Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Charles Brockden Brown (1771–1810). Edgar Huntley; or, Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker. 1857.

The Canterbury Tales

The Chanouns Yemannes Tale

WITH this chanoun I dwelt have seven yeer,And of his science am I never the neer.Al that I hadde, I have y-lost ther-by;And god wot, so hath many mo than I.Ther I was wont to be right fresh and gayOf clothing and of other good array,Now may I were an hose upon myn heed;And wher my colour was bothe fresh and reed,Now is it wan and of a leden hewe;Who-so it useth, sore shal he rewe.And of my swink yet blered is myn yë,Lo! which avantage is to multiplye!That slyding science hath me maad so bare,That I have no good, wher that ever I fare;And yet I am endetted so ther-byOf gold that I have borwed, trewely,That whyl I live, I shal it quyte never.Lat every man be war by me for ever!What maner man that casteth him ther-to,If he continue, I holde his thrift y-do.So helpe me god, ther-by shal he nat winne,But empte his purs, and make his wittes thinne.And whan he, thurgh his madnes and folye,Hath lost his owene good thurgh Iupartye,Thanne he excyteth other folk ther-to,To lese hir good as he him-self hath do.For unto shrewes Ioye it is and eseTo have hir felawes in peyne and disese;Thus was I ones lerned of a clerk.Of that no charge, I wol speke of our werk.Whan we been ther as we shul exercyseOur elvish craft, we semen wonder wyse,Our termes been so clergial and so queynte.I blowe the fyr til that myn herte feynte.What sholde I tellen ech proporciounOf thinges whiche that we werche upon,As on fyve or sixe ounces, may wel be,Of silver or som other quantite,And bisie me to telle yow the namesOf orpiment, brent bones, yren squames,That into poudre grounden been ful smal?And in an erthen potte how put is al,And salt y-put in, and also papeer,Biforn thise poudres that I speke of heer,And wel y-covered with a lampe of glas,And mochel other thing which that ther was?And of the pot and glasses enluting,That of the eyre mighte passe out no-thing?And of the esy fyr and smart also,Which that was maad, and of the care and woThat we hadde in our matires sublyming,And in amalgaming and calceningOf quik-silver, y-clept Mercurie crude?For alle our sleightes we can nat conclude.Our orpiment and sublymed Mercurie,Our grounden litarge eek on the porphurie,Of ech of thise of ounces a certeynNought helpeth us, our labour is in veyn.Ne eek our spirites ascencioun,Ne our materes that lyen al fixe adoun,Mowe in our werking no-thing us avayle.For lost is al our labour and travayle,And al the cost, a twenty devel weye,Is lost also, which we upon it leye.Ther is also ful many another thingThat is unto our craft apertening;Though I by ordre hem nat reherce can,By-cause that I am a lewed man,Yet wol I telle hem as they come to minde,Though I ne can nat sette hem in hir kinde;As bole armoniak, verdegrees, boras,And sondry vessels maad of erthe and glas,Our urinales and our descensories,Violes, croslets, and sublymatories,Cucurbites, and alembykes eek,And othere swiche, dere y-nough a leek.Nat nedeth it for to reherce hem alle,Watres rubifying and boles galle,Arsenik, sal armoniak, and brimstoon;And herbes coude I telle eek many oon,As egremoine, valerian, and lunarie,And othere swiche, if that me liste tarie.Our lampes brenning bothe night and day,To bringe aboute our craft, if that we may.Our fourneys eek of calcinacioun,And of watres albificacioun,Unslekked lym, chalk, and gleyre of an ey,Poudres diverse, asshes, dong, pisse, and cley,Cered pokets, sal peter, vitriole;And divers fyres maad of wode and cole;Sal tartre, alkaly, and sal preparat,And combust materes and coagulat,Cley maad with hors or mannes heer, and oileOf