called Belshazzar, or Balthasar, Who held the realm after his father's dav, He for his father's fate would not beware, For proud he was of heart and of array; He was a worshipper of idols ave. His high estate assured him in his pride.

But Fortune


him down and

there he


And suddenly


kingdom did




A hast he made unto a thousand lords, Upon a time, and bade then! merry be. Then to his officers he said these words: *( In fetch me forth the vessels all," said


"Which that my fader, in his prosperitee, Out of the temple of Jerusalem birafte, And to our hye goddes thanke we Of honour, that our eldres with us lafte."

which my Either, in prosperity, The temple in Jerusalem bereft, And unto our high gods give thanks that we Retain the honour that our ciders left." "(


His wife, his lords, and

all his

His wyf, his lordes, and his concubynes


Thev drank then, while that mighty least Out of those noble vessels sundrv wines.



But on a wall this king his eyes did cast And saw an armless hand that wrote full fast, For fear whereof he shook with trouble sore. This hand that held Belshazzar so aghast Wrote Mene, mene, tekel, and no more. In


that land magician was there

Who could


explain what thing this writing meant;

Daniel it was done, to your father lent

But when they sent


Who said: "O



Glorv and honour, treasure, government, And he was proud, nor feared God, being mad, Wherefore Lord God great misery on him sent,

And him


he made un-to his lordes alle A Up-on a tymc, and bad hem blythe be, And than his officeres gan he calle "Goth, bringeth forth the vessels," [tho] quod he, feste

bereft of all the realm he had.

Ay dronken, whyl

hir appetytes laste,

Out of thise noble


sundry wynes;

And on a wal this king his yfin caste, And sey an hond armlees, that wroot

ful faste,

For fere of which he quook and syked sore. This hond, that Balthasar to sore agaste, Wroot Mane, techel,phares, and na-more. In al that lond magicien was noon That coude expoune what this lettre mente; But Daniel expouned it anoon, And seyde, "king, god to thy fader lente Glorie and honour, regne, tresour, rente And he was proud, and no-thing god ne dradde, And therfor god gret wreche up-on him sente, And him birafte the regne that he hadde.

"He was cast

He was out cast of mannes companye,


With asses was

out of human company; was his habitation known; He ate hay like a beast, through wet and dry, Until he learned, by grace and reason shown, That Heaven's God has dominion, up and down, Over all realms and everything therein; And then did God to him compassion own And gave him back his kingdom and his kin. asses

"Now you, who are his son, are proud also, Though you knew all these things, aye verily; You are a rebel and you are God's foe. You drank from out His vessels boastfully; Your wife and all your wenches sinfully Drank from those sacred vessels sundry wines, And praised false gods, and hailed them, wickedly Whereof toward you the wrath of God


"That hand was sent from God which on the wall Wrote Mene, mene, tekel. Oh, trust me, Your reign is done, you have no worth at all, Divided is your realm, and it shall be To Medesand Persians given now," said he. And that night went the king to fill death's maw,

And so Darius took his high degree, Though he thereto had naught of right

in law.

Masters, therefrom a moral may you take, That in dominion is no certainness; For when Fortune will any man forsake, She takes his realm and all he may possess, And all his friends, too, both the great and

For when




has friends that Fortune gave,

Mishap but turns them enemies, as I guess: This word is true for king as well as slave.

his habitacioun,

And eet hey as a beste in weet and drye, Til that he knew, by grace and by resoun, That god of heven hath dominacioun Over every regne and every creature; And thanne had god of him compassioun,

And him restored his regne and his figure. Eek thou,

that art his sone, art



And knowest alle thise thinges verraily, And art rebel to god, and art his fo. Thou drank eek of his vessels boldely; Thy wyf eek and thy wenches sinfully Dronke of the same

vessels sondry wynes,

And heriest falst goddes cursedly; Therfor to thee y-shapen

ful gret



This hand was sent from god, that on the walle Wroot mane, techel, phares, truste me; Thy regne is doon, thou weyest noght at alle; Divyded is thy regne, and it shal be To Medes and to Perses yeven," quod he. And thilke same night this king was slawe, And Darius occupyeth his degree, Thogh he therto had neither right no lawe. Lordinges, ensample heer-by may ye take How that in lordshipe is no sikernesse; For whan fortune wol a man forsake, She bereth awey his regne and his richesse, And eek his freendes, bothe more and lesse; For what man that hath freendes thurgh fortune,

Mishap wol make hem enemys, I gesse: This proverbe is ful sooth and ful commune.





ZENOBIA Cenobia, of Palimerie quene, As writcn Persiens of hir noblesse, So worthy was in armes and so kene, That no wight passed hir in hardinesse, Ne in linage, ne in other gentillesse. Of kinges blode of Perse is she descended;

Zenobia, of all Palmyra queen (





And many a wilde hertes

yet in lineage, nor in gentleness. of Persia's kings she was descended

say not she had greatest beauteousness, figure naught could be amended.

But of her

hir childhede I finde that she fledde


From childhood on I find that she had fled Duties of women, and to wildwood went;

wode she wente;

And many

blood she shedde

a wild hart's

With arwes brode

With arrows broad

She was


that she to hem sente. so swift that she anon hem heme,

she was elder, she wolde kille Leouns, lepardes, and beres al to-rente, And in hir armes welde hem at hir wille.

She dorste wilde beestes dennes seke,


atte laste hir frendes




Hadde swiche fantasyes as hadde she. But nathelees, whan they were knit infere, They lived in joye and in felicitee; For ech of hem hadde other leef and


Save o thing, that she never wolde assente that he sholde by hir lye But ones, for it was hir pleyn entente To have a child, the world to multiplye; And al-so sone as that she mighte espye That she was nat with childe with that dede,

By no wey,

Than wolde

she suffre him doon his fantasye Eft-sone, and nat but ones, out of drede.

And if she were with childe at thilke cast, Na-more sholde he pleyen



Til fully fourty dayes weren past; Than wolde she ones suffre him do the same. Al were this Odenake wilde or tame, He gat na-more of hir, for thus she seyde, "It was to wyves lecherye and shame In other cas, if that men with hem pleyde."

that she within

swift she was, she ran

Lions and leopards, and bears too she rent. And in her arms she broke them at her will.

She even dared the wild beasts' dens to seek, And ran upon the mountains all the night,

And rennen in the montaignes al the night, And slepen under a bush, and she coude eke

To Odenake, a prince of that contree, Al were it so that she hem longe taried; And ye shul understonde how that he

blood therein she shed

them sent. them down all spent; And when she was grown older she would kill

And whan that

Wrastlen by verray force and verray might With any yong man, were he never so wight; Ther mighte no-thing in hir armes stonde. She kepte hir maydenhod from every wight, Toyno man deigned hir for to be bonde.

of her nobleness),

Of blood

I seye nat that she hadde most fairnesse, But of hir shape she mighte nat been amended.

Office of wommen,

\a write old Persians

So mighty was in warfare, and so keen, That no man her surpassed in hardiness,

Sleeping beneath a bush; and, nothing weak, Wrestled by very force and very might

With any man, however brave in fight; For there was nothing in her arms could stand. She kept her maidenhead from every wight, And unto no man would she yield her hand. But

at the last her friends did


But to one thing she never would consent, For any prayers, that he should near her lie Save one night only, when 'twas her intent To have a child, since men should multiplv; Yet when she learned she'd got no pregnancy

From that night's work together on her bed, Then would she suffer him again to trv. But only once indeed, and then with dread. And when she was with child, all at the last, Then no more might he play at that same game Till fully forty

Then would

days were gone and past;

she once



"In wives


it is

but lechery and shame men with their bodies play."


Two sones by this Odenake hadde she,

Two sons by

The which she bred in virtue and But now again unto our tale turn


seye, so worshipful a creature,

therwith, and large with mesure, So penible in the werre, and curteis eke,

him the same.

And were Odenathus grown wild or tame, He got no more of her; for thus she'd say:

The whiche she kepte in vertu and lettrure; But now un-to our tale turne we.

And wys

her marry

Odenathus, a prince of that country, Albeit she long waited and did tarrv; And you must understand that also he Held to the same queer fancies as had she. Nevertheless, when wedded, 'twould appear They lived in joy and all felicitv, For each of them held other lief and dear.



Odenathus had

say, so worshipful a




young being,

Wise, and right generous in evervthing, Careful in war and courteous as well,



And hardy Was nol in Her




rich array

Either of





the world where



men do dwell.

not he rightly told.

essela or of line clothing;

all in jewels and in gold; die did never cease, despite hunting,

She was clad


of divers tongues a lull knowing, Whenever she hail time; she did intend To learn from books, which were to her liking, might her whole life spend. I low she in virtue

To gain

briefly of this story now to treat. So doughty was her husband, as was she. That thev two conquered many kingdoms great Throughout the East, with many a fair city That did pertain unto the majesty Of Rome; and with strong hands they held them


Hir riche array ne mighte nat be told As wel in vessel as in hir clothing; She was al clad in perree and in gold,

And eek To have

she lafte noght, for noon hunting, of sondry tonges ful knowing, Whan that she leyser hadde, and for to entende To lernen bokes was al hir lyking, How she in vertu mighte hir lyf dispende.

And, shortly of this storie for to trete, So doughty was hir housbonde and eek she, That they conquered many regnes grete In th'orient, with many a fair citee, Apertenaunt un-to the magestee Of Rome, and with strong hond helde





Nor might a foe escape by trying to flee The while Odenathus' good days did last. Her


Ne more labour mighte werre endure, Was noon, thogh al this world men sholde seke. in


all (as





Ne never mighte hir fo-men doon hem flee, Ay whyl that Odenakes Hir






hem for to rede,

Against Sapor the king and others too, And all her story as it fell, indeed,

Agayn Sapor the king and othere mo,


she was victor and had right thereto, And, after, all her misfortune and woe, How they besieged her and at last did take,

Why she conquered and what title had therto,

Let him unto my master Petrarch go, Who wrote the whole of this, I undertake.

Let him un-to my maister Petrark go, That writ y-nough of this, I undertake.

Now when Odenathus was dead, then she The kingdom held within her own strong hand;

When Odenake was deed, she mightily

Against her foes she fought so bitterly There was no king or prince in all that land But was right glad, if mercy make her bland,

That she turned not against him her array; With her they made alliance, bond and band, To keep the peace and let her ride and play. of Rome, one Claudius (His predecessor, Galien too, that man), Had never courage to oppose her thus; Nor was Hgvptian nor Armenian,

The emperor


Svrian, nor yet Arabian

That dared against her in the field to fight, For fear that at her hands they might be slain, Or by her army put to sudden flight. went her sons also, As being heirs to their sire's kingdoms all, Athenodorus and Thymalao Their names were (or the Greeks did so them call). But Fortune's honey is aye mixed with gall; This might v queen could no great while endure. And Fortune from her high throne made her fall To wretchedness and into ways obscure. In kingly habit



when Roman governance two strong hands, nude no delay,

to his

But swore that on this queen he'd wreak vengeance, so with mighty legions took his way


And how that al this proces


in dede,

And after of hir meschief and hir wo,

How that she was biseged and y-take,

regnes heeld, and with hir propre honde Agayn hir foos she faught so cruelly, That ther nas king ne prince in al that londe That he nas glad, if that he grace fonde, That she ne wolde up-on his lond werreye; With hir they made alliaunce by bonde


To been in pees, and lete hir ryde and pleye. The emperour of Rome, Claudius, Ne him bifore, the Romayn Galien,

Ne dorste never been so corageous, Ne noon Ermyn, ne noon Egipcien, Ne Surrien, ne noon Arabien, feld that dorste with hir fighte Lest that she wolde hem with hir hondes slen Or with hir meynee putten hem to flighte.

Within the

In kinges habit wente hir sones two, heires of hir fadres regnes alle,


And Hermanno, and Thymalao Her names were, as Persiens hem


But ay fortune hath in hir hony galle; This mighty quene may no whyl endure. Fortune out of hir regne made hir falle To wrecchednesse and to misaventure.

whan that the governaunce Of Rome cam in-to his hondes tweye,


He shoop up-on this queen to do vengeaunce, And with his legiouns he took his weye




Toward Cenobie, and, shortly for to seye, He made hir flee, and atte laste hir hente,

Against Zenobia;

And fettred hir, and eek hir children tweye, And wan the lond, and hoom to Rome he wente.

And lettered And won the




othere thinges that he wan, Hir char, that was with gold wrought and perree, This grete Romayn, this Aurelian, Hath with him lad, for that men sholde it see. Biforen his triumphe walketh she With gilte cheynes on hir nekke hanging;

Corouned was

she, as after hir degree,

And ful of perree

charged hir clothing.

Alias, fortune! she that

whylom was

Dredful to kinges and to emperoures, Now gaureth al the peple on hir, alias!






bricflv say

and at the List he sent her and her two sons one d.iv.



and home





the other booty Asian

Her chariot was, of gold and jewellery, And this great Roman, this Aurelian, He carried it away for men to see. Beiore his car in triumph then walked she With golden chains upon her neck hanging; Crowned was she. too. to show her high degree,


full ot priceless

Alas, Fortune!

gems was her

She that but




And she that helmed was in starke stoures, And wan by force tounes stronge and toures, Shal on hir heed now were a vitremyte; And she that bar the ceptre ful of floures

The scourge of kings and emperors and powers, Now may the rabble gape al her, alas! And she that, armed, rode where grim battle lowers And took by force great cities and strong towers, Must wear a cap now while her two eyes weep; And she that bore the sceptre of carved flowers

Shal bere a distaf, hir cost for to quyte.


bear a distaff and thus earn her keep.

NERO Al-though that Nero were as vicious As any feend that lyth ful lowe adoun,


Of rubies, saphires, and of pedes whyte Were alle his clothes brouded up and doun; For he in gemmes greetly gan delyte.

viciousness had Nero in overplus, As ever fiend that's low in torment thrown, Yet he, as tells us old Suetonius, This whole wide world held subject; aye, did own, East, west, south, north, wherever Rome was known. Of rubies, sapphires, and of great pearls white Were all his garments broidcred up and down, For he in jewels greatly did delight.

More delicat, more pompous of array, More proud was never emperour than he;

More delicate, more pompous of array, More proud was never emperor than he;

That ilke cloth, that he had wered o day, After that tyme he nolde it never see. Nettes of gold-thred hadde he gret plentee

To fisshe in Tybre, whan him liste pleye. His lustes were al lawe in his decree, For fortune as his freend him wolde obeye.

That toga which he wore on any dav, After that time he nevermore would see. Nets of gold thread he had in great plenty To fish in Tiber when he pleased to play. His lusts were all the laws in his decree, For Fortune was his friend and would obey.

He Rome brende for his

He burned Rome

Yet^he, as telleth us Swetonius.

This wyde world hadde in subjeccioun, Both Est and West, South and Septemtrioun;


for his delicate profligacy;



senators he slew

To And slow his brother, and by his


to learn

senatours he slow up-on a day, here how men wolde wepe and crye; sister lay.





how men might weep and

killed his brother

and with


his sister lay.

His moder made he in pitous array; For he hir wombe slitte, to biholde Wher he conceyved was; so weilawey! That he so litel of his moder tolde!

His mother put he into piteous way, For he her belly ripped up just to see Where he had been conceived; alack-a-day, That but so little for her life cared he!

No tere out of his yen for that sighte

No tear out of his two eyes for that sight Came, but he said: "A woman fair was she." Great wonder is it how he could or might Pass judgment thus upon her dead bcautv. Wine to be brought him then commanded he

Ne cam, but seyde, "a fair womman was she." Gret wonder is, how that he coude or mighte Be domesman of hir dede beautee. The wyn to bringen him comaunded he, And drank anon; non other wo he made.

And drank anon no other

Whan might is joyned un-to crueltee,


Alias! to

depe wol the venim wade!

In youthe a maister hadde



sign he made. might is wedded unto cruelty, too deep its venom will pervade! ;


A master had


youth, this emperor,




teach him letters and all courtesy] For of morality he was he flow 'r In his own time, unless the old books lie;

For of moralitec he was the flour, As in his tyme, but-if bokes lye; And whyl this maister hadde of him maistrye, He maked him so conning and so souple That longe tyme it was er tirannye Or any vyce dorste on him uncouple.


while this master held his mastery,

So well he taught him wiles and subtle ways That ere could tempt him vice or tyranny Was, it is said, the length of many days. This Seneca, of whom


I do apprise, Nero held him in such dread,


Since he for vices spared not to chastise, Discreetly, though, by word and not by deed

"Sir," would he say, "an emperor must need Be virtuous and hate all tyranny" For which, in bath, did Nero make him bleed From both his arms until he had to die.

This Nero had, though, out of arrogance, Been wont, in youth, against the rod to rise, Which afterward he thought a great grievance;

Wherefore he made him perish in this wise. Nevertheless, this Seneca the wise Chose in a bath to die, as you did hear, suffer in some other guise; thus did Nero slay his master dear.

Rather than



To tcche him letterure and curteisye,



This Seneca, of which that I devyse, By-cause Nero hadde of him swich dredc, For he fro vyces wolde him ay chastyse Discreetly as by worde and nat by dede; "Sir," wolde he seyn, "an emperour moot nede Be vertuous, and hate tirannye" For which he in a bath made him to blede On bothe his armes, til he moste dye.

This Nero hadde eek of acustumaunce In youthe ageyn his maister for to ryse, Which afterward him thoughte a greet grevaunce; Therfor he made him deyen in this wyse. But natheles this Seneca the wyse Chees in a bath to deye in this manere Rather than han another tormentyse; And thus hath Nero slayn his maister dere.

Now it



The hye pryde of Nero to cheryce;

befell that Fortune cared no longer Nero's high pride to be accomplice; For though he might be strong, yet she was

man who is but

In high degree,

his seat

least thinks of



emperor over

Bv God, up from he



am none

too nice,

with vice







rose against him,

all his faults;


people cried and rumbled up and down, And, having ears, he heard the thing they said: "Where's this false tyrant Nero .where's he flown?" For fear almost out of his wits he strayed,



to his gods, then, piously he prayed For succour, but no help might him betide. For fear of this he wished himself unmade,


ran into a garden, there to hide.


in this

garden were two fellows, yea,

Who sat

before a great fire and a red, And to those fellows he began to pray That they would slay him and strike ofThis head, ot his

no lenger

body, alter he was dead,

They should do nothing

I am to nyce To sette a man that is fulfild of vyce

She thoughte thus, "by god,

By god, out of his


The faster did they bar the doors, aye all Then learned he well he'd been his own worst And went his way, nor longer dared to call.



In heigh degree, and emperour him calle. sete I wol him tryce; When he leest weneth, sonest shal he falle."



on a night, and when he it espied, Out of the doors he went and took to flight Alone; and where he thought he was allied He knocked; but always, and the more he cried

The people

so that fortune


She thought thus: "By God,


fil it

For though that he were strong, yet was she


Setting a

to its further shame. Himself he slew, no belter counsel sped, Whereat Dame Fortune laughed and made a game.

The peple roos up-on him on a night For his defaute, and whan he it espyed, Out of his dores anon he hath him dight Alone, and, ther he wende han ben allyed, He knokked faste, and ay, the more he cryed. The faster shette they the dores alle; Tho wiste he wel he hadde him-self misgyed, And wente his wey, no lenger dorste he calle.


peple cryde and rombled up and doun, his eres herde he how they seyde,

That with

"Wher is

this false tyraunt, this


he breyde, And to his goddes pitously he preyde For socour, but it mighte nat bityde. For drede of this, him thoughte that he deyde, And ran in-to a gardin, him to hyde.


fere almost out of his wit


in this gardin

fond he cherles tweye

That seten by a fyr ful greet and reed, And to thise cherles two he gan to preye To sleen him, and to girden of his heed, That to his body, whan that he were deed,

Were no despyt y-doon,

for his defame. Him-self he slow, he coude no better reed, Of which fortune lough, and hadde a game.





never capitayn under a king That regnes mo putte in subjeccioun, Ne strenger was in feeld of alle thing, As in his tyme, ne gretter of renoun, Ne more pompous in heigh

presumpcioun Oloferne, which fortune ay kiste So likerously, and ladde him up and doun Til that his heed was of, er that he wiste.

Was never

captain, no, of any king's

That had more kingdoms


Nat only that this world hadde him in awe

Not only did

But tak kepe of the deeth of Olofern;

Amidde his host he dronke lay a night, With-inne

his tente, large as


a bern,

And yit, for al his pompe and al his might, Juaith, a womman, as he lay upright,




For lesinge of richesse or libertee, But he made every man reneye his lawe. "Nabugodonosor was god," seyde he, "Noon other god sholde adoured be." Ageyns his heste no wight dar trespace Save in Bethulia, a strong citee, Wher Eliachim a prest was of that place.

in subjection

Nor stronger was, in field, above all things, Nor in his time a greater of renown, Nor had more pomp with high presumption Holofernes, whom Dame Fortune kissed Right lecherously, and led him up and down Until his head was off before 'twas missed. this world hold him in awe For taking all its wealth and libertv, But he made every man renounce old law. "Nebuchadnezzar is your god," said he, "And now no other god shall worshipped be." Against his order no man dared to stand, Save in Bethulia, a strong city, Where Eliachim priest was of the land.

But from the death of Holofernes learn. Amidst his host he lay drunk, on a night, Within his tent, as large as ever barn, And yet, for all his pomp and all his might,

Sleping, his heed of smoot, and from his tente Ful prively she stal from every wight,

Judith, a woman, as he lay upright, Sleeping, smote off his head and from his tent Stole secretly away every wight,

And with his heed unto hir toun she wente.


with the head to her

own town

she went.

OF THE FAMOUS KING ANTIOCHUS What nedeth it of King Anthiochus

To telle his hye royal magestee,

What needs it, as for King Antiochus, To tell his high and royal majestv,

His hye pryde, his werkes venimous? For swich another was ther noon as he. Rede which that he was in Machabee, And rede the proude wordes that he seyde, And why he fil fro heigh prosperitee, And in an hil how wrechedly he deyde.

And all the haughty sayings that he said, And how he fell from high prosperity, And on a hiH how wretchedly lay dead.

Fortune him hadde enhaunced so in pryde That verraily he wende he mighte attayne Unto the sterres, upon every syde, And in balance weyen ech montayne,

Fortune had so enhanced the man's great pride That verily he thought he might attain Unto the utter stars on every side, And in a balance weigh the high mountain,

And alle the nodes of the see restrayne. And goddes peple hadde he most in hate,

And all the flood-tides of the sea restrain. And God's own people held he most in hate.

His great pride and his deeds so venomous ? There never was another such as he. Go read what's said of him in Maccabee,

Hem wolde he sleen in torment and in payne,

Them would

Wening that god ne mighte his pryde abate.

Thinking that

And for that Nichanor and Thimothee


Of Jewes weren venquisshed mightily, Unto the Jewes swich an hate hadde he That he bad greithe

his char ful hastily,

And swoor, and seyde, ful despitously, Unto Jerusalem he wolde


To wreken his ire on it ful cruelly; But of his purpos he was

let ful


God for his manace him so sore smoot With invisible wounde, ay incurable, That in his guttes carf it so and boot That his peynes weren importable.

he slay with torment and with pain, God his pride would not abate.

because Nicanor and Timothy Were vanquished by the Jews so mightily, Unto all Jews so great a hate had he

That he bade bring his chariot hastily, And swore an oath and said, impiteously, That to Jerusalem he'd go ere noon To wreak his ire on it full cruelly; But from his purpose he was turned, and soon.

God, for this menace, smote him then With wound invisible, incurable, For



guts he was so carved, aye more, pain of it was insupportable.

in his



444 And

THE CANTERBURY TALES certainly the thing

And reasonable,


certeinly, the

wreche was resonable,

For manv a man's guts Ik- hid caused to pain; But from his purpose, cursed, damnable, In spite oi all be would not him restrain.

For many a marines guttes dide he peyne; But from his purpos cursed and dampnable For al his smert he wolde him nat restreyne;

He gave command

But bad anon apparaillen his host, And sodeynly, er he of it was war, God daunted al his pryde and al his bost. For he so sore fil out of his char, That it his limes and his skin to-tar, So that he neither mighte go ne ryde, But in a chayer men aboute him bar, Al for-brused, bothe bak and sydc.


to marshal his great host, suddenly, or ere he was aware,


daunted all his pride and all his boast. For he so heavily tell from Ins ear That from his very bones the flesh did tear. So that he might not either walk or ride, But in a litter men were forced to bear Him with them, bruised upon the back and

The wrath


The wreche of god him smoot so cruelly

of Cod smote him so cruelly

That through


body loathsome maggots crept;


therewithal he stank so horribly That none of those that round his person kept,

That thurgh


body wikked wormes

And ther-with-al


he stank so horribly,

and howled and wept; That God was Lord of all he then was sure.

That noon of al his meynee that him kepte, Whether so he wook or elles slepte, Ne mighte noght for stink of him endure. In this meschief he wayled and eek wepte, And knew god lord of every creature.

To all

his host and to himself also Full loathsome was his carrion, one great blain; There were no men could bear him to and fro.

