THE PARDONER'S TALE
In Flanders whilom was a company
Of youngè folk, that haunteden folly,
As riot, hazard, stewès, and tavérns;
Whereas with harpès, lutès, and gittérns,[198]
They dance and play at dice both day and night,
And eat also, and drinken o'er hir might;
Through which they do the devil sacrifice
Within the devil's temple, in cursed wise,
By superfluity abomináble.
Hir oathès be so great and so damnáble,
That it is grisly[199] for to hear hem swear.
Our blessèd Lordès body they to-tear[200];
Hem thoughte[201] Jewès rent him not enough;
And each of hem at otherès sinnè lough.[202]
And right anon then comen tombesteres[203]
Fetis[204] and small, and youngè fruitesteres,[205]
Singers with harpès, bawdès, waferérs,[206]
Which be the very devil's officérs,
To kindle and blow the fire of lechery,
That is annexèd unto gluttony.
These riotourès three, of which I tell,
Long erst ere[207] primè rung of any bell,
Were set hem in a tavern for to drink:
And as they sat, they heard a bellè clink
Before a corpse, was carried to his grave:
That one of hem gan callen to his knave,[208]
"Go bet,"[209] quoth he, "and askè readily,
What corpse is this, that passeth here forby:
And look that thou report his namè well."
"Sir," quoth this boy, "it needeth never a del;
It was me told ere ye came here two hours:
He was pardie an old fellów of yours,
And suddenly he was yslain to-night,
Fordrunk[210] as he sat on his bench upright:
There came a privy thief, men clepeth[211] Death,
That in this country all the people slayéth,
And with his spear he smote his heart atwo,
And went his way withouten wordès mo.
He hath a thousand slain this pestilénce:
And, master, ere ye come in his presénce,
Methinketh that it werè necessary,
For to be ware of such an adversary;
Be ready for to meet him evermore:
Thus taughtè me my dame; I say no more."
"By Saintè Mary," said this tavernér,[212]
"The child saith sooth, for he hath slain this year
Hence over a mile, within a great villáge,
Both man and woman, child, and hine,[213] and page;
I trow his habitatìón be there:
To be avisèd[214] great wisdóm it were,
Ere that he did a man a dishonóur."
"Yea, Godès armès," quoth this riotóur,
"Is it such peril with him for to meet?
I shall him seek by way and eke by street,
I make avow to Godès digne[215] bonès.
Hearkeneth, fellówès, we three be all onès[216]:
Let each of us hold up his hand till other,
And each of us becomen otherès brother,
And we will slay this falsè traitor Death:
He shall be slain, which that so many slayeth,
By Godès dignity, ere it be night."
Together have these three hir truthès plight
To live and dien each of hem for other,
As though he were his own yborèn[217] brother.
And up they start all drunken, in this rage,
And forth they go towárdès that villáge.
Of which the taverner had spoke beforn,
And many a grisly[218] oath then have they sworn,
And Christès blessed body they to-rent;[219]
Death shall be dead,[220] if that they may him hent.[221]
When they have gone not fully half a mile,
Right as they would have trodden o'er a stile,
An old man and a poorè with hem met.
This oldè man full meekèly hem gret,[222]
And saidè thus: "Now, lordès, God you see."[223]
The proudest of these riotourès three
Answéred again: "What, carl,[224] with sorry grace,
Why art thou all forwrappèd[225] save thy face?
Why livest thou so long in so great age?"
This oldè man gan look on his viságe,
And saidè thus: "For I ne cannot find
A man, though that I walkèd into Ind,
Neither in city, nor in no villáge,
That wouldè change his youthè for mine age;
And therefore mote I have mine agè still
As longè time as it is Godès will.
Ne death, alas! ne will not have my life;
Thus walk I like a restèless cáìtiff,
And on the ground, which is my mother's gate,
I knockè with my staff, both early and late,
And sayen, 'Liefè[226] mother, let me in.
Lo, how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and skin;
Alas! when shall my bonès be at rest?
Mother, with you would I changen my chest,
That in my chamber longè time hath be,
Yea, for an hairè clout to wrappè me.'
But yet to me she will not do that grace,
For which full pale and welkèd[227] is my face.