tartre, alum, glas, berm, wort, and argoile,Resalgar, and our materes enbibing;And eek of our materes encorporing,And of our silver citrinacioun,Our cementing and fermentacioun,Our ingottes, testes, and many mo.I wol yow telle, as was me taught also,The foure spirites and the bodies sevene,By ordre, as ofte I herde my lord hem nevene.The firste spirit quik-silver called is,The second orpiment, the thridde, y-wis,Sal armoniak, and the ferthe brimstoon.The bodies sevene eek, lo! hem heer anoon:Sol gold is, and Luna silver we threpe,Mars yren, Mercurie quik-silver we clepe,Saturnus leed, and Iupiter is tin,And Venus coper, by my fader kin!This cursed craft who-so wol exercyse,He shal no good han that him may suffyse;For al the good he spendeth ther-aboute,He lese shal, ther-of have I no doute.Who-so that listeth outen his folye,Lat him come forth, and lerne multiplye;And every man that oght hath in his cofre,Lat him appere, and wexe a philosofre.Ascaunce that craft is so light to lere?Nay, nay, god woot, al be he monk or frere,Preest or chanoun, or any other wight,Though he sitte at his book bothe day and night,In lernyng of this elvish nyce lore,Al is in veyn, and parde, mochel more!To lerne a lewed man this subtiltee,Fy! spek nat ther-of, for it wol nat be;Al conne he letterure, or conne he noon,As in effect, he shal finde it al oon.For bothe two, by my savacioun,Concluden, in multiplicacioun,Y-lyke wel, whan they han al y-do;This is to seyn, they faylen bothe two.Yet forgat I to maken rehersailleOf watres corosif and of limaille,And of bodyes mollificacioun,And also of hir induracioun,Oiles, ablucions, and metal fusible,To tellen al wolde passen any bibleThat o-wher is; wherfor, as for the beste,Of alle thise names now wol I me reste.For, as I trowe, I have yow told y-noweTo reyse a feend, al loke he never so rowe.A! nay! lat be; the philosophres stoon,Elixir clept, we sechen faste echoon;For hadde we him, than were we siker y-now.But, unto god of heven I make avow,For al our craft, whan we han al y-do,And al our sleighte, he wol nat come us to.He hath y-maad us spenden mochel good,For sorwe of which almost we wexen wood,But that good hope crepeth in our herte,Supposinge ever, though we sore smerte,To be releved by him afterward;Swich supposing and hope is sharp and hard;I warne yow wel, it is to seken ever;That futur temps hath maad men to dissever,In trust ther-of, from al that ever they hadde.Yet of that art they can nat wexen sadde,For unto hem it is a bitter swete;So semeth it; for nadde they but a sheteWhich that they mighte wrappe hem inne a-night,And a bak to walken inne by day-light,They wolde hem selle and spenden on this craft;They can nat stinte til no-thing be laft.And evermore, wher that ever they goon,Men may hem knowe by smel of brimstoon;For al the world, they stinken as a goot;Her savour is so rammish and so hoot,That, though a man from hem a myle be,The savour wol infecte him, trusteth me;Lo, thus by smelling and threedbare array,If that men liste, this folk they knowe may.And if a man wol aske hem prively,Why they been clothed so unthriftily,They right anon wol rownen in his ere,And seyn, that if that they espyed were,Men wolde hem slee, by-cause of hir science;Lo, thus this folk bitrayen innocence!Passe over this; I go my tale un-to.Er than the pot be on the fyr y-do,Of metals with a certein quantite,My lord hem tempreth, and no man but he—Now he is goon, I dar seyn boldely—For, as men seyn, he can don craftily;Algate I woot wel he hath swich a name,And yet ful ofte he renneth in a blame;And wite ye how? ful ofte it happeth so,The pot to-breketh, and farewel! al is go!Thise metals been of so greet violence,Our walles mowe nat make hem resistence,But if they weren wroght of lym and stoon;They percen so, and