To al his host and to him-self also

And in this stink and in this horrid pain He died full wretchedly on a mountain.

And in this stink and this horrible peyne He starf ful wrecchedly in a monteyne.

Thus had this robber and this homicide, Who made so many men weep and complain,

Thus hath this robbour and this homicyde, That many a man made to wepe and pleyne,

Such guerdon

Swich guerdon

Whether he Could,


for the


or whether slept,

very stench of him, endure.

In this foul state he wailed

as belongs to too great pride.

Ful wlatsom was the stink of his careyne;

No man ne mighte him bere to ne fro.

as bilongeth unto pryde.

OF ALEXANDER Alexander's tale


so well



The storie of Alisaundre is


That evervone who is not simple grown Has heard somewhat, or all, of his fortune This whole wide world, to state conclusion known, He won bv strength, or else for his renown Right gladly men to sue for peace did send. pride of man and beast he tumbled down Where'er he went, and that was the world's end.


Comparison might never yet be staked


a single similar



conquering power; For all this world in dread of him has quaked. He was of knighthood and of freedom flower Fortune made him her heir to honour's bower: Save wine and women, nothing might assuage His high intent in arms; all men must cower. So filled he was of leonine courage.



to him,



were told

Darius' tale or of others brought low— Of kings and dukes and earls and princes bold,

The which he conquered and brought down


so comune, That every wight that hath discrecioun Hath herd somwhat or al of his fortune.

This wyde world, as in conclusioun, He wan by strengthe, or for his hye renoun They weren glad for pees un-to him sende. The pryde of man and beste he leyde adoun, Wher-so he cam, un-to the worldes ende.

Comparisoun might never yit be maked Bitwixe him and another conquerour; For al this world for drede of him hath quaked, He was of knighthode and of fredom flour; Fortune him made the heir of hir honour; Save wyn and wommen, no-thing mighte aswagc His hye entente in armes and labour; So was he ful of leonyn corage.

What preys were it to him, though I yow tolde Of Darius, and an hundred thousand mo, Of kinges, princes, erles, dukes bolde, Whiche he conquered, and broghte hem in-to wo?

woe ? I



as far as

man may

The world was



ride or



Twelve years he reigned,

as tells us

man may ryde or go,

his, what sholde I more devyse? write or tolde you evermo Of his knighthode, it mighte nat suffyse.

The world was

tell it in a trice.

For though I wrote or told you always, ()t his knighthood, the time would not

seye, as fer as




For though


Twelf yeer he regned,

as seith




Philippes sone of Macedoyne he was, That first was king in Grece the contree. worthy gentil Alisaundre, alias! That ever sholde fallen swich a cas! Empoisoned of thyn owene folk thou were; Thy sys fortune hath turned into as, And yit for thee ne weep she never a tere!


Who shal me yeven teres to compleyne the world welded in his demeyne, nat suffyse? So ful was his corage of heigh empryse. Alias! who shal me helpe to endyte False fortune, and poison to despyse, al

And yit him thoughte it mighte

The whiche two of al this wo


Philip's son of



was king

Macedon ol




treece, the

whole country.

O noble Alexander, () alas! That ever you should come to such a pass! For poisoned by your very own you were; Your six did Fortune turn into an ace. And yet for you she never wept a tear!

Who shall give me

The deeth of gentillesse and of fraunchyse, That




the tears now to complain For death of gentle blood and high franchise? He all the world did wield as one domain, And yet he thought it could not long suffice, So full his heart was of high enterprise. Alas!

And who shall

False Fortune, and

For these




to indict

poison to despise ? blame for all the woe I write. all

OF JULIUS CAESAR By wisdom, manhede, and by greet labour Fro humble bed

to royal magestee,

By wisdom, manhood, and by great From humble bed to royal majesty

Up roos he, Julius the conquerour,

Up rose he,

That wan al th'occident by lond and see, By strengthe of hond, or elles by tretee,

Who won

And un-to Rome made hem tributaries And sitthe of Rome the emperour was he, Til that fortune

wex his adversarie.

mighty Cesar, that in Thessalye

Ageyn Pompeius, fader thyn in lawe, That of th'orient hadde al the chivalrye As fer as that the day biginneth dawe,

Thou thurgh thy knighthode


hem take and

Julius the conqueror, the Occident by land and sea, force of arms, or else by clear treaty,

By And unto Rome made all this tributary; And then of Rome the emperor was he, Till

Save fewe folk that with Pompeius fledde,

But now a litel whyl I wol biwaille This Pompeius, this noble governour Of Rome, which that neigh at this bataille;

oon of his men, a fals traitour, His heed of smoot, to winnen him favour Of Julius, and him the heed he broghte. Alias, Pompey, of th'orient conquerour, That fortune unto swich a fyn thee broghte! 1


To Rome ageyn repaireth Julius With his triumphe, laureat ful hye, But on a tyme Brutus Cassius, That ever hadde of his hye estaat envye, Ful prively hath maad conspiracye Ageins this Julius, in subtil wyse, And cast the place, in whiche he sholde dye With boydekins, as I shal yow devyse.

This Julius to the Capitolie wente Upon a day, as he was wont to goon, And in the Capitolie anon him hente This false Brutus, and his othere foon, And stikede him with boydekins anoon With many a wounde, and thus they lete him lye;

Fortune came to be

his adversary.

mighty Caesar, who in Thessaly Against great Pompey, father of yours in law, That of the East had all the chivalry


farthest places that the sun e'er saw,

You, by your knighthood broke them

for death's



Thurgh which thou puttest al th'orient in awe. Thanke fortune, that so wel thee spedde!


Save those few men who thence with Pompev fled. Whereby you put the Orient in awe. Thank Fortune now that you so well have sped.

But now a


This Pompey,


this so

I well bewail noble governor

Of Rome, who fled when

battle's chance did fail; one of his men, a false traitor, Smote off his head to win himself favour With Julius, and there the head he brought. Alas, Pompey! Of Orient conqueror, That Fortune such an end for thee hath wrought! 1


To Rome again repaired great Julius, To have his triumph, laureate full high; But on

a time Brutus

and Cassius,

Who ever had of great estate envy, Full secretly did lay conspiracy Against this Julius, in subtle wise, And fixed the place at which he soon should die By dagger thrusts, as I shall you apprise.


Julius, to the

Capitol he went

Upon a day, as he'd been wont to go, And there they seized on him, as well

they meant, This treacherous Brutus and each other foe, And struck him with their daggers, high and low, And gave him many a wound and let him die;



But Devei groaned be, save at one stroke, no (Or two perchance), unless Fm legend lie.

So maiiK was


But never gronte he at no strook but oon, Or elles at two, but-if his storie lye.

So manly was

this Julius in his heart,

this Julius at herte


That, though his deadly wounds did burn and

so wel lovede estaatly honestee, That, though his deedly woundes sore

smart, His mantle yet about his hips cast he. That no man there should see his privity. And .is be lav there, dying, in a trance, And knew that he was dying, verily, Of decency yet had he remembrance.

His mantel over his hippes casteth he, For no man sholde seen his privitee. And, as he lay on deying in a traunce, And wiste verraily that deed was he, Of honestee yit hadde he remembraunce.


so well loved he stately decency.



tell this




Lucan, to thee


this storie



And to Sweton, and to Valerie also,

Suetonius too, Valerius also, Who of the tale have written to the end And told how, of these mighty conquerors two, Fortune was first the friend and then the foe. No man may trust in Fortune's favour long, But as one fearing ambush must he go. Witness the end of all these conquerors strong.

That of this


wryten word and ende,

How that to thise grete conqueroures two Fortune was


freend, and sithen fo.

No man ne truste up-on hir favour longe, But have hir in awayt for ever-mo. Witnesse on alle thise conqueroures stronge.

CROESUS Croesus, Lydia's sometime king, Of which Croesus King Cyrus had such dread, Yet was he taken, in his pride swelling,

The wealthy

to be burned upon a pyre was led. But such a rain down from the clouds was shed As quenched the fire and let him there escape; But to be warned, no grace was in him spread Till Fortune on the gallows made him gape.


This riche Cresus, whylom king of Lyde, Of whiche Cresus Cyrus sore him dradde, Yit was he caught amiddes al his pryde, And to be brent men to the fyr him ladde. But swich a reyn doun fro the welkne shadde That slow the fyr, and made him to escape; But to be war no grace yet he hadde, Til fortune on the galwes

made him gape.

When he'd escaped, not changed was his intent To march at once into new wars again. He thought right well 'twas Fortune that had sent

Whan he escaped was, he can nat stente

Such chance that he'd escape because of rain, And that by foes he never should be slain;

Swich hap, that he escaped thurgh the rayn, That of his foos he mighte nat be slayn; And eek a sweven up-on a night he mette, Of which he was so proud and eek so fayn, That in vengeaunce he al his herte sette.

And then

a vision in the night he met, At which he waxed so proud and grew so fain That upon vengeance all his heart was set.

Upon a tree he was, or so he thought, Where Jupiter did wash him, back and side, And Phoebus, then a fair white towel brought To dry him with and thereby swell his pride; And to his daughter, who stood there beside, And well, he knew, in knowledge did abound, He bade interpret what it signified, And she his dream in this wise did expound. "The


tree," she said, "the gallows

Jupiter betokens

snow and





While Phoebus with his towel white and clean, That is the sunbeams beating down amain;

You shall be hanged, O father, 'tis certain; The rain shall wash you and the sun shall dry."


thus she gave him warning flat and plain, His daughter, who was Phania, say I.

So hanged was Croesus,


proud Lydian king,

His royal throne could nothing then avail. Tragedy is no other kind of thing;

For to biginne a newe werre agayn.

He wende wel, for that fortune him sente

Up-on a tree he was, as that him thoughte, Ther Juppiter him wesh, bothe bak and syde. And Phebus eek a fair towaille him broughte To drye him with, and ther-for wex his pryde; And to his doghter, that stood him bisyde, Which that he knew in heigh science habounde, He bad hir telle him what it signifyde,

And she his dreem bigan right thus expounde. "The tree," quod

she, "the galwes




And Juppiter bitokneth snow and reyn, And Phebus, with his towaille so clene, Tho ben the sonne stremes for to seyn, Thou shalt anhanged be, fader, certeyn; Reyn shal thee wasshe, and sonne shal thee drye' Thus warned she him ful plat and ful pleyn, His doughter, which that called was Phanye.

Anhanged was Cresus, the proude king, His royal trone mighte him nat availle. Tragedie is noon other maner thing,



Ne can in singing crye ne biwaille, But

for that fortune alwey


With unwar strook the regnes





For when men trusteth


hir, than wol she faille, covere hir brighte face with a cloude.


Noi can the singer crv aught, or bewail, But that Dame Fortune always will assail

With unwarned

stroke those great ones who are proud; For when men trust her most, then will she fail And cover her bright face as with a cloud.

OF KING PEDRO OF SPAIN O noble, o worthy Petro, glorie of Spayne, O noble Pedro, glory once of Spain, Whom fortune heeld so hy in magestee, Whom Fortune held so high in majesty, Wei oughten men thy Out

pitous deeth complayne! of thy lond thy brother made thee flee;

And after, at a sege, by subtiltee, Thou were bitrayed, and lad un-to

his tente,

Wher-as he with

his owene hond slow thee, Succeding in thy regne and in thy rente.


feeld of snow, with th'egle of blak ther-inne, 1

Caught with the lymrod, coloured as the glede, He brew this cursednes and al this sinne. The "wikked nest"- was werker of this nede; Noght Charles Oliver, that ay took hede Of frouthe and honour, but of Armorike Genilon Oliver, corrupt for mede, Broghte this worthy king in swich a brike.

Well ought men read tin piteous death with pain! Out of thy land thy brother made thee Ike;

And later, at a siege, by scheme crafty, Thou wert betrayed, and led into his tent, Where he then, and with his own hand, slew


Succeeding to thy realm and government.



of snow, with eagle black therein, 1

Caught by the lime-rod, coloured as the gleed, He brewed this wickedness and all this sin. The "Wicked Nest" 2 was worker of this deed; Not that Charles Oliver who aye took heed Of truth and honour, but the Armorican Ganelon Oliver, corrupt for mead, Brought low this worthy king by such a plan.

OF KING PETER OF CYPRUS O worthy Petro, king of Cypre, also, O noble Peter, Cyprus' lord and king, That Alisaundre wan by heigh maistrye, Ful many a hethen wroghtestow ful wo, Of which thyn owene liges hadde envye, And, for no thing but for thy chivalrye, They in thy bedde han slayn thee by the morwe. Thus can fortune hir wheel governe and gye,

And out of joye bringe men to sorwe.

Which Alexander won by masterv.

To many

a heathen ruin did'st thou bring; thy lords had so much jealousv. That, for no crime save thy high chivalry, All in thy bed they slew thee on a morrow. And thus does Fortune's wheel turn treacherously And out of happiness bring men to sorrow.



OF BERNABO OF LOMBARD Y Of Melan grete Barnabo Viscounte,

God of delyt, and scourge of Lumbardye,

Of Milan, great Bernabo Visconti, God of delight and scourge of Lombard v,

Why sholde I nat thyn infortune acounte,

Why should I

Sith in estaat thou clombe were so hye? Thy brother sone, that was thy double allye,

power thou did'st climb so high ? Thy brother's son, and doubly thine ally, For he thy nephew^ was and son-in-law. Within his prison shut thee up to die, But I know not how death to thee did draw.

For he thy nevew was, and sone-in-lawe, With-inne his prisoun made thee to dye; But why, ne how, noot I that thou were slawe.

Since in


not of thy miserv,


OF UGOLINO, COUNT OF PISA Of the erl Hugelyn of Pyse the langour Ther may no tonge telle for pitee;

Of Ugolino, Count

of Pisa's


the half for hot pity.

But litel out of Pyse stant a tour, In whiche tour in prisoun put was he, And with him been his litel children three. The eldeste scarsly fyf yeer was of age. Alias, fortune! it was greet crueltee Swiche briddes for to putte in swiche a cage!

Near Pisa stands a tower, and it was so That to be there imprisoned doomed was he, While with him were his little children three,

Dampned was

Condemned was he

he to deye in that prisoun.

For Roger, which that bisshop was of Pyse, Hadde on him maad a fals suggestioun, Thurgh which the peple gan upon him ryse, 'Chaucer puts

tongue can




was scarce five years of age. was great cruelty lock such birds up into such a cage! eldest child

Alas, Fortune! It


to die in that prison,

Since Ruggieri, Pisa's bishop, twice Had lied, intrigued, and egged old passions on, Whereby the people did against him rise,

'The arms of Bertrand du Guesclin. OF. mau ni, meaning thereby Sir Oliver Mauny.

this for







puttcn him to prisoun in swich wyse As ye han herd, and mete and drink he hadde So smal, that wel unnethe it may suffyse, And therwith-al it was ful povrc and badde.

As you have heard; and meftl and drink he had So little that it could not long suffice. And was, moreover, very poor and hail.

And on a dav befell it, at When commonly to him The 1


And on a day bifil

the hour his food

Whan that his

was brought,


well enough, but he said naught.

Anil to his heart anon there


the thought

That they bv hunger would leave him to die. "Alas," said he. "that ever I was wrought!" And thereupon the tears fell from his eye.


His voungest son, who three years was of age, said: "Father, why do you weep? When will the gaoler bring us our pottage?

Unto him Is

there no


that, in that hour,

mete wont was to be broght,

The gayler shette the dores of the tour. He herde it wel, but he spak right noght, And in his herte anon ther fil a thoght,

gaoler shut the great doors ol the tower.




into prison In such wise

of bread that you did keep?

That they for hunger wolde doon him dyen. "Alias!" quod he, "alias! that I was wroght!" Therwith the teres fillen from his ygn. His yonge sone, that three yeer was of age,

Un-to him seyde, "fader, why do ye wepe?

Whan wol the gayler bringen our potage, Is ther

no morsel breed that ye do kepe?

am so hungry that I may nat slepe.

am so hungry that I cannot sleep. Now would God that might sleep on for aye! Then should not hunger through my belly creep;

Now wolde god that I mighte slepen ever!

For nothing more than bread




I'd rather




sholde nat hunger in my wombe crepe; no thing, save breed, that me were lever."


Thus, day by day, this little child did cry, Till on his father's breast at length he lay And said: "Farewell, my father, I must die." And kissed the man and died that very day. And when the father saw it dead, I say, For grief his arms gnawed he until blood came, And said: "Alas, Fortune and welaway. It is thy treacherous wheel that I must blame!"

Thus day by day this

His children thought that it for hunger was He gnawed his arms, and not that 'twas for woe, And cried "O father, do not thus, alas But rather cat our young flesh, even so; This flesh you gave us; take it back and go And eat enough!" 'Twas thus those children cried, And after that, within a day or two. They laid themselves upon his knees and died.

His children wende that it for hunger was That he his armes gnow, and nat for wo,


Himself, despairing, all by hunger starved, Thus ended this great count of Pisa's cries; All his vast riches Fortune from him carved. ( )1

his fate tragic let

Whoso would






told in longer wise,

Let him read the great bard of Italy Whom men call Dante; seen through Dante's eyes No point is slurred, nor in one word tails he.

child bigan to crye, Til in his fadres barme adoun it lay, And seyde, "far-wel, fader, I moot dye,"

And kiste his fader, and deyde the same day. And whan the woful fader deed it sey, For wo his armes two he gan to byte, And seyde, "alias, fortune! and weylaway! Thy false wheel my wo al may I wyte!"

And seyde,

"fader, do nat so, alias! But rather eet the flesh upon us two; Our flesh thou yaf us, tak our flesh us fro And eet y-nough": right thus they to him seyde, And after that, with-in a day or two, They leyde hem in his lappe adoun, and deyde.

Him-self, despeired, eek for hunger starf; Thus ended in this mighty Erl of Pyse; From heigh estaat fortune awey him carf. Of this Tragedie it oghte y-nough suffyse. Who-so wol here it in a lenger wyse, Redeth the grete poete of Itaille, That highte Dant, for he can al devyse Fro point to point, nat o word wol he faille.







THE PROLOGUE OF THE NUN'S PRIEST'S TALE THE PROLOGUE OF THE NUN'S PRIEST'S TALE "Ho!" quod the knight, "good sir, namore of this, That ye han seyd is right y-nough, y-wis,

And mochel more; for litel hevinesse y-nough to mochel folk, I gesse. me, it is a greet disese Wher-as men han ben in greet welthe and ese, To heren of hir sodeyn fal, alias! And the contrarie is joie and greet solas, As whan a man hath been in povre estaat, And clymbeth up, and wexeth fortunat, And ther abydeth in prosperitee, Sfvich thing is gladsom, as it thinketh me, And of swich thing were goodly for to telle." "Ye," quod our hoste, "by seint Is right I

seye for

cried the knight. "Coed sir, no more What you have said is right enough, and is Very much more; a little heaviness


plenty for the most of us, I guess. For me, I say it's saddening, if you please, As to men who've enjoyed great wealth and To hear about their sudden fall, alas! But the contrary's joy and great solace, As when a man has been in poor estate And he climbs up and waxes fortunate,


I noot never what, and als of a 'Tragedie' Right now ye herde, and parde! no remedie It is for to biwaille, ne compleyne That that is doon, and als it is a peyne, As ye han seyd, to here of hevinesse. Sir monk, na-more of this, so god yow blesse! Your tale anoyeth al this companye;

Swich talking is nat worth a boterflye; For ther-in is ther no desport ne game. Wherfor, sir Monk, or dan Piers by your name,

yow hertely, telle us somwhat elles,

For sikerly, nere clinking of your belles, That on your brydel hange on every syde, By heven king, that for us alle dyde, I sholde er this han fallen doun for slepe, Although the slough had never been so depe; Than had your tale al be told in vayn. For certeinly, as that thise clerkes seyn, 'Wher-as a man may have noon audience,

Noght helpeth it to tellen his

You say the truth; this monk, his clapper's loud. He spoke how 'Fortune covered with a cloud' I know not what, and of a 'tragedy,' As now you heard, and gad! no remedy It is to wail and wonder and complain That certain things have happened, and it's pain, As you have said, to hear of wretchedness. Sir monk, no more of this, so God you bless! Your tale annoys the entire company; Such talking is not worth a butterfly; For in it is no sport nor any game. Wherefore, sir monk, Don Peter by your name, I pray you heartily tell us something else, For truly, but for clinking of the bells That from your bridle hang on either side,


should, ere

It's little

wel reported be.

has died,

help to speak his evidence.'

Sir, tell a tale


of hunting now,

said this




"I have no wish to play;

Now let another tell, as I have told."

Than spak our host, with rude speche and


And seyde un-to the Nonnes Preest anon, "Com neer, thou preest, com hider, thou sir John, Tel us swich thing as may our hertes glade, though thou ryde up-on a jade. What though thyn hors be bothe foule and

Then spoke our host out, in rude speech and bold, And said he unto the nun's priest anon: "Come near, you priest, come hither, you Sir John, make our hearts all glad; although you ride upon a jade. though your horse may be both foul and

Tell us a thing to







wol serve thee, rekke nat a bene; Look that thyn herte be mery evermo." If he




And well I know the substance is in me To judge of things that well reported be.

Now let another telle, as I have told."

"Yis, sir,"


have fallen down for sleep, Although the mud had never been so deep; Then had your story all been told in vain. For certainly, as all these clerks complain, 'Whenas a man has none for audience,

somwhat of hunting, I yow preye." "Nay," quod this monk, "I have no lust to pleye;



By Heaven's king, Who for

Sir, sey



Such things are gladsome, as it seems to me, And of such things it would be good to tell." "Yea," quoth our host, "and by Saint Paul's


And wel I woot the substance is in me, If any thing shal

there abides in



great bell,

seye right sooth; this monk, he clappeth loude, He spak how 'fortune covered with a cloude'




Poules belle,




he, "yis, host, so

be mery, y-wis,



wol be blamed":

he but serves you, why, don't care a bean; Just see your heart is always merry. So." "Yes, sir," said he, "yes, host, so may I go, For, save I'm merry, I know I'll be blamed." If





This dainty

priest, this

goodly man,


And right anon his tale he hath attained, And thus he seyde un-to us everichon,

And right awa) bisstor) bas be framed, And thus be said unto us, e\_ery one,

This swete precst,

Sir John.





goodly man,






HERE BEGINNETH THE NUN'S PRIEST'S TALE OF THE COCK AND HEN, CHANTECLEER AND PERTELOTE A povre widwe, somdel stape in age, A widow poor, somewhat advanced in age, Lived, on a time, within a small cottage Beside a grove and standing down a dale.

Was whylom

This widow, now, ot whom I tell my tale, Since that same day when she'd been last a wife Had led, with patience, her strait simple life, For she'd small goods and little income-rent; By husbanding of such as God had sent She kept herself and her young daughters twain. Three large sows had she, and no more, 'tis plain, Three cows and a lone sheep that she called Moll. Right sooty was her bedroom and her hall,

This widwe, of which I telle you my tale, Sin thilke day that she was last a wyf,

Wherein sbe'd eaten many a slender meal. she needed no great deal, For dainty morsel never passed her throat;

Of sharp sauce, why Her

diet well accorded with her coat. Repletion never made this woman sick; A temperate diet was her whole physic, And exercise, and her heart's sustenance. The gout, it hindered her nowise to dance, Nor apoplexy spun within her head; And no wine drank she, either white or red; Her board was mostly garnished, white and black, With milk and brown bread, whereof she'd no lack, Broiled bacon and sometimes an egg or two, For a small dairy business did she do.


all roundabout and there was a dry ditch without, And in the yard a cock called Chanticleer. In all the land, for crowing, he'd no peer. His voice was merrier than the organ gay On Mass days, which in church begins to play; More regular was his crowing in his lodge Than is a clock or abbey horologe.

yard she had, enclosed



By instinct he'd marked each ascension down Of equinoctial value in that town; For when fifteen degrees had been ascended, Then crew he so it might not be amended. His comb was redder than a fine coral, And battlemented like a castle wall. His bill was black and just like jet it shone; Like azure were his legs and toes, each one; His spurs were whiter than the lily flower; And plumage of the burnished gold his dow er. This noble cock had in his governance Seven hens to give him pride and all pleasance, Which were his sisters and his paramours And wondrously like him as to colours, Whereof the fairest hucd upon her throat


called the

winsome Mistress Pertclote.

dwelling in a narwe cotage, Bisyde a grove, stonding in a dale.

In pacience ladde a ful simple


For litel was hir catel and hir rente; By housbondrye, of such as God hir sente, She fond hir-self, and eek hir doghtren two. Three large sowes hadde she, and namo, Three kyn, and eek a sheep that highte Malle, Ful sooty was hir bour, and eek hir halle, In which she eet ful many a sclendre meel. Of poynaunt sauce hir neded never a deel. No deyntee morsel passed thurgh hir throte; Hir dyete was accordant to hir cote. Repleccioun ne made hir never syk; Attempree dyete was al hir phisyk, And exercyse, and hertes suffisaunce.

