Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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

The Canterbury Tales

The Clerkes Tale

THER is, at the west syde of Itaille,Doun at the rote of Vesulus the colde,A lusty playne, habundant of vitaille,Wher many a tour and toun thou mayst biholde,That founded were in tyme of fadres olde,And many another delitable sighte,And Saluces this noble contree highte.A markis whylom lord was of that londe,As were his worthy eldres him bifore;And obeisant and redy to his hondeWere alle his liges, bothe lasse and more.Thus in delyt he liveth, and hath don yore,Biloved and drad, thurgh favour of fortune,Bothe of his lordes and of his commune.Therwith he was, to speke as of linage,The gentilleste y-born of Lumbardye,A fair persone, and strong, and yong of age,And ful of honour and of curteisye;Discreet y-nogh his contree for to gye,Save in somme thinges that he was to blame,And Walter was this yonge lordes name.I blame him thus, that he considereth noghtIn tyme cominge what mighte him bityde,But on his lust present was al his thoght,As for to hauke and hunte on every syde;Wel ny alle othere cures leet he slyde,And eek he nolde, and that was worst of alle,Wedde no wyf, for noght that may bifalle.Only that point his peple bar so sore,That flokmele on a day they to him wente,And oon of hem, that wysest was of lore,Or elles that the lord best wolde assenteThat he sholde telle him what his peple mente,Or elles coude he shewe wel swich matere,He to the markis seyde as ye shul here.‘O noble markis, your humaniteeAssureth us and yeveth us hardinesse,As ofte as tyme is of necessiteeThat we to yow mowe telle our hevinesse;Accepteth, lord, now for your gentillesse,That we with pitous herte un-to yow pleyne,And lete your eres nat my voys disdeyne.Al have I noght to done in this matereMore than another man hath in this place,Yet for as muche as ye, my lord so dere,Han alwey shewed me favour and grace,I dar the better aske of yow a spaceOf audience, to shewen our requeste,And ye, my lord, to doon right as yow leste.For certes, lord, so wel us lyketh yowAnd al your werk and ever han doon, that weNe coude nat us self devysen howWe mighte liven in more felicitee,Save o thing, lord, if it your wille be,That for to been a wedded man yow leste,Than were your peple in sovereyn hertes reste.Boweth your nekke under that blisful yokOf soveraynetee, noght of servyse,Which that men clepeth spousaille or wedlok;And thenketh, lord, among your thoghtes wyse,How that our dayes passe in sondry wyse;For though we slepe or wake, or rome, or ryde,Ay fleeth the tyme, it nil no man abyde.And though your grene youthe floure as yit,In crepeth age alwey, as stille as stoon,And deeth manaceth every age, and smitIn ech estaat, for ther escapeth noon:And al so certein as we knowe echoonThat we shul deye, as uncerteyn we alleBeen of that day whan deeth shal on us falle.Accepteth than of us the trewe entente,That never yet refuseden your heste,And we wol, lord, if that ye wol assente,Chese yow a wyf in short tyme, atte leste,Born of the gentilleste and of the mesteOf al this lond, so that it oghte semeHonour to god and yow, as we can deme.Deliver us out of al this bisy drede,And tak a wyf, for hye goddes sake;For if it so bifelle, as god forbede,That thurgh your deeth your linage sholde slake,And that a straunge successour sholde takeYour heritage, o! wo were us alyve!Wherfor we pray you hastily to wyve.’Hir meke preyere and hir pitous chereMade the markis herte han pitee.‘Ye wol,’ quod he, ‘myn owene peple dere,To that I never erst thoghte streyne me.I me reioysed of my libertee,That selde tyme is founde in mariage;Ther I was free, I moot been in servage.But nathelees I see your trewe entente,And truste upon your wit, and have don ay;Wherfor of my free wil I wol assenteTo wedde me, as sone as ever I may.But ther-as ye han profred me to-dayTo chese me a wyf, I yow relesseThat choys, and prey yow of that profre cesse.For god it woot, that children ofte beenUnlyk her worthy eldres hem bifore;Bountee comth al of god, nat of the streenOf which they been engendred and y-bore;I truste in goddes bountee, and therforeMy mariage and myn estaat and resteI him bitake; he may don as him leste.Lat me alone in chesinge of my wyf,That charge up-on my bak I wol endure;But I yow preye, and charge up-on your lyf,That what wyf that I take, ye me assureTo worshipe hir, whyl that hir lyf may dure,In word and werk, bothe here and everywhere,As she an emperoures doghter were.And forthermore, this shal ye swere, that yeAgayn my choys shul neither grucche ne stryve;For sith I shal forgoon my liberteeAt your requeste, as ever moot I thryve,Ther as myn herte is set, