Whilom ther was dwellynge at oxenford

A riche gnof, that gestes heeld to bord,

And of his craft he was a carpenter.

With hym ther was dwellynge a poure scoler,

Hadde lerned art, but al his fantasye

Was turned for to lerne astrologye,

And koude a certeyn of conclusiouns,

To demen by interrogaciouns,

If that men asked hym in certein houres

Whan that men sholde have droghte or elles shoures,

Or if men asked hym what sholde bifalle

Of every thyng; I may nat rekene hem alle.

This clerk was cleped hende nicholas.

Of deerne love he koude and of solas;

And therto he was sleigh and ful privee,

And lyk a mayden meke for to see.

A chambre hadde he in that hostelrye

Allone, withouten any compaignye,

Ful fetisly ydight with herbes swoote;

And he hymself as sweete as is the roote

Of lycorys, or any cetewale.

His almageste, and bookes grete and smale,

His astrelabie, longynge for his art,

His augrym stones layen faire apart,

On shelves couched at his beddes heed;

His presse ycovered with a faldyng reed;

And al above ther lay a gay sautrie,

On which he made a-nyghtes melodie

So swetely that all the chambre rong;

And angelus ad virginem he song;

And after that he song the kynges noote.

Ful often blessed was his myrie throte.

And thus this sweete clerk his tyme spente

After his freendes fyndyng and his rente.

This carpenter hadde wedded newe a wyf,

Which that he lovede moore than his lyf;

Of eighteteene yeer she was of age.

Jalous he was, and heeld hire narwe in cage,

For she was wylde and yong, and he was old, [49]

And demed hymself been lik a cokewold.

He knew nat catoun, for his wit was rude,

That bad man sholde wedde his simylitude.

Men sholde wedden after hire estaat,

For youthe and elde is often at debaat.

But sith that he was fallen in the snare,

He moste endure, as oother folk, his care.

Fair was this yonge wyf, and therwithal

As any wezele hir body gent and smal.

A ceynt she werede, barred al of silk,

A barmclooth eek as whit as morne milk

Upon hir lendes, ful of many a goore.

Whit was hir smok, and broyden al bifoore

And eek bihynde, on hir coler aboute,

Of col-blak silk, withinne and eek withoute.

The tapes of hir white voluper

Were of the same suyte of hir coler;

Hir filet brood of silk, and set ful hye.

And sikerly she hadde a likerous ye;

Ful smale ypulled were hire browes two,

And tho were bent and blake as any sloo.

She was ful moore blisful on to see

Than is the newe pere-jonette tree,

And softer than the wolle is of a wether.

And by hir girdel heeng a purs of lether,

Tasseled with silk, and perled with latoun.

In al this world, to seken up and doun,

There nys no man so wys that koude thenche

So gay a popelote or swich a wenche.

Ful brighter was the shynyng of hir hewe

Than in the tour the noble yforged newe.

But of hir song, it was as loude and yerne

As any swalwe sittynge on a berne.

Therto she koude skippe and make game,

As any kyde or calf folwynge his dame.

Hir mouth was sweete as bragot or the meeth,

Or hoord of apples leyd in hey or heeth.

Wynsynge she was, as is a joly colt,

Long as a mast, and upright as a bolt.

A brooch she baar upon hir lowe coler,

As brood as is the boos of a bokeler.

Hir shoes were laced on hir legges hye.

She was a prymerole, a piggesnye,

For any lord to leggen in his bedde,

Or yet for any good yeman to wedde.

Now, sire, and eft, sire, so bifel the cas,

That on a day this hende nicholas

Fil with this yonge wyf to rage and pleye,

Whil that hir housbonde was at oseneye,

As clerkes ben ful subtile and ful queynte;

And prively he caughte hire by the queynte,

And seyde, ywis, but if ich have my wille,

For deerne love of thee, lemman, I spille.

And heeld hire harde by the haunchebones,

And seyde, lemman, love me al atones,

Or I wol dyen, also God me save!

And she sproong as a colt dooth in the trave,

And with hir heed she wryed faste awey,

And seyde, I wol nat kisse thee, by my fey!

Why, lat be, quod she, lat be, nicholas,

Or I wol crie -- out, harrow -- and -- allas! --

Do wey youre handes, for youre curteisye!

This nicholas gan mercy for to crye,

And spak so faire, and profred him so faste,

That she hir love hym graunted atte laste,

And swoor hir ooth, by seint thomas of kent,

That she wol been at his comandement,

Whan that she may hir leyser wel espie.

Myn housbonde is so ful of jalousie

That but ye wayte wel and been privee,

I woot right wel I nam but deed, quod she.

Ye moste been ful deerne, as in this cas.

Nay, therof care thee noght, quod nicholas.

A clerk hadde litherly biset his whyle,

But if he koude a carpenter bigyle.

And thus they been accorded and ysworn

To wayte a tyme, as I have told biforn.

Whan nicholas had doon thus everideel,

And thakked hire aboute the lendes weel,

He kiste hire sweete and taketh his sawtrie,

And pleyeth faste, and maketh melodie.

Thanne fil it thus, that to the paryssh chirche,

Cristes owene werkes for to wirche,

This goode wyf went on an haliday.

Hir forheed shoon as bright as any day,

So was it wasshen whan she leet hir werk.

Now was ther of that chirche a parissh clerk,

The which that was ycleped absolon.

Crul was his heer, and as the gold it shoon,

And strouted as a fanne large and brode;

Ful streight and evene lay his joly shode.

His rode was reed, his eyen greye as goos.

With poules wyndow corven on his shoos,

In hoses rede he wente fetisly.

Yclad he was ful smal and proprely

Al in a kirtel of a lyght waget;

Ful faire and thikke been the poyntes set.

And therupon he hadde a gay surplys

As whit as is the blosme upon the rys.

A myrie child he was, so God me save.

Wel koude he laten blood and clippe and shave,

And maken a chartre of lond or acquitaunce.

In twenty manere koude he trippe and daunce

After the scole of oxenforde tho,

And with his legges casten to and fro,

And pleyen songes on a smal rubible;

Therto he song som tyme a loud quynyble; [50]

And as wel koude he pleye on a giterne.

In al the toun nas brewhous ne taverne

That he ne visited with his solas,

Ther any gaylard tappestere was.

But sooth to seyn, he was somdeel squaymous

Of fartyng, and of speche daungerous.

This absolon, that jolif was and gay,

Gooth with a sencer on the haliday,

Sensynge the wyves of the parisshe faste;

And many a lovely look on hem he caste,

And namely on this carpenteris wyf.

To looke on hire hym thoughte a myrie lyf,

She was so propre and sweete and likerous.

I dar wel seyn, if she hadde been a mous,

And he a cat, he wolde hire hente anon.

This parissh clerk, this joly absolon,

Hath in his herte swich a love-longynge

That of no wyf took he noon offrynge;

For curteisie, he seyde, he wolde noon.

The moone, whan it was nyght, ful brighte shoon,

And absolon his gyterne hath ytake,

For paramours he thoghte for to wake.

And forth he gooth, jolif and amorous,

Til he cam to the carpenteres hous

A litel after cokkes hadde ycrowe,

And dressed hym up by a shot-wyndowe

That was upon the carpenteris wal.

He syngeth in his voys gentil and smal,

Now, deere lady, if thy wille be,

I praye yow that ye wole rewe on me,

Ful wel acordaunt to his gyternynge.

This carpenter awook, and herde him synge,

And spak unto his wyf, and seyde anon,

What! alison! herestow nat absolon,

That chaunteth thus under oure boures wal?

And she answerde hir housbonde therwithal,

Yis, God woot, john, I heere it every deel.

This passeth forth; what wol ye bet than weel?

Fro day to day this joly absolon

So woweth hire that hym is wo bigon.

He waketh al the nyght and al the day;

He kembeth his lokkes brode, and made hym gay;

He woweth hire by meenes and brocage,

And swoor he wolde been hir owene page;

He syngeth, brokkynge as a nyghtyngale;

He sente hire pyment, meeth, and spiced ale,

And wafres, pipyng hoot out of the gleede;

And, for she was of town, he profred meede.

For som folk wol ben wonnen for richesse,

And somme for strokes, and somme for gentillesse.

Somtyme, to shewe his lightnesse and maistrye,

He pleyeth herodes upon a scaffold hye.

But what availleth hym as in this cas?

She loveth so this hende nicholas

That absolon may blowe the bukkes horn;

He ne hadde for his labour but a scorn.

And thus she maketh absolon hire ape,

And al his ernest turneth til a jape.

Ful sooth is this proverbe, it is no lye,

Men seyn right thus, alwey the nye slye

Maketh the ferre leeve to be looth.

For though that absolon be wood or wrooth,

By cause that he fer was from hire sight,

This nye nicholas stood in his light.

Now ber thee wel, thou hende nicholas,

For absolon may waille and synge allas.

And so bifel it on a saterday,

This carpenter was goon til osenay;

And hende nicholas and alisoun

Acorded been to this conclusioun,

That nicholas shal shapen hym a wyle

This sely jalous housbonde to bigyle;

And if so be the game wente aright,

She sholde slepen in his arm al nyght,

For this was his desir and hire also.

And right anon, withouten wordes mo,

This nicholas no lenger wolde tarie,

But dooth ful softe unto his chambre carie

Bothe mete and drynke for a day or tweye,

And to hire housbonde bad hire for to seye,

If that he axed after nicholas,

She sholde seye she nyste where he was,

Of al that day she saugh hym nat with ye;

She trowed that he was in maladye,

For for no cry hir mayde koude hym calle,

He nolde answere for thyng that myghte falle.

This passeth forth al thilke saterday,

That nicholas stille in his chambre lay,

And eet and sleep, or dide what hym leste,

Til sonday, that the sonne gooth to reste.

This sely carpenter hath greet merveyle

Of nicholas, or what thyng myghte hym eyle,

And seyde, I am adrad, by seint thomas,

It stondeth nat aright with nicholas.

God shilde that he deyde sodeynly!

This world is now ful tikel, sikerly.

I saugh to-day a cors yborn to chirche

That now, on monday last, I saugh hym wirche.

Go up, quod he unto his knave anoon,

Clepe at his dore, or knokke with a stoon.

Looke how it is, and tel me boldely.

This knave gooth hym up ful sturdily, [51]

And at the chambre dore whil that he stood,

He cride and knokked as that he were wood,

What! how! what do ye, maister nicholay?

How may ye slepen al the longe day?

But al for noght, he herde nat a word.

An hole he foond, ful lowe upon a bord,

Ther as the cat was wont in for to crepe,

And at that hole he looked in ful depe,

And at the laste he hadde of hym a sight.

This nicholas sat evere capyng upright,

As he had kiked on the newe moone.

Adoun he gooth, and tolde his maister soone

In what array he saugh this ilke man.

This carpenter to blessen hym bigan,

And seyde, help us, seinte frydeswyde!

A man woot litel what hym shal bityde.

This man is falle, with his astromye,

In some woodnesse or in som agonye.

I thoghte ay wel how that it sholde be!

Men sholde nat knowe of goddes pryvetee.

Ye, blessed be alwey a lewed man

That noght but oonly his bileve kan!

So ferde another clerk with astromye;

He walked in the feeldes, for to prye

Upon the sterres, what ther sholde bifalle,

Til he was in a marle-pit yfalle;

He saugh nat that. But yet, by seint thomas,

Me reweth soore of hende nicholas.

He shal be rated of his studiyng,

If that I may, by jhesus, hevene kyng!

Get me a staf, that I may underspore,

Whil that thou, robyn, hevest up the dore.

He shal out of his studiyng, as I gesse --

And to the chambre dore he gan hym dresse.

His knave was a strong carl for the nones,

And by the haspe he haaf it of atones;

Into the floor the dore fil anon.

This nicholas sat ay as stille as stoon,

And evere caped upward into the eir.

This carpenter wende he were in despeir,

And hente hym by the sholdres myghtily,

And shook hym harde, and cride spitously,

What! nicholay! what, how! what, looke adoun!

Awak, and thenk on cristes passioun!

I crouche thee from elves and fro wightes.

Therwith the nyght-spel seyde he anon-rightes

On foure halves of the hous aboute,

And on the thresshfold of the dore withoute:

Jhesu crist and seinte benedight,

Blesse this hous from every wikked wight,

For nyghtes verye, the white pater-noster!

Where wentestow, seinte petres soster?

And atte laste this hende nicholas

Gan for to sik soore, and seyde, allas!

Shal al the world be lost aftsoones now?

This carpenter answerde, what seystow?

What! thynk on god, as we doon, men that swynke.

This nicholas answerde, fecche me drynke,

And after wol I speke in pryvetee

Of certeyn thyng that toucheth me and thee.

I wol telle it noon oother man, certeyn.

This carpenter goth doun, and comth ageyn,

And broghte of myghty ale a large quart;

And whan that ech of hem had dronke his part,

This nicholas his dore faste shette,

And doun the carpenter by hym he sette.

He seyde john, myn hooste, lief and deere,

Thou shalt upon thy trouthe swere me heere

That to no wight thou shalt this conseil wreye;

For it is cristes conseil that I seye,

And if thou telle it man, thou art forlore;

For this vengeaunce thou shalt han therfore,

That if thou wreye me, thou shalt be wood.

Nay, crist forbede it, for his hooly blood!

Quod tho this sely man, I nam no labbe;

Ne, though I seye, I nam nat lief to gabbe.

Sey what thou wolt, I shal it nevere telle

To child ne wyf, by hym that harwed helle!

Now john, quod nicholas, I wol nat lye;

I have yfounde in myn astrologye,

As I have looked in the moone bright,

That now a monday next, at quarter nyght,

Shal falle a reyn, and that so wilde and wood,

That half so greet was nevere noes flood.

This world, he seyde, in lasse than an hour

Shal al be dreynt, so hidous is the shour.

Thus shal mankynde drenche, and lese hir lyf.

This carpenter answerde, allas, my wyf!

And shal she drenche? allas, myn alisoun!

For sorwe of this he fil almoost adoun,

And seyde, is ther no remedie in this cas?

Why, yis, for gode, quod hende nicholas,

If thou wolt werken after loore and reed.

Thou mayst nat werken after thyn owene heed;

For thus seith salomon, that was ful trewe,

Werk al by conseil, and thou shalt nat rewe. --

And if thou werken wolt by good conseil,

I undertake, withouten mast and seyl,

Yet shal I saven hire and thee and me.

Hastow nat herd hou saved was noe,

Whan that oure lord hadde warned hym biforn

That al the world with water sholde be lorn?

Yis, quod this carpenter, ful yoore ago.

Hastou nat herd, quod nicholas, also

The sorwe of noe with his felaweshipe, [52]

Er that he myghte gete his wyf to shipe?

Hym hadde be levere, I dar wel undertake

At thilke tyme, than alle his wetheres blake

That she hadde had a ship hirself allone.

And therfore, woostou what is best to doone?

This asketh haste, and of an hastif thyng

Men may nat preche or maken tariyng.

Anon go gete us faste into this in

A knedyng trogh, or ellis a kymelyn,

For ech of us, but looke that they be large,

In which we mowe swymme as in a barge,

And han therinne vitaille suffisant

But for a day, -- fy on the remenant!

The water shal aslake and goon away

Aboute pryme upon the nexte day.

But robyn may nat wite of this, thy knave,

Ne eek thy mayde gille I may nat save;

Axe nat why, for though thou aske me,

I wol nat tellen goddes pryvetee.

Suffiseth thee, but if thy wittes madde,

To han as greet a grace as noe hadde.

Thy wyf shal I wel saven, out of doute.

Go now thy wey, and speed thee heer-aboute.

But whan thou hast, for hire and thee and me,

Ygeten us thise knedyng tubbes thre,

Thanne shaltow hange hem in the roof ful hye,

That no man of oure purveiaunce spye.

And whan thou thus hast doon, as I have seyd,

And hast oure vitaille faire in hem yleyd,

And eek an ax, to smyte the corde atwo,

Whan that the water comth, that we may go,

And breke an hole an heigh, upon the gable,

Unto the gardyn-ward, over the stable,

That we may frely passen forth oure way,

Whan that the grete shour is goon away,

Thanne shaltou swymme as myrie, I undertake,

As dooth the white doke after hire drake.

Thanne wol I clepe, -- how, alison! how, john!

Be myrie, for the flood wol passe anon. --

And thou wolt seyn, -- hayl, maister nicholay!

Good morwe, I se thee wel, for it is day. --

And thanne shul we be lordes al oure lyf

Of al the world, as noe and his wyf.

But of o thyng I warne thee ful right:

Be wel avysed on that ilke nyght

That we ben entred into shippes bord,

That noon of us ne speke nat a word,

Ne clepe, ne crie, but be in his preyere;

For it is goddes owene heeste deere.

Thy wyf and thou moote hange fer atwynne;

For that bitwixe yow shal be no synne,

Namoore in lookyng than ther shal in deede,

This ordinance is seyd. Go, God thee speede!

Tomorwe at nyght, whan men ben alle aslepe,

Into oure knedyng-tubbes wol we crepe,

And sitten there, abidyng goddes grace.

Go now thy wey, I have no lenger space

To make of this no lenger sermonyng.

Men seyn thus, -- sende the wise, and sey no thyng: --

Thou art so wys, it needeth thee nat teche.

Go, save oure lyf, and that I the biseche.

This sely carpenter goth forth his wey.

Ful ofte he seide allas and weylawey,

And to his wyf he tolde his pryvetee,

And she was war, and knew it bet than he,

What al this queynte cast was for to seye.

But nathelees she ferde as she wolde deye,

And seyde, allas! go forth thy wey anon,

Help us to scape, or we been dede echon!