The goute lette hir no-thing for to daunce, N'apoplexye shente nat hir heed; No wyn ne drank she, neither whyt ne reed; Hir bord was served most with whyt and blak, Milk and broun breed, in which she fond no lak, Seynd bacoun, and somtyme an ey or tweye, For she was as it were a maner deye. A yerd she hadde, enclosed al aboute With stikkes, and a drye dich with-oute, In which she hadde a cok, hight Chauntecleer, In al the land of crowing nas his peer. His vois was merier than the mery orgon On messe-dayes that in the chirche gon; Wei sikerer was his crowing in his logge, Than is a clokke, or an abbey orlogge. By nature knew he ech ascencioun

Of equinoxial in thilke toun; For whan degrees fiftene were ascended, Thanne crew he, that it mighte nat ben amended. His comb was redder than the fyn coral,

And batailed, as it were a castel-wal. His


was blak, and

Lyk asur were

as the jeet

his legges,




his toon;

His nayles whytter than the lilie flour, lyk the burned gold was his colour. This gentil cok hadde in his governaunce Sevene hennes, for to doon al his plesaunce, Whiche were his sustres and his paramours, And wonder lyk to him, as of colours. Of whiche the faireste hewed on hir throte Was cleped faire damoysele Pertelote.




Curteys she was, discreet, and debonaire, And compaignable, and bar hir-self so faire, Sin thilke day that she was seven night old, That trewely she hath the herte in hold Of Chauntecleer loken in every lith; He loved hir so, that wel was him therwith. But such a joye was it to here hem singe, Whan that the brighte sonne gan to springe, In swete accord, "my lief is faren in londe." For thilke tyme, as I have understonde, Bestes and briddes coude speke and singe. And so bifel, that in a daweninge, As Chauntecleer among his wyves alle Sat on his perche, that was in the halle,

And next him sat this faire Pertelote, This Chauntecleer gan gronen in his throte, that in his dreem is drecched sore. And whan that Pertelote thus herde him rore, She was agast, and seyde, "O herte dere, What eyleth yow, to grone in this manere? Ye been a verray sleper, fy for shame!" And he answerde and seyde thus, "madame, I pray yow, that ye take it nat a-grief: By god, me mette I was in swich meschief Right now, that yet myn herte is sore afright. Now god," quod he, "my swevene recche aright, And keep my body out of foul prisoun!

As man

Me mette, how that I romed up and doun Withinne our yerde, wher-as


saugh a beste,

Was lyk an hound, and wolde han maad areste Upon my body, and wolde han had me deed. His colour was bitwixe yelwe and reed;

And tipped was his tail, and bothe his eres, With blak, unlyk the remenant of his


His snowte smal, with glowinge eyen tweye. Yet of his look for fere almost I deye; This caused me my groning, doutelees."




Courteous she was, discreet and debonnaire, Companionable, and she had been so fair Since that same day \\ ben she was seven nights That truly she had taken the heart to hold


Of Chanticleer, locked in her every limb; He loved her so that all was well with him. But such

a joy



In sweet accord,



at that time,




was to hear them


the bright sun began to spring,


"My and


love walks through the land.' I understand,


the birds could speak and sing.

befell that, in a bright


As Chanticleer 'midst wives and sisters all Sat on his perch, the which was in the hall, And next him sat the winsome Pertelote, This Chanticleer he groaned within his throat Like man that in his dreams is troubled sore. And when fair Pertelote thus heard him roar, She was aghast and said: "O sweetheart dear, What ails you that you groan so ? Do you hear ?

You are a sleepy herald. And he replied to her

Fie, for


thus: "Ah,

pray you that you take


not in grief: By God, I dreamed I'd come to such mischief, Just now, my heart yet jumps with sore affright. Now God," cried he, "my vision read aright And keep my body out of foul prison! I dreamed, that while I wandered up and down Within our yard, I saw there a strange beast Was like a dog, and he'd have made a feast Upon my body, and have had me dead. His colour yellow was and somewhat red; And tipped his tail was, as were both his ears, With black, unlike the rest, as it appears; His snout was small and gleaming was each eve. I

Remembering how he

And all

this caused


looked, almost

my groaning,





"Avoy!" quod she, "fy on yow, hertelees! quod she, "for, by that god above, Now han ye lost myn herte and al my love; I can nat love a coward, by my feith. For certes, what so any womman seith, We alle desyren, if it mighte be, To han housbondes hardy, wyse, and free, And secree, and no nigard, ne no fool,

To have a husband hardy, wise, and free, And trustworthy, no niggard, and no fool,

Ne him that is agast of every tool, Ne noon avauntour, by that god above!

Nor one that is afraid of every tool, Nor yet a braggart, by that God above!

How dorste ye seyn for shame unto your love,

How dare you say, for shame, unto your love That there is anything that you have feared ? Have you not man's heart, and yet have a beard ? Alas! And are you frightened by a vision ? Dreams are, God knows, a matter for derision. Visions are generated by repletions And vapours and the body's bad secretions Of humours overabundant in a wight. Surely this dream, which you have had tonight,


That any thing mighte make yow aferd? Have ye no mannes herte, and han a berd? Alias! and conne ye been agast of swevenis? No- thing, god wot, but vanitee, in sweven is. Swevenes engendren of replecciouns, And ofte of fume, and of complecciouns, Whan humours been to habundant in a wight. Certes this dreem, which ye han met to-night,

Cometh of the grete superfiuitee Of youre rede colera, pardee, Which causeth folk to dreden in here dremes Of arwes, and of fyr with rede lemes, Of grete bestes, that they wol hem byte, Of contek, and of whelpes grete and lyte;


said she, "fie

on you,

Alas!" crie^J she, "for by that


God above,

Now have you lost my heart and all my love; I cannot love a coward, by my faith. For



woman saith,

We all desire, if only it may be,

Comes only

Of your Which

of the superfluity

bilious irascibility,

causes folk to shiver in their dreams For arrows and for flames with long red gleams, For great beasts in the fear that they will bite. For quarrels and for wolf whelps great and slight;






humour of melancholy Causes lull many a man, in sleep, to a\ |ust



tear of black bears or of bulls all black.


>r test

Right as the



black devils put

Of other humours could That bring, to




Causeth ful crye, For fere of blake beres, or boles blake, Or elles, blake develes wole hem take. Of othere humours coude I telle also, That werken many a man in sleep ful wo; But I wol passe as lightly as I can. Lo Catoun, which that was so wys a man, Seyde he nat thus, ne do no fors of dremes?

in a sack.

tell also,

sleeping man, great woe;

But I'll pass on as lightly "Lo, Cato, and he was




a lull wise


we should trouble not for dreams? said she, "when we fly from the

Said he not,




Now, sire," quod she, "whan we flee fro the J

For Cod's love go and take some laxative; On peril of my soul, and as I live, will not lie. I counsel you the best, That both for choler and for melancholy You purge yourself; and since you shouldn't And on this farm there's no apothecary, I will mvsclf go find some herbs for you That will be good for health and pecker too;



Ami in our own yard all these herbs I'll find, The which have properties of proper kind

To purge von underneath and up above. You

this not,



Cod's very love!

are so very choleric of complexion.

Beware the mounting sun and all dejection, Nor get yourself with sudden humours hot; For if you do, I dare well lay a groat That you shall have the tertian fever's pain, Or some ague that mav well be your bane. A day or two you shall have digestives Of worms before you take your laxatives Of laurel, centuary, and fumitory,

Or else of hellebore purificatory, Or caper spurge, or else of dogwood berry, Or herb ivy, all in our yard so merry; Peck them just as they grow and gulp them in. Be merry, husband, for your father's kin! Dread no more dreams. And I can say no more." "Madam," said he, "gramercy for your lore.



wisdom such

a high


And though he says to hold no dreams in dread, By ( iod, men have, in many old books, read )t many a man more an authority (

That ever Cato was, pray pardon me,

Who say

just the reverse

And have found

of his sentence, out bv long experience

That dreams, indeed, are good significations, As much of joys as of all tribulations That folk endure here in this life present. There is no need to make an argument; The very proof of this is shown indeed.

"One of the greatest Says thus: That on


authors that men read time two comrades went

and all in good intent And it so chanced they came into a town Where there was such a crowding, up and down, ( )! people, and so little harbourage, That they found not so much as one cottage Wherein the two of them might sheltered be. Wherefore they must, as of necessity, (

as tak





the beste,


wol nat


That bothe of colere and of malencolye Ye purge yow; and for ye shul nat tarie, Though in this toun is noon apotecarie, I shal my-self to herbes techen yow, That shul ben for your hele, and for your prow;

And in our yerd tho herbes shal I finde, The whiche han of hir propretee, by kinde, To purgen yow binethe, and eek above. Forget not

this, for

goddes owene


Ye been ful colerik of compleccioun. Ware the sonne in his ascencioun Ne fynde yow nat repleet of humours

And if it do,


dar wel leye a grote, That ye shul have a fevere terciane, Or an agu, that may be youre bane. A day or two ye shul have digestyves Of wormes, er ye take your laxatyves, Of lauriol, centaure, and fumetere, Or elles of ellebor, that groweth there. Of catapuce, or of gaytres beryis, Of erbe yve, growing in our yerd, that mery is; Pekke hem up right as they growe, and ete hem Be mery, housbond, for your fader kin! Dredeth no dreem; I can say yow namore." "Madame," quod he, "graunt mercy of your I


Nevertheless, not running Cato down,


bemes, For Goddes love,

Up peril of my soule, and of my lyf,




humour of malencolye many a man, in sleep, to

)n pilgrimage,

But nathelees, as touching daun Catoun, That hath of wisdom such a greet renoun, Though that he bad no dremes for to drede,

By god, men may in olde bokes rede Of many a man, more of auctoritee Than ever Catoun was, so mote I thee, That al the revers seyn of his sentence, And han wel founden by experience, That dremes ben significaciouns, As wel of joye as tribulaciouns That folk enduren in this lyf present. Ther nedeth make of this noon argument;

The verray preve sheweth it in dede. "Oon of the gretteste auctours that men rede Seith thus, that whylom two felawes wente

On pilgrimage, in a And happed


good entente;

thay come into a toun, Wher-as ther was swich congregacioun Of peple, and eek so streit of herbergage That they ne founde as muche as o cotage In which they bothe might y-logged be. Wherfor thay mosten, of necessitee, so,



14,999-1 5 >05 8]


for that night, departen


And ech of hem goth to his hostelrye, And took his logging as it wolde falle. That oon of hem was logged in a stalle, Fer in a yerd, with oxen of the plough;

That other man was logged wel y-nough, As was his aventure, or his fortune, That us governeth alle as in commune. "And so bifel, that, longe er it were day, This


mette in his bed, ther-as he


How that his felawe gan up-on him calle, And seyde, This night

'alias! I

for in an oxes stalle

shal be

mordred ther

I lye.

Now help me, dere brother, er I

dye; In alle haste com to me,' he sayde. This man out of his sleep for fere abrayde; But whan that he was wakned of his sleep,

He turned him, and took of this no keep; Him thoughte his dreem nas but a vanitee. Thus twyes

in his sleping



And atte thridde tyme yet his felawe Cam, as him thoughte, and



am now


Bihold my blody woundes, depe and wyde! Arys up erly in the morwe-tyde, And at the west gate of the toun,' quod he, 'A carte ful of dong ther shaltow see, In which my body is hid ful prively;

Do thilke carte aresten boldely. My gold caused my mordre, sooth to sayn'; And tolde him every poynt how he was With a ful


pitous face, pale of hewe.

And truste wel, his dreem he fond ful trewe; For on the morwe,

as sone as


was day,

To his felawes in he took the way; And whan that he cam to this oxes After his felawe he bigan to


day he wente out of the toun.' This man gan fallen in suspecioun, Remembring on his dremes that he mette, And forth he goth, no bnger wolde he lette, Unto the west gate of the toun, and fond A dong-carte, as it were to donge lond, That was arrayed in the same wyse As ye han herd the dede man devyse; And with an hardy herte he gan to crye Vengeaunce and justice of this felonye: as

'My felawe mordred is this same night, And in this carte he lyth gapinge upright. I

crye out

on the




'That sholden kepe and reulen this citee; Harrow! alias! her lyth my felawe slayn!' What sholde I more un-to this tale sayn? The peple out-sterte, and caste the cart to grounde, And in the middel of the dong they founde The dede man, that mordred was al newe. O blisful god, that art so just and trewe! Lo, how that thou biwreyest mordre alway! Mordre wol out, that see we day by day.



For that one night at least, part company; And each went to a different hostelry And took such lodgment as to him did fall. Now one oi them was lodged within a stall, Far in a yard, with oxen of the plow; That other man found shelter fair enow, As was his luck, or was his good fortune, Whatever 'tis that governs us, each one. "So it befell that, long ere it was dav, This last man dreamed in bed, as there he lay, That his poor fellow did unto him call, Saying: 'Alas! For in an ox's stall This night shall 1 be murdered where I lie. Now help me, brother dear, before I die. Come in all haste to me.' 'Twas thus he said. This man woke out of sleep, then, all alraid; But when he'd wakened fully from his sleep, He turned upon his pillow, yawning deep, Thinking his dream was but a fantasy. And then again, while sleeping, thus dreamed he. And then a third time came a voice that said (Or so he thought) 'Now, comrade, I am dead; Behold my bloody wounds, so wide and deep! Early arise tomorrow from your sleep, :


at the west gate of the town,' said he,

A wagon full of dung there shall you see, Wherein is hid my body craftily; Do you arrest this wagon right boldly. They killed me for what money they could gain. And told in every point how he'd been slain, With a most pitiful face and pale of hue. And trust me well, this dream did all come true; For on the morrow, soon



was day,

Unto his comrade's inn he took the way; And when he'd come into that ox's stall,



The hostiler answered him anon, And seyde, 'sire, your felawe is agon, As sone


his fellow

"The keeper

he began to


of the place replied anon,


said ke: 'Sir, your friend is up and gone; As soon as day broke he went out of town.' This man, then, felt suspicion in him grown, Remembering the dream that he had had, And forth he went, no longer tarrying, sad, Unto the west gate of the town, and found A dung-cart on its way to dumping-ground, And it was just the same in every wise As you have heard the dead man advertise; And with a hardy heart he then did cry Vengeance and justice on this felony: 'My comrade has been murdered in the night,


in this

very cart


face upright.

cry to all the officers,' said he 'That ought to keep the peace in this city. Alas, alas, here lies my comrade slain!' I

"Why should

I longer with this tale detain people rose and turned the cart to ground, And in the center of the dung they found



The dead man,






in his sleep.

Who art so true and deep!

how Thou dost turn murder out alway! Murder will out, we see it every day. Lo,





Murder's so hateful and abominable To God, Who is so just and reasonable. That He'll not suffer that it hidden be;

Though Murder


skulk a year, or two, or three and I conclude thereon. Immediately the rulers of that town, They took the carter and so sore they racked Him and the host, until their bones were cracked, That they confessed their wickedness anon, it

will out,

And hanged they both were by the neck, and soon. "Here may men see that dreams are things to dread.


[15*059-15, 1 18

wlatsom and abhominable To god, that is so just and resonable, That he ne wol nat suffre it heled be; Though it abyde a yeer, or two, or three, Mordre wol out, this my conclusioun. And right anoon, ministres of that toun Han hent the carter, and so sore him pyned, And eek the hostiler so sore engyned, That thay biknewe hir wikkednesse anoon, And were an-hanged by the nekke-boon. Here may men seen that dremes been to is



certainly, in that

same book


And certes, in the same book


Right in the very chapter after this (I spoof not, as I may have joy and bliss),



Of two men who would voyage oversea,

Right in the nexte chapitre after this, (I gabbe nat, so have I joye or blis,) Two men that wolde han passed over see,

For some cause, and unto a far country, but the winds had not been all contrary, Causing them both within a town to tarry, Which town was builded near the haven-side. But then, one day, along toward eventide, The wind did change and blow as suited

For certeyn cause, in-to a fer contree, If that the wind ne hadde been contrarie, That made hem in a citee for to tarie, That stood ful mery upon an havensyde. But on a day, agayn the even-tyde, The wind gan chaunge, and blew right as hem




and glad they went unto their rest. And were prepared right early for to sail; But unto one was told a marvelous tale. For one of them, a-sleeping as he lay, Did dream a wondrous dream ere it was day, He thought a strange man stood by his bedside And did command him, he should there abide, And said to him: 'If you tomorrow wend. You shall be drowned; my tale is at an end.' He woke and told his fellow what he'd met And prayed him quit the voyage and forget; For just one day he prayed him there to bide. His comrade, who was lying there beside, Began to laugh and scorned him long and fast. 'No dream,' said he, 'may make my heart aghast, So that I'll quit my business for such things. I do not care a straw for your dreamings, For visions are but fantasies and japes. Men dream, why, every day, of owls and apes, And many a wild phantasm therewithal; Men dream of what has never been, nor shall. But since I see that you will here abide. And thus forgo this fair wind and this tide, God knows I'm sorry; nevertheless, good dav!' "And thus he took his leave and went his way. Jolly

But long before the half his course he'd sailed, know not why, nor what it was that failed, But casually the vessel's bottom rent, ship and

men under

Of dreams,


That many






tell is

in the 'Life'


fair mistress,

of Saint


(Who was Kenelphus' son, the noble Of Mercia), how Kenelm dreamed a

Thou shalt be dreynt; my tale is at an ende.' He wook, and tolde his felawe what he mette, And preyde him his viage for to lette; As for that day, he preyde him to abyde. His felawe, that lay by his beddes syde, Gan for to laughe, and scorned him ful faste.

'No dreem,' quod he, 'may so myn herte agaste, That I wol lette for to do my thinges. I sette not a straw by thy dreminges, For swevenes been but vanitees and japes. Men dreme al-day of owles or of apes, And eke of many a mase therwithal; Men dreme of thing that never was ne shal. But sith I see that thou wolt heer abyde,

And thus for-sleuthen wilfully thy tyde, God wot it reweth me; and have good day.' And thus he took his leve, and wente his way. hadde halfe his cours y-seyled, nat why, ne what mischaunce it eyled. But casuelly the shippes botme rente, And ship and man under the water wente In sighte of othere shippes it byside,

the water went,

something well to dread.

That oon of hem, in sleping as he lay, Him mette a wonder dreem, agayn the day; Him thoughte a man stood by his beddes syde, And him comaunded, that he sholde abyde, And seyde him thus, 'if thou to-morwe wende,


In sight of other ships were there beside.

The which had sailed with that same wind and "And therefore, pretty Pertelote, my dear, By such old-time examples may you hear And learn that no man should be too reckless

they wente un-to hir reste,

And casten hem ful erly for to saille; But to that 00 man fil a greet mervaille.

er that he




Jolif and glad



That with hem seyled

at the



And therfor, faire Pertelote so dere, By swiche ensamples olde maistow lere, That no man sholde been to recchelees Of dremes, for I sey thee, doutelees, That many a dreem ful sore is for to drede.

I read king

Lo, in the lyf of seint Kenelm, I rede, That was Kenulphus sone, the noble king


Of Mercenrike, how Kenelm mette a thing;






A lyte er he was mordred, on a day,


His mordre in his avisioun he say. His norice him expouned every del His sweven, and bad him for to kepe him wel For traisoun; but he nas but seven yeer old, And therfore litel tale hath he told Of any dreem, so holy was his herte. By god, I hadde lever than my sherte That ye had rad his legende, as have I.

His nurse interpreted, as records tell, That vision, bidding him to guard him well From treason; but he was but seven years old, And therefore 'twas but little he'd been told Of any dream, so holy was his heart. By God I'd rather than retain my shirt That you had read this legend, as have I.

Dame Pertelote,




yow trewely,

Macrobeus, that writ th'avisioun In Affrike of the worthy Cipioun, Affermeth dremes, and seith that they been Warning of thinges that men after seen.

And forther-more, I pray yow loketh wel In th'olde testament, of Daniel, If he held dremes any vanitee. Jleed eek of Joseph, and ther shul ye see Wher dremes ben somtyme (I

sey nat alle)

Warning of thinges that shul after falle. Loke of Egipt the king, daun Pharao, His bakere and his boteler also, Wher they ne felte noon effect in dremes. Who-so wol seken actes of sondry remes, May rede of dremes many a wonder thing.

Lo Cresus, which that was of Lyde king, Mette he nat that he


upon a tree,

Which signified he sholde anhanged be? Lo heer Andromacha, Ectores wyf, That day that Ector sholde lese his lyf, She dremed on the same night biforn,

How that the lyf of Ector sholde be lorn, day he wente in-to bataille; She warned him, but it mighte nat availle; He wente for to fighte nathelees, But he was slayn anoon of Achilles. But thilke tale is al to long to telle, And eek it is ny day, I may nat dwelle. If thilke










hem never a del.

Now let us speke of mirthe, and stinte al this; Madame Pertelote, so have I blis, Of o thing god hath sent me large grace; For whan I see the beautee of your face, Ye ben so scarlet-reed about your yen, It maketh al my drede for to dyen; For, also siker as In principio, Mulier est hominis confusio; Madame, the sentence of this Latin





I tell



Macrobius, who wrote of Scipio The African a vision long ago, He holds by dreams, saying that they have been Warnings of things that men have later seen. "And furthermore, I pray you to look well In the Old Testament at Whether he held dreams

Daniel, for

mere vanity.

Read, too, of Joseph, and you there shall see Where dreams have sometimes been (I say not

Warnings of things that

May learn of dreams full many a


Which signified that hanged high he should be ? how Andromache, great Hector's wife, On that same day when Hector lost his life, Lo,

She dreamed upon the very night before That Hector's life should be lost evermore, If on that day he battled, without fail. She warned him, but no warning could avail; He went to fight, despite all auspices, And so was shortly slain by Achilles. But that same tale is all too long to tell, And, too, it's nearly day, I must not dwell but say, concluding here, I have cause to fear Adversity; and I say, furthermore, this;

That from


this vision

That I do set by laxatives no store, For they are poisonous, I know it well. Them I defy and love not, truth to tell. "But let us speak of mirth and stop all this; My lady Pertelote, on hope of bliss, In one respect God's given me much grace; For when I see the beauty of your face,

You are so

rosy-red beneath each eye,

makes my dreadful terror wholly For there is truth in In principio It


Mulier est hominis confusio is


the meaning of this Latin


Woman is man's delight and all his bliss).

For whan I fele a-night your softe syde, Al-be-it that I may nat on you ryde, For that our perche is maad so narwe, alas!

For when Although


am so ful of joye and of solas

defye bothe sweven and dreem." And with that word he fley doun fro the beem, For it was day, and eek his hennes alle; And with a chuk he gan hem for to calle, I


Lo, Croesus, who was once of Lydia king, Dreamed he not that he sat upon a tree,

Womman is mannes joye and al his blis.



after did befall.

Consider Egypt's king, Dan Pharaoh, His baker and his butler, these also, Whether they knew of no effect from dreams. Whoso will read of sundry realms the themes


seye, as for conclusioun,

han of this avisioun Adversitee; and I seye forther-more, That I ne telle of laxatyves no store, For they ben venimous, I woot it wel; I

while ere he was murdered, so they say, His own death in vision saw one day.

at night your tender side, cannot then upon you ride, Because our perch so narrow is, alas!


I feel I

am so full of joy and all solace



defy, then, vision, aye and dream."

that word he flew down from the beam, was day, and down went his hens all; And with a cluck he them began to call,

And with





For he had bund some corn within the yard. Regal be was, and tears he du.1 discard. I



a lime feathered Pertelote lull times he trod her ere *iwas prime.

Ami twenty


looked as il he were a prim lion As on his iocs he strutted up and dew n; He deigned not set his foot upon he ground. He clucked when any grain of corn he found, And all his wives Came running at his call. t

He chukketh, whan he hath a corn y-founde, And to him rennen thanne his wyves alle.

Thus regal, as a prince is in his hall, I'll now leave busy Chanticleer to teed.


royal, as a prince




And after wol

with events that followed I'll proceed. that same month wherein the world began, Which is called March, wherein Cod first made man Was ended, and were passed of days also, Since March began, full thirty days and two,


It fell

that Chanticleer, in

all his


His seven wives a-walking by his side, Cast up his two eyes toward the great bright sun (Which through the sign of Taurus now had run Twentv degrees and one, and somewhat more), And knew by instinct and no other lore That it was prime, and joyfully he crew, "The sun, my love," he said, "has climbed anew Fortv degrees and one, and somewhat more.

Mv ladv





Mark now these happy birds, hear how they sing, And see all these fresh flowers, how they spring; is my heart of revelry and grace." But suddenly he fell in grievous case; For ever the latter end of joy is woe. God knows that worldly joys do swiftly go;


And if a rhetorician could but write, He in some chronicle might well indite And mark it down as sovereign in degree.