"But, sirs, to you it is no courtesy
To speaken to an old man villainy,
But[228] he trespass in word or else in deed.
In holy writ ye may yourself well read;
'Against[229] an old man, hoar upon his head,
Ye should arise:' wherefore I give you rede,[230]
Ne do unto an old man none harm now,
No morè than ye would men did to you
In agè, if that ye so long abide.
And God be with you, where ye go or ride;
I mote go thither as I have to go."
"Nay, oldè churl, by God, thou shalt not so,"
Saidè this other hazardour anon;
"Thou partest not so lightly, by Saint John.
Thou spake right now of thilkè traitor Death,
That in this country all our friendès slayeth;
Have here my truth, as thou art his espy;
Tell where he is, or thou shalt it aby,[231]
By God and by the holy sacrament;
For soothly thou art one of his assent
To slay us youngè folk, thou falsè thief."
"Now, sirs," quoth he, "if that you be so lief[232]
To finden Death, turn up this crooked way,
For in that grove I left him, by my fay,
Under a tree, and there he will abide;
Not for your boast he will him nothing hide.
See ye that oak? right there ye shall him find.
God savè you, that bought again mankind,
And you amend!" thus said this oldè man.
And evereach[233] of these riotourès ran,
Till he came to that tree, and there they found
Of florins fine of gold ycoinèd round,
Well nigh an eightè bushels, as hem thought.
No lenger then after Death they sought,
But each of hem so glad was of that sight,
For that the florins be so fair and bright,
That down they set hem by this precious hoard.
The worst of hem he spake the firstè word.
"Brethren," quoth he, "take keepè[234] what I say;
My wit is great, though that I bourd[235] and play.
This treasure hath fortúne unto us given
In mirth and jollity our life to liven,
And lightly as it cometh, so will we spend.
Hey! Godès precious dignity! who wend[236]
To-day, that we should have so fair a grace?
But might this gold be carried from this place
Home to mine house, or ellès unto yours,
For well ye wot that all this gold is ours,
Then werè we in high felicity.
But trúèly by day it may not be;
Men woulden say that we were thievès strong,
And for our owen treasure do us hong.[237]
This treasure must ycarried be by night
As wisely and as slily as it might.
Wherefore I rede,[238] that cut[239] among us all
Be draw, and let see where the cut will fall:
And he that hath the cut, with heartè blithè
Shall rennè[240] to the town, and that full swith,[241]
And bring us bread and wine full privily;
And two of us shall keepen subtlely
This treasure well; and if he will not tarry,
When it is night, we will this treasure carry
By one assent, where as us thinketh best."
That one of hem the cut brought in his fist,
And bade hem draw and look where it will fall,
And it fell on the youngest of hem all:
And forth towárd the town he went anon.
And also[242] soon as that he was agone,
That one of hem spake thus unto that other;
"Thou knowest well thou art my sworen brother;
Thy profit will I tellen thee anon.
Thou wost[243] well that our fellow is agone,
And here is gold, and that full great plenty,
That shall departed be among us three.
But nathèless, if I can shape it so,
That it departed were among us two,
Had I not done a friendès turn to thee?"
That other answered, "I not[244] how that may be:
He wot how that the gold is with us tway.[245]
What shall we do? what shall we to him say?"
"Shall it be counsel?" said the firstè shrew;
"And I shall tellen thee in wordès few
What we shall do, and bring it well about."
"I grantè," quoth that other, "out of doubt,
That by my truth I shall thee not bewray."
"Now," quoth the first, "thou wost well we be tway,
And two of us shall strenger be than one.
Look, when that he is set, thou right anon
Arise, as though thou wouldest with him play;
And I shall rive him through the sidès tway,
While that thou strugglest with him as in game,
And with thy dagger look thou do the same;
And then shall all this gold departed be,
My dearè friend, betwixen me and thee:
Then may we both our lustès all fulfill,
And play at dice right at our owen will."
And thus accorded be these shrewès tway
To slay the third, as ye have heard me say.
This youngest, which that went unto the town,
Full oft in heart he rolleth up and down
The beauty of these florins new and bright.
"O Lord!" quoth he, "if so were that I might
Have all this treasure to myself alone,
There is no man that liveth under the throne
Of God, that shouldè live so merry as I."
