A Frere there was, a wanton and a merry....
Full wele beloved and familier was he
With Frankeleins all over his contre,
And with the worthie women of the towne....
Full swetely herde he their confessioune,
And plesaunt was his absolutionne.
He was an esy man to give pennaunce,
Ther as he wist to have a gode pittaunce;
For unto a pore order for to give
Is a signe that a man is wel yshrive....
He knewe the tavernes wel in every toun,
And every hostiler and tapistere,
Better than a Lazere and a begger....
It is naught honest, it may not avaunce,
For to have deling with suche base poraille,
But alle with rich and sellers of vitayle....
For many a man so herde is of his herte,
That he may not wepe, although him sore smert;
Therefore instede of weping and prayers,
Man mote give silver to the poor Freres.
(Prologue des Contes de Canterbury.)
In every house he began to por and prie,
And beggid mele, and chese, or ellis corne....
«Yeve us a bushell whete, or malte or rey,
A Godd'is Kichel, or a trip of chese.
Or ellis what ye list, I may not chese,
A Godd'is half-penny, or a masse penny,
Or yeve us of your brawn, if you have any,
A dagon of your blanket, leve Dame,
Our sustir dere, lo, here I write your name.»...
.... And whan he was out at the dore anon,
He playned away the namis everichone.
.... «God wote, quod he, laboured have I full sore,
And specially for thy salvacion,
Haw I said many precious orison.
I have this day ben at your chirche at messe....
And there I saw our Dame, ah, where is she?»
The Frere arisith up full curtisly,
And her embracith in his armie narrow,
And kissith her swetely and chirkith as a sparow....
«Thankid be God that you have soul and life,
Yet sawe I not this day so faire a wife
In alle the whole chirche, so God me save....
I woll with Thomas speke a litil throwe,
These curates ben full negligent and slowe
To gropin tenderly a man 'is conscience....
Now, Dame, quod he, je vous die sans dout,
Have I not of a capon but the liver,
And of your white bred but a shiver,
And aftir that a rostid pigg'is hedde,
(But I n'old for me that no beste were dedde,)
Than hadde I ynow for my suffisaunce.
I am a man of litil sustenaunce,
My spirit hath his fostring in the Bible.
My bodie is so redie and penible
To wakin, that my stomach is distroied.
I praye you, Dame, that ye be nought annoied!»....
«Now, sir, quod she, but one word er I go,
My child is dedde within these wekis two.»—
«—His dethe I saw by revelatioune,
Sayid this Frere, at home in our dortour,
I dare well saye, that within half an hour,
After his dethe, I saw him bore to blisse
In my visioune, so God my soule wisse.
So did our sexton and our Fermetere
That have ben true Freris these fifty yere.
And up I rose and alle our covent eke
With many a tere trilling on our cheke....
Te Deum was our song and nothing elses....
For, sir and dame, trustith ye me right well,
Our orisouns ben more effectuell,
And more we se of Crist'is secret things
Than borell folk, albeit they were kings.
We live in poverty and abstinence
And borell folk in richesse and dispence....
Lazar and Dives livid diversly,
And diverse guerdons haddin they thereby....»
[207]: Comparer le tableau de Rembrandt au Louvre (le Moine chez le menuisier).
The frere answerde: «O Thomas, dost thou so?
What nedith the diverse freris to seche?
What nedith him, that hath a parfit leche,
To sechin othir lechis in the toune?
Your inconstance is your confusioune.
Hold you me then and eke alle our covent
To prayin for you insufficient?
Thomas, that jape no is not worth a mite,
Your maladie is for we have to lite.
A, yeve that covent four and twenty grotes,
And yeve that covent half a quarter otes,
And yeve that frere a peny', and let him go:
Nay, nay, Thomas, it may be nothing so.
What is a farthing worth partie in twelve?
Lo! eche thing that is onid in himselve
Is more strong, than when it is so yskattered;
Thomas, of me thou shalt not be yflattered:
Thou woldist have our labour all for nought.
.... And yet, God wol, unnethe the fundament
Parfourmid is, ne of our pavement
There is not yet a tile within our wones,
By God, we owin fourtie pound for stones,
Now helpe, Thomas, for him that harrowed helle,
For ellis mote we alle our bokes selle,
And if men lak our predicatioune,
Than goth this world all so destructioune.
For who so fro this world wold us bereve,
So God me savin, Thomas, by your leve,
He wold bereve out of this world the sonne.»
(The Sompnour's tale.)
This frere ybosti that he knowith hell,
And God it wat that it is litil wonder,
Freris and Fendis gon but little asonder.
For parde, ye han ofte time here tell
How that a Frere ravishid was to hell
In spirit onis by a visioune,
And as an Angel led him up and doune
To shewin him the peynis that were there....
And unto Sathanas ladd he him doune.
«And now hath Sathanas, said he, a taile
Brodir than of a Carike is the saile.
Hold up thy taile, thou Sathanas, quod he,
Shew forth thyn erse, and let the Frere se,
Where is the nest of Freris in this place.»
And er that half a furlong wey of place,
Right so as bees swarmin out of a hive,
Out of the Devil's erse they gan to drive,
Twenty thousand Freris all on a rout,
And throughout Hell they swarmid all about,
And come agen as fast as they might gon,
And into his erse they crepte everichone;
He clapt his taile agen, and lay full still.