Now every

wise man,


just as true,

him hark to me: undertake, As is the book of Launcelot of the Lake, Which women always hold in such esteem. But now I must take up my proper theme. A brant-fox, full of sly iniquity, That in the grove had lived two years, or three, Now by a fine premeditated plot That same night, breaking through the hedge, had tale


let I

got Into the yard where Chanticleer the fair Was wont, and all his wives too, to repair;


bed of greenery still he lay was past the quarter of the day, Waiting his chance on Chanticleer to fall, As gladly do these killers one and all Who lie in ambush for to murder men. murderer false, there lurking in your den! new Ganelon! new Iscariot, false dissimulator, Greek Sinon That brought down Troy all utterly to sorrow! Chanticleer, accursed be that morrow When you into that yard flew from the beams! You were well warned, and fully, by your dreams That this day should hold peril damnably. But that which God foreknows, it needs must be, So says the best opinion of the clerks. Till


in a




For he had founde a corn, lay in the yerd. Royal he was, he was namore aferd; He fcthered Pertelote twenty tyme, And trad as ofte, er that it was pryme. He loketh as it were a grim leoun; And on his toos he rometh up and doun, Him deyned not to sette his foot to grounde.




in his halle,

Chauntecleer in his pasture; I

telle his


month in which the world bigan, March, whan god first maked man,

that the

That highte


complet, and [y]-passed were also, bigan, thritty dayes and two, Bifel that Chauntecleer, in al his pryde, His seven wyves walking by his syde, Caste up his eyen to the brighte sonne, That in the signe of Taurus hadde y-ronne Twenty degrees and oon, and somwhat more; And knew by kynde, and by noon other lore, That it was pryme, and crew with blisful stevene. "The sonne," he sayde, "is clomben up on hevene Fourty degrees and oon, and more, y-wis. Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis, Herkneth thise blisful briddes how they singe, And see the fresshe floures how they springe; Ful is myn herte of revel and solas." But sodeinly him fil a sorweful cas; For ever the latter ende of joye is wo. God woot that worldly joye is sone ago; And if a rethor coude faire endyte, He in a cronique saufly mighte it wryte, As for a sovereyn notabilitee. Now every wys man, lat him herkne me; This storie is al-so trewe, I undertake, As is the book of Launcelot de Lake, That wommen holde in ful gret reverence. Now wol I torne agayn to my sentence. A col-fox, ful of sly iniquitee, That in the grove hadde woned yeres three, By heigh imaginacioun forn-cast, The same night thurgh-out the hegges Sin



Into the yerd, ther Chauntecleer the faire Was wont, and eek his wyves, to repaire; And in a bed of wortes stille he lay, Til it was passed undern of the day,

Wayting his tyme on Chauntecleer to As gladly doon thise homicydes alle, That in awayt liggen to mordre men.


O false mordrer, lurking in thy den! O newe Scariot, newe Genilon! False dissimilour, O Greek Sinon, That broghtest Troye


outrely to sorwe!

O Chauntecleer, acursed be that morwe, That thou

into that yerd


fro the bemes!

Thou were ful wel y-warned by thy dremes, That thilke day was perilous to thee. But what that god forwoot mot nedes After the opinioun of certeyn clerkis.



15,242-15,302] Witnesse on him, that any


in scole


perfit clerk is,

Witness some


gret altercacioun




cleric perfect tor Ins

the schools



lure's a ureal altercation

That took his counseil of his wyf, with sorwe, To walken in the yerd upon that morwe That he had met the dreem, that I yow tolde.

and much high disputation That has involved a hundred thousand men. But I can't sift it to the bran with pen. As can the holy Doctor Augustine, Or Boethius, or Bishop Bradwardine, Whether the fact of God's great foreknowing Makes it right needful that I do a thing (By needful, I mean, ot necessity); Or else, it a free choice he granted me, To do that same thing, or to do it not, Though God foreknew before the thing was wrought; Or if His knowing constrains never at all, Save by necessity conditional. I have no part in matters so austere; My tale is of a cock, as you shall hear. That took the counsel of his wife, with sorrow. To walk within the yard upon that morrow After he'd had the dream w hereof I told.

Wommennes counseils been ful ofte colde; Wommannes counseil broghte us first to wo, And made Adam fro paradys to go,

Now women's counsels oft are to hold; A woman's counsel brought us first to woe, And Adam caused from Paradise to go.

Ther-as he was

Wherein he was right merry and at ease. But since I know not whom it may displease If woman's counsel I hold up to blame,

In this matere, and greet disputisoun, And hath ben of an hundred thousand men. But I ne can not bulte it to the bren, As can the holy doctour Augustyn, Or Boece, or the bishop Bradwardyn, Whether that goddes worthy forwiting Streyneth me nedely for to doon a thing, (Nedely clepe I simple necessitee); Or elles, if free choys be graunted me To do that same thing, or do it noght, Though god forwoot it, er that it was wroght; Or if his witing streyneth nevere a del

But by necessitee condicionel. I wol not han to do of swich matere;

My tale is of a cok, as ye may here,

But If



mery, and wel

at ese.

noot, to whom it mighte displese, counseil of wommen wolde blame, for


Passe over, for I seyde it in my game. Rede auctours, wher they trete of swich matere, And what they seyn of wommen ye may here. Thise been the cokkes wordes, and nat myne; I can noon harm of no womman divyne. Faire in the sond, to bathe hir merily, Lyth Pertelote, and alle hir sustres by, Agayn the sonne; and Chauntecleer so free Song merier than the mermayde in the see; For Phisiologus seith sikerly, How that they singen wel and merily. And so bifel that, as he caste his ye, Among the wortes, on a boterflye, He was war of this fox that lay ful lowe. No-thing ne liste him thanne for to crowe, But cryde anon, "cok, cok," and up he sterte, As man that was affrayed in his herte. For naturelly a beest desyreth flee Fro his contrarie, if he may it see, Though he never erst had seyn it with his ye\ This Chauntecleer, whan he gan him espye, He wolde han fled, but that the fox anon Seyde, "Gentil sire, alias! wher wol ye gon? Be ye affrayed of me that am your freend? Now certes, I were worse than a feend, If I to yow wolde harm or vileinye. I am nat come your counseil for t 'espye; But trewely, the cause of my cominge Was only for to herkne how that ye singe. For trewely ye have as mery a stevene As eny aungel hath, that is in hevene; Therwith ye han in musik more felinge Than hadde Boece, or any that can singe. lord your fader (god his soule blesse!) And eek your moder, of hir gentilesse,


In this regard,




but said



my game.

Read authors where such matters do appear. And what they say of women, you may hear. These are the cock's words, they are none of mine;

No harm





e'er divine.

All in the sand, a-bathing merrily,

Lay Pertelote, with all her sisters bv, There in the sun; and Chanticleer so free Sang merrier than a mermaid in the sea (For Physiologus says certainly sing, both well and merrily). And so befell that, as he cast his eye Among the herbs and on a butterfly, He saw this fox that lay there, crouching low. Nothing of urge was in him, then, to crow But he cried "Cock-cock-cock" and did so start As man who has a sudden fear at heart. For naturally a beast desires to flee From any enemy that he may see, Though never yet he's clapped on such his eve. When Chanticleer the fox did then espv. He would have fled but that the fox anon Said "Gentle sir, alas! Why be thus gone ? Are you afraid of me, who am your friend ? Now, surely, I were worse than anv fiend If I should do you harm or villain v. I came not here upon your deeds to spv; But, certainly, the cause of my coming Was only just to listen to you sing. For truly, you have quite as fine a voice As angels have that Heaven's choirs rejoice; Boethius to music could not bring Such feeling, nor do others who can sing. My lord your father (God his soul pray bless!) And too your mother, ot her gentleness,

That they do





458 1

lave been in



my abode,


right fain


my great

am J

to please.

But since men speak ot singing, will s.iv \s still have my eyesight day by day), Save vou, I never heard a man so sing As did your father in the grey dawning; Trulv 'twas from the heart, his every song. And that his voice might ever be more strong, I




took such pains that, with his either eve. to blink, so loudly would he cry,

He had

A standing on his tiptoes therewithal, Stretching his neck till it grew long and small. And such discretion, too, by him was shown, There was no man in any region known That him in song or wisdom could surpass. I have well read, in Dan Burnell the Ass, Among his verses, how there was a cock, Because a priest's son gave to him a knock Upon the leg, while young and not yet wise, He caused the boy to lose his benefice. But, trulv, there is no comparison With the great wisdom and the discretion



For that


a preestes sone yaf

But certeyn, ther





no comparisoun

Bitwix the wisdom and discrecioun Of youre fader, and of his subtiltee.

Now singeth, sire, for seinte Charitee,

for holy charity.

lords! Full


Upon his leg, whyl he was yong and nyce, He made him for to lese his benefyce.

See if vou can your father counterfeit." This Chanticleer his wings began to beat, As one that could no treason there espy, So was he ravished by this flattery. Alas,


Among his vers, how that ther was a cok,

father had, or with his subtlety.

Now sing, dear sir,


hous y-been, to my grct ese; certes, sire ful fayn wolde I vow plcse. But for men speke of singing, I wol saye, So mote I broukc wel myn eyen tweye, Save yow, I herde never man so singe, As dide your fader in the morweningc; Certes, it was of herte, al that he song. And for to make his voys the more strong, He wolde so peyne him, that with bothe his yen He moste winke, so loude he wolde cryen, And stonden on his tiptoon ther-with-al, And strecche forth his nekke long and smal. And cek he was of swich discrecioun, That ther nas no man in no regioun That him in song or wisdom mighte passe. I have wel rad in daun Burnel the Asse,

Han And


Let see, conne ye your fader countrefete?" This Chauntecleer his winges gan to bete, As man that coude his tresoun nat espye, So was he ravisshed with his fiaterye. Alias! ye lordes,

a flatterer

vour courts, and many a cozener, That please your honours much more, by my fay, Than he that truth and justice dares to say. Go read the Ecclesiast on flattery; Beware, my lords, of all their treachery! This Chanticleer stood high upon his toes, Stretching his neck, and both his eyes did close, And so did crow right loudly, for the nonce; And Russel Fox, he started up at once, And bv the gorget grabbed our Chanticleer, Flung him on back, and toward the wood did Is in

many a fals fiatour

your courtes, and many a losengeour, That plesen yow wel more, by my feith, Than he that soothfastnesse unto yow seith. Is in

Redeth Ecclesiaste of fiaterye; Beth war, ye lordes, of hir trecherye. This Chauntecleer stood hye up-on his toos, Strecching his nekke, and heeld his eyen cloos, And gan to crowe loude for the nones; And daun Russel the fox sterte up at ones, And by the gargat hente Chauntecleer, And on his bak toward the wode him beer,


For there was no man who as yet pursued. O destiny, you cannot be eschewed Alas, that Chanticleer flew from the beams!

For yet ne was ther no man that him sewed. O destinee, that mayst nat been eschewed! Alias, that Chauntecleer fleigh fro the bemes!

Alas, his wife recked nothing of his

Alias, his

And on

And on a

dreams! mischance. Venus, who art goddess of plcasance. Since he did serve thee well, this Chanticleer, And to the utmost of his power here, More for delight than cocks to multiply, Whv would'st thou suffer him that day to die ? Gaufred, my dear master sovereign, Who, when King Richard Lionheart was slain By arrow, sang his death with sorrow sore, Why have I not your faculty and lore To chide Friday, as you did worthily ? (For truly, on a Friday slain was he). Then would I prove how well I could complain a


fell all this




For Chanticleer's great fear and all his pain. Certainly no such cry and lamentation Were made by ladies at Troy's desolation,

wyf ne roghte nat of dremes! Friday fil al this meschaunce. O Venus, that art goddesse of plesaunce, Sin that thy servant was this Chauntecleer, And in thy service dide al his poweer, More for delyt, than world to multiplye, Why woldestow suffre him on thy day to dye? O Gaufred, dere mayster soverayn, That, whan thy worthy king Richard was slayn With shot, compleynedest his deth so sore, Why ne hadde I now thy sentence and thy lore, The Friday for to chyde, as diden ye? (For on a Friday soothly slayn was he.) Than wolde I shewe yow how that I coude pleyne For Chauntecleres drede, and for his peyne. Certes, swich cry ne lamentacioun Was never of ladies maad, whan Ilioun

'Gaufred de Yinsauf.









As maden


(as saith us



Pyrrhus with

bared sword Had taken old King Priam by the beard And slain him (as the Aeneid tells to us). As made then all those hens in one chorus When they had caught a sight of Chanticleer.


hennes in the clos, they had seyn of Chauntecleer the sighte. alle the

But sovereynly dame Pertelote shrighte, Ful louder than dide Hasdrubales wyf, Whan that hir housbond hadde lost his lyf, And that the Romayns hadde brend Cartage; She was so ful of torment and of rage,




Was wonne, and Pirrus with his streite swerd, Whan he hadde hent king Priam by the berd,




his terrible

Pertelote assailed the ear

Far louder than did Hasdrubal's good wife When that her husband bold had lost his life, And Roman legionaries burned Carthage; For she so full of torment was, and rage, She voluntarily to the lire did start And burned herself there with a steadfast heart. And you, woeful hens, just so vou cried

wilfully into the fyr she sterte,

And brende

hir-selven with a stedfast herte. woful hennes, right so cryden ye, As, whan that Nero brende the citee Of Rome, cryden senatoures wyves, For that hir housbondes losten alle hir lyves; Withouten gilt this Nero hath hem slayn. Now wol I torne to my tale agayn: This sely widwe, and eek hir doghtres two, Herden thise hennes crye and maken wo, And out at dores sterten they anoon, And syen the fox toward the grove goon, And bar upon his bak the cok away; And cryden, "Out! harrow! and weylaway! Ha, ha, the fox!" and after him they ran, And eek with staves many another man; Ran Colle our dogge, and Talbot, and Gerland, And Malkin, with a distaf in hir hand; Ran cow and calf, and eek the verray hogges So were they fered for berking of the dogges And shouting of the men and wimmen eke, They ronne so, hem thoughte hir herte


As when base Nero burned the citv wide Of Rome, and wept the senators' stern wives Because their husbands all had lost their lives, For though not guilty, Nero had them slain.

Now will


turn back to


tale again.

This simple widow and her daughters two Heard these hens cry and make so great ado, And out of doors they started on the run And saw the fox into the grove just gone, Bearing upon his back the cock away. And then they cried, "Alas, and weladav! Oh, oh, the fox!" and after him they ran, And after them, with staves, went manv a man; Ran Coll, our dog, ran Talbot and Garland, And Malkin with a distaffin her hand; Ran cow and calf and even the verv hogs, So were they scared by barking of the dogs And shouting men and women all did make, They all ran so they thought their hearts would



They yelleden as feendes doon in helle; The dokes cryden as men wolde hem quelle; The gees for fere flowen over the trees; Out of the hyve cam the swarm of bees;

They yelled as very fiends do down in Hell; The ducks they cried as at the butcher fell; The frightened geese flew up above the trees; Out of the hive there came the swarm of bees;

So hidous was the noyse, a! benedicite! Certes, he Jakke Straw, 1 and his meynee, Ne made never shoutes half so shrille, Whan that they wolden any Fleming kille,

So terrible was the noise, ah ben' cite! Certainly old Jack Straw 1 and his army Never raised shouting half so loud and shrill When they were chasing Flemings for to kill,

thilke day was maad upon the fox. Of bras thay broghten bemes, and of box, Of horn, of boon, in whiche they blewe and

As on that day was


They brought




al his

heven sholde falle. Now, gode men, I pray yow herkneth alle! Lo, how fortune turneth sodeinly The hope and pryde eek of hir enemy! This cok, that lay upon the foxes bak,

seemed as if the heaven itself should fall! And now, good men, I pray you hearken all. Behold how Fortune turns all suddenly The hope and pride of even her enemv! This cock, which lay across the fox's back, In all his fear unto the fox did clack And say: "Sir, were I you, as I should be, Then would I say (as God may now help me!), 'Turn back again, presumptuous peasants all! A very pestilence upon you fall! Now that I've gained here to this dark wood's side, In spite of you this cock shall here abide. " I'll eat him, by my faith, and that anon!' The fox replied "In faith, it shall be done!"

as that


drede, un-to the fox he spak,

And seyde, Yet sholde


made of brass,

of box, of bone, wherein they blew and pooped, And therewithal they screamed and shrieked and



upon the

Of horn,

And therwithal thay shryked and they It


forth trumpets

"sire, if that



as ye,

seyn (as wis god helpe me), Turneth agayn, ye proude cherles alle! A verray pestilence up-on yow falle! Now am I come un-to this wodes syde, Maugree your heed, the cok shal heer abyde; 1 wol him ete in feith and that anon." The fox answerde, "in feith, it shal be don," 'One of the leaders I




Tyler's rebellion, 1381.




when watch and ward do cease,

he spak that word, al sodeinly This cok brak from his mouth deliverly, And heighe up-on a tree he fleigh anon. And whan the fox saugh that he was y-gon, "Alias!" quod he, "O Chauntecleer, alias! I have to yow," quod he, "y-doon trespas, In-as-muche as I maked yow aferd, Whan I yow hente, and broghte out of the yerd; But, sire, I dide it in no wikke entente; Com doun, and I shal telle yow what I mente. I shal seye sooth to yow, god help me so." "Nay than," quod he, "I shrewe us bothe two, And first I shrewe my-self, bothe blood and bones, If thou bigyle me ofter than ones. Thou shalt na-more, thurgh thy flaterye, Do me to singe and winke with myn yg. For he that winketh, whan he sholde see, Al wilfully, god lat him never thee!" "Nay," quod the fox, "but god yeve him meschaunce, That is so undiscreet of governaunce, That jangleth whan he sholde holde his pees." Lo, swich it is for to be recchelees,

negligent with flattery.

And necligent, and truste on flaterye.

"Alas," quoth he,

"O Chanticleer, alas!

have against you done a base trespass In that I frightened you, my dear old pard, When you I seized and brought from out that yard; But, sir, I did it with no foul intent Come down, and I will tell you what I meant. I

I'll tell

the truth to you, God help mc so!" then," said he, "beshrew us both, you


know. But first, beshrew myself, both blood and bones, If vou beguile me, having done so once, You shall no more, with any flattery, Cause me to sing and close up either eye. For he who shuts his eyes when he should see, And wilfully, God let him ne'er be free!" "Nay," said the fox, "but God give him mischance

Who is so indiscreet in governance He chatters when Lo, such

it is

And one grows

he ought to hold

his peace."

But you that hold this tale a foolery, As but about a fox, a cock, a hen, Yet do not miss the moral, my good men. For Saint Paul says that all that's written well Is written down some useful truth to tell. Then take the wheat and let the chaff lie still. And now, good God, and if it be Thy will, As says Lord Christ, so make us all good men



And as

And as he spoke that word, all suddenly This cock broke from his meuth, full cleverly, And high upon a tree he flew anon. And when the fox saw well that he was gone,

bring us into His high




But ye that holden this

tale a folye,

As of a fox, or of a cok and hen, Taketh the moralitee, good men. For seint Paul seith, that al that writen


To our doctryne it is y-write, y-wis. Taketh the fruyt, and lat the chaf be stille. Now, gode god, if that it be thy wille, As seith my lord, so make us alle good men;

And bringe us to his heighe blisse. Amen.


EPILOGUE TO THE NUN'S PRIEST'S TALE Sir nun's priest," said our host, and that anon, "Now blessed be your breech and every stone! This was a merry tale of Chanticleer. But, truth, if you were secular, I swear You would have been a hen-hopper, all right! For if you had the heart, as you have might, You'd need some hens, I think it will be seen, And many more than seven times seventeen. For see what muscles has this noble priest, So great a neck and such a splendid chest! He's got a hawk's fierce fire within his eye; And certainly he has no need to dye His cheeks with any stain from Portugal. Sir, for your tale, may blessings on you fall!" And after that he, with right merry cheer, Spoke to another one, as you shall hear.

"Sir Nonnes Preest," our hoste seyde anoon, "Y-blessed by thy breche, and every stoon! This was a mery tale of Chauntecleer. But, by my trouthe, if thou were seculer, Thou woldest been a trede-foul a-right. For, if thou have corage as thou hast might, Thee were nede of hennes, as I wene, Ya, mo than seven tymes seventene. See, whiche braunes hath this gentil Preest, So greet a nekke, and swich a large breest! He loketh as a sperhauk with his ygn; Him nedeth nat his colour for to dyen With brasil, ne with greyn of Portingale.

Now sire, faire falle yow for youre tale!" And after that he, with ful mery chere, Seide to another, as ye shullen here.




THE SECOND NUN'S PROLOGUE THE PROLOGUE OF THE SECOND NUN'S TALE The ministre and the norice un-to vyces, Which that men clepe in English ydelnesse,

That servant and that nurse unto the vices Which men do call in English Idleness,

That porter of the

T'eschue, and by hir contrarie hir oppresse,

Portress at Pleasure's gate, by all advices Wc should avoid, and by her foe express,




to seyn,




of delyces,

leveful bisinesse,

to say,


by lawful busvness,

Wei oghten we to doon al our entente,

We ought

Lest that the feend thurgh ydelnesse us hente.

Lest by the Fiend through sloth

For he, that with his thousand cordes slye tontinuelly us waiteth to biclappe, Whan he may man in ydelnesse espye, He can so lightly cacche him in his trappe, Til that a man be hent right by the lappe, He nis nat war the feend hath him in honde; Wei oughte us werche, and ydelnes withstonde.

For he, that with his thousand cords and sly Continually awaits us all to trap, When he a man in idleness may spy He easily the hidden snare will snap,

And though men dradden never for to dye, Yet seen men wel by reson doutelees,

And though men never dreaded they must Yet men see well, by reason, idleness

That ydelnesse is roten slogardye, Of which ther never comth no good encrees;


nothing more than rotten sluggardrv, Whereof comes never good one may possess; Is



see sloth hold her in a leash,

to sleep

no less, and eat and alwavs drink


to absorb

And for to putte us fro swich ydelnesse,


so, to

That cause


Through which


my faithful busyness, Translating the old legend, to make known All of that glorious life which was thine own, Thou ever with the rose and lily crowned, Cecilia, fopvirtues high renowned.

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

Thee mene

mayde and



martir, seint Cecilie!

Of whom that Bernard list so wel to wryte,

To thee at my biginning first I



gain of others' swink.

save us from such idleness great trouble and distress have

grown, have here done

Invocation to

And thou that flour of virgines art alle,


till the man has met the foul mishap, He's not aware the Fiend has him in hand; We ought to work and idleness withstand.


and for to ete and drinke, And to devouren al that othere swinke.

we should be


And seen, that slouthe hir holdeth in a lees to slepe,

to live with resolute intent,


And Thou that art the flower of virgins all Of whom Saint Bernard loved so well to write, To Thee at my beginning do I call; Thou comfort of us wretches, help me indite Thy maiden's death, who won through her merit

Thou comfort of us wrecches, do me endyte Thy maydens deeth, than wan thurgh hir meryte The eternal lyf, and of the feend victorie, As man may after reden in hir storie.

The eternal life, and from the Fiend such glory As men may read hereafter in her story.

Thou mayde and mooder, doghter of thy sone, Thou welle of mercy, sinful soules cure,

Thou Maid and Mother, Daughter of Thy Thou well of ruth, of sinful souls the cure,


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



for goodness,



was embryon,

Thou humble One, high over each creature, Thou did'st ennoble so far our nature That no disdain God had of humankind His Son


blood and

Within the blessed

Took mannes shap the eternal love and pees,

Took human shape

That of the tryne compas lord and gyde is, Whom erthe and see and heven, out of relees, Ay herien; and thou, virgin wemmelees,

Who all

Whom Do

flesh to clothe

cloister of

and wind.

Thv sides

eternal love and peace the threefold world as sovereign guides,

earth and sea and heaven, without cease,


and Thou,

O stainless Maid, increase


462 Bore


Tin body—and wcrt kept

The mighty God Who

maid evei$ creature made. a

is in Thee magnificence, With mercy, goodness, and with such

Who art

That Thou.


the sun of excellence,

those that pay to Thee,

Not only kecpest


creatour of every creature.



But oftentimes, of Thy benignity.


Bar of thy body, and dweltest mayden pure,


in thee magnificence

With mercy, goodnesse, and with swich pitee That thou, that art the sonne of excellence, Nat only helpest hem that preyen thee,

Freely, or ever men Thy help beseech, Thou goest before and art their spirits' leech.

But ofte tyme, of thy benignitee, Ful frely, er that men thyn help biseche, Thou goost biforn, and art hir lyves leche.


Now help, thou meke and blisful fayre mayde,

help, Thou meek and blessed, Thou fair Maid, Me, banished wretch, in wilderness ot gall; Think how the Canaanitish woman said That even dogs may eat of the crumbs all

Which from And though

the master's laden table tall; I, now, unworthy son of Eve,

Am sinful, yet accept me, who believe. And





dead divorced from


may do the right, O give me space To free me from that darkness of deep murks! That


O Thou, Who art so fair and full of grace, Be Thou my advocate in that high place Where without ever end is sung "Hosanna," Thou, Mother of Christ and daughter of Saint Anna!




my soul



That troubled is by the contagion sown Here in my body, also by the weight Of earthly lust and false loves I have known; O haven of refuge, O salvation shown To those that are in sorrow and distress, Now help, for to my work I'll me address. Yet pray Forgive


I all





read what I do write, do no diligence

subtle change to


the story right;

have taken both the words and sense From him who wrote the tale in reverence Of this one saint I follow her legend And pray you that you will my work amend.




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.