thurgh the wal they goon,And somme of hem sinken in-to the ground—Thus han we lost by tymes many a pound—And somme are scatered al the floor aboute,Somme lepe in-to the roof; with-outen doute,Though that the feend noght in our sighte him shewe,I trowe he with us be, that ilke shrewe!In helle wher that he is lord and sire,Nis ther more wo, ne more rancour ne ire.Whan that our pot is broke, as I have sayd,Every man chit, and halt him yvel apayd.Som seyde, it was long on the fyr-making,Som seyde, nay! it was on the blowing;(Than was I fered, for that was myn office);‘Straw!’ quod the thridde, ‘ye been lewed and nyce,It was nat tempred as it oghte be.’‘Nay!’ quod the ferthe, ‘stint, and herkne me;By-cause our fyr ne was nat maad of beech,That is the cause, and other noon, so theech!’I can nat telle wher-on it was long,But wel I wot greet stryf it was long,‘What!’ quod my lord, ‘ther is na-more to done,Of thise perils I wol be war eft-sone;I am right siker that the pot was crased.Be as be may, be ye no-thing amased;As usage is, lat swepe the floor as swythe,Plukke up your hertes, and beth gladde and blythe.’The mullok on an hepe y-sweped was,And on the floor y-cast a canevas,And al this mullok in a sive y-throwe,And sifted, and y-piked many a throwe.‘Pardee,’ quod oon, ‘somwhat of our metalYet is ther heer, though that we han nat al.Al-though this thing mishapped have as now,Another tyme it may be wel y-now,Us moste putte our good in aventure;A marchant, parde! may nat ay endure,Trusteth me wel, in his prosperitee;Somtyme his good is drenched in the see,And somtym comth it sauf un-to the londe.’‘Pees!’ quod my lord, ‘the next tyme I wol fondeTo bringe our craft al in another plyte;And but I do, sirs, lat me han the wyte;Ther was defaute in som-what, wel I woot.’Another seyde, the fyr was over hoot:—But, be it hoot or cold, I dar seye this,That we concluden evermore amis.We fayle of that which that we wolden have,And in our madnesse evermore we rave.And whan we been togidres everichoon,Every man semeth a Salomon.But al thing which that shyneth as the goldNis nat gold, as that I have herd it told;Ne every appel that is fair at yëNe is nat good, what-so men clappe or crye.Right so, lo! fareth it amonges us;He that semeth the wysest, by Iesus!Is most fool, whan it cometh to the preef;And he that semeth trewest is a theef;That shul ye knowe, er that I fro yow wende,By that I of my tale have maad an ende.

Ther is a chanoun of religiounAmonges us, wolde infecte al a toun,Though it as greet were as was Ninivee,Rome, Alisaundre, Troye, and othere three.His sleightes and his infinit falsnesseTher coude no man wryten, as I gesse,Thogh that he mighte liven a thousand yeer.In al this world of falshede nis his peer;For in his termes so he wolde him winde,And speke his wordes in so sly a kinde,Whan he commune shal with any wight,That he wol make him doten anon right,But it a feend be, as him-selven is.Ful many a man hath he bigyled er this,And wol, if that he live may a whyle;And yet men ryde and goon ful many a myleHim for to seke and have his aqueyntaunce,Noght knowinge of his false governaunce.And if yow list to yeve me audience,I wol it tellen heer in your presence.But worshipful chanouns religious,Ne demeth nat that I sclaundre your hous,Al-though my tale of a chanoun be.Of every ordre som shrewe is, parde,And god forbede that al a companyeSholde rewe a singuler mannes folye.To sclaundre yow is no-thing myn entente,But to correcten that is mis I mente.This tale was nat only told for yow,But eek for othere mo; ye woot wel howThat, among Cristes apostelles twelve,Ther nas no traytour but Iudas him-selve.Than why sholde al the remenant have blameThat giltlees were? by yow I seye the same.Save only this, if ye wol herkne me,If