I am thy trewe, verray wedded wyf;

Go, deere spouse, and help to save oure lyf.

Lo, which a greet thyng is affeccioun!

Men may dyen of ymaginacioun,

So depe may impressioun be take.

This sely carpenter bigynneth quake;

Hym thynketh verraily that he may see

Noees flood come walwynge as the see

To drenchen alisoun, his hony deere.

He wepeth, weyleth, maketh sory cheere;

He siketh with ful many a sory swogh;

He gooth and geteth hym a knedyng trogh,

And after that a tubbe and a kymelyn,

And pryvely he sente hem to his in,

And heng hem in the roof in pryvetee.

His owene hand he made laddres thre,

To clymben by the ronges and the stalkes

Unto the tubbes hangynge in the balkes,

And hem vitailled, bothe trogh and tubbe,

With breed and chese, and good ale in a jubbe,

Suffisynge right ynogh as for a day.

But er that he hadde maad al this array,

He sente his knave, and eek his wenche also,

Upon his nede to london for to go.

And on the monday, whan it drow to nyght,

He shette his dore withoute candel-lyght,

And dressed alle thyng as it sholde be.

And shortly, up they clomben alle thre;

They seten stille wel a furlong way.

Now, pater-noster, clom! seyde nicholay,

And clom, quod john, and clom, seyde alisoun.

This carpenter seyde his devocioun,

And stille he sit, and biddeth his preyere,

Awaitynge on the reyn, if he it heere.

The dede sleep, for wery bisynesse,

Fil on this carpenter right, as I gesse, [53]

Aboute corfew-tyme, or litel moore;

For travaille of his goost he groneth soore,

And eft he routeth, for his heed myslay.

Doun of the laddre stalketh nicholay,

And alisoun ful softe adoun she spedde;

Withouten wordes mo they goon to bedde,

Ther as the carpenter is wont to lye.

Ther was the revel and the melodye;

And thus lith alison and nicholas,

In bisynesse of myrthe and of solas,

Til that the belle of laudes gan to rynge,

And freres in the chaunsel gonne synge.

This parissh clerk, this amorous absolon,

That is for love alwey so wo bigon,

Upon the monday was at oseneye

With compaignye, hym to disporte and pleye,

And axed upon cas a cloisterer

Ful prively after john the carpenter;

And he drough hym apart out of the chirche,

And seyde, I noot, I saugh hym heere nat wirche

Syn saterday; I trowe that he be went

For tymber, ther oure abbot hath hym sent;

For he is wont for tymber for to go,

And dwellen at the grange a day or two;

Or elles he is at his hous, certeyn.

Where that he be, I kan nat soothly seyn.

This absolon ful joly was and light,

And thoghte, now is tyme to wake al nyght;

For sikirly I saugh hym nat stirynge

Aboute his dore, syn day bigan to sprynge.

So moot I thryve, I shal, at cokkes crowe,

Ful pryvely knokken at his wyndowe

That stant ful lowe upon his boures wal.

To alison now wol I tellen al

My love-longynge, for yet I shal nat mysse

That at the leeste wey I shal hire kisse.

Som maner confort shal I have, parfay.

My mouth hath icched al this longe day;

That is a signe of kissyng atte leeste.

Al nyght me mette eek I was at a feeste.

Therfore I wol go slepe an houre or tweye,

And al the nyght thanne wol I wake and pleye.

Whan that the firste cok hath crowe, anon

Up rist this joly lovere absolon

And hym arraieth gay, at poynt-devys.

But first he cheweth greyn and lycorys,

To smellen sweete, er he hadde kembd his heer.

Under his tonge a trewe-love he beer,

For therby wende he to ben gracious.

He rometh to the carpenteres hous,

And stille he stant under the shot-wyndowe --

Unto his brest it raughte, it was so lowe --

And softe he cougheth with a semy soun --

What do ye, hony-comb, sweete alisoun,

My faire bryd, my sweete cynamome?

Awaketh, lemman myn, and speketh to me!

Wel litel thynken ye upon my wo,

That for youre love I swete ther I go.

No wonder is thogh that I swelte and swete;

I moorne as dooth a lamb after the tete.

Ywis, lemman, I have swich love-longynge,

That lik a turtel trewe is my moornynge.

I may nat ete na moore than a mayde.

go fro the wyndow, jakke fool, she sayde;

As help me god, it wol nat be 'com pa me.'

I love another -- and elles I were to blame --

Wel bet than thee, by jhesu, absolon.

Go forth thy wey, or I wol caste a ston,

And lat me slepe, a twenty devel wey!

allas, quod absolon, and weylawey,

That trewe love was evere so yvel biset!

Thanne kysse me, syn it may be no bet,

For jhesus love, and for the love of me.

Wiltow thanne go thy wey therwith? quod she.

Ye, certes, lemman, quod this absolon.

Thanne make thee redy, quod she, I come anon.

And unto nicholas she seyde stille,

Now hust, and thou shalt laughen al thy fille.

This absolon doun sette hym on his knees

And seyde, I am a lord at alle degrees;

For after this I hope ther cometh moore.

Lemman, thy grace, and sweete bryd, thyn oore!

The wyndow she undoth, and that in haste.

Have do, quod she, com of, and speed the faste,

Lest that oure neighebores thee espie.

This absolon gan wype his mouth ful drie.

Derk was the nyght as pich, or as the cole,

And at the wyndow out she putte hir hole,

And absolon, hym fil no bet ne wers,

But with his mouth he kiste hir naked ers

Ful savourly, er he were war of this.

Abak he stirte, and thoughte it was amys,

For wel he wiste a womman hath no berd.

He felte a thyng al rough and long yherd,

And seyde, fy! allas! what have I do?

Tehee! quod she, and clapte the wyndow to,

And absolon gooth forth a sory pas.

A berd! a berd! quod hende nicholas,

By goddes corpus, this goth faire and weel.

This sely absolon herde every deel,

And on his lippe he gan for anger byte, [54]

And to hymself he seyde, I shal thee quyte.

Who rubbeth now, who froteth now his lippes

With dust, with sond, with straw, with clooth, with chippes,

But absolon, that seith ful ofte, allas!

My soule bitake I unto sathanas,

But me were levere than al this toun, quod he,

Of this despit awroken for to be.

Allas, quod he, allas, I ne hadde ybleynt!

His hoote love was coold and al yqueynt;

For fro that tyme that he hadde kist hir ers,

Of paramours he sette nat a kers;

For he was heeled of his maladie.

Ful ofte paramours he gan deffie,

And weep as dooth a child that is ybete.

A softe paas he wente over the strete

Until a smyth men cleped daun gerveys,

That in his forge smythed plough harneys;

He sharpeth shaar and kultour bisily.

This absolon knokketh al esily,

What, who artow? it am I, absalon.

And seyde, undo, gerveys, and that anon.

What, absolon! for cristes sweete tree,

Why rise ye so rathe? ey, benedicitee!

What eyleth yow? som gay gerl, God it woot,

Hath broght yow thus upon the viritoot.

By seinte note, ye woot wel what I mene.

This absolon ne roghte nat a bene

Of al his pley; no word agayn he yaf;

He hadde moore tow on his distaf

Than gerveys knew, and seyde, freend so deere,

That hoote kultour in the chymenee heere,

As lene it me, I have therwith to doone,

And I wol brynge it thee agayn ful soone.

Gerveys answerde, certes, were it gold,

Or in a poke nobles alle untold,

Thou sholdest have, as I am trewe smyth.

Ey, cristes foo! what wol ye do therwith?

Therof, quod absolon, be as be may.

I shal wel telle it thee to-morwe day --

And caughte the kultour by the colde stele.

Ful softe out at the dore he gan to stele,

And wente unto the carpenteris wal.

He cogheth first, and knokketh therwithal

Upon the wyndowe, right as he dide er.

This alison answerde, who is ther

That knokketh so? I warante it a theef.

Why, nay, quod he, God woot, my sweete leef,

I am thyn absolon, my deerelyng.

Of gold, quod he, I have thee broght a ryng.

My mooder yaf it me, so God me save;

Ful fyn it is, and therto wel ygrave.

This wol I yeve thee, if thou me kisse.

This nicholas was risen for to pisse,

And thoughte he wolde amenden al the jape;

He sholde kisse his ers er that he scape.

And up the wyndowe dide he hastily,

And out his ers he putteth pryvely

Over the buttok, to the haunche-bon;

And therwith spak this clerk, this absolon,

Spek, sweete bryd, I noot nat where thou art.

This nicholas anon leet fle a fart,

As greet as it had been a thonder-dent,

That with the strook he was almoost yblent;

And he was redy with his iren hoot,

And nicholas amydde the ers he smoot.

Of gooth the skyn an hande-brede aboute,

The hoote kultour brende so his toute,

And for the smert he wende for to dye.

As he were wood, for wo he gan to crye,

Help! water! water! water! help, for goddes herte!

This carpenter out of his slomber sterte,

And herde oon crien water as he were wood,

And thoughte, allas, now comth nowelis flood!

He sit hym up withouten wordes mo,

And with his ax he smoot the corde atwo,

And doun gooth al; he foond neither to selle,

Ne breed ne ale, til he cam to the celle

Upon the floor, and ther aswowne he lay.

Up stirte hire alison and nicholay,

And criden out and harrow in the strete.

The neighebores, bothe smale and grete,

In ronnen for to gauren on this man,

That yet aswowne lay, bothe pale and wan,

For with the fal he brosten hadde his arm.

But stonde he moste unto his owene harm;

For whan he spak, he was anon bore doun

With hende nicholas and alisoun.

They tolden every man that he was wood,

He was agast so of nowelis flood

Thurgh fantasie, that of his vanytee

He hadde yboght hym knedyng tubbes thre,

And hadde hem hanged in the roof above;

And that he preyed hem, for goddes love,

To sitten in the roof, par compaignye.

The folk gan laughen at his fantasye;

Into the roof they kiken and they cape,

And turned al his harm unto a jape.

For what so that this carpenter answerde,

It was for noght, no man his reson herde.

With othes grete he was so sworn adoun

That he was holde wood in al the toun;

For every clerk anonright heeld with oother. [55]

They seyde, the man is wood, my leeve brother;

And every wight gan laughen at this stryf.

Thus swyved was this carpenteris wyf,

For al his kepyng and his jalousye;

And absolon hath kist hir nether ye;

And nicholas is scalded in the towte.

This tale is doon, and God save al the rowte!

At trumpyngtoun, nat fer fro cantebrigge,

Ther gooth a brook, and over that a brigge,

Upon the whiche brook ther stant a melle;

And this is verray sooth that I yow telle:

A millere was ther dwellynge many a day.

As any pecok he was proud and gay.

Pipen he koude and fisshe, and nettes beete,

And turne coppes, and wel wrastle and sheete;

Ay by his belt he baar a long panade,

And of a swerd ful trenchant was the blade

A joly poppere baar he is in his pouche;

Ther was no man, for peril, dorste hym touche.

A sheffeld thwitel baar he in his hose.

Round was his face, and camus was his nose;

As piled as an ape was his skulle.

He was a market-betere atte fulle.

Ther dorste no wight hand upon hym legge,

That he ne swoor he sholde anon abegge.

A theef he was for sothe of corn and mele,

And that a sly, and usaunt for to stele.

His name was hoote deynous symkyn.

A wyf he hadde, ycomen of noble kyn;

The person of the toun hir fader was.

With hire he yaf ful many a panne of bras,

For that symkyn sholde in his blood allye.

She was yfostred in a nonnerye;

For symkyn wolde no wyf, as he sayde,

But she were wel ynorissed and a mayde,

To saven his estaat of yomanrye.

And she was proud, and peert as is a pye.

A ful fair sighte was it upon hem two;

On halydayes biforn hire wolde he go

With his typet bounden aboute his heed,

And she cam after in a gyte of reed;

And symkyn hadde hosen of the same.

Ther dorste no wight clepen hire but dame;

Was noon so hardy that wente by the weye

That with hire dorste rage or ones pleye,

But if he wolde be slayn of symkyn

With panade, or with knyf, or boidekyn.

For jalous folk ben perilous everemo;

Algate they wolde hire wyves wenden so.

And eek, for she was somdel smoterlich,

She was as digne as water in a dich,

And ful of hoker and of bisemare.

Hir thoughte that a lady sholde hire spare,

What for hire kynrede and hir nortelrie

That she hadde lerned in the nonnerie.

A doghter hadde they bitwixe hem two

Of twenty yeer, withouten any mo,

Savynge a child that was of half yeer age;

In cradel it lay and was a propre page.

This wenche thikke and wel ygrowen was,

With kamus nose, and eyen greye as glas,

With buttokes brode, and brestes rounde and hye;

But right fair was hire heer, I wol nat lye.

This person of the toun, for she was feir,

In purpos was to maken hire his heir,

Bothe of his catel and his mesuage,

And straunge he made it of hir mariage.

His purpos was for to bistowe hire hye

Into som worthy blood of auncetrye;

For hooly chirches good moot been despended

On hooly chirches blood, that is descended.

Therfore he wolde his hooly blood honoure,

Though that he hooly chirche sholde devoure.

Greet sokene hath this millere, out of doute,

With whete and malt of al the land aboute;

And nameliche ther was a greet collegge

Men clepen the soler halle at cantebregge;

Ther was hir whete and eek hir malt ygrounde.

And on a day it happed, in a stounde,

Sik lay the maunciple on a maladye;

Men wenden wisly that he sholde dye.

For which this millere stal bothe mele and corn

An hundred tyme moore than biforn;

For therbiforn he stal but curteisly,

But now he was a theef outrageously,

For which the wardeyn chidde and made fare.

But therof sette the millere nat a tare;

He craketh boost, and swoor it was nat so.

Thanne were ther yonge povre scolers two,

That dwelten in this halle, of which I seye.

Testif they were, and lusty for to pleye,

And, oonly for hire myrthe and revelrye,

Upon the wardeyn bisily they crye

To yeve hem leve, but a litel stounde,

To goon to mille and seen hir corn ygrounde;

And hardily they dorste leye hir nekke

The millere sholde not stele hem half a pekke

Of corn by sleighte, ne by force hem reve;

And at the laste the wardeyn yaf hem leve.

John highte that oon, and aleyn highte that oother; [57]

Of o toun were they born, that highte strother,

Fer in the north, I kan nat telle where.

This aleyn maketh redy al his gere,

And on an hors the sak he caste anon.

Forth goth aleyn the clerk, and also john,

With good swerd and with bokeler by hir syde.

John knew the wey, -- hem nedede no gyde, --

And at the mille the sak adoun he layth.

Aleyn spak first, al hayl, symond, y-fayth!

Hou fares thy faire doghter and thy wyf?

Aleyn, welcome, quod symkyn, by my lyf!

And john also, how now, what do ye heer?

Symond, quod john, by god, nede has na peer.

Hym boes serve hymself that has na swayn,

Or elles he is a fool, as clerkes sayn.

Oure manciple, I hope he wil be deed,

Swa werkes ay the wanges in his heed;

And forthy is I come, and eek alayn,

To grynde oure corn and carie it ham agayn;

I pray yow spede us heythen that ye may.

It shal be doon, quod symkyn, by my fay!

What wol ye doon whil that it is in hande?

By god, right by the hopur wil I stande,

Quod john, and se howgates the corn gas in.

Yet saugh I nevere, by my fader kyn,

How that the hopur wagges til and fra.

Aleyn answerde, john, and wiltow swa?

Thanne wil I be bynethe, by my croun,

And se how that the mele falles doun

Into the trough; that sal be my disport.

For john, y-faith, I may been of youre sort;

I is as ille a millere as ar ye.

This millere smyled of hir nycetee,

And thoghte, al this nys doon but for a wyle.

They wene that no man may hem bigyle,

But by my thrift, yet shal I blere hir ye,

For al the sleighte in hir philosophye.

The moore queynte crekes that they make,

The moore wol I stele whan I take.

In stide of flour yet wol I yeve hem bren.

-- The gretteste clerkes been noght wisest men, --

As whilom to the wolf thus spak the mare.

Of al hir art ne counte I noght a tare.

Out at the dore he gooth ful pryvely,

Whan that he saugh his tyme, softely.

He looketh up and doun til he hath founde

The clerkes hors, ther as it stood ybounde

Bihynde the mille, under a levesel;

And to the hors he goth hym faire and wel;

He strepeth of the brydel right anon.

And whan the hors was laus, he gynneth gon

Toward the fen, ther wilde mares renne,

And forth with wehee, thurgh thikke and thurgh thenne.

This millere gooth agayn, no word he seyde,

But dooth his note, and with the clerkes pleyde,

Til that hir corn was faire and well ygrounde.

And whan the mele is sakked and ybounde,

This john goth out and fynt his hors away,

And gan to crie harrow! and weylaway! [58]

Oure hors is lorn, alayn, for goddes banes,

Step on thy feet! com of, man, al atanes!

Allas, our wardeyn has his palfrey lorn.

This aleyn al forgat, bothe mele and corn;

Al was out of his mynde his housbondrie.

What, whilk way is he geen? he gan to crie.

The wyf cam lepynge inward with a ren.

She seyde, allas! youre hors goth to the fen

With wilde mares, as faste as he may go.

Unthank come on his hand that boond hym so,

And he that bettre sholde han knyt the reyne!

Allas, quod john, aleyn, for cristes peyne

Lay doun thy swerd, and I wil myn alswa.

I is ful wight, God waat, as is a raa;

By goddes herte, he sal nat scape us bathe!

Why ne had thow pit the capul in the lathe?

Ilhayl! by god, alayn, thou is a fonne!

