And so befell, that once upon a day,
This Sumner, prowling ever for his prey,
Rode forth to cheat a poor old widowed soul,
Feigning a cause for lack of protocol,
And as he went, he saw before him ride
A yeoman gay under the forest side.
A bow he bare, and arrows bright and keen;
And he was clad in a short cloak of green,
And wore a hat that had a fringe of black.
“Sir,” quoth this Sumner, shouting at his back,
“Hail, and well met.”—“Well met,” like shouteth he;
“Where ridest thou under the greenwood tree?
Goest thou far, thou jolly boy, to-day?”
This bully Sumner answered, and said, “Nay,
Only hard-by, to strain a rent.”—“Hoh! hoh!
Art thou a bailiff then?”—“Yea, even so.”
For he durst not, for very filth and shame,
Say that he was a Sumner, for the name.
“Well met, in God’s name,” quoth black fringe; “why, brother,
Thou art a bailiff then, and I’m another;
But I’m a stranger in these parts; so, prythee,
Lend me thine aid, and let me journey with thee.
I’ve gold and silver, plenty, where I dwell;
And if thou hap’st to come into our dell,
Lord! how we’ll do our best to give thee greeting!”
“Thanks,” quoth the Sumner; “merry be our meeting.”
So in each other’s hand their troths they lay,
And swear accord: and forth they ride and play.
This Sumner then, which was as full of stir,
And prate, and prying, as a woodpecker,
And ever inquiring upon everything,
Said, “Brother, where is thine inhabiting,
In case I come to find thee out some day?”
This yeoman dropped his speech in a soft way,
And said, “Far in the north. But ere we part, [42]
I trow thou shalt have learnt it so by heart,
Thou mayst not miss it, be it dark as pitch.”
“Good,” quoth the Sumner. “Now, as thou art rich,
Show me, dear brother, riding thus with me,
Since we are bailiffs both, some subtlety,
How I may play my game best, and may win:
And spare not, pray, for conscience or for sin,
But, as my brother, tell me how do ye.”
“Why, ’faith, to tell thee a plain tale,” quoth he,
“As to my wages, they be poor enough;
My lord’s a dangerous master, hard and chuff;
And since my labour bringeth but abortion,
I live, so please ye, brother, by extortion,
I take what I can get; that is my course;
By cunning, if I may; if not, by force;
So cometh, year by year, my salary.”
“Now certes,” quote the Sumner, “so fare I.
I lay my hands on everything, God wot,
Unless it be too heavy or too hot.
What I may get in counsel, privily,
I feel no sort of qualm thereon, not I.
Extortion or starvation;—that’s my creed.
Repent who list. The best of saints must feed.
That’s all the stomach that my conscience knoweth.
Curse on the ass that to confession goeth.
Well be we met, ’Od’s heart! and by my dame!
But tell me, brother dear, what is thy name?”
Now ye must know, that right in this meanwhile,
This yeoman ’gan a little for to smile.
“Brother,” quoth he, “my name, if I must tell—
I am a fiend: my dwelling is in hell:
And here I ride about my fortuning,
To wot if folk will give me anything.
To that sole end ride I, and ridest thou;
And, without pulling rein, will I ride now
To the world’s end, ere I will lose a prey.”
“God bless me,” quoth the Sumner, “what d’ye say?
I thought ye were a yeoman verily.
Ye have a man’s shape, sir, as well as I.
Have ye a shape then, pray, determinate
In hell, good sir, where ye have your estate?”
“Nay, certainly,” quoth he, “there have we none;
But whoso liketh it, he taketh one;
And so we make folk think us what we please.
Sometimes we go like apes, sometimes like bees,
Like man, or angel, black dog, or black crow:—
Nor is it wondrous that it should be so.
A sorry juggler can bewilder thee;
And ’faith, I think I know more craft than he.”
“But why,” inquired the Sumner, “must ye don
So many shapes, when ye might stick to one?”
“We suit the bait unto the fish,” quoth he.
“And why,” quoth t’other, “all this slavery?”
“For many a cause, Sir Sumner,” quoth the fiend;
“But time is brief—the day will have an end;
And here jog I, with nothing for my ride;
Catch we our fox, and let this theme abide:
For, brother mine, thy wit it is too small
To understand me, though I told thee all;
And yet, as toucheth that same slavery,
A devil must do God’s work, ’twixt you and me;
For without Him, albeit to our loathing,
Strong as we go, we devils can do nothing;
Though to our prayers, sometimes, He giveth leave
Only the body, not the soul, to grieve.
Witness good Job, whom nothing could make wrath;
And sometimes have we power to harass both;
And, then again, soul only is possest,
And body free; and all is for the best.
Full many a sinner would have no salvation,
Gat it he not by standing our temptation:
Though God He knows, ’twas far from our intent
To save the man:—his howl was what we meant.
Nay, sometimes we be servants to our foes:
Witness the saint that pulled my master’s nose;
And to the apostle servant eke was I.”
“Yet tell me,” quoth this Sumner, “faithfully,
Are the new shapes ye take for your intents
Fresh every time, and wrought of elements?”
“Nay,” quoth the fiend, “sometimes they be disguises;
And sometimes in a corpse a devil rises,
And speaks as sensibly, and fair, and well,
As did the Pythoness to Samuel:
And yet will some men say, it was not he!
Lord help, say I, this world’s divinity.
Of one thing make thee sure; that thou shalt know,
Before we part, the shapes we wear below.
Thou shalt—I jest thee not—the Lord forbid!
Thou shalt know more than ever Virgil did,
Or Dante’s self. So let us on, sweet brother,
And stick, like right warm souls, to one another:
I’ll never quit thee, till thou quittest me.”