any Iudas in your covent be,Remeveth him bitymes, I yow rede,If shame or los may causen any drede.And beth no-thing displesed, I yow preye,But in this cas herkneth what I shal seye.In London was a preest, an annueleer,That therin dwelled hadde many a yeer,Which was so plesaunt and so servisableUnto the wyf, wher-as he was at table,That she wolde suffre him no-thing for to payeFor bord ne clothing, wente he never so gaye;And spending-silver hadde he right y-now.Therof no fors; I wol procede as now,And telle forth my tale of the chanoun,That broghte this preest to confusioun.This false chanoun cam up-on a dayUnto this preestes chambre, wher he lay,Biseching him to lene him a certeynOf gold, and he wolde quyte it him ageyn.‘Lene me a mark,’ quod he, ‘but dayes three,And at my day I wol it quyten thee.And if so be that thou me finde fals,Another day do hange me by the hals!’This preest him took a mark, and that as swythe,And this chanoun him thanked ofte sythe,And took his leve, and wente forth his weye,And at the thridde day broghte his moneye,And to the preest he took his gold agayn,Wherof this preest was wonder glad and fayn.‘Certes,’ quod he, ‘no-thing anoyeth meTo lene a man a noble, or two or three,Or what thing were in my possessioun,Whan he so trewe is of condicioun,That in no wyse he breke wol his day;To swich a man I can never seye nay.’‘What!’ quod this chanoun, ‘sholde I be untrewe?Nay, that were thing y-fallen al of-newe.Trouthe is a thing that I wol ever kepeUn-to that day in which that I shal crepeIn-to my grave, and elles god forbede;Bileveth this as siker as is your crede.God thanke I, and in good tyme be it sayd,That ther was never man yet yvel apaydFor gold ne silver that he to me lente,Ne never falshede in myn herte I mente.And sir,’ quod he, ‘now of my privetee,Sin ye so goodlich han been un-to me,And kythed to me so greet gentillesse,Somwhat to quyte with your kindenesse,I wol yow shewe, and, if yow list to lere,I wol yow teche pleynly the manere,How I can werken in philosophye.Taketh good heed, ye shul wel seen at yë,That I wol doon a maistrie er I go.’‘Ye,’ quod the preest, ‘ye, sir, and wol ye so?Marie! ther-of I pray yow hertely!’‘At your comandement, sir, trewely,’Quod the chanoun, ‘and elles god forbede!’Lo, how this theef coude his servyse bede!Ful sooth it is, that swich profred servyseStinketh, as witnessen thise olde wyse;And that ful sone I wol it verifyeIn this chanoun, rote of al trecherye,That ever-more delyt hath and gladnesse—Swich feendly thoughtes in his herte impresse—How Cristes peple he may to meschief bringe;God kepe us from his fals dissimulinge!Noght wiste this preest with whom that he delte,Ne of his harm cominge he no-thing felte.O sely preest! o sely innocent!With coveityse anon thou shalt be blent!O gracelees, ful blind is thy conceit,No-thing ne artow war of the deceitWhich that this fox y-shapen hath to thee!His wyly wrenches thou ne mayst nat flee.Wherfor, to go to the conclusiounThat refereth to thy confusioun,Unhappy man! anon I wol me hyeTo tellen thyn unwit and thy folye,And eek the falsnesse of that other wrecche,As ferforth as that my conning may strecche.This chanoun was my lord, ye wolden wene?Sir host, in feith, and by the hevenes quene,It was another chanoun, and nat he,That can an hundred fold more subtiltee!He hath bitrayed folkes many tyme;Of his falshede it dulleth me to ryme.Ever whan that I speke of his falshede,For shame of him my chekes wexen rede;Algates, they biginnen for to glowe,For reednesse have I noon, right wel I knowe,In my visage; for fumes dyverseOf metals, which ye han herd me reherce,Consumed and wasted han my reednesse.Now tak heed of this chanouns cursednesse!