Thise sely clerkes han ful faste yronne

Toward the fen, bothe aleyn and eek john.

And whan the millere saugh that they were gon,

He half a busshel of hir flour hath take,

And bad his wyf go knede it in a cake.

He seyde, I trowe the clerkes were aferd.

Yet kan a millere make a clerkes berd,

For al his art; now lat hem goon hir weye!

Lo, wher he gooth! ye, lat the children pleye.

They gete hym nat so lightly, by my croun.

Thise sely clerkes rennen up and doun

With keep! keep! stand! stand! jossa, warderere,

Ga whistle thou, and I shal kepe hym heere!

But shortly, til that it was verray nyght,

They koude nat, though they dide al hir myght,

Hir capul cacche, he ran alwey so faste,

Til in a dych they caughte hym atte laste.

Wery and weet, as beest is in the reyn,

Comth sely john, and with him comth aleyn.

Allas, quod john, the day that I was born!

Now are we dryve til hethyng and til scorn.

Oure corn is stoln, men wil us fooles calle,

Bathe the wardeyn and oure felawes alle,

And namely the millere, weylaway!

Thus pleyneth john as he gooth by the way

Toward the mille, and bayard in his hond.

The millere sittynge by the fyr he fond,

For it was nyght, and forther myghte they noght;

But for the love of God they hym bisoght

Of herberwe and of ese, as for hir peny.

The millere seyde agayn, if ther be eny,

Swich as it is, yet shal ye have youre part.

Myn hous is streit, but ye han lerned art;

Ye konne by argumentes make a place

A myle brood of twenty foot of space.

Lat se now if this place may suffise,

Or make it rowm with speche, as is youre gise.

Now, symond, seyde john, by seint cutberd,

Ay is thou myrie, and this is faire answerd.

I have herd seyd, -- man sal taa of twa thynges

Slyk as he fyndes, or taa slyk as he brynges. --

But specially I pray thee, hooste deere,

Get us som mete and drynke, and make us cheere,

And we wil payen trewely atte fulle.

With empty hand men may na haukes tulle;

Loo, heere oure silver, redy for to spende.

This millere into toun his doghter sende

For ale and breed, and rosted hem a goos,

And boond hire hors, it sholde namoore go loos;

And in his owene chambre hem made a bed,

With sheetes and with chalons faire yspred

Noght from his owene bed ten foot or twelve.

His doghter hadde a bed, al by hirselve,

Right in the same chambre by and by.

It myghte be no bet, and cause why?

Ther was no roumer herberwe in the place.

They soupen and they speke, hem to solace,

And drynken evere strong ale atte beste.

Aboute mydnyght wente they to reste.

Wel hath this millere vernysshed his heed;

Ful pale he was for dronken, and nat reed.

He yexeth, and he speketh thurgh the nose

As he were on the quakke, or on the pose.

To bedde he goth, and with hym goth his wyf.

As any jay she light was and jolyf,

So was hir joly whistle wel ywet.

The cradel at hir beddes feet is set,

To rokken, and to yeve the child to sowke.

And whan that dronken al was in the crowke,

To bedde wente the doghter right anon;

To bedde goth aleyn and also john;

Ther nas na moore, -- hem nedede no dwale.

This millere hath so wisely bibbed ale

That as an hors he fnorteth in his sleep,

Ne of his tayl bihynde he took no keep.

His wyf bar hym a burdon, a ful strong;

Men myghte hir rowtyng heere two furlong;

The wenche rowteth eek, par compaignye.

Aleyn the clerk, that herde this melodye,

He poked john, and seyde, slepestow?

Herdestow evere slyk a sang er now?

Lo, swilk a complyn is ymel hem alle,

A wilde fyr upon thair bodyes falle!

Wha herkned evere slyk a ferly thyng?

Ye, they sal have the flour of il endyng.

This lange nyght ther tydes me na reste;

But yet, nafors, al sal be for the beste.

For, john, seyde he, als evere moot I thryve,

If that I may, yon wenche wil I swyve.

Som esement has lawe yshapen us;

For, john, ther is a lawe that says thus,

That gif a man in a point be agreved,

That in another he sal be releved.

Oure corn is stoln, sothly, it is na nay,

And we han had an il fit al this day;

And syn I sal have neen amendement

Agayn my los, I will have esement.

By goddes sale, it sal neen other bee!

This john answerde, alayn, avyse thee!

The millere is a perilous man, he seyde,

And gif that he out of his sleep abreyde,

He myghte doon us bathe a vileynye.

Aleyn answerde, I counte hym nat a flye.

And up he rist, and by the wenche he crepte.

This wenche lay uprighte, and faste slepte,

Til he so ny was, er she myghte espie,

That it had been to late for to crie,

And shortly for to seyn, they were aton.

Now pley, aleyn, for I wol speke of john.

This john lith stille a furlong wey or two,

And to hymself he maketh routhe and wo.

Allas! quod he, this is a wikked jape;

Now may I seyn that I is but an ape.

Yet has my felawe somwhat for his harm;

He has the milleris doghter in his arm.

He auntred hym, and has his nedes sped,

And I lye as a draf-sak in my bed;

And when this jape is tald another day,

I sal been halde a daf, a cokenay!

I wil arise and auntre it, by my fayth!

-- Unhardy is unseely, -- thus men sayth.

And up he roos, and softely he wente

Unto the cradel, and in his hand it hente,

And baar it softe unto his beddes feet.

Soone after this the wyf hir rowtyng leet,

And gan awake, and wente hire out to pisse,

And cam agayn, and gan hir cradel mysse,

And groped heer and ther, but she foond noon. [59]

Allas! quod she, I hadde almoost mysgoon;

I hadde almoost goon to the clerkes bed.

Ey, benedicite! thanne hadde I foule ysped.

And forth she gooth til she the cradel fond.

She gropeth alwey forther with hir hond,

And foond the bed, and thoghte noght but good,

By cause that the cradel by it stood,

And nyste wher she was, for it was derk;

But faire and wel she creep in to the clerk,

And lith ful stille, and wolde han caught a sleep.

Withinne a while this john the clerk up leep,

And on this goode wyf he leith on soore.

So myrie a fit ne hadde she nat ful yoore;

He priketh harde and depe as he were mad.

This joly lyf han thise two clerkes lad

Til that the thridde cok bigan to synge.

Aleyn wax wery in the dawenynge,

For he had swonken al the longe nyght,

And seyde, fare weel, malyne, sweete wight!

The day is come, I may no lenger byde;

But everemo, wher so I go or ryde,

I is thyn awen clerk, swa have I seel!

Now, deere lemman, quod she, go, far weel!

But er thow go, o thyng I wol thee telle:

Whan that thou wendest homward by the melle,

Right at the entree of the dore bihynde

Thou shalt a cake of half a busshel fynde

That was ymaked of thyn owene mele,

Which that I heelp my sire for to stele.

And, goode lemman, God thee save and kepe!

And with that word almoost she gan to wepe.

Aleyn up rist, and thoughte, er that it dawe,

I wol go crepen in by my felawe;

And fond the cradel with his hand anon.

By god, thoughte he, al wrang I have mysgon.

Myn heed is toty of my swynk to-nyght,

That makes me that I ga nat aright.

I woot wel by the cradel I have mysgo;

Heere lith the millere and his wyf also.

And forth he goth, a twenty devel way,

Unto the bed ther as the millere lay.

He wende have cropen by his felawe john,

And by the millere in he creep anon,

And caughte hym by the nekke, and softe he spak.

He seyde, thou john, thou swynes-heed, awak,

For cristes saule, and heer a noble game.

For by that lord that called is seint jame,

As I have thries in this shorte nyght

Swyved the milleres doghter bolt upright,

Whil thow hast, as a coward, been agast.

Ye, false harlot, quod the miller, hast?

A, false traitour! false clerk! quod he,

Thow shalt be deed, by goddes dignitee!

Who dorste be so boold to disparage

My doghter, that is come of swich lynage?

And by the throte-bolle he caughte alayn,

And he hente hym despitously agayn,

And on the nose he smoot hym with his fest.

Doun ran the blody streem upon his brest;

And in the floor, with nose and mouth tobroke,

They walwe as doon two pigges in a poke;

And up they goon, and doun agayn anon,

Til that the millere sporned at a stoon,

And doun he fil bakward upon his wyf,

That wiste no thyng of this nyce stryf;

For she was falle aslepe a lite wight

With john the clerk, that waked hadde al nyght,

And with the fal out of hir sleep she breyde.

Help! hooly croys of bromeholm, she seyde,

In manus tuas! lord, to thee I calle!

Awak, symond! the feend is on me falle.

Myn herte is broken; help! I nam but deed!

Ther lyth oon upon my wombe and on myn heed.

Help, symkyn, for the false clerkes fighte!

This john stirte up as faste as ever he myghte,

And graspeth by the walles to and fro,

To fynde a staf; and she stirte up also,

And knew the estres bet than dide this john,

And by the wal a staf she foond anon,

And saugh a litel shymeryng of a light,

For at an hole in shoon the moone bright;

And by that light she saugh hem bothe two,

But sikerly she nyste who was who,

But as she saugh a whit thyng in hir ye.

And whan she gan this white thyng espye,

She wende the clerk hadde wered a volupeer,

And with the staf she drow ay neer and neer,

And wende han hit this aleyn at the fulle,

And smooth the millere on the pyled skulle,

That doun he gooth, and cride, harrow! I dye!

Thise clerkes beete hym weel and lete hym lye;

And greythen hem, and tooke hir hors anon,

And eek hire mele, and on hir wey they gon.

And at the mille yet they tooke hir cake

Of half a busshel flour, ful wel ybake. [60]

Thus is the proude millere wel ybete,

And hath ylost the gryndynge of the whete,

And payed for the soper everideel

Of aleyn and of john, that bette hym weel.

His wyf is swyved, and his doghter als.

Lo, swich it is a millere to be fals!

And therfore this proverbe is seyd ful sooth,

Hym thar nat wene wel that yvele dooth;

A gylour shal hymself bigyled be.

And god, that sitteth heighe in magestee,

Save al this compaignye, grete and smale!

Thus have I quyt the millere in my tale.

A prentys whilom dwelled in oure citee,

And of a craft of vitailliers was hee.

Gaillard he was as goldfynch in the shawe,

Broun as a berye, a propre short felawe,

With lokkes blake, ykembd ful fetisly.

Dauncen he koude so wel and jolily

That he was cleped perkyn revelour.

He was as ful of love and paramour

As is the hyve ful of hony sweete:

Wel was the wenche with hym myghte meete. [61]

At every bridale wolde he synge and hoppe;

He loved bet the taverne than the shoppe.

For whan ther any ridyng was in chepe,

Out of the shoppe thider wolde he lepe --

Til that he hadde al the sighte yseyn,

And daunced wel, he wolde nat come ayeyn --

And gadered hym a meynee of his sort

To hoppe and synge and maken swich disport;

And ther they setten stevene for to meete,

To pleyen at the dys in swich a streete.

For in the toune nas ther no prentys

That fairer koude caste a paire of dys

Than perkyn koude, and therto he was free

Of his dispense, in place of pryvetee.

That fond his maister wel in his chaffare;

For often tyme he foond his box ful bare.

For sikerly a prentys revelour

That haunteth dys, riot, or paramour.

His maister shal it in his shoppe abye,

Al have he no part of the mynstralcye.

For thefte and riot, they been convertible,

Al konne he pleye on gyterne or ribible.

Revel and trouthe, as in a lowe degree,

They been ful wrothe al day, as men may see.

this joly prentys with his maister bood,

Til he were ny out of his prentishood,

Al were he snybbed bothe erly and late,

And somtyme lad with revel to newegate.

But atte laste his maister him bithoghte.

Upon a day, whan he his papir soghte,

Of a proverbe that seith this same word,

Wel bet is roten appul out of hoord

Than that it rotie al the remenaunt.

So fareth it by a riotous servaunt;

It is ful lasse harm to lete hym pace,

Than he shende alle the servantz in the place.

Therfore his maister yaf hym acquitance,

And bad hym go, with sorwe and with meschance!

And thus this joly prentys hadde his leve.

Now lat hym riote al the nyght or leve.

And for ther is no theef withoute a lowke,

That helpeth hym to wasten and to sowke

Of that he brybe kan or borwe may,

Anon he sente his bed and his array

Unto a compeer of his owene sort,

That lovede dys, and revel, and disport,

And hadde a wyf that heeld for contenance

A shoppe, and swyved for hir sustenance.

In surrye whilom dwelte a compaignye

Of chapmen riche, and therto sadde and trewe,

That wyde-where senten hir spicerye,

Clothes of gold, and satyns riche of hewe.

Hir chaffare was so thrifty and so newe

That every wight hath deyntee to chaffare

With hem, and eek to sellen hem hire ware.

Now fil it that the maistres of that sort

Han shapen hem to rome for to wende;

Were it for chapmanhod or for disport,

Noon oother message wolde they thider sende,

But comen hemself to rome, this is the ende;

And in swich place as thoughte hem avantage

For hire entente, they take hir herbergage.

Sojourned han thise merchantz in that toun

A certein tyme, as fil to hire plesance.

And so bifel that th' excellent renoun

Of the emperoures doghter, dame custance,

Reported was, with every circumstance,

Unto thise surryen marchantz in swich wyse.

Fro day to day, as I shal yow devyse.

This was the commune voys of every man:

Oure emperour of rome -- God hym see! --

A doghter hath that, syn the world bigan,

To rekene as wel hir goodnesse as beautee,

Nas nevere swich another as is shee.

I prey to God in honour hire susteene,

And wolde she were of al europe the queene. [64]

In hire is heigh beautee, withoute pride,

Yowthe, withoute grenehede or folye;

To alle hire werkes vertu is hir gyde;

Humblesse hath slayn in hire al tirannye.

She is mirour of alle curteisye;

Hir herte is verray chambre of hoolynesse,

Hir hand, ministre of fredam for almesse.

And al this voys was sooth, as God is trewe.

But now to purpos lat us turne agayn.

Thise marchantz han doon fraught hir shippes newe,

And whan they han this blisful mayden sayn,

Hoom to surrye been they went ful fayn,

And doon hir nedes as they han doon yoore,

And lyven in wele; I kan sey yow namoore.

Now fil it that thise marchantz stode in grace

Of hym that was the sowdan of surrye;

For whan they cam from any strange place,

He wolde, of his benigne curteisye,

Make hem good chiere, and bisily espye

Tidynges of sondry regnes, for to leere

The wondres that they myghte seen or heere.

Amonges othere thynges, specially,

Thise marchantz han hym toold of dame custance

So greet noblesse in ernest, ceriously,

That this sowdan hath caught so greet plesance

To han hir figure in his remembrance,

That al his lust and al his bisy cure

Was for to love hire while his lyf may dure.

Paraventure in thilke large book

Which that men clepe the hevene ywriten was

With sterres, whan that he his birthe took,

That he for love sholde han his deeth, allas!

For in the sterres, clerer than is glas,

Is writen, God woot, whoso koude it rede,

The deeth of every man, withouten drede.

In sterres, many a wynter therbiforn,

Was writen the deeth of ector, achilles,

Of pompei, julius, er they were born;

The strif of thebes; and of ercules,

Of sampson, turnus, and of socrates

The deeth; but mennes wittes ben so dulle

That no wight kan wel rede it atte fulle.

This sowdan for his privee conseil sente,

And, shortly of this matiere for to pace,

He hath to hem declared his entente,

And seyde hem, certein, but he myghte have grace

To han custance withinne a litel space,

He nas but deed; and charged hem in hye

To shapen for his lyf som remedye.

Diverse men diverse thynges seyden;

They argumenten, casten up and doun;

Many a subtil resoun forth they leyden;

They speken of magyk and abusioun.

But finally, as in conclusioun,

They kan nat seen in that noon avantage,

Ne in noon oother wey, save mariage.

Thanne sawe they therinne swich difficultee

By wey of reson, for to speke al playn,

By cause that ther was swich diversitee

Bitwene hir bothe lawes, that they sayn

They trowe, that no cristen prince wolde fayn

Wedden his child under oure lawe sweete

That us was taught by mahoun, oure prophete.

And he answerde, rather than I lese

Custance, I wol be cristned, doutelees.

I moot been hires, I may noon oother chese.

I prey yow hoold youre argumentz in pees;

Saveth my lyf, and beth noght recchelees

To geten hire that hath my lyf in cure;

For in this wo I may nat longe endure.

What nedeth gretter dilatacioun?

I seye, by tretys and embassadrie,

And by the popes mediacioun,

And al the chirche, and al the chivalrie,

That in destruccioun of mawmettrie,

And in encrees of cristes lawe deere,

They been acorded, so as ye shal heere:

How that the sowdan and his baronage

And alle his liges sholde ycristned be,

And he shal han custance in mariage,

And certein gold, I noot what quantitee;

And heer-to founden sufficient suretee.

This same accord was sworn on eyther syde;

Now, faire custance, almyghty God thee gyde!

Now wolde som men waiten, as I gesse,

That I sholde tellen al the purveiance

That th' emperour, of his grete noblesse,

Hath shapen for his doghter, dame custance.

Wel may men knowen that so greet ordinance

May no man tellen in a litel clause

As was arrayed for so heigh a cause.

Bisshopes been shapen with hire for to wende,

Lordes, ladies, knyghtes of renoun, [65]

And oother folk ynowe, this is th' ende;

And notified is thurghout the toun

That every wight, with greet devocioun,

Sholde preyen crist that he this mariage

Receyve in gree, and spede this viage.

The day is comen of hir departynge;

I seye, the woful day fatal is come,

That ther may be no lenger tariynge,

But forthward they hem dressen, alle and some.

