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Fragment I (Group A)
GENERAL PROLOGUE
W hen the sweet showers of April have pierced
The drought of March, and pierced it to the root,
And every vein is bathed in that moisture
Whose quickening force will engender the f ower
And when the west wind too with its sweet breath
Has given life in every wood and f eld
To tender shoots, and when the stripling sun
Has run his half-course in Aries, the Ram,
And when small birds are making melodies,
That sleep all the night long with open eyes,
(Nature so prompts them, and encourages);
Then people long to go on pilgrimages,
And palmers* to take ship for foreign shores, And distant shrines, famous in dif erent lands;
And most especially, from all the shires
Of England, to Canterbury they come,
The holy blessed martyr* there to seek, Who gave his help to them when they were sick.
It happened at this season, that one day
In Southwark at the Tabard* where I stayed Ready to set out on my pilgrimage
To Canterbury, and pay devout homage,
There came at nightfall to the hostelry
Some nine-and-twenty in a company,
Folk of all kinds, met in accidental
Companionship, for they were pilgrims all;
It was to Canterbury that they rode.
The bedrooms and the stables were good-sized,
The comforts ofered us were of the best.
And by the time the sun had gone to rest
I’d talked with everyone, and soon became
One of their company, and promised them
To rise at dawn next day to take the road
Chaucer, G. (1986). Canterbury tales. Oxford University Press. Created from gmcollege on 2021-11-10 15:52:13.
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4 general prologue
For the journey I am telling you about.
But, before I go further with this tale,
And while I can, it seems reasonable
That I should let you have a full description
Of each of them, their sort and condition,
At any rate as they appeared to me;
Tell who they were, their status and profession,
What they looked like, what kind of clothes they dressed in;
And with a knight, then, I shall f rst begin.
There was a Knight,* a reputable man, Who from the moment that he f rst began
Campaigning, had cherished the profession
Of arms; he also prized trustworthiness,
Liberality, fame, and courteousness.
In the king’s service he’d fought valiantly,
And travelled far; no man as far as he
In Christian and in heathen lands as well,
And ever honoured for his ability.
He was at Alexandria when it fell,
Often he took the highest place at table
Over the other foreign knights in Prussia;
He’d raided in Lithuania and Russia,
No Christian of his rank fought there more often.
Also he’d been in Granada, at the siege
Of Algeciras; forayed in Benmarin;
At Ayas and Adalia he had been
When they were taken; and with the great hosts
Freebooting on the Mediterranean coasts;
Fought ffteen mortal combats; thrice as champion
In tournaments, he at Tramassene
Fought for our faith, and each time killed his man.
This worthy knight had also, for a time,
Taken service in Palatia for the Bey,
Against another heathen in Turkey;
And almost beyond price was his prestige.
Though eminent, he was prudent and sage,
And in his bearing mild as any maid.
He’d never been foul-spoken in his life
To any kind of man; he was indeed
The very pattern of a noble knight.
Chaucer, G. (1986). Canterbury tales. Oxford University Press. Created from gmcollege on 2021-11-10 15:52:13.
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5 general prologue
But as for his appearance and outf t,
He had good horses, yet was far from smart.
He wore a tunic made of coarse thick stuf ,
Marked by his chainmail, all begrimed with rust,
Having just returned from an expedition,
And on his pilgrimage of thanksgiving.
With him there was his son, a young Squire,* A lively knight-apprentice, and a lover,
With hair as curly as if newly waved;
I took him to be twenty years of age.
In stature he was of an average length,
Wonderfully athletic, and of great strength.
He’d taken part in cavalry forays
In Flanders, in Artois, and Picardy,
With credit, though no more than a novice,
Hoping to stand well in his lady’s eyes.
His clothes were all embroidered like a f eld
Full of the freshest fowers, white and red.
He sang, or played the fute, the livelong day,
And he was fresher than the month of May.
Short was his gown, with sleeves cut long and wide.
He’d a good seat on horseback, and could ride,
Make music too, and songs to go with it;
Could joust and dance, and also draw and write.
So burningly he loved, that come nightfall
He’d sleep no more than any nightingale.
Polite, modest, willing to serve, and able,
He carved before his father at their table.
The Knight had just one servant, a Yeoman,* For so he wished to ride, on this occasion.
The man was clad in coat and hood of green.
He carried under his belt, handily,
For he looked to his gear in yeoman fashion,
A sheaf of peacock arrows, sharp and shining,
Not liable to fall short from poor feathering;
And in his hand he bore a mighty bow.
He had a cropped head, and his face was brown;
Of woodcraft he knew all there was to know.
He wore a fancy leather guard, a bracer,
And by his side a sword and a rough buckler,
Chaucer, G. (1986). Canterbury tales. Oxford University Press. Created from gmcollege on 2021-11-10 15:52:13.
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And on the other side a fancy dagger,
Well-mounted, sharper than the point of spear,
And on his breast a medal: St Christopher,
The woodman’s patron saint, in polished silver.
He bore a horn slung from a cord of green,
And my guess is, he was a forester.
There was also a nun, a Prioress,* Whose smile was unafected and demure;
Her greatest oath was just, ‘By St Eloi!’* And she was known as Madame Eglantine.
She sang the divine service prettily,
And through the nose, becomingly intoned;
And she spoke French well and elegantly
As she’d been taught it at Stratford-at-Bow,* For French of Paris was to her unknown.
Good table manners she had learnt as well:
She never let a crumb from her mouth fall;
She never soiled her fngers, dipping deep
Into the sauce; when lifting to her lips
Some morsel, she was careful not to spill
So much as one small drop upon her breast.
Her greatest pleasure was in etiquette.
She used to wipe her upper lip so clean,
No print of grease inside her cup was seen,
Not the least speck, when she had drunk from it.
Most daintily she’d reach for what she ate.
No question, she possessed the greatest charm,
Her demeanour was so pleasant, and so warm;
Though at pains to ape the manners of the court,
And be dignifed, in order to be thought
A person well deserving of esteem.
But, speaking of her sensibility,
She was so full of charity and pity
That if she saw a mouse caught in a trap,
And it was dead or bleeding, she would weep.
She kept some little dogs, and these she fed
On roast meat, or on milk and f ne white bread.
But how she’d weep if one of them were dead,
Or if somebody took a stick to it!
She was all sensitivity and tender heart.
Chaucer, G. (1986). Canterbury tales. Oxford University Press. Created from gmcollege on 2021-11-10 15:52:13.
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7 general prologue
Her veil was pleated most becomingly;
Her nose well-shaped; eyes blue-grey, of great beauty;
And her mouth tender, very small, and red.
And there’s no doubt she had a f ne forehead,
Almost a span in breadth, I’d swear it was,
For certainly she was not undersized.
Her cloak, I noticed, was most elegant.
A coral rosary with gauds* of green She carried on her arm; and from it hung
A brooch of shining gold; inscribed thereon
Was, frst of all, a crowned ‘A’,
And under, Amor vincit omnia.* With her were three priests,* and another Nun,
Who was her chaplain and companion.
There was a Monk;* a nonpareil was he, Who rode, as steward of his monastery,
The country round; a lover of good sport,
A manly man, and ft to be an abbot.
He’d plenty of good horses in his stable,
And when he went out riding, you could hear
His bridle jingle in the wind, as clear
And loud as the monastery chapel-bell.
Inasmuch as he was keeper of the cell,
The rule of St Maurus or St Benedict
Being out of date, and also somewhat strict,
This monk I speak of let old precepts slide,
And took the modern practice as his guide.
He didn’t give so much as a plucked hen
For the maxim, ‘Hunters are not pious men’,
Or ‘A monk who’s heedless of his regimen
Is much the same as a fsh out of water’,
In other words, a monk out of his cloister.
But that’s a text he thought not worth an oyster;* And I remarked his opinion was sound.
What use to study, why go round the bend
With poring over some book in a cloister,
Or drudging with his hands, to toil and labour
As Augustine* bids? How shall the world go on? You can go keep your labour, Augustine!
So he rode hard—no question about that—
Chaucer, G. (1986). Canterbury tales. Oxford University Press. Created from gmcollege on 2021-11-10 15:52:13.
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8 general prologue
Kept greyhounds swifter than a bird in f ight.
Hard riding, and the hunting of the hare,
Were what he loved, and opened his purse for.
I noticed that his sleeves were edged and trimmed
With squirrel fur, the fnest in the land.
For fastening his hood beneath his chin,
He wore an elaborate golden pin,
Twined with a love-knot at the larger end.
His head was bald and glistening like glass
As if anointed; and likewise his face.
A fne fat patrician, in prime condition,
His bright and restless eyes danced in his head,
And sparkled like the fre beneath a pot;
Boots of soft leather, horse in perfect trim:
No question but he was a f ne prelate!
Not pale and wan like some tormented spirit.
A fat roast swan was what he loved the best.
His saddle-horse was brown as any berry.
There was a begging Friar,* a genial merry Limiter,* and a most imposing person. In all of the four Orders there was none
So versed in small talk and in f attery:
And many was the marriage in a hurry
He’d had to improvise and even pay for.
He was a noble pillar of his Order,
And was well in and intimate with every
Well-to-do freeman farmer of his area,
And with the well-of women in the town;
For he was qualifed to hear confession,
And absolve graver sins than a curate,
Or so he said; he was a licentiate.* How sweetly he would hear confession!
How pleasant was his absolution!
He was an easy man in giving shrift,
When sure of getting a substantial gift:
For, as he used to say, generous giving
To a poor Order is a sign you’re shriven;
For if you gave, then he could vouch for it
That you were conscience-stricken and contrite;
For many are so hardened in their hearts
Chaucer, G. (1986). Canterbury tales. Oxford University Press. Created from gmcollege on 2021-11-10 15:52:13.
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9 general prologue
They cannot weep, though burning with remorse
Therefore, instead of weeping and prayers,
They should give money to the needy friars.* The pockets of his hood were stuf ed with knives
And pins to give away to pretty wives.
He had a pleasant singing voice, for sure,
Could sing and play the f ddle beautifully;
He took the biscuit as a ballad-singer,
And though his neck was whiter than a lily,
Yet he was brawny as a prize-f ghter.
He knew the taverns well in every town,
And all the barmaids and the innkeepers,
Better than lepers or the street-beggars;
It wouldn’t do, for one in his position,
One of his ability and distinction,
To hold acquaintance with diseased lepers.
It isn’t seemly, and it gets you nowhere,
To have any dealings with that sort of trash,
Stick to provision-merchants and the rich!
And anywhere where proft might arise
He’d crawl with courteous ofers of service.
You’d nowhere fnd an abler man than he,
Or a better beggar in his friary;
He paid a yearly fee for his district,
No brother friar trespassed on his beat.
A widow might not even own a shoe,
But so pleasant was his In principio* He’d win her farthing in the end, then go.
He made his biggest profts on the side.
He’d frolic like a puppy. He’d give aid
As arbitrator upon settling-days,
For there he was not like some cloisterer
With threadbare cape, like any poor scholar,
But like a Master of Arts, or the Pope!
Of the best double-worsted was his cloak,
And bulging like a bell that’s newly cast.
He lisped a little, from af ectation,
To make his English sweet upon his tongue;
And when he harped, as closing to a song,
His eyes would twinkle in his head just like
Chaucer, G. (1986). Canterbury tales. Oxford University Press. Created from gmcollege on 2021-11-10 15:52:13.
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10 general prologue
The stars upon a sharp and frosty night.
This worthy limiter was called Hubert.
A Merchant was there, on a high-saddled horse:
He’d a forked beard, a many-coloured dress,
And on his head a Flanders beaver hat,
Boots with expensive clasps, and buckled neatly.
He gave out his opinions pompously,
Kept talking of the profts that he’d made,
How, at all costs, the sea should be policed
From Middleburg in Holland to Harwich.
At money-changing he was an expert;
He dealt in French gold forins on the quiet.
This worthy citizen could use his head:
No one could tell whether he was in debt,
So impressive and dignifed his bearing
As he went about his loans and bargaining.
He was a really estimable man,
But the fact is I never learnt his name.
There was a Clerk* from Oxford as well, Not yet an MA, reading Logic still;
The horse he rode was leaner than a rake,
And he himself, believe me, none too fat,
But hollow-cheeked, and grave and serious.
Threadbare indeed was his short overcoat:
A man too unworldly for lay of ce,
Yet he’d not got himself a benef ce.
For he’d much rather have at his bedside
A library, bound in black calf or red,
Of Aristotle and his philosophy,
Than rich apparel, fddle, or f ne psaltery.
And though he was a man of science, yet
He had but little gold in his strongbox;
But upon books and learning he would spend
All he was able to obtain from friends;
He’d pray assiduously for their souls,
Who gave him wherewith to attend the schools.
Learning was all he cared for or would heed.
He never spoke a word more than was need,
And that was said in form and decorum,
And brief and terse, and full of deepest meaning.
Chaucer, G. (1986). Canterbury tales. Oxford University Press. Created from gmcollege on 2021-11-10 15:52:13.
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11 general prologue
Moral virtue was refected in his speech,
And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach.
There was a wise and wary Sergeant-at-La ,
A well-known f gure in the portico
Where lawyers meet; one of great excellence,
Judicious, worthy of reverence,
Or so he seemed, his sayings were so wise.
He’d often acted as Judge of Assize
By the king’s letters patent, authorized
To hear all cases. And his great renown
And skill had won him many a fee, or gown
Given in lieu of money. There was none
To touch him as a property-buyer; all
He bought was fee-simple, without entail;* You’d never fnd a faw in the conveyance.
And nowhere would you fnd a busier man;
And yet he seemed much busier than he was.
From yearbooks he could quote, chapter and verse,
Each case and judgement since William the First.
And he knew how to draw up and compose
A deed; you couldn’t fault a thing he wrote;
And he’d reel all the statutes of by rote.
He was dressed simply, in a coloured coat,
Girt by a silk belt with thin metal bands.
I have no more to tell of his appearance.
A Franklin*—that’s a country gentleman And freeman landowner—was his companion.
White was his beard, as white as any daisy;
Sanguine his temperament; his face ruddy.
He loved his morning draught of sops-in-wine,
Since living well was ever his custom,
For he was Epicurus’ own true son
And held with him that sensuality
Is where the only happiness is found.
And he kept open house so lavishly
He was St Julian to the country round,
The patron saint of hospitality.
His bread and ale were always of the best,
Like his wine-cellar, which was unsurpassed.
Cooked food was never lacking in his house,
Chaucer, G. (1986). Canterbury tales. Oxford University Press. Created from gmcollege on 2021-11-10 15:52:13.
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12 general prologue
Both meat and fsh, and that so plenteous
That in his home it snowed with food and drink,
And all the delicacies you could think.
According to the season of the year,
He changed the dishes that were served at dinner.
He’d plenty of fat partridges in coop,
And kept his fshpond full of pike and carp.
His cook would catch it if his sauces weren’t
Piquant and sharp, and all his equipment
To hand. And all day in his hall there stood
The great fxed table, with the places laid.
When the justices met, he’d take the chair;
He often served as MP for the shire.
A dagger, and a small purse made of silk,
Hung at his girdle, white as morning milk.
He’d been sherif, and county auditor:
A model squireen, no man worthier.
A Haberdasher and a Carpenter,
A Weaver, Dyer, Tapestry-Maker*— And they were in the uniform livery
Of a dignifed and rich fraternity,
A parish-guild: their gear all trim and fresh,
Knives silver-mounted, none of your cheap brass;
Their belts and purses neatly stitched as well,
All f nely fnished to the last detail.
Each of them looked indeed like a burgess,
And ft to sit on any guildhall dais.
Each was, in knowledge and ability,
Eligible to be an alderman;
For they’d income enough and property.
What’s more, their wives would certainly agree,
Or otherwise they’d surely be to blame—
It’s very pleasant to be called ‘Madam’
And to take precedence at church processions,
And have one’s mantle carried like a queen’s.
They had a Cook* with them for the occasion, To boil the chickens up with marrowbones,
Tart powdered f avouring, spiced with galingale.
No better judge than he of London ale.
And he could roast, and seethe, and boil, and fry,
Chaucer, G. (1986). Canterbury tales. Oxford University Press. Created from gmcollege on 2021-11-10 15:52:13.
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13 general prologue
Make a thick soup, and bake a proper pie;
But to my mind it was the greatest shame
He’d got an open sore upon his shin;
For he made chicken-pudding with the best.
A Shipman, whose home was in the west,
Was there—a Dartmouth man, for all I know.
He rode a cob as well as he knew how,
And was dressed in a knee-length woollen gown.
From a lanyard round his neck, a dagger hung
Under his arm. Summer had tanned him brown.
As rough a diamond as you’d hope to f nd,
He’d tapped and lifted many a stoup of wine
From Bordeaux, when the merchant wasn’t looking.
He hadn’t time for scruples or f ne feeling,
For if he fought, and got the upper hand,
He’d send his captives home by sea, not land.
But as for seamanship, and calculation
Of moon, tides, currents, all hazards at sea,
For harbour-lore, and skill in navigation,
From Hull to Carthage there was none to touch him.
He was shrewd adventurer, tough and hardy.
By many a tempest had his beard been shaken.
And he knew all the harbours that there were
Between the Baltic and Cape Finisterre,
And each inlet of Brittany and Spain.
The ship he sailed was called ‘The Magdalen’.
With us there was a doctor, a Physician;
Nowhere in all the world was one to match him
Where medicine was concerned, or surgery;
Being well grounded in astrology
He’d watch his patient with the utmost care
Until he’d found a favourable hour,
By means of astrology, to give treatment.
Skilled to pick out the astrologic moment
For charms and talismans to aid the patient,
He knew the cause of every malady,
If it were ‘hot’ or ‘cold’ or ‘moist’ or ‘dry’,
And where it came from, and from which humour.* He was a really f ne practitioner.
Knowing the cause, and having found its root,
Chaucer, G. (1986). Canterbury tales. Oxford University Press. Created from gmcollege on 2021-11-10 15:52:13.
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14 general prologue
He’d soon give the sick man an antidote.
Ever at hand he had apothecaries
To send him syrups, drugs, and remedies,
For each put money in the other’s pocket—
Theirs was no newly founded partnership.
Well-read was he in Aesculapius,
In Dioscorides, and in Rufus,
Ancient Hippocrates, Hali, and Galen,
Avicenna, Rhazes, and Serapion,
Averroës, Damascenus, Constantine,
Bernard, and Gilbertus, and Gaddesden.* In his own diet he was temperate,
For it was nothing if not moderate,
Though most nutritious and digestible.
He didn’t do much reading in the Bible.
He was dressed all in Persian blue and scarlet
Lined with tafeta and f ne sarsenet,
And yet was very chary of expense.
He put by all he earned from pestilence;
In medicine gold is the best cordial.
So it was gold that he loved best of all.
There was a Wife, from near Bath,
But, more’s the pity, she was a bit deaf;
So skilled a clothmaker, that she outdistanced
Even the weavers of Ypres and Ghent.
In the whole parish there was not a woman
Who dared precede her at the almsgiving,
And if there did, so furious was she,
That she was put out of all charity.
Her headkerchiefs were of the f nest weave,
Ten pounds and more they weighed, I do believe,
Those that she wore on Sundays on her head.
Her stockings were of fnest scarlet red,
Very tightly laced; shoes pliable and new.
Bold was her face, and handsome; f orid too.
She had been respectable all her life,
And fve times married, that’s to say in church,
Not counting other loves she’d had in youth,
Of whom, just now, there is no need to speak.
And she had thrice been to Jerusalem;
Chaucer, G. (1986). Canterbury tales. Oxford University Press. Created from gmcollege on 2021-11-10 15:52:13.
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15 general prologue
Had wandered over many a foreign stream;
And she had been at Rome, and at Boulogne,
St James of Compostella,* and Cologne; She knew all about wandering—and straying:
For she was gap-toothed, if you take my meaning.
Comfortably on an ambling horse she sat,
Well-wimpled, wearing on her head a hat
That might have been a shield in size and shape;
A riding-skirt round her enormous hips,
Also a pair of sharp spurs on her feet.
In company, how she could laugh and joke!
No doubt she knew of all the cures for love,
For at that game she was a past mistress.
And there was a good man, a religious.
He was the needy Parson* of a village, But rich enough in saintly thought and work.
And educated, too, for he could read;
Would truly preach the word of Jesus Christ,
Devoutly teach the folk in his parish.
Kind was he, wonderfully diligent;
And in adversity most patient,
As many a time had been put to the test.
For unpaid tithes he’d not excommunicate,
For he would rather give, you may be sure,
From his own pocket to the parish poor;
Few were his needs, so frugally he lived.
Wide was his parish, with houses far asunder,
But he would not neglect, come rain or thunder,
Come sickness or adversity, to call
On the furthest of his parish, great or small;
Going on foot, and in his hand a staf .
This was the good example that he set:
He practised frst what later he would teach.
Out of the gospel he took that precept;
And what’s more, he would cite this saying too:
‘If gold can rust, then what will iron do?’
For if a priest be rotten, whom we trust,
No wonder if a layman comes to rust.
It’s shame to see (let every priest take note)
A shitten shepherd and a cleanly sheep.
Chaucer, G. (1986). Canterbury tales. Oxford University Press. Created from gmcollege on 2021-11-10 15:52:13.
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16 general prologue
It’s the plain duty of a priest to give
Example to his sheep; how they should live.
He never let his benefce for hire
And left his sheep to founder in the mire
While he ran of to London, to St Paul’s
To seek some chantry and sing mass for souls,
Or to be kept as chaplain by a guild;
But stayed at home, and took care of his fold,
So that no wolf might do it injury.
He was a shepherd, not a mercenary.
And although he was saintly and virtuous,
He wasn’t haughty or contemptuous
To sinners, speaking to them with disdain,
But in his teaching tactful and humane.
To draw up folk to heaven by goodness
And good example, was his sole business.
But if a person turned out obstinate,
Whoever he was, of high or low estate,
He’d earn a stinging rebuke then and there.
You’ll never fnd a better priest, I’ll swear.
He never looked for pomp or deference,
Nor afected an over-nice conscience,
But taught the gospel of Christ and His twelve
Apostles; but frst followed it himself.
With him there was his brother, a Ploughman,* Who’d fetched and carried many a load of dung;
A good and faithful labourer was he,
Living in peace and perfect charity.
God he loved best, and that with all his heart,
At all times, good and bad, no matter what;
And next he loved his neighbour as himself.
He’d thresh, and ditch, and also dig and delve,
And for Christ’s love would do as much again
If he could manage it, for all poor men,
And ask no hire. He paid his tithes in full,
On what he earned and on his goods as well.
He wore a smock, and rode upon a mare.
There was a Reeve as well, also a Miller,
A Pardoner and a Summoner,
A Manciple, and myself—there were no more.
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The Miller was a burly fellow—brawn
And muscle, big of bones as well as strong,
As was well seen—he always won the ram
At wrestling-matches up and down the land.
He was barrel-chested, rugged and thickset,
And would heave of its hinges any door
Or break it, running at it with his head.
His beard was red as any fox or sow,
And wide at that, as though it were a spade.
And on his nose, right on its tip, he had
A wart, upon which stood a tuft of hairs
Red as the bristles are in a sow’s ears.
Black were his nostrils; black and squat and wide.
He bore a sword and buckler by his side.
His big mouth was as big as a furnace.
A loudmouth and a teller of blue stories
(Most of them vicious or scurrilous),
Well versed in stealing corn and trebling dues,
He had a golden thumb—by God he had!
A white coat he had on, and a blue hood.
He played the bagpipes well, and blew a tune,
And to its music brought us out of town.
A worthy Manciple* of the Middle Temple Was there; he might have served as an example
To all provision-buyers for his thrift
In making purchase, whether on credit
Or for cash down: he kept an eye on prices,
So always got in frst and did good business.
Now isn’t it an instance of God’s grace,
Such an unlettered man should so outpace
The wisdom of a pack of learned men?
He’d more than thirty masters over him,
All of them profcient experts in law,
More than a dozen of them with the power
To manage rents and land for any peer
So that—unless the man were of his head—
He could live honourably, free of debt,
Or sparingly, if that were his desire;
And able to look after a whole shire
In whatever emergency might befall;
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18 general prologue
And yet this manciple could hoodwink them all.
There was a Reeve,* a thin and bilious man; His beard he shaved as close as a man can;
Around his ears he kept his hair cropped short
Just like a priest’s, docked in front and on top.
His legs were very long, and very lean,
And like a stick; no calf was to be seen.
His granary and bins were ably kept;
There was no auditor could trip him up.
He could foretell, by noting drought and rain,
The likely harvest from his seed and grain.
His master’s cattle, dairy, cows, and sheep,
His pigs and horses, poultry and livestock,
Were wholly under this reeve’s governance.
And, as was laid down in his covenant,
Of these he’d always rendered an account
Ever since his master reached his twentieth year.
No man could ever catch him in arrears.
He was up to every fddle, every dodge
Of every herdsman, bailif, or farm-lad.
All of them feared him as they feared the plague.
His dwelling was well placed upon a heath,
Set with green trees that overshadowed it.
At business he was better than his lord:
He’d got his nest well-feathered, on the side,
For he was cunning enough to get round
His lord by lending him what was his own,
And so earn thanks, besides a coat and hood.
As a young man he’d learned a useful trade
As a skilled artisan, a carpenter.
The Reeve rode on a sturdy farmer’s cob
That was called Scot: it was a dapple grey.
He had on a long blue-grey overcoat,
And carried by his side a rusty sword.
A Norfolk man was he of whom I tell,
From near a place that they call Bawdeswell.
Tucked round him like a friar’s was his coat;
He always rode the hindmost of our troop.
A Summoner* was among us at the inn, Whose face was fre-red, like the cherubim;
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19 general prologue
All covered with carbuncles; his eyes narrow;
He was as hot and randy as a sparrow.
He’d scabbed black eyebrows, and a scraggy beard,
No wonder if the children were afraid!
There was no mercury, white lead, or sulphur,
No borax, no ceruse, no cream of tartar,
Nor any other salves that cleanse and burn,
Could help with the white pustules on his skin,
Or with the knobbed carbuncles on his cheeks.
He’d a great love of garlic, onions, leeks,
Also for drinking strong wine, red as blood,
When he would roar and gabble as if mad.
And once he had got really drunk on wine,
Then he would speak no language but Latin.
He’d picked up a few tags, some two or three,
Which he’d learned from some edict or decree—
No wonder, for he heard them every day.
Also, as everybody knows, a jay
Can call out ‘Wat’ as well as the Pope can.
But if you tried him further with a question,
You’d fnd his well of learning had run dry;
‘Questio quid iuris’* was all he’d ever say. A most engaging rascal, and a kind,
As good a fellow as you’d hope to f nd:
For he’d allow—given a quart of wine—
A scallywag to keep his concubine
A twelvemonth, and excuse him altogether.
He’d dip his wick, too, very much sub rosa.
And if he found some fellow with a woman,
He’d tell him not to fear excommunication
If he were caught, or the archdeacon’s curse,
Unless the fellow’s soul was in his purse,
For it’s his purse must pay the penalty.
‘Your purse is the archdeacon’s Hell,’ said he.
Take it from me, the man lied in his teeth:
Let sinners fear, for that curse is damnation,
Just as their souls are saved by absolution.
Let them beware, too, of a ‘Signif cavit’.* Under his thumb, to deal with as he pleased,
Were the young people of his diocese;
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20 general prologue
He was their sole adviser and conf dant.
Upon his head he sported a garland
As big as any hung outside a pub,
And, for a shield, he’d a round loaf of bread.
With him there was a peerless Pardoner* Of Charing Cross, his friend and his confrère,
Who’d come straight from the Vatican in Rome.
Loudly he sang, ‘Come to me, love, come hither!’
The Summoner sang the bass, a loud refrain;
No trumpet ever made one half the din.
This pardon-seller’s hair was yellow as wax,
And sleekly hanging, like a hank of f ax.
In meagre clusters hung what hair he had;
Over his shoulders a few strands were spread,
But they lay thin, in rat’s tails, one by one.
As for a hood, for comfort he wore none,
For it was stowed away in his knapsack.
Save for a cap, he rode with head all bare,
Hair loose; he thought it was the dernier cri.
He had big bulging eyes, just like a hare.
He’d sewn a veronica* on his cap. His knapsack lay before him, on his lap,
Chockful of pardons, all come hot from Rome.
His voice was like a goat’s, plaintive and thin.
He had no beard, nor was he like to have;
Smooth was his face, as if he had just shaved.
I took him for a gelding or a mare.* As for his trade, from Berwick down to Ware
You’d not fnd such another pardon-seller.
For in his bag he had a pillowcase
Which had been, so he said, Our Lady’s veil;
He said he had a snippet of the sail
St Peter had, that time he walked upon
The sea, and Jesus Christ caught hold of him.
And he’d a brass cross, set with pebble-stones,
And a glass reliquary of pigs’ bones.
But with these relics, when he came upon
Some poor up-country priest or backwoods parson,
In just one day he’d pick up far more money
Than any parish priest was like to see
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21 general prologue
In two whole months. With double-talk and tricks
He made the people and the priest his dupes.
But to speak truth and do the fellow justice,
In church he made a splendid ecclesiastic.
He’d read a lesson, or saint’s history,
But best of all he sang the of ertory:
For, knowing well that when that hymn was sung,
He’d have to preach and polish smooth his tongue
To raise—as only he knew how—the wind,
The louder and the merrier he would sing.
And now I’ve told you truly and concisely
The rank, and dress, and number of us all,
And why we gathered in a company
In Southwark, at that noble hostelry
Known as the Tabard, that’s hard by the Bell.
But now the time has come for me to tell
What passed among us, what was said and done
The night of our arrival at the inn;
And afterwards I’ll tell you how we journeyed,
And all the remainder of our pilgrimage.
But frst I beg you, not to put it down
To my ill-breeding if my speech be plain
When telling what they looked like, what they said,
Or if I use the exact words they used.
For, as you all must know as well as I,
To tell a tale told by another man
You must repeat as nearly as you can
Each word, if that’s the task you’ve undertaken,
However coarse or broad his language is;
Or, in the telling, you’ll have to distort it
Or make things up, or fnd new words for it.
You can’t hold back, even if he’s your brother:
Whatever word is used, you must use also.
Christ Himself spoke out plain in Holy Writ,
And well you know there’s nothing wrong with that.
Plato, as those who read him know, has said,
‘The word must be related to the deed.’
Also I beg you to forgive it me
If I overlooked all standing and degree
As regards the order in which people come
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22 general prologue
Here in this tally, as I set them down:
My wits are none too bright, as you can see.
Our Host gave each and all a warm welcome,
And set us down to supper there and then.
The eatables he served were of the best;
Strong was the wine; we matched it with our thirst.
A handsome man our Host, handsome indeed,
And a ft master of ceremonies.
He was a big man with protruding eyes
—You’ll fnd no better burgess in Cheapside—
Racy in talk, well-schooled and shrewd was he;
Also a proper man in every way.
And moreover he was a right good sort,
And after supper he began to joke,
And, when we had all paid our reckonings,
He spoke of pleasure, among other things:
‘Truly,’ said he, ‘ladies and gentlemen,
Here you are all most heartily welcome.
Upon my word—I’m telling you no lie—
All year I’ve seen no jollier company
At one time in this inn, than I have now.
I’d make some fun for you, if I knew how.
And, as it happens, I have just now thought
Of something that will please you, at no cost.
‘You’re of to Canterbury—so Godspeed!
The blessed martyr give you your reward!
And I’ll be bound, that while you’re on your way,
You’ll be telling tales, and making holiday;
It makes no sense, and really it’s no fun
To ride along the road dumb as a stone.
And therefore I’ll devise a game for you,
To give you pleasure, as I said I’d do.
And if with one accord you all consent
To abide by my decision and judgement,
And if you’ll do exactly as I say,
Tomorrow, when you’re riding on your way,
Then, by my father’s soul—for he is dead—
If you don’t fnd it fun, why, here’s my head!
Now not another word! Hold up your hands!’
We were not long in making up our minds.
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23 general prologue
It seemed not worth deliberating, so
We gave our consent without more ado,
Told him to give us what commands he wished.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ began our Host,
‘Do yourselves a good turn, and hear me out:
But please don’t turn your noses up at it.
I’ll put it in a nutshell: here’s the nub:
It’s that you each, to shorten the long journey,
Shall tell two tales en route to Canterbury,
And, coming homeward, tell another two,* Stories of things that happened long ago.
Whoever best acquits himself, and tells
The most amusing and instructive tale,
Shall have a dinner, paid for by us all,
Here in this inn, and under this roof-tree,
When we come back again from Canterbury.
To make it the more fun, I’ll gladly ride
With you at my own cost, and be your guide.
And anyone who disputes what I say
Must pay all our expenses on the way!
And if this plan appeals to all of you,
Tell me at once, and with no more ado,
And I’ll make my arrangements here and now.’
To this we all agreed, and gladly swore
To keep our promises; and furthermore
We asked him if he would consent to do
As he had said, and come and be our leader,
And judge our tales, and act as arbiter,
Set up our dinner too, at a f xed price;
And we’d obey whatever he might decide
In everything. And so, with one consent,
We bound ourselves to bow to his judgement.
And thereupon wine was at once brought in.
We drank; and not long after, everyone
Went of to bed, and that without delay.
Next morning our Host rose at break of day:
He was our cockcrow; so we all awoke.
He gathered us together in a f ock,
And we rode, at little more than walking-pace
Till we had reached St Thomas’ watering-place,
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24 general prologue
Where our Host began reining in his horse.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, attention please!’
Said he. ‘All of you know what we agreed,
And I’m reminding you. If evensong
And matins are in harmony—that’s to say,
If you are still of the same mind today—
Let’s see who’ll tell the frst tale, and begin.
And whosoever baulks at my decision
Must pay for all we spend upon the way,
Or may I never touch a drop again!
And now let’s draw lots before going on.
The one who draws the short straw must begin.
Sir Knight, my lord and master,’ said our Host,
‘Now let’s draw lots, for such is my request.
Come near,’ said he, ‘my lady Prioress,
And, Mister Scholar, lay by bashfulness,
Stop dreaming! Hands to drawing, everyone!’
To cut the story short, the draw began,
And, whether it was luck, or chance, or fate,
The truth is this: the lot fell to the Knight,
Much to the content of the company.
Now, as was only right and proper, he
Must tell his tale, according to the bargain
Which, as you know, he’d made. What more to say?
And when the good man saw it must be so,
Being sensible, and accustomed to obey
And keep a promise he had freely given,
He said, ‘Well, since I must begin the game,
Then welcome to the short straw, in God’s name!
Now let’s ride on, and listen to what I say.’
And at these words we rode of on our way,
And he at once began, with cheerful face,
His tale. The way he told it was like this:
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25 the knight’s tale
THE KNIGHT’S TALE
part one
O nce on a time, as old histories tell us,
There was a duke whose name was Theseus,
Who was of Athens lord and governor,
And in his day so great a conqueror
There was none mightier beneath the sun.
Many a wealthy kingdom he had won;
What with his generalship and bravery
He’d conquered all the land of Femeny,
Realm of the Amazons, once called Scythia,
And married there* its Queen Hippolyta, And brought her home with him to his country
With splendour, pomp, and solemn pageantry,
And also her young sister Emily.
And thus with music and in victory
I’ll leave this noble duke, and let him ride
To Athens with his armed host at his side.
And trust me, were it not too long to hear,
I would have told you fully the manner
In which the kingdom of Femeny
Was won by Theseus and his cavalry;
Especially the great battle fought between
The Amazons and the Athenian men;
And of the siege laid to Hippolyta,
The beautiful ferce Queen of Scythia;
And of the feast they held for the wedding,
The storm that blew up on the voyage home;
But all these things I must pass over now.
I have, the Lord knows, a large f eld to furrow,
Weak oxen in the team to draw my plough.
The remainder of the tale is long enough.
I’ll not get in the way of anyone:
Let every fellow tell his tale in turn,
And now let’s see which of us is to win
The dinner—where I left of, I’ll begin.
This duke of whom I’m speaking, having come
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26 the knight’s tale
Almost to the approaches of the town,
In the height of all his triumph and his joy
Perceived out of the corner of his eye
There kneeling in the highway, two by two,
A company of ladies in a row;
In clothes of black each one of them was clad.
But such a cry, such clamouring they made
That in this world there is no creature living
That ever heard the like of their lamenting;
Nor of their clamour would they stint, until
One of them clutched the reins of his bridle,
‘Who may you be, that at my homecoming
Disturb the celebration with your crying?
Have you such jealousy’, said Theseus,
‘Of these my honours, that you lament thus?
And who’s menaced you? or has done you hurt?
And now tell me if it may be put right,
And why you are all clad in black like this.’
Whereupon, fainting, with a deathlike face,
So it was pitiful to see and hear,
The eldest lady of the group made answer:
‘My lord, you to whom Fortune has assigned
Victory and a conqueror’s garland,
We grudge you neither glory nor honour,
But we beseech your mercy and succour.
Have mercy on our woe and our distress!
On us poor women, in your nobleness
Of heart, let but one drop of pity fall!
Indeed, sir, there is none amongst us all
Who was not once a duchess or a queen,
And is now destitute, as may be seen,
Since Fortune and her fckle wheel makes sure
That no prosperity can be secure.
And truly, lord, to watch your coming, we
In this the temple of Divine Pity
Have waited a whole fortnight for you here.
Now help us, sir, since it lies in your power.
‘I who weep and wail in misery like this
Was once the wife of King Capaneus
Who died at Thebes—a curse upon that day!
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27 the knight’s tale
And all of us who are dressed as you see,
We who are making all this lamentation,
Have each of us lost husbands in that town,
Killed in the siege. And now the ancient Creon
Who is, alas, the lord now of the city,
Brimful of anger and iniquity,
Out of tyrannic malice has def led
The bodies of our husbands who were killed,
And dragged them all together in a heap;
And he will neither vouchsafe nor permit
Either their burial or burning, but
Has given them over to the dogs to eat.’
And with these words, as soon as they were spoken,
They fell upon their faces, sadly crying
‘Have some compassion on us wretched women!
And let our sorrow sink into your heart.’
With a breast f lled with pity,* the good duke Leapt from his war-horse when he heard them speak.
It seemed to him as if his heart must break,
Seeing them so forlorn and desolate,
Who formerly had been of high estate;
And in his arms he raised up each of them
And tried to give them comfort; there and then
He swore upon his honour as a knight
He would put forth the utmost of his might
So to avenge them on the tyrant Creon
All Greece would talk about his overthrowing
By Theseus, and say he had been served
As one whose death had richly been deserved.
And thereupon his banner he displayed
And, delaying no longer, forth he rode
Toward the town of Thebes with his host.
He would not go near Athens, nor would rest
And take his ease for even half a day,
But pushed on, lodging that night on the way,
Having sent, with Hippolyta the queen,
Her sister Emily, so fair and young,
On to the town of Athens, there to stay
While he rode on; there is no more to say.
The red image of Mars with spear and shield
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28 the knight’s tale
Gleams in his broad white standard till the f elds
Seem lit on all sides with its glittering.
And borne next to his banner is his pennon
Of richest gold, embroidered with a great
Head of the Minotaur which he killed in Crete.
Thus rode this conquering duke; among the f ower
Of chivalry he rode, in his armed power
To Thebes; where in splendour he drew up
Upon a feld where he purposed to f ght.
But, not to make too long a tale of this,
He fought with Creon, who was King of Thebes,
And killed him, as befts a valiant knight,
In fair combat, and put his men to f ight;
And after that he took the town by storm,
And wall and beam and rafter he tore down,
And to the ladies he restored again
The bodies of their husbands who were slain
For funeral rites, as was the custom then.
But to describe it would take all too long—
The lamentation and the din of mourning
That went up from the ladies at the burning
Of the dead bodies, and the great honour
Duke Theseus, that noble conqueror,
Paid to the ladies when they took their leave—
For it is my intention to be brief.
And now this noble duke, this Theseus,
With Creon slain, and Thebes taken thus,
Quietly rested in the feld all night,
All Creon’s kingdom lying at his feet.
The pillagers went busily to work
After the battle and the Theban rout,
To rummage in the pile of slaughtered men
And strip the armour and the clothes from them.
Among the heap of corpses there they found
Pierced through and through with many a deep wound,
Two young knights lying bleeding side by side,
Both in the same expensive armour clad;
One of the two was Arcita by name,
The other knight was known as Palamon.
They were not quite alive nor wholly dead;
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29 the knight’s tale
Seeing their coat-of-arms, the heralds said
That they were cousins of the royal blood
Of Thebes: that two sisters gave them birth.
Out of the heap of dead they were dragged forth.
Gently the looters bore them to the tent
Of Theseus; who thereupon had them sent
At once to Athens, to remain in prison
For ever, for he would not hear of ransom.
Then the great duke, so soon as this was done,
Gathered his host together and rode home
Crowned with the laurel of a conqueror,
And there lives on in happiness and honour
For ever after; what more need I say?
And Palamon and his friend Arcita
Are in a tower, in misery and grief
For evermore; no gold can buy release.
So time passed, year by year and day by day,
Till it so happened, in the month of May,
That Emily, lovelier to look upon
Than is the lily on its stalk of green,
And fresher than the May with f owers new—
For with the rose’s colour strove her hue,
Nor can I tell the lovelier of the two—
Well before day, as she was wont to do,
Was risen and dressed and ready to go out,
For, as you know, the nights are not for sleep
In May. The season stirs in every heart
That’s noble, and from slumber rouses it,
Saying, ‘Get up, pay homage to the spring!’
And therefore Emily was remembering
To rise and celebrate the month of May.
Picture her clad in colours fresh and gay:
Her yellow hair was plaited in a tress
Behind her back, a yard in length I’d guess.
And in the garden, while the sun uprises,
She wanders here and there, and as she pleases
Goes gathering fowers, mixing white and red,
To weave a graceful garland for her head;
And like an angel out of heaven sang.
The great tower, that was so thick and strong,
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30 the knight’s tale
Which was the castle’s principal dungeon
Wherein the two knights languished in prison
Who were and are the subject of my tale,
Adjoined exactly to the garden wall
Where Emily was used to take her pleasure.
Bright was the sun that morning, bright and clear,
And Palamon, that wretched prisoner,
As was his way, by leave of his gaoler,
Was up, and roaming in an upper room
From which the noble city could be seen,
Also the garden, f lled with greenery,
In which the fair and radiant Emily
Was wandering, and walking up and down.
This wretched prisoner, this Palamon
Walks in his chamber, pacing to and fro,
And to himself complaining of his woe
And wishing that he never had been born.
It chanced, as fate or luck would have it then,
That through a window, fenced with iron bars
Solid and big as any wooden beam,
He cast his eye upon Emilia:
At which he started back with a loud cry,
As though he had been bitten to the heart.
And at that cry Arcita leapt up
And said, ‘Why do you look so deathly pale?
What is the matter, cousin? Are you ill?
Who has upset you? Why did you cry out?
I beg you, for the love of God, submit
With patience to our gaol, since it must be.
Fortune has dealt us this adversity:
Some malign aspect or disposition
Of Saturn in some adverse position
Has brought it on us; nothing’s to be done:
It stood thus in our stars when we were born;
The long and short of it is this: Endure.’
And to that, Palamon said in reply,
‘Truly, cousin, you have the wrong idea.
Prison was not the reason for my cry,
For I was hurt just now, pierced through the eye
Right to the heart; the wound is killing me.
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31 the knight’s tale
The beauty of that lady whom I see
There in that garden wandering to and fro,
Made me cry out; she’s cause of all my woe.
I don’t know if she’s woman or goddess,
But it is really Venus, I would guess.’
With that Palamon fell upon his knees,
Exclaiming: ‘Venus, if it be your wish
Thus to transform yourself in this garden
For me, a sorrowful and wretched man,
Will you not help us to escape from prison?
And if it be my destiny to die
As foreordained by eternal decree
In prison, then at least bestow compassion
Upon our house, brought low by tyranny!’
But while he talked, Arcita cast his eye
To where the lady wandered to and fro;
And at the sight, her beauty hurt him so
That if Palamon has been wounded sore,
Arcita is as badly hurt, or more.
And with a sigh, dejectedly he spoke:
‘Beauty so fresh destroys me, as I look
On her who wanders yonder in that place.
Unless I win her mercy and her grace
That I at least may see her every day,
I’m better dead; what more is there to say?’
Hearing those words, his cousin Palamon
Looked black, and angrily replied to him:
‘Do you say that in earnest or in jest?’
‘No, on my oath,’ said Arcita, ‘in earnest.
So help me God, I’m in no mood to clown.’
Knitting his brows together, Palamon
Retorted, ‘It would do you no great honour
Did you prove either faithless or a traitor
To me who am your cousin, and sworn brother,
Each bound by solemn oaths, one to the other,
That even if it means we die by torture,
Neither of us would ever cross the other
In love or any other thing, dear brother,
Till death shall part the two of us for ever!
No, you must always come to my support
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32 the knight’s tale
As loyally as I must come to yours:
This was your solemn oath, and mine also,
Which you dare not deny, as I well know.
Thus you’re in my confdence, there’s no doubt,
And like a traitor you are now about
To begin to make love to my own lady
Whom I must love and serve until I die!
No, you shall not, be sure of that, you liar!
I loved her frst, and told you my desire
As to my confdant, to one who swore
To lend support, as I have said before;
Therefore you are committed, as a knight,
To help me on, if it lies in your might,
Or else I dare aver you are forsworn.’
And Arcita disdainfully answered him:
‘You’ll be forsworn’, said he, ‘sooner than I;
Forsworn I tell you, forsworn utterly!
For I loved her frst, and as a woman too.
What can you say? You can’t tell even now
Whether she is a goddess or a woman.
Yours is no more than a religious feeling:
Mine is real love, love of a human being;
I told you what happened to me for that reason,
As to my cousin, as to my sworn brother.
‘But, granted that you loved her earlier,
Have you forgot the old philosophic saw
That goes like this, “All’s fair in love and war”?
Love is a mightier law, upon my soul,
Than any made by any mortal rule;
For love, all man-made laws are broken by
Folk of all kinds, all day and every day.
A man is bound to love, against all reason.
Though it should cost his life, there’s no escaping,
Whether she’s a maid, a widow, or a wife.
What’s more, you are not likely, all your life,
To win her favour, any more than I;
For as you yourself know too certainly,
Both you and I have been condemned to prison
For ever; and for us there’s no escaping.
We bicker like the two dogs for a bone;
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33 the knight’s tale
They fought all day for it, and yet got none;
For while they quarrelled, a kite came along,
And from between them both bore of the bone.
And therefore, brother, as in politics,
Each for himself—there isn’t any choice.
Love if you wish; I love, and ever shall.
And truly, my dear brother, one thing’s sure:
Here in this prison we must both endure,
And each of us must take his chance, that’s all.’
Bitter and long the strife between the two,
Which, had I leisure, I’d depict for you;
But to the point: it happened—if I may
Make a long story shorter—that one day
A noble duke, whose name was Perotheus,
Who’d been a friend of the Duke Theseus
Since they were boys together, came to pay
A visit to his friend, and holiday
In Athens, as he often used to do;
There was no man on earth whom he loved so—
And Theseus loved him just as tenderly.
So great was their love, ancient writers say,
That when one of them came at last to die,
His friend went down and looked for him in hell.
But that’s a tale I have no wish to tell.
Duke Perotheus loved Arcita well,
And had known him in Thebes for many a year.
And fnally, at the request and prayer
Of Perotheus, and without ransom,
Duke Theseus let Arcita out of prison,
Free to go as it pleased him anywhere
On certain terms: I’ll tell you what they were.
This, set down in plain language, was the pact
Between Theseus and Arcita: that
If so be Arcita were ever found
Alive by night or day on Theseus’ land
And Arcita were caught, it was agreed
His head was to be cut of with the sword.
There was no other choice or help for it
But to take leave, and go home with all speed.
He’d better watch out, now his neck’s forfeit!
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34 the knight’s tale
How sharp the agony Arcita suf ers now!
He feels death itself pierce his heart right through.
He weeps, he wails, he laments pitifully,
Watches a chance to kill himself secretly.
He cried, ‘Alas, the day that I was born!
For I’m in a worse prison than before.
Now it’s my fate eternally to dwell
Not in a purgatory, but in hell!
Alas that ever I knew Perotheus!
Otherwise I’d have stayed with Theseus
Fettered for ever in his prison. Then
Happiness and not misery had been mine.
Though I may never win nor yet deserve
Her favour, yet the sight of her I serve
Would have sufced to have contented me.
O my dear cousin Palamon!’ cried he,
‘It seems that in this case you’ve come out best,
How happily in prison you may rest!
In prison—no indeed, but paradise!
Yours is the luck in this throw of the dice,
For you have sight of her, I the absence.
It’s possible, being in her presence,
And since you are a doughty knight, and able,
That by some chance—since Fortune is changeable—
You’ll sooner or later attain your desire
While I, who am exiled and in despair,
So barren of hope that there’s no living creature
That’s formed of earth or water, fame or air,
That can yield comfort or a cure for this—
Well may I die in despair and distress!
Farewell my life, my joy, my happiness!
‘Alas, why is it that most folk complain
So much of God’s providence, or Fortune,* That often grants them, in so many ways,
Far better favours than they could devise?
Here’s someone wishes for enormous wealth,
And this leads to his murder, or ill-health;
Here’s someone longing to get out of prison,
Whose servants murder him when he gets home.
Infnite harms from this would seem to f ow;
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35 the knight’s tale
We don’t know what we pray for here below,
But, like a man drunk as a wheelbarrow,
Who knows he’s got a home where he can go,
But doesn’t know which is the right road thither—
For when you’re drunk, then every road’s a slither.
Yes, in this world, that’s how it goes with us;
All frantically seeking happiness,
But oftener than not in the wrong place.
There’s no doubt we can all of us say so.
Especially I, who conceived a great notion
That if I only could escape from prison
Then joy and perfect happiness must be mine,
Whereas I’m exiled from my well-being.
For since I cannot see you, Emily,
I might as well be dead; no cure for me.’
Upon the other hand, when Palamon
Came to realize that Arcita had gone,
He created such an outcry, the great tower
Resounded with his bellowings and clamour.
The very fetters round his shins were wet
With the salt bitter tears Palamon shed.
‘Alas,’ he cried, ‘God knows you’ve gained the day
In this our quarrel, cousin Arcita!
Now you’re at large in Thebes, walking free
And caring little for my misery.
You may, since you are resolute and shrewd,
Assemble all our kinsfolk and kindred,
And make so ferce an assault on this city
That by some chance, or through some kind of treaty,
You may gain her for your lady and your wife,
She for whose sake I needs must lose my life.
For, when one weighs the chances, one can see,
As you’re at large, no prisoner but free,
And a prince too, how great is your advantage:
Greater than mine, here dying in a cage.
For I must weep and wail while I’m alive,
With all that prison brings with it of grief;
And with the added pangs of love also,
Which doubles all my torment and my woe.’
With that the fre of jealousy awoke
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36 the knight’s tale
Within his breast, and took hold of his heart
So furiously, that Palamon turned white,
The white of boxwood or of cold dead ash.
Then he cried, ‘O you cruel gods, who rule
This world, and bind it with your eternal
Decree, and on the adamantine tablet
Inscribe your will and your eternal f at,
What’s mankind to you? Of no more esteem
Than is the sheep that cowers in the pen?
For man dies, just like any animal,
Sufers imprisonment and gaol as well,
Endures great adversity and sickness;
Often as not he’s innocent, alas!
What governing mind is in such prescience
That so torments the guiltless innocent?
And, what makes all my tribulation worse,
Man is bound to observe the divine laws,
And for the love of God must curb his will,
Whereas no restraint curbs the animal.
And when a beast is dead, it feels no hurt,
But after death man has to weep and wail,
Despite his cares and sorrows while on earth.
There isn’t any doubt it may be so.
I leave it to theologians to reply,
But well I know this world’s a misery.
Alas! I see some viper, or thief, who’s done
Mischief enough to many an honest man,
At large, free to go where it pleases him:
But I must stay in prison, for Saturn
And Juno too, have in their jealous rage
Almost destroyed the whole lineage
Of Thebes, whose broad walls desolate lie.
And Venus undoes me in another way,
With fear and jealousy of that Arcita.’
Now I will pause and let Palamon rest,
Leave him to wait in silence in his gaol,
Turn to Arcita, and resume his tale.
The summer passes, and the nights are long,
Increasing and redoubling love’s keen sting
For both the lover and the prisoner.
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37 the knight’s tale
I don’t know which of them has more to bear—
To put it in a nutshell, Palamon
Is condemned to perpetual prison,
In chains and fetters till the day he dies;
Arcita is on pain of death exiled
For evermore from Theseus’ territory,
Never to look again upon his lady.
Now all you lovers, let me pose the question:
Who’s worse of, Arcita or Palamon?
The one may see his lady every day,
But is shut up in prison for always;
Whereas the other, free to go or come,
May never see his Emily again.
Now make your choice between them, if you can;
I’ll go on with the tale as I began.
part t o
Now when Arcita at last reached Thebes,
He fainted half the day, and cried, ‘Alas!’
For he would never see his lady again.
And, to sum up in a few words his pain,
Such grief was never felt by any creature
That was or will be while the world endures.
Bereft of food, of drink, and of his sleep,
Arcita grew thin, dry as a stick;
His eyes were hollow, horrible to look at,
Sallow and pale his colour, like cold ash;
And he was always solitary and alone,
And bewailing his woes the whole night long;
If he heard the sound of music, or a song,
The tears came, and he could not leave of weeping.
So enfeebled were his spirits, and so low,
So changed was he, that nobody would know
His voice and speech for Arcita’s, though he heard it.
So changed was he, Arcita went about
For all the world as if not merely lovesick,
But actually manic, suf ering from
Some melancholic humour in his forehead,
Which is the seat of imagination.
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38 the knight’s tale
All things, in short, had been turned upside-down
Both in the character and disposition
Of the lover Arcita, that sorrowful man.
But why go on all day about his pain?
When he had endured for a year or two
This cruel torment and this pain and woe
In Thebes (his native land, as I explained)
One night, as there he lay asleep, it seemed
To him as if Mercury, the winged god,
Appeared before him, bidding him take heart.
He bore erect his drowsy caduceus
And wore a helmet on his glorious
Hair—for he noted that he was arrayed
As when he lulled Argus the hundred-eyed.
And the god said: ‘To Athens you must go,
There waits the destined ending of your woe.’
At this Arcita gave a start, and woke.
‘For sure, however heavy be the cost,
I’ll go to Athens, and right now,’ said he,
‘No fear of death is likely to deter me
From seeing her whom I love and obey.
If I’m with her, what matter if I die?’
And as he spoke, he picked up a large mirror,
And saw how his complexion had changed colour,
And that his countenance was now wholly changed.
Right then it came into Arcita’s mind
That, since his visage was so much disf gured
By the afiction that he had endured,
Were he to keep a low profle, he might
Live quite unknown in Athens all his life,
And see his lady almost every day.
Whereupon Arcita changed, without delay,
His clothes for those of a poor labourer,
Then, all alone—save only for a squire
To whom he had confded his whole story,
And was disguised as shabbily as he—
Set of for Athens by the shortest route.
And so one day he turned up at the court
And ofered his services at the gate,
To fetch and carry, any kind of work;
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39 the knight’s tale
And, to cut short a tale already long,
He got a job under a chamberlain
Whose of ce was to work for Emily;
A cunning fellow who kept a sharp eye
On every servant serving his mistress.
As Arcita was young, strong as an ox,
And tall as well, and big-boned, he was good
At drawing water and at hewing wood,
And doing any job that he was asked.
He spent a year or two in this service
As chamber-page to the fair Emily;
Philostrate was the name they called him by.
But never was a person of his class
Half so beloved as he, in the whole court.
So gentlemanly was his disposition
All Theseus’ palace rang with his renown.
They said that it would be a gracious act
If Theseus were to raise him up a step,
And fnd for him a worthier employment,
Where he might better exercise his talent.
So great his reputation grew in time,
Both for his helpfulness and courteous tongue,
That the Duke Theseus, to have him near,
Appointed Arcita a chamber-squire,
With money to maintain his new position.
And people also brought to him his income
From his own country yearly, on the quiet;
But his spending was so prudent and discreet
That no one wondered how he came by it.
So for three years he led his life like this,
And did his job so well, in peace and war,
There was no man whom Theseus valued more.
Let’s leave him in this happiness; and I’ll
Speak of Palamon for a little while.
Buried in his impregnable prison,
In darkness and in horror, Palamon
These seven years has worn himself away
In anguish and distress. And who but he
Feels twofold grief and pain? Love stings him so
That he’s gone clean out of his wits for sorrow.
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40 the knight’s tale
And, more than that, he is a prisoner
Not just for one year, but for evermore.
Who could rhyme rightly in the English tongue
His torment? To be sure I’m not the man;
So I will skip the matter, if I may.
It happened in the seventh year, in May,
On the third night, as ancient writers tell
Who give the fullest version of this tale,
Whether by accident or destiny
—For when a thing is fated, it must be—
That not long after midnight, Palamon,
Helped by a friend, broke out of his prison,
And, fast as he could go, fed from the city.
He’d given his gaoler such a dose of clarry
(A narcotic made of a certain wine
Spiked with the f nest Theban opium),
The gaoler slept, no matter how they shook him,
The whole night long, and could not be awoken;
And of Palamon goes, fast as he can.
The night was short and day was near at hand,
So at all costs Palamon had to hide;
And to a nearby wood, with fearful tread,
And stealthy foot, there tiptoed Palamon;
To cut it short, he thought it his best plan
To hide himself within the wood all day,
And then when night had come to make his way
Homeward to Thebes, and there beg assistance
From friends to go to war with Theseus;
And, in a word, he’d either lose his life
Or else win Emily to be his wife.
Such was his purpose, and such was his plan.
And now I’ll turn to Arcita again,
Who little guessed how close he was to mishap,
Till Fortune chose her time to spring the trap.
The busy lark, the messenger of day,
With song is saluting the morning grey,
While burning Phoebus, rising up so bright
That all the east is laughing in the light,
Is with his long beams drying in the groves
The silver drops still hanging on the leaves.
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41 the knight’s tale
And Arcita, who in the royal palace
Is now chief squire to the Duke Theseus,
Rises and looks out on the cheerful day:
And to pay homage to the month of May,
Yet thinking all the while of his desire,
On a horse prancing like a fame of f re
Rides to amuse himself, out to the f elds
A mile or two beyond the palace walls;
And by some chance begins to shape his course
Towards the very wood of which I spoke,
To make himself a garland from the groves
Either of woodbine or of hawthorn leaves;
And in the sunlight he sings lustily,
‘May, with all your f owers and greenery,
Welcome to you, fresh and lovely May!
I hope to garner some green leaf or spray.’
And, leaping from his horse lightheartedly,
He swiftly thrusts his way into the wood.
Along a path he wanders up and down,
As chance would have it, near where Palamon
Lay hidden in a thicket out of sight,
Lurking in mortal terror of his life.
Who it could be, Palamon had no notion;
He would have thought Arcita the last person—
But it’s been truly said, these many years,
That ‘Fields have eyes, and even woods have ears’.
It’s best a man should keep his wits about him,
For people turn up when you least expect them.
How little did Arcita imagine
His friend was near, to hear what he was saying,
For he crouched in the thicket very still.
When Arcita had tired of wandering,
And ended was the joyful song he sang,
He suddenly began to muse, and fell
In a brown study, as these lovers will,
Now high in heaven, and now deep in hell,
Now up, now down, a bucket in a well;
Just like a Friday, if the truth be spoken,
One moment, sunshine; the next, pouring down;
Just so does Venus overcloud and darken
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42 the knight’s tale
Her followers’ hearts; just as her day is f ckle
(Friday’s her day), so is her mood changeable;
There’s no day of the week that’s quite like Friday.
His song done, Arcita began to sigh,
And without more ado sat himself down.
‘Alas!’ he cried, ‘that ever I was born!
For how long, Juno, pitiless goddess,
Will you continue to wage war on Thebes?
Alas! it’s been brought to destruction,
The royal blood of Cadmus and Amphion,
Of royal Cadmus, frst to build and plan
Thebes, and the frst founder of the town—
Cadmus, who was the city’s frst crowned king.
Of his lineage am I, and his of spring
By the true line, and of the blood royal;
And now I am a serf, so miserable
A slave, that as a menial squire I
Serve him who is my mortal enemy.
Yet Juno heaps upon me still more shame,
For I dare not be known by my own name;
Am no more Arcita, but Philostrate,
Am Arcita no more, but Fiddlestick!
Alas, Juno! Alas, relentless Mars!
All of our line have perished through your wrath
Except for me and wretched Palamon,
Whom Theseus martyrs in a dungeon.
On top of all, to break me utterly,
Love with his burning arrow has pierced me
And so scorched through my true and troubled heart,
My death was sewn for me before my shirt.
From one look of your eyes, O Emily!
I perish; and because of you I die.
All the rest of my misery and care
I’d count as nothing, as not worth a straw,
If I could only please you, Emily.’
With that he swooned, and for a long time lay
Senseless upon the ground; and then leapt up.
Palamon felt as if a cold sword slid
Suddenly through his heart; and shuddering
With anger, could remain no longer hidden,
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43 the knight’s tale
But, when he’d heard all that Arcita said,
Sprang like a madman with face pale and dead
Out of the thick bushes, crying, ‘Liar!
You foul, black, lying traitor, Arcita!
I’ve got you, you who love my lady so,
For whom I sufer so much grief and pain;
You, my blood brother, sworn conf dant too,
As I’ve told you before, time and again;
You who have made a dupe of Theseus
And changed your name dishonestly like this—
All I can say is, one of us must die!
You shall not love my lady Emily,
None shall love her but I, and only I;
For I am Palamon, your enemy!
Though here, as luck will have it, I’ve no weapon,
For I am only just escaped from prison,
Never you fear, it’s either you must die,
Or else give up your love for Emily.
Now take your choice, for you shan’t escape.’
Then Arcita, with hatred in his heart
When he’d recognized Palamon, and heard
His tale, ferce as a lion drew his sword,
And thus replied: ‘By God in heaven above,
If it weren’t that you’re sick and crazed with love,
And if you were not here without a sword,
You’d never walk a step out of this wood
Alive, but die instead, here by my hand!
For I disown the covenant and bond
Which you have made, or so you say, with me.
Get this into your head, fool: Love is free,
And I will love her still, in your despite!
But seeing that you are a noble knight,
And ready to decide your claim in battle,
My word on it, tomorrow I’ll not fail,
None knowing, to be here, as I’m a knight;
And I’ll bring arms enough for you and me:
Choose you the best, and leave the worst for me.
Tonight I’ll bring you enough food and drink,
And bedding too; and if so be you win
And kill me in this wood that we are in,
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44 the knight’s tale
She shall be yours, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘My hand on that,’ was Palamon’s response.
And so they separated till the morrow,
Each having pledged himself to meet the other.
O Cupid, lacking in all charity,
Allowing none to share thy rule with thee!
It’s a true saying, neither Love nor Power
Willingly brooks a rival or compeer,
As Arcita and Palamon have found.
Now Arcita rides straight back to the town,
And in the morning, before daylight, he
Prepares two sets of armour secretly,
Fit and suf cient for them to settle
Their diference upon the feld of battle;
And on his horse, alone as he was born,
He carries all his gear in front of him.
Within this wood, at the set time and place,
Both Arcita and Palamon are met.
And then the colour of their faces changed
Like those of Thracian huntsmen when they stand
Guarding a gap in covert with the spear
When hunting for the lion, or the bear,
And hear the beast come rushing through the groves,
And breaking through the branches and the leaves,
And think, ‘Here comes a deadly enemy!
No question, one of us has got to die;
For I must either kill it breaking cover,
Or it must do me in, if I should blunder.’
It happened so with them; they altered hue,
So well each knight the other’s prowess knew.
And there was no ‘Good-day’ or other greeting;
With no preliminaries, or word spoken,
Each of them helped the arming of the other,
As friendly as a brother helping brother;
And then with sharp strong spears each thrust at each,
So long it was a wonder it could last.
To see them fght, you’d have thought Palamon
Had been a raging ravenous lion;
And Arcita a cruel ruthless tiger.
They ran against each other, mad with ire,
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45 the knight’s tale
Like wild boars frothing white foam, till they stood
Fighting up to the ankles in their blood.
And, fghting thus, I’ll leave them for a while,
For it’s of Theseus that I have to tell.
Destiny, paramount minister
That in this world executes everywhere
God’s predetermined providence, is so strong
Things thought impossible by everyone,
Things which you’d swear could never ever be,
Shall yet be brought to pass, though on a day
That happens once a thousand years or so.
For certainly our passions here below,
Whether of war or peace, or hate or love,
Are governed by the providence above.
All this bears on the great Duke Theseus,
Who is so keen and eager for the chase,
And most of all in May to hunt the stag,
That no day dawns that fnds him in his bed,
But up and dressed, in readiness to ride
With horn and hounds and huntsman at his side.
For Theseus takes such delight in hunting,
The killing of the stag is his great passion;
Forsaking Mars, the mighty god of war,
He follows now the huntress Diana.
As I have said, the day was fne and clear
When Theseus set out, joyous and gay,
With fair Hippolyta, his lovely queen,
And Emily, all of them clad in green,
Riding to hunt in royallest array.
Making his way straight on towards a wood
Hard by, where he’d been told there was a stag,
Duke Theseus rode directly to a glade
Where, as he knew, a stag would often break
From cover, leap the brook, and so away.
It was his hope to try a course or two
With hounds he had selected for the work.
Now, having come into the glade, the duke,
Shading his eyes from the still rising sun,
Caught sight of Arcita and Palamon.
They might have been two boars, furiously clashing;
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46 the knight’s tale
Back and forth the bright swords f ickered, f ashing
So fearsomely, it seemed their lightest stroke
Would be enough to fell the stoutest oak.
But who they were, he had no clue whatever.
The duke clapped spurs that instant to his courser,
And at a bound he was between the pair
With sword pulled out, and crying, ‘Stop! No more!
Who strikes another blow must lose his head!
By Mars, the next man I see move is dead!
But tell me now what manner of men you are
Who’ve the audacity to duel here
With no umpire or other of cer,
As if it were a royal tournament?’
To which Palamon answered the next moment,
Saying, ‘My lord, what needs it to waste breath?
We both of us deserve no less than death.
We are two unhappy creatures, two captives,
Already overburdened with our lives;
And as you are a lawful prince, and judge,
Grant to us neither mercy nor refuge.
But kill me frst, for holy charity,
And kill this fellow here as well as me.
Or frst kill him, for little do you know
That this is Arcita, your deadly foe,
Banished on pain of death from your country,
For which alone he well deserves to die.
For this is he who turned up at your gate
And, saying that his name was Philostrate,
Has made a fool of you year after year;
And you have gone and made him your chief squire,
And he’s the man in love with Emily!
And, as the day has come when I must die,
I may as well make a full confession:
I am that miserable Palamon
Unlawfully escaped from your prison.
I am your deadly enemy; it is I
Who burn with love for lovely Emily,
And in her sight, this instant, I would die!
I ask for sentence, and for death, therefore.
But at the same time kill this fellow here,
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47 the knight’s tale
Since both of us deserve death at your hand.’
‘That’s about it,’ the noble duke returned,
‘By this confession, out of your own mouth
You stand condemned; which sentence I conf rm;
No need for torture to make you confess!
By red almighty Mars, for you it’s death!’
But then the queen, in womanly sympathy,
Began to weep, and so did Emily,
And all the ladies in the company.
Greatest of pities it would be, they thought,
That such a fate should ever be their lot;
For noble birth was theirs, and high estate,
And love alone the matter at debate.
They saw their bleeding wounds, so deep and wide,
And all together as one woman cried,
‘Have pity, sir, upon us women all!’
And then upon their bare knees down they fell,
And would have kissed his feet, there where he stood;
Till his wrath slackened, altering his mood,
For pity soon repairs to noble hearts.
Though anger made him shake with rage at f rst,
He briefy reconsidered what they’d done,
Summed up the causes of their transgression,
And, although in his wrath they stood accused,
Yet by his reason they were both excused.
For, so he argued, in love there’s not a man
Who will not give himself what help he can;
No less will he endeavour to break prison.
And in his heart too he took pity on
The women, for they never ceased from weeping.
And in his noble heart he thought again,
And to himself, under his breath, he said,
‘Shame on the ruler who has no compunction
But acts the lion, both in word and deed,
With those who are repentant and afraid,
As well as with the proud and scornful, those
Who persist in the error of their ways.
He’s not got much discernment if he is
Unable to discriminate in such cases,
But treats alike humility and pride.’
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48 the knight’s tale
And when his anger had thus passed away
He looked up, and a gleam was in his eye
As he spoke aloud; and this is what he said:
‘The god of love indeed! Now God bless me,
How great, how powerful a prince is he!
His might prevails against all obstacles,
He’s a real god: look at his miracles:
For in his own way he can always make
Just what he likes of every human heart.
‘Look at Arcita here, and Palamon,
Escaping scot-free out of my prison
To Thebes, where they could have lived like kings,
And, knowing that I am their mortal foe,
And that their lives are in my hands also—
In spite of all this, Love none the less brings
Both of them here with open eyes, to die!
Now isn’t that the very height of folly?
What bigger fool than he who is in love?
Just look at them, by God in heaven above!
Look at the state they’re in! See how they bleed!
That’s how the god of love, their master, paid
Their fees and wages for their services!
Yet they suppose themselves, these devotees
Of Love, to be completely rational!
But just you wait, here’s the best joke of all:
The cause of all their horseplay, this young lady,
Has no more reason to thank them than I;
And of these fery goings-on knows no more,
God save us, than a cuckoo or March hare.
But we’ll try anything once, hot or cold;
A man must be a young fool, or an old—
That’s what I found myself, in days long gone:
I was one of Love’s servants in my time.
And therefore, since I too have felt the sting
Of Love, and know how it can hurt a man,
As one who’s been caught often in that noose,
I here forgive you wholly your trespass,
At request of the queen, who’s kneeling here,
And also Emily, my sister dear.
Now both of you must swear an oath to me,
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49 the knight’s tale
That you will never do my country harm,
And never war upon me, night or day,
But be my friends in every way you can.
And I forgive you wholly this trespass.’
And, as he asked, they swore in proper form;
As overlord they asked for his protection,
Which Theseus granted. Then he said to them:
‘Even though she were a queen or a princess,
Both of you are eligible, of course,
As far as royal blood and riches go,
To marry her some day; but none the less
—It’s of my sister Emily I speak,
The cause of all your jealousy and strife—
Though you fought for ever, it remains the truth,
As yourselves know, she cannot marry both.
Like it or leave it, one of you, therefore,
Of necessity must go whistle for her.
In other words she can’t have both at once;
It’s no use being angry or jealous.
And therefore I will order matters so
That each of you shall win what destiny
May have decreed for him. Let me explain—
Here is your part in what I shall arrange,
‘To put an end to it once and for all,
Without more argument, this is my will,
Like it or lump it, each of you is free,
And without ransom or impediment,
To go wherever he may wish to go,
And this day twelvemonth, and no later, he
Shall bring along with him a hundred knights
Armed at all points, and equipped for the lists,
And ready to make good his claim to her
In battle; and I promise on my honour,
And as I am a knight, that without fail
That whichever is able to prevail,
In other words, whichever of the two
Can, with his hundred I spoke of just now,
Kill or drive from the lists his adversary,
I shall then give in marriage Emily
To whomsoever Fortune favours so.
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50 the knight’s tale
I’ll build the lists here; and so help me God
I’ll prove a fair and even-handed judge.
This is the only outcome I’ll permit:
One of you must be killed or made captive.
And if what I have said seems good to you,
Say so, and count yourselves fortunate too.
For both of you the matter’s at an end.’
Who looks happier now than Palamon?
Who but Arcita leaps up in delight?
What tongue is there to tell, what pen to write
Of the joy thus created by the generous
Gesture made there by the Duke Theseus?
Down on their knees they fell, all sorts of folk,
To render thanks with all their hearts and might,
And the two Thebans thanked him oftenest;
Then, with light hearts, and f lled with cheerfulness
And hope, rode homeward after their farewells,
To Thebes with its broad and ancient walls.
part three
No doubt I’d be accounted most remiss
Did I neglect to tell how Theseus
Spared no expense, as he went busily
To work to build the lists right royally;
And nowhere in the world, I dare aver,
Was to be seen a f ner amphitheatre.* A mile in radius was the circuit,
Entirely walled with stone, and ditched without,
As round as any circle was its shape,
Filled with tiered seats rising to sixty feet,
And so designed, that in whichever row
You sat, you’d not obstruct your neighbour’s view.
At the eastern end stood a white marble gate,
And at the west its fellow opposite.
In the whole world there was no place like it,
Considering how quickly it was built;
For there was not a craftsman in the land
Skilled in mathematics, no artisan,
No portrait-painter, carver of images,
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51 the knight’s tale
Whom Theseus did not pay with board and wages
To build and decorate his amphitheatre.
Above the eastern gate he’d raised an altar
And temple for his rites and sacrif ces
In Venus’ honour, who is Love’s goddess;
And for Mars another like it, on the west,
Which cost a wagonload of gold at least.
Then, in a turret on the northern wall,
He’d set up a resplendent sanctuary
Of white alabaster and red coral,
A rich, magnif cent oratory
For Diana, goddess of chastity.
But I’d almost forgotten to rehearse
The splendid carvings, sculptures, and pictures,
The forms, the shapes, the faces and f gures,
That were contained in these three oratories.
First, in the temple of Venus you saw unfold,
Set on the walls, and moving to behold,
The broken sleeps, the shuddering and cold
Sighs, the sacred tears, and doleful wailings,
The fery stings, the longings and desirings,
That all Love’s servants in this life endure;
The oaths that bind and make their vows secure;
Pleasure, Hope, Desire, and Foolhardiness,
Beauty and Youth, and Laughter and Largesse;
Potions and Force, Falsehood and Flattery,
Extravagance, Intrigue, and Jealousy
With yellow marigolds for a garland
And with a cuckoo perched upon her hand;
Feasts, Music, Songs, and Joy and Display,
And Dances; all of Love’s phenomena
That I have told you of and mean to tell,
Were painted in their order on the wall,
And many more than I can mention here.
For indeed, the whole hill of Cytherea
Where Venus has her principal residence,
Was fgured on the walls in fresco-paint,
With all its garden and its gaiety.
Nor was the porter, Idleness, passed by,
Nor beautiful Narcissus, of times gone;
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52 the knight’s tale
Nor yet the folly of King Solomon,
Nor the enormous strength of Hercules,
Medea and Circe with their witcheries,
Nor the proud-hearted Turnus’ stern courage,
Nor wealthy Croesus as a wretched slave.
As you can see, not Wisdom nor Riches,
Strength nor Beauty, Cunning nor Boldness,
Can ever hold a candle to Venus,
Who steers the entire world just as she pleases.
You see, these folk were so caught in her noose,
Time and again they’d cry out in distress,
As one or two examples here will show,
Although I could provide a thousand more.
The image of Venus was marvellous. She
Was naked, foating on a boundless sea,
And all was hidden, from the navel down,
With green waves bright as glass; and a cithern* Was held in her right hand, while f uttering
Above a lovely garland of fresh scented
Roses that she was wearing, her doves circled.
In front of her stood her son Cupid, who
Was winged, as he is often shown; blind too.
He bore sharp shining arrows and a bow.
Why should I not tell you as well of all
The frescoes that were painted on the wall
Inside the temple of red Mars the great,—
Frescoed throughout its entire length and breadth,
Like the interior of that dismal place
That’s known as the Great Temple of Mars, in Thrace,
In that most frigid, cold, and icy region
Wherein Mars has his principal mansion?
First on the wall was painted a forest
Inhabited by neither man nor beast,
And flled with knotted, gnarled, old barren trees,
Jagged broken stumps, rotten and hideous,
Through which there ran a rumble and a sough,
As if a gale were breaking every bough.
And half-way down a hill, under a slope,
There stood the temple of Mars Armipotent,
All built of burnished steel; its entrance was
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53 the knight’s tale
Exiguous, long, and dismal to look at.
From it there came a rush, a furious blast
Of air, so strong it made the whole gate shake.
And through the doors a wintry glimmer shone,
For the wall had no window—no, not one
Through which a glimpse of light might enter in.
The door was of eternal adamant;
Lengthwise and crosswise it was double-clenched
With toughest iron; and, to make all strong,
Each pillar that the temple stood upon
Was barrel-thick, and made of gleaming iron.
There you could see the dark imaginings
Of Treachery, and all its contrivings;
And cruel Anger, red as burning coal;
The pickpocket; and Fear with visage pale;
The smiler with the knife beneath his cloak;
The farmstead burning under the black smoke;
The perfdy of the murder in the bed;
Stark War, with open wounds, all bebloodied;
Discord, with dripping knife and direful face.
And full of screeching was that gruesome place.
The killer of himself you could see there,
With his own heart’s blood drenching all his hair;
The driven nail that split the sleeping head;
Stark Death upon his back, with mouth agape.
In the middle of the temple sat Mischance,
With comfortless and dismal countenance.
And you saw Madness, laughing in his rage,
Armed Revolt, Hue and Cry, and f erce Outrage;
The carcass with slit throat fung in a bush;
A thousand dead, and they not killed by plague;
The tyrant with the plunder he had reft;
The town obliterated and laid waste.
You saw the reeling ships burn on the sea;
The wild bears crush the hunter; and the sow
Devour the child right in the very cradle;
The cook scalded, for all his length of ladle;
All the misfortune that to Mars belongs—
Run over by his cart, the carter pinned
And lying on the ground beneath its wheel.
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54 the knight’s tale
Also there were, among those Mars protects,
The barber, and the butcher, and the smith
Who forges on his anvil the sharp sword.
And high above, depicted on a tower,
You saw Conquest, seated in great splendour,
With the sharp sword-blade hung above his head
Suspended by a thin and slender thread.
Caesar’s and Nero’s murders were portrayed,
And Mark Anthony’s, albeit none of these
Had yet been born; but none the less their deaths
And the foreseen malignancy of Mars
Were there, told by these paintings, as the stars
Tell who is to be killed, or die, for love.
One example taken from legend should serve;
Even if I wished, I could not tell them all.
Mars’ efgy, with dire and maniacal
Regard, stood armed upon a chariot;
And over his head two starry f gures shone,
Which ancient books of geomancy name,
The one Puella, the other Rubeus;
The god of war was represented thus.
A wolf stood at his feet in front of him,
Eyes glowering, about to eat a man;
Subtle the pencil that portrayed this story
In reverence of Mars, and of his glory.
Now I shall speed as quickly as I may
To the holy temple of chaste Diana
To give you a description of it all.
A painted fresco covered every wall:
Scenes of the hunt, or shamefaced chastity.
There you could see sorrowful Callisto
Who, when she had of ended Diana,
Was transformed from a woman to a bear,
And after that became the northern star;
So it was pictured; I can tell no more.
Her son’s a star as well, as you can see.
And there was Dana, turned into a tree;
No, I don’t mean the goddess Diana,
But Penneus’ daughter, who was called Dana.
And there was Actaeon, turned into a stag
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55 the knight’s tale
For punishment; he’d seen Diana naked;
And there you saw how his own deerhounds caught
And ate him up, because they knew him not.
Again, a little further on, you saw
How Atalanta hunted the wild boar
With Meleager and others; Diana
Plagued him for this, and he was made to pay;
And many another scene as wonderful,
Which I’ll not trouble memory to recall.
High on a stag the goddess had her seat,
With small hounds playing round about her feet;
Beneath her feet was set a waxing moon,
Waxing at present, but about to wane.
Her efgy was clothed in green, with bow
In hand, and arrows in a quiver. Low
The eyes were cast, bent in the direction
Of Pluto and his dark dominion.
Before her was a woman, labouring
In travail, with a child too long unborn,
Who plaintively was calling on her name,
Crying for help: ‘For only you alone
May help me’—and whoever painted it
Grudged not a penny on the colours, but
Knew how to paint the life, and knew his job.
At last the lists were ready. Theseus,
Who had provided, at no little cost,
The temples and the arena with all
Their furnishings down to the last detail,
Was wonderfully pleased when it was done.
But that’s enough of Theseus; it’s time
To speak of Arcita and Palamon.
The day of their returning is at hand,
When each of them must bring a hundred knights
To settle all by battle in the lists.
And so to Athens each of them has brought,
In order that their covenant might be kept,
A hundred knights, all well armed and equipped.
Indeed it was maintained, by many a man,
That never, since the world itself began,
Had so few ever made, on sea or land,
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56 the knight’s tale
So far as knightly prowess is concerned,
So noble and renowned a company;
For all who took delight in chivalry,
And meant to make themselves a famous name,
Had begged and prayed to take part in that game;
And any who was chosen was in luck.
You know, if such an event were set up
—Either in England or no matter where—
Tomorrow, every able-bodied knight
And lover would be eager to be there,—
To battle for a lady, Lord bless me!
A sight worth seeing, that’s what it would be!
And such were those who came with Palamon.
For many were the knights who rode with him,
Some armed with breastplate and habergeon
With a light tunic under; others wore
Steel plates, or else full suits of body-armour;
One carried a buckler, one a Prussian shield;
One cased his legs in armour, and would wield
A battleaxe; another, a steel mace;
New weapons; but on older models based.
Thus everyone was armed as he thought best,
As I have told.
And there you might have seen
Riding in company with Palamon,
Lycurgus himself, the great King of Thrace.
Black was his beard, and powerful his face;
And the round rolling eyeballs in his head
Gleamed with a light half yellow and half red;
With beetling shaggy brows he looked about him
As if he were an eagle-headed gryphon;
Huge were his limbs, and his thews hard and strong,
His shoulders broad, arms muscular and long.
As was the custom of his native country
High on a chariot of gold stood he,
Four white bulls in the traces; and he wore
Instead of surcoat over his armour,
A bearskin turned by age as black as coal,
Its yellow claws gilded as bright as gold.
And combed behind his back, his f owing hair
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57 the knight’s tale
Was black and shining like a raven’s feather
Under a wreath of gold upon his head,
Of immense weight, thick as your arm; all set
With gleaming jewels—rubies, diamonds.
Round and about his chariot, white wolf hounds,
Twenty and more, each one big as a steer,
And trained to hunt the lion and the deer,
Were following him with tightly fastened muzzles,
Filed leash-rings ftted to their golden collars.
A hundred lords came with him in his train;
All excellently armed, stout-hearted men.
According to legend, with Arcita
The great Emetrius, King of India,
Upon a bay horse accoutred in steel,
And covered with a diapered cloth of gold,
Came riding, like the god of weapons, Mars.
His surcoat was of purple silk from Tars
And overlaid with white pearls, huge and round;
His saddle was of f ne new-beaten gold;
A sleeveless cloak was hanging from his shoulder,
Swarming with rubies, red as sparkling f re;
His hair was curling, and arranged in rings—
Yellow they were, and glittered in the sun.
A high nose; eyes the colour of citron;
Full rounded lips; a f orid complexion;
He’d a few freckles sprinkled on his face,
Some yellow, and some shading into black,
And gazed about him glaring like a lion.
His age was twenty-fve, or so I reckon.
His beard had sprouted, and was well begun;
His voice was like a trumpet thundering.
Upon his head he wore a gay green garland
Of laurel, fresh and pleasing to the eye.
For sport, he carried perched upon his hand
A falcon, tamed and whiter than a lily.
He had a hundred nobles with him there,
Bareheaded, but all armed with richest gear,
Fully equipped in every kind of way.
For, take it from me, dukes and earls and kings
Had gathered in this splendid company
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58 the knight’s tale
For love and the advance of chivalry.
You saw, on every side about the king,
Tame lions and tame leopards gambolling.
And in this style these nobles, one and all,
Came on the Sunday to the citadel
About nine, and there alighted in the town.
And when that valiant knight, Duke Theseus,
Had brought them all to Thebes, his city,
And had, according to rank and degree,
Found lodging for the whole great company,
He laboured for the comfort of his guests,
Regaling them with banquets and with feasts,
Till no one could have shown, so people said,
A better judgement, or improved on it.
The music, service at the feast, and how
Great gifts were presented to high and low,
The splendid spectacle of Theseus’ palace,
Who sat frst, and who last, upon the dais,
Which ladies were the loveliest, or danced best,
Or which of them could best dance and sing,
Or which could speak of love with most feeling,
What hawks were sitting on the perch above,
What dogs were lying on the f oor below,
Of all these things I shall say nothing now,
But give the gist of it; I think that’s best.
But to the point—so listen, if you please.
That Sunday night, before the break of day,
Palamon heard the lark begin its lay—
Although it was two hours before the dawn,
Yet the lark sang—and up rose Palamon,
In highest spirits and with devout heart
Ready to go upon his pilgrimage
To Cytherea, the blessed and benign—
I mean, to Venus and her honoured shrine.
In the hour ruled by her, he slowly trod
Towards the lists, where Venus’ temple stood,
And kneeling down, with humble demeanour
And a full heart, he prayed as you shall hear:
‘Fairest of the fair, daughter to Jupiter,
And bride ofVulcan, O my lady Venus,
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59 the knight’s tale
You who bring joy to mount Cytherea,
By that love which you bore for Adonis,
Take pity on my bitter smarting tears,
And take into your heart my humble prayer.
Alas, I have no words with which to tell
The nature or the torment of my hell;
My heart’s not able to reveal its woe;
I am so confused I can only say,
“Take pity, radiant Lady, for you know
My thought, and see the wounds that hurt me so.
Think of all this, take pity on my sorrow,
And evermore, so far as lies in me,
Your true and faithful servant I shall be,
And wage eternal war on chastity.”
If you will help me, this shall be my vow.
I have no wish to brag of feats of arms,
Nor that tomorrow should bring victory,
Nor for renown, nor for the hollow glory
Of honour won, trumpeted up and down;
But what I want is the sole possession
Of Emily, and to die serving you.
Do you devise the means, and show me how.
Whether the victory is theirs or mine
Means nothing, makes no dif erence to me,
So that I have my lady in my arms.
Though it be true that Mars is god of arms,
Your power is so great in heaven above,
That, if you wish, I’ll surely gain my love.
I’ll worship in your temple ever after:
Wherever I may go, upon your altar
I shall make sacrifce, and light the f ame;
If this be not your will, sweet Lady, then
I beg you let Arcita drive a spear
Straight through my heart tomorrow. I won’t care,
It will mean nothing when I’ve lost my life,
If Arcita should win her for his wife.
This is the sum and total of my prayer:
Give me my love, O blissful Lady dear.’
His prayer being ended, Palamon
Made sacrifce with all due rites, although
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60 the knight’s tale
I shall not tell of his devotions now.
But in the end the statue of Venus shook,
And made a sign; and this Palamon took
To mean his prayer had been heard that day.
For though the sign betokened a delay,
He was quite sure his boon was granted him;
And so with cheerful heart he hastened home.
Three hours after Palamon set forth
To visit the temple of divine Venus,
Up rose the sun, and up rose Emily,
And to Diana’s temple made her way.
The maidens whom she took with her had brought
With them the fre, all ready and prepared;
The vestments and incense, and all the rest
That appertains to making sacrif ce;
The horns flled full of mead, as custom was;
Nothing was lacking for her sacrif ce.
The temple, smoking with incense, was full
Of splendid hangings; with light heart, Emily
Washes herself in water from a well;
How she performed that rite, I dare not tell,
Unless it be in a most general way;
And yet it would be fun to hear it all.
For men of goodwill, such things are no harm;
But they’re best left to the imagination.
Her shining hair was combed, untressed and loose;
A coronal of evergreen oakleaves
Was on her head, neatly and meetly set.
Two fres upon the altar being lit,
She then performed those rites which you may read
In old books such as Statius’ Thebiad.* Then she began, when she had lit the f re,
To pray to Diana, as you shall hear:
‘O you chaste goddess of the greenwood, you
Who look upon earth, heaven, and the sea,
Queen of Pluto’s dark kingdom there below,
Goddess of virgins, who for many a year
Have understood my heart, known my desire,
O keep me from your vengeance and anger,
From which Actaeon sufered long ago.
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61 the knight’s tale
O you chaste goddess, you know well that I
Desire to be a virgin all my life,
Never to be a mistress or a wife.
You know I’m still one of your company,
A virgin, and a lover of the chase,
Who would far rather roam the forests wild
Than ever be a wife, or be with child.
I’ll never be companioned with a man.
Now help me, Lady, since you may and can
By virtue of your threefold deity.* For Palamon, who has such love for me,
And Arcita, whose passion hurts him so,
This favour, and no more, I beg from you:
Set peace and amity between the two,
And from me let their hearts be turned away,
Till all their burning love and hot desire,
And all their feverish torment and f re
Be quite put out, or else turned otherwhere.
But if it happens you won’t grant this favour,
Or if my destiny be ordained so
That needs must I must have one of the two,
Send me the one that most desires me.
Behold, O goddess of chaste purity,
These bitter tears upon my cheeks falling.
And since you are a virgin, and our guardian,
Do you defend and guard my maidenhood,
And while I live I’ll serve you as a maid.’
The fres were burning clear upon the altar
While Emily was thus engaged in prayer.
But suddenly she saw a curious sight:
For all at once one of the f res went out,
And caught again; immediately after that,
The other fre dimmed and extinguished;
And as it went out, it began a whistling,
Making a noise like wet branches burning,
And there, out of the end of every faggot,
Ran blood, or what seemed blood, drop after drop;
At which Emily, all but terrif ed
Out of her wits and senses, gave a cry:
But it was only out of shock she cried,
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62 the knight’s tale
Having no notion what it signif ed;
And she wept pitiably. But Diana
Chose at this very moment to appear
Clothed like a huntress, with her bow in hand,
And spoke: ‘Dry your tears, daughter; understand
Among the gods on high it is af rmed,
The eternal word is set down and conf rmed,
That you shall marry one of these two men
Who sufer so for you; but which of them,
I may not say. And now farewell, for I
May stay no longer. But the f res that burn
Upon my altar shall in time make plain
Before you leave here, what your destiny
In this afair may be.’ And thereupon
Her arrows clattered in their case and rang;
The goddess vanished. Emily, amazed,
Exclaimed aloud, ‘What can this mean, alas?
I place myself in your protecting care,
To dispose as you wish, O Diana!’
And home she went, taking the shortest way;
And that was all—there is no more to say.
An hour after this—the hour of Mars—
Arcita strode to the f erce god of war’s
Grim temple, to perform his sacrif ce
With all due pagan rites and ceremonies.
With deep devotion, and with suppliant heart,
He made his prayer thus, direct to Mars:
‘O you strong god, honoured in the cold
Regions of Thrace, and there accounted lord,
Who hold in every kingdom, every land,
The bridle-reins of war frm in your hand,
You who can sway their fortunes as you please,
Accept of me my humble sacrif ce.
And if you think my youth may so deserve,
And that my strength is suf cient to serve
Your godhead; if you count me as your man,
I pray you to take pity on my pain.
By those same pangs, and by that scorching f re,
Those fames in which you once burned with desire
When Venus’ beauty was all yours to use,
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63 the knight’s tale
Young, lovelyVenus, fresh and generous;
And when at will you had her in your arms—
Although things fell out badly for you once,
That time when Vulcan caught you in his net,
And found you lying with his wife, alack!
For all the pain that then was in your heart,
Take pity too, I pray, on my sore hurt.
For I am young and ignorant, as you know,
More racked and torn with love, as I suppose,
Than any living creature ever was;
For she for whom I suf er all this pain
Cares not a button if I sink or swim.
Before she’ll promise me her heart, it’s plain
I must by main strength win her in the lists;
And well I know that without help or grace
From you, my lord, my strength will not avail.
Then give me aid tomorrow in the battle,
For that fre that once burned you long ago,
As well as for that fre that burns me now,
So that tomorrow brings me victory—
Let mine be all the doing, yours the glory!
Above all other places I shall honour
Your sovereign temple; I shall ever labour
For your delight in your hard trade of war;
And I shall hang my banner in your fane,
With all the weapons of my company,
And ever after, till the day I die,
Feed an eternal f re there for you.
I bind myself, moreover, with this vow:
My beard, and these long hanging locks of hair,
As yet untouched by razor or by shears,
To you I dedicate; and I shall be
Your true and faithful servant till I die.
Take pity on my burning sorrows, Lord;
Give me the victory; I ask no more.’
When strong Arcita had ceased his prayer,
The rings that hung upon the temple door
Clattered together; the doors clanged as well;
At which Arcita finched. The altar f res
Blazed up until they lighted the whole temple,
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64 the knight’s tale
And from the ground emanated a sweet smell.
Arcita lifted up his hand, to cast
More incense on the fre; until at last
After more and other rites, the carven
Statue of Mars made its steel hauberk ring;
And with that sound he heard a murmuring,
Very low and soft; and it said, ‘Victory!’
To Mars he gave the honour and the glory,
Then, full of hope that all will turn out well,
Arcita heads for home; he is as joyful
And glad as the birds are of the bright sun.
But in a trice a furious row began
Over this granted boon, in heaven above,
As between Venus, the goddess of love,
And Mars, the cruel god armipotent.
Jupiter was kept busy making peace
Till bleak old Saturn, versed in stratagems,
Was able, from his long experience,
To fnd an answer satisfying both.
The old, in fact, have a great advantage:
Wisdom, experience, belong to age.
You can outdo the old, but not outwit.
Though it’s not Saturn’s nature to discourage
Terror and contention, he was quick
To fnd a remedy for the whole dispute.
‘My dear daughter Venus,’ said Saturn,
‘Mine is the widest orbit round the sun,
And so my power is greater than men suppose;
Mine are all drownings in the gloomy seas,
Mine is the prison in the dark dungeon;
Mine are all stranglings, hangings by the throat,
The mutter and rebellion of the mob,
All discontents and clandestine poisonings;
When I am in the sign of Leo, mine
Is vengeance, mine is fell retribution.
Mine is the ruin of high palaces,
The falling of the walls and of the towers
Upon the miner and the carpenter.
For I killed Samson, shaking the pillar;
To me belong all deadly sicknesses,
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65 the knight’s tale
Black treacheries, deceits, conspiracies;
The pestilence is fathered by my glance.
Now weep no more; I’ll use all diligence
To see that your own knight, your Palamon,
Shall win his lady as you promised him.
Though Mars must help his man, yet none the less
Between you two there must some time be peace,
Albeit your temperaments are opposed,
From which these endless squabbles take their rise.
I am your grandfather, ready to command;
So dry your tears, I’ll do what you demand.’
Now that’s enough about the gods above,
Of Mars, and Venus the goddess of love;
And I’ll tell you, as plainly as I can,
The outcome of the tale that I began.
part four
Great junketings were going on that day
In Athens, while the joyous month of May
So lifted up the spirits, thus enhancing
The general gaiety, that people passed
All of the Monday jousting, or in dancing,
Or else spent it in Venus’ high service.
But, needing to rise early for the f ght,
Early they took themselves to bed that night.
And in the morning, when the dawn was breaking,
In all the inns about there was a clattering
Of horses and armour. Bands and companies
Of noblemen on stallions and palfreys
Rode to Theseus’ palace. You’d have seen there
Much preparing of marvellous armour,
Well-wrought and rich; steelwork, embroidery,
And goldsmithry; the glittering shields, and steel
Headpieces, trappings, golden helmets, mail,
And coats-of-arms; princes on war-horses,
Robed splendidly; attendant knights, and squires
Nailing the spearheads fast, and buckling on
The helmets; strapping shields with leather thongs;
With so much to be done there, none was idle.
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You’d see the horses foam, champ the gold bridle;
You’d see the armourers spurring to and fro
With fle and hammer, fast as they could go;
Yeomen on foot, commoners by the thousand,
All of them armed with short staves, thickly crowding;
Pipes, trumpets, kettledrums, and clarions
That howl for blood in battle and in war;
The palace f lled with people everywhere,
In knots of two or three, or nine or ten,
Debating back and forth, and speculating
About the Theban knights; some of them saying
One thing, and some another; others laying
Wagers on diferent knights—some backing Blackbeard,
Some Baldhead, while yet others were for Thatch-haired,
‘That one looks tough, he’ll put up a good f ght!’
‘That axe of his is twenty pounds in weight!’
—Thus the whole hall was full of speculation
A long time after that day’s sun had risen.
The great Duke Theseus, from sleep aroused
By the music and the hubbub of the crowd
Outside his palace gates, kept to his chamber,
Till—for they treated them with equal honour—
They brought the Theban knights to the palace.
Duke Theseus was at a window seat,
Just like a god in splendour on his throne.
Thither the press of people hurried in
To see him, and to pay due homage, and
Listen to his directives and commands.
‘Ho there!’ a herald on a scaf old shouted
Until the noise of the crowd abated,
And, silence having fallen on them all,
He then announced the great Duke Theseus’ will;
‘The prince has, in his prudence and wisdom,
Concluded that it would be mere destruction
Of noble blood, if this af air were fought
In terms of mortal combat, to the death.
And therefore he desires to modify
His frst proposal, so that none shall die.
No man, therefore, upon pain of death,
May bring with him, or have sent to the lists,
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Any kind of arrow, poleaxe, or short knife;
No short, sharp-pointed sword for stabbing with
May any draw, nor carry at his side.
And at the tournament no man may ride
More than one charge against his opponent
With spear unblunted; but for self-defence,
Thrusting on foot’s permitted; any man
Who’s down, must not be killed, but must be taken,
Brought to the stake that’s fxed on either side,
Forcibly carried there, and there abide.
And should it chance that either of the captains
Is captured, or else kills his opponent,
That is the fnish of the tournament.
And now, Godspeed! Forward, and lay on hard!
Fight your fll, gentlemen, with mace and sword!
Go ahead and begin: the prince has spoken.’
The people’s voice rose to the roof of heaven,
So loud they cried, with so joyous a note:
And their cry was, ‘God save so good a duke!
He’ll have no wholesale spilling of good blood!’
Up go the trumpets, and the fanfares shrilled,
And in due order the whole company
Goes riding to the lists, through the great city
Hung with no plainer stuf than cloth-of-gold.
In princely state the noble Theseus rides
With the two Thebans upon either side;
Behind them rode the queen, and Emily,
And after them, another company
Of various folk, in order of degree.
And in this way they passed through the city
Until they reached the lists with time in hand.
It was still early in the morning, when
Theseus took his seat in state on high,
With Queen Hippolyta, and Emily,
And other ladies, each in their degree.
Meanwhile, a great crowd presses to the seats.
At the west end, there enters through the gates
Of Mars, Arcita with red banner and
The hundred knights belonging to his band;
And at the selfsame moment Palamon
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68 the knight’s tale
Enters by the gates of Venus at the east,
With a white banner and def ant face.
No matter where you looked, you’d never f nd
Anywhere in the world two companies
So equally matched at every point as these;
None might, no matter how expert, contend
That any, in either, held an advantage
In years, in birth or rank, or in courage,
So evenly had each of them been chosen.
In two trim rows they ranged themselves. And when
The roll was called, and every name was read,
Their numbers checked to ensure no deceit,
Then were the gates shut, and up goes the cry:
‘Now do your duty, show your mettle, knights!’
The heralds leave of spurring up and down;
Now the loud trumpets, and the clarion
Ring out; and on the east side and the west
In go the spears, couched frm for the attack,
In go the spurs, sharp in the horse’s side.
We’ll soon see who can joust, and who can ride!
There on thick shields the shafts shiver and split.
One of them through the breast-bone feels the thrust.
Twenty feet in the air the spears leap up;
Out come the swords, like silver is their f ash;
They hew at helms, and hack them all to bits;
And out in harsh red foods the blood now spurts;
Under their heavy maces the bones smash,
This one thrusts through the thickest of the press
Where strongest horses stumble; down go all;
One’s rolling underfoot, just like a ball;
And one, on foot, thrusts with his broken shaft,
Another with his horse comes crashing down;
And one is wounded through the body, taken,
Manhandled to the stake, furiously f ghting;
There he, according to the rules, must bide.
Another’s captured on the other side.
From time to time Theseus makes them rest
To take refreshment, drink if they so wish.
Often have these two Thebans met in combat,
And each has done his opponent a mischief,
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69 the knight’s tale
And both have been unhorsed by one another.
No tiger in the vale of Gargophia
Reft of its cub and turning on the hunter,
Could have been crueller than Arcita
Is in his jealous rage to Palamon.
And there’s no lion hunted in Benmarin
More fell, more hunger-frenzied for its prey
And thirsty for its blood, than Palamon
Out to kill Arcita, his enemy.
The eager blows rain down and bite
Their helmets; and the red blood gushes out.
But soon or late, all things must have an end.
Before the sun went down, the mighty King
Emetrius had at length contrived to catch
Palamon fghting Arcita; his sword bit
Deep into Palamon’s f esh; whom it took
Twenty to drag, unyielding, to the stake.
In coming to the aid of Palamon
The mighty King Lycurgus was knocked down,
While King Emetrius, for all his strength,
Was thrown out of his saddle a sword’s length
By Palamon’s last blow, so hard he hit;
But all for nothing—he’s dragged to the stake.
Of no avail is his courageous heart:
There he must stay now that he has been caught,
Held there by force, and by the rules agreed on.
Now who is in worse case than Palamon,
Since he may not go out again to f ght?
And when Duke Theseus had seen it happen,
To everyone there fghting he called out:
‘Ho there! No more! All’s over now and done!
I’ll be an honest judge, no partisan:
Arcita of Thebes shall have Emily,
The luck’s with him, she has been fairly won.’
At once there rose a shout from one and all
For joy at this, so loud and thunderous
It seemed the very lists themselves would fall.
Now what can Venus do, in heaven above?
What can she do or say, the Queen of Love,
But weep because she cannot have her wish,
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Until her tears rain down upon the lists?
Cried she, ‘Now I am thoroughly disgraced!’
But Saturn answered, ‘Daughter, hold your tongue!
Mars has his way, his knight has got his boon,
And, as I live, you’ll be contented soon.’
The trumpeters and the loud music blare;
Loudly the heralds yell and shout and cry
Happy as larks for the Prince Arcita.
But bear with me, and don’t anticipate,
You’ll hear what kind of miracle happened next.
Noble Arcita, having taken of
His helmet, so that he can show his face,
Spurs the whole length of the great arena
All the while looking up at Emily,
Who casts on him, in turn, a friendly eye,
(For, generally speaking, all women
Follow whoever’s favoured by Fortune)
And she was all his heart’s delight and joy.
Out of the ground there bursts a hellborn Fury,
From Pluto sent at request of Saturn,
At which his frightened horse begins to shy,
And leap aside, and stumble in leaping;
And before Arcita can react, he
Has been thrown of and pitched upon his head,
And lies in the arena as if dead,
With his chest smashed in by his saddle-bow.
Turning as black as coal, black as a crow,
He lay there, the blood rushing to his face.
Quickly they carried him out of the place
With heavy hearts, to Theseus’ palace.
They cut the laces of his armour, then
Put him to bed without the least delay,
For he was conscious still, and still alive,
And calling all the while for Emily.
And now Duke Theseus and his guests arrive
Back home at Athens, with great pomp and joy.
Despite what happened, he’d not cast a gloom
If he could help it, over everyone;
Besides, they said Arcita would not die,
But must recover from his injury.
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They were as pleased about another thing:
Not one of all their number had been slain,
Though some were badly wounded, like the man
Who’d been thrust with a spear through the breast-bone.
As for their other wounds and broken arms,
Some of them had ointments, some had charms;
They also drank infusions and herb-medicines
To help regain the full use of their limbs;
For which the noble duke, as best he can,
Comforts and honours every one of them,
Holding high revel all the livelong night
For the foreign lords and princes, as was right.
No thought was there of victory or defeat
Any more than at a tournament or joust,
For, really, there was no disgrace. A fall
Need not be counted, it’s incidental;
And to be hauled by main force to the stake
Unyielding, captured by a score of knights,
One man all on his own, and harried so,
Pulled and propelled with arm and foot and toe,
And his horse driven of with stave and cudgel
By yeomen, men on foot, and boys as well:
There’s nobody would count that as disgrace,
Or who would dare to call it cowardice!
It was proclaimed, by order of the duke,
To put a stop to rancour and malice,
That neither side did better than the other,
But each matched each, as brother matches brother.
He gave appropriate gifts to one and all,
And for three days he held high festival,
And honourably escorted the two kings
As far as a day’s travel from Athens.
Then every man went home the shortest way:
It was all over, bar ‘Good luck!’ ‘Goodbye!’
About the tournament I’ll say no more,
But tell of Palamon and Arcita.
Swollen and swelling is Arcita’s breast,
The pain about his heart grows worse and worse.
The clotted blood, for all the doctors’ skill
Corrupts and festers in his belly, till
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Bleeding and cupping are no help for him,
Nor herbal draughts, nor any medicine.
For the expelling, or ‘animal’ power
Can neither eliminate nor expel
The venom from the other, ‘natural’, power.
The vessels of his lungs begin to swell
And every muscle, deep down in his chest,
With poison and with gangrene is corrupt.
Nothing is any use to save his life,
For he can neither vomit nor excrete.
Broken and shattered is that part of him,
And Nature now has no domination.
All you can say, where Nature will not work,
Is, ‘Goodbye, doctor! Take the man to church!’
The long and short of it is, he must die;
And so Arcita sends for Emily,
And for his dearest cousin, Palamon.
And this is what Arcita said to them:
‘The heavy heart that is within my breast
May not declare a tithe of my sharp grief
To you, my lady, whom I love the best;
But I bequeath the service of my ghost
To you above all created beings, for
I know my life no longer may endure.
Alas the woe! Alas the bitter pain
That I have sufered for you for so long!
And alas death! Alas, my Emily!
Alas, the parting of our company!
Alas, queen of my heart! Alas, my bride!* Lady of my heart, and causer of my death!
What is this world? What does man ask to have?
Now with his love, now in the chilling grave,
Alone, and with no kind of company!
Sweet enemy, farewell, my Emily!
Hold and fold me in your two arms gently
For love of God, and hear what I shall say.
‘For love of you there’s been contention
Between me and my cousin Palamon,
Rancour and jealousy for many a day.
Now may wise Jupiter direct my heart
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Fittingly and faithfully to portray
A lover’s attributes and qualities,
Such as faith, wisdom, honour, chivalry,
Rank, birth, humility, magnanimity,
And all that’s needed for the lover’s art.
As I look to Jupiter for salvation,
In the whole world there isn’t anyone
So worthy to be loved as Palamon,
Who serves you, and will serve you all his life.
And if you ever think to be a wife,
Do not forget the noble Palamon.’
And with these words, his speech began to fail,
For from his feet up to his breast there came
The chill of death, so that it vanquished him,
While in his arms the vital power dispersed.
The intellect that lived in his sick breast
Failed only when the heart was touched by death.
And then, with darkening eyes and f agging breath,
Upon his lady he still cast his eye.
His last word was, ‘Have pity, Emily!’
His spirit changed its house and went on—where
I cannot say, for I was never there.
So I’ll shut up; I’m no theologian;
There’s nothing about souls in the volume
I found my story in; it’s not my line
To talk about such theories, although
Much has been written about where they go.
Arcita’s cold; may Mars direct his soul:
It is of Emily I have to tell.
Emily shrieks; Palamon groans; and soon,
His sister having fallen in a swoon
Beside the corpse, the duke leads her away.
But what’s the use of wasting precious time
In telling how she wept both night and day?
In cases like this women feel such sorrow
When they have lost their husbands, most of them
Will mourn and grieve and lament in this way,
Or very likely fall in a decline
So deep that in the end they’re bound to die.
Unending were the laments, and the tears
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74 the knight’s tale
Shed by the old, and those of tender years,
For the dead Theban, throughout the city.
The whole town wept for him, both man and boy;
Be sure there was not half the lamentation
When Hector, newly killed, was brought back home
To Troy. What a mourning there was here!
Scratching of cheeks, and tearing of the hair!
And women crying, ‘O why did you die,
Had you not gold enough, and Emily?’
There was no man could comfort Theseus,
Excepting his old father, Aegeus,
Who understood the world’s transmutations,
Having seen so many of its ups and downs,
Joy after woe, grief after happiness;
He gave examples of such happenings.
‘Just as no man has ever died,’ said he,
‘Who has not lived in this world in some way,
Just so there never lived a man,’ he said,
‘Anywhere on earth, but at some time was dead.
This world is but a thoroughfare of woe,
And we are pilgrims, travelling to and fro.
All earthly troubles have an end in death.’
And he said much more to the same ef ect,
Exhorting people to be comforted.
Duke Theseus then gave the most careful thought
To fnding the best place to build the tomb
Of good Arcita: one to honour him,
Appropriate to his rank and position.
At length he came to the conclusion
That where Arcita and Palamon
Had frst fought one another for their love,
There in that very grove so fresh and green,
Where Arcita had felt the burning f ame
Of love, and amorous desires, and sung
His complaint, there he would erect a pyre
Where all the funeral rites could be performed.
Then he commanded them to hack and hew
The ancient oaks, and lay them in a row
Of faggots, properly disposed to burn.
So on swift feet the duke’s of cers run
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75 the knight’s tale
At his command. Next, Theseus bids them bring
A funeral bier, and over it he spread
A cloth-of-gold, the richest that he had.
And he had Arcita swathed in the same
Material, with white gloves on his hands,
His head wreathed with a fresh green laurel crown,
A keen and gleaming sword set in his hand.
He laid him, face uncovered, on the bier,
Then wept, till it would break your heart to hear.
When day broke, that it might be seen by all
He had the body brought into the hall,
Which echoed with the din of lamentation.
Then the heart-broken Theban, Palamon,
Came with bedraggled beard, ash-matted hair,
In clothes of black, bespotted with his tears,
And, weeping more than any, Emily,
The saddest there of the whole company.
As Arcita was of the blood royal,
To dignify and enrich the funeral
Duke Theseus commanded them to bring
Three horses, all harnessed in glittering
Steel, covered with the arms of Arcita.
Each of these huge white horses had a rider,
One of them carrying the dead man’s shield,
While high aloft another man upheld
His spear, and the third bore his Turkish bow
(Its quiver burnished gold, the trappings too),
And they rode sadly at a walking pace
Towards the greenwood grove, as you shall hear.
And following them the noblest of the Greeks
Bore on their shoulders Prince Arcita’s bier
With even steps, with their eyes red and wet,
Across the city, along its main street
Spread with black draperies, hung from on high,
And draped with the same colour all the way.
On the right hand there walked old Aegeus,
And on the other side, Duke Theseus,
With vessels in their hands of f nest gold,
All full of wine and honey, milk and blood;
Palamon next, with a great company,
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76 the knight’s tale
And these were followed by poor Emily,
Bearing the fre—the custom in those days—
For her part in the funeral service.
Splendid the work and preparation for
The funeral, and building of the pyre;
The green top of the pyre reached the sky,
Its base spread twenty fathoms—that’s to say
The branches and the logs reached out that far.
First, they laid down load after load of straw—
But how they built the pyre as high as heaven,
How the trees were felled, or what their names were even,
—Oak, fr, beech, aspen, elder, ilex, hazel,
Willow, elm, plane, ash, box, poplar, lime, laurel,
Maple, thorn, beech, yew, dogwood, and chestnut—
Are things I’m not proposing to relate;
Nor how the demigods ran up and down,
Disinherited of their habitation,
In which they’d lived in quietness and peace,
Nymphs, dryads, fauns, and hamadryades;
Nor how the animals and birds all f ed
In panic terror, when they felled the wood;
Nor how the ground blenched, aghast at the bright
Sun, being unaccustomed to the light;
Nor how the pyre was frst laid with straw,
Then with dry sticks, and faggots split in three,
Then with green wood, and then with spicery,
Then cloth-of-gold, and gems and jewellery,
And then with garlands hung with many f owers,
With myrrh and incense, and all sweet odours;
Nor how Arcita lay amidst all this,
Nor what the treasure piled around him was;
Nor how Emily, according to usage,
Thrust in the funeral torch, and lit the blaze;
Nor how she fainted when the fre built up,
Nor even what she said, nor what she thought,
Nor what the jewels were that people cast
Into the f re when the fames blazed up;
I’ll not tell how some threw in shield and spear,
Others the very clothing that they wore,
And goblets full of wine, and milk, and blood,
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77 the knight’s tale
Into the roaring f ames that blazed white-hot;
Nor how the Greeks, in a great band together,
Faced to the left, then with a loud shouting
Galloped their horses thrice around the pyre,
And round it thrice again, with spears clattering;
Nor how three times the women made their keen;
Nor how Emily was at last led home;
Nor how Arcita burned to ashes cold;
Nor shall I tell you how his wake was held,
The livelong night; nor how the Greeks contested
The funeral games, for I’m not interested
In who wrestled best, his body oiled and naked,
Or who made the best showing, though bested.
I will not even tell how they went home
To Athens, once the funeral games were done;
But make an end of my long story, and
Come to the point as quickly as I can.
In time, after the passage of some years,
Ended at length the mourning and the tears
Of all the Greeks, by tacit agreement.
Then it appears they held a parliament
At Athens, to talk over various
Afairs and issues; among which there was
Some talk of making foreign alliances,
And of compelling Theban allegiance.
And therefore the good Theseus lost no time
In sending for the noble Palamon.
Not knowing for what cause he came, or why,
Dressed in his clothes of black, sorrowfully
Prince Palamon has hastened to obey.
Thereupon Theseus sent for Emily.
When all were seated, and the place was hushed,
For a short space of time Theseus paused.
Before speaking from the wisdom of his heart
He let his eyes rove over them. His face
Was serious. Then with a quiet sigh
He spoke his mind to the whole assembly:
‘When the First Mover, the First Cause above,
First created the great chain of love,
Great was His purpose, great the consequence.
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78 the knight’s tale
He knew all whys and wherefores when He bent
With that great chain of love, water and land,
And air and f re, within fxed certain bounds
They may not go beyond. And that same Prince
And Mover’, he continued, ‘established
Here in this miserable world below
For all things that are engendered on earth,
Fixed seasons, days, durations, beyond which
They may last no longer, not a day; although
That period they may easily abridge.
There is no need to cite authorities;
Experience proves it; all I want to do
Is to make clear just what my meaning is.
Then from this divine order it is plain
The Mover is eternal, does not change.
It’s clear to anyone, except a fool,
That every part derives from a great Whole,
For Nature did not take its beginning
From any part or portion of a thing,
But from a being perfect and immutable,
Descending thence to become corruptible.
And therefore in His provident foresight
He has so ordered His creation that
Things of all kinds, all processes, survive
By continual succession, do not live
For ever and ever. And this is no lie,
As anyone can see with half an eye.
Look at the oak, that has so long a growth
From the time it f rst begins to germinate,
And has so long a life, as is well known,
But in the end decays; the tree falls down.
‘Likewise consider how the hardest stone
Under our feet, the stone we tread upon
As it lies on the road, is worn away.
In time the broadest river will run dry;
Great cities we have seen decline and fall;
Thus we may see that an end comes to all.
‘In the case of men and women, it’s clear also
That at one time or another, they must go;
That is to say, in either youth or age
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79 the knight’s tale
Die you must, whether you be king or page;
One dies in bed, another in the sea,
Another on dry land, it’s plain to see;
It can’t be helped, for all go the same way.
And so I can afrm all things must die.
‘Who contrives this but Jupiter the King,
Who is the Prince and Cause of everything,
Who converts all back to its proper source
From which, in very truth, it f rst arose?
And against this it’s useless, in the end,
For any living creature to contend.
‘It’s common sense, or so it seems to me,
To make a virtue of necessity,
Take what we can’t avoid with a good grace,
Especially what’s due to all of us.
Whoever mutters at this is a fool,
And rebellious to Him Who governs all.
The man who dies in his life’s prime and f ower
While sure of his good name, wins most honour,
For in that case he brings no shame to either
Himself or friends. And his friend ought to be
Gladder of his death when it’s with honour he
Yields up his latest breath, than when his name
Has faded in the course of age and time,
When all his former prowess is forgotten.
And so it’s best, as regards his good name,
To die when he is at the height of fame.
‘Now to deny this is perversity.
Then why should we repine or be downcast
That good Arcita, fower of chivalry,
Has departed with honour and repute
Out of the foul prison of this life?
And why should these, his cousin and his wife,
Lament his happiness, who loved them well?
Would he thank them? Not on your life: his soul
And themselves they ofend, yet are no happier.
‘What conclusion is there for me to draw
From this long argument, save to advise
We should let gladness follow upon sadness,
And then thank Jupiter for all his goodness?*
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80 the knight’s tale
And now, before departing from this place,
I think that of two sorrows we should make
One perfect joy that will always last.
And look: there where we fnd the deepest sorrow,
There shall we frst of all begin the cure.
‘Sister,’ said he, ‘it has my full consent,
And is confrmed here by my parliament,
That noble Palamon, your own true knight,
Who’s served you with his whole soul, heart, and might,
As he has always done since frst you knew him,
Deserves your favour, so take pity on him,
And take him for your lord and your husband.
We have agreed on this; give me your hand.
And now let’s see your womanly compassion!
For after all, he’s a king’s brother’s son;
Even if he were no knight, but a poor squire,
As he has loved and served you year by year,
And sufered for you such adversity,
That ought to be considered, for, believe me,
Noble compassion should outweigh justice.’
Then he addressed the knight, Palamon, thus:
‘I take it there needs little arguing
To obtain your agreement to this thing.
Come here and take your lady by the hand.’
And so between them both was sealed the bond
Of matrimony, which some folk term marriage,
By the whole council and the baronage.
And thus with joy and with minstrelsy
Palamon has wedded Emily.
May God, Who created this world so wide,
Grant him His love, for he has dearly paid;
For Palamon from now on all is bliss,
He lives in wealth and health and happiness,
And Emily loves him so tenderly,
And he loves and serves her so devotedly,
That between those two was never spoken
A jealous word, nor so much as a cross one.
No more of Palamon and Emily,
And God save all this noble company!
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81 the miller’s prologue
THE MILLER’S PROLOGUE
Here follows the argument between the Host and the Miller
And when at last the Knight’s tale had been told,
There was not one among us, young or old,
Who did not say it was a noble story,
Well worth remembering; especially
All of the better sort. Laughing, our Host
Swore, ‘As I live, we’re now on the right track!
A good beginning; we’ve unstrapped the pack.
And now let’s see who’ll tell another tale,
For there’s no doubt the game is well begun.
Now tell me, Mister Monk, that’s if you can,
Something to cap the Knight’s, and pay him out.’
The Miller, half-seas over, was so pale
With drink that he could barely keep his seat
Upon his horse; his manners were quite lost,
He’d not dof hood nor hat, and wouldn’t wait,
But, ranting like a Pilate on the stage,* Began to swear: ‘Christ’s arms and blood and bones,
I’ve got a splendid tale for the occasion
To pay the Knight out with, and cap his tale.’
Our Host could see that he was drunk with ale,
And said, ‘Hold hard, Robin! Watch it, brother!
Some better man must frst tell us another,* So pipe down now; let’s make a go of it.’
‘By all that’s holy, that I won’t,’ said he,
‘I mean to speak, or I’ll be on my way.’
Answered our Host, ‘In Satan’s name, say on!
You’re nothing but a fool, your wits are drowned.’
‘Now listen,’ said the Miller, ‘one and all!
But frst I make a public avowal
That I am drunk; I can tell by the sound.
So, if I trip up on a word or two,
Blame it on Southwark ale, I beg of you.
For I’ll tell a story of a carpenter,
And of his wife also; and how a scholar
Set his cap at her, made a fool of him.’
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82 the miller’s prologue
But the Reeve interrupted, ‘Hold your tongue!
Leave of your sottish rude obscenity.
It is a sin, and also a great folly,
To slander or aggravate any man,
And also to bring wives in disrepute.
You’ve many other things to talk about.’
The drunken Miller made a quick retort.
Said he, ‘We all know, don’t we, dear old Oswald,
It’s he who has no wife who is no cuckold.
But mind you, I’m not saying you are one;
There’s plenty of good wives—for every one
That’s bad, there are a thousand who are good,
As you should know, unless you’re of your head.
Now why are you so worked up at my tale?
For, pardon me, I have a wife as well.
Yet not for all the oxen in my team
Would I push my luck so far as to presume
That I was one myself. I will believe
I’m not. We mustn’t be inquisitive
About God’s secret doings, or our wives’.
So long as you can f nd God’s plenty there,
About the rest, you’ve no call to enquire.’
In short, the Miller would not curb his tongue
Or language for the sake of anyone,
But told his vulgar tale in his own way.
I’m sorry that I must repeat it here.
And therefore, I entreat all decent folk
For God’s sake don’t imagine that I speak
With any evil motive, but because
I’m bound to tell, for better or for worse,
All of their stories, or else falsify
My subject-matter as you have it here;
And so, should anyone not wish to hear,
Turn the page over, choose another tale.
There’s plenty of all kinds, to please you all:
True tales that touch on manners and on morals,
As well as piety and saintliness;
I’m not responsible if you choose amiss.
The Miller is a lout, as you’re aware;
So was the Reeve; and so were many more.
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83 the miller’s tale
They both told bawdy stories. Then beware,
And do not lay upon me all the blame,
Or take in earnest what is meant in fun.
THE MILLER’S TALE
At one time there was living at Oxford
A rich old gafer, carpenter by trade,
Who took in paying guests; and he’d a lodger
Living with him, a needy hard-up scholar
Learned in the liberal arts; but all his fancy
Turned to the study of astrology:
He could work out a few propositions,
And thus calculate answers to questions,
When people came to ask him if the stars
Were auguring dry weather or downpours;
Or he’d forecast what events would befall,
One kind or another—I can’t list them all.
Fly Nicholas* was what they called this scholar. For love sub rosa, pleasing, or for pleasure
In bed or out of it, he’d a great knack;
And he was wily too, and close as wax,
Although he looked as demure as a maid.
In the house he lodged in, he’d a room and bed
All to himself, and prettily furnished
With sweet delicious herbs; he was as sweet
As ginger, or the root of licorice.
His Almagest,* and astrological Treatises, with his textbooks great and small,
The instruments required for his science,
His astrolabe,* and abacus-counters, Were neatly stacked on shelves beside his bed;
His wardrobe-chest was draped with scarlet frieze.
A splendid psaltery* hung overhead, On which, at night, he’d play sweet melodies,
And fll the room with music till it rang;
‘The Angel to the Virgin’ he would sing,
And after, ‘The King’s Tune’ would be his choice.
Folk often praised him for his cheerful voice.
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And so this genial student spent his time,
Living on his friends’ money and his own.
The carpenter had a new-wedded wife.
And he loved her; he loved her more than life;
She was no more than eighteen years of age.
Jealous he was, and kept her closely caged,
For she was wild and young, and he was old,
And thought she’d likely make him a cuckold.
And, since he was ignorant and unschooled,
He’d never come across Cato’s advice,* Which lays it down that like should mate with like;
Men ought to wed according to their state,
For youth and age are often at debate.
But, seeing that he’d fallen in the trap,
He must put up with things, like other folk.
Young, comely was this wife; a lovely girl;
Her body slim and supple as a weasel.
She wore a cross-striped sash, all made of silk;
An apron also, white as morning milk,
She wore about her loins, gored to f are.
White was her smock; its collar, front and back,
Embroidered with black silk inside and out.
The ribbons of the white cap that she wore
Were also coal-black silk, to match the collar;
She’d a broad silken headband set back high.
And certainly she’d a come-hither eye.
Plucked to a slender line were her eyebrows,
And they were arched, and black as any sloes.
Sweeter was she by far to look upon
Than is a pear-tree in its early bloom;
And softer than the wool upon a wether.
And from her girdle hung a purse of leather
Tasselled with silk, spangled with beads of brass.
Roam the world up and down, you’d never raise
A man whose wit and fancy could dream up
A prettier poppet, or a girl like that.
Brighter the brilliance of her colouring
Than a new-minted Tower sovereign.
But when she sang, it was as brisk and clear
As any swallow perching on a barn.
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And she would skip and frolic, and make play
Like any kid or calf behind its dam.
Her mouth was sweet as mead, or ale and honey,
Or store of apples laid in heather or hay.
She was as skittish as a frisky colt,
Tall as a mast, straight as a crossbow-bolt.
She wore a brooch upon her lower collar
Broad as the boss upon a shield or buckler.
The shoes upon her legs were laced up high.
She was a peach, a dolly, and a daisy!
Fit for a prince to lay upon his bed
Or some good retainer of his to wed.
Now sir, and again sir! It so fell out
That this Fly Nicholas began one day
To firt and play about with this young wife,
Her husband having gone of to Osney
(These scholars are so artful, and so sly!)
And on the quiet caught her by the cunt,
And said to her, ‘Unless I have my way,
Sweetheart, for love of you I’ll surely die.’
He held her by the haunches hard and tight,
‘Now let’s make love at once,’ cried he, ‘sweetheart!
Or it’s the end of me, so help me God!’
She bucked and shied like a colt being shod,
And quickly wrenched away from him her head,
Saying, ‘I’ll not kiss you, on my word!
Let go,’ she cried, ‘now stop it, Nicholas!
I’ll scream for help, I’ll rouse the neighbourhood!
Take your hands of! It’s no way to behave!’
But Nicholas began to plead; he made
So good a case, ofered himself so often,
That in the end her heart began to soften.
She gave her word, and swore by St Thomas,
That when she saw a chance, she would be his.
‘My husband’s eaten up with jealousy,
You must be circumspect in this af air.
So watch your step, and mind you’re cautious,’
She said, ‘or it will be the end of me.
So, just in case, you’ve got to keep it dark.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Nicholas,
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‘His time’s been badly wasted, if a scholar
Can’t get the better of a carpenter.’
And so the two of them agreed, and swore
To watch their chance, as I explained before.
When Nicholas had settled matters thus
He stroked her loins and gave her a sweet kiss,
And of he went and picked up his psaltery,
And strummed a loud and lively melody.
Now it so happened that, one fne saint’s day,
This good wife visited the parish church
To make her devotions and worship Christ.
Her forehead gleamed as brightly as the day,
So hard she’d scrubbed it when she left of work.
Now in that church there was a parish clerk
Who answered to the name of Absolon.
His hair was curly, and like gold it shone,
And stuck out wide and broad, just like a winnowing
Fan from each side of a straight, even parting.
His face was red, his eyes grey as a goose.
In fantastically fenestrated shoes* And scarlet stockings, he dressed stylishly.
He wore a light blue jacket, f tting tightly,
A mass of fne tagged laces laced it neatly,
With over it a surplice white and gay
As blossom blooming on a branch of may.
Lord save and bless us, but he was a lad!
For he could shave and barber, and let blood,
Draw up a quittance or a conveyance.
In twenty diferent styles he’d jig and dance,
But in the Oxford mode, as was the fashion,
Flinging his legs in every direction;
He’d play upon a tiny two-stringed f ddle,
And sometimes he would sing, a loud falsetto;
And he could play as well on a guitar.
In the whole town there was no inn or bar
He’d not enlivened with his company,
The ones with lively barmaids, naturally.
But the fact is, he was a bit squeamish
Of farting; fastidious and prim in speech.
This Absolon, high-spirited and gay,
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Was taking the censer round on that saint’s day,
Censing the women of the parish, when
He’d take his chance to cast sheep’s eyes at them—
Especially at the carpenter’s wife.
To look on her seemed happiness enough,
She was so neat and sweet and f irtatious.
Take it from me, if she had been a mouse,
And he a cat, he would have pounced at once.
He was so smitten with a love-longing,
This parish clerk, this gallant Absolon,
That when he went round with the collection,
He wouldn’t take a penny from the women;
Good manners, so he told them, quite forbade.
That night the moon shone bright, and Absolon
Took his guitar, meaning to stay awake
All through the livelong night for his love’s sake.
And of he went, jaunty and amorous,
Until he came to the carpenter’s house
Just before dawn, a little after cock-crow,
And took his stand beneath a casement-window
That jutted from the wall. Then soft and low
He sang, his voice well-tuned to his guitar,
‘Now dearest lady, if it pleases thee,
I beg and pray, take pity upon me.’
The carpenter awoke, and heard him sing,
And then turned over to his wife, saying,
‘What! Alison! Don’t you hear Absolon
Yodelling away under our bedroom wall?’
And Alison gave him this answer back:
‘Yes, John; as goodness knows, I hear it all.’
And so things went on as you might expect.
He woos her daily, this lad Absolon,
Becoming, in the end, quite woebegone.
All day, and all the night, he stays awake;
He combs his spreading hair, and spruces up;
He woos with messengers and go-betweens;
He swears that he will be her slave; he sings,
Quavering and trilling like a nightingale;
He sends her honey-wine, mead and spiced ale,
And waf es from the griddle, piping hot;
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88 the miller’s tale
And, as she lives in town, he prof ers cash.
For there are some who will be won with riches,
And some with blows; and some again with kindness.
And once, to show of his versatility,
He played King Herod in a Mystery,* High on an open stage; but what’s the use?
Her heart is so set on Fly Nicholas
That Absolon can go whistle for her;
He only wins a snub for all his labour.
She made a monkey of him; all his earnest
Is turned by Alison into a jest.
No doubt of it, that proverb is no lie
Which goes, ‘You’ll always see the nigh and sly
Cut out the lover who is far away.’
Useless for Absolon to fume and fret:
Because he wasn’t there, and out of sight,
On-the-spot Nicholas stood in his light.
Show us your mettle now, Fly Nicholas!
Leave Absolon to wail, and sing ‘Alas!’
For it so happened that one Saturday
The carpenter had gone of to Osney,
And this Fly Nicholas and Alison
Having conferred, came to the conclusion
That Nicholas must hatch some stratagem
To fool the silly jealous husband; when,
If everything went well and turned out right,
She’d sleep in the arms of Nicholas all night,
For that was his desire, and hers also.
And thereupon, without another word,
Nicholas, who would brook no more delay,
Carried up to his bedroom stealthily
Enough of food and drink to last a day
Or two, and told her that she was to say,
Should the carpenter ask for Nicholas,
She hadn’t got a notion where he was,
And hadn’t set eyes on him all that day;
And she believed he must have fallen ill,
As the maid could not rouse him with her call,
Loud as she cried, he’d answered not at all.
So Fly Nicholas, all that Saturday,
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89 the miller’s tale
Kept to his room, and stayed there quietly
Eating and sleeping, and what else he pleased,
Till Sunday, when the sun had gone to rest.
Then this poor carpenter was much astonished
At Nicholas, and wondered why he’d vanished.
Said he, ‘I’m much afraid, by St Thomas,
Something must be amiss with Nicholas.
Perhaps he’s been struck dead, which God forbid!
For to be sure, it’s an uncertain world.
Today I saw a corpse borne to the church—
One who, on Monday last, I saw at work!’
Then to his servant-lad: ‘Get a move on!
Shout at his door, or bang it with a stone!
See what’s up, tell me straight out what it is.’
At this the boy ran boldly up the stairs,
And there outside the bedroom door he stood,
Bawling away and hammering like mad:
‘Hey, Mister Nicholas, what are you doing?
Hey! Hey! How can you sleep there all day long?’
But all for nothing: he heard not a word.
A hole he found, low in a bottom board,
In and out of which the cat used to creep,
And through the cat’s hole he took a good peep,
And in the end he caught a glimpse of him.
Fly Nicholas was sitting bolt upright
As if moonstruck; motionless, mouth agape.
So down the stairs he ran, and lost no time
Telling his master how he’d found the man.
On hearing this, the carpenter began
To cross himself; and, ‘Help us, St Frideswide!’
He said, ‘No man can tell what may betide,
He’s fallen in a ft, or some insanity,
And all because of all this astroboly,
As all along I thought that it would be!
One shouldn’t pry into God’s mystery.
Yes, the unlettered man is blessed indeed
Who doesn’t know a thing except his Creed!
Much the same fate befell, it seems to me,
That other student of astroboly:
He walked the felds stargazing, to foresee
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90 the miller’s tale
What might befall; and suddenly fell in
A claypit—something that he’d not foreseen.
But all the same, I swear by St Thomas
I’m most upset about Fly Nicholas.
He shall be scolded for his studying
If I’ve got anything to do with it—
Yes, that he shall, by Jesus, heaven’s King!
Get me a staf, to pry against the f oor,
While you, Robin, are heaving up the door.
He’ll come out of his studying, I’ll bet.’
And at the bedroom door he set to work.
His boy was a strong fellow for his size,
And heaved it of its hinges in a trice.
The door fell to the foor; the job was done.
And there sat Nicholas, still as a stone,
And kept on gaping up into the air.
The carpenter, thinking he was in a f t,
Took Nicholas by the shoulders, gripped them tight
And shook him hard, and yelled with all his might:
‘What, Nicholas! What! Look down for God’s sake!
Think on Christ’s suf ering! Awake, awake!
The sign of the cross defend you from all harm,
From sprites and elves!’ He gabbled a night-charm
On each of the four corners of the house,
And on the threshold of the door without:
Jesus Christ, Saint Benedict,
Evil spirits interdict:
Night-hags f y this Paternoster!
What happened to St Peter’s sister?
And in the end this wily Nicholas
Gave a deep sigh, and spoke. He said, ‘Alas,
Must the world now come to its end so soon?’
Answered the carpenter, ‘What do you mean?
Have trust in God, like all us working-men.’
‘Fetch me a drink,’ was Nicholas’ reply,
‘And then I’ll tell you—but conf dentially—
Of a certain thing that touches you and me.
You can be sure I’ll tell no other man.’
The carpenter went down and came again,
Bringing with him a huge quart of strong ale,
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91 the miller’s tale
And then when each of them had drunk his f ll,
Fly Nicholas got up, shut fast his door,
And sat himself down by the carpenter.
Said he, ‘John, my dear Host, you’ve got to swear
To me upon your word of honour here
Never to betray this secret to a soul,
For it is Christ’s own secret that I tell;
For should you tell it to a soul, you’re lost.
If you betray me, this must be the cost:
You’ll go stark mad.’ ‘Which Jesus Christ forbid!
No, Christ forbid it, by His holy blood!’
Replied this simple soul. ‘I’m not a blab,
And though I say it, I don’t like to gab.
Say what you will, for I shall never tell
Man, woman, or child, by Him that harrowed hell!
‘Now, John,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I’ll not lie,
I have found out, through my astrology,
By gazing in the moon, that’s shining bright,
That on Monday next at about nine at night,
There’ll be a fall of rain—so ferce a spate
Even Noah’s food was never half so great.
This world’, said he, ‘in less time than an hour
Must all be drowned, so frightful the downpour.
Thus all mankind must drown and wholly perish.’
The carpenter exclaimed, ‘Ah, my poor wife!
Must she be drowned? Alas, poor Alison!’
He almost fell, he was so overcome,
And asked, ‘Then is there no way out of this?’
‘Why, yes of course,’ replied Fly Nicholas,
‘If you’ll be guided by expert advice.
You mustn’t act on ideas of your own.
For as Solomon very truly says,
“Don’t act without advice, or you’ll repine.”
Now, if you’ll act in accordance with mine,
I’ll undertake—without a mast and sail—
To save her, you, and me; yes, without fail.
Haven’t you heard how Noah was preserved,
When he had early warning from the Lord,
That all the world must sink beneath the waves?’
‘Yes,’ said the carpenter, ‘a long time ago.’
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92 the miller’s tale
‘Haven’t you heard’, said Nicholas, ‘also
Of the trouble Noah and the others had
Before they could even get his wife aboard?
I daresay he’d have swapped his prize black sheep,
Yes, all of them, for her to have a ship
All to herself, an ark for her alone.
Have you a notion what’s best to be done?
This calls for speed; when it’s an urgent thing,
You can’t delay, or waste time speechifying.
‘Now fetch into the house—and hurry up—
A kneading-trough, or else a brewing vat,
For each of us, but see that they are large
So we can foat in them, as in a barge,
And have in them enough provision for
A day, that’s all; we shan’t need any more!
The waters will abate and go away
About nine in the morning of next day.
But neither your boy Robin, nor your maid
Gillian must know of this; they can’t be saved.
Don’t ask me why; for even if you did,
I wouldn’t tell the secrets God keeps hid.
You should be satisfed, unless you’re mad,
To have the same good fortune Noah had.
I’ll see your wife is saved, so never fear;
Now of with you, make haste in this af air.
‘But when you’ve got these kneading-tubs—all three:
One for her, one for you, and one for me—
High in the rafters you must hang them then,
So that our preparations can’t be seen.
And when you’ve done all that I’ve told you to,
And stowed our food in them—and an axe too,
So we can cut the rope, cast of and go
When the water comes—and when you’ve broken through
A hole high up there, up in the house gable,
On the garden side, and just above the stable,
So we can pass through freely on our way
When the deluge has stopped and gone away—
You’ll paddle about as merrily, I bet,
As any white duck following its drake,
And then I’ll shout: “Hi, Alison! Hi, John!
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93 the miller’s tale
Cheer up there, for the foods will soon be down!”
And “Hi there, Master Nicholas!” you’ll reply,
“Good morning! I see you plain, for it is day.”
And then we’ll be, for all the rest of life,
Lords of the world like Noah and his wife.
‘But there’s one thing I must warn you about:
You’d better bear in mind that on the night
The three of us are embarked on shipboard,
Not one of us must speak a single word,
Call or cry out, but pray to God instead,
For that is the commandment of the Lord.
You and your wife must hang as far apart
As may be, because between you and her
There must be no sin, not a look or glance,
Much less the act: such is the ordinance.
Go, and good luck! Tomorrow night we’ll creep
Into our tubs, when everyone’s asleep,
And sit there, putting all our trust in heaven.
Now of with you, I haven’t got the time
For further argument—as people say,
“A word to the wise”—which you are anyway:
You haven’t any need of me to teach.
Be of and save our lives, I do beseech!’
The simple carpenter went on his way.
Over and again he sighed, ‘Alack the day!’
And told the secret to his wife; but she
Already knew, better by far than he,
What this ingenious plot was all about.
But none the less she put on a good act,
You’d think that she was frightened half to death.
‘Alas!’ she cried, ‘Be on your way, make haste!
Help us escape, or all of us must perish!
As I’m your true and lawful wedded wife,
Go, dearest husband, help to save our lives!’
How potent is a strong emotion!
Sometimes an impression can cut so deep
That people die of mere imagination.
This simple carpenter began to shake,
He really thought he was about to see
Noah’s food-waters rolling like the sea
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94 the miller’s tale
To drown his Alison, his honey-pet.
He weeps and wails, the picture of misery;
Gives many a heavy sigh, many a sob.
Then, having got hold of a kneading-trough,
A brewing vat, and also one more tub,
He had them sent in secret to his home,
And hung them in the rafters on the quiet.
And then with his own hands he carpentered
Three ladders, shafts and rungs by which to climb
Up to the kneading-tubs hung in the beams.
Next he provisioned them, both tubs and trough,
With bread and cheese, and good ale in a jug,
Quite sufcient to last them for a day.
And having made all these arrangements, he
Packed his boy of, with Gillian the maid,
To London on some business that he had.
And on the Monday, as it drew to night,
He shut the door, and with no candle lit,
He arranged everything as it should be.
A moment later up they climbed, all three,
And for some little time sat quietly.
‘Say the Lord’s prayer,’ said Nicholas, ‘Mum!’
And John said ‘Mum!’ and ‘Mum!’ said Alison.
The carpenter says a paternoster, then
Sits motionless, and says his prayer again,
Watches and waits, and listens for the rain.
The carpenter, after his busy day,
Fell dead asleep, round curfew-time I’d say,
Or perhaps later. Nightmares made him groan;
And, as his head was lying the wrong way,
He snored and snored, again and yet again.
Then down his ladder tiptoed Nicholas,
And down hers, Alison as softly sped;
With no word uttered, they have gone to bed,
And there, where the carpenter used to lie,
There is the music, there the revelry!
And thus did Alison and Nicholas,
With fun and frolic for their business,
Lie till the bell for lauds began to ring,
And they could hear the friars in chancel sing.
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95 the miller’s tale
The parish clerk, as usual woebegone
For love, this lovelorn amorous Absolon,
Happened to be at Osney on the Monday
With a party of his friends on holiday;
And on the ofchance, quietly asked a canon
If he’d seen anything of carpenter John.
The man drew him aside, out of the church,
And said, ‘I don’t know; he’s not been at work
Since Saturday; I think he’s gone to get
Some timber that was sent for by the abbot.
He often goes for timber to the farm,
And there he stays, perhaps a day or two;
And if not, then for certain he’s at home.
But where he is, I couldn’t really say.’
The happy Absolon, f lled with delight,
Thought, ‘Now’s the time to stay awake all night.
For certainly I haven’t seen him stir
Since daybreak, in or out of his house-door.
And, sure as I stand here, at f rst cock-crow
I’ll give a quiet tap on the window
That’s set so low upon his bedroom wall.
Now I’ll be able to tell Alison
About my lovelonging for her and all;
And what is more, I don’t intend to miss
The chance of giving her at least a kiss.
You bet I’ll get some kind of satisfaction.
My mouth has itched and itched the whole day long,
And that means kissing, at the very least.
And all night I was dreaming of a feast.
So I’ll go and sleep an hour or two, and then
I’ll stay awake all night and have my fun.’
When the frst cock had crowed, just before dawn,
Up rose that joyful lover, Absolon,
And dressed himself to kill, in his best clothes.
First he chewed cardamom and licorice
To make his breath sweet, then he combed his hair.
Under his tongue he carried herb-paris,
For in this way he hoped that he would please.
He sauntered of to the carpenter’s house,
And placed himself beneath the casement window
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96 the miller’s tale
Which barely reached his chest, it was so low,
And softly coughed; then, in a gentle tone:
‘Where are you, honeycomb, sweet Alison?
My sweetest cinnamon, my pretty chick!
Awake and speak to me, sweetheart, awake!
It’s little thought that you give to my sorrow,
Or what a sweat I’m in for love of you;
For it’s no wonder that I swoon and sweat,
I’m yearning like a lambkin for the teat.
Truly, sweetheart, I am so much in love,
I yearn for you like any turtle-dove
After its mate; I eat less than a girl.’
‘Go from the window, jackanapes,’ said she,
No kiss-me-quick for you—God save us all!
I love another—and small blame to me—
Better than you, by Jesus, Absolon!
Be of with you now, or I’ll throw a stone,
Go in the devil’s name, and let me sleep!’
‘Alas!’ cried Absolon, ‘Alas! alack!
Was true love ever so abused before?
Then kiss me, since I cannot hope for more,
For Jesus’ love, and for the love of me.’
‘Will you be of when you’ve had it?’ said she.
‘Yes, of course, sweetheart,’ answered Absolon.
‘Get ready then,’ she said, ‘I’ll be back soon.’
To Nicholas she whispered, ‘Hush your mouth.
Hush now, and I’ll give you a real good laugh.’
Then Absolon went down upon his knees,
And said, ‘Now I’m in clover, no mistake!
I hope there’ll be more coming, after this!
Sweetheart, be kind, be kind to me, sweet chick!’
The window was unfastened hastily.
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘and get it over quick!
Get a move on, in case the neighbours see.’
Absolon began wiping his mouth dry.
The night was dark as pitch, as black as coal;
Out of the window she put her arse-hole,
And Absolon, as luck would have it, kissed
Her with his mouth smack on her naked arse
Relishingly, not knowing what it was.
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97 the miller’s tale
He leapt back, thinking something was amiss.
Girls don’t have beards, as he knew well enough,
And what he’d felt had been hairy and rough.
‘Foo!’ he cried. ‘What have I done? Foo, foo!’
‘Ha-ha!’ she laughed, and clapped the window to,
And Absolon went of in sorry case.
‘A beard! A beard!’ exclaimed Fly Nicholas,
‘That’s a good one, the best one yet, by God!’
The hapless Absolon heard every word,
And in his rage and fury bit his lip,
And to himself he said, ‘I’ll pay you out.’
Now who but Absolon rubs and scrubs his lips
With dust, with sand, with straw, with cloth, with chips?
Again and yet again he cries, ‘Alas!
May the devil take my soul, I’d rather have
Revenge for this insult, than own the town!
Alas!’ he cried, ‘if only I’d steered clear!’
His burning love was cold and quite put down,
For from the moment that he kissed her arse
He was quite cured, and didn’t give a curse
For lady-loves, but went denouncing them,
While crying like a child that’s just been beaten.
Slowly he crossed the street to pay a visit
To a certain blacksmith they call Mister Gervase,
A man who specialized in forging ploughshares,
And who was sharpening coulters busily.
Absolon came and knocked, but quietly,
And said, ‘Open up, Gervase, lose no time.’
‘What? Who are you?’ ‘It’s me, it’s Absolon.’
‘What, Absolon! The Lord save and bless me!
For Christ’s sweet sake, why are you up so early?
What’s up with you? Some trollop, that I’ll bet,
Has been leading you a dance, by St Neot!
That’s it! You know well enough what I mean.’
But Absolon, who didn’t give a bean
For all this chaf, and had more f sh to fry
Than Gervase guessed, made no kind of reply
Except to say, ‘Do you see, old fellow,
There in the f replace, that hot plough-coulter?
Please lend it for a job I have to do,
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98 the miller’s tale
And soon enough I’ll bring it back to you.’
Gervase replied, ‘As I’m an honest smith,
You could have it if it were made of gold,
Or as many sovereigns as a sack will hold.
But in Satan’s name, what do you want with it?’
Said Absolon, ‘Let that be as it may;
I’ll tell you all, but on some other day’—
And he picked up the coulter by the cool
End of the shank; out of the door he stole,
And made his way to the carpenter’s wall.
To begin with he coughs, then taps once more
Upon the window, as he did before.
At this Alison answered, ‘Who’s out there,
Knocking like that? I’m certain it’s a thief.’
‘Why, no,’ said he, ‘the Lord knows, my sweet chick,
It’s your own Absolon, my sweetest darling.
Look what I’ve brought for you,’ said he, ‘a ring
Of gold—my mother gave it me, by heaven!
It’s a real beauty, skilfully engraven,
And I will give it to you for a kiss.’
Now Nicholas had got up to piss,
And thought that he’d improve upon the fun,
Get Absolon to kiss him on the bum,
And so he quickly put the window up,
And stealthily stuck his whole arse right out,
Buttocks and all, as far as the hip-bone.
Meanwhile the parish clerk, our Absolon,
Said, ‘Speak! I don’t know where you are, sweetheart.’
Upon this Nicholas let fy a fart,
So great it sounded like a thunderclap.
But Absolon, half-blinded by the blast,
Had got his iron ready, smoking hot;
Smack in the middle of the arse he smote
Nicholas. From his rump the skin f ew of
A handsbreath round, the coulter was so hot;
And the smart stung him till he thought he’d die.
He yelled like frenzy in his agony:
‘Help! Water! Water! Help! Help! For God’s sake!’
The carpenter, startled from out his sleep,
Heard someone yelling ‘Water!’ as if mad,
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99 the miller’s tale
And thought, ‘Alas! For here comes Nowell’s f ood!’
And he sat up without another word,
And with his hatchet hacked in two the cord,
And down went all, and stopped for nothing, till
He hit the cellar foorboards, and lay still.
Up leapt Nicholas and Alison,
Crying, ‘Help!’ and ‘Murder!’ as they ran
Into the street; the neighbours, one and all,
Came running in to stare upon the man
Who was still lying stunned, white-faced and wan,
Because his arm was broken with the fall.
But he must put up with his misfortune:
For when he spoke, he was at once borne down
By both Fly Nicholas and Alison.
For they told everybody he was mad,
So frightened of a fancied ‘Nowell’s Flood’
That in his folly he had gone and bought
Three kneading-tubs, and hung them from the roof,
And that he had then begged them, for God’s love,
To sit with him to keep him company.
Folk began laughing at his lunacy;
Up at the roof they peered and stared and gaped,
And treated his misfortune as a joke.
No matter what the carpenter might say,
It was no use, none took him seriously.
Their sworn testimony so beat him down,
He was reputed mad by the whole town,
For all the scholars sided with the other,
Saying ‘The man’s a crackpot, my dear fellow’,
So that the whole afair became a joke.
And that’s how the carpenter’s wife got poked,
Despite his vigilance and jealousy;
That’s how Absolon kissed her bottom eye,
And how Nicholas got a blistered bum.
Now God save all of us, my tale is done!
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Fragment III (Group D)
THE WIFE OF BATH’S PROLOGUE
‘Experience—and no matter what they say
In books—is good enough authority
For me to speak of trouble in marriage.
For ever since I was twelve years of age,
Thanks be to God, I’ve had no less than f ve
Husbands at church door—if one may believe
I could be wed so often legally!
And each a man of standing, in his way.
Certainly it was told me, not long since,
That, seeing Christ had never more than once
Gone to a wedding (Cana, in Galilee)
He taught me by that very precedent
That I ought not be married more than once.
What’s more, I was to bear in mind also
Those bitter words that Jesus, God and Man,
Spoke in reproof to the Samaritan
Beside a well—“Thou hast had”, said He,
“Five husbands, and he whom now thou hast
Is not thy husband.” He said that, of course,
But what He meant by it I cannot say.
All I ask is, why wasn’t the f fth man
The lawful spouse of the Samaritan?
How many lawful husbands could she have?
All my born days, I’ve never heard as yet
Of any given number or limit,
However folk surmise or interpret.
All I know for sure is, God has plainly
Bidden us to increase and multiply—
A noble text, and one I understand!
And, as I’m well aware, He said my husband
Must leave father and mother, cleave to me.
But, as to number, did He specify?
He named no fgure, neither two nor eight—
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151 the ife of bath’s prologue
Why should folk talk of it as a disgrace?
‘And what about that wise King Solomon:
I take it that he had more wives than one!
Now would to God that I might lawfully
Be solaced half as many times as he!
What a God-given gift that Solomon
Had for his wives! For there’s no living man
Who has the like; Lord knows how many a bout
That noble king enjoyed on the f rst night
With each of them! His was a happy life!
Blessed be God that I have married f ve!
Here’s to the sixth, whenever he turns up.
I won’t stay chaste for ever, that’s a fact.
For when my husband leaves this mortal life
Some Christian man shall wed me soon enough.
For then, says the Apostle Paul, I’m free
To wed, in God’s name, where it pleases me.
He says that to be married is no sin,
Better it is to marry than to burn.
What do I care if people execrate
The bigamy of villainous Lamech?
I know that Abraham was a holy man,
And Jacob too, so far as I can tell;
And they had more than two wives, both of them,
And many another holy man as well.
Now can you tell me where, in any age,
Almighty God explicitly forbade
All marrying and giving in marriage?
Answer me that! And will you please tell me
Where was it He ordained virginity?
No fear, you know as well as I do, that
The Apostle, where he speaks of maidenhood,
Says he has got no frm precept for it.
You may advise a woman not to wed,
But by no means is advice a command.
To our own private judgement he left it;
Had virginity been the Lord’s command,
Marriage would at the same time be condemned.
And surely, if no seed were ever sown,
From what, then, could virginity be grown?
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152 the ife of bath’s prologue
Paul did not dare command, at any rate,
A thing for which the Lord gave no edict.
There’s a prize set up for virginity:
Let’s see who’ll make the running, win who may!
‘This teaching’s not for all men to receive,
Just those to whom it pleases God to give
The strength to follow it. All I know is,
That the Apostle was himself a virgin;
But none the less, though he wished everyone
—Or so he wrote and said—were such as he,
That’s only to advise virginity.
I have his leave, by way of concession,
To be a wife; and so it is no shame,
My husband dying, if I wed again;
A second marriage can incur no blame.
Though it were good for a man not to touch
A woman—meaning in his bed or couch,
For who’d bring fre and tow too close together?
I think you’ll understand the metaphor!
Well, by and large, he thought virginity
Better than marrying out of frailty.
I call it frailty, unless he and she
Mean to live all their lives in chastity.
‘I grant all this; I’ve no hard feelings if
Maidenhood be set above remarriage.
Purity in body and in heart
May please some—as for me, I make no boast.
For, as you know, no master of a household
Has all of his utensils made of gold;
Some are of wood, and yet they are of use.
The Lord calls folk to Him in many ways,
And each has his peculiar gift from God,
Some this, some that, even as He thinks good.
‘Virginity is a great excellence,
And so is dedicated continence,
But Christ, of perfection the spring and well,
Did not bid everyone to go and sell
All that he had, and give it to the poor,
And thus to follow in His tracks; be sure
He spoke to those who would live perfectly;
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153 the ife of bath’s prologue
And, sirs, if you don’t mind, that’s not for me.
I mean to give the best years of my life
To the acts and satisfactions of a wife.
‘And tell me also, what was the intention
In creating organs of generation,
When man was made in so perfect a fashion?
They were not made for nothing, you can bet!
Twist it how you like and argue up and down
That they were only made for the emission
Of urine; that our little dif erences
Are there to distinguish between the sexes,
And for no other reason—who said no?
Experience teaches that it is not so.
But not to vex the scholars, I’ll say this:
That they were fashioned for both purposes,
That’s to say, for a necessary function
As much as for enjoyment in procreation
Wherein we do not displease God in heaven.
Why else is it set down in books, that men
Are bound to pay their wives what’s due to them?
And with whatever else would he make payment
If he didn’t use his little instrument?
It follows, therefore, they must have been given
Both to pass urine, and for procreation.
‘But I’m not saying everyone who’s got
The kind of tackle I am talking of
Is bound to go and use it sexually.
For then who’d bother about chastity?
Christ was a virgin, though formed like a man,
Like many another saint since time began,
And yet they lived in perfect chastity.
I’ve no objection to virginity.
Let them be loaves of purest sifted wheat,
And us wives called mere barley-bread, and yet
As St Mark tells us, when our Saviour fed
The multitude, it was with barley-bread.
I’m not particular: I’ll continue
In the condition God has called us to.
In married life I mean to use my gadget
As generously as my Maker gave it.
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154 the ife of bath’s prologue
If I be grudging, the Lord punish me!
My husband’s going to have it night and day,
At any time he likes to pay his dues.
I shan’t be difcult! I shan’t refuse!
I say again, a husband I must have,
Who shall be both my debtor and my slave,
And he shall have, so long as I’m his wife,
His “trouble in the fesh”. For during life
I’ve “power of his body”* and not he. That’s just what the Apostle Paul told me;
He told our husbands they must love us too.
Now I approve entirely of this view—’
Up leapt the Pardoner—‘Now then, madam,
I swear to you by God and by St John,
You make a splendid preacher on this theme.
I was about to wed a wife—but then
Why should my body pay a price so dear?
I’ll not wed this nor any other year!’
‘You wait!’ said she. ‘My tale has not begun.
It is a diferent cask that you’ll drink from
Before I’ve done; a bitterer brew than ale.
And when I’ve fnished telling you my tale
Of tribulation in matrimony
—And I’m a lifelong expert; that’s to say
That I myself have been both scourge and whip—
You can decide then if you want to sip
Out of the barrel that I mean to broach.
But you had best take care if you approach
Too near—for I’ve a dozen object-lessons
And more, that I intend to tell. “The man
Who won’t be warned by others, he shall be
Himself a warning to all other men.”
These are the very words that Ptolemy
Writes in his Almagest:* you’ll f nd it there.’ ‘Let me beg you, madam,’ said the Pardoner,
‘If you don’t mind, go on as you began,
And tell your tale to us and spare no man,
And teach all us young fellows your technique.’
‘Gladly,’ said she, ‘if that’s what you would like;
But let no one in this company, I beg,
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155 the ife of bath’s prologue
If I should speak what comes into my head,
Take anything that I may say amiss;
All that I’m trying to do is amuse.
‘And now, sir, now, I will begin my tale.
May I never touch a drop of wine or ale
If this be not the truth! Of those I had,
Three were good husbands, two of them were bad.
The three good ones were very rich and old;
But barely able, all the same, to hold
To the terms of our covenant and contract—
Bless me! you’ll all know what I mean by that!
It makes me laugh to think, so help me Christ,
How cruelly I made them sweat at night!
And I can tell you it meant nothing to me.
They’d given me their land and property;
I’d no more need to be assiduous
To win their love, or treat them with respect.
They all loved me so much that, heavens above!
I set no store whatever by their love.
A wily woman’s always out to win
A lover—that is, if she hasn’t one.
Since I’d got them in the hollow of my hand,
And they’d made over to me all their land,
What point was there in taking pains to please,
Except for my advantage, or my ease?
Believe you me, I set them so to work
That many a night I made them sing, “Alack!”
No fitch of bacon for them, anyhow,
Like some have won in Essex at Dunmow.* I governed them so well in my own way,
And kept them happy, so they’d always buy
Fairings to bring home to me from the fair.
When I was nice to them, how glad they were!
For God knows how I’d nag and give them hell!
‘Now listen how I managed things so well,
You wives that have the wit to understand!
Here’s how to talk and keep the upper hand:
For no man’s half as barefaced as a woman
When it comes to chicanery and gammon.
It’s not for knowing wives that I say this,
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156 the ife of bath’s prologue
But for those times when things have gone amiss.
For any astute wife, who knows what’s what,
Can make her husband think that black is white,
With her own maid as witness in support.
But listen to the kind of thing I’d say:
‘ “So this is how things are, old Mister Dotard?
Why does the woman next door look so gay?
She can go where she likes, and all respect her,
—I sit at home, I’ve nothing f t to wear!
Why are you always over at her house?
She’s pretty, is she? So you’re amorous!
What did I catch you whispering to the maid?
Mister Old Lecher, drop it, for God’s sake!
And if I’ve an acquaintance or a friend,
You rage and carry on just like a f end
If I pay him some harmless little visit!
And then you come back home pissed as a newt,
And preach at me, confound you, from your bench!
What a great shame—just think of the expense—
To marry a poor woman, so you tell me.
And if she’s rich, and comes of a good family,
It’s hell, you say, to put up with her pride,
And her black moods and fancies. Then, you swine,
Should she be beautiful, you change your line,
And say that every rakehell wants to have her,
That in no time she’s bound to lose her honour,
Because it is assailed on every side.
‘ “You say that some folk want us for our riches,
Some for our looks, and others for our f gures,
Or for our sex appeal, or our good breeding;
Some want a girl who dances, or can sing,
Else it’s our slender hands and arms they want.
So the devil takes the lot, by your account!
None can defend a castle wall, you say,
For long if it’s attacked day after day.
‘ “And if she’s plain, why then you say that she’s
Setting her cap at every man she sees:
She’ll jump upon him, fawning like a spaniel,
Till someone buys what she has got to sell.
Never a goose upon the lake so grey
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157 the ife of bath’s prologue
But it will fnd its gander, so you say.
Says you, it’s hard to manage or control
A thing no man would keep of his own will.
That’s how you talk, pig, when you go to bed,
Saying that no sane man need ever wed,
Nor any man who hopes to go to heaven.
Wretch, may your withered wrinkled neck be broken
In two by thunderblast and f ery lightning!
‘ “And then, you say, a leaky roof, and smoke,
And nagging wives, are the three things that make
A man fee from his home. Oh, for God’s sake!
What ails an old man to go on like that?
‘ “Then you go on to claim we women hide
Our failings till the knot is safely tied,
And then we show them—A villainous saying,
A scoundrel’s proverb, if I ever heard one!
‘ “You say that oxen, asses, horses, hounds,
Can be tried out and proved at dif erent times,
And so can basins, washbowls, stools, and spoons,
And household goods like that, before you buy;
Pots, clothes and dresses too; but who can try
A wife out till he’s wed? Old dotard! Pig!
And then, says you, we show the faults we’ve hid.
‘ “You also claim that it enrages me
If you forget to compliment my beauty,
If you’re not always gazing on my face,
Paying me compliments in every place,
If on my birthday you don’t throw a party,
Buy a new dress, and make a fuss of me;
Or if you are ungracious to my nurse,
Or to my chambermaid, or even worse,
Rude to my father’s kinsfolk and his cronies,—
That’s what you say, old barrelful of lies!
‘ “And about Jankin you’ve the wrong idea,
Our apprentice with curly golden hair
Who makes himself my escort everywhere—
I wouldn’t have him if you died tomorrow!
But, damn you, tell me this—God send you sorrow!—
Why do you hide the strongbox keys from me?
It’s mine as much as yours—our property!
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158 the ife of bath’s prologue
What! I’m the mistress of the house, and you’ll
Make her look like an idiot and a fool?
You’ll never be, no matter how you scold,
Master of both my body and my gold,
No, by St James! For you’ll have to forgo
One or the other, take or leave it! Now,
What use is all your snooping and your spying?
I sometimes think you want to lock me in
That strongbox of yours, when you should be saying
‘Dear wife, go where you like, go and have fun,
I shan’t believe the tales they tell in malice,
I know you for a faithful wife, Dame Alice.’
We love no man who watches carefully
Our coming and going; we want liberty.
‘ “Blessed above all other men is he,
That astrologer, Mister Ptolemy,
Who set down in his book, the Almagest
This proverb: ‘Of all men he is the wisest
Who doesn’t care who has the world in hand.’
From which proverb you are to understand
That if you have enough, why should you care
A curse how well-of other people are?
Don’t worry, you old dotard—it’s all right,
You’ll have cunt enough and plenty, every night.
What bigger miser than he who’ll not let
Another light a candle at his lantern—
He won’t have any the less light, I’m thinking!
If you’ve enough, what’s there to grumble at?
‘ “And you say if we make ourselves look smart
With dresses and expensive jewellery,
It only puts at risk our chastity;
And then, confound you, you must quote this text,
And back yourself up with the words of Paul,
As thus: ‘In chaste and modest apparel
You women must adorn yourselves,’ said he,
‘And not with braided hair and jewellery,
Such as pearls and gold; and not in costly dress.’
But of your text, and your red-letter rubric,
I’ll be taking no more notice than a gnat!
‘ “And you said this: that I was like a cat,
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159 the ife of bath’s prologue
For you have only got to singe its skin,
And then the cat will never go from home;
But if its coat is looking sleek and gay,
She won’t stop in the house, not half a day,
But of she goes the frst thing in the morning,
To show her coat of and go caterwauling.
That’s to say, if I’m all dressed up, Mister Brute,
I’ll run out in my rags to show them of !
‘ “Mister Old Fool, what good is it to spy?
If you begged Argus with his hundred eyes
To be my bodyguard—what better choice?—
There’s little he would see unless I let him,
For if it killed me, yet I’d somehow fool him!
‘ “And you have also said, there are three things,
Three things there are that trouble the whole earth,
And there’s no man alive can stand the fourth—
Sweet Mister Brute, Jesus cut short your life!
You keep on preaching that an odious wife
Is to be counted one of these misfortunes.
Really, are there no other comparisons
That you can make, and without dragging in
A poor innocent wife as one of them?
‘ “Then you compare a woman’s love to Hell,
To barren lands where rain will never fall.
And you go on to say, it’s like Greek f re,
The more it burns, the fercer its desire
To burn up everything that can be burned.
And just as grubs and worms eat up a tree,
Just so a woman will destroy her husband;
All who are chained to wives know this, you say.”
‘Ladies and gentlemen, just as you’ve heard
I’d browbeat them; they really thought they’d said
All these things to me in their drunkenness.
All lies—but I’d get Jankin to stand witness
And bear me out, and my young niece also.
O Lord! the pain I gave them, and the woe,
And they, heaven knows, quite innocent of course.
For I could bite and whinny like a horse.
I’d scold them even when I was at fault,
For otherwise I’d often have been dished.
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Who comes frst to the mill, is f rst to grind;
I’d get in frst, till they’d be glad to f nd
A quick excuse for things they’d never done
In their whole lives; and so our war was won.
I’d pick on them for wenching; never mind
They were so ill that they could barely stand!
‘And yet it tickled him to the heart, because
He thought it showed how fond of him I was.
I swore that all my walking out at night
Was to spy out the women that he tapped;
Under that cover, how much fun I had!
To us at birth such mother-wit is given;
As long as they live God has granted women
Three things by nature: lies, and tears, and spinning.
There’s one thing I can boast of: in the end
I’d gain, in every way, the upper hand
By force or fraud, or by some stratagem
Like everlasting natter, endless grumbling.
Bed in particular was their misfortune;
That’s when I’d scold, and see they got no fun.
I wouldn’t stop a moment in the bed
If I felt my husband’s arm over my side,
No, not until his ransom had been paid,
And then I’d let him do the thing he liked.
What I say is, everything has its price;
You cannot lure a hawk with empty hand.
If I wanted something, I’d endure his lust.
And even feign an appetite for it;
Though I can’t say I ever liked old meat—
And that’s what made me nag them all the time.
Even though the Pope were sitting next to them
I’d not spare them at table or at board,
But paid them back, I tell you, word for word.
I swear upon my oath, so help me God,
I owe them not a word, all’s been paid back.
I set my wits to work till they gave up;
They had to, for they knew it would be best,
Or else we never would have been at rest.
For even if he looked ferce as a lion,
Yet he would fail to get his satisfaction.
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161 the ife of bath’s prologue
‘Then I would turn and say, “Come, dearest, come!
How meek you look, like Wilkin, dear old lamb!
Come to me, sweetheart, let me kiss your cheek!
You ought to be all patient and meek,
And have ever such a scrupulous conscience—
Or so you preach of Job and his patience!
Always be patient; practise what you preach,
For if you don’t, we’ve got a thing to teach,
Which is: it’s good to have one’s wife in peace!
One of us has got to knuckle under,
And since man is more rational a creature
Than woman is, it’s you who must forbear.
But what’s the matter now? Why moan and groan?
You want my quim just for yourself alone?
Why, it’s all yours—there now, go take it all!
By Peter, but I swear you love it well!
For if I wished to sell my pretty puss,
I’d go about as sweet as any rose;
But no, I’ll keep it just for you to taste.
Lord knows you’re in the wrong; and that’s the truth!”
‘All arguments we had were of that kind.
Now I will speak about my fourth husband.
‘My fourth husband was a libertine;
That is to say, he kept a concubine;
And I was young, and passionate, and gay,
Stubborn and strong, and merry as a magpie.
How I would dance to the harp’s tunable
Music, and sing like any nightingale,
When I had downed a draught of mellow wine!
Metellius, the dirty dog, that swine
Who with a club beat his own wife to death
Because she drank—if I had been his wife,
Even he would not have daunted me from drink!
And after taking wine I’m bound to think
On Venus—sure as cold induces hail,
A greedy mouth points to a greedy tail.
A woman full of wine has no defence,
All lechers know this from experience.
‘But, Lord Christ! when it all comes back to me,
And I recall my youth and gaiety,
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162 the ife of bath’s prologue
It warms the very cockles of my heart.
And to this day it does my spirit good
To think that in my time I’ve had my f ing.
But age, alas, that cankers everything,
Has stripped me of my beauty and spirit.
Let it go then! Goodbye, and devil take it!
The four’s all gone; there is no more to say.
Now I must sell the bran as best I may;
But all the same I mean to have my fun.
And now I’ll tell about my fourth husband.
‘I tell you that it rankled in my heart
That in another he should take delight.
But he was paid for it in full, by God!
From that same wood I made for him a rod—
Not with my body, and not like a slut,
But certainly I carried on with folk
Until I made him stew in his own juice,
With fury, and with purest jealousy.
By God! on earth I was his purgatory,
For which I hope his soul’s in Paradise.
God knows he often had to sit and whine
When his shoe pinched him cruellest! And then
How bitterly, and in how many ways,
I wrung his withers, there is none can guess
Or know, save only he and God in heaven!
He died when I came from Jerusalem,
And now lies buried under the rood beam,* Although his tomb is not as gorgeous
As is the sepulchre of Darius
That Apelles sculpted so skilfully;
For to have buried him expensively
Would have been waste. So goodbye, and God rest him!
He’s in his grave now, shut up in his cof n.
‘Of my ffth husband I have this to tell
—I pray God keep and save his soul from hell!—
And yet he was to me the worst of all:
I feel it on my ribs, on each and all,
And always will until my dying day!
But in our bed he was so free and gay
And moreover knew so well how to coax
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163 the ife of bath’s prologue
And cajole when he wanted my belle chose,
That, though he’d beaten me on every bone,
How quickly he could win my love again!
I think that I loved him the best, for he
Was ever chary of his love for me.
We women have, I’m telling you no lies,
In this respect the oddest of fancies;
If there’s a thing we can’t get easily,
That’s what we’re bound to clamour for all day:
Forbid a thing, and that’s what we desire;
Press hard upon us, and we run away.
We are not forward to display our ware:
For a great crowd at market makes things dear;
Who values stuf bought at too cheap a price?
And every woman knows this, if she’s wise.
‘My ffth husband—may God bless his soul!
Whom I took on for love, and not for gold,
Was at one time a scholar at Oxford,
But had left college, and come home to board
With my best friend, then living in our town:
God keep her soul! her name was Alison.
She knew me and the secrets of my heart
As I live, better than the parish priest:
She was my confdante; I told her all—
For had my husband pissed against a wall,
Or done a thing that might have cost his life—
To her, and also to my dearest niece,
And to another lady friend as well,
I’d have betrayed his secrets, one and all.
And so I did time and again, dear God!
It often made his face go red and hot
For very shame; he’d kick himself, that he
Had placed so great a confdence in me.
‘And it so happened that one day in Lent
(For I was ever calling on my friend,
As I was always fond of having fun,
Strolling about from house to house in spring,
In March, April, and May, to hear the gossip)
Jankin the scholar, and my friend Dame Alice,
And I myself, went out into the meadows.
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164 the ife of bath’s prologue
My husband was in London all that Lent,
So I was free to follow my own bent,
To see and to be seen by the gay crowd.
How could I know to whom, and in what place,
My favours were destined to be bestowed?
At feast-eves and processions, there I was;
At pilgrimages; I attended sermons,
And these miracle-plays; I went to weddings,
Dressed in my best, my long bright scarlet gowns.
No grub, no moth or insect had a chance
To nibble at them, and I’ll tell you why:
It was because I wore them constantly.
‘Now I’ll tell you what happened to me then.
We strolled about the felds, as I was saying,
And got on so well together, he and I,
That I began to think ahead, and tell him
That if I were a widow we could marry.
For certainly—I speak without conceit—
Till now I’ve never been without foresight
In marriage matters; other things as well.
I’d say a mouse’s life’s not worth a leek
Who has but one hole to run to for cover,
For if that fails the mouse, then it’s all over!
‘I let him think that he’d got me bewitched.
It was my mother taught me that device.
I also said I dreamed of him at night,
That he’d come to kill me, lying on my back,
And that the entire bed was drenched in blood.
And yet I hoped that he would bring me luck—
In dreams blood stands for gold, so I was taught.
All lies—for I dreamed nothing of the sort.
I was in this, as in most other things,
As usual following my mother’s teachings.
‘But now, sirs, let me see—what was I saying?
Aha! Bless me, I’ve found the thread again.
‘When my fourth husband was laid on his bier
I wept for him—what a sad face I wore!—
As all wives must, because it’s customary;
With my kerchief I covered up my face.
But, since I was provided with a mate,
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165 the ife of bath’s prologue
I wept but little, that I guarantee!
‘To church they bore my husband in the morning
Followed by the neighbours, all in mourning,
And one among them was the scholar Jankin.
So help me God, when I saw him go past,
Oh what a fne clean pair of legs and feet
Thought I—and so to him I lost my heart.
He was, I think, some twenty winters old,
And I was forty, if the truth be told.
But then I always had an itch for it!
I was gap-toothed; but it became me well;
I wore St Venus’ birthmark and her seal.
So help me God, but I was a gay one,
Pretty and fortunate; joyous and young;
And truly, as my husbands always told me,
I had the best what-have-you that might be.
Certainly I am wholly Venerian
In feeling; and in courage, Martian.
Venus gave to me lust, lecherousness;
And Mars gave me my sturdy hardiness.
Taurus was my birth-sign, with Mars therein.
Alas, alas, that ever love was sin!
And so I always followed my own bent,
Shaped as it was by my stars’ inf uence,
That made me so that I could not begrudge
My chamber of Venus to a likely lad.
I’ve still the mark of Mars upon my face,
And also in another secret place.
For, sure as God above is my salvation,
I never ever loved in moderation,
But always followed my own appetite,
Whether for short or tall, or black or white;
I didn’t care, so long as he pleased me,
If he were poor, or what his rank might be.
‘There’s little more to say: by the month’s ending,
This handsome scholar Jankin, gay and dashing,
Had married me with all due ceremony.
To him I gave all land and property,
Everything that I had inherited.
But, later, I was very sorry for it—
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166 the ife of bath’s prologue
He wouldn’t let me do a thing I wanted!
My God, he once gave my ear such a box
Because I tore a page out of his book,
That from the blow my ear became quite deaf.
I was untameable as a lioness;
My tongue unstoppable and garrulous;
And walk I would, as I had done before,
From house to house, no matter how he swore
I shouldn’t; and for this he’d lecture me,
And tell old tales from Roman history;
How one Simplicius Gallus left his wife,
Left her for the remainder of his life,
Only because one day he saw her looking
Out of the door with no head-covering.
‘He said another Roman, Whatsisname
Because his wife went to a summer-game
Without his knowledge, went and left her too.
And then he’d get his Bible out to look
In Ecclesiasticus for that text
Which with absolute stringency forbids
A man to let his wife go gad about;
Then, never fear, here’s the next thing he’d quote:
“Whoever builds his house out of willows,
And rides a blind horse over the furrows,
And lets his wife trot after saints’ altars,
Truly deserves to be hung on the gallows.”
But all for nothing; I cared not a bean
For all his proverbs, nor for his old rhyme;
And neither would I be reproved by him.
I hate a man who tells me of my vices,
And God knows so do more of us than I.
This made him absolutely furious;
I’d not give in to him, in any case.
‘Now, by St Thomas, I’ll tell you the truth
About why I ripped a page out of his book,
For which he hit me so that I went deaf.
‘He had a book he loved to read, that he
Read night and morning for his own delight;
Valerius and Theophrastus,* he called it, Over which book he’d chuckle heartily.
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167 the ife of bath’s prologue
And there was a learned man who lived in Rome,
A cardinal who was called St Jerome,
Who wrote a book attacking Jovinian;* And there were also books by Tertullian,
Chrysippus, Trotula, and Heloise,* Who was an abbess not far from Paris,
Also the parables of Solomon,
Ovid’s Art of Love, and many another one,
All bound together in the same volume.
And night and morning it was his custom,
Whenever he had leisure and freedom
From any other worldly occupation,
To read in it concerning wicked women:
He knew more lives and legends about them
Than there are of good women in the Bible.
Make no mistake, it is impossible
That any scholar should speak good of women,
Unless they’re saints in the hagiologies;
Not any other kind of woman, no!
Who drew the picture of the lion? Who?* My God, had women written histories
Like cloistered scholars in oratories,
They’d have set down more of men’s wickedness
Than all the sons of Adam could redress.
For women are the children of Venus,
And scholars those of Mercury; the two
Are at cross purposes in all they do;
Mercury loves wisdom, knowledge, science,
And Venus, revelry and extravagance.
Because of their contrary disposition
The one sinks when the other’s in ascension;
And so, you see, Mercury’s powerless
When Venus is ascendant in Pisces,
And Venus sinks where Mercury is raised.
That’s why no woman ever has been praised
By any scholar. When they’re old, about
As much use making love as an old boot,
Then in their dotage they sit down and write:
Women can’t keep the marriage vows they make!
‘But to the point—why I got beaten up,
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168 the ife of bath’s prologue
As I was telling you, just for a book:
One night Jankin—that’s my lord and master—
Read in his book as he sat by the f re,
Of Eva frst, who through her wickedness
Brought the whole human race to wretchedness,
For which Jesus Himself was crucif ed,
He Who redeemed us all with His heart’s blood.
Look, here’s a text wherein we plainly f nd
That woman was the ruin of mankind.
‘He read to me how Samson lost his hair:
He slept; his mistress cut it with her shears,
Through which betrayal he lost both his eyes.
‘And then he read to me, if I’m no liar,
Of Hercules and his Dejaneira,
And how she made him set himself on f re.
‘He left out nothing of the grief and woe
That the twice-married Socrates went through;
How Xantippe poured piss upon his head,
And the poor man sat stock-still as if dead;
He wiped his head, not daring to complain:
“Before the thunder stops, down comes the rain!”
‘And out of bloody-mindedness he’d relish
The tale of Pasiphaë,* Queen of Crete— Fie! say no more—it’s gruesome to relate
Her abominable likings and her lust!
‘Of the lechery of Clytemnestra,* How she betrayed her husband to his death,
These things he used to read with great relish.
‘He also told me how it came about
That at Thebes Amphiarus lost his life:
My husband had a tale about his wife
Eriphile, who for a golden brooch
Had covertly discovered to the Greeks
Where they might fnd her husband’s hiding-place,
Who thus, at Thebes, met a wretched fate.
‘He told of Livia and Lucilia,
Who caused their husbands, both of them, to die;
One out of love, the other out of loathing.
Hers, Livia poisoned late one evening,
Because she hated him; ruttish Lucilia
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169 the ife of bath’s prologue
On the contrary, loved her husband so,
That she mixed for him, so that he should think
Only of her, an aphrodisiac drink
So strong that before morning he was dead.
Thus husbands always have the worst of it!
‘Then he told me how one Latumius
Once lamented to his friend Arrius
That there was a tree growing in his garden
On which, he said, his three wives, out of dudgeon,
Had hanged themselves. “Dear friend,” said Arrius,
“Give me a cutting from this marvellous tree,
And I shall go and plant it in my garden.”
‘Concerning wives of later days, he read
How some had killed their husbands in their bed,
And let their lovers have them while the corpse
Lay all night on its back upon the f oor.
And others, while their husbands slept, have driven
Nails through their brainpans, and so murdered them.
Yet others have put poison in their drink.
He spoke more evil than the heart can think.
On top of that, he knew of more proverbs
Than there is grass and herbage upon earth.
“Better to live with a lion or dragon,”
Said he, “than take up with a scolding woman.
Better to live high in an attic roof
Than with a brawling woman in the house:
They are so wicked and contrarious
That what their husbands love, they always hate.”
He also said, “A woman casts of shame
When she casts of her smock,” and he’d go on:
“A pretty woman, if she isn’t chaste,
Is like a gold ring stuck in a sow’s nose.”
Now who could imagine, or could suppose,
The grief and torment in my heart, the pain?
‘When I realized he’d never make an end
But read away in that damned book all night,
All of a sudden I got up and tore
Three pages out of it as he was reading,
And hit him with my fst upon the cheek
So that he tumbled back into our f re,
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170 the ife of bath’s prologue
And up he jumped just like a raging lion,
And punched me with his fst upon the head
Till I fell to the foor and lay for dead.
And when he saw how motionless I lay,
He took alarm, and would have run away,
Had I not burst at last out of my swoon.
“You’ve murdered me, you dirty thief !” I said,
“You’ve gone and murdered me, just for my land!
But I’ll kiss you once more, before I’m dead!”
‘He came close to me and kneeled gently down,
And said, “My dearest sweetheart Alison,
So help me God, I’ll not hit you again.
You yourself are to blame for what I’ve done.
Forgive it me this once, for mercy’s sake.”
But once again I hit him on the cheek:
“You robber, take that on account!” I said.
“I can’t speak any more; I’ll soon be dead.”
After no end of grief and pain, at last
We made it up between the two of us:
He gave the reins to me, and to my hand
Not only management of house and land,
But of his tongue, and also of his f st—
And then and there I made him burn his book!
And when I’d got myself the upper hand
And in this way obtained complete command,
And he had said, “My own true faithful wife,
Do as you please from now on, all your life:
Guard your honour and look after my estate.”
—From that day on we had no more debate.
So help me God, to him I was as kind
As any wife from here to the world’s end,
And true as well—and so was he to me.
I pray to God Who reigns in majesty,
For His dear mercy’s sake, to bless his soul.
Now if you’ll listen, I will tell my tale.’
The dispute between the Summoner and the Friar
The Friar laughed, when he had heard all this.
‘Now madam,’ cried he, ‘as I hope for bliss,
That was a long preamble to a tale!’
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171 the ife of bath’s tale
And when the Summoner heard the Friar bawl,
‘See here!’ he cried. ‘By God’s two arms! A friar
Will butt in all the time, and everywhere!
Good folk, they’re all the same, these fies and friars,
Falling in people’s foodbowls and af airs.
What are you talking of—“perambulation”?
Amble, trot, or shut up and sit down!
This kind of thing is ruining our fun.’
‘Oh indeed, Mister Summoner, is that so?’
Returned the Friar. ‘My word, before I go
I’ll tell a tale or two about a summoner,
And raise a laugh from everybody here!’
‘Try it and see, Friar,’ said the Summoner,
‘And damn your eyes! And damn my own as well
If I’ve not got two or three tales to tell
Concerning friars, that will make you mourn
Before I get as far as Sittingbourne.* For I can see you’ve lost your temper now.’
‘Now you shut up!’ our Host cried. ‘Hold your row!’
He went on: ‘Let the lady tell her tale.
You look as if you had had too much ale.
Madam, begin your tale: that would be best.’
‘I’m ready, sir,’ said she, ‘just as you wish,
That is, if I have leave of this good Friar.’
‘Tell on, madam,’ said he, ‘and I will hear.’
THE WIFE OF BATH’S TALE
I n the old days, the days of King Arthur, He whom the Britons hold in great honour,
All of this land was full of magic then.
And with her joyous company the elf-queen
Danced many a time on many a green mead.
That was the old belief, as I have read:
I speak of many hundred years ago.
But now elves can be seen by men no more,
For now the Christian charity and prayers
Of limiters and other saintly friars
Who haunt each nook and corner, feld and stream,
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Thick as the motes of dust in a sunbeam,
Blessing the bedrooms, kitchens, halls, and bowers,
Cities and towns, castles and high towers,
Villages, barns, cattle-sheds and dairies,
Have seen to it that there are now no fairies.
Those places where you once would see an elf
Are places where the limiter himself
Walks in the afternoons and early mornings,
Singing his holy of ces and matins,
While going on the rounds of his district.
Women may now go safely where they like:
In every bush, and under every tree,
They’ll fnd no other satyr there but he:
And he’ll do nothing worse than take their honour.
Now it so happened that this King Arthur
Had in his court a bold knight-bachelor
Who one day was hawking by the river,
And it so chanced, as he was riding home,
He met a maiden walking all alone,
And thereupon, though she fought long and hard,
The knight took by main force her maidenhood;
And this outrage occasioned a great stir,
So much petitioning of King Arthur,
That the knight was, in due course of law,
Condemned to death, and would have lost his head
According to the law as it then stood,
Had not the queen and many another lady
Importuned the king so long for mercy
That in the end he granted him his life
And gave him to the queen to dispose of:
Either to execute, or spare his life.
The queen gave the king thanks with all her heart,
And some time afterwards spoke to the knight
One day when she saw opportunity:
‘Your fate is in the balance still,’ said she,
‘You cannot yet be certain of your life,
But you shall live if you can answer me,
What is the thing that women most desire?
Your neck is forfeit to the axe—beware!
And if you cannot tell me here and now
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I shall, however, give you leave to go
A twelvemonth and a day, to seek and f nd
An answer that will satisfy my mind.
And you must pledge, before you can depart,
Duly to yield yourself up in this court.’
Sad was the knight; sorrowfully he sighed;
But there! it’s not as if he’d any choice.
And so at long last he made up his mind
To go, and to come back at the year’s end,
With whatever answer heaven might provide;
And so he took his leave, and of he rode.
He visited every house, and every spot
Where he might have the luck to f nd out what
The thing is that we women most desire;
But could fnd in no country anywhere
Two people to agree with one another
Upon this subject.
Some said we love best
Riches and wealth; and others said, honour;
Some said, fne clothes; and others, happiness;
Some said it is the pleasures of the bed,
And to be often widowed, often wed.
And others said we’re happiest at heart
When complimented and well cosseted.
Which is pretty near the truth, and that’s no lie.
A man can win us best by f attery;
And with attentiveness, assiduity,
We’re ensnared, one and all.
Some say that we
Love best to have our own way and be free,
To have no one reprove us for our follies,
But say how wise we are, how far from foolish.
If someone touches on a tender spot,
There isn’t one of us—indeed there’s not—
Who won’t kick, just for being told the truth!
Just try it, and you’ll fnd out soon enough.
However faulty we may be within,
We want to be thought wise, and free from sin.
And others say that we take great delight
In being thought dependable and discreet,
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Able to hold steadfastly to one purpose,
Never revealing what a person tells us.
As for that notion, it’s not worth a button,
Because we women can keep nothing hidden.
Witness King Midas—would you hear of him?
Ovid, among some other trif es, said
That under his long hair King Midas had
Two asses’ ears growing upon his head,
Which blemish he kept hid, as best he might,
Most artfully from everybody’s sight,
So that, but for his wife, none knew of it.
Above all things he loved and trusted her;
And he implored her never to make mention
Of his deformity to anyone.
No, not for anything in the world, she swore,
Would she do such a mean and sinful thing,
And bring discredit to her husband’s name.
If only for her shame’s sake, she’d not tell.
But none the less, she thought that she would die
If she had to keep a secret for so long;
So hard against her heart it seemed to swell,
That she must speak or burst; till f nally
As she dared tell the secret to no man,
Down to a marsh close by her home she ran—
Till she got there, her heart was all af re—
And, like a bittern when it makes its boom,
Placing her mouth beneath the water’s surface,
‘Do not betray me, water, with your noise,’
Said she, ‘to you I tell it, no one else:
My husband has got two long asses’ ears!
I feel ever so much better now it’s out.
I couldn’t keep it in another minute!’
Which shows that though we may hold on a bit,
Yet out it must; we can keep nothing secret.
If you’d like to hear the ending of this tale,
Read Ovid’s book: and there you’ll fnd it all.
Now when the knight, the subject of my story,
Found that he was no nearer the discovery
Of what it is that women love the best,
How heavy was the heart within his breast!
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And home he went, for he could not remain;
The day was come when he had to return.
On his way home it happened that he rode,
Much troubled, by the borders of a wood
Where he, all of a sudden, caught a glimpse
Of four-and-twenty ladies in a dance;
And eagerly drew nearer, on the chance
That he would hear of something he could use.
Lo and behold! Before he quite got there,
The dancers vanished, he could not tell where.
No living creature was there to be seen
Save for a woman sitting on the green—
You couldn’t imagine an uglier.
At the knight’s coming, this old woman rose.
‘There’s no road on from here, Sir Knight,’ she says,
‘But tell me what you’re looking for. Who knows,
You’ll do yourself a good turn, it may be;
We old folks know so many things,’ says she.
‘My dear good mother,’ said the knight, ‘for sure,
I am as good as dead, if I can’t tell
What the thing is that women most desire.
If you could tell me that, I’d pay you well.’
‘Put your hand in mine and pledge your word,’ said she,
‘That you will do the frst thing I require
Of you, so be that it lies in your power,
And I shall tell it to you before night.’
‘Agreed: you have my promise,’ said the knight.
‘Then,’ said she, ‘I’ll go so far as to say
Your life is safe: for I will stake my head
That what I say is what the queen will say.
Now let’s see if the proudest of them all
That wears a headkerchief or jewelled snood
Will have the face to deny or refute
What I’ll teach you. Say no more; let’s go on.’
Then, whispering a few words in his ear,
She told him to cheer up and have no fear.
The knight, on his arrival at the court,
Said he had kept, according to his word,
His day, and that he had his answer ready.
Many a maiden, many a noble lady,
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And many a widow (widows are so wise),
The queen herself in the chair of justice,
Had all assembled in the court to hear;
And then the knight was ordered to appear.
All were commanded to observe silence,
And the knight to tell, in formal audience,
What it is mortal women love the most.
Instead of standing there dumb as an ox,
The knight resolved the riddle there and then
In ringing tones, so the whole court heard him:
‘In general, my liege lady,’ he began,
‘Women desire to have dominion
Over their husbands, and their lovers too;
They want to have mastery over them.
That’s what you most desire—even if my life
Is forfeit. I am here; do what you like.’
In the whole court there was no wife nor maid
Nor widow who’d contradict what he said,
But all declared that he deserved his life.
Upon this, the old woman whom the knight
Encountered sitting on the forest green,
Jumped up and cried: ‘My sovereign lady queen,
Before the court disperses, do me right!
It was I who taught his answer to the knight.
For which he gave his promise on the spot
That he would do the frst thing that I asked,
If so be that it lay within his might.
And so before the court I ask, Sir Knight,’
Said she, ‘that you take me to be your wife.
For well you know that I have saved your life.
If this be false, deny it upon oath!’
‘Alas!’ replied the knight, ‘alack, alas!
I know too well that such was my promise.
So for the love of God, choose something else!
Take all my goods and let my body go.’
‘Never! A curse on us both if I do!
For though I may be ugly, old and poor,
I’d not, for all the gold and metal ore
That’s buried under ground, or lies above,
Be other than your wife, and your true love!’
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‘My love?’ cried he. ‘You mean my damnation!
Alas! that ever any of my family
Should undergo such foul degradation!’
But it was all for nothing; f nally
He was compelled to see he needs must wed;
And, taking his aged wife, goes of to bed.
Now some of you will say of me, perhaps,
That I don’t trouble, out of laziness,
To tell of all the gaiety and joy
Seen at the feast upon that marriage-day:
To which I’ll give a short and simple answer,
There was no feasting and no fun whatever,
Nothing at all but misery and mourning,
For he married her in secret in the morning,
And all that day hid himself like an owl,
Moping because his new wife looked so foul.
And now what bitter thoughts oppressed the knight
When he was brought to bed with his aged wife!
He tossed and twisted back and forth, the while
His wife lay there and never ceased to smile,
But said, ‘My dearest husband! Bless me! Do
All knights who marry wives behave like you?
Is this the custom in King Arthur’s house?
Is every knight of his so hard to please?
I am your own true love, also your wife,
And I am also she who saved your life.
And surely I have never wronged you yet?
So why behave like this on our f rst night?
You’re acting like a man who’s lost his wits.
What have I done? Now tell me, for God’s sake,
And if I can, I shall soon set it right.’
‘Set it right! Never, never!’ cried the knight,
‘Nothing can ever set it right again!
You are so hideous, so old and plain,
And what is more besides, so basely born,
It’s little wonder if I toss and turn.
I only wish to God my heart would burst.’
‘Is that’, she asked, ‘the cause of your distress?’
‘Indeed yes, and no wonder,’ said the knight.
‘Now sir,’ said she, ‘all this I could put right
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Before three days are up,—that’s if I liked,
And you were to behave more courteously.
‘But since you talk of such gentility
As is derived from ancient wealth; and claim
On that account to be a gentleman—
Such afectation isn’t worth a bean.
Look for the man who’s always virtuous
In private and in public, does his best
Always to do what gentle acts he can,
And count him for the greatest gentleman.
For Christ wants us to claim nobility
From Him, and not from our rich ancestry,
For though they may have left us all their wealth,
For which we claim to be of gentle birth,
They are by no means able to bequeath
Their goodness, or their virtuous way of life
Which earned for them the name of gentlemen,
And points to us to follow in their steps.
‘Upon this Dante, that wise Florentine
Poet, has spoken with great eloquence;
Now listen: Dante’s verses go like this:
“It’s rarely man climbs to excellence by
His own thin branches; God in His goodness
Wills us to claim from Him nobility.”* For from our forebears we can only claim
Material things, which may injure and harm.
‘And everybody knows as well as I,
Were Nature to implant gentility
In any single family, so the line
Inherited it—why then, they’d never cease
In private and in public from behaving
Like gentlemen; moreover, they would be
Incapable of villainy or crime.
‘Take fre, convey it to the darkest house
That’s between here and coldest Caucasus,
And shut the doors on it, and go away;
As brightly will that fre blaze and burn,
As if a thousand folk were looking on;
I’ll stake my life, that f re will perform
Its natural function always, till it die,
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179 the ife of bath’s tale
Thus you can plainly see that nobleness
Has no connection with ancestral riches;
People aren’t always on their best behaviour
As fre is—for fre is always f re.
And God knows one can often enough f nd
A lord’s son who behaves just like a f end.
And he who prizes his gentility
Because descended from a noble house,
From ancestors both noble and virtuous,
Yet who himself performs no noble deed
Like his own noble ancestor who’s dead,
He is not noble, be he duke or earl;
For churlish actions are what make the churl.
For nobility’s no more than the renown
Of your forebears, by their great virtue won,
Nothing to do with you, or your person;
Your nobility comes from God alone.
Thus our true nobility comes by grace,
Is not bequeathed along with our position.
‘And think how noble, as Valerius* says, Was Tullus Hostilius,* who rose From poverty to the highest rank of all.
Read Seneca,* and Boethius* as well, And there you will fnd that it’s made quite plain
It’s noble deeds that make the nobleman.
And therefore, my dear husband, I conclude,
That though my ancestors were rough and rude,
I might be granted yet, by God on high
(And so I hope) grace to live virtuously.
I’m truly noble then, if I begin
To live in virtue and to cast of sin.
‘As for my poverty, which you reprove,
The Lord on high, in Whom we both believe,
Willingly chose a life of poverty.
To every man, matron, and maid, surely
It’s plain as day that Jesus, Heaven’s King,
Would never choose a vicious way of life.
As Seneca and others say, in truth
Cheerful poverty is an honest thing.
Whoever is contented with his lot,
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Poor as it is, I count him to be rich,
Though he may have no shirt upon his back;
Whoever covets anything is poor,
Because he wants what isn’t in his power.
The man with nothing, who would nothing have,
Is rich, though you may count him as a slave.
The nature of true poverty is to sing;
On this Juvenal has a happy saying—
“The poor man, when he goes a-journeying,
Can laugh at thieves.” Poverty’s a hated boon,
And, as I’d guess, an ef cient expeller
Of anxieties; also a great improver
Of wisdom, when it is patiently borne.
That is poverty, hard as it may seem:
It is an asset no one wants to claim.
Poverty will often, if you’re humble,
Teach you to know God, and yourself as well.
Poverty’s like an eyeglass, I declare,
Through which you can see who your real friends are.
In this I am not harming you; therefore
You can’t go on complaining I am poor.
‘And as for your reproach that I am old,
Were there no book whatever to uphold
Authority for it, yet all the same
It’s said by honourable gentlemen
Just like yourself, that people should respect
An old man, call him “sir” for manners’ sake:
I could fnd texts that say so, I expect.
‘As for your point that I’m loathsome and old,
You’ve then no fear of being made cuckold;
For ugliness and age, it seems to me,
Are the best bodyguards for chastity.
But, since I know what gives you most delight,
I’ll satisfy your sensual appetite.
‘Choose now, choose one of these two things,’ said she,
‘To have me old and ugly till I die,
And be to you a true and faithful wife,
And never to displease you all my life;
Or else to have me beautiful and young,
And take your chances with a crowd of men
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All focking to the house because of me,
Or to some other place, as it may be.
Choose for yourself which of the two you please.’
He turns it over in his mind, and sighs,
And in this way the knight at last replies:
‘My lady and my love, my dear wife too,
I place myself in your wise governance;
Choose for yourself whichever’s the most pleasant,
Most honourable to you, and me also.
All’s one to me; choose either of the two;
What pleases you is good enough for me.’
‘Then I’ve the mastery of you,’ said she,
‘Since I may choose and decide as I wish?’
‘Yes, certainly,’ said he, ‘I think it best.’
‘Kiss me, and we won’t quarrel any more,
For I’ll be both to you, upon my honour!
That’s to say, beautiful as well as good.
May death and madness be my lot,’ she said,
‘If I am not a wife as good and true
As ever wife was since the world was new.
And if I’m not as pretty as a queen,
As any empress that was ever seen
From east to west, before tomorrow’s dawn,
Then you can deal just as you like with me.
And now, lift up the curtain: look and see.’
And when the knight saw it was really so,
And that she was as lovely as she was young,
He caught her up in both his arms for joy,
With his whole heart bathed in a bath of bliss;
They kiss; a thousand thousand times they kiss.
And she obeyed him in all things that might
Aford him satisfaction or delight.
To their lives’ end they lived in perfect joy;
And may Christ Jesus send us husbands who
Are meek and young, and spirited in bed;
And send us grace to outlive those we wed;
And I pray Jesus to cut short the lives
Of those who won’t be governed by their Wives;
And as for all old and ill-tempered skinf ints,
May heaven rain upon them pestilence!
Chaucer, G. (1986). Canterbury tales. Oxford University Press. Created from gmcollege on 2021-11-10 16:00:30.
- ENG201 W7 Canterbury Tales
- Wife of Bath