‘Sir,’ quod he to the preest, ‘lat your man gonFor quik-silver, that we it hadde anon;And lat him bringen ounces two or three;And whan he comth, as faste shul ye seeA wonder thing, which ye saugh never er this.’‘Sir,’ quod the preest, ‘it shal be doon, y-wis.’He bad his servant fecchen him this thing,And he al redy was at his bidding,And wente him forth, and cam anon agaynWith this quik-silver, soothly for to sayn,And took thise ounces three to the chanoun;And he hem leyde fayre and wel adoun,And bad the servant coles for to bringe,That he anon mighte go to his werkinge.The coles right anon weren y-fet,And this chanoun took out a crosseletOf his bosom, and shewed it the preest.‘This instrument,’ quod he, ‘which that thou seest,Tak in thyn hand, and put thy-self ther-inneOf this quik-silver an ounce, and heer biginne,In the name of Crist, to wexe a philosofre.Ther been ful fewe, whiche that I wolde profreTo shewen hem thus muche of my science.For ye shul seen heer, by experience,That this quik-silver wol I mortifyeRight in your sighte anon, withouten lye,And make it as good silver and as fynAs ther is any in your purs or myn,Or elleswher, and make it malliable;And elles, holdeth me fals and unableAmonges folk for ever to appere!I have a poudre heer, that coste me dere,Shal make al good, for it is cause of alMy conning, which that I yow shewen shal.Voydeth your man, and lat him be ther-oute,And shet the dore, whyls we been abouteOur privetee, that no man us espyeWhyls that we werke in this philosophye.’Al as he bad, fulfilled was in dede,This ilke servant anon-right out yede,And his maister shette the dore anon,And to hir labour speedily they gon.This preest, at this cursed chanouns bidding,Up-on the fyr anon sette this thing,And blew the fyr, and bisied him ful faste;And this chanoun in-to the croslet casteA poudre, noot I wher-of that it wasY-maad, other of chalk, other of glas,Or som-what elles, was nat worth a flye,To blynde with the preest; and bad him hyeThe coles for to couchen al aboveThe croslet, ‘for, in tokening I thee love,’Quod this chanoun, ‘thyn owene hondes twoShul werche al thing which that shal heer be do.’‘Graunt mercy,’ quod the preest, and was ful glad,And couched coles as the chanoun bad.And whyle he bisy was, this feendly wrecche,This fals chanoun, the foule feend him fecche!Out of his bosom took a bechen cole,In which ful subtilly was maad an hole,And ther-in put was of silver lymailleAn ounce, and stopped was, with-outen fayle,The hole with wex, to kepe the lymail in.And understondeth, that this false ginWas nat maad ther, but it was maad bifore;And othere thinges I shal telle moreHerafterward, which that he with him broghte;Er he cam ther, him to bigyle he thoghte,And so he dide, er that they wente a-twinne;Til he had terved him, coude he not blinne.It dulleth me whan that I of him speke,On his falshede fayn wolde I me wreke,If I wiste how; but he is heer and ther:He is so variaunt, he abit no-wher.But taketh heed now, sirs, for goddes love!He took his cole of which I spak above,And in his hond he baar it prively.And whyls the preest couchede busilyThe coles, as I tolde yow er this,This chanoun seyde, ‘freend, ye doon amis;This is nat couched as it oghte be;But sone I shal amenden it,’ quod he.‘Now lat me medle therwith but a whyle,For of yow have I pitee, by seint Gyle!Ye been right hoot, I see wel how ye swete,Have heer a cloth, and wype awey the wete.’And whyles that the preest wyped his face,This chanoun took his cole with harde grace,And leyde it above, up-on the middewardOf the croslet, and blew wel afterward,Til that the coles gonne faste brenne.