Custance, that was with sorwe al overcome,

Ful pale arist, and dresseth hire to wende;

For wel she seeth ther is noon oother ende.

Allas! what wonder is it thogh she wepte,

That shal be sent to strange nacioun

Fro freendes that so tendrely hire kepte,

And to be bounden under subjeccioun

Of oon, she knoweth nat his condicioun?

Housbondes been alle goode, and han ben yoore;

That knowen wyves; I dar sey yow na moore.

Fader, she seyde, thy wrecched child custance,

Thy yonge doghter fostred up so softe,

And ye, my mooder, my soverayn plesance

Over alle thyng, out-taken crist on-lofte,

Custance youre child hire recomandeth ofte

Unto youre grace, for I shal to surrye,

Ne shal I nevere seen yow moore with ye.

Allas! unto the barbre nacioun

I moste anoon, syn that it is youre wille;

But crist, that starf for our redempcioun

So yeve me grace his heestes to fulfille!

I, wrecche womman, no fors though I spille!

Wommen are born to thraldom and penance,

And to been under mannes governance.

I trowe at troye, whan pirrus brak the wal,

Or ilion brende, at thebes the citee,

N' at rome, for the harm thurgh hanybal

That romayns hath venquysshed tymes thre,

Nas herd swich tendre wepyng for pitee

As in the chambre was for hire departynge;

But forth she moot, wher-so she wepe or synge.

O firste moevyng! crueel firmament,

With thy diurnal sweigh that crowdest ay

And hurlest al from est til occident

That naturelly wolde holde another way,

Thy crowdyng set the hevene in swich array

At the bigynnyng of this fiers viage,

That crueel mars hath slayn this mariage.

Infortunat ascendent tortuous,

Of which the lord is helplees falle, allas,

Out of his angle into the derkeste hous!

O mars, o atazir, as in this cas!

O fieble moone, unhappy been thy paas!

Thou knyttest thee ther thou art nat receyved;

Ther thou were weel, fro thennes artow weyved.

Imprudent emperour of rome, allas!

Was ther no philosophre in al thy toun?

Is no tyme bet than oother in swich cas?

Of viage is ther noon eleccioun,

Namely to folk of heigh condicioun?

Noght whan a roote is of a burthe yknowe?

Allas, we been to lewed or to slowe!

To shippe is brought this woful faire mayde

Solempnely, with every circumstance.

Now jhesu crist be with yow alle! she sayde;

Ther nys namoore, but farewel, faire custance!

She peyneth hire to make good contenance;

And forth I lete hire saille in this manere,

And turne I wole agayn to my matere.

The mooder of the sowdan, welle of vices,

Espied hath hir sones pleyn entente,

How he wol lete his olde sacrifices;

And right anon she for hir conseil sente,

And they been come to knowe what she mente.

And whan assembled was this folk in-feere,

She sette hire doun, and seyde as ye shal heere.

Lordes, quod she, ye knowen everichon,

How that my sone in point is for to lete

The hooly lawes of our alkaron,

Yeven by goddes message makomete.

But oon avow to grete God I heete,

The lyf shal rather out of my body sterte

Or makometes lawe out of myn herte!

What sholde us tyden of this newe lawe

But thraldom to oure bodies and penance,

And afterward in helle to be drawe,

For we reneyed mahoun oure creance?

But, lordes, wol ye maken assurance,

As I shal seyn, assentynge to my loore,

And I shal make us sauf for everemoore?

They sworen and assenten, every man,

To lyve with hire and dye, and by hire stonde,

And everich, in the beste wise he kan,

To strengthen hire shal alle his frendes fonde; [66]

And she hath this emprise ytake on honde,

Which ye shal heren that I shal devyse,

And to hem alle she spak right in this wyse:

We shul first feyne us cristendom to take, --

Coold water shal nat greve us but a lite!

And I shal swich a feeste and revel make

That, as I trowe, I shal the sowdan quite.

For thogh his wyf be cristned never so white,

She shal have nede to wasshe awey the rede,

Thogh she a font-ful water with hire lede.

O sowdanesse, roote of iniquitee!

Virago, thou semyrame the secounde!

O serpent under femynynytee,

Lik to the serpent depe in helle ybounde!

O feyned womman, al that may confounde

Vertu and innocence, thurgh thy malice,

Is bred in thee, as nest of every vice!

O sathan, envious syn thilke day

That thou were chaced from oure heritage,

Wel knowestow to wommen the olde way!

Thou madest eva brynge us in servage;

Thou wolt fordoon this cristen mariage.

Thyn instrument so, weylawey the while!

Makestow of wommen, whan thou wolt bigile.

This sowdanesse, whom I thus blame and warye,

Leet prively hire conseil goon hire way.

What sholde I in this tale lenger tarye?

She rydeth to the sowdan on a day,

And seyde hym that she wolde reneye hir lay,

And cristendom of preestes handes fonge,

Repentynge hire she hethen was so longe;

Bisechynge hym to doon hire that honour,

That she moste han the cristen folk to feeste, --

To plesen hem I wol do my labour.

The sowdan seith, I wol doon at youre heeste;

And knelynge thanketh hire of that requeste.

So glad he was, he nyste what to seye.

She kiste hir sone, and hoom she gooth hir weye.

Arryved been this cristen folk to londe

In surrye, with a greet solempne route,

And hastifliche this sowdan sente his sonde,

First to his mooder, and al the regne aboute,

And seyde his wyf was comen, out of doute,

And preyde hire for to ryde agayn the queene,

The honour of his regne to susteene.

Greet was the prees, and riche was th' array

Of surryens and romayns met yfeere;

The mooder of the sowdan, riche and gay,

Receyveth hire with also glad a cheere

As any mooder myghte hir doghter deere,

And to the nexte citee ther bisyde

A softe paas solempnely they ryde.

Noght trowe I the triumphe of julius,

Of which that lucan maketh swich a boost,

Was roialler ne moore curius

Than was th' assemblee of this blisful hoost.

But this scorpioun, this wikked goost,

The sowdanesse, for al hire flaterynge,

Caste under this ful mortally to stynge.

The sowdan comth hymself soone after this

So roially, that wonder is to telle,

And welcometh hire with alle joye and blis.

And thus in murthe and joye I lete hem dwelle;

The fryt of this matiere is that I telle.

Whan tyme cam, men thoughte it for the beste

That revel stynte, and men goon to hir reste.

The tyme cam this olde sowdanesse

Ordeyned hath this feeste of which I tolde,

And to the feeste cristen folk hem dresse

In general, ye, bothe yonge and olde.

Heere may men feeste and roialtee biholde,

And deyntees mo than I kan yow devyse;

But al to deere they boghte it er they ryse.

O sodeyn wo, that evere art successour

To worldly blisse, spreynd with bitternesse!

The ende of the joye of oure worldly labour!

Wo occupieth the fyn of oure gladnesse.

Herke this conseil for thy sikernesse:

Upon thy glade day have in thy mynde

The unwar wo or harm that comth bihynde.

For shortly for to tellen, at o word,

The sowdan and the cristen everichone

Been al tohewe and stiked at the bord,

But it were oonly dame custance allone.

This olde sowdanesse, cursed krone,

Hath with hir freendes doon this cursed dede,

For she hirself wolde al the contree lede.

Ne ther was surryen noon that was converted,

That of the conseil of the sowdan woot, [67]

That he nas al tohewe er he asterted.

And custance han they take anon, foot-hoot,

And in a ship al steerelees, God woot,

They han hir set, and bidde hire lerne saille

Out of surrye agaynward to ytaille.

A certein tresor that she thider ladde,

And, sooth to seyn, vitaille greet plentee

They han hire yeven, and clothes eek she hadde,

And forth she sailleth in the salte see.

O my custance, ful of benignytee,

O emperoures yonge doghter deere,

He that is lord of fortune be thy steere!

She blesseth hire, and with ful pitous voys

Unto the croys of crist thus seyde she:

O cleere, o welful auter, hooly croys,

Reed of the lambes blood ful of pitee,

That wessh the world fro the olde iniquitee,

Me fro the feend and fro his clawes kepe,

That day that I shal drenchen in the depe.

Victorious tree, proteccioun of trewe,

That oonly worthy were for to bere

The kyng of hevene with his woundes newe,

The white lamb, that hurt was with a spere,

Flemere of feendes out of hym and here

On which thy lymes feithfully extenden,

Me kepe, and yif me myght my lyf t' amenden.

Yeres and dayes fleet this creature

Thurghout the see of grece unto the strayte

Of marrok, as it was hire aventure.

On many a sory meel now may she bayte;

After hir deeth ful often may she wayte,

Er that the wilde wawes wol hire dryve

Unto the place ther she shal arryve.

Men myghten asken why she was nat slayn

Eek at the feeste? who myghte hir body save?

And I answere to that demande agayn,

Who saved danyel in the horrible cave

Ther every wight save he, maister and knave,

Was with the leon frete er he asterte?

No wight but god, that he bar in his herte.

God liste to shewe his wonderful myracle

In hire, for we sholde seen his myghty werkis;

Crist, which that is to every harm triacle,

By certeine meenes ofte, as knowen clerkis,

Dooth thyng for certein ende that ful derk is

To mannes wit, that for oure ignorance

Ne konne noght knowe his prudent purveiance.

Now sith she was nat at the feeste yslawe,

Who kepte hire fro the drenchyng in the see?

Who kepte jonas in the fisshes mawe

Til he was spouted up at nynyvee?

Wel may men knowe it was no wight but he

That kepte peple ebrayk from hir drenchynge,

With drye feet thurghout the see passynge.

Who bad the foure spirites of tempest

That power han t' anoyen lond and see,

Bothe north and south, and also west and est,

Anoyeth, neither see, ne land, ne tree?

Soothly, the comandour of that was he

That fro the tempest ay this womman kepte

As wel whan she wook as whan she slepte.

Where myghte this womman mete and drynke have

Thre yeer and moore? how lasteth hire vitaille?

Who fedde the egipcien marie in the cave,

Or in desert? no wight but crist, sanz faille.

Fyve thousand folk it was as greet mervaille

With loves fyve and fisshes two to feede.

God sente his foyson at hir grete neede.

She dryveth forth into oure occian

Thurghout oure wilde see, til atte laste

Under an hoold that nempnen I ne kan,

Fer in northhumberlond the wawe hire caste,

And in the sond hir ship stiked so faste

That thennes wolde it noght of al a tyde;

The wyl of crist was that she sholde abyde.

The constable of the castel doun is fare

To seen this wrak, and al the ship he soghte,

And foond this wery womman ful of care;

He foond also the tresor that she broghte.

In hir langage mercy she bisoghte,

The lyf out of hir body for to twynne,

Hire to delivere of wo that she was inne.

A maner latyn corrupt was hir speche,

But algates therby was she understonde.

The constable, whan hym lyst no longer seche,

This woful womman broghte he to the londe.

She kneleth doun and thanketh goddes sonde;

But what she was she wolde no man seye,

For foul ne fair, thogh that she sholde deye.

She seyde she was so mazed in the see

That she forgat hir mynde, by hir trouthe.

The constable hath of hire so greet pitee,

And eek his wyf, that they wepen for routhe. [68]

She was so diligent, withouten slouthe,

To serve and plesen everich in that place,

That alle hir loven that looken in hir face.

This constable and dame hermengyld, his, wyf,

Were payens, and that contree everywhere;

But hermengyld loved hire right as hir lyf,

And custance hath so longe sojourned there,

In orisons, with many a bitter teere,

Til jhesu hath converted thurgh his grace

Dame hermengyld, constablesse of that place.

In al that lond no cristen dorste route;

Alle cristen folk been fled fro that contree

Thurgh payens, that conquereden al aboute

The plages of the north, by land and see.

To walys fledde the cristyanytee

Of olde britons dwellynge in this ile;

Ther was hir refut for the meene while.

But yet nere cristene britons so exiled

That ther nere somme that in hir privetee

Honoured crist and hethen folk bigiled,

And ny the castel swiche ther dwelten three.

That oon of hem was blynd and myghte nat see,

But it were with thilke eyen of his mynde

With whiche men seen, after that they ben blynde.

Bright was the sonne as in that someres day,

For which the constable and his wyf also

And custance han ytake the righte way

Toward the see a furlong wey or two,

To pleyen and to romen to and fro;

And in hir walk this blynde man they mette,

Croked and oold, with eyen faste yshette.

In name of crist, cride this blinde britoun,

Dame hermengyld, yif me my sighte agayn!

This lady weex affrayed of the soun,

Lest that hir housbonde, shortly for to sayn,

Wolde hire for jhesu cristes love han slayn,

Til custance made hire boold, and bad hire wirche

The wyl of crist, as doghter of his chirche.

The constable weex abasshed of that sight,

And seyde, what amounteth al this fare?

Custance answerde, sire, it is cristes myght,

That helpeth folk out of the feendes snare.

And so ferforth she gan oure lay declare

That she the constable, er that it was eve

Converted, and on crist made hym bileve.

This constable was nothyng lord of this place

Of which I speke, ther he custance fond,

But kepte it strongly many a wyntres space

Under alla, kyng of al northhumbrelond,

That was ful wys, and worthy of his hond

Agayn the scottes, as men may wel heere;

But turne I wole agayn to my mateere.

Sathan, that evere us waiteth to bigile,

Saugh of custance al hire perfeccioun,

And caste anon how he myghte quite hir while,

And made a yong knyght that dwelte in that toun

Love hire so hoote, of foul affeccioun,

That verraily hym thoughte he sholde spille,

But he of hire myghte ones have his wille.

He woweth hire, but it availleth noght;

She wolde do no synne, by no weye.

And for despit he compassed in his thoght

To maken hire on shameful deeth to deye.

He wayteth whan the constable was aweye,

And pryvely upon a nyght he crepte

In hermengyldes chambre, whil she slepte.

Wery, forwaked in hire orisouns,

Slepeth custance, and hermengyld also.

This knyght, thurgh sathanas temptaciouns,

Al softely is to the bed ygo,

And kitte the throte of hermengyld atwo,

And leyde the blody knyf by dame custance,

And wente his wey, ther God yeve hym meschance!

Soone after cometh this constable hoom agayn,

And eek alla, that kyng was of that lond,

And saugh his wyf despitously yslayn,

For which ful ofte he weep and wroong his hond,

And in the bed the blody knyf he fond

By dame custance. Allas! what myghte she seye?

For verray wo hir wit was al aweye.

To kyng alla was toold al this meschance,

And eek the tyme, and where, and in what wise

That in a ship was founden this custance,

As heer-biforn that ye han herd devyse.

The kynges herte of pitee gan agryse,

Whan he saugh so benigne a creature

Falle in disese and in mysaventure.

For as the lomb toward his deeth is broght,

So stant this innocent bifore the kyng. [69]

This false knyght, that hath this tresoun wroght,

Berth hire on hond that she hath doon thys thyng.

But nathelees, ther was greet moornyng

Among the peple, and seyn they kan nat gesse

That she had doon so greet a wikkednesse;

For they han seyn hire evere so vertuous,

And lovynge hermengyld right as hir lyf.

Of this baar witnesse everich in that hous,

Save he that hermengyld slow with his knyf.

This gentil kyng hath caught a greet motyf

Of this witnesse, and thoghte he wolde enquere

Depper in this, a trouthe for to lere.

Allas! custance, thou hast no champioun,

Ne fighte kanstow noght, so weylaway!

But he that starf for our redempcioun,

And boond sathan (and yet lith ther he lay),

So be thy stronge champion this day!

For, but if crist open myracle kithe,

Withouten gilt thou shalt be slayn as swithe.

She sette hire doun on knees, and thus she sayde:

Immortal god, that savedest susanne

Fro false blame, and thou, merciful mayde,

Marie I meene, doghter to seint anne,

Bifore whos child angeles synge osanne,

If I be giltlees of this felonye,

My socour be, for ellis shal I dye!

Have ye nat seyn somtyme a pale face,

Among a prees, of hym that hath be lad

Toward his deeth, wher as hym gat no grace,

And swich a colour in his face hath had,

Men myghte knowe his face that was bistad,

Amonges alle the faces in that route?

So stant custance, and looketh hire aboute.

O queenes, lyvynge in prosperitee,

Duchesses, and ye ladyes everichone,

Haveth som routhe on hire adversitee!

An emperoures doghter stant allone;

She hath no wight to whom to make hir mone.

O blood roial, that stondest in this drede,

Fer been thy freendes at thy grete nede!

This alla kyng hath swich compassioun,

As gentil herte is fulfild of pitee,

That from his eyen ran the water doun.

Now hastily do fecche a book, quod he,

And if this knyght wol sweren how that she

This womman slow, yet wol we us avyse

Whom that we wole that shal been oure justise.

A britoun book, written with evaungiles,

Was fet, and on this book he swoor anoon

She gilty was, and in the meene whiles

An hand hym smoot upon the nekke-boon,

That doun he fil atones as a stoon,

And bothe his eyen broste out of his face

In sighte of every body in that place.

A voys was herd in general audience,

And seyde, thou hast desclaundred, giltelees,

The doghter of hooly chirche in heigh presence;

Thus hastou doon, and yet holde I my pees!

Of this mervaille agast was al the prees;

As mazed folk they stoden everichone,

For drede of wreche, save custance allone.

Greet was the drede and eek the repentance

Of hem that hadden wrong suspecioun

Upon this sely innocent, custance;

And for this miracle, in conclusioun,

And by custances mediacioun,

The kyng -- and many another in that place --

Converted was, thanked be cristes grace!

This false knyght was slayn for his untrouthe

By juggement of alla hastifly;

And yet custance hadde of his deeth greet routhe.