And the last the fiend, our enemy,
Put in his thought that he should poison bey,[246]
With which he mightè slay his fellows twaye.
Forwhy[247] the fiend found him in such livíng,
That he had leavè him to sorrow bring.
For this was utterly his full intent
To slay hem both, and never to repent.
And forth he goeth, no lenger would he tarry,
Into the town unto a 'pothecary,
And prayèd him that he him wouldè sell
Some poison, that he might his rattès quell,
And eke there was a polecat in his haw[248]
That, as he said, his capons had yslawe[249];
And fain he wouldè wreak[250] him if he might,
On vermin, that destroyèd him by night.
The 'pothecary answéred, "And thou shalt have
A thing that, also[251] God my soulè save,
In all this world there nis no créàtúre,
That eaten or drunk hath of this cónfectúre,
Naught but the mountance[252] of a corn of wheat,
That he ne shall his life anon forlete[253];
Yea, sterve[254] he shall, and that in lessè while,
Than thou wilt go a pace[255] not but a mile:
This poison is so strong and violent."
This cursèd man hath in his hand yhent[256]
This poison in a box, and sith he ran
Into the nextè street unto a man,
And borrowed of him largè bottles three;
And in the two his poison pourèd he;
The third he kept clean for his owen drink,
For all the night he shope[257] him for to swink[258]
In carrying the gold out of that place.
And when this riotour, with sorry grace,
Had filled with wine his greatè bottles three,
To his fellóws again repaireth he.
What needeth it to sermon of it more?
For right as they had cast his death before,
Right so they have him slain, and that anon.
And when that this was done, thus spake that one:
"Now let us sit and drink, and make us merry,
And afterward we will his body bury."
And with that word it happèd him par cas,[259]
To take the bottle there the poison was,
And drank, and gave his fellow drink also,
For which anon they storven[260] bothè two.
But certes I suppose that Avicen
Wrote never in no canon, n' in no fen,[261]
Mo wonder signès of empoisoning,
Than had these wretches two ere hir endíng.
Thus ended be these homicidès two,
And eke the false empoisoner also.
THE NUN'S PRIESTS TALE
A poorè widow somedeal stope[262] in age,
Was whilom dwelling in a narrow cottàge,
Beside a grovè, standing in a dale.
This widow, of which I tellè you my tale,
Since thilkè day that she was last a wife,
In patience led a full simple life.
For little was her cattel[263] and her rent[264]:
By husbandry[265] of such as God her sent
She found[266] herself, and eke her daughtren two.
Three largè sowès had she, and no mo;
Three kine, and eke a sheep that hightè[267] Mall.
Full sooty was her bower, and eke her hall,
In which she ate full many a slender meal.
Of poignant sauce her needed never a deal.[268]
No dainty morsel passèd through her throat;
Her diet was accordant to her cote.[269]
Repletìón ne made her never sick;
Attemper[270] diet was all her physíc,
And exercise, and heartès suffisánce.[271]
The goutè let[272] her nothing for to dance,
N' apoplexy ne shentè[273] not her head.
No wine ne drank she, neither white ne red:
Her board was servèd most with white and black,
Milk and brown bread, in which she found no lack,
Seind[274] bacon, and sometime an egg or twey;
For she was as it were a manner dey.[275]
A yard she had, enclosed all about
With stickès, and a dryè ditch without,
In which she had a cock hight Chanticleer,
In all the land of crowing was none his peer.
His voice was merrier than the merry orgón,
On massè days that in the churchè gon.
Well sikerer[276] was his crowing in his lodge
Than is a clock, or an abbéy horloge.[277]
By nature he knew each ascensìón
Of the equinoctiál in thilké town;
For when degrees fifteenè were ascended,
Then crew he, that it might not be amended.
His comb was redder than the fine corál,
And battled,[278] as it were a castle wall.
His bill was black, and as the jet it shone;
Like azure were his leggès and his ton[279];
His nailès whiter than the lily flower,
And like the burned[280] gold was his colóur.
This gentle cock had in his governánce
Seven hennès, for to do all his pleasánce,
Which were his sisters and his paramours,
And wonder like to him, as of coloúrs;
Of which the fairest huèd on her throat
Was clepèd fairè Damosel Partelote.