‘Now yeve us drinke,’ quod the chanoun thenne,‘As swythe al shal be wel, I undertake;Sitte we doun, and lat us mery make.’And whan that this chanounes bechen coleWas brent, al the lymaille, out of the hole,Into the croslet fil anon adoun;And so it moste nedes, by resoun,Sin it so even aboven couched was;But ther-of wiste the preest no-thing, alas!He demed alle the coles y-liche good,For of the sleighte he no-thing understood.And whan this alkamistre saugh his tyme,‘Rys up,’ quod he, ‘sir preest, and stondeth by me;And for I woot wel ingot have ye noon,Goth, walketh forth, and bring us a chalk-stoon;For I wol make oon of the same shapThat is an ingot, if I may han hap.And bringeth eek with yow a bolle or a panne,Ful of water, and ye shul see wel thanneHow that our bisinesse shal thryve and preve.And yet, for ye shul han no misbileveNe wrong conceit of me in your absence,I ne wol nat been out of your presence,But go with yow, and come with yow ageyn.’The chambre-dore, shortly for to seyn,They opened and shette, and wente hir weye.And forth with hem they carieden the keye,And come agayn with-outen any delay.What sholde I tarien al the longe day?He took the chalk, and shoop it in the wyseOf an ingot, as I shal yow devyse.I seye, he took out of his owene sleve,A teyne of silver (yvele mote he cheve!)Which that ne was nat but an ounce of weighte;And taketh heed now of his cursed sleighte!He shoop his ingot, in lengthe and eek in brede,Of this teyne, with-outen any drede,So slyly, that the preest it nat espyde;And in his sleve agayn he gan it hyde;And fro the fyr he took up his matere,And in thingot putte it with mery chere,And in the water-vessel he it casteWhan that him luste, and bad the preest as faste,‘Look what ther is, put in thyn hand and grope,Thow finde shalt ther silver, as I hope;What, devel of helle! sholde it elles be?Shaving of silver silver is, pardee!’He putte his hond in, and took up a teyneOf silver fyn, and glad in every veyneWas this preest, whan he saugh that it was so.‘Goddes blessing, and his modres also,And alle halwes have ye, sir chanoun,’Seyde this preest, ‘and I hir malisoun,But, and ye vouche-sauf to techen meThis noble craft and this subtilitee,I wol be youre, in al that ever I may!’Quod the chanoun, ‘yet wol I make assayThe second tyme, that ye may taken hedeAnd been expert of this, and in your nedeAnother day assaye in myn absenceThis disciplyne and this crafty science.Lat take another ounce,’ quod he tho,‘Of quik-silver, with-outen wordes mo,And do ther-with as ye han doon er thisWith that other, which that now silver is.’This preest him bisieth in al that he canTo doon as this chanoun, this cursed man,Comanded him, and faste he blew the fyr,For to come to theffect of his desyr.And this chanoun, right in the mene whyle,Al redy was, the preest eft to bigyle,And, for a countenance, in his hande he barAn holwe stikke (tak keep and be war!)In the ende of which an ounce, and na-more,Of silver lymail put was, as biforeWas in his cole, and stopped with wex weelFor to kepe in his lymail every deel.And whyl this preest was in his bisinesse,This chanoun with his stikke gan him dresseTo him anon, and his pouder caste inAs he did er; (the devel out of his skinHim terve, I pray to god, for his falshede;For he was ever fals in thoght and dede);And with this stikke, above the croslet,That was ordeyned with that false get,He stired the coles, til relente ganThe wex agayn the fyr, as every man,But it a fool be, woot wel it mot nede,And al that in the stikke was out yede,And in the croslet hastily it fel.Now gode sirs, what wol ye bet than wel?Whan that this preest thus was bigyled ageyn,Supposing noght but trouthe, soth to seyn,He was so glad, that I can nat expresseIn no manere his mirthe and his gladnesse;And to the chanoun he profred eftsoneBody and good; ‘ye,’ quod the chanoun sone,‘Though povre I be, crafty thou shalt me finde;I warne thee, yet is ther more bihinde.Is ther any coper her-inne?’ seyde he.