And after this jhesus, of his mercy,

Made alla wedden ful solempnely

This hooly mayden, that is so bright and sheene;

And thus hath crist ymaad custance a queene.

But who was woful, if I shal nat lye,

Of this weddyng but donegild, and namo,

The kynges mooder, ful of tirannye?

Hir thoughte hir cursed herte brast atwo.

She wolde noght hir sone had do so;

Hir thoughte a despit that he sholde take

So strange a creature unto his make.

Me list nat of the chaf, ne of the stree,

Maken so long a tale as of the corn.

What sholde I tellen of the roialtee

At mariage, or which cours goth biforn;

Who bloweth in a trumpe or in an horn?

The fruyt of every tale is for to seye:

They ete, and drynke, and daunce, and synge, and pleye. [70]

They goon to bedde, as it was skile and right;

For thogh that wyves be ful hooly thynges,

They moste take in pacience at nyght

Swiche manere necessaries as been plesynges

To folk that han ywedded hem with rynges,

And leye a lite hir hoolynesse aside,

As for the tyme, -- it may no bet bitide.

On hire he gat a knave child anon,

And to a bisshop, and his constable eke,

He took his wyf to kepe, whan he is gon

To scotlond-ward, his foomen for to seke.

Now faire custance, that is so humble and meke,

So longe is goon with childe, til that stille

She halt hire chambre, abidyng cristes wille.

The tyme is come a knave child she beer;

Mauricius at the fontstoon they hym calle.

This constable dooth forth come a messageer,

And wroot unto his kyng, that cleped was alle,

How that this blisful tidyng is bifalle,

And othere tidynges spedeful for to seye.

He taketh the lettre, and forth he gooth his weye.

This messager, to doon his avantage,

Unto the kynges mooder rideth swithe,

And salueth hire ful faire in his langage:

Madame, quod he, ye may be glad and blithe,

And thanketh God an hundred thousand sithe!

My lady queene hath child, withouten doute,

To joye and blisse to al this regne aboute.

Lo, heere the lettres seled of this thyng,

That I moot bere with al the haste I may.

If ye wol aught unto youre sone the kyng,

I am youre servant, bothe nyght and day.

Donegild answerde, as now at this tyme, nay;

But heere al nyght I wol thou take thy reste.

To-morwe wol I seye thee what me leste.

This messager drank sadly ale and wyn,

And stolen were his lettres pryvely

Out of his box, whil he sleep as a swyn;

And countrefeted was ful subtilly

Another lettre, wroght ful synfully,

Unto the kyng direct of this mateere

Fro his constable, as ye shal after heere.

The lettre spak the queene delivered was

Of so horrible a feendly creature

That in the castel noon so hardy was

That any while dorste ther endure.

The mooder was an elf, by aventure

Ycomen, by charmes or by sorcerie,

And every wight hateth hir compaignye.

Wo was this kyng whan he this lettre had sayn,

But to no wight he tolde his sorwes soore,

But of his owene hand he wroot agayn,

Welcome the sonde of crist for everemoore

To me that am now lerned in his loore!

Lord, welcome be thy lust and thy plesaunce;

My lust I putte al in thyn ordinaunce.

Kepeth this child, al be it foul or feir,

And eek my wyf, unto myn hoom-comynge.

Crist, whan hym list, may sende me an heir

Moore agreable than this to my likynge.

This lettre he seleth, pryvely wepynge,

Which to the messager was take soone,

And forth he gooth; ther is na moore to doone.

O messager, fulfild of dronkenesse,

Strong is thy breeth, thy lymes faltren ay,

And thou biwreyest alle secreenesse.

Thy mynde is lorn, thou janglest as a jay,

Thy face is turned in a newe array.

Ther dronkenesse regneth in any route,

Ther is no conseil hyd, withouten doute.

O donegild, I ne have noon englissh digne

Unto thy malice and thy tirannye!

And therfore to the feend I thee resigne;

Lat hym enditen of thy traitorie!

Fy, mannysh, fy! -- o nay, by god, I lye --

Fy, feendlych spirit, for I dar wel telle,

Thogh thou heere walke, thy spirit is in helle!

This messager comth fro the kyng agayn,

And at the kynges moodres court he lighte,

And she was of this messager ful fayn,

And plesed hym in al that ever she myghte.

He drank, and wel his girdel underpighte;

He slepeth, and he fnorteth in his gyse

Al nyght, til the sonne gan aryse.

Eft were his lettres stolen everychon,

And countrefeted lettres in this wyse:

The king comandeth his constable anon,

Up peyne of hangyng, and on heigh juyse,

That he ne sholde suffren in no wyse

Custance in-with his reawme for t' abyde

Thre dayes and o quarter of a tyde; [71]

But in the same ship as he hire fond,

Hire, and hir yonge sone, and al hir geere,

He sholde putte, and croude hire fro the lond,

And charge hire that she never eft coome theere.

O my custance, wel may thy goost have feere,

And, slepynge, in thy dreem been in penance,

Whan donegild cast al this ordinance.

This messager on morwe, whan he wook,

Unto the castel halt the nexte way,

And to the constable he the lettre took;

And whan that he this pitous lettre say,

Ful ofte he seyde, allas! and weylaway!

Lord crist, quod he, how may this world endure,

So ful of synne is many a creature?

O myghty god, if that it be thy wille,

Sith thou art rightful juge, how may it be

That thou wolt suffren innocentz to spille,

And wikked folk regne in prosperitee?

O goode custance, allas! so wo is me

That I moot be thy tormentour, or deye

On shames deeth; ther is noon oother weye.

Wepen bothe yonge and olde in al that place

Whan that the kyng this cursed lettre sente,

And custance, with a deedly pale face,

The ferthe day toward hir ship she wente.

But nathelees she taketh in good entente

The wyl of crist, and knelynge on the stronde,

She seyde, lord, ay welcome be thy sonde!

He that me kepte fro the false blame

While I was on the lond amonges yow,

He kan me kepe from harm and eek fro shame

In salte see, althogh I se noght how.

As strong as evere he was, he is yet now.

In hym triste I, and in his mooder deere,

That is to me my seyl and eek my steere.

Hir litel child lay wepyng in hir arm,

And knelynge, pitously to hym she seyde,

Pees, litel sone, I wol do thee noon harm.

With that hir coverchief of hir heed she breyde,

And over his litel eyen she it leyde,

And in hir arm she lulleth it ful faste,

And into hevene hire eyen up she caste.

Mooder, quod she, and mayde bright, marie,

Sooth is that thurgh wommanes eggement

Mankynde was lorn, and damned ay to dye,

For which thy child was on a croys yrent.

Thy blisful eyen sawe al his torment;

Thanne is ther no comparison bitwene

Thy wo and any wo man may sustene.

Thow sawe thy child yslayn bifore thyne yen,

And yet now lyveth my litel child, parfay!

Now, lady bright, to whom alle woful cryen,

Thow glorie of wommanhede, thow faire may,

Thow haven of refut, brighte sterre of day,

Rewe on my child, that of thy gentillesse,

Rewest on every reweful in distresse.

O litel child, allas! what is thy gilt,

That nevere wroghtest synne as yet, pardee?

Why wil thyn harde fader han thee spilt?

O mercy, deere constable, quod she,

As lat my litel child dwelle heer with thee;

And if thou darst nat saven hym, for blame,

So kys hym ones in his fadres name!

Therwith she looked bakward to the londe,

And seyde, farewel, housbonde routhelees!

And up she rist, and walketh doun the stronde

Toward the ship, -- hir folweth al the prees, --

And evere she preyeth hire child to holde his pees;

And taketh hir leve, and with an hooly entente

She blisseth hire, and into ship she wente.

Vitailled was the ship, it is no drede,

Habundantly for hire ful longe space,

And othere necessaries that sholde nede

She hadde ynogh, heryed be goddes grace!

For wynd and weder almyghty God purchace,

And brynge hire hoom! I kan no bettre seye,

But in the see she dryveth forth hir weye.

Alla the kyng comth hoom soone after this

Unto his castel, of the which I tolde,

And asketh where his wyf and his child is.

The constable gan aboute his herte colde,

And pleynly al the manere he hym tolde

As ye han herd -- i kan telle it no bettre --

And sheweth the kyng his seel and eek his lettre,

And seyde, lord, as ye comanded me

Up peyne of deeth, so have I doon, certein.

This messager tormented was til he [72]

Moste biknowe and tellen, plat and pleyn,

Fro nyght to nyght, in what place he had leyn;

And thus, by with and sotil enquerynge,

Ymagined was by whom this harm gan sprynge.

The hand was knowe that the lettre wroot,

And al the venym of this cursed dede,

But in what wise, certeinly, I noot.

Th' effect is this, that alla, out of drede,

His mooder slow -- that may men pleynly rede --

For that she traitour was to hire ligeance.

Thus endeth olde donegild, with meschance!

The sorwe that this alla nyght and day

Maketh for his wyf, and for his child also,

Ther is no tonge that it telle may.

But now wol I unto custance go,

That fleteth in the see, in peyne and wo,

Fyve yeer and moore, as liked cristes sonde,

Er that hir ship approched unto londe.

Under an hethen castel, atte laste,

Of which the name in my text noght I fynde,

Custance, and eek hir child, the see up caste.

Almyghty god, that saveth al mankynde,

Have on custance and on hir child som mynde,

That fallen is in hethen hand eft soone,

In point to spille, as I shal telle yow soone.

Doun fro the castel comth ther many a wight

To gauren on this ship and on custance.

But shortly, from the castel, on a nyght,

The lordes styward -- God yeve hym meschance! --

A theef, that hadde reneyed oure creance,

Cam into ship allone, and seyde he sholde

Hir lemman be, wher-so she wolde or nolde.

Wo was this wrecched womman tho bigon;

Hir child cride, and she cride pitously.

But blisful marie heelp hire right anon;

For with hir struglyng wel and myghtily

The theef fil over bord al sodeynly,

And in the see he dreynte for vengeance;

And thus hath crist unwemmed kept custance.

O foule lust of luxurie, lo, thyn ende!

Nat oonly that thou feyntest mannes mynde,

But verraily thou wolt his body shende.

Th' ende of thy werk, or of thy lustes blynde,

Is compleynyng. Hou many oon may men fynde

That noght for werk somtyme, but for th' entente

To doon this synne, been outher slayn or shente!

How may this wayke womman han this strengthe

Hire to defende agayn this renegat?

O golias, unmesurable of lengthe,

Hou myghte david make thee so maat,

So yong and of armure so desolaat?

Hou dorste he looke upon thy dredful face?

Wel may men seen, it nas but goddes grace.

Who yaf judith corage or hardynesse

To sleen hym olofernus in his tente,

And to deliveren out of wrecchednesse

The peple of god? I seye, for this entente,

That right as God spirit of vigour sente

To hem, and saved hem out of meschance,

So sente he myght and vigour to custance.

Forth gooth hir ship thurghout the narwe mouth

Of jubaltare and septe, dryvynge ay

Somtyme west, and somtyme north and south,

And somtyme est, ful many a wery day,

Til cristes mooder -- blessed be she ay! --

Hath shapen, thurgh hir endelees goodnesse,

To make an ende of al hir hevynesse.

Now lat us stynte of custance but a throwe,

And speke we of the romayn emperour,

That out of surrye hath by lettres knowe

The slaughtre of cristen folk, and dishonour

Doon to his doghter by a fals traytour,

I mene the cursed wikked sowdanesse

That at the feeste leet sleen bothe moore and lesse.

For which this emperour hath sent anon

His senatour, with roial ordinance,

And othere lordes, God woot, many oon,

On surryens to taken heigh vengeance.

They brennen, sleen, and brynge hem to meschance

Ful many a day; but shortly, this is th' ende,

Homward to rome they shapen hem to wende.

This senatour repaireth with victorie

To rome-ward, saillynge ful roially,

And mette the ship dryvynge, as seith the storie,

In which custance sit ful pitously.

Nothyng ne knew he what she was, ne why

She was in swich array, ne she nyl seye

Of hire estaat, althogh she sholde deye.

He bryngeth hire to rome, and to his wyf

He yaf hire, and hir yonge sone also; [73]

And with the senatour she ladde hir lyf.

Thus kan oure lady bryngen out of wo

Woful custance, and many another mo.

And longe tyme dwelled she in that place,

In hooly werkes evere, as was hir grace.

The senatoures wyf hir aunte was,

But for al that she knew hire never the moore.

I wol no lenger tarien in this cas,

But to kyng alla, which I spak of yoore,

That for his wyf wepeth and siketh soore,

I wol retourne, and lete I wol custance

Under the senatoures governance.

Kyng alla, which that hadde his mooder slayn,

Upon a day fil in swich repentance

That, if I shortly tellen shal and playn,

To rome he comth to receyven his penance;

And putte hym in the popes ordinance

In heigh and logh, and jhesu crist bisoghte

Foryeve his wikked werkes that he wroghte.

The fame anon thurgh rome toun is born,

How alla kyng shal comen in pilgrymage,

By herbergeours that wenten hym biforn;

For which the senatour, as was usage,

Rood hym agayns, and many of his lynage,

As wel to shewen his heighe magnificence

As to doon any kyng a reverence.

Greet cheere dooth this noble senatour

To kyng alla, and he to hym also;

Everich of hem dooth oother greet honour.

And so bifel that in a day or two

This senatour is to kyng alla go

To feste, and shortly, if I shal nat lye,

Custances sone wente in his compaignye.

Som men wolde seyn at requeste of custance

This senatour hath lad this child to feeste;

I may nat tellen every circumstance, --

Be as be may, ther was he at the leeste.

But sooth is this, that at his moodres heeste

Biforn alla, durynge the metes space,

The child stood, lookynge in the kynges face.

This alla kyng hath of this child greet wonder,

And to the senatour he seyde anon,

Whos is that faire child that stondeth yonder?

I noot, quod he, by god, and by seint john!

A mooder he hath, but fader hath he noon

That I of woot -- and shortly, in a stounde,

He tolde alla how that this child was founde.

But God woot, quod this senatour also,

So vertuous a lyvere in my lyf

Ne saugh I nevere as she, ne herde of mo,

Of worldly wommen, mayde, ne of wyf.

I dar wel seyn hir hadde levere a knyf

Thurghout hir brest, than ben a womman wikke;

There is no man koude brynge hire to that prikke.

Now was this child as lyk unto custance

As possible is a creature to be.

This alla hath the face in remembrance

Of dame custance, and ther on mused he

If that the childes mooder were aught she

That is his wyf, and pryvely he sighte,

And spedde hym fro the table that he myghte.

Parfay, thoghte he, fantome is in myn heed!

I oghte deme, of skilful juggement,

That in the salte see my wyf is deed.

And afterward he made his argument:

What woot I if that crist have hyder ysent

My wyf by see, as wel as he hire sente

To my contree fro thennes that she wente?

And after noon, hoom with the senatour

Goth alla, for to seen this wonder chaunce.

This senatour dooth alla greet honour,

And hastifly he sente after custaunce.

But trusteth weel, hire liste nat to daunce,

Whan that she wiste wherfore was that sonde;

Unnethe upon hir feet she myghte stonde.

Whan alla saugh his wyf, faire he hire grette,

And weep, that it was routhe for to see;

For at the firste look he on hire sette,

He knew wel verraily that it was she.

And she, for sorwe, as doumb stant as a tree,

So was hir herte shet in hir distresse,

Whan she remembred his unkyndenesse.

Twyes she swowned in his owene sighte;

He weep, and hym excuseth pitously.

Now god, quod he, and alle his halwes brighte

So wisly on my soule as have mercy,

That of youre harm as giltelees am I

As is maurice my sone, so lyk youre face;

Elles the feend me fecche out of this place! [74]

Long was the sobbyng and the bitter peyne,

Er that hir woful hertes myghte cesse;

Greet was the pitee for to heere hem pleyne,

Thurgh whiche pleintes gan hir wo encresse.

I pray yow alle my labour to relesse;

I may nat telle hir wo until to-morwe,

I am so wery for to speke of sorwe.

But finally, whan that the sothe is wist

That alla giltelees was of hir wo,

I trowe an hundred tymes been they kist,

And swich a blisse is ther bitwix hem two

That, save the joye that lasteth everemo,

Ther is noon lyk that any creature

Hath seyn or shal, whil that the world may dure.

Tho preyde she hir housbonde mekely,

In relief of hir longe, pitous pyne,

That he wolde preye hir fader specially

That of his magestee he wolde enclyne

To vouche sauf som day with hym to dyne.

She preyde hym eek he sholde by no weye

Unto hir fader no word of hire seye.

Som men wolde seyn how that the child maurice

Dooth this message unto this emperour;

But, as I gesse, alla was nat so nyce

To hym that was of so sovereyn honour

As he that is of cristen folk the flour,

Sente any child, but it is bet to deeme

He wente hymself, and so it may wel seeme.

This emperour hath graunted gentilly

To come to dyner, as he hym bisoughte;

And wel rede I he looked bisily

Upon this child, and on his doghter thoghte.

Alla goth to his in, and as hym oghte,

Arrayed for this feste in every wise

As ferforth as his konnyng may suffise.

The morwe cam, and alla gan hym dresse,

And eek his wyf, this emperour to meete;

And forth they ryde in joye and in gladnesse.

And whan she saugh hir fader in the strete,

She lighte doun, and falleth hym to feete.

Fader, quod she, youre yonge child custance

Is now ful clene out of youre remembrance.

I am youre doghter custance, quod she,

That whilom ye han sent unto surrye.

It am I, fader, that in the salte see

Was put allone and dampned for to dye.

Now, goode fader, mercy I yow crye!

Sende me namoore unto noon hethenesse,

But thonketh my lord heere of his kyndenesse.

