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The Monk's Tale By Geoffrey Chaucer

In Tragic Manner I will not lament

The griefs of those who stood in high degree

and fell at last with no expedient

To bring them out of their adversity.

For sure it is, if Fortune wills to flee,

No man may stay her course or keep his hold;

Let no one trust a blind prosperity.

Be warned by these examples, true and old.

Lucifer

With Lucifer, although an angel he

And not a man, I purpose to begin.

For notwithstanding angels cannot be

The sport of fortune, yet he fell though sin

Down into hell, and he is yet therein.

O Lucifer, brightest of angels all,

Now thou art Satan, and canst never win

Out of thy miseries; how great thy fall!

Adam

Consider Adam, made by God's own finger,

And not begotten of man's unclean seed,

He that in Eden was allowed to linger

— Now call Damascus — and had power at need

Over all Paradise, save that decreed

And single tree prohibited. Than he

None ever on earth stood higher, till his deed

Drove him to labour, Hell and misery.

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Samson

Long ere his birth, by an annunciation,

Samson was heralded by an angel bright

Who marked him out for God in consecration.

He stood forth nobly while he had his sight;

There never was another of such might,

Or hardihood of mind for might to borrow;

And yet he let his secret come to light,

He told his wife, and killed himself for sorrow.

Samson, this noble warrior of Zion,

Having no weapon by him for the fray

But his bare hands, yet slew and tore a lion

While walking to his wedding, on the way.

His treacherous wife so pleased him with her play,

She coaxed his secrets forth; with double face

She then betrayed them to his foes that lay

In wait, and took another in his place.

And Samson took, in his avenging ire,

And lashed three hundred foxes in a band,

Tying their tails, then set the tails on fire

(To every tail he bound a fiery brand)

And burnt up every cornfield in the land

And, every vine and olive in a mass

Of flame, and slew a thousand with his hand,

No weapon but the jaw-bone of an ass;

But having slain them was so parched with thirst

He was near lost, yet prayed the Lord on high

To show that favour He had showed at first

And send His servant water lest he die:

Then from that very jaw-bone which was dry

Out of a molar-tooth there sprang a well,

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And there he drank enough to satisfy

His thirst; God sent His help, as Judges tell.

And then at Gaza on a certain night

By force he rent apart the city gate,

Bore off the pieces on his back, in spite

Of what the Philistines in fierce debate

Could do, and then he set them up in state

High on a hill. O Samson, dear thy worth!

Hadst thou not blabbed thy secrets to thy mate

None ever could have matched thee upon earth!

This Samson never drank of mead or wine,

His head no razor ever touched, or shear;

This precept was enjoined by the divine

Messenger-angel — all his strength lay here,

Lodged in his locks. And fully twenty year

He was a Judge and ruler of Israel;

Yet the day came to him for many a tear

And it was by a woman that he fell.

It was to Dália, his lover, she

To whom he owned that all his power lay

Within his hair, and to the enemy

She sold her lover sleeping, as he lay

Upon her breast, and bade them cut away

His locks, revealed his secret to those spies,

And so they found him there an easy prey.

They bound him fast and put out both his eyes.

But yet before his hair was clipped and shaved

There was no thong or lashing that could bind

His arm; and now they took him and encaved

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Him in a prison, set him there to grind

A quern! O Samson, strongest of mankind,

O sometime Judge in glory and in power,

Now mayst thou weep although thine eyes are blind!

Fled is thy joy and come thy bitter hour.

Perished this captive wretch as I shall say;

His foes prepared a feast, and for their jeers

Made him their fool and bade him to display

Amidst a temple, thronged in crowded tiers,

His strength; and yet he set them by the ears.

He grasped two pillars, shook and made them fall,

And the whole temple, shaken from its piers,

Crashed down and slew him, and his foemen all.

That is to say, not Magistrates alone

But some three thousand others also slain

In the huge ruin of their temple of stone.

Of Samson I will say no more; but gain

A warning from his old story, old and pain:

Men should keep counsel and not tell their wives

Secrets that it concerns them to retain,

Touching the safety of their limbs and lives.

Hercules

For Hercules, victor of sovereign power,

His labours sing his praise and lasting fame,

Who in his time was human strength in flower.