The interpretation of the name Cecilia, which Friar Jacobus Januensis put in the Legenda Aurea

Or, since sbe had the white of modesty, And green of good conscience, and of good fame The savour sweet, so "lily" was her name.

First wolde I yow the name of seint Cecilie Expoune, as men may in hir storie see, It is to seye in English "hevenes hue," For pure chastnesse of virginitee; Or, for she whytnesse hadde of honestee, And grene of conscience, and of good fame The sote savour, "hue" was hir name.

Or else Cecilia means "path

Or Cecile

would I you the name of Saint Cecilia Expound, as men may in her story see. First

It is

to sa\


in English,

Symbol of pure and


lily," a

virgin chastity;

for the blind,"


to seye "the


to blinde,"

For she example was, by good teaching;

For she ensample was by good techinge;

Or else Cecilia,

Or elles



written find,

manner of joining, Of "Heaven" and "Lia" and, in figuring, The "Heaven" is put for "thought of holiness" Is

made, after



And "Lia" Cecilia


enduring busyness.

may mean,

too, in this wise,


Cecile, as I writen finde, joyned, by a maner conjoininge

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 gretc light Of sapience, and for hir thewes clere; Or elles, lo! this maydens name bright Of "hevene" and "leos" comth, for which by


Of sapience, and for good qualities; Or else, behold! this maiden's name so bright From "Heaven" and "leos" comes, for which, by



Men mighte hir wel "the heven of peple" calle, Ensample of gode and wyse werkes For "leos" "peple"


in blindness," for her shining light

in English


well might her the "Heaven of people" Example of good and wise works unto all.




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,


just as

Seyen of feith the magnanimitee,

See of her faith the magnanimity,

And eek the cleernesse hool of sapience, And sondry werkes, brighte of excellence.

And the whole glory of her sapience, And many actions, bright of excellence.


to seye,


folk in English, so to say,

men may in the heavens see The sun and moon and stars strewn every way, Just so men ghostly, in this maiden free,


And right so as thise philosophres wryte


That heven is swift and round and eek brenninge, Right so was fayre Cecilie the whyte Ful swift and bisy ever in good werkinge, And round and hool in good perseveringe,

That heaven

And brenning ever in charitee ful brighte;


Now have I yow declared what she highte.

Now have



just as these philosophers is

do write

round and moving and burning,

was fair Cecilia the white Eager and busy ever in good working, Large and whole-hearted, steadfast in each thing, Just so

shining ever in charity I




you of her name aright.


THE SECOND NUN'S TALE HERE BEGINNETH THE SECOND NUN'S TALE, OF THE LIFE OF SAINT CECILIA This mayden bright Cecilie, as hir lyf seith, Was comen of Romayns, and of noble kinde. And from hir cradel up fostred in the feith Of Crist, and bar his gospel in hir minde; She never cessed, as I writen finde, Of hir preyere, and god to love and drede, Biseking him to kepe hir maydenhede.

This maiden

bright, Cecilia, her

life saith,

Was Roman born and of a noble kind, And from the cradle tutored in the faith Of Christ, and bore His gospel in her mind; She never ceased, as written do I find. pray to God, and love Him, and to dread, Beseeching Him to keep her maidenhead.


And when this mayden sholde unto a man

And when

Y-wedded be, that was ful yong of age, Which that y-cleped was Valerian, And day was comen of hir mariage, She, ful devout and humble in hir corage, Under hir robe of gold, that sat ful fayre,

Be wedded, who was a young man in age, And who had to his name Valerian, And when the day was come for her marriage, She, meek of heart, devout, and ever sage, Under her robe of gold, well-made and fair, Had next her body placed a shirt of hair.

Had next hir flesh y-clad hir in an heyre.

And whyl the organs maden melodye, To god alone in herte thus sang she; "O lord, my soule and eek my body gye Unwemmed, lest that I confounded be": And, for his love

that deyde upon a tree, Every seconde or thridde day she faste,

Ay biddinge in hir orisons ful faste. 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 Lord, my soul and Unsoiled,

body guide



ruined be." And for His love Who died upon a tree, Each second or third day she used to fast, And ever prayed she till the day was past.


night came, and to bed she must be gone

With her young husband, but she had no And privately to him she said anon:

"O sweet and There

me nat biwreye."


lest I in spirit

"O swete and wel biloved spouse dere, So that ye swere ye shul


And while the organ made its melody, To God alone within her heart sang she:

Ther is a conseil, and ye wolde it here, Which that right fain I wolde unto yow


maiden must unto


is I


well-beloved spouse so dear,

you will to hear. enough to you to say,

a secret if



So that you swear that


you'll not betray."






ne> er would betra) w hat slu- said there; so beginning straightway thus said she:


have an angel lover thai lot es me, with a great love, whethei wake or [e will my body ever guard and keep.


\nil I


" \ik1




(and this


Valerian, clucked thus as

God would






you both."

"If vou so wish, that angel shall you see, So vou believe in Christ and you baptize. to Via Appia," 1 said she, this



to the poor folk who in that place dwell Sav to them what I'll now proceed to tell.


that I, Cecilia, have sent good man Urban, who is old, For secret need, and with a good intent. And when this holy Urban you behold, Tell him the thing that I to you have told; And when he shall have purged you of your sin. That angel shall you see ere thence you win."


to the

Valerian to that place got

him gone,

the holy catacombs lurking.

And he anon, with never Told him



and when it was told, two hands did uphold.


teardrops from his two eyes he let fall "Almighty Lord, O Jesus Christ," said he, "Sower of counsel chaste, herd of us all, The Iruit of that same seed ot chastity Which Thou sowed'st in Cecilia, take to Thee! I.o, like a busy bee, and without guile, Tin thrall Cecilia serves Thee all the while!

"For that same spouse that

Who was


Valerian, corrected as god wolde, Answerde agayn, "if I shal trusten thee,

Right with


swerd than wol



yow bothe."


"That fro this toun ne stant but myles three, And, to the povre folkes that ther dwelle, Sey

hem right thus, as that


sends him here,



yow telle.

hem that I, Cecile, yow to hem sente, To shewen yow the gode Urban the olde, Telle

For secree nedes and for good entente.

And whan that ye seint Urban han biholde, Telle

him the wordes whiche



yow tolde;

And whan that he hath purged yow fro sinne, Thanne

shul ye see that angel, er ye twinne." 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, Urban for joye


whan that he it tolde, hondes gan up holde.

The teres from




his errand;

for joy his

And if that ye in clene love me gye, He wol yow loven as me, for your clennesse, And shewen yow his joye and his brightnesse."


And just as he'd been told about the thing, He found this ancient saint, Urban, anon,


may felen, out of drcde,


distant but miles three,



that he

That ye me touche or love in vilcinye, He right anon wol slee yow with the dede, And in your yowthe thus ye shuldcn dye;

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,

Cecilia replied right in this wise:

"That from




Lat me that angel see, 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

And it that it a very angel be, Then will I do as you have asked of me; And vou love another man, forsooth

Go forth


truth," she said)

Replied: "If I'm to trust you, let me see That angel with my eyes and him behold;

Right with this sword then

That with greet love, wher-so I wake or Is redy ay my body for to kepe.


"Thai you will touch or love me \ ulgarl) At once he'll slav and le.i\ e vou with the dead, And in your days oi youth thus shall you die; And it vou love me cleanly, so say I, I le'll love vou as now me, tor your cleanness, And show you all his joy and his brightness."


Valerian gan faste unto hir swerc, That for no cas, ne thing that mighte be, He sholde never-mo biwreyen here; And thanne at erst to him thus scyde she, "I have an angel which that loveth me,

Valerian to her his oath did sweat That evermore, whatever thing might be,


message; and





O Jesu Crist," quod he,

"Sower of chast

conseil, herde of us alle,


The fruit of thilke

seed of chastitee in Cecile, tak to thee!

That thou hast sowe

Lo, lyk a bisy bee, with-outen gyle, serveth ay thyn owene thral Cecile!


For thilke spouse, that she took but now

Ful lyk a fiers leoun, she sendeth here, As meek as ever was a lamb, to Thee!" As meke as ever was any lamb, to yow!" And with that word anon there did appear And with that worde, anon ther gan appere An old, old man, clothed all in white clothes clear, An old man, clad in whyte clothes clere, 'A district near Rome (not the famous highway) where the earliest catacombs were located. like lion fierce, she



That hadde


book with


of golde in hondc,

And gan biforn Valerian to stonde. Valerian as deed



for drede

and over al everywhere" Thise wordes al with gold y-writen were. alle

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 th'olde man, he niste where,

And pope Urban him

cristened right there.

Valerian goth hoom, and

Who had And who

Whan he him saugh, and he up hente him tho, And on his book right thus he gan to rede "Oo Lord, 00 feith, 00 god with-outen mo, Oo Cristendom, and fader of alle also, Aboven



golden-lettered hook in hand, before Valerian did stand.


Valerian tor fear fell down as dead When him he saw, who raised him from the floor, And irom his book (whereof I told) he read "One Lord, one faith, one God with never more,

One-Christian Church, One Father of all Above all, over all, and everywhere" These words

to adore,

very gold were written there.


When this was read, then said the ancient man: "Do you believe or not ? Say 'Yea' or 'Nay' " "I do believe this," said Valerian, "For truer thing than this, I dare well say, Under the heavens none can think, nor may." Then vanished the old man, he knew not where, And Pope Urban baptized him even there.

home, Cecilia found In chamber, wherein did an angel stand;

Valerian, going

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,

This angel had two coronals, woven round Of roses and of lilies, in his hand And to Cecilia, as I understand, He gave the one, and gave the other straight Unto this said Valerian, her mate.

Ne never-mo ne shal they roten be, Ne lese her sote savour, trusteth me; Ne never wight shal seen hem with his ye,

"With body clean and with unsullied thought Keep well these crowns for ever," then said he; "To you from Paradise have I them brought, Nor ever shall they fade or withered be, Nor lose their perfume sweet, so you trust me; And never man shall see them with his eye,

But he be chaast and hate

Save he be chaste and hate depravity.


And thou, Valerian, for thou so sone Assentedest to good conseil also, Sey what thee list, and thou shalt han thy bone." "I have a brother," quod Valerian tho, "That

in this




no man


yow that my brother may han grace To know the trouthe, as I do in this place." I


The angel seyde, "god lyketh thy requeste, And bothe, with the palm of martirdom, Ye shullen come unto his

blisful feste."

And with that word Tiburce his brother com. And whan that he the savour undernom Which

that the roses

and the



With-inne his herte he gan to wondre


seyde, "I wondre, this


tyme of the


Whennes that sote savour cometh so Of rose and lilies that I smelle heer. I hadde hem in myn hondes two, The savour mighte in me no depper go. The sote smel that in myn herte I finde

For though

Hath chaunged

me al in another kinde."

Valerian seyde, "two corones han we, Snow-whyte and rose-reed, that shynen clere,

"And you, Valerian, since you so soon Consented to accept the Faith also, Say what you will and you shall have vour boon." "I have a brother," said Valerian, "Oh, And in the wide world I love no man so. I pray you that my brother may have grace

To know

the truth, as



in this place."

The angel answered "God likes your request, And both of you, with palm of martyrdom, Shall come at last unto His blessed rest." Whereon his brother Tibertius was come. And when he smelled the sweet perfume that from The roses and the lilies filled the air, In heart he wondered much how came it there, :

And said: "I wonder much, this time of year, Whence comes the sweetness that arises so, Of rose and lily, to my senses here ? For though I held them in my two hands— no The savour could in me no deeper go. The gentle scent that in my heart find Has changed me to a man of other kind." I

"Two crowns

Valerian replied:

Snow white and fair,

rose red,

have we, and they're bright and



eyes have no power to see; \iu\ as you smell them, brother, through my prayer, So shall you see them also, brother dear,

The which your two

If you but will,

without delay forsooth, know the very truth."

Rightly believe and

Tibertius answered: "Say you this to me : " In truth? Or do I dream I hear all this "In dreams." replied Valerian, then, "have brother mine, vwis. Lived to this time, In truth


time our

tor the first

In soothnesse, or in dreem

this to


herkne this?" "In dremes," quod Valerian, "han we be Unto this tyme, brother myn, y-wis. But now at erst in trouthe our dwelling is." "How woostow this," quod Tiburce, "in what


life is."

you " asked Tibertius: "In what :

wise?" Valerian said:


han no might to see; And as thou smellest hem thurgh my preyere, So shaltow seen hem, leve brother dcre, If it so be thou wolt, withouten slouthe, Bileve aright and knowen verray trouthe." that thyn yCn

Tiburce answerde, "seistow


"How know










Valerian, "that shal


thee devyse.

"God's angel unto me the truth has taught, Which you shall sec, if only you'll put by All idols and be clean, else you'll learn naught." (And of these crowns miraculous, say I, Saint Ambrose of the two does testify

The angel of god hath me the trouthe y-taught Which thou shalt seen, if that thou wolt reneye The ydoles and be clene, and elles naught." And of the miracle of thise corones tweye

In his Preface; this noble doctor dear



Commendeth it, and

the story, making

it all



of martyrdom, thus to receive, This Saint Cecilia, filled with God's gift, The world and even her chamber did she leave; Witness Tibertius' and Valerian's shrift. the good



by angel

sweet smelling,

And bade

as fitting.


the angel take

The maiden brought



above; The world has learned what

Devotion to

noble doctour dere seith in this manere:

Seinte Cecile, fulfild of goddes yifte, 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 world and eek hir chambre gan


Two crowns of flowers fair and

in his preface list to seye;


The palm of martirdom for to receyve,

The palm

To whom


The mayde

to bliss

men to blisse

hath broght thise

above; it is




The world hath wist what it


worth, certeyn,

did Cecilia show him and explain That every idol is a thing all vain; For they are dumb, and they are deaf also,

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

And charged him his ydoles for to leve.


chastity to love.)



that his idols he forgo.


shall not lie."

And then she kissed his breast, when she heard And was full glad that truth he could espy. "This day I take you for my own ally," So

"Who so that troweth nat this, a beste he is,"

believes not this, a beast he is,"

Said then Tibertius, "if


maiden dear; you shall hear:

said this blessed, lovely


after that said

"Lo, even



as the love of Christ," said she,

"Made me your brother's wife, I take you now my close ally to

just in that wise


Since you'll forgo your idols and despise. ( rO with your brother, let them you baptize

And make you The

you may behold whereof your brother told."

clean; so that

angel's face

Tibertius answered, saying: "Brother dear,

me where to go and to what man." "To whom ?" said he, "Come forth, and with good First tell

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

"Lo, right so


will lead



may here:

seyde as ye

as the love of Crist,"


Sin that thou wolt thyn ydoles despyse.

Go with thy brother now, and thee baptyse, And make thee clene; so that thou mowe biholde The angels face of which thy

brother tolde."

Tiburce answerde and seyde, "brother dere, First tel me whider I shal, and to what man?" "To whom?" quod he, "com forth with right good chere,

you unto Pope Urban."

"To Urban ? Brother

mine, Valerian,"


"Made me thy brotheres wyf, right in that wyse Anon for myn allye heer take I thee,



this blisful fayre

And after that she


wol thee lede unto the pope Urban."

"Til Urban? brother

myn Valerian,"





tho Tiburce, "woltow me thider lede? thinketh that it were a wonder dede.

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,


lyf to lese,

If this

myn owene dere brother,

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

And lives in corners, dodging ever about, And dares not once by day to show his head ? Why, men would burn him in a fire right red If

he were found, or any him could spy; us, if we should bear him company.



Men mighten dreden wel and skilfully


"Surely you mean not Urban!" he cried out, "Who's been so often ordered to be dead,

we seek


Who is in Heaven

Algate y-brend in this world shul we be!" To whom Cecile answerde boldely,

tolde thurgh his grace;

That fadres sone hath alle thinges wroght; And al that wroght is with a skilful thoght,


Tibertius said, "and thither will vou lead ? I think this were a wondrous thing indeed.


for that Divinity

where we mav not


world to ashes shall we be!" To whom Cecilia answered, and boldly: "Men might well dread, and very reasonablv, This life on earth to lose, my own dear brother, If this alone were living, and no other. in this

"But there's a better life in other place, That never shall be lost, nay, fear vou naught, Whereof God's Son has told us, through His grace; That Father's Son all things that He has wrought,

The goost, that fro the fader gan procede,

And all that is has made with reasoned thought, The Spirit which from Father did proceed

Hath sowled hem, withouten any drede.

Has given a

By word and by miracle goddes


Whan he was in this world, declared here

soul to each, fear not indeed.

"By word and

miracle God's onlv Son,

W hen He was in this world, declared us here 7

That ther was other lyf ther men may wone."

There was another

To whom answerde Tiburce, "O suster dere, Ne seydestow right now in this manere,

To whom

Ther nis but o god,

lord in soothfastnesse;

And now of three how maystow bere witnesse?" "That

shal I telle,"

Right as a


she, "er



man hath sapiences three,

Memorie, engyn, and

intellect also,

So, in o being of divinitee, Three persones may ther right wel be." Tho gan she him ful bisily to preche


that could be


replied Tibertius: "Sister dear,

Did you not say, just now, in manner clear, There's but one God, the Lord in truth, no

And now

to three,


"before I go. has kinds of wisdom three, genius, intellect also,

how can you


bear witness?"

will I tell," said she,

Just as a



Of Cristes come and of his peynes teche,

So in one Being of Divinity Three Persons, truly may there right well be." Then she to him full earnestly did preach Of Jesus' coming, and of His pain did teach,

And many pointes of his passioun;

And many

How goddes sone in this world was withholde,

How God's Son in

To doon mankinde pleyn remissioun,

To man

That was y-bounde in sinne and Al

cares colde:

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.

points His agony had shown: this


a full remission to

Who had

been bound in


time did hold

make known,


and care of old:

All these things to Tibertius


she told.

And then Tibertius, with a good intent, He with Valerian to Pope Urban went,

Who thanked God; and

with a glad heart and light christened him, and made him in that place Perfect in knowledge, and God's very 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.

That every day he saw, in time and space, God's angel; aye, and every kind of boon He asked of God, the same was granted soon.




hard by ordre for to seyn

How many wondres Jesus for hem wroghte; But

atte laste, to tellen short

and pleyn,

after this Tibertius got such grace

'Twere hard in proper order to explain wonders Jesus for them wrought; But at the last, to tell it short and plain,

How many



They b\ the sergeants ol Rome tow n were sought, Ami to Almachius the prefect brought,

Who questioned

them and learned



entente, to the image of Jupiter


And unto


Saying: Strike




image had them



These mart) rs, then, ot whom I do apprise, One Maximus. who was an officer Ot the prefect's, and his corniculer, Took them; and when the saints forth he had Himself he wept, for pity that he had. their creed





not go and sacrifice, is mv sentence here."

his head, that

When Maximus had learned Of executioners obtained he


The sergeants of the toun of Rome hem soghte, And hem biforn Almache the prefect broghte, Which hem apposed, and knew al hir



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 to his house he led them, without more; And by their preaching, ere it came to eve, Thcv from the executioners did reave, And Maximus and from his folk, each one, The false faith, to believe in God alone.

And ladde hem to his hous withoute more; And with hir preching, er that it were eve,

when it was fully night, who christened them together there; And afterward, when day came with its light,

Cecilie cam, whan it was woxen night, With preestes that hem cristned alle y-fere; And afterward, whan day was woxen light,

They gonnen fro the tormentours to reve, And fro Maxime, and fro his folk echone The false feith, to trowe in god allone.

Cecilia came,




them bade, with

steadfast cheer:

"Now Christ's own knights together, lief and The works of darkness cast you all away, And arm you in the armour of the day. "You have

indeed fought the good fight— all


Whom you


have so well

But w hen before the image they were brought, Briefly to tell the end as it is known, They'd not incense, and sacrificed they naught, But on their knees they reverently knelt dow n, With humble heart and firm devotion show n, so they lost their heads there in that place. spirits

went unto the King of Grace.

This Maximus,

who saw


thing betide,

With pitying tears he told folk then, forthright, That he their souls had seen to Heaven glide With angels full of glory and of light, his words converted many a wight; For which Almachius had him beaten so, With whips of lead, he did his life forgo.

And by


him buried with the


Valerian and Tibertius, quietly.



in the


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 juge, which that ye han served,

Will give it to you, since you've it deserved." And w hen, as I have told this thing was said, To make the sacrifice they forth were led.


knightes leve and dere,

awey the werkes of derknesse, And armeth yow in armure of brightnesse.



"Now, Cristes owene Caste

Your course is done, your faith you have preserved, Go to the crown of life that shall not fail;

The Righteous

hem seyde with a ful sobre chere,

Cecile dear,

tomb he

rested with the brothers;

Almachius speedily Ordered his servants fetch him openly Cecilia, that she might in his presence Make sacrifice to Jove and burn incense. after this

Shall yeve



as ye




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 But on

hir knees they setten

With humble

right noght,

hem adoun

herte and sad devocioun,


losten bothe hir hedes in the place. Hir soules wenten to the king of grace.

This Maximus, that saugh

this thing bityde,

With pitous teres tolde it anon-right, That he hir soules saugh to heven glyde With angels ful of cleernesse and of light, And with his word converted many a wight; For which Almachius dide him so to-bete With whippe of leed, til he his lyf gan lete. him took and buried him anoon By Tiburce and Valerian softely,




hir burying-place,

after this


under the stoon.


Bad his ministres fecchen openly Cecile, so that she mighte in his presence Doon sacrifyce, and Jupiter 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

That hath so good

is al

our sentence,

a servant


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, Qf thy religioun and of thy bileve."

"Ye han bigonne your question folily,"


she, "that

wolden two answeres conclude

In 00 demande; ye axed lewedly." Almache answerde unto that similitude, "Of whennes comth thyn answering so


"Of whennes?" quod she, whan that she was freyned,

Almachius, who heard of this same thing, Commanded that they bring her him to see, And when she came, this was his questioning: "What manner of woman are you ?" then asked "I am a noblewoman born," said she. "I ask," said he,

Of your


"though to your harm and and of your belief."



"You have begun your questions foolishly," "who would two answers so include In one demand you asked me ignorantly." Said she,


Almachius answered that exactitude: "Whence comes your answering so rough and rude?"

"Whence?" asked



that she was thus


"Of conscience and of good feith unfeyned." Almachius seyde, "ne takestow non hede she answerde him this "Your might," quod she, "ful litel is to drede; For every mortal mannes power nis But lyk a bladdre, ful of wind, y-wis. For with a nedles poynt, whan it is blowe, May al the boost of it be leyd ful lowe."

Of my power?" and

"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


han penaunce

But-if that he his Cristendom withseye,

And goon al quit, if he wol it reneye?" "Your princes

469 But since they were converted by her lore, They wept, and to a full belief they came In what she said, and cried out more and more, "O Christ, God's Son, Whose substance is the same, Thou'rt very God, and blessed be Thy name, Who hast so good a servant Thee to serve; This with one voice we say, nor will we swerve."

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 juge seyde,

"O juge, confus in thy nycetee, Woltow that I reneye innocence, To make me a wikked wight?" quod "Lo! he dissimuleth here

she; in audience,

"From conscienceand from simple faith Almachius

Of power I



"And do you take no heed And she replied like this:

wield ?"

"Your might," said she, "is scarce a thing to dread; For power of every mortal man but is Like to a bladder full of wind, yvvis. For with a needle's point, when it is blown, Prick it, and all the pride of it comes down." "Erroneously have you begun," said he, "And deep in error do you still remain; Know you not how our mighty princes free Have ordered us such error to restrain, That every Christian man shall suffer pain, Unless his Christianity he deny ? He shall be free if he'll do that, say I."


princes err, and your nobility,"

"and with a mad sentence Condemn our guilt all guiltless though we be; And you, who know full well our innocence, Cecilia said,

Merely because we do our reverence

To Christ and bear ourselves the Christian name, You thus impute to us a crime and blame. "But we, who know Its virtue, will



far better

not once the

than can you

name gainsay."

said "Choose one of these things two: that faith, or sacrifice today, :

That you may now escape from death that way." Whereat the holy, blessed, lovely maid Began to laugh, and to the judge she said:

"O judge, convicted by your own folly, Will you that I deny my innocence And make myself a criminal ?" asked she. "Lo, he dissimulates in audience,






and rapes in his violence!" He To whom Almachius: "O unhappy wretch, Do you not know how far my might may stretch?

He stareth and woodeth in his advertence!" To whom Almachius, "unsely wrecche, Ne woostow nat how far my might may strecche?

"Did not our mighty princes to me give, Aye, both the power and authority To give to people death or make them live ? Whv do you speak so proudly then to me?"

Han noght our mighty princes

you but steadfastly," said she, "Not proudly, for I say, upon my side,

"I speke noght but stedfastly," quod she, "Nat proudly, for I seye, as for my syde, We haten deedly thilke vyce of pryde.


me yeven,

To maken folk to dyen or to liven?

Why spekestow so proudly than to me?"

"1 speak to

We've deadly hatred


Ye, bothe power and auctoritee

for the vice of pride.