‘Ye,’ quod the preest, ‘sir, I trowe wel ther be.’‘Elles go by us som, and that as swythe,Now, gode sir, go forth thy wey and hy the.’He wente his wey, and with the coper cam,And this chanoun it in his handes nam,And of that coper weyed out but an ounce.Al to simple is my tonge to pronounce,As ministre of my wit, the doublenesseOf this chanoun, rote of al cursednesse.He semed freendly to hem that knewe him noght,But he was feendly bothe in herte and thoght.It werieth me to telle of his falsnesse,And nathelees yet wol I it expresse,To thentente that men may be war therby,And for noon other cause, trewely.He putte his ounce of coper in the croslet,And on the fyr as swythe he hath it set,And caste in poudre, and made the preest to blowe,And in his werking for to stoupe lowe,As he dide er, and al nas but a Iape;Right as him liste, the preest he made his ape;And afterward in the ingot he it caste,And in the panne putte it at the lasteOf water, and in he putte his owene hond.And in his sleve (as ye biforn-hondHerde me telle) he hadde a silver teyne.He slyly took it out, this cursed heyne—Unwiting this preest of his false craft—And in the pannes botme he hath it laft;And in the water rombled to and fro,And wonder prively took up alsoThe coper teyne, noght knowing this preest,And hidde it, and him hente by the breest,And to him spak, and thus seyde in his game,‘Stoupeth adoun, by god, ye be to blame,Helpeth me now, as I dide yow whyl-er,Putte in your hand, and loketh what is ther.’This preest took up this silver teyne anon,And thanne seyde the chanoun, ‘lat us gonWith thise three teynes, which that we han wroght,To som goldsmith, and wite if they been oght.For, by my feith, I nolde, for myn hood,But-if that they were silver, fyn and good,And that as swythe preved shal it be.’Un-to the goldsmith with thise teynes threeThey wente, and putte thise teynes in assayTo fyr and hamer; mighte no man sey nay,But that they weren as hem oghte be.This sotted preest, who was gladder than he?Was never brid gladder agayn the day,Ne nightingale, in the sesoun of May,Nas never noon that luste bet to singe;Ne lady lustier in carolingeOr for to speke of love and wommanhede,Ne knight in armes to doon an hardy dedeTo stonde in grace of his lady dere,Than had this preest this sory craft to lere;And to the chanoun thus he spak and seyde,‘For love of god, that for us alle deyde,And as I may deserve it un-to yow,What shal this receit coste? telleth now!’‘By our lady,’ quod this chanoun, ‘it is dere,I warne yow wel; for, save I and a frere,In Engelond ther can no man it make.’‘No fors,’ quod he, ‘now, sir, for goddes sake,What shal I paye? telleth me, I preye.’‘Y-wis,’ quod he, ‘it is ful dere, I seye;Sir, at o word, if that thee list it have,Ye shul paye fourty pound, so god me save!And, nere the freendship that ye dide er thisTo me, ye sholde paye more, y-wis.’This preest the somme of fourty pound anonOf nobles fette, and took hem everichonTo this chanoun, for this ilke receit;Al his werking nas but fraude and deceit.‘Sir preest,’ he seyde, ‘I kepe han no loosOf my craft, for I wolde it kept were cloos;And as ye love me, kepeth it secree;For, and men knewe al my subtilitee,By god, they wolden han so greet envyeTo me, by-cause of my philosophye,I sholde be deed, ther were non other weye.’‘God it forbede!’ quod the preest, ‘what sey ye?’Yet hadde I lever spenden al the goodWhich that I have (and elles wexe I wood!)Than that ye sholden falle in swich mescheef.’‘For your good wil, sir, have ye right good preef,’Quod the chanoun, ‘and far-wel, grant mercy!’He wente his wey and never the preest him syAfter that day; and whan that this preest sholdeMaken assay, at swich tyme as he wolde,Of this receit, far-wel! it wolde nat be!Lo, thus byiaped and bigyled was he!Thus maketh he his introducciounTo bringe folk to hir destruccioun.