He slew a lion and he skinned the same;

He robbed the Centaurs of their boasted name;

He slew the Harpies, cruel birds and fell;

He robbed the golden apples, overcame

Their dragon-guard, drove Cerberus from Hell,

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And slew Busiris the tyrannical,

And made his horses eat him, flesh and bone;

He brought about the fiery serpent's fall,

Made one of the Acheloüs' horns his own,

Killed the fierce Cacus in his cave of stone

And left Antaeus the Gigantic dead;

He met the grisly boar and laid it prone,

And last he shouldered heaven overhead.

Was never creature since the world began

That slew so many monsters as did he.

Thoughout the world his reputation ran,

What with his strength and magnanimity,

All kingdoms of the earth he went to see,

None said him nay, none equalled him in worth,

And the Chaldean prophet named Trophee

Says he set pillars up to bound the earth.

He had a lover, this redoubted man,

Her name was Deianira, fresh as May;

And as the learned tell us, she began

To fashion him a shirt, to make him gay.

O fatal shirt! Alas, alas, I say!

Poison was subtly woven in its mesh;

Ere he had worn it scarcely half a day

From every bone there fell away his flesh.

But some authorities would thus excuse her,

Saying that Nessus made the shirt, not she;

Let that be as it may, I won't accuse her;

He wore it anyhow, and certainly

Blackness began to rot his flesh, and he

Raked burning coals upon himself and died,

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Having perceived there was no remedy

And scorning death by poison, out of pride.

Thus fell the famous, mighty Hercules!

Who then may trust the dice, at Fortune's throw?

Who joins in worldly struggles such as these

Will be, when least prepared for it, laid low!

Wise is the man who well has learnt to know

Himself. Beware! When Fortune would elect

To trick a man, she plots his overthrow

By such a means as he would least expect.

Nebuchadnezzar

The mighty throne, the precious stores of treasure,

The glorious sceptre and the diadem

That once belonged to King Nebuchadnezzar

Tongue cannot tell, hard to describe one gem

Among them! Twice he took Jerusalem

And, from the Temple, bore the vessels plighted

To God, and to his realm he carried them

In Babylon, where he gloried and delighted.

The fairest children of the royal line

Of Israel he gelded, and this done,

Made each of them a thrall and let them pine

In servitude. Daniel of these was one,

Wisest among them, or under sun.

He could expound the dreams whose visitation

Troubled the King; Chaldean there was none

That could interpret their signification.

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This proud king made an image out of gold;

Its height was sixty cubits and its frame

Seven in breadth. He ordered young and old

To bow before this idol and acclaim

Its glory; in a furnace of red flame

Any that disobeyed him should be flung.

But Daniel would not stoop to such a shame

Nor would his two companions. They were young.

This king of kings, so mighty and elate,

Supposed that God who sits in majesty

Could never rob him of his kingly state,

Yet he was cast from it, and suddenly.

Forth in the rain, thinking himself to be

An animal, he went and fed without

On hay as oxen do; and there dwelt he

Among the the beasts till time had come about.

And like an eagle's feathers grew his hair,

His nails were like the talons of a bird,

Till God released him of his madness there

For certain years and the king's heart was stirred

In thanks to God; with many a tearful word

He swore to sin no more, until the hour

Of death when at the last he was interred,

He recognized God's mercy and his power.

Belshazzar

He had a son, Belshazzar was his name,

Who held the throne after his father's day,

But took no warning from him all the same,

Proud in his heart and proud in his display,

And an idolater as well, I say.

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His high estate on which he so had prided

Himself, by Fortune soon was snatched away,

His kingdom taken from him and divided.

He made a feast and summoned all his lords

A certain day in mirth and minstrelsy,

And called a servant, as the Book records,

"Go and fetch forth the vessels, those," said he,

"My father took in his prosperity

Out of the Temple of Jerusalem,

That we may thank our gods for the degree

Of honour he and I have had of them."

His wife, his lords and all his concubines

Drank on, as long as appetite would last,

Out of these vessels, filled with sundry wines.

The king glanced at the wall; a shadow passed

As of an armless hand, and writing fast.

He quaked for terror, gazing at the wall;

The hand that made Belshazzar so aghast

Wrote Mene, Tekel, Peres, that was all.