"And if to hear a truth you do not fear, Then will I show, all openly, by right,

And if thou drede nat a sooth to here, Than wol I shewe al openly, by right,

That you have said a full great falsehood here. You sav, your princes have you given the might Both to condemn and give life to a wight; But vou can merely him of life bereave, You have no other power or other leave!

That thou hast maad

"You mav but say, your princes did declare You were death's officer; if more you claim, You lie, for of more power you are bare."

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,

"This bold speech drop!" Almachius did exclaim, "And do your sacrifice in our gods' name, I care not what you wrongfully impute; Like a philospher I'll bear it, mute;

"But those same wrongs which I cannot endure Are those you speak against our gods," said he. Cecilia replied:

"O vain


You've nothing said, since speaking first to me, That I've not learned thereby your great folly, And that you were and are, in every wise, An ignorant officer and vain justice.


a ful gret lesing here.

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 level seyst,

"And sacrifyce to our goddes, er thou go; I recche nat what wrong that thou me profre, For


can suffre


as a philosophre;

But thilke wronges may I nat endure That thou spekest of our goddes here," quod


Cecile answerede, "O nyce creature, Thou seydest no word sin thou spak to me That I ne knew therwith thy nycetee; And that thou were, in every maner wyse,

A lewed officer and a veyn justyse.

"There is no proving, by your outward eye, That you're not blind; what can be seen by all, That it is stone that men see well, say I Yet that same stone a god you think and call. I charge you, let your hand upon it fall, And test it well, and 'twill be stone, you'll find, Since you can see it not with your eyes blind.

Ther lakketh no-thing to thyn utter ygn That thou nart blind, for thing that we seen alle That it is stoon, that men may wel espyen, That ilke stoon a god thou wolt it calle. I rede thee, lat thyn hand upon it falle, And taste it wel, and stoon thou shalt it finde,

is a shame that all the people shall So scorn you, judge, and laugh at your folly; For commonly men know it above all That mighty God is in His heaven high,

shame that the peple shal So scorne thee, and laughe at thy folye; For comunly men woot it wel overal, That mighty god is in his hevenes hye, And thise images, wel thou mayst espye, To thee ne to hem-self mowe nought profyte, For in effect they been nat worth a myte."



they testify, bring no profit to themselves or you They have no power, nothing can they do." idols such as these,


These words and many other such said she, And he grew wroth and bade she should be



to her house. "And in her house," said he, "Boil her in bath heated by great flames red." And as he bade, so was it done, 'tis said For in a bath they locked her and began (All night

The For

and day)

a great fire to fan.

long night through, and a long day also, the fire and all the bath's great heat,


Sin that thou seest nat with thyn yen blinde. It is a

Thise wordes and swiche othere seyde she, And he weex wroth, and bad men sholde hir lede Horn 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.

The longe For


night and eek a day also, the fyr and eek the bathes hete,


15^89-16,038] She

sat al cold,

and felede no wo,


It made hir nat a drope for to swete. But in that bath hir lyf she moste lete; For he, Almachius, with ful wikke entente To sleen hir in the bath his sonde sente.

Three strokes

in the

nekke he smoot

hir tho,

The tormentour, but for no maner chaunce

He mighte noght smyte al hir nekke a-two; And for ther was that tyme an ordinaunce, That no man sholde doon man swich penaunce The ferthe strook to smyten, softe or sore, This tormentour ne dorste do na-more.

But half-deed, with hir nekke y-corven there, He lefte hir lye, and on his wey is went. The Cristen folk, which that aboute hir were, With shetes han the blood ful faire y-hent. Three dayes lived she in this torment,

And never cessed hem the feith to teche; That she hadde fostred, hem she gan to preche;

And hem she yaf hir moebles and hir thing, And to the pope Urban bitook hem tho. And seyde, "I axed this at hevene king, To han respyt three dayes and na-mo, To recomende to yow, er that I go, Thise soules, lo! and that I mighte do werche Here of myn hous perpetuelly a cherche." Seint Urban, with his deknes, prively

Nor did



But in that bath her life should she lose yet; For he, Almachius, with bad intent, To slay her in the bath his headsman sent.

The executioner three times her smote Upon the neck, and could not strike again, Although he failed to cut in two her throat, For at that time the ordinance was plain That no man might another give the pain Of striking four blows, whether soft or sore; This executioner dared do no more.

But half dead, with her neck cut three times there, let her lie, and on his way he went.


The Christian folk that all about her were, With sheets caught up the precious blood she spent; And three days lived she in this same torment, But never ceased at all the faith to teach, That she had fostered; dying did she preach;

To them she gave her goods and everything, And of Pope Urban put them in the care, And said: "This much I asked of Heaven's King,

A respite of three days, With me Before



that you might share these souls; and too I would prepare

go my house a church to make. be kept forever for my sake."


Saint Urban, with his deacons, privately,

The body fette, and buried it by nighte

The body took and

Among his othere seintes honestly.


Hir hous the chirche of seint Cecilie nighte; Seint Urban halwed it, as he wel mighte; In which, into this day, in noble wyse, Men doon to Crist and to his seint servyse.




and calm and felt no woe, make her any drop to sweat.

sat there cool


buried it by night other saints, right honourably.

Her house is Church of Saint Cecilia hight; Urban hallowed it, as well he might; Wherein in noble wise unto this day Saint


Christ and to His saint

men service pay.


THE CANON'S YEOMAN'S PROLOGUE THE PROLOGUE OF THE CANON'S YEOMAN'S TALE 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

When Saint Cecilia's Life was done, and whiles We had not farther gone a good five miles, At Boughton-under-Blean us did o'ertake man, who was clothed all in clothes of black, And underneath he had a surplice white. His hackney was of dappled-grey, so bright With sweat that it was marvelous to see; It seemed that he had spurred him for miles three, The horse too that his yeoman rode upon So sweat that scarcely could it go; and on The breast strap of the harness foam stood high, Whereof he was as flecked as is a pie. A double wallet on his crupper lay, And as it seemed, he went in light array. Lightly, for summer, rode this worthy man, And in my heart to wonder I began What he could be, until I understood


— —




Thewaj he had Ins cloak sewed to his hood; Prom which, when long had communed with mc, I




length some canon he must .1


But what

a joy


was to see him sweat!

forehead dripped as a distillatory Were lull of plantain and of pellitory. And this man when he came began to cry: lis



lod save," said he, "this jolly company! have spurred," said he then, "lor your sake,



wanted you to overtake, on in this merry company." His yeoman too was full of courtesy, Because




And said: "Good sirs, all in the morningtide Out of your hostelry I saw you ride, And warned my lord and master, full and plain, And he to ride with you is truly fain For


amusement he ;

loves dalliance."

"Friend, for your warning, chance," Said then our host, "for truly


give you good

it would seem and so I may well deem; He is right jocund also, I dare lay. Can he a merry tale tell, on the way, Wherewith to gladden this our company ?" "Who, sir ? My lord ? Yea, yea, w ithout a lie, He knows of mirth and of all jollity Not but enough; and also, sir, trust me, If vou but knew him as well as do I, You'd wonder much how well and craftily He can behave, and that in different wise. He's taken on him many an enterprise That were right hard for anyone that's here





(Unless he learned


to effect,







a little

lord has so





you cannot learn from me, And vet help by working at his side), That all this pleasant land through which we From here right into Canterbury town. (But

all his

For which, when


had longe avyscd me,

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-lecf he hadde under his hood For swoot, and for to kepe his heed from hete. But it was joye 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 joly companyc! Faste have I priked," quod he, "for your sake, By-cause that I wolde yow atakc, To ryden in this mery companye." His yeman eek was ful of curteisye, 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." "Freend, for thy warning god yeve thee good chaunce," Than seyde our host, "for certes, it wolde seme Thy lord were wys, and so I may wel deme; He is ful jocund also, dar I leye. Can he oght telle a mery tale or tweye, With which he glade may this companye?" "Who, sire? my lord? ye, ye, withouten lye, He can of murthe, and eek of jolitee 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 plainly as he rides, here among you, It would be to your profit if you knew Iim well; you'd not give up his acquaintance For much of wealth, I dare lay in balance have of goods in my possession. All that He is a man of wondrous high discretion, I warn you well, he's a surpassing man." "Well," said our host, "then pray tell, it you can, Is he a clerk, or nor ? Tell what he is." "Nay, he is greater than a clerk, ywis," This veoman said, "and briefly, if you'll wait, Host, of his craft

How that his cloke was sowed I


This cook shal drinke ther-of, if I may; Up peyne of deeth, he wol nat seye me nay!"

This cook


And certeinly, to tellen as it was, Of this vessel the cook drank faste, alias! What neded him? he drank y-nough biforn. And whan he hadde pouped in this horn To the maunciple he took the gourde agayn; And of that drinke the cook was wonder fayn, And thanked him in swich wyse as he coude. Than gan our host to laughen wonder loude, And seyde, "I see wel, it is necessarie, Wher that we goon, good drink we with us carie; For that wol turne rancour and disese T'acord and love, and many a wrong apese. O thou Bachus, y-blessed be thy name, That so canst turnen ernest in-to game! Worship and thank be to thy deitee! Of that matere ye gete na-more of me. Tel on thy tale, maunciple, I thee preye." "Wei, sir," quod he, "now herkneth what

4g 9

drink thereof, sir, ifl may; pain oi death he will not sav mc nay!"



certainly, to tell






of this gourd the cook drank deep, alas! need had he? He'd drunk enough that

morn And when he had blown into this said horn, He gave the manciple the gourd again; And of that drink the cook was wondrous fain, And thanked him then in such wise as he could. Then did our host break into laughter loud, And said: "I see well it is necessary, Wher'er we go, good drink with us we carry; For that

will turn

To accord and

rancour and


and many




wrong appease.

"O Bacchus, thou, all blessed be thv name Who canst so turn stern earnest into game! Honour and thanks be to thy deity Concerning which you'll get no more from me. Tell on your tale, good manciple, I prav." "Well,



sir," said he,


hear what





THE MANCIPLE'S TALE HERE BEGINNETH THE MANCIPLE'S TALE OF THE CROW Whan Phebus dwelled here in this erthe adoun, When Phoebus once on earth was dwelling, here, As olde bokes maken mencioun, the moste lusty bachiler In al this world, and eek the beste archer;

He was


Slepinge agayn the sonne upon a day;

And many another noble worthy dede He with his bowe wroghte, as men may rede. Pleyen he coude on every minstralcye,




Sleeping within the sunlight, on a day;

And many another noble, worthy deed He with his bow wrought, as all men may To

Certes the king of Thebes, Amphioun, That with his singing walled that citee, Coude never singen half so wel as he. Therto he was the semelieste man That is or was, sith that the world bigan.


hear his clear voice in the joyous sun.

Truly the king of Thebes, that Amphion Who, by his singing, walled that great city, Could never sing one half so well as he. Therewith he was the handsomest young man That is or was since first the world began.


to discryve?

needs it that his features I revive? world was none so fair alive. Compact of honour and of nobleness, Perfect he was in every worthiness.

For in this world was noon so fair on lyve. He was ther-with fulfild of gentillesse, Of honour, and of parfit worthinesse. This Phebus, that was flour of bachelrye, As wel in fredom as in chivalrye, For his desport, in signe eek of victorie


in the

This Phoebus, of all youthful knights the flower, richly dower, For his amusement (sign of victory Over that Python, says the old storv), Was wont to bear in hand a golden bow. Now Phoebus had within his house a crow. Which in a cage he'd fostered many a day, And taught to speak, as men may teach a jay. White was this crow as is a snow white swan,

Whom generous chivalry did

Of Phitoun, so as telleth us the storie, Was wont to beren in his hand a bowe.

Now had this Phebus in his hous a crowe, Which

in a cage he fostred many a day, And taughte it speken, as men teche a jay. Whyt was this crowe, as is a snow-whyt swan, And countrefete the speche of every man He coude, whan he sholde telle a tale.

in al this

it is

He played all instruments of minstrelsy, And sang so that it made great harmony

And singen, that it was a melodye, To heren of his clere vois the soun.



the lustiest of bachelors In all this world, and even the best archer; He slew Python, the serpent, as he lay

He slow Phitoun, the serpent, as he lay

What nedeth it his fetures

in the ancient

He was


world no nightingale 1

A young


counterfeit the speech of any

He could, when


he desired to tell a tale. Therewith, in all this world, no nightingale knight




Could, by a hundred-thousandth part, they tell, Carol and sing so merrily ahd well. Now had this Phoebus in his house a wife, Whom he loved better than he loved his life, And night and day he used much diligence


please her and to do her reverence, Saveonlv. if it's truth that I shall say. Jealous he was and so did guard her aye; For he was very loath befooled to be. And so is everyone in such degree; But all in vain, for it avails one naught. A good wife, who is clean in deed and thought, Should not be kept a prisoner, that's plain;


certainlv the labour

This hold


in vain

it just won't be. an utter idiocy, should lose their labour guarding wives;

That guards I

a slut, for, sirs,


That men So sav these wise old writers in their lives. But now to purpose, as I first began: This worthv Phoebus did all that a man Could do to please, thinking that by such pleasures, And bv his manhood and his other measures To make her love him and keep faithful, too. But God knows well that nothing man may do Will ever keep restrained a thing that nature Has made innate in any human creature. Take any bird and put it in a cage And do your best affection to engage And rear it tenderly with meat and drink Of all the dainties that you can bethink, And always keep it cleanly as you may; Although its cage of gold be never so gay, Yet would this bird, by twenty thousand-fold, Rather, within a forest dark and cold, Go to eat worms and all such wretchedness. For ever this bird will do his business To find some way to get outside the wires. Above all things his freedom he desires. Or take a cat, and feed him well with milk And tender flesh, and make his bed of silk, And let him see a mouse go by the wall; Anon he leaves the milk and flesh and all

And every

dainty that


in that house,

Such appetite has he to eat a mouse. Desire has here its mighty power shown And inborn appetite reclaims its own. A she-wolf also has a vulgar mind;


Ne coude, by an hondred thousand deel, Singen so wonder merily and weel. Now had this Phebus in his hous a wyf, Which that he lovede more than his lyf. And night and day dide ever his diligence Hir for to plese, and doon hir reverence, Save only, if the sothe that I shal sayn, Jalous he was, and wolde have kept hir fayn; For him were looth by-japed for to be. And so in every wight in swich degree; But al in ydel, for it availleth noght. A good wyf, that is clene of werk and thoght, Sholde nat been kept in noon await, certayn; And trewely, the labour is in vayn To kepe a shrewe, for it wol nat be. This holde I for a verray nycetee, To spille labour, for to kepe wyves; Thus writen olde clerkes in hir lyves. But now to purpos, as I first bigan: This worthy Phebus dooth all that he can To plesen hir, weninge by swich plesaunce, And for his manhede and his governaunce, That no man sholde han put him from hir grace. But god it woot, ther may no man embrace

As to destreyne a thing, which that nature Hath naturelly set in a creature. Tak any brid, and put it in a cage, And do al thyn entente and thy corage To fostre it tendrely with mete and drinke,

Of alle deyntees that thou canst bithinke, And keep it al-so clenly as thou may; Al-though his cage of gold be never so gay, Yet hath this brid, by twenty thousand fold, Lever in a forest, that is rude and cold, Gon ete wormes and swich wrecchednesse. For ever this brid wol doon his bisinesse To escape out of his cage, if he may; His libertee this brid desireth ay. Lat take a cat, and fostre him wel with milk, And tendre flesh, and make his couche of silk, And lat him seen a mous go by the wal; Anon he weyveth milk, and flesh, and al, And every deyntee that is in that hous, Swich appetyt hath he to ete a mous. Lo, here hath lust his dominacioun,

And appetyt flemeth discrecioun.

A she-wolf hath also a vileins kinde;

The wretchedest he-wolf that she may find, Or least of reputation, she'll not hate Whenever she's desirous of a mate. All these examples speak I of these men Who are untrue, and not of sweet women. For men have aye a lickerish appetite

The lewedeste wolf that she may finde, Or leest of reputacion wol she take, In tyme whan hir lust to han a make.


On lower thing to parfourne hir delyt

lower things to do their base delight

Than on their wives, though they be ne'er And ne'er so true and ne'er so debonair.

so fair

beyond measure, That we in no one thing can long have pleasure Or virtuous keep more than a little while. This Phoebus, who was thinking of no guile,




so fickle, lusting

was deceived, for all his quality; For under him a substitute had she,

Alle thise ensamples speke I by thise men That been untrewe, and no-thing by wommen. For men han ever a likerous appetyt

Than on hir wyves, be they never so faire,

Ne never so trewe, ne so debonaire. Flesh is so newefangel, with meschaunce, That we ne conne in no-thing han plesaunce That souneth in-to vertu any whyle. This Phebus, which that thoghte upon no gyle, Deceyved was, for al his jolitee; For under him another hadde she,





A man of litel reputacioun,

A man

Noght worth

Worth naught to Phoebus, bv comparison. The more harm that; it often happens so, Whereof there come so much of harm and woe. And so befell, when Phoebus was absent,





The more harm is; it happeth ofte so, Of which ther cometh muchel harm and wo. And so bifel, whan Phebus was absent, His wyf anon hath for hir lemman sent; 1


lit tic-

reputation, one

Hir lemman? certes, this is a knavish speche! Foryeveth it me, and that I yow biseche.

His wife has quickly for her leman sent. Her leman ? Truly, 'tis a knavish speech! Forgive it me, I do indeed beseech.

The wyse Plato seith, as ye may rede, The word mot nede accorde with the dede. If men shal telle proprely a thing, The word mot cosin be to the werking.

The wise old Plato says, as vou mav read. The word must needs accord well with the deed. And if a man tell properly a thing, The word must suited be to the acting.

am a boistous man, right thus seye


But that the gentile, in estaat above, She shal be cleped his lady, as in love;

But I'm a vulgar man, and thus sav I, There is no smallest difference, trulv. Between a wife who is of high degree, If of her body she dishonest be, And a poor unknown wench, other than this If it be true that both do what's amiss— The gentlewoman, in her state above, She shall be called his lady, in their love;








difference, trewely,

Bitwixe a wyf that is of heigh degree, If of hir body dishonest she be, And a povre wenche, other than this If it so be, they werke bothe amis

for that other


a povre


She shal be cleped his wenche, or his lemman. And, god it woot, myn owene dere brother, Men leyn that oon as lowe as lyth that other. Right


since the other's but a poor


so, bitwixe a titlelees tiraunt

a tyrant or

usurping chief

And an outlawe, or a theef erraunt,

And any outlawed man

The same

It's just


seye, ther





be called his wench or his leman. And God knows very well, my own dear brother, Men lay the one as low as lies the other. shall

or errant thief,

no difference. told to Alexander this sentence: the same, there


To Alisaundre told was this sentence;


That, for the tyrant is of gretter might,

That, since the tyrant is of greater might, By force of numbers, to slay men outright And burn down house and home even as a plane, Lo! for that he's a captain, that's certain; And since the outlaw has small company And may not do so great a harm as he, Nor bring a nation into such great grief, Why, he's called but an outlaw or a thief. But since I'm not a man the texts to spell,

By force of meynee for to sleen doun-right, And brennen hous and hoom, and make al plain, Lo! therfor


he cleped a capitain;

And, for the outlawe hath but smal meynee, And may nat doon so greet an harm as he,

Ne bringe a contree to so greet mescheef,

Men clepen him an outlawe or a theef. But, for I am a man noght textuel, wol noght telle of textes never a del; I wol go to my tale, as I bigan. Whan Phebus wyf had sent for hir lemman, Anon they wroghten al hir lust volage. The whyte crowe, that heng ay in the cage, Biheld hir werk, and seyde never a word. And whan that hoom was come Phebus, the lord, This crowe sang "cokkow! cokkow! cokkow!" "What, brid?" quod Phebus, "what song I

Nothing at all from texts now will go on with my tale as I began.


For al thy beautee and thy gentilesse, For al thy song and al thy minstralcye, For al thy waiting, blered is thyn ye" With oon of litel reputacioun, Noght worth to thee, as in comparisoun, The mountance of a gnat; so mote I thryve! For on thy bed thy wyf I saugh him swyve." What wol ye more? the crowe anon him tolde, By sadde tokenes and by wordes bolde, l

Formerly applied


of their libertinage.

And the white crow, aye hanging in the cage, Saw what they did, and never said a word. And when again came Phoebus home, the lord, This crow sang loud "Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" "What, bird?" asked Phoebus, "What song now sing

"By god," quod he, "I singe nat amis; Phebus," quod he, "for al thy worthinesse,


Phoebus' wife had sent for her leman,

At once they wrought


Ne were thow wont so merily to singe That to myn herte it was a rejoisinge To here thy vois? alias! what song is this?"



you ?

Were you That


not wont so merrilv to sing heart it was a jovful thing


To hear your voice? Alas! What song is this?" "By God," said he, "I do not sing amiss; Phoebus," said he, "for all your worthiness, For all your beauty and your nobleness. For all your song and all your minstrelsv, For all your watching, bleared is your bright eye By one of small repute, as well is known, Not worth, when I compare it with your own,


value of a gnat, as




For on your bed your wife I saw him swive." What will you more? The crow thereafter In sober fashion, giving witness bold, to either sex.







had done her lechery To his great shame and with great » illainy; Repeating that he'd seen it with his eyes. Then Phoebus turned away in sad surprise; He thought his wretched heart would break

Him to gret shame and to gret vileinye; And tolde him ofte, he saugh it with his for


bow he bent and set there an arrow, And in his angry mood his wife did slay. His

This the result; there is no more to say; For grief of which he ceased his minstrelsy, Broke harp and lute, gittern and psaltery; And. too, he broke his arrows and his bow. And after that he spoke thus to the crow. "Traitor," cried he, "with tongue of scorpion, You have brought me to ruin, treacherous one! Alas, that I was born! Why died I not? mv dear wife, jewel of joy, God wot,


Who were to me so trusty and so true, Now vou lie dead, with face all pale of hue. And vou were



dare swear to


O hastv hand, to do so foul amiss! O stupid brain, O anger all reckless,

to the crow he said, "O you false anon requite you that false tale!

And will

a-two; His bowe he bente, and sette ther-inne a flo, And in his ire his wyf thanne hath he slayn. This is th'effect, ther is na-more to sayn; For sorwe of which he brak his minstralcye, Bothe harpe, and lute, and giterne, and sautrye; And eek he brak his arwes and his bowe. And after that, thus spak he to the crowe: "Traitour," quod he, "with tonge of scorpioun, Thou hast me broght to my confusioun! Alias! that I was wroght! why nere I deed? O dere wyf, O gemme of lustiheed, That were to me so sad and eek so trew, Now lystow deed, with face pale of hewe, Ful giltelees, that dorste I swere, y-wis! O rakel hand, to doon so foule amis!

That unavysed smytest


O wantrust, ful of fals suspecioun, Where was thy wit and thy discrecioun?


every man, beware of hastiness, Do not believe without a strong witness; Strike not too soon, before you reason why, And be advised full well and soberly Ere you do any execution thus In vour wild anger when it is jealous. Alas! A thousand folk has hasty ire Ruined, and left them bleeding in the mire. Alas! I'll slay myself forthwith for grief!"



This Phebus gan aweyward for to wryen, Him thoughte his sorweful herte brast

O trouble wit, O ire recchelees,

That unadvisedly struck the guiltless! O ill distrust that jealousy had sown! Where were your thought and your discretion flown


How that his wyf had doon hir lecherye,

thai his wife


You sang but lately like a nightingale; Now, vou false thief, your songs are over and done, And you'll all those white feathers lose, each one, Nor ever in your life more shall you speak. Thus men on traitors shall their justice wreak; You and vour offspring ever shall be black, noises shall you make, tempest and in rain In token that through you my wife was slain." And on the crow he leaped, and that anon, And plucked out his white feathers, every one,

Nor evermore sweet

O every man, be-war of rakelnesse, Nc trowe no-thing with-outen strong witnesse; nat to sone, er that ye witen why, beeth avysed wel and sobrely Er ye doon any execucioun, Up-on your ire, for suspecioun. Alias! a thousand fok hath rakel ire Fully fordoon, and broght hem in the mire. Alias! for sorwe I wol my-selven slee!" And to the crowe, "O false theef !" seyde he, "I wol thee quyte anon thy false tale!



Thou songe whylom lyk a nightingale;

Now shaltow, false theef, thy song forgon, And eek thy whyte fetheres everichon, Ne never in al thy lyf ne shaltou speke. Thus shal men on a traitour been awreke; Thou and thyn of-spring ever shul be blake, Ne never swete noise shul ye make,

I do pray beware and heed what I shall say: Never tell any man, through all your life,

But ever crye agayn tempest and rayn, In tokeninge that thurgh thee my wyf is slayn." And to the crowe he stirte, and that anon, And pulled his whyte fetheres everichon, And made him blak, and refte him al his song, And eek his speche, and out at dore him slong Un-to the devel, which I him bitake And for this caas ben alle crowes blake. Lordings, by this ensample I yow preye, Beth war, and taketh kepe what I seye: Ne telleth never no man in your lyf


How that another man hath dight his wyf;

But vou

shall cry in

And made him



stilled for


His song and speech, and flung him out the door

Unto the devil, where I leave this jack And for this reason, now all crows are black. Masters, by this example,



that another




his wife;

you mortally, and that's certain. Dan Solomon, as these wise clerks explain, Teaches a man to keep his tongue from all; He'll hate

But, as





not textual.

Nevertheless, thus taught me my good dame: "My son, think of the crow, in high God's name;

He wol yow haten mortally, certeyn. Daun Salomon, as wyse clerkes seyn, Techeth a man to kepe his tonge wel; But as I seyde, I am noght textuel. But nathelees, thus taughte me my dame:

"My sone, thenk on the crowe, a goddes name;





A wikked tonge is worse than a feend.


sone, keep wel thy tonge and keep thy freend.

My sone, from a feend men may hem blesse; My sone, god of his endelees goodnesse Walled

a tonge

with teeth and lippes


For man sholde him avyse what he speke.

My sone, ful ofte, for to muche speche, Hath many


man ben spilt, as clerkes


But for a litel speche avysely Is no men shent, to speke generally.


son keep vour tongue

and keep vour



wicked tongue is worse than any fiend. My son, from devils men themselves may bless; My son, high God, of His endless goodness, Walled up the tongue with teeth and lips and cheeks That man should speak advisedly when he speaks.

My son,

oftentimes, for too


Has many

man been




killed, as clerics teach;

But, speaking

To speke of god, in honour and preyere.

little and advisedlv, no man harmed, to put it generally. My son, your foolish tongue you should restrain At all times, save those when your soul is fain To speak of God, in honour and in prayer.

The firste vertu, sone, if thou wolt lere,


My sone, thy tonge sholdestow restreyne At


tyme, but

whan thou doost thy peyne

and kepe wel thy tonge. Thus lerne children whan that they ben yonge. My sone, of muchel speking yvel-avysed, Ther lasse speking hadde y-nough suffysed, Comth muchel harm, thus was me told and taught. In muchel speche sinne wanteth naught. Wostow wher-of a rakel tonge serveth? Right as a swerd forcutteth and forkerveth Is to restreyne

An arm a-two, my dere sone, right so

A tonge cutteth frendship al a-two. A jangler is to god abhominable; Reed Salomon, so wys and honurable; Reed David in his psalmes, reed Senekke.

My sone, spek nat, but with thyn heed thou bekke. Dissimule as thou were deef,


that thou here

A jangler speke of perilous matere. The Fleming seith, and lerne it, if thee leste, That litel jangling causeth muchel reste. My sone, if thou no wikked word hast seyd, Thee thar nath drede for to be biwreyd; But he that hath misseyd, I dar wel sayn, He may by no wey clepe his word agayn. Thing that is seyd, is seyd; and forth it gooth, Though him repente, or be him leef or looth.

He is his thral to whom that he

hath sayd

A tale, of which he is now yvel apayd. My sone, be war, and be non auctour newe Of tydinges, whether they ben false or trewe.




of virtues, son,

to restrain


you'll but hear,

and to guard well your tongue

Thus teach the children while they

My son, of too much speaking, Where


yet are



had been enough and had sufficed. thus was I told and taught. In fluent speaking evil wants for naught. Know you of where a rash tongue has well served ? Just as a sword has cut deep and has carved A many an arm in two, dear son, just so A tongue can cut a friendship, well I know. A gossip is to God abominable. Read Solomon, so wise and honourable, Or David's Psalms, what Seneca has said. My son, speak not, but merely bow your head. Dissemble like one deaf, if you but hear A chatterer speak what's dangerous in your ear. less

Much harm may come;

The Fleming That



and learn


prattle gives us all






My son, if you no wicked word have said, To

be betrayed you need not ever dread; missaid, I dare explain, may not aye recall his words again.

But he that has


That which






goes, in truth,

Though he


repent, and be he lief or loath. man's the slave of him to whom he's told

which he can no longer hold. beware and be not author new Of tidings, whether they be false or true. Where'er you come, among the high or low, Guard well your tongue, and think upon the crow." tale to

My son,

Wher-so thou come, amonges hye or lowe, Kepe wel thy tonge, and thenk up-on the crowe." HERE IS ENDED THE MANCIPLE'S


THE PARSONS PROLOGUE HERE FOLLOWETH THE PROLOGUE OF THE PARSON'S TALE By that the maunciple hadde his tale al ended, The sonne fro the south lyne was descended

The sun down from

So lowe, that he nas nat, to my sighte, Degrees nyne and twenty as in highte. Foure of the clokke it was tho, as I gesse: For eleven foot, or litel more or lesse, My shadwe was at thilke tyme, as there, Of swich feet as my lengthe parted were

Four feet eleven, little more or less, My shadow was extended then and there, A length as if the shadow parted v ere


time the manciple his talc had ended, the south line had descended So low that he was not, unto my sight, Degrees lull nine and twenty yet in height. Four of the clock it was then, as I guess:



[have shown. Therewith the moon's high exaltation known, In si\ toot equal parts, as



the sign of Libra, did ascend

As we were entering a village-end; Whereat our host, since wont to guide was As in this case, our jolly company, Said in this wise:



masters, every one,

We lack no tales except a single one. Mv judgment is fulfilled and my decree, think that


Almost I

prav to


we have heard from each




is all

to give






good chance

to us this story pleasantly.

he asked, "can you a vicar be ? Are vou a parson ? Tell truth, by your fay! Be what vou will, break not our jolly play; For everv man, save you, has told his tale, Unbuckle, show us what is in your mail; For truly, I think, judging bv your cheer, You should knit up a mighty matter here. Tell us a fable now, by Cock's dear bones!" Sir priest,"

This parson then replied to him at once: "You'll get no foolish fable told by me; For Paul, when writing unto Timothy, Reproves all those that veer from truthfulness


and such wretchedness. sow chaff out of my own fist When I may sow good wheat, if I but list ? But if, I say, vou something wish to hear In which the moral virtues will appear, And if you now will give me audience,



tell false




will right gladly, in Christ's


Give vou such lawful pleasure as I can. But trust me, since I am a Southern man, by letter, I can't romance with 'rum, ram, ruff' And, God knows, rhyme I hold but little better; But if you wish the truth made plain and straight, 1



pleasant tale in prose

To weave our


will relate

together at the end. Mav Jesus, of His grace, the wit me send To show you, as we journey this last stage, The way of that most perfect pilgrimage feast

To heavenly Jerusalem on high. And if you will vouchsafe, anon shall Begin



concerning which,




Choose what you will, I can no better say. Yet this my meditation is, I own, Perhaps not free from errors to be shown By clerks, since I am not a learned man; I do but grasp the meaning as I can. Therefore, I do protest, I shall prepare To take what comes, and all correction bear." When he had spoken thus, vvc all agreed, For, as it seemed to us, 'twas right indeed To end with something virtuous in its sense, And so to give him time and audience. We bade our host that he to him convey

The wish of all that he begin straightwav. Our host, he had the very words for all. "Sir priest," said he, "may good to you befall! Say what you wish, and we will gladly hear." 'Nonsense words, to imitate


In six feet equal of proporcioun. Ther-with the mones exaltacioun, I mene Libra, alwey gan ascende, As we were entringe at a thropes ende; For which our host, as he was wont to gye,


our joly companye, wyse, "lordings everichoon, Now lakketh us no tales mo than oon. Fulfild is my sentence and my decree; I trowe that we han herd of ech degree. Almost fulfild is al myn ordinaunce; I prey to god, so yeve him right good chaunce, That telleth this tale to us lustily. Sir preest," quod he, "artow a vicary? Or art a person? sey sooth, by thy fey! Be what thou be, ne breke thou nat our pley; For every man, save thou, hath told his tale, Unbokel, and shewe us what is in thy male; For trewely, me thinketh, by thy chere, Thou sholdest knitte up wel a greet matere. Tel us a tale anon, for cokkes bones!" This Persone him answerde, al at ones, in this caas,


in this

"Thou getest fable noon y-told for me; For Paul, that wryteth unto Timothee, Repreveth hem that weyven soothfastnesse, And tellen fables and swich wrecchednesse. Why sholde I sowen draf out of my fest, Whan I may sowen whete, if that me lest? For which I seye, if that yow list to here Moralitee and vertuous matere, And thanne that ye wol yeve me audience, I wol ful fayn, at Cristes reverence,

Do yow plesaunce leefful, as I can. But trusteth wel, I am a Southren man,

I can nat geste rum, ram, ruf by lettre, Ne, god wot, rym holde I but litel bettre; And therfor, if yow list, I wol nat glose. I wol yow telle a mery tale in prose To knitte up al this feeste, and make an ende. l

And Jesu, for his grace, wit me sende To shewe yow the wey, in this viage, Of thilke parfit glorious pilgrimage That highte Jerusalem celestial. And, if ye vouche-sauf, anon I shal Biginne upon my tale, for whiche I preye Telle your avys, I can no bettre seye. But nathelees, this meditacioun I putte it ay under correccioun

Of clerkes, for I am

nat textuel;

take but the semens, trusteth wel. Therfor I make protestacioun That I wol stonde to correccioun." Up-on this word we han assented sone, I

For, as us semed,



for to done,

To enden in som vertuous sentence, And for to yeve him space and audience; And bede our host he sholde to him seye, That alle we to telle his tale him preye. Our host hadde the wordes for us alle: "Sir preest," quod he, "now fayre yow bifalle! Sey what yow list, and we wol gladly here" and mock at alliteration.


17,381-17.385; §§i-2]

And with that word he

seyde in this manere "Telleth," quod he, "your mcditacioun, But hasteth yow, the sonne wol adoun;

Beth fructuous, and that



after that he added, for his ear:

"Tell us," he said, "your meditation grown, But pray make haste, the sun will soon be down;


in litel space,

And to do wel god sende yow his


fruitful, tell us in a little space,






send to you His gracel"


THE PARSON'S TALE HERE BEGINNETH THE PARSON'S TALE Jer. 6°. State super vias et videte et interrogate de viis antiquis, que et

ambulate in ea,

et inueniotis

I. Our swete lord god of hevene, that no man wol perisse, but wole that we comen alle to the knoweleche of him, and to the blisful lyf that is perdurable, amonesteth us by the prophete Jeremie, that seith in this wyse: "stondeth upon the weyes, and seeth and axeth of olde pathes (that is to seyn, of olde sentences) which is the goode wey; and walketh in that wey, and ye shul finde refresshinge for your soules," &c. Manye been the weyes espirituels that leden folk to oure Lord Jesu Crist, and to the regne of glorie. Of whiche weyes, ther is a ful noble wey and a ful covenable, which may

nat faile to


ne to


that thurgh sinne

misgoon fro the righte wey of Jerusalem celestial; and this wey is cleped Penitence, of which man sholde gladly herknen and enquere with al his herte; to witen what is Penitence, and whennes it is cleped Penitence, and in how manye maneres been the accions of werkinges of Penitence, and how manye spyces ther been of Penitence, and whiche thinges apertenen and bihoven to Penitence, and whiche thinges destourben Penitence.


2. Seint Ambrose seith, that "Penitence is the pleyninge of man for the gilt that he hath doon, and na-more to do any thing for which him oghte to pleyne." And som doctour seith: "Penitence is the waymentinge of man, that sorweth for his sinne and pyneth himself for he hath misdoon." Penitence, with certeyne circumstances, is verray repentance of a man that halt him-self in sorwe and other peyne for hise giltes. And for he shal be verray penitent, he shal first biwailen the sinnes that he hath doon, and stidefastly purposen in his herte to have shrift of mouthe, and to doon satisfaccioun, and never to doon thing for which him oghte more to biwayle or to compleyne, and to continue in goode werkes: or elles his repentance may nat

For as seith seint Isidre: "he is a japer and a gabber, and no verray repentant, that eftsoone dooth thing, for which him oghte repente." Wepinge, and nat for to stinte to doon sinne, may nat avaylle. But nathelees, men shal hope that every tyme that man falleth, be it never so ofte, that he may arise thurgh Penitence, if he have grace: but certeinly it is greet doute. For as seith Seint Gregorie: "unnethe aryseth he out of sinne, that is charged with the charge of yvel usage." And thereavaille.

refrigerium animabus vestris,


via bona;


Our sweet Lord God of Heaven, Who will destroy no man, but would have all come unto the knowledge of Him and to the blessed life that is everlasting, admonishes us by the Prophet Jeremiah, who says thus: "Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths (that is to say, the old wisdom) where is the good way, and walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls," etc. Many are the spiritual ways that lead folk unto Our Lord Jesus Christ and to the Kingdom of Glory. Of which ways there is a right noble way and a proper one, which will not fail either man or woman who through sin has gone astrav from the right way to the Heavenly Jerusalem; and this way is called penitence, as to which man should gladly hear and inquire with all his heart, in order that he may learn what penitence is, and why it is called penitence, and in how many ways penitence functions, and how many kinds of penitence there are, and what things appertain and are necessary to penitence, and what things hinder it.

Saint Ambrose says that "penitence is the mourning of man for the sin that he has done, and the re-

do no more anything for which he ought to mourn." And another doctor says: "Penitence is the lamenting of man, who sorrows for his sin and punishes himself because he has done amiss." Penitence, under certain circumstances, is the true repentance of a man that goes in sorrow and other pain for his solve to



that he shall be truly penitent, he

shall first regret the sins that

he has done, and steadpurpose in his heart to make oral confession, and to do penance, and nevermore to do anything for which he ought to feel regret or to mourn, and to continue on good works; or else his repentance fastly

him nothing. For, as says Saint Isidore: mocker and a liar and no true penitent who does again a thing for which he ought to repent." Weeping, when not accompanied by a refusal to will avail




sin, shall

not avail. But, nevertheless,



hope that every time a man falls, be it never so often, he may arise through penitence, if he have grace; but certainly there is great doubt of this. For, as Saint Gregory says: "With difficulty shall he arise out of sin who is burdened with the burden of evil habit." And therefore repentant folk, who keep from





abandon sin ere sin abandon them, Hoi) Church holds them to be sure oi their salvation. And he thai mus and verily repents in his last moments, Iol\ Church vet hopes tor his salvation, what of the great mercv of Our Lord Jesus Christ, because of his repentance; but take you the certain «.i\ mii A\u\


And now, since I have declared unto you what penitence is, now shall you understand that there are three deeds required by penitence. The first deed is that a man be baptized after he has sinned. Saint Augustine savs: "Save he be repentant for his former sinful life, he shall not begin to lead the new clean life." For trulv, if he be baptized without repentance for his old offence, he receives the sign of baptism but not the grace nor the remission of his sins, until he have true repentance. Another defect is this, that men do deadly sin after they have received baptism.


third defect




into venial sins


and from day to day. Thereof Saint Augustine says that "penitence of good and

after their baptism,





the penitence of every day."

kinds of penitence are three. One of them is is general, and the third is private.

public, another

That form of penitence which is public is of two kinds: as to be expelled from Holy Church in Lent, for the slaughter of children and such-like things. Another is, when a man has sinned openly, ot which sin the shame is openly spoken of in the community and then Holv Church, by judgment rendered, constrains him to do open penance. Common or general priests enjoin men collectively in peradventure, to go naked on pilgrimages, or barefoot. Private penitence is that which men do continually for their sins, whereof we confess privately and receive a private penance.




certain cases,



and hem, holy chirche

fore repentant folk, that stinte for to sinne, forlete sinne er that sinne forlcte





siker of hir savacioun.

verraily repenteth



he that

in his laste

ende, holy chirche yet hopeth his savacioun, by the grete mercy of oure lord Jesu Crist, for his repentaunce; but tak the siker wey. 3. And now, sith I have declared yow what thing is Penitence, now shul ye understonde that ther been three accions of Penitence. The firste accion of Penitence is, that a man be baptized after that he hath sinned. Seint Augustin seith: "but he be penitent for his olde sinful lyf, he may nat biginne the newe clene lif." For certes, if he be baptized withouten penitence of his olde gilt, he rcceivcth the mark of baptisme, but nat the grace ne the remission of his sinnes, til he have repentance verray. Another defaute is this, that men doon deedly sinne after that they han received baptisme. The thridde defaute is, that men fallen in venial sinnes after hir baptisme, fro day to day. Ther-of seith Seint Augustin, that "penitence of goode and humble folk is the penitence of every day." 4. The spyces of Penitence been three. That oon of hem is solempne, another is commune, and the thridde is privee. Thilke penance that is solempne, is in two maneres; as to be put out of holy chirche in lente, for slaughtre of children, and swich maner thing. Another is, whan a man hath sinned openly, of which sinne the fame is openly spoken in the contree; and thanne holy chirche by jugement destreineth him for to do open penaunce. Commune penaunce is that preestes enjoinen men comunly in certeyn caas; as for to goon, peraventure, naked in pilgrimages, or bare-foot. Privee penaunce is thilke that men doon alday for privee sinnes, of whiche we shryve us prively and receyve privee penaunce.



you understand what



necessary to a

upon three things: contrition of heart, confession by word of mouth, and restitution. As to which Saint John Chrysostom savs: "Penitence constrains a man to accept cheerfullv every pain that is put upon him, with contrition of heart and oral confession, with restitution; and in doing all of acts of humility." true and perfect penitence.

And in



this stands

a fruitful penitence for three things

we anger Our Lord

Jesus Christ; that


whereto say,

bv delight in thinking, by recklessness in speaking, and bv wicked sinful works. And over against these wicked offences is penitence, which may be likened unto a tree.

5. Now shaltow understande what is bihovely and necessarie to verray parfit Penitence. And this stant on three thinges; Contricioun of herte, Confessioun of Mouth, and Satisfaccioun. For which seith Seint John Crisostom: "Penitence destreyneth a man to accepte benignely every peyne that him is enjoyned, with contricion of herte, and shrift of mouth, with satisfaccion; and in werkinge of alle maner humilitee." And this is fruitful Penitence agayn three thinges in whiche we wratthe oure lord Jesu Crist: this is to seyn, by delyt in thinkinge, by recchelesnesse in spekinge, and by wikked sinful werkinge. And agayns thise wikkede

Penitence, that

giltes is


be lykned un-to a


The self

root of this tree



in the heart of

contrition, which hides

him who



truly repentant,

just as the root of another tree hides within the earth.

Prom the root contrition springs a trunk that bears branches and leaves of confession and the fruit of penance, as to which Christ says in His gospel: "Bring forth therefore fruits meet for repentance." For bv this fruit mav men know this tree, and not by the root that is hidden in the heart of man, nor

Contricion, that hydthat is verray repentant, right as the rote of a tree hydeth him in the erthe. Of the rote of Contricion springeth a stalke, that bereth braunches and leves of Confession, 6.




rote of this tree

in the herte of



of Satisfaccion. For which Crist seith in "dooth digne fruit of Penitence"; for by this fruit may men knowe this tree, and nat by the rote that is hid in the herte of man, ne by the



his gospel:




braunches ne by the leves of Confession. And therefore oure Lord Jesu Crist seith thus: "by the fruit of hem ye shul knowen hem." Of this rote eek springeth a seed of grace, the which seed is moder of sikernesse, and this seed is egre and hoot. The grace of this seed springeth of god, thurgh remembrance of the day of dome and on the peynes of helle. Of this matere seith Salomon, that "in the drede of god man forleteth his sinne." The hete of this seed is the love of god, and the desiring of the joye perdurable. This hete draweth the herte of a man to god, and dooth him haten his sinne. For soothly, ther is no-thing that savoureth so wel to a child as the milk of his norice, ne no-thing is to him more abhominable than thilke milk whan it is medled with other mete. Right so the sinful

man to

that loveth his sinne, him semeth that it is him most swete of any-thing; but fro that tyme

that he loveth sadly our lord Jesu Crist, and desireth the lif perdurable, ther nis to him no-thing

more abhominable. For soothly, the lawe of god the love of god; for which David the prophete seith: "I have loved thy lawe and hated wikkednesse and hate"; he that loveth god kepeth his lawe and his word. This tree saugh the prophete Daniel in spirit, up-on the avision of the king Nabugodonosor, whan he conseiled him to do penitence. Penaunce is the tree of lyf to hem that it receiven, and he that holdeth him in verray peniis


tence is blessed; after the sentence of Salomon. 7. In this Penitence or Contricion man shal understonde foure thinges, that is to seyn, what is Contricion: and whiche been the causes that moeven a man to Contricion: and how he sholde be contrit: and what Contricion availleth to the soule. Thanne is it thus: that Contricion is the verray sorwe that a man receiveth in his herte for his sinnes, with sad purpos to shryve him, and to do

penaunce, and nevermore to do sinne. And this sorwe shal been in this manere, as seith seint Bernard: "it shal been hevy and grevous, and ful sharpe and poinant in herte." First, for man hath

and his creatour; and more sharpe and poinant, for he hath agilt his fader celestial; and yet more sharpe and poinant, for he hath wrathed and agilt him that boghte him; which with his precious blood hath delivered us fro the bondes of sinne, and fro the crueltee of the devel and fro the peynes of helle. 8. The causes that oghte moeve a man to Contricion been six. First, a man shal remembre him of hise sinnes; but loke he that thilke remembrance ne be to him no delyt by no wey, but greet shame and sorwe for his gilt. For Job seith: "sinful men doon werkes worthy of Confession." And therfore seith Ezechie: "I wol remembre me alle the yeres of my lyf, in bitternesse of myn herte." And god seith in the Apocalips: "remembreth yow fro whennes that ye been falle"; for biforn that tyme that ye sinned, ye were the children of god, and agilt his lord

limes of the regne of god; but for your sinne ye thral and foul, and membres of the

been woxen


by the branches, nor bv the leaves of confession. And therefore Our Lord Jesus Christ says thus: "By their fruits ye shall know them." From this root, too, springs a seed of grace, the which seed is the mother of security, and this seed is eager and hot. The grace of this seed springs from God, through remembrance of the day of doom and the pains of Hell. Of this matter says Solomon: "Fear the Lord, and depart from evil." The heat of this seed is the love of God and the desiring of the joy everlasting. This heat draws the heart of man unto God and causes him to hate his sin. For truly there is nothing that tastes so well to a child as the milk of its nurse, nor is there anything more abhorrent to it than this same milk when it is mingled with other food. Just so, to the sinful man who loves his sin, it seems that it is sweeter than anything else; but from the time that he begins to love devoutly Our Lord Jesus Christ, and desires the life everlasting, there is to him nothing more abominable. For truly the law of God is the love of God; whereof David the prophet savs: "Ye that love the Lord, hate evil." He that loves God keeps His law and His word. The Prophet Daniel saw this tree in spirit following upon the vision of King Nebuchadnezzar, when he counselled him to do penance. Penance is the tree of life to those who receive it, and he that holds himself in true penitence is blessed, according to the opinion of Solomon.

In this penitence or contrition man shall understand four things, that is to say, what contrition is, and what the causes are that move a man to contrition,

and how he should be contrite, and what con-

Then it is thus: that contrithe real sorrow that a man receives within his heart for his sins, with firm purpose to confess them and to do penance and nevermore to do sin. And this trition avails the soul.




be in this manner, as savs Saint Bernard heavy and grievous and sharp and poign-


"It shall be

ant in the heart." First, because man has offended his Lord and his Creator; and more sharp and poignant because he has offended his Heavenlv Father; and yet more sharp and poignant because he has angered and offended Him Who redeemed him, Who with His precious blood has delivered us from the bonds of sin and from the cruelty of the Devil and from the pains of Hell.

The causes

that ought to

move a man

to contrition


should remember his sins, vet see to it that this same remembrance be not to him in anv wise a delight, but only great shame and sorroware

six. First, a

tor his guilt.

For Job

says: that sinful

that ought to be confessed. savs: "I will


bitterness of heart."



men do

the years of

And God


therefore Hezekiah




savs in the Apoca-

"Remember from whence thou art fallen." For before that time when first you sinned, vou were the children of God and members of the Kingdom of God; but because of vour sin vou are become slavish and vile, and the children of the Fiend, lypse:




hated of the angels, the slander of Holy Church, and food of the false serpent. You are perpetual fuel for the fire of Hell. And yet more vile and abominahle,

feend, hate of aungels, sclaundre of holy chirche, and fode of the false serpent; perpetuel matere of the fyr of helle. And yet more foul and abhomin-


you offend often and often, like the dog that And you are even yet more vile, for your long continuation in sin and your sinful habits, for which you are as filthy in your sin as a beast in its dung. Such thoughts cause a man to take shame to himself for his sinning, and not delight, as God says by the Prophet Ezekiel: "Thou shalt remember thy ways and be ashamed." Truly, sins are the ways that lead folk unto Hell.

able, for ye trespassen so ofte

returns to his vomit.