Who kan the pitous joye tellen al

Bitwixe hem thre, syn they been thus ymette?

But of my tale make an ende I shal;

The day goth faste, I wol no lenger lette.

This glade folk to dyner they hem sette;

In joye and blisse at mete I lete hem dwelle

A thousand foold wel moore than I kan telle.

This child maurice with sithen emperour

Maad by the pope, and lyved cristenly;

To cristes chirche he dide greet honour.

But I lete al his storie passen by;

Of custance is my tale specially.

In the olde romayn geestes may men fynde

Maurices lyf; I bere it noght in mynde.

This kyng alla, whan he his tyme say,

With his custance, his hooly wyf so sweete,

To engelond been they come the righte way,

Wher as they lyve in joye and in quiete.

But litel while it lasteth, I yow heete,

Joye of this world, for tyme wol nat abyde;

Fro day to nyght it changeth as the tyde.

Who lyved euere in swich delit o day

That hym ne moeved outher conscience,

Or ire, or talent, or som kynnes affray,

Envye, or pride, or passion, or offence?

I ne seye but for this ende this sentence,

That litel while in joye or in plesance

Lasteth the blisse of alla with custance.

For deeth, that taketh of heigh and logh his rente,

Whan passed was a yeer, evene as I gesse,

Out of this world this kyng alla he hente,

For whom custance hath ful greet hevynesse.

Now lat us prayen God his soule blesse!

And dame custance, finally to seye,

Toward the toun of rome goth hir weye.

To rome is come this hooly creature,

And fyndeth hire freendes hoole and sounde;

Now is she scaped al hire aventure.

And whan that she hir fader hath yfounde,

Doun on hir knees falleth she to grounde;

Wepynge for tendrenesse in herte blithe,

She heryeth God an hundred thousand sithe. [75]

In vertu and in hooly almus-dede

They lyven alle, and nevere asonder wende;

Til deeth departeth hem, this lyf they lede.

And fareth now weel! my tale is at an ende.

Now jhesu crist, that of his myght may sende

Joye after wo, governe us in his grace,

And kepe us alle that been in this place! amen

In th' olde dayes of the kyng arthour,

Of which that britons speken greet honour,

Al was this land fulfild of fayerye.

The elf-queene, with hir joly compaignye,

Daunced ful ofte in many a grene mede.

This was the olde opinion, as I rede;

I speke of manye hundred yeres ago.

But now kan no man se none elves mo,

For now the grete charitee and prayers

Of lymytours and othere hooly freres,

That serchen every lond and every streem,

As thikke as motes in the sonne-beem,

Blessynge halles, chambres, kichenes, boures,

Citees, burghes, castels, hye toures,

Thropes, bernes, shipnes, dayeryes --

This maketh that ther ben no fayeryes.

For ther as wont to walken was an elf,

Ther walketh now the lymytour hymself

In undermeles and in morwenynges,

And seyth his matyns and his hooly thynges

As he gooth in his lymytacioun.

Wommen may go now saufly up and doun.

In every bussh or under every tree

Ther is noon oother incubus but he,

And he ne wol doon hem but dishonour.

And so bifel it that this kyng arthour

Hadde in his hous a lusty bacheler,

That on a day cam ridynge fro ryver; [85]

And happed that, allone as he was born,

He saugh a mayde walkynge hym biforn,

Of which mayde anon, maugree hir heed,

By verray force, he rafte hire maydenhed;

For which oppressioun was swich clamour

And swich pursute unto the kyng arthour,

That dampned was this knyght for to be deed,

By cours of lawe, and sholde han lost his heed --

Paraventure swich was the statut tho --

But that the queene and othere ladyes mo

So longe preyeden the kyng of grace,

Til he his lyf hym graunted in the place,

And yaf hym to the queene, al at hir wille,

To chese wheither she wolde hym save or spille.

The queene thanketh the kyng with al hir myght,

And after this thus spak she to the knyght,

Whan that she saugh hir tyme, upon a day:

Thou standest yet, quod she, in swich array

That of thy lyf yet hastow no suretee.

I grante thee lyf, if thou kanst tellen me

What thyng is it that wommen moost desiren.

Be war, and keep thy nekke-boon from iren!

And if thou kanst nat tellen it anon,

Yet wol I yeve thee leve for to gon

A twelf-month and a day, to seche and leere

An answere suffisant in this mateere;

And suretee wol I han, er that thou pace,

Thy body for to yelden in this place.

Wo was this knyght, and sorwefully he siketh;

But what! he may nat do al as hym liketh.

And at the laste he chees hym for to wende,

And come agayn, right at the yeres ende,

With swich answere as God wolde hym purveye;

And taketh his leve, and wendeth froth his weye.

He seketh every hous and and every place

Where as he hopeth for to fynde grace,

To lerne what thyng wommen loven moost;

But he ne koude arryven in no coost

Wher as he myghte fynde in this mateere

Two creatures accordynge in-feere.

Somme seyde wommen loven best richesse,

Somme seyde honour, somme seyde jolynesse,

Somme riche array, somme seyden lust abedde,

And oftetyme to be wydwe and wedde.

Somme seyde that oure hertes been moost esed

Whan that we ben yflatered and yplesed.

He gooth ful ny the sothe, I wol nat lye.

A man shal wynne us best with flaterye;

And with attendance, and with bisynesse,

Been we ylymed, bothe moore and lesse.

And somme seyen that we loven best

For to be free, and do right as us lest,

And that no man repreve us of oure vice,

But seye that we be wise, and no thyng nyce.

For trewely ther is noon of us alle,

If any wight wol clawe us on the galle,

That we nel kike, for he seith us sooth.

Assay, and he shal fynde it that so dooth;

For, be we never so vicious withinne,

We wol been holden wise and clene of synne.

And somme seyn that greet delit han we

For to been holden stable, and eek secree,

And in o purpos stedefastly to dwelle,

And nat biwreye thyng that men us telle.

But that tale is nat worth a rake-stele.

Pardee, we wommen konne no thyng hele;

Witnesse on myda, -- wol ye heere the tale?

Ovyde, amonges othere thynges smale,

Seyde myda hadde, under his longe heres,

Growynge upon his heed two asses eres,

The whiche vice he hydde, as he best myghte,

Ful subtilly from every mannes sighte,

That, save his wyf, ther wiste of it namo.

He loved hire moost, and trusted hire also;

He preyede hire that to no creature

She sholde tellen of his disfigure.

She swoor him, nay, for al this world to wynne,

She nolde do that vileynye or synne,

To make hir housbonde han so foul a name.

She nolde nat telle it for hir owene shame.

But nathelees, hir thoughte that she dyde,

That she so longe sholde a conseil hyde;

Hir thoughte it swal so soore aboute hir herte

That nedely som word hire moste asterte;

And sith she dorste telle it to no man,

Doun to a mareys faste by she ran

Til she cam there, hir herte was a-fyre --

And as a bitore bombleth in the myre,

She leyde hir mouth unto the water doun:

Biwreye me nat, thou water, with thy soun,

Quod she; -- to thee I telle it and namo;

Myn housbonde hath longe asses erys two!

Now is myn herte al hool, now is it oute.

I myghte no lenger kepe it, out of doute.

Heere may ye se, thogh we a tyme abyde,

Yet out it moot; we kan no conseil hyde.

The remenant of the tale if ye wol heere,

Redeth ovyde, and ther ye may it leere.

This knyght, of which my tale is specially,

Than that he saugh he myghte nat come therby, [86]

This is to seye, what wommen love moost,

Withinne his brest ful sorweful was the goost.

But hoom he gooth, he myghte nat sojourne;

The day was come that homward moste he tourne.

And in his wey it happed hym to ryde,

In al this care, under a forest syde,

Wher as he saugh upon a daunce go

Of ladyes foure and twenty, and yet mo;

Toward the whiche daunce he drow ful yerne,

In hope that som wysdom sholde he lerne.

But certeinly, er he cam fully there,

Vanysshed was this daunce, he nyste where.

No creature saugh he that bar lyf,

Save on the grene he saugh sittynge a wyf --

A fouler wight ther may no man devyse.

Agayn the knyght this olde wyf gan ryse,

And seyde, sire knyght, heer forth ne lith no wey.

Tel me what that ye seken, by youre fey!

Paraventure it may the bettre be;

Thise olde folk kan muchel thyng, quod she.

My leeve mooder, quod this knyght, certeyn

I nam but deed, but if that I kan seyn

What thyng it is that wommen moost desire.

Koude ye me wisse, I wolde wel quite youre hire.

Plight me thy trouthe heere in myn hand, quod she,

The nexte thyng that I requere thee,

Thou shalt it do, if it lye in thy myght,

And I wol telle it yow er it be nyght.

Have heer my trouthe, quod the knyght, I grante.

Thanne, quod she, I dar me wel avante

Thy lyf is sauf; for I wol stonde therby,

Upon my lyf, the queene wol seye as I.

Lat se which is the proudeste of hem alle,

That wereth on a coverchief or a calle,

That day seye nay of that I shal thee teche.

Lat us go forth, withouten lenger speche.

Tho rowned she a pistel in his ere,

And bad hym to be glad, and have no fere.

Whan they be comen to the court, this knyght

Seyde he had holde his day, as he hadde hight,

And redy was his answere, as he sayde.

Ful many a noble wyf, and many a mayde,

And many a wydwe, for that they been wise,

The queene hirself sittynge as a justise,

Assembled been, his answere for to heere;

And afterward this knyght was bode appeere.

To every wight comanded was silence,

And that the knyght sholde telle in audience

What thyng that worldly wommen loven best.

This knyght ne stood nat stille as doth a best,

But to his questioun anon answerde

With manly voys, that al the court it herde:

My lige lady, generally, quod he,

Wommen desiren to have sovereynetee

As wel over his housbond as hir love,

And for to been in maistrie hym above.

This is youre mooste desir, thogh ye me kille.

Dooth as yow list; I am heer at youre wille.

In al the court ne was ther wyf, ne mayde,

Ne wydwe, that contraried that he sayde,

But seyden he was worthy han his lyf.

And with that word up stirte the olde wyf,

Which that the knyght saugh sittynge on the grene:

Mercy, quod she, my sovereyn lady queene!

Er that youre court departe, do me right.

I taughte this answere unto the knyght;

For which he plighte me his trouthe there,

The firste thyng that I wolde hym requere,

He wolde it do, if it lay in his myghte.

Bifore the court thanne preye I thee, sir knyght,

Quod she, that thou me take unto thy wyf;

For wel thou woost that I have kept thy lyf.

If I seye fals, sey nay, upon thy fey!

This knyght answerde, allas! and weylawey!

I woot right wel that swich was my biheste.

For goddes love, as chees a newe requeste!

Taak al my good, and lat my body go.

Nay, thanne, quod she, I shrewe us bothe two!

For thogh that I be foul, and oold, and poore,

I nolde for al the metal, ne for oore,

That under erthe is grave, or lith above,

But if thy wyf I were, and eek thy love.

My love? quod he, nay, my dampnacioun!

Allas! that any of my nacioun

Sholde evere so foule disparaged be!

But al for noght; the ende is this, that he

Constreyned was, he nedes moste hire wedde;

And taketh his olde wyf, and gooth to bedde.

Now wolden som men seye, paraventure,

That for my necligence I do no cure

To tellen yow the joye and al th' array

That at the feeste was that ilke day.

To which thyng shortly answeren I shal:

I seye ther nas no joye ne feeste at al;

Ther nas but hevynesse and muche sorwe. [87]

For prively he wedded hire on the morwe,

And al day after hidde hym as an owle,

So wo was hym, his wyf looked so foule.

Greet was the wo the knyght hadde in his thoght,

Whan he was with his wyf abedde ybroght;

He walweth and he turneth to and fro.

His olde wyf lay smylynge everemo,

And seyde, o deere housbonde, benedicitee!

Fareth every knyght thys with his wyf as ye?

Is this the lawe of kyng arthures hous?

Is every knyght of his so dangerous?

I am youre owene love and eek youre wyf;

I am she which that saved hath youre lyf,

And, certes, yet ne dide I yow nevere unright;

Why fare ye thus with me this firste nyght?

Ye faren lyk a man had lost his wit.

What is my gilt? for goddes love, tel me it,

And it shal been amende, if I may.

Amended? quod this knyght, allas! nay, nay!

It wol nat been amended nevere mo.

Thou art so loothly, and so oold also,

And therto comen of so lough a kynde,

That litel wonder is thogh I walwe and wynde.

So wolde God myn herte wolde breste!

Is this, quod she, the cause of youre unreste?

Ye, certeinly, quod he, no wonder is.

Now, sire, quod she, I koude amende al this,

If that me liste, er it were dayes thre,

So wel ye myghte bere yow unto me.

But, for ye speken of swich gentillesse

As is descended out of old richesse,

That therfore sholden ye be gentil men,

Swich arrogance is nat worth an hen.

Looke who that is moost vertuous alway,

Pryvee and apert, and moost entendeth ay

To do the gentil dedes that he kan;

Taak hym for the grettest gentil man.

Crist wole we clayme of hym oure gentillesse,

Nat of oure eldres for hire old richesse.

For thogh they yeve us al hir heritage,

For which we clayme to been of heigh parage,

Yet may they nat biquethe, for no thyng,

To noon of us hir vertuous lyvyng,

That made hem gentil men ycalled be,

And bad us folwen hem in swich degree.

Wel kan the wise poete of florence,

That highte dant, speken in this sentence.

Lo, in swich maner rym is dantes tale:

-- Ful selde up riseth by his brances smale

Prowesse of man, for god, of his goodnesse,

Wole that of hym we clayme oure gentillesse; --

For of oure eldres may we no thyng clayme

But temporel thyng, that man may hurte and mayme.

Eek every wight woot this as wel as I,

If gentillesse were planted natureelly

Unto a certeyn lynage doun the lyne,

Pryvee and apert, thanne wolde they nevere fyne

To doon of gentillesse the faire office;

They myghte do no vileynye or vice.

Taak fyr, and ber it in the derkeste hous

Bitwix this and the mount of kaukasous,

And lat men shette the dores and go thenne;

Yet wole the fyr as faire lye and brenne

As twenty thousand men myghte it biholde;

His office natureel ay wol it holde,

Up peril of my lyf, til that it dye.

Heere may ye se wel how that genterye

Is nat annexed to possessioun,

Sith folk ne doon hir operacioun

Alwey, as dooth the fyr, lo, in his kynde.

For, God it woot, men may wel often fynde

A lordes sone do shame and vileynye;

And he that wole han pris of his gentrye,

For he was boren of a gentil hous,

And hadde his eldres noble and vertuous,

And nel hymselven do no gentil dedis,

Ne folwen his gentil auncestre that deed is,

He nys nat gentil, be he duc or erl;

For vileyns synful dedes make a cherl.

For gentillesse nys but renomee

Of thyne auncestres, for hire heigh bountee,

Which is a strange thyng to thy persone.

Thy gentillesse cometh fro God allone.

Thanne comth oure verray gentillesse of grace;

It was no thyng biquethe us with oure place.

Thenketh how noble, as seith valerius,

Was thilke tullius hostillius,

That out of poverte roos to heigh noblesse.

Reedeth senek, and redeth eek boece;

Ther shul ye seen expres that it no drede is

That he is gentil that dooth gentil dedis.

And therfore, leeve housbonde, thus conclude:

Al were it that myne auncestres were rude,

Yet may the hye god, and so hope I,

Grante me grace to lyven vertuously.

Thanne am I gentil, whan that I bigynne

To lyven vertuously and weyve synne.

And ther as ye of poverte me repreeve,

The hye god, on whom that we bileeve,

In wilful poverte chees to lyve his lyf. [88]

And certes every man, mayden, or wyf,

May understonde that jhesus, hevene kyng,

Ne wolde nat chese a vicious lyvyng.

Glad poverte is an honest thyng, certeyn;

This wole senec and othere clerkes seyn.

Whoso that halt hym payd of his poverte,

I holde hym riche, al hadde he nat a sherte.

He that coveiteth is a povre wight,

For he wolde han that is nat in his myght;

But he that noght hath, ne coveiteth have,

Is riche, although ye holde hym but a knave.

Verray poverte, it syngeth proprely;

Juvenal seith of poverte myrily:

-- The povre man, whan he goth by the weye,

Bifore the theves he may synge and pleye.

Poverte is hateful good and, as I gesse,

A ful greet bryngere out of bisynesse;

A greet amendere eek of sapience

To hym that taketh it in pacience.

Poverte is this, although it seme alenge,

Possessioun that no wight wol chalenge.

Poverte ful ofte, whan a man is lowe,

Maketh his God and eek hymself to knowe.

Poverte a spectacle is, as thynketh me,

Thurgh which he may his verray freendes see.

And therfore, sire, syn that I noght yow greve,

Of my poverte namoore ye me repreve.

No, sire, of elde ye repreve me;

And certes, sire, thogh noon auctoritee

Were in no book, ye gentils of honour

Seyn that men sholde an oold wight doon favour,

And clepe hym fader, for youre gentillesse;

And auctours shal I fynde, as I gesse.

Now ther ye seye that I am foul and old,

Than drede you noght to been a cokewold;

For filthe and eelde, also moot I thee,

Been grete wardeyns upon chastitee.

But nathelees, syn I knowe youre delit,

I shal fulfille youre worldly appetit.

Chese now, quod she, oon of thise thynges tweye:

To han me foul and old til that I deye,

And be to yow a trewe, humble wyf,

And nevere yow displese in al my lyf;

Or elles ye wol han me yong and fair,

And take youre aventure of the repair

That shal be to youre hous by cause of me,

Or in som oother place, may wel be.