In all the land not one magician there

Who could interpret what the writing meant;

But Daniel soon expounded it, "Beware,"

He said, "O King! God to your father lent

Glory and honour, kingdom, treasure, rent;

But he was proud and did not fear the Lord.

God therefore punished that impenitent

And took away his kingdom, crown and sword.

"He cast him from the company of men

To make his habitation in the dew

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Among the beasts, eat grass and tread the fen

In rain and drought, until at last he knew

By grace and reason God alone is true

And has dominion over crowns and creatures.

Then God at last was minded to renew

His mercy and restored his realm and features.

"But you, his son, are proud, though well you know

The truth of all these things that I have told;

You are a rebel before God, his foe,

Having defiled his vessels of pure gold;

Your wife and all your wenches have made bold

To do the like and drink of many a wine

In honour of false gods, accurst of old.

But God will punish you, and this is his sign!

"That hand was sent of God, that on the wall

Wrote Mene, Tekel, Peres, as you see;

You reign is done, you have been weighed, and fall;

Your kingdom is divided and shall be

Given to Persians and the Medes," said he.

They slew the King Belshazzar the same night,

Darius took his throne and majesty,

Though taking them neither by law nor right.

My lords, from this the moral may be taken

that there's no lordship but is insecure.

When Fortune flees a man is left forsaken

Of glory, wealth and kingdom; all's past cure.

Even the friends he has will not endure,

For if good fortune makes your friends for you

Ill fortune makes them enemies for sure,

A proverb very trite and very true.

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Zenobia

Palmyra (say the Persians) had a queen,

Zenobia; one accounted to possess

A noble nature, and in arms so keen

And hardy, none could match her, they profess.

Her lineage and her breeding were no less

Than of a Persian royally descended;

I will not call her first in loveliness

But say her beauty could not be amended.

I find that from her childhood she had fled

The offices of women, for she went

Off to the wildness of the woods to shed

The blood of the forest deer, her bow she bent

On them, still swift of foot when they were spent;

And as she grew to woman she would kill

Leopard and lion too, and once she rent

A bear apart; she ruled the beasts at will.

She dared them all, would thrust into a den,

Or course upon the mountains through the night,

Taking her sleep in bushes; as for men

She was a wrestler and could win a fight

Against a stripling of whatever might;

None could resist her arm and none elude.

And she had kept her maiden honour bright,

Not deigning to be vanquished or subdued.

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At last her friends prevailed and she was married

To one Prince Odenathus of that land,

Albeit that she long refused and tarried;

And yet it is as well to understand

He was reluctant too to give his hand,

Having like fantasies. When knit together

Nevertheless their union proved a bland

And happy one, they came to love each other,

Save for one thing: she never would consent

To let him lie with her, except it be

Once only, when it was her clear intent

To have a child, to leave posterity;

And therefore when she knew that certainly

She had conceived no child from such an act,

She then permitted him his fantasy

Again, but only once; and that is fact.

And when she was with child by him at last

She suffered no more toying at that game

Until the fortieth week was fully past

Then she permitted him to do the same;

And Odenathus, whether wild or tame,

Could get no more of her. She would aver

It was no more than lechery and shame

To woman for a man to play with her.

Two sons she had by Odenathus then,

Whom she brought up in virtue and in learning.

Now let us turn back to our tale again;

I say once more a creature so discerning,

So much esteemed, so lavish and so burning

In warlike zeal, so courteous by her birth,

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You never could have found although returning

From search in all the corners of the earth.

Her splendour of array may not be told,

Whether in clothing or in store of treasure,

For she was clad in jewelry and gold.

In spite of all her hunting she found leisure

For languages and learnt them in full measure

And she applied herself to many, feeling

The study of a book to be a pleasure

That taught the way to power and high dealing.

And briefly to continue with my story,

Her husband was as powerful as she;

They conquered many kingdoms of great glory

Far in the Orient, they held in fee

Cities belonging to the majesty

Of Rome itself, and made their conquests thrive.

They never fled before an enemy

So long as Odenathus was alive.

As for her battles (should you wish for reading)

Against Shapur the King, and more as well,

With all the details of the whole proceeding,

What title won, what captured citadel,

And how at length she came to grief and fell

Besieged, made captive — all that she endured —

Study my master Petrarch, he can tell;

He wrote enough about her, be assured.