The second



man ought



have con-

Peter says, "He that sinneth is the slave of sin." And sin puts a man into deep thraldom. And thereupon the Prophet Ezekiel says: "I went sorrowfully, in abhorrence of


for sin


ought a man to abhor sin from that thraldom and degradation. And see what Seneca says about this matmvself."

and to


this: that, as Saint

truly, well

release himself

He says thus: "Though I knew that neither God man should ever be cognizant of it, yet would I disdain to commit a sin." And the same Seneca also says: "I am born to greater things than to be thrall ter.





bodv, or than to make of

may man



a thrall."

woman make

of his or her body than by giving that body over to sin. And were it the lowest churl, or the lowest woman, that lives, and the least worth, yet is he or she then more a viler thrall


and more in servitude. Ever from the higher degree than man falls, the more is he enthralled, and by so much the more to God and to the world is he vile and abominable. O good God! Well ought a man to have disdain of sin; since, because of sin, whereas he was once free, now is he in bondage. And thereupon Saint Augustine says: "If thou have disdain for thy servant, if he offend or sin, have thou then disdain that thou shouldest do any sin." Have regard of your worth, that you be not foul unto yourself. Alas! Well ought they then to disdain to be servants and thralls to sin, and to be sorely ashamed of themselves, when God of His endless goodness vile

has set them in high place, or given them understanding, bodily strength, health, beauty, prosperity,

and redeemed them with His heart's blood, who


so unnaturally, in face of His nobleness, requite


so vilely as to slaughter their




good God! You women, who are of so great beauty, remember the proverb of Solomon, who says: "A fair woman who is the fool of her body is like a gold ring in the snout of a sow." For just as a sow roots deep into every ordure, so does she root her beauty into the stinking filth of sin.

ought to move a man to conday of doom and of the horrible pains of Hell. For as Saint Jerome says: "Every time that I remember the day of doom I quake; for when I eat or drink or do whatever thing, ever it seems to




third cause that is

fear of the

that the

trump sounds




bidding the



doth the

that retourneth to eten his spewing.


yet be ye fouler for your longe continuing in sinne

and your sinful usage, for which ye be roten in your sinne, as a becst in his dong. Swiche manere of thoghtes maken a man to have shame of his sinne, and no delyt, as god seith by the prophete Ezechiel: "ye shal

remembre yow of youre weyes,

and they shuln displese yow." Sothly, sinnes been the weyes that leden folk to helle. 9. The seconde cause that oghte make a man to have desdeyn of sinne is this: that, as seith seint Peter, "who-so that doth sinne is thral of sinne"; and sinne put a man in greet thraldom. And therfore seith the prophete Ezechiel: "I wente sorweful in desdayn of my-self." And certes, wel oghte a man have desdayn of sinne, and withdrawe him from that thraldom and vileinye. And lo, what seith Seneca in this matere. He seith thus: "though I wiste that neither god ne man ne sholde nevere knowe it, yet wolde I have desdayn for to do sinne." And the same Seneca also seith: "I am born to gretter thinges than to be thral to my body, or than for to maken of my body a thral." Ne a fouler thral may no man ne womman maken of his body, than for to yeven his body to sinne. AJ were it the

fouleste cherl, or the fouleste


that liveth,

and leest of value, yet is he thanne more foule and more in servitute. Evere fro the hyer degree that man falleth, the more is he thral, and more to god and to the world vile and abhominable. O gode god, wel oghte man have desdayn of sinne; sith that, thurgh sinne, ther he was free, now is he

maked bonde. And

therfore seyth Seint Augustin:

thou hast desdayn of thy servant, if he agilte or sinne, have thou thanne desdayn that thou thyself sholdest do sinne." Take reward of thy value, that thou ne be to foul to thy-self. Alias! wel oghten they thanne have desdayn to been servauntz and thralles to sinne, and sore been ashamed of hem-self, that god of his endelees goodnesse hath set hem in heigh estaat, or yeven hem wit, strengthe of body, hele, beautee, prosperitee, and boghte hem fro the deeth with his herte blood, that they so unkindely, agayns his gentilesse, quyten him so vileinsly, to slaughtre of hir owene soules. O gode god, ye wommen that been of so greet beautee, remembreth yow of the proverbe of Salomon, that seith: "he lykneth a fair womman, that is a fool of hir body, lyk to a ring of gold that were in the groyn of a sowe." For right as a sowe wroteth in everich ordure, so wroteth she hir beautee in the stinkinge ordure of sinne. 10. The thridde cause that oghte moeve a man to Contricion, is drede of the day of dome, and of the horrible peynes of helle. For as seint Jerome "if

seith: "at

every tyme that

me remembreth

of the

day of dome, I quake; for whan I ete or drinke, or what-so that I do, evere semeth me that the trompe



sowneth in myn ere: riseth up, ye that been dede, and cometh to the jugement." O gode god, muchel

man to drede swich a jugement, "ther-as shullen been alle," as seint Poul seith, "biforn the sete of oure lord Jesu Crist"; wher-as he shal make a general congregacion, wher-as no man may oghte a


been absent. For certes, there availleth noon essoyne ne excusacion. And nat only that oure defautes shullen be juged but eek that alle oure werkes shullen openly be knowe. And as seith Seint Bernard: "ther ne shal no pledinge availle, ne no sleighte; we shullen yeven rekeninge of everich ydel word." Ther shul we han a juge that may nat been deceived ne corrupt. And why? For, certes, alle our thoghtes been discovered as to him; ne for preyere ne for mede he shal nat been corrupt. And therfore seith Salomon: "the wratthe of god ne wol nat spare no wight, for preyere ne for yifte"; and therfore, at the day of doom, ther nis noon hope to escape. Wherfore, as seith Seint Anselm: "ful greet angwissh shul the sinful folk have at that tyme; ther shal the sterne and wrothe juge sitte above, and under him the horrible put of helle open to destroyen him that moot biknowen hise sinnes, whiche sinnes openly been shewed bifom god and biforn every creature. And on the left syde, mo develes than herte may bithinke, for to harie and drawe the sinful soules to the pyne of helle. And with-inne the hertes of folk shal be the bytinge conscience, and with-oute-forth shal be the world al brenninge. ^Thider shal thanne the wrecched sinful man flee to hyden him? Certes, he may nat hyden him; he moste come forth and shewen him." For certes, as seith seint Jerome: "the erthe shal casten him out of him, and the see also; and the eyr also, that shal be ful of thonder-clappes and lightninges." Now sothly, who-so wel remembreth him of thise thinges, ,

I gesse that his sinne shal nat turne him in-to delyt, but to greet sorwe, for drede of the peyne of helle. And therfore seith Job to god: "suffre, lord, that I may a whyle biwaille and wepe, er I go with-oute returning to the derke lond, covered with the derknesse of deeth; to the lond of misese and of derknesse, where-as is the shadwe of deeth; where-as ther is noon ordre or ordinance, but grisly drede that evere shal laste." Lo, here may ye seen that Job preyde respyt a whyle, to biwepe and waille his trespas; for soothly oon day of respyt is bettre than al the tresor of the world. And for-as-muche as a man may acquiten him-self biforn god by penitence in this world, and nat by tresor, therfore sholde he preye to god to yeve him respyt a whyle,

biwepe and biwaillen his trespas. For certes, al the sorwe that a man mighte make fro the beginning of the world, nis but a litel thing at regard of the sorwe of helle. The cause why that Job clepeth to

helle "the lond of derknesse";

understondeth that he clepeth it "londe" or erthe, for it is stable, and nevere shal faille; "derk," for he that is in helle hath defaute of light material. For certes, the derke light, that shal come out of the fyr that evere shal brenne, shal turne him al to peyne that is in helle;


dead arise and come to judgment." O good (.'im1

and body and the

steal the vessel


of grace, that is, the will destroy them, as Saint Paul says. Truly, of this theft Joseph was much afraid when his master's wife besought him to lie with her. and he said: "Behold, my master wotteth not what is with me in the house, and He hath committed all that he hath to mv hand: there is none greater in this house than I; neither hath he kept any thing trom me but thee, because thou art his wile: how then can I do this great wickedness and sin against God?" Alas! All too little is such truth encountered nowadays. The third evil is the filth whereby they break the commandment of God and defame the Author of matrimony, Who is Christ. For certainly, in so far as the sacrament of marriage is so noble and honourable, so much the more is it a sin to break it; for God established marriage in Paradise, in the state of innocence, in order to multiply mankind to the sen ice of God. And therefore is the breaking thereof the more grievous. Of which breaking come oftentimes false heirs, that wrongfully inherit. And therefore will Christ put them out of the Kingdom of Heaven, which is the heritage of good folk. From this breaking it happens oftentimes, also, that people wed or sin with their own kindred; and specially the loose-livers who haunt the brothels of prostitutes, who may be likened to a common privy wherein men purge themselves of their ordure. What shall we say, also, of whoremasters who live by the horrible sin of prostitution, yea, sometimes by the prostitution of their own wives and children, as do pimps and procurers? Certainly these are accursed sins. Understand also that adultery is fitly placed in the ten commandments between theft and homicide; for it is the greatest theft that can be, being theft of body and of soul. And it is like homicide, for it cuts in twain and breaks asunder soul,


which Christ

made one flesh, and therefore, by God, adulterers should be slain. But by the law of Jesus Christ, which is a

those that were

the old law of nevertheless,

law of pity, He said to the woman who was taken in adultery and should have been slain with stones, according to the will of the Jews, as was their law:


"and have no more will to no more to do sin." Truly, the punishment of adultery is given to the torment of Hell, unless it be that it is hindered by penitence. And there arc yet more branches of this wicked sin; as when one of them is a religious, or else both; or folk who have entered orders, as a sub-deacon, or deacon said Jesus Christ,

sin," or "will

priest, or hospitaller.


ever the higher that he the sin. The thing that greatly aggravates their sin is the breaking of the vow of chastity, taken when they received the order. And furthermore, the truth is that the office of a holy order is chief of all the treasury of God, and His is

in orders,

the greater




broken and lorn, soothly Cristendom stant veyn and with-outen fruit. This sinne is

that feith


eek a thefte; for thefte generally is for to reve a his thing agayns his wille. Certes, this is the



fouleste thefte that

body from






housbonde and yeveth it to hire holour to defoulen hir; and steleth hir soule fro Crist, and yeveth it to the devel. This is a fouler thefte, than for to breke a chirche and stele the chalice; for thise avoutiers brcken the temple of god spiritually, and stelen the vessel of grace, that is, the body and the soule, for which Crist shal destroyen hem, as seith seint Paul. Soothly of this eth hir


douted gretly Joseph, whan that his lordes of vileinye, whan he seyde, "lo, my lady, how my lord hath take to me under my warde al that he hath in this world; ne no-thing of hise thinges is out of my power, but only ye that been his wyf. And how sholde I thanne do this wikkednesse, and sinne so horribly agayns god, and agayns my lord? God it forbede." Alias! al to litel is swich trouthe now y-founde! The thridde harm is the filthe thurgh which they breken the comandement of god, and defoulen the auctour of matrimoine, that is Crist. For certes, in-so-muche as the sacrement of manage is so noble and so digne, so muche is it gretter sinne for to breken it; for god made mariage in paradys, in the estaat of innocence, to multiplye man-kinde to the service of god. And therfore is the brekinge ther-of more grevous. Of which brekinge comen false heires ofte tyme, that wrongfully occupyen folkes heritages. And therfore wol Crist putte hem out of the regne of hevene, that is heritage to gode folk. Of this brekinge comth eek ofte tyme, that folk unwar wedden or sinnen with hir owene kinrede; and namely thilke harlottes that haunten bordels of thise fool wommen, that mowe be lykned to a commune gonge, where-as men purgen hir ordure. What seye we eek of putours that liven by the horrible sinne of puterie, and constreyne wommen to yelden to hem thefte

wyf preyed him

somtyme doon this baudes? Certes, thise been cursede sinnes. Understond eek, that avoutrie is set gladly in the ten comandements bitwixe thefte and manslaughtre; for it is the gretteste thefte that may be; for it is thefte of body and a certeyn rente of hir bodily puterie, ye,

of his owene

wyf or

his child; as

And it is lyk to homicyde; for it kerveth a-two and breketh a-two hem that first were maked o flesh, and therfore, by the olde lawe of god, they sholde be slayn. But nathelees, by the lawe of Jesu Crist, that is lawe of pitee, whan he seyde to the womman that was founden in avoutrie, and sholde han been slayn with stones, after the wil of the of soule.

Jewes, as was hir lawe: "Go," quod Jesu Crist, "and have na-more wil to sinne"; or, "wille namore to do sinne." Soothly, the vengeaunce of avoutrie is awarded to the peynes of helle, but-if so be that it be destourbed by penitence. Yet been ther mo speces of this cursed sinne; as whan that oon of hem is religious, or elles bothe; or of folk that been entred in-to ordre, as subdekne or dekne,



or preest, or hospitaliers. And cvere the hyer that he is in ordre, the gretter is the sinne. The thinges that gretly agrcggen hir sinne is the brekinge of hir avow of chastitee, whan they receyved the ordre. And forther-over, sooth is, that holy ordre is chief

special sign

of al the tresorie of god, and his especial signe and mark of chastitee; to shewe that they been joyned to chastitee, which that is most precious lyf that is. And thise ordred folk been specially tytled to god, and of the special meynee of god; for which, whan they doon deedly sinne, they been the special traytours of god and of his peple; for they liven of the peple, to preye for the peple, and whyle they been suche trait ours, hir preyers availen nat to the peple. Preestes been aungeles, as by the dignitee of hir misterye; but for sothe, seint Paul seith, that "Sathanas transformeth him in an aungel of light." Soothly, the preest that haunteth deedly sinne, he may be lykned to the aungel of derknesse transformed in the aungel of light; he semeth aungel of light, but for sothe he is aungel of derknesse. Swiche preestes been the sones of Helie, as sheweth in the book of Kinges, that they weren the sones of Belial, that is, the devel. Belial is to seyn "with-outen juge"; and so faren they; hem thinketh they been free, and han no juge, na-more than hath a free bole that taketh which cow that him lyketh in the toun. So faren they by wommen. For right as a free bole is y-nough for al a toun, right so is a wikked preest corrupcioun y-nough for al a parisshe, or for al a contree. Thise preestes, as seith the book, ne conne nat the misterie of preesthode to the peple, ne god ne knowe they nat; they ne helde hem nat apayd, as seith the book, of soden flesh that was to hem offred, but they toke by force the flesh that is rawe. Certes, so thise shrewes ne holden hem nat apayed of rosted flesh and sode flesh, with which the peple fedden hem in greet reverence, but they wole have raw flesh of folkes wyves and hir doghtres. And certes, thise wommen that consenten to hir harlotrie doon greet wrong to Crist and to holy chirche and alle halwes, and to alle soules; for they bireven alle thise him that sholde worshipe Crist and holy chirche, and preye for Cristene soules. And therfore han swiche preestes, and hir lemmanes eek that consenten to hir lecherie, the malisoun of al the court Cristen, til they come to amendement. The thridde spece of avoutrie is som-tyme bitwixe a man and his wyf; and that is whan they take no reward in hir assemblinge, but only to hire fleshly delyt, as seith seint Jerome; and ne rekken of no-thing but that they been assembled; by-cause that they been maried, al is good y-nough, as thinketh to hem. But in swich folk hath the devel power, as seyde the aungel Raphael to Thobie; for in hir assemblinge they putten Jesu Crist out of hir herte, and yeven hem-self to alle ordure. The fourthe spece is, the assemblee of hem that been of hire kinrede, or of hem that been of oon affinitee, or elles with hem with whiche hir fadres or hir kinrede han deled in the sinne of lecherie; this sinne maketh hem lyk to houndes, that taken no kepe to kinrede. And certes,

do deadly


and mark of chastity, to show that those who have entered it arc joined to chastity, which is the most precious kind of life there is. And these folk in orders are specially dedicated to God. and are of

God; for which, when they they are especially traitors to God and to His people; for they liveon the people in order to pray for the people, and while they are such traitors their prayers avail the people nothing at all. Priests are angels, by reason of the dignity of their ministry; but forsooth, as Saint Paul says: "Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light." Truly the priest that resorts to mortal sin, he may be likened to the angel of darkness transformed into the angel of light; he seems an angel of light, but, forsooth, he is an angel of darkness. Such priests are the sons of Eli, as is shown in the Book of the Kings, that they were the sons of Belial, that is, the DeviL Belial means, "without judge"; and so fare they; they think they are free and have no judge, any more than has a free bull that takes whatever cow pleases him on the farm. So act they with women. For just the special household of sin,

as a free bull

wicked for all a



for all a farm, just so

priest corruption


county. These

priests, as



for all a parish, or




teach not the functions of priesthood to the people

and they know not God; they held themselves but ill satisfied, as the Book says, with the flesh that was boiled and offered to them and took by force the flesh that was raw. Certainly, so these scoundrels hold themselves not pleased with roasted flesh and boiled flesh, with which the people feed them in great reverence, but they will have the raw flesh of laymen's wives and of their daughters. And certainly these




do Holy Church and all saints and all souls; for they bereave all these of him that should worship Christ and Holy Church and that give assent to their rascality

to Christ



pray for Christian souls. And therefore such priests their lemans also, who give assent to their lechery, have the cursing of all the Christian court, until they mend their ways. The third kind of adultery is


sometimes practised between a man and his wife; and that is w hen they have no regard to their union save only for their fleshly delight, as says Saint Jefor nothing but that theyarecome to-

rome; and care

gether; because they are married, as they think.

But over such

it is all

well enough,

folk the Devil has


the Angel Raphael to Tobias; for in their union they put Jesus Christ out of mind and give er, as said

themselves to

all filthiness.

The fourth kind



coming together of those that are akin, or of those that are related by marriage, or else of those whose fathers or other kindred have had intercourse in the

of lechery this sin makes them like dogs that pay no heed to relationship. And certainly, kinship is of two kinds, either spiritual or carnal; spiritual, as when one lies with one's sponsor. For just as he that



engenders a child is its fleshly father, just so is his godfather his spiritual father. For which reason a woman is in no less sin when she lies carnally with her godfather or her godson than she would be in if


54Q she coupled with her





The fifth man ought

fleshly brother.

abominable sm whereof


notwithstanding it is openly discussed in holy writ. This wickedness men and women do with divers intentions and in divers manners; but though holy writ speaks of such horrible sin, holy writ cannot be defiled, any more than can the sun that shines upon the dunghill. Another form of sin appertains to lechery, and that comes to speak or write,


often to those


arc virgin and also to those

are corrupt; and this sin








Sometimes it is due to laxness of humours are too rank and the body of man. Sometimes it is due to

tour ways.

the body; because the



infirmity; because of the weakness of the retentive virtue, as


discussed in works on medicine.


due to a surfeit of food and drink. And it comes from base thoughts that were enclosed in man's mind when he fell asleep; which thing may not happen without sin. Because of this, men must govern themselves wisely, or else they may times

it is



into grievous sin.

parentele ly;



goostly, as


two maneres, outher goostly or fleshfor to delen with hise godsibbes. For

right so as he that engendreth a child


his fleshly

godfader his fader espirituel. For which a womman may in no lasse sinne assemblen with hir godsib than with hir owene fleshly brother. The fifthe spece is thilke abhominable sinne, of which that no man unnethe oghte speke ne wryte, nathelees it is openly reherced in holy writ. This cursednesse doon men and wommen in diverse entente and in diverse manere; but though that holy writ speke of horrible sinne, certes, holy writ may nat been defouled, na-more than the sonne that shyneth on the mixen. Another sinne apertenfader, right so



eth to lecherie, that comth in slepinge; and this sinne cometh ofte to hem that been maydenes, and eek to hem that been corrupt; and this sinne men clepen pollucioun, that comth in foure maneres. Somtyme, of languissinge of body; for the humours been to ranke and habundaunt in the body of man. Somtyme of infermetee; for the feblesse of the ver-

tu retentif, as phisik maketh mencioun. Somtyme, for surfeet of mete and drinke. And somtyme of vileyns thoghtes, that been enclosed in mannes minde whan he goth to slepe; which may nat been

with-oute sinne. For which men moste kepen hem wysely, or elles may men sinnen ful grevously.

The Remedy against the Sin of Lechery comes the remedy for lechery, and that is, 77. Now comth the remedie agayns Lecherie, generally, chastity and continence, which restrain all and that is, generally, Chastitee and Continence, the inordinate stirrings that come of fleshly desires. that restreyneth alle the desordeynee moevinges that And ever the greater merit shall he have who recomen of fleshly talentes And evere the gretter merstrains the wicked enkindlings of the ordure of this ite shal he han, that most restreyneth the wikkede sin. And this is of two kinds, that is to say, chastity eschaufinges of the ordure of this sinne. And this in marriage and chastity in widowhood. Now you is in two maneres, that is to seyn, chastitee in marshall understand that matrimony is the permitted iage, and chastitee in widwehode. Now shaltow uncoming together of man and of woman, who receive, derstonde, that matrimoine is leefful assemblinge by virtue of the sacrament, the bond of union from of man and of womman, that receyven by vertu of which they may not be freed in all their life, that the sacrement the bond, thurgh which they may is to say, while they both live. This, says the Book, nat be departed in al hir lyf, that is to seyn, whyl is a very great sacrament. God established it, as I that they liven bothe. This, as seith the book, is a have said, in Paradise, and had Himself born into ful greet sacrement. God maked it, as I have seyd, wedlock. And to sanctify marriage, He attended a in paradys, and wolde him-self be born in mariage. wedding, where He turned water into wine, which And for to halwen mariage, he was at a weddinge, was the first miracle that He wrought on earth bewhere-as he turned water in-to wyn; which was the fore His disciples. The true result of marriage is the firste miracle that he wroghte in erthe biforn hise cleansing of fornication and the replenishing of Holy disciples. Trewe effect of mariage clenseth fornicaChurch with believers of good lineage; for that is cioun and replenisseth holy chirche of good linage; the end of marriage; and it changes deadly sin to for that is the ende of mariage; and it chaungeth venial sin between those who are wedded, and makes deedly sinne in-to venial sinne bitwixe hem that one the hearts of them, as well as the bodies. This is been y-wedded, and maketh the hertes al oon of true marriage, which was established by God ere sin hem that been y-wedded, as wel as the bodies. This began, when natural law occupied its rightful posiis verray mariage, that was establissed by god er tion in Paradise; and it was ordained that one man that sinne bigan, whan naturel lawe was in his right should have but one woman, and one woman but point in paradys; and it was ordeyned that o man one man, as Saint Augustine says, and that for many sholde have but o womman, and o womman but o reasons. man, as seith seint Augustin, by manye resouns. First, because marriage figures the union between 78. First, for mariage is figured bitwixe Crist and Christ and Holy Church. And another is, because holy chirche. And that other is, for a man is heved the man is the head of the woman; at any rate it has of a womman; algate, by ordinaunce it sholde be been so ordained by ordinance. For if a woman had so. For if a womman had mo men than oon, thanne





sholde she have mo hevedes than oon, and that were an horrible thing biforn god; and eek a womman ne mighte nat plese to many folk at ones. And also thcr ne sholde nevere be pees ne reste amonges hem; for everich wolde axen his owene thing. And fortherover, no man ne sholde knowe his owene engendrure, ne who sholde have his heritage; and the womman sholde been the lasse biloved, fro the time that she were conjoynt to many men. 79. Now comth, how that a man sholde bere him with his wyf; and namely, in two thinges, that is to seyn in suffraunce and reverence, as shewed Crist

whan he made


womman. For he ne made



more men than one, then should she have more heads than one, and that were a horrible thing before God; and also, a woman could not please too many folk at once. And also, there should never be peace or rest among them; for each would demand his own thing. And furthermore, no man should know his own get, nor who should inherit his property; and the woman should be the less beloved from the time that she were joined with many men. Now comes the question, How should a man con-

duct himself toward his wife things, that



two and reverence, as made woman. For He and

specifically in

to say, in tolerance

when He

Christ showed


nat of the heved of Adam, for she sholde nat clayme to greet lordshipe. For ther-as the womman hath the maistrie, she maketh to muche desray; ther neden none ensamples of this. The experience of

her not of the head of Adam, because she should not claim to exercise great lordship. For wher-

god ne made

experience of every day ought to suffice. Also, certainly, God did not make woman of the foot of

day by day oghte nat

suffyse. Also certes,

womman of the foot of Adam, for she ne sholde

nat been holden to lowe; for she can nat paciently suffre: but god made womman of the rib of Adam, for womman sholde be felawe un-to man. Man sholde bere him to his wyf in feith, in trouthe, and in love, as seith seint Paul: that "a man sholde loven his wyf as Crist loved holy chirche, that loved it so wel that he deyde for it." it were nede.

So sholde




his wyf, if

how that a womman sholde be subget 80. to hir housbonde, that telleth seint Peter. First, in obedience. And eek, as seith the decree, a womman




a wyf, as longe as she


a wyf, she hath


auctoritee to swere ne bere witnesse with-oute leve of hir housbonde, that is hir lord; algate, he sholde be so by resoun. She sholde eek serven him in alle

honestee, and been attempree of hir array. I wot wel that they sholde setten hir entente to plesen hir housbondes, but nat by hir queyntise of array. Seint Jerome seith, that wyves that been apparailled in silk and in precious purpre ne mowe nat clothen


ever the


has the mastery she causes too

much The

disorder; there are needed no instances of this.

Adam, because

she should not be held in too great

cannot patiently endure: but God Adam, because woman should be a companion to man. Man should conduct himself toward his wife in faith, in truth, and in love; as Saint Paul says: "Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the Church, and