Courteous she was, discreet, and debonair,
And cómpanáble,[281] and bare herself so fair,
Sin[282] thilkè day that she was sevennight old,
That truèly she hath the heart in hold[283]
Of Chanticleer, locken[284] in every lith[285];
He loved her so, that well was him therewith.
But such a joy was it to hear hem sing,
When that the brightè sunnè gan to spring,
In sweet accord, 'My lief is faren on land.'[286]
For thilkè time, as I have understande,
Beastès and birdès couldè speak and sing.
And so befell, that in a dawèning,
As Chanticleer among his wivès all
Sat on his perchè, that was in the hall,
And next him sat this fairè Partèlote,
This Chanticleer gan groanen in his throat,
As man that in his dream is drecchèd[287] sore,
And when that Partèlote thus heard him roar,
She was aghast, and said, "O heartè dear,
What aileth you to groan in this mannére?
Ye be a very sleeper, fie, for shame!"
And he answéred and saidè thus: "Madáme,
I pray you that ye take it not agrief[288];
By God, me met[289] I was in such mischiéf[290]
Right now, that yet mine heart is sore affright.
Now God," quoth he, "my sweven[291] read[292] aright,
And keep my body out of foul prisón.
Me met how that I roamèd up and down
Within our yard, where-as I saw a beast
Was like an hound, and would have made arrest
Upon my body, and have had me dead.
His colour was betwixè yellow and red;
And tippèd was his tail, and both his ears
With black, unlike the remnant of his hairs.
His snoutè small, with glowing eyen twey;
Yet of his look for fear almost I dey[293]:
This causèd me my groaning doubteless."
"Avoy!" quoth she, "fie on you heartèless!
Alas!" quoth she, "for by that God above
Now have ye lost mine heart and all my love;
I cannot love a coward, by my faith.
For certes, what so any woman saith,
We all desiren, if it mightè be,
To have husbándès, hardy, wise, and free,
And secre,[294] and no niggard ne no fool,
Ne him that is aghast of every tool,
Ne none avantour[295] by that God above.
How durst ye say for shame unto your love,
That anything might maken you afeard?
Have ye no mannès heart, and have a beard?
Alas! and can ye be aghast of swevenès[296]?
Nothing but vanity, God wot, in sweven is,
Swevens engender of repletions,
And oft of fume, and of complexións,[297]
When humours be too abundant in a wight.
Certes this dream, which ye have met[298] to-night,
Cometh of the greatè superfluity
Of yourè redè colera,[299] pardié,
Which causeth folk to dreamen in hir dreams
Of arrows, and of fire with redè leames,[300]
Of greatè beastes, that they will hem bite,
Of contek[301] and of whelpès great and lite[302];
Right as the humour of meláncholy
Causeth full many a man in sleep to cry,
For fear of blackè beares or bullès blake,
Or ellès blackè devils will hem take.
Of other humours could I tell also,
That worken many a man in sleep full woe:
But I will pass as lightly[303] as I can.
Lo Cato, which that was so wise a man,
Said he not thus? 'Ne do no force[304] of dreams.'"
"Now, Sir," quoth she, "when ye fly from the beams,
For Godès love, as take some laxative:
Up[305] peril of my soul, and of my live,
I counsel you the best, I will not lie,
That both of choler, and of meláncholy
Ye purgè you; and for ye shall not tarry,
Though in this town is none apothecary,
I shall myself to herbès teachen you,
That shall be for your heal[306] and for your prow[307];
And in our yard tho[308] herbès shall I find,
The which have of hir property by kind[309]
To purgen you beneath, and eke above.
Forget not this for Godès owen love;
Ye be full choleric of complexìón;
Ware the sun in his ascensìón
Ne find you not replete of humours hot:
And if it do, I dare well lay a groat,
That ye shall have a fever tertìán,
Or an agúe, that may be yourè bane.
A day or two ye shall have dígestives
Of wormès, ere ye take your laxatíves,
Of lauriol, centaury, and fumetere,[310]
Or else of hellebore, that growreth there,
Of catapucè,[311] or of gaitres-berríès,[312]
Of herb ivy growing in our yard, that merry is:
Pick hem up right as they grow, and eat hem in.
Be merry, husband, for your father kin
Dreadeth no dream; I can say you no more."
"Madame," quoth he, "grand mercy of" your lore.
But nathèless, as touching Dan Caton,
That hath of wisdom such a great renown,
Though that he bade no dreamès for to drede,
By God, men may in oldè bookès read,[313]
Of many a man, more of authority
Than ever Cato was, so mote I the,[314]
That all the réverse say of this senténce,
And have well founden by experiénce,
That dreamès be significatìóns
As well of joy, as of tribulatìóns,
That folk enduren in this life présent.
There needeth make of this none argument;
The very prevè[315] sheweth it indeed.
"One of the greatest authors that men read,
Saith thus, that whilom two fellówès went
On pilgrimage in a full good intent;
And happèd so, they came into a town,
Where-as there was such congregatìón
Of people, and eke so strait of herbergage,[316]
That they ne found as much as one cottáge,
In which they bothè might ylodgèd be:
Wherefore they musten of necessity,
As for that night, departen[317] company;
And each of hem goeth to his hostelry,
And took his lodging as it wouldè fall.
That one of hem was lodgèd in a stall,
Far in a yard, with oxen of the plow;
That other man was lodgèd well enow,
As was his áventúre, or his fortúne,
That us govérneth all, as in commúne.
And so befell, that, long ere it were day,
This man met[318] in his bed, there-as he lay,
How that his fellow gan upon him call,
And said, 'Alas! for in an oxès stall
This night I shall be murdered, there I lie.
Now help me, dearè brother, or I die;
In allè hastè come to me,' he said.
This man out of his sleep for fear abraid[319];
But when that he was wakened of his sleep,
He turnèd him, and took of this no keep[320];
Him thought his dream nas but a vanity.
Thus twiès in his sleeping dreamèd he.
And at the thirdè time yet his felláw
Came, as him thought, and said, 'I am now slawe.[321]
Behold my bloody woundès, deep and wide.
Arise up early, in the morrow tide,
And at the west gate of the town,' quoth he,
'A cartè full of dung there shalt thou see,
In which my body is hid full privily.
Do thilkè cart arresten boldèly.
My gold causèd my murder, sooth to sayn.'
And told him every point how he was slain
With a full piteous facè, pale of hue.
And trusteth well, his dream he found full true;
For on the morrow, as soon as it was day,
To his fellówès inn he took his way:
And when that he came to this oxès stall,
After his fellow he began to call.
The hostèler answérèd him anon,
And saidè, 'Sir, your fellow is agone,
As soon as day he went out of the town.'
"This man gan fallen in suspicìón
Remembering on his dreamès that he met,[322]
And forth he goeth, no lenger would he let,[323]
Unto the west gate of the town, and found
A dung cart, as it were to dungè lond,
That was arrayèd in that samè wise
As ye have heard the deadè man devise:
And with an hardy heart he gan to cry,
'Vengeance and justice of this felony:
My fellow murdered is this samè night,
And in this cart he lieth, gaping upright.[324]
I cry out on the ministers,' quoth he,
'That shouldè keep and rulen this city:
Harow! alas! here lieth my fellow slain.'
What should I more unto this talè sayn?
The people out start,[325] and cast the cart to ground,
And in the middle of the dung they found
The deadè man, that murdered was all new.
O blissful God! that art so just and true,
Lo, how that thou bewrayest[326] murder alway.
Murder will out, that see we day by day.
Murder is so wlatsom[327] and abomináble
To God, that is so just and reasonáble,
That he ne will not suffer it helèd[328] be,
Though it abide a year, or two, or three;
Murder will out, this is my conclusìón.
"And right anon, minísters of that town
Have hent[329] the carter, and so sore him pined,[330]
And eke the hostèler so sore engíned,[331]
That they beknew[332] hir wickedness anon,
And were anhangèd by the neckè bone.
"Here may men see that dreamès be to dread.
And certes in the samè book I read,
Right in the nextè chapter after this,
(I gabbè[333] not, so have I joy and bliss,)
Two men that would have passèd over sea
For certain cause into a far country,
If that the wind ne haddè been contráry,
That made hem in a city for to tarry,
That stood full merry upon an haven side.
But on a day, again[334] the even tide,
The wind gan change, and blew right as hem lest.[335]
Jolly and glad they went unto hir rest,
And casten hem full early for to sail;
But to that one man fell a great marvail.
That one of them in sleeping as he lay,
He met29999 a wonder dream, again the day:
Him thought a man stood by his beddès side,
And him commanded that he should abide,
And said him thus: 'If thou to-morrow wend,
Thou shalt be dreynt[337]; my tale is at an end.'
He woke, and told his fellow what he met,[336]
And prayed him his voyagè to let[338];
As for that day, he prayed him for to abide.
His fellow, that lay by his beddès side,
Gan for to laugh, and scorned him full fast.
'No dream,' quoth he, 'may so my heart aghast,
That I will letten for to do my things.
I settè not a straw by thy dreamíngs,
For swevens[339] be but vanities and japes.[340]
Men dream all day of owlès or of apes,
And eke of many a masè[341] therewithal;
Men dream of thing that never was, ne shall.
But sith I see that thou wilt here abide,
And thus forslothen[342] wilfully thy tide,
God wot it rueth[343] me, and have good day.'
And thus he took his leave, and went his way.
But ere that he had half his course ysailed,
Nought I not[344] why, ne what mischance it ailed,
But casually the shippès bottom rent,
And ship and man under the water went
In sight of other shippès there beside,
That with hem sailèd at the samè tide.
"And therefore, fairè Partèlote so dear,
By such ensamples old yet mayst thou lere.[345]
That no man shouldè be too reckèless
Of dreamès, for I say thee doubtèless,
That many a dream full sore is for to dread.
"Lo, in the life of Saint Kenelm I read,
That was Kenulphus son, the noble king
Of Mercenrike,[346] how Kenelm met[347] a thing.
A little ere he was murdered, on a day,
His murder in his ávisión[348] he say.[349]
His norice[350] him expounded every del
His sweven, and bade him for to keep him well
For[351] treason; but he nas but seven year old,
And therefore little tale hath he told[352]
Of any dream, so holy was his heart.
By God, I haddè liefer than my shirt,
That ye had read his legend, as have I.
"Dame Partèlote, I say you truèly,
Macrobius, that writ the ávisión[353]
In Afric of the worthy Scipion,
Affirmeth dreamès, and saith that they be
Warning of thingès that men after see.
And furthermore, I pray you looketh well
In the Oldè Testament, of Daniél,
If he held dreamès any vanity.
Read eke of Joseph, and there shall ye see
Where[354] dreamès be sometime (I say not all)
Warning of thingès that shall after fall.
Look of Egypt the king, Dan Pharao,
His baker and his butèler also,
Whether they ne felten none effect in dreams.
Whoso will seeken acts of sundry remes,[355]
May read of dreamès many a wonder thing.
Lo Crœsus, which that was of Lydia king,
Met[356] he not that he sat upon a tree,
Which signified he should anhangèd be?
"Lo here, Andromache, Hectórès wife,
That day that Hector shouldè lese[357] his life,
She dreamèd on the samè night beforn,
How that the life of Hector should be lorn,[358]
If thilkè day he went into battáil:
She warnèd him, but it might not avail;
He wentè for to fighten nathèless,
And he was slain anon of Achillés.
But thilkè tale is all too long to tell,
And eke it is nigh day, I may not dwell.
"Shortly I say, as for conclusìón,
That I shall have of this avisìón
Adversity: and I say furthermore,
That I ne tell[359] of laxatives no store,
For they be venomous, I wot it well:
I hem defy, I love hem never a del.
"Now let us speak of mirth, and stint all this;
Madamè Partèlote, so have I bliss,
Of one thing God hath sent me largè grace:
For when I see the beauty of your face,
Ye be so scarlet red about your eyen,
It maketh all my dreadè for to dien,
For, also[360] sicker[361] as In principio,
Mulier est hominis confusio,—
Madam, the sentence[362] of this Latin is,
Woman is mannès joy and all his bliss—
For when I feel a-night your softè side,
I am so full of joy and of soláce,
That I defyè bothè sweven[363] and dream."
And with that word he flew down from the beam,
For it was day, and eke his hennès all;
And with a chuck he gan hem for to call,
For he had found a corn, lay in the yard.
Royal he was, he was no more afeard;