When Odenathus died, she mightily

Held all those kingdoms in her sovereign hand,

And was so cruel to her enemy

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There was no king or prince in all the land

But felt that it was a grace enough to stand

In safety and secured from war and riot,

And treated with her, that they might disband;

Let her make wars so long as they had quiet.

And neither Claudius the Emperor

Nor his successor Gallienus ran

The danger of provoking her to war;

No, nor Armenian or Egyptian,

No Syrian either or Arabian

Dared take the field against her in a fight

Lest she should slay them, or her conquering van

Put them in all its multitude to flight.

In royal robe her sons were wont to go,

Heirs of their father's kingdoms, one and all,

Their names Hermanno and Thymalaö,

Or such at least are what the Persians call

The pair. But Fortune's honey turns to gall;

Fortune withdrew her shining countenance

From this great queen and brought about her fall,

And she was plunged in sorrow and mischance.

For when Aurelian came upon the scene

With Rome beneath his government and sway,

He planned a mighty vengeance on the queen,

And, gathering his legions, took his way

Against Zenobia; to be brief, I say,

He routed her, enslaved and brought her home

In fetters with her children, there they lay!

And having conquered, he returned to Rome.

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Amongst the other trophies of the war

There was her golden chariot, richly gemmed;

And great Aurelian, Roman emperor,

Returned with it in glory and condemned

The queen to walk before his Triumph, hemmed

By shouting crowds, gold chains about her throat,

And still, as rank allowed her, diademed,

And there were jewels crusted on her coat.

O alas, Fortune! She that once had been

Terror of kings and of imperial powers,

Jeered at and gaped upon! A noble queen

That oft had worn the helmet through long hours

Of battle, and had taken towns and towers,

Now wears a mob-cap on her royal head;

She that had held a sceptre wreathed with flowers

Carries a distaff in her hand instead!

King Peter of Spain

O noble, worthy Peter, glory of Spain,

Whom fortune held so high in majesty,

How bitterly should we lament thy pain,

Who, by thy brother driven forth to flee,

After a siege wert caught by treachery,

And thus betrayed wert taken to his tent

Where with his own hands he murdered thee

And gained succession to thy throne and rent!

Upon an argent field an eagle sable

Caught on a lime-rod gules (if you can read

This riddle) brewed the treason and was able

— O "wicked nest"! — to do a wicked deed!

No, Oliver of Charlemagne he, to heed

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Honour and truth, but Brittany's mishap,

A Ganelon-Oliver corrupt in greed

It was that brought this King to such a trap!

King Peter of Cyprus

O Peter King of Cyprus, fine and true,

That conqueredst Alexandria by the right

Of arms, and didest woe on heathens too,

(No other cause) against thy chivalrous might

Moved them to murder thee upon the morrow

There, on thy bed! Thus Fortune with a light

Turn of her wheel brings men from joy to sorrow.

Bernabo Visconti of Lombardy

Great Bernabo Visconti of Milan,

God of indulgence, scourge of Lombardy,

Should I not tell of thee, unhappy man,

That scaled the summit of felicity?

Thy brother's son, so doubly bound to thee,

Being thy nephew and thy son-in-law,

Yet in his prison wrought thy misery

And death, but how or why I never saw.

Count Ugolino of Pisa

There is no tongue of pity that has power

To tell Count Ugolino's tragedy.

A little out of Pisa stands a tower;

There in that tower he was imprisoned, he

And all his little children. There were three,

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Of whom the eldest-born was barely five.

O Fortune! It was grievous cruelty

To put such birds in such a cage, alive!

He was condemned to perish in that prison,

For Bisho Ruggieri had framed lies

Against him, and the city folk had risen,

Believing all the Bishop could devise,

And jailed him, as I said, without supplies

Save for some water and a little meat,

But these so scant and poor, you may surmise

That there was scarce enough for them to eat.

And on a certain day when came the hour

At which their food was usually brought,

The jailer shut the opening to the tower.

He heard it well enough, but he said nought;

There came into his heart at once the thought

That they were minded he should starve to death.

"Alas that I was born!" he said, and sought

In vain to check his tears and calm his breath.

His younger son — just three — ah it is cruel

To think of him! — said, "Father dear, why weep?

When will the prison-jailer bring our gruel?

Is there no bread, a morsel, in the keep?