Now chese yourselven, wheither that yow liketh.

This knyght avyseth hym and sore siketh,

But atte laste he seyde in this manere:

My lady and my love, and wyf so deere,

I put me in youre wise governance;

Cheseth youreself which may be moost plesance,

And moost honour to yow and me also.

I do no fors the wheither of the two;

For as yow liketh, it suffiseth me.

Thanne have I gete of yow maistrie, quod she,

Syn I may chese and governe as me lest?

Ye, certes, wyf, quod he, I holde it best.

Kys me, quod she, we be no lenger wrothe;

For, by my trouthe, I wol be to yow bothe,

This is to seyn, ye, bothe fair and good.

I prey to God that I moote sterven wood,

But I to yow be also good and trewe

As evere was wyf, syn that the world was newe.

And but I be to-morn as fair to seene

As any lady, emperice, or queene,

That is bitwixe the est and eke the west,

Dooth with my lyf and deth right as yow lest.

Cast up the curtyn, looke how that it is.

And whan the knyght saugh verraily al this,

That she so fair was, and so yong therto,

For joye he hente hire in his armes two,

His herte bathed in a bath of blisse.

A thousand tyme a-rewe he gan hire kisse,

And she obeyed hym in every thyng

That myghte doon hym plesance or likyng.

And thys they lyve unto hir lyves ende

In parfit joye; and jhesu crist us sende

Housbondes meeke, yonge, and fressh abedde,

And grace t' overbyde hem that we wedde;

And eek I praye jhesu shorte hir lyves

That wol nat be governed by hir wyves;

And olde and angry nygardes of dispence,

God sende hem soone verray pestilence!

Whilom ther was dwellynge in my contree

And erchedeken, a man of heigh degree,

That boldely dide execucioun

In punysshynge of fornicacioun,

Of wicchecraft, and eek of bawderye,

Of difamacioun, and avowtrye,

Of chirche reves, and of testamentz,

Of contractes and of lakke of sacramentz,

Of usure, and of symonye also.

But certes, lecchours dide he grettest wo;

They sholde syngen if that they were hent;

And smale tytheres weren foule yshent,

If any persoun wolde upon hem pleyne.

Ther myghte asterte hym no pecunyal peyne.

For smale tithes and for smal offrynge

He made the peple pitously to synge.

For er the bisshop caughte hem with his hook,

They weren in the erchedeknes book.

Thanne hadde he, thurgh his jurisdiccioun,

Power to doon on hem correccioun.

He hadde a somonour redy to his hond;

A slyer boye nas noon in engelond;

For subtilly he hadde his espiaille,

That taughte hym wel wher that hym myghte availle.

He koude spare of lecchours oon or two,

To techen hym to foure and twenty mo.

For thogh this somonour wood were as an hare,

To telle his harlotrye I wol nat spare;

For we been out of his correccioun.

They han of us no jurisdiccioun,

Ne nevere shullen, terme of alle hir lyves. --

Peter! so been the wommen of the styves,

Quod the somonour, yput out of oure cure!

Pees! with myschance and with mysaventure! [90]

Thys seyde oure hoost, and lat hym telle his tale.

Now telleth forth, thogh that the somonour gale;

Ne spareth nat, myn owene maister deere. --

This false theef, this somonour, quod the frere,

Hadde alwey bawdes redy to his hond,

As any hauk to lure in engelond,

That tolde hym al the secree that they knewe;

For hire acqueyntace was nat come of newe.

They weren his approwours prively.

He took hymself a greet profit therby;

His maister knew nat alwey what he wan.

Withouten mandement a lewed man

He koude somne, on peyne of cristes curs,

And they were glade for to fille his purs,

And make hym grete feestes atte nale.

And right as judas hadde purses smale,

And was a theef, right swich a theef was he;

His maister hadde but half his duetee.

He was, if I shal yeven hym his laude,

A theef, and eek a somnour, and baude.

He hadde eek wenches at his retenue,

That, wheither that sir robert or sir huwe,

Or jakke, or rauf, or whoso that it were

That lay by hem, they tolde it in his ere.

Thus was the wenche and he of oon assent;

And he wolde fecche a feyned mandement,

And somne hem to chapitre bothe two,

And pile the man, and lete the wenche go.

Thanne wolde he seye, freend, I shal for thy sake

Do striken hire out of oure lettres blake;

Thee thar namoore as in this cas travaille.

I am thy freend, ther I thee may availle.

Certeyn he knew of briberyes mo

Than possible is to telle in yeres two.

For in this world nys dogge for the bowe

That kan an hurt deer from an hool yknowe

Bet than this somnour knew a sly lecchour,

Or an avowtier, or a paramour.

And for that was the fruyt of al his rente,

Therfore on it he sette al his entente.

And so bifel that ones on a day

This somnour, evere waityng on his pray,

Rood for to somne an old wydwe, a ribibe,

Feynynge a cause, for he wolde brybe.

And happed that he saugh bifore hym ryde

A gay yeman, under a forest syde,

A bowe he bar, and arwes brighte and kene;

He hadde upon a courtepy of grene,

An hat upon his heed with frenges blake.

Sire, quod this somnour, hayl, and wel atake!

Welcome, quod he, and every good felawe!

Wher rydestow, under this grene-wode shawe?

Seyde this yeman, wiltow fer to day?

This somnour hym answerde and seyde, nay;

Heere faste by, quod he, is myn entente

To ryden, for to reysen up a rente

That longeth to my lordes duetee.

Artow thanne a bailly? ye, quod he.

He dorste nat, for verray filthe and shame

Seye that he was a somonour, for the name.

Depardieux, quod this yeman, deere broother,

Thou art a bailly, and I am another.

I am unknowen as in this contree;

Of thyn aqueyntance I wolde praye thee,

And eek of bretherhede, if that yow leste.

I have gold and silver in my cheste;

If that thee happe to comen in oure shire,

Al shal be thyn, right as thou wolt desire.

Grantmercy, quod this somonour, by my feith!

Everych on ootheres hand his trouthe leith,

For to be sworne bretheren til they deye.

In daliance they ryden forth and pleye.

This somonour, which that was as ful of jangles,

As ful of venym been thise waryangles,

And evere enqueryng upon every thyng,

Brother, quod he, where is now youre dwellyng

Another day if that I sholde yow seche?

This yeman hym answerde in softe speche,

Brother, quod he, fer in the north contree,

Where-as I hope som tyme I shal thee see.

Er we departe, I shal thee so wel wisse

That of myn hous ne shaltow nevere mysse.

Now, brother, quod this somonour, I yow preye,

Teche me, whil that we ryden by the weye,

Syn that ye been a baillif as am I,

Som subtiltee, and tel me feithfully

In myn office how that I may moost wynne;

And spareth nat for conscience ne synne,

But as my brother tel me, how do ye.

Now, by my trouthe, brother deere, seyde he,

As I shal tellen thee a feithful tale,

My wages been ful streite and ful smale.

My lord is hard to me and daungerous,

And myn office is ful laborous,

And therfore by extorcions I lyve.

For sothe, I take al that men wol me yive. [91]

Algate,by gleyghte or by violence,

Fro yeer to yeer I wynne al my dispence.

I kan no bettre telle, feithfully.

Now certes, quod this somonour, so fare I.

I spare nat to taken, God it woot,

But if it be to hevy or to hoot.

What I may gete in conseil prively,

No maner conscience of that have I.

Nere myn extorcioun, I myghte nat lyven,

Ne of swiche japes wol I nat be shryven.

Stomak ne conscience ne knowe I noon;

I shrewe thise shrifte-fadres everychoon.

Wel be we met, by God and by seint jame!

But, leeve brother, tel me thanne thy name,

Quod this somonour. In this meene while

This yeman gan a litel for to smyle.

Brother, quod he, wiltow that I thee telle?

I am a feend; my dwellyng is in helle,

And heere I ryde aboute my purchasyng,

To wite wher men wol yeve me any thyng.

My purchas is th' effect of al my rente.

Looke how thou rydest for the same entente,

To wynne good, thou rekkest nevere how;

Right so fare I, for ryde wolde I now

Unto the worldes ende for a preye.

Al! quod this somonour, benedicite! sey ye?

I wende ye were a yeman trewely.

Ye han a mannes shap as wel as I;

Han ye a figure thanne determinat

In helle, ther ye been in youre estat?

Nay, certeinly, quod he, ther have we noon;

But whan us liketh, we kan take us oon,

Or elles make yow seme we been shape

Somtyme lyk a man, or lyk an ape,

Or lyk an angel kan I ryde or go.

It is no wonder thyng thogh it be so;

A lowsy jogelour kan deceyve thee,

And pardee, yet kan I moore craft than he.

Why, quod this somonour, ryde ye thanne or goon

In sondry shap, and nat alwey in oon?

For we, quod he, wol us swiche formes make

As moost able is oure preyes for to take.

What maketh yow to han al this labour?

Ful many a cause, leeve sire somonour,

Seyde this feend, but alle thyng hath tyme.

The day is short, and it is passed pryme,

And yet ne wan I nothyng in this day.

I wol entende to wynnyng, if I may,

And nat entende oure wittes to declare.

For, brother myn, thy wit is al to bare

To understonde, althogh I tolde hem thee.

But, for thou axest why labouren we --

For somtyme we been goddes instrumentz,

And meenes to doon his comandementz,

Whan that hym list, upon his creatures,

In divers art and in diverse figures.

Withouten hym we have no myght, certayn,

If that hym list stonden ther-agayn.

And somtyme, at oure prayere, han we leve

Oonly the body and nat the soule greve;

Witnesse on job, whom that we diden wo.

And somtyme han we myght of bothe two,

This is to seyn, of soule and body eke.

And somtyme be we suffred for to seke

Upon a man, and doon his soule unreste,

And nat his body, and al is for the beste.

Whan he withstandeth oure temptacioun,

It is a cause of his savacioun,

Al be it that it was nat oure entente

He sholde be sauf, but that we wolde hym hente.

And somtyme be we servant unto man,

As to the erchebisshop seint dunstan,

And to the apostles servent eek was I.

Yet tel me, quod the somonour, feithfully,

Make ye yow newe bodies thus alway

Of elementz? the feend answerde, nay.

Somtyme we feyne, and somtyme we aryse

With dede bodyes, in ful sondry wyse,

And speke as renably and faire and wel

As to the phitonissa dide samuel.

(and yet wol som men seye it was nat he;

I do no fors of youre dyvynytee.)

But o thyng warne I thee, I wol nat jape, --

Thou wolt algates wite how we been shape;

Thou shalt herafterward, my brother deere,

Come there thee nedeth nat of me to leere.

For thou shalt, by thyn owene experience,

Konne in a chayer rede of this sentence

Bet than virgile, while he was on lyve,

Or dant also. Now lat us ryde blyve,

For I wole holde compaignye with thee

Til it be so that thou forsake me.

Nay, quod this somonour, that shal nat bityde!

I am a yeman, knowen is ful wyde;

My trouthe wol I holde, as in this cas.

For though thou were the devel sathanas,

My trouthe wol I holde to my brother,

As I am sworn, and ech of us til oother,

For to be trewe brother in this cas;

And bothe we goon abouten oure purchas. [92]

Taak thou thy part, what that men wol thee yive,

And I shal myn; thus may we bothe lyve.

And if that any of us have moore than oother,

Lat hym be trewe, and parte it with his brother.

I graunte, quod the devel, by my fey.

And with that word they ryden forth hir wey.

And right at the entryng of the townes ende,

To which this somonour shoop hym for to wende,

They saugh a cart that charged was with hey,

Which that a cartere droof forth in his wey.

Deep was the wey, for which the carte stood.

The cartere smoot, and cryde as he were wood,

Hayt, brok! hayt, scot! what spare ye for the stones?

The feend, quod he, yow fecche, body and bones,

As ferforthly as evere were ye foled,

So muche wo as I have with yow tholed!

The devel have al, bothe hors and cart and hey!

This somonour seyde, heere shal we have a pley.

And neer the feend he drough, as noght ne were,

Ful prively, and rowned in his ere:

Herkne, my brother, herkne, by thy feith!

Herestow nat how that the cartere seith?

Hent it anon, for he hath yeve it thee,

Bothe hey and cart, and eek his caples thre.

Nay, quod the devel, God woot, never a deel!

It is nat his entente, trust me weel.

Axe hym thyself, it thou nat trowest me;

Or elles stynt a while, and thou shalt see.

This cartere thakketh his hors upon the croupe,

And they bigonne to drawen and to stoupe.

Heyt! now, quod he, ther jhesu crist yow blesse,

And al his handwerk, bothe moore and lesse!

That was wel twight, myn owene lyard boy.

I pray God save thee, and seinte loy!

Now is my cart out of the slow, pardee!

Lo, brother, quod the feend, what tolde I thee?

Heere may ye se, myn owene deere brother,

The carl spak oo thing, but he thoghte another.

Lat us go forth abouten oure viage;

Heere wynne I nothyng upon cariage.

Whan that they coomen somwhat out of towne,

This somonour to his brother gan to rowne:

Brother, quod he, heere woneth an old rebekke,

That hadde almoost as lief to lese hire nekke

As for to yeve a peny of hir good.

I wole han twelf pens, though that she be wood,

Or I wol sompne hire unto oure office;

And yet, God woot, of hire knowe I no vice.

But for thou kanst nat, as in this contree,

Wynne thy cost, taak heer ensample of me.

This somonour clappeth at the wydwes gate.

Com out, quod he, thou olde virytrate!

I trowe thou hast som frere or preest with thee.

Who clappeth? seyde this wyf, benedicitee!

God save you, sire, what is youre sweete wille?

I have, quod he, of somonce here a bille;

Up peyne of cursyng, looke that thou be

To-morn bifore the erchedeknes knee,

T' answere to the court of certeyn thynges.

Now, lord, quod she, crist jhesu, kyng of kynges,

So wisly helpe me, as I ne may.

I have been syk, and that ful many a day.

I may nat go so fer, quod she, ne ryde,

But I be deed, so priketh it in my syde.

May I nat axe a libel, sire somonour,

And answere there by my procuratour

To swich thyng as men wole opposen me?

Yis, quod this somonour, pay anon, lat se,

Twelf pens to me, and I wol thee acquite.

I shal no profit han therby but lite;

My maister hath the profit, and nat I.

Com of, and lat me ryden hastily;

Yif me twelf pens, I may no lenger tarye.

Twelf pens! quod she, now, lady seinte marie

So wisly help me out of care and synne,

This wyde world thogh that I sholde wynne,

Ne have I nat twelf pens withinne myn hoold.

Ye knowen wel that I am povre and oold;

Kithe youre almesse on me povre wrecche.

Nay thanne, quod he, the foule feend me fecche

If I th' excuse, though thou shul be spilt!

allas! quod she, God woot, I have no gilt.

Pay me, quod he, or by the swete seinte anne,

As I wol bere awey thy newe panne

For dette which thou owest me of old. [93]

Whan that thou madest thyn housbonde cokewold,

I payde at hoom for thy correccioun.

Thou lixt! quod she, by my savacioun,

Ne was I nevere er now, wydwe ne wyf,

Somoned unto youre court in al my lyf;

Ne nevere I nas but of my body trewe!

Unto the devel blak and rough of hewe

Yeve I thy body and my panne also!

And whan the devel herde hire cursen so

Upon hir knees, he seyde in this manere,

Now, mabely, myn owene mooder deere,

Is this youre wyl in ernest that ye seye?

The devel, quod she, so fecche hym er he deye,

And panne and al, but he wol hym repente!

Nay, olde stot, that is nat myn entente,

Quod this somonour, for to repente me

For any thyng that I have had of thee.

I wolde I hadde thy smok and every clooth!

Now, brother, quod the devel, be nat wrooth;

Thy body and this panne been myne by right.

Thow shalt with me to helle yet to-nyght,

Where thou shalt knowen of oure privetee

Moore than a maister of dyvynytee.

And with that word this foule feend hym hente;

Body and soule he with the devel wente

Where as that somonours han hir heritage.

And god, that maked after his ymage

Mankynde, save and gyde us, alle and some,

And leve thise somonours goode men bicome!

Lordynges, I koude han toold yow, quod this frere,

Hadde I had leyser for this somonour heere,

After the text of crist, poul, and john,

And of oure othere doctours many oon,

Swiche peynes that youre hertes myghte agryse,

Al be it so no tonge may it devyse,

Thogh that I myghte a thousand wynter telle

The peynes of thilke cursed hous of helle.

But for to kepe us fro that cursed place,

Waketh, and preyeth jhesu for his grace

So kepe us from the temptour sathanas.

Herketh this word! beth war, as in this cas:

The leoun sit in his awayt alway

To sle the innocent, if that he may.

Disposeth ay youre hertes to withstonde

The feend, that yow wolde make thral and bonde.

He may nat tempte yow over youre myght,

For crist wol be youre champion and knyght.

And prayeth that thise somonours hem repente

Of hir mysdedes, er that the feend hem hente!

Lordynges, ther is in yorkshire, as I gesse,

A mersshy contree called holdernesse,

In which ther wente a lymytour aboute,

To preche, and eek to begge, it so no doute.

And so bifel that on a day this frere

Hadde preched at a chirche in his manere,

And specially, aboven every thyng,

Excited he the peple in his prechyng

To trentals, and to yeve, for goddes sake,

Wherwith men myghte hooly houses make,

Ther as divine servyce is honoured,

Nat ther as it is wasted and devoured,

Ne ther it nedeth nat for to be yive,

As to possessioners, that mowen lyve,

Thanked be god, in wele and habundaunce.