—Considereth, sirs, how that, in ech estaat,Bitwixe men and gold ther is debaatSo ferforth, that unnethes is ther noon.This multiplying blent so many oon,That in good feith I trowe that it beThe cause grettest of swich scarsetee.Philosophres speken so mistilyIn this craft, that men can nat come therby,For any wit that men han now a-dayes.They mowe wel chiteren, as doon thise Iayes,And in her termes sette hir lust and peyne,But to hir purpos shul they never atteyne.A man may lightly lerne, if he have aught,To multiplye, and bringe his good to naught!Lo! swich a lucre is in this lusty game,A mannes mirthe it wol torne un-to grame,And empten also grete and hevy purses,And maken folk for to purchasen cursesOf hem, that han hir good therto y-lent.O! fy! for shame! they that han been brent,Allas! can they nat flee the fyres hete?Ye that it use, I rede ye it lete,Lest ye lese al; for bet than never is late.Never to thryve were to long a date.Though ye prolle ay, ye shul it never finde;Ye been as bolde as is Bayard the blinde,That blundreth forth, and peril casteth noon;He is as bold to renne agayn a stoonAs for to goon besydes in the weye.So faren ye that multiplye, I seye.If that your yën can nat seen aright,Loke that your minde lakke nought his sight.For, though ye loke never so brode, and stare,Ye shul nat winne a myte on that chaffare,But wasten al that ye may rape and renne.Withdrawe the fyr, lest it to faste brenne;Medleth na-more with that art, I mene,For, if ye doon, your thrift is goon ful clene.And right as swythe I wol yow tellen here,What philosophres seyn in this matere.Lo, thus seith Arnold of the Newe Toun,As his Rosarie maketh mencioun;He seith right thus, with-outen any lye,‘Ther may no man Mercurie mortifye,But it be with his brother knowleching.How that he, which that first seyde this thing,Of philosophres fader was, Hermes;He seith, how that the dragoun, doutelees,Ne deyeth nat, but-if that he be slaynWith his brother; and that is for to sayn,By the dragoun, Mercurie and noon otherHe understood; and brimstoon by his brother,That out of sol and luna were y-drawe.And therfor,’ seyde he, ‘tak heed to my sawe,Let no man bisy him this art for to seche,But-if that he thentencioun and specheOf philosophres understonde can;And if he do, he is a lewed man.For this science and this conning,’ quod he,‘Is of the secree of secrees, parde.’Also ther was a disciple of Plato,That on a tyme seyde his maister to,As his book Senior wol bere witnesse,And this was his demande in soothfastnesse:‘Tel me the name of the privy stoon?’And Plato answerde unto him anoon,‘Tak the stoon that Titanos men name.’‘Which is that?’ quod he. ‘Magnesia is the same,’Seyde Plato. ‘Ye, sir, and is it thus?This is ignotum per ignotius.What is Magnesia, good sir, I yow preye?’‘It is a water that is maad, I seye,Of elementes foure,’ quod Plato.‘Tel me the rote, good sir,’ quod he tho,‘Of that water, if that it be your wille?’‘Nay, nay,’ quod Plato, ‘certein, that I nille.The philosophres sworn were everichoon,That they sholden discovere it un-to noon,Ne in no book it wryte in no manere;For un-to Crist it is so leef and dereThat he wol nat that it discovered be,But wher it lyketh to his deiteeMan for tenspyre, and eek for to defendeWhom that him lyketh; lo, this is the ende.’Thanne conclude I thus; sith god of heveneNe wol nat that the philosophres neveneHow that a man shal come un-to this stoon,I rede, as for the beste, lete it goon.For who-so maketh god his adversarie,As for to werken any thing in contrarieOf his wil, certes, never shal he thryve,Thogh that he multiplye terme of his lyve.And ther a poynt; for ended is my tale;God sende every trewe man bote of his bale!—Amen.