I am so hungry that I cannot sleep.

If only I could sleep till I were dead!

Hunger no more would then have power to creep.

There's nothing I should like so much as bread."

Thus day by day the little child would cry

Till on his father's bosom down he lay,

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And said, "Farewell, dear father, I must die!"

And kissed him; and he died that very day.

Seeing him dead his father could but say,

Biting his arm and crying "Wretched me!

Bitterest Fortune, thou hast had thy way,

Thy false wheel turns against me, as I see!"

The other children thought it must be hunger

That made him bite upon his arm, not pain.

"Ah father, don't, don't do it!" cried the younger,

"But rather eat the flesh upon us twain;

Our flesh you gave us, take it back again

And eat enough!" Thus both the children cried,

But in a day or two, their grief in vain,

They crept into his lap and there they died.

He in despair sat on, and slowly starved.

Thus, mighty once, he met his end in jail;

Fortune foreclosed on his estate and carved

His greatness from him. Of this tragic tale,

Those who wish more, and on a nobler scale,

Should turn and read the great Italian poet

Dante by name; they will not find him fail

In any point or syllable, I know it.

Nero

Though Nero was a vicious man who lusted

As fiercely as a fiend who treads the deep

(Says Suetonius, and he may be trusted),

He ruled the whole wide world: 'twas his to keep.

East, west, north, south, he scoured it o'er to reap

Its rubies, sapphires, pearls of orient white . . .

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And his embroidered garments, heap on heap,

Blazed with them richly; gems were his delight.

A prouder, more fastidious ostentation

Of pomp no emperor has ever shown;

A dress once worn he had no inclination

To see again, would scarcely seem to own.

His many nets of golden mesh were thrown

To fish the Tiber with, just to amuse him.

His pleasure were his laws, he made it known

That there was nothing Fortune could refuse him.

And Rome, to please his palate for sensations,

He burnt; he killed his senators in play,

Just for the fun of hearing lamentations

And shrieks of pain; with his own sister lay;

Murdered his brother; carved his dreadful way

Into his mother's womb, only to know

Where he had been conceived. Alas the day

That ever man should treat his mother so!

Yet at the sight of it he shed no tear

But "A fine woman once, she was," he said.

Wonder it is that he could so appear

To sit in judgement on her beauty dead.

And then he bade a table to be spread

And drank some wine but showed no other grief.

Where power and a cruel heart are wed

How deep the poison, challenging belief!

In youth they gave him an instructor; he

Taught him to read and taught him gentle breeding.

He was the flower of morality

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At that far time, according to my reading.

And for a while he mastered him, succeeding

In putting his intelligence to use

With suppleness and wisdom. Tyranny

And vice in him were not as yet let loose.

This Seneca — the man of who I speak: —

Made Nero fear him, but he went in dread

Of Seneca because he chose to speak

In the rebuke of wickedness instead

Of punishing him. "An emperor," he said,

"Shuns tyranny and follows virtue's path."

So Nero cut his veins for him and bled

The man to death, he killed him in a bath.

It had been Nero's practice, I should judge,

When he was young, to mutiny and rise

Against his master; he could bear a grudge

And killed him for it, so we may surmise.

Nevertheless this Seneca the wise

Preferred to perish thus lest worse disaster

Should overtake him in another guise.

Thus Nero murdered his beloved master.

But as it happened Fortune cared no longer

To cherish Nero in his soaring pride.

Though he was strong enough yet she was stronger

And thus she thought: "By God, I let him ride

Far too indulgently upon the tide

Of vice, and lend the title that protects

An emperor. By heaven, he shall slide

Out of his seat, and when he least expects."

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One night the citizens of Rome revolted

Against his tyrannies and mad ambition

And, when he heard them mutiny, he bolted

Alone and sought his friends for coalition.

The more he knocked and begged them for admission

The more they shut their doors and said him nay.

And then he saw that of his own perdition

He was sole author and he fled away.

The people yelled for him and rumbled round

So that their shouts were dinning in his ear:

"Where is Nero? Where's the tyrant? Treacherous hound!"

He almost went out of his mind for fear.

Pitifully he prayed the gods to hear

And succour [38] him; in vain, they would not shield him.

Distraught and knowing that his end was near,

He ran into a garden that concealed him.