Trentals, seyde he, deliveren fro penaunce

Hir freendes soules, as wel olde as yonge, --

Ye, whan that they been hastily ysonge,

Nat for to holde a preest holy and gay --

He syngeth nat but o masse in a day.

Delivereth out, quod he, anon the soules!

Ful hard it is with flesshhook or with oules

To been yclawed, or to brenne or bake.

Now spede yow hastily, for cristes sake!

And whan this frere had seyd al his entente,

With qui cum patre forth his wey he wente.

Whan folk in chirche had yeve him what hem leste,

He wente his wey, no lenger wolde he reste,

With scrippe and tipped staf, ytukked hye,

In every hous he gan to poure and prye,

And beggeth mele and chese, or elles corn.

His felawe hadde a staf tipped with horn,

A peyre of tables al of yvory,

And a poyntel polysshed fetisly,

And wrooth the names alwey, as he stood,

Of alle folk that yaf hym any good,

Ascaunces that he wolde for hem preye.

Yif us a busshel whete, malt, or reye,

A goddes kechyl, or a trype of chese,

Or elles what yow lyst, we may nat cheese;

A goddes halfpeny, or a masse peny,

Or yif us of youre brawn, if ye have eny;

A dagon of youre blanket, leeve dame,

Oure suster deere, -- lo! heere I write youre name, --

Bacon or beef, or swich thyng as ye fynde.

A sturdy harlot wente ay hem bihynde,

That was hir hostes man, and bar a sak,

And what men yaf hem, leyde it on his bak.

And whan that he was out at dore, anon

He planed awey the names everichon

That he biforn had writen in his tables;

He served hem with nyfles and with fables.

Nay, ther thou lixt, thou somonour! quod the frere.

Pees, quod oure hoost, for cristes mooder deere!

Tel forth thy tale, and spare it nat at al.

So thryve I, quod this somonour, so I shal!

So longe he wente, hous by hous, til he

Cam til an hous ther he was wont to be

Refresshed moore than in an hundred placis.

Syk lay the goode man whos that the place is;

Bedrede upon a couche lowe he lay.

Deus hic! quod he, o thomas, freend, good day!

Seyde this frere, curteisly and softe.

Thomas, quod he, God yelde yow! ful ofte

Have I upon this bench faren ful weel;

Heere have I eten many a myrie meel.

And fro the bench he droof awey the cat,

And leyde adoun his potente and his hat,

And eek his scrippe, and sette hym softe adoun.

His felawe was go walked into toun [95]

Forth with his knave, into that hostelrye

Where as he shoop hym thilke nyght to lye.

O deere maister, quod this sike man,

How han ye fare sith that march bigan?

I saugh yow noght this fourtenyght or moore.

God woot, quod he, laboured have I ful soore,

And specially, for thy savacion

Have I seyd many a precious orison,

And for oure othere freendes, God hem blesse!

I have to day been at youre chirche at messe,

And seyd a sermon after my symple wit,

Nat al after the text of hooly writ;

For it is hard to yow, as I suppose,

And therfore wol I teche yow al the glose.

Glosynge is a glorious thyng, certeyn,

For lettre sleeth, so as we clerkes seyn.

There have I taught hem to be charitable,

And spende hir good ther it is resonable;

And there I saugh oure dame, -- a! where is she?

Yond in the yerd I trowe that she be,

Seyde this man,and she wol come anon.

Ey, maister, welcome be ye, by seint john!

Seyde this wyf, how fare ye, hertely?

The frere ariseth up ful curteisly,

And hire embraceth in his armes narwe,

And kiste hire sweete, and chirketh as a sparwe

With his lyppes: dame, quod he, right weel,

As he that is youre servent every deel,

Thanked be god, that yow yaf soule and lyf!

Yet saugh I nat this day so fair a wyf

In al the chirche, God so save me!

Ye, God amende defautes, sire, quod she.

Algates, welcome be ye, by my fey!

Graunt mercy, dame, this have I founde alwey.

But of youre grete goodnesse, by youre leve,

I wolde prey yow that ye nat yow greve,

I wole with thomas speke a litel throwe.

Thise curatz been ful necligent and slowe

To grope tendrely a conscience

In shrift; in prechyng is my diligence,

And studie in petres wordes and in poules.

I walke, and fisshe cristen mennes soules,

To yelden jhesu crist his propre rente;

To sprede his word is set al myn entente.

Now, by youre leve, o deere sire, she,

Chideth him weel, for seinte trinitee!

He is as angry as a pissemyre,

Though that he have al that he kan desire,

Though I hym wrye a-nyght and make hym warm,

And over hym leye my leg outher myn arm,

He groneth lyk oure boor, lith in oure sty.

Oother desport right noon of hym have I;

I may nat plese hym in no maner cas.

O thomas, je vous dy, thomas! thomas!

This maketh the feend; this moste ben amended.

Ire is a thyng that hye God defended,

And therof wol I speke a word or two.

Now, maister, quod the wyf, er that I go,

What wol ye dyne? I wol go theraboute.

Now dame, quod he, now je vous dy sanz doute,

Have I nat of a capon but the lyvere,

And of youre softe breed nat but a shyvere,

And after that a rosted pigges heed --

But that I nolde no beest for me were deed --

Thanne hadde I with yow hoomly suffisaunce.

I am a man of litel sustenaunce;

My spirit hath his fostryng in the bible.

The body is ay so redy and penyble

To wake, that my stomak is destroyed.

I prey yow, dame, ye be nat anoyed,

Though I so freendly yow my conseil shewe.

By god! I wolde nat telle it but a fewe.

Now, sire, quod she, but o word er I go.

My child is deed withinne thise wykes two,

Soone after that ye wente out of this toun.

His deeth saugh I by revelacioun,

Seide this frere, at hoom in oure dortour.

I dar wel seyn that, er that half an hour

After his deeth, I saugh hym born to blisse

In myn avision, so God me wisse!

So didde oure sexteyn and oure fermerer,

That han been trewe freres fifty yeer;

They may now -- God be thanked of his loone! --

Maken hir jubilee and walke allone.

And up I roos, and al oure covent eke,

With many a teere trillyng on my cheke,

Withouten noyse or claterynge of belles;

Te deum was oure song, and nothyng elles,

Save that to crist I seyde an orison,

Thankynge hym of his revelacion.

For, sire and dame, trusteth me right weel,

Oure orisons been moore effectueel,

And moore we seen of cristes secree thynges,

Than burel folk, although they weren kynges.

We lyve in poverte and in abstinence,

And burell folk in richesse and despence

Of mete and drynke, and in hir foul delit.

We han this worldes lust al in despit.

Lazar and dives lyveden diversly,

And divers gerdon hadden they therby. [96]

Whoso wol preye, he moot faste and be clene,

And fatte his soule, and make his body lene.

We fare as seith th' apostle; clooth and foode

Suffisen us, though they be nat ful goode.

The clennesse and the fastynge of us freres

Maketh that crist accepteth oure preyeres.

Lo, moyses fourty dayes and fourty nyght

Fasted, er that the heighe God of myght

Spak with hym in the mountayne of synay.

With empty wombe, fastynge many a day,

Receyved he the lawe that was writen

With goddes fynger; and elye, wel ye witen,

In mount oreb, er he hadde any speche

With hye god, that is oure lyves leche,

He fasted longe, and was in contemplaunce.

Aaron, that hadde the temple in governaunce,

And eek the othere preestes everichon,

Into the temple whan they sholde gon

To preye for the peple, and do servyse,

They nolden drynken in no maner wyse

No drynke which that myghte hem dronke make,

But there in abstinence preye and wake,

Lest that they deyden. Taak heede what I seye!

But they be sobre that for the peple preye,

War that I seye -- namoore, for it suffiseth.

Oure lord jhesu, as hooly writ devyseth,

Yaf us ensample of fastynge and preyeres.

Therfore we mendynantz, we sely freres,

Been wedded to poverte and continence,

To charite, humblesse, and abstinence,

To persecucioun for rightwisnesse,

To wepynge, misericorde, and clennesse.

And therfore may ye se that oure preyeres --

I speke of us, we mendynantz, we freres --

Been to the hye God moore acceptable

Than youres, with youre feestes at the table.

Fro paradys first, if I shal nat lye,

Was man out chaced for his glotonye;

And chaast was man in paradys, certeyn.

But herkne now, thomas, what I shal seyn.

I ne have no text of it, as I suppose,

But I shal fynde it in a maner glose,

That specially oure sweete lord jhesus

Spak this by freres, whan he seyde thus:

-- Blessed be they that povere in spirit been. --

And so forth al the gospel may ye seen,

Wher it be likker oure professioun,

Or hirs that swymmen in possessioun.

Fy on hire pompe and on hire glotonye!

And for hir lewednesse I hem diffye.

My thynketh they been lyk jovinyan,

Fat as a whale, and walkynge as a swan,

Al vinolent as botel in the spence.

Hir preyere is of ful greet reverence,

Whan they for soules seye the psalm of davit;

Lo, -- buf! -- they seye, -- cor meum eructavit! --

Who folweth cristes gospel and his foore,

But we that humble been, and chaast, and poore,

Werkeris of goddes word, nat auditours?

Therfore, right as an hauk up at a sours

Up springeth into th' eir, right so prayeres

Of charitable and chaste bisy freres

Maken hir sours to goddes eres two.

Thomas! thomas! so moote I ryde or go,

And by that lord that clepid is seint yve,

Nere thou oure brother, sholdestou nat thryve.

In our chapitre prayer we day and nyght

To crist, that he thee sende heele and myght

Thy body for to weelden hastily.

God woot, quod he, nothyng therof feele i!

As help me crist, as I in fewe yeres,

Have spent upon diverse manere freres

Ful many a pound; yet fare I never the bet.

Certeyn, my good have I almoost biset.

Farwel, my gold, for it is al ago!

The frere answerde, o thomas, dostow so?

What nedeth yow diverse freres seche?

What nedeth hym that hath a parfit leche

To sechen othere leches in the toun?

Youre inconstance is youre confusioun.

Holde ye thanne me, or elles oure covent,

To praye for yow been insufficient?

Thomas, that jape nys nat worth a myte.

Youre maladye is for we han to lyte.

A! yif that covent half a quarter otes!

A! yif that covent foure and twenty grotes!

A! yif that frere a peny, and lat hym go!

Nay, nay, thomas, it may no thyng be so!

What is a ferthyng worth parted in twelve?

Lo, ech thyng that is oned in himselve

Is moore strong than whan it is toscatered.

Thomas, of me thou shalt nat been yflatered;

Thou woldest han oure labour al for noght.

The hye god, that al this world hath wroght,

Seith that the werkman worthy is his hyre.

Thomas, noght of youre tresor I desire

As for myself, but that al oure covent

To preye for yow is ay so diligent,

And for to buylden cristes owene chirche.

Thomas, if ye wol lernen for to wirche,

Of buyldynge up of chirches may ye fynde, [97]

If it be good, in thomas lyf of inde.

Ye lye heere ful of anger and of ire,

With which the devel set youre herte afyre,

And chiden heere the sely innocent,

Youre wyf, that is so meke and pacient.

And therfore, thomas, trowe me if thee leste,

Ne stryve nat with thy wyf, as for thy beste;

And ber this word awey now, by thy feith,

Touchynge swich thyng, lo, what the wise seith:

-- Withinne thyn hous ne be thou no leon;

To thy subgitz do noon oppression,

Ne make thyne aqueyntances nat to flee. --

And, thomas, yet eft-soones I charge thee,

Be war from hire that in thy bosom slepeth;

War fro the serpent that so slily crepeth

Under the gras, and styngeth subtilly.

Be war, my sone, and herkne paciently,

That twenty thousand men han lost hir lyves

For stryvyng with hir lemmans and hir wyves.

Now sith ye han so hooly and meke a wyf,

What nedeth yow, thomas, to maken stryf?

Ther nys, ywys, no serpent so cruel,

Whan man tret on his tayl, ne half so fel,

As womman is, whan she hath caught an ire;

Vengeance is thanne al that they desire.

Ire is a synne, oon of the grete of sevene,

Abhomynable unto the God of hevene;

And to hymself it is destruccion.

This every lewed viker or person

Kan seye, how ire engendreth homycide.

Ire is, in sooth, executour of pryde.

I koude of ire seye so muche sorwe,

My tale sholde laste til to-morwe.

And therfore preye I god, bothe day and nyght,

An irous man, God sende hym litel myght!

It is greet harm and certes greet pitee

To sette an irous man in heigh degree.

Whilom ther was an irous potestat,

As seith senek, that, durynge his estaat,

Upon a day out ryden knyghtes two,

And as fortune wolde that it were so,

That oon of hem cam hoom, that oother noght.

Anon the knyght bifore the juge is broght,

That seyde thus, -- thou hast thy felawe slayn,

For which I deme thee to the deeth, certayn. --

And to another knyght comanded he,

-- Go lede hym to the deeth, I charge thee, --

And happed, as they wente by the weye

Toward the place ther he sholde deye,

The knyght cam which men wenden had be deed.

Thanne thoughte they it were the beste reed

To lede hem bothe to the juge agayn.

They seiden, -lord, the knyght ne hath nat slayn

His felawe; heere he standeth hool alyve. --

-- Ye shul be deed, -- quod he, -- so moot I thryve!

That is to seyn, bothe oon, and two, and thre! --

And to the firste knyght right thus spak he,

-- I dampned thee; thou most algate be deed.

And thou also most nedes lese thyn heed,

For thou art cause why thy felawe deyth. --

And to the thridde knyght right thus he seith,

-- Thou hast nat doon that I comanded thee. --

And thus he dide doon sleen hem alle thre.

Irous cambises was eek dronkelewe,

And ay delited hym to been a shrewe.

And so bifel, a lord of his meynee,

That loved vertuous moralitee,

Seyde on a day bitwix hem two right thus:

-- A lord is lost, if he be vicius;

And dronkenesse is eek a foul record

Of any man, and namely in a lord.

Ther is ful many an eye and many an ere

Awaityng on a lord, and he noot where.

For goddes love, drynk moore attemprely!

Wyn maketh man to lesen wrecchedly

His mynde and eek his lymes everichon. --

-- The revers shaltou se, -- quod he, -- anon,

And preve it by thyn owene experience,

That wyn ne dooth to folk no swich offence.

Ther is no wyn bireveth me my myght

Of hand ne foot, ne of myne eyen sight. --

And for despit he drank ful muchel moore,

An hondred part, than he hadde don bifoore;

And right anon this irous, cursed wrecche

Leet this knyghtes sone bifore hym fecche,

Comandynge hym he sholde bifore hym stonde.

And sodeynly he took his bowe in honde,

And up the streng he pulled to his ere,

And with an arwe he slow the child right there.

-- Now wheither have I a siker hand or noon? --

Quod he; -- is al my myght and mynde agon?

Hath wyn bireved me myn eyen sight? --

What sholde I telle th' answere of the knyght?

His sone was slayn, ther is namoore to seye.

Beth war, therfore, with lordes how ye pleye.

Syngeth placebo, and -- I shal, if I kan, --

But if it be unto a povre man.

To a povre man men sholde his vices telle,

But nat to a lord, thogh he sholde go to helle.

Lo irous cirus, thilke percien,

How he destroyed the ryver of gysen,

For that an hors of his was dreynt therinne,

Whan that he wente babiloigne to wynne.

He made that the ryver was so smal

That wommen myghte wade it over al.

Lo, what seyde he that so wel teche kan? [98]

-- Ne be no felawe to an irous man,

Ne with no wood man walke by the weye,

Lest thee repente; -- I wol no ferther seye.

Now, thomas, leeve brother, lef thyn ire;

Thou shalt me fynde as just as is a squyre.

Hoold nat the develes knyf ay at thyn herte --

Thyn angre dooth thee al to soore smerte --

But shewe to me al thy confessioun.

nay, quod the sike man, by seint symoun!

I have be shryven this day at my curat.

I have hym toold hoolly al myn estat;

Nedeth namoore to speken of it, seith he,

But if me list, of myn humylitee.

Yif me thanne of thy gold, to make oure cloystre,

Quod he, for many a muscle and many an oystre,

Whan othere men han ben ful wel at eyse,

Hath been oure foode, our cloystre for to reyse.

And yet, God woot, unnethe the fundement

Parfourned is, ne of our pavement

Nys nat a tyle yet withinne oure wones.

By god! we owen fourty pound for stones.

Now help, thomas, for hym that harwed helle!

For elles moste we oure bookes selle.

And if yow lakke oure predicacioun,

Thanne goth the world al to destruccioun.

For whoso wolde us fro this world bireve,

So God me save, thomas, by youre leve,

He wolde bireve out of this world the sonne.

For who kan teche and werchen as we konne?

And that is nat of litel tyme, quod he,

But syn elye was, or elise,

Han freres been, that funde I of record,

In charitee, ythanked be oure lord!

Now thomas, help, for seinte charitee!

And doun anon he sette hym on his knee.

This sike man wax wel ny wood for ire;

He wolde that the frere had been on-fire,

With his false dissymulacioun.

Swich thyng as is in my possessioun,

Quod he, that may I yeve yow, and noon oother.

Ye sey me thus, how that I am youre brother?

Ye, certes, quod the frere, trusteth weel.

I took oure dame oure lettre with oure seel.

Now wel, quod he, and somwhat shal I yive

Unto youre hooly covent whil I lyve;

And in thyn hand thou shalt it have anon,

On this condicion, and oother noon,

That thou departe it so, my deere brother,

That every frere have also muche as oother.

This shaltou swere on thy professioun,

Withouten fraude or cavillacioun.

I swere it, quod this frere, by my feith!

And therwithal his hand in his he leith,

Lo, heer my feith; in me shal be no lak.