He found two peasants in the garden there

Seated beside a bonfire glowing red

And he approached these peasants with a prayer

To kill him and by smiting off his head

To shield his body after he was dead

From mutilation or a shameful stroke.

And then he slew himself, for all was said.

And Fortune laughed, for she had had her joke.

Holofernes

There never was a captain served a king

Who brought so many countries in subjection

Or one more famous then for everything

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Touching the fields of war and insurrection,

Or more presumptuous by predilection

Than Holofernes. Fortune ever fair

Kissed him and with such a lecherous affection

He lost his head before he was aware.

It was not only that he made a wraith

Of the world's wealth and plundered liberty,

He made his enemies renounce their faith:

"Nebuchadnezzar is your God," said he,

"You shall adore none other that may be!"

There was no city dared stand up to him

Save one that proved a rebel to decree,

Bethulia, and her priest Eliachim.

But watch how Holofernes met his fate;

Drunken amid his host he lay one night

In his enormous barn-like tent of state.

For all his pomp, his majesty and might,

Judith, a woman, had the strength to smite.

Off went his sleepy head and from the tent

She crept away before the morning light

Bearing his head with her, and home she went.

King Antiochus the Illustrious

What need to tell of King Antiochus

Or to describe his royal panoply,

His overweening pride, his venomous

Ill-doing? There was never such as he.

Read what is said of him in Maccabee,

Read those proud words so arrogantly spoken

And why he fell from his felicity

Upon a hill-side festering and broken.

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Fortune indeed had so enhanced his pride

That verily he thought to take his stand

Among the stars themselves or turn aside

To lift and weigh a mountain in his hand

Or warn the flood of ocean from the land.

But it was God's own people he most hated

And slew by torture, steel and firebrand.

He thought his pride could never be abated.

Because Nicanor once and Timothy

Had by the Jews been mightily defeated

His hatred swelled for Israel. Hastily

He made his chariot ready and when seated

He vowed and swore that they should all be treated

To something of his spite, that they should rue it;

Jerusalem he said should be deleted.

He was prevented ere he came to do it.

God smote him for these menacing recitals

With an invisible and cureless blain

That carved his guts and bit into his vitals.

Afflicted with intolerable pain

He yet had little reason to complain;

It was a just revenge, for he had often

Carved out the guts of other men to gain

His ends; their tortures did not make him soften.

He gave the word to summon all his hosts

When suddenly, before he was aware,

God daunted his presumption and his boasts,

And down he fell out of his chariot there.

It tore his limbs and flesh, the bone lay bare;

No longer could he either walk or ride

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But only could he be carried in a chair

All bruised and lacerated, back and side.

The vengeance of the Lord smote cruelly;

Pestilent worms within his body crept

So that he stank, and stank so horribly,

Not one of all the servants that he kept

To guard him when awake or when he slept

Could bear the stench or look upon his features.

And in this agony he wailed and wept

And knew that God was lord of all his creatures.

To all his host and to himself no less

The carrion stench that rose from every vent

Was unendurable in loathsomeness;

They could not carry him. In redolent

And agonizing pain within his tent

Upon a hill this thief and homicide

Who made so many suffer and lament

Wretchedly perished, the reward of pride.

Alexander

The story of Alexander is so famous

That it is known to everyone at least

In part, unless he be an ignoramus.

He conquered the wide world from west to east

By force of arms, and as his fame increased

Men gladly sued to have him for their friend.

He brought to naught the pride of man and beast

Wherever he came, as far as the world's end.

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And never can comparison be made

Of him with any other; at his face

Kingdoms would quake, the whole world was afraid.

He was the flower of knighthood and of grace,

The heir of Fortune and in nothing base;

Save wine and women there was naught could part

Him from his high designs or take their place,

He was a main so leonine of heart.

What praise were it to him though I should tell

Of great Darius and a thousand more

Kings, princes, generals, dukes, and earls as well

Conquered by him and brought to grief in war?

As far as men may ride from shore to shore

Of the wide world, the world was his to hold.

Though I should speak for ever on the score

Of knightly honour, his could not be told.

Twelve years he reigned, so say the Maccabees,

And was king Philip's son, of Macedon,

First to be king over the land of Greece.

Alas that Alexander, such a son,

So gentle, so magnanimous, were one

To die by poison from the men he kept!

But Fortune threw him aces for the run

Of sixes thrown before. She little wept.

Who then will give me tears that I may plain

The death of greatness that was never rough,

Of generous feeling that had held domain

Over the world and thought it not enough?

His was a spirit brimming with the stuff

Of high design. Ah, help me to speak shame

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Of poisoners and of the foul rebuff

Of fickle Fortune, whom alone I blame.

Julius Caesar

By wisdom, manhood and the works of war

From humble bed to royal majesty

Arose great Julius Caesar, conqueror,

Who won the occident by land and sea

By strength of arms or by diplomacy

And made of each a Roman tributary

And last was emperor himself till he

Was picked by Fortune for her adversary.

O Caesar that in Thessaly excelled

Against your father-in-law great Pompey's sway,

The whole of orient chivalry was held

In whose command, far as the dawn of day!

Your valour was enough to take and slay

All but a few that fled with him, your spell

Held the whole east in terror and dismay.

Give thanks to Fortune for she served you well!

Yet for a little while I will bewail

This is Pompey's fate, the noble governor

Of Rome who fled the battle, for the tale

Tells of a man of his, a perjurer,

Who smote his head off, for he hoped to stir

Some gratitude in Caesar, so he brought

The head to him. O Pompey, Justicer

Of all the east, alas that thou wert caught!

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To Rome once more this Julius turned, to don

The laurel-wreath, triumphant and elate.

But Brutus Cassius as time went on,

One that had ever envied his estate,

Made a conspiracy in subtle hate

Against this Julius, gave the treacherous vow,

And chose the place where he should meet his fate

By dagger-thrust, and I shall tell you how.

Up to the Capitol this Julius went

A certain day as he was wont to do.

There he was taken by the malcontent

False-hearted Brutus and his scheming crew,

They stabbed him there with daggers through and through,

Many the wounds, and there they let him die.

After one dagger-stroke or maybe two

He never groaned, unless the stories lie.

He was a soldier with a manly heart;

So dear to him was honest decency

That deeply as he felt his gashes smart

He sought to shroud his person, casting free

His cloak about his hips and privity,

And in the trance of dying, though he knew

It was his death, he held in memory

The things of seemliness and order due.

I recommend you Lucan for this story

And Suetonius and Valerius too.

They write of these two conquerors in their glory

And in their end, how both of them once knew

Fortune to be their friend, and how she grew

To be their foe. No man may trust her long,

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Beware of her in everything you do

And think of these great leaders, once so strong.

Croesus

Rich Croesus, King of Lydia long ago,

Whom even Persian Cyrus held in dread

Was yet cut short in all his pride and show

And led out to be burnt; but as they led

Him to the stake such rain from overhead

Came down it quenched the fire and he escaped.

He failed to take the warning, be it said;

Fate kept him for the gallows, where he gaped.

For having thus evaded death by fire

Nothing would stop him making war again.

He thought that Fortune meant to raise him higher,

After his luck in being saved by rain,

And he presumed he never could be slain.

Moreover being favoured by a vision

That cockered up his heart, he felt so vain

He set himself to vengeance and derision.

He dreamt that he was perching in a tree

With Jupiter to wash him, back and side,

With Phoebus, with a towel fair to see,

Was drying him. This was what swelled his pride.

He told his daughter who was at his side,

Knowing her versed in mysteries, it would seem,

And asked her what the vision signified.

And thus she started to expound his dream:

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"This tree," she told him, "signifies a gibbet

And Jupiter betokens snow and rain,

While Phoebus with his towel must exhibit

The streaming sun, to dry you off again.

You will be hanged, my father, that is plain;

The rain shall wash you and the sun shall bake."

And thus his daughter warned him, but in vain;

Her name Phanýa, if I not mistake.

Hanged, then, was Croesus, this tremendous king;

His royal sceptre was of no avail.

Tragedy is no other kind of thing

Nor tunes her song save only to bewail

How Fortune, ever fickle, will assail

With sudden stroke the kingdoms of the proud,

And when men trust in her she then will fail

And cover her bright face as with a cloud . . .

Source

Geoffrey Chaucer, "The Monk's Tale," in The Canterbury Tales, trans. Neville Coghill (London: Penguin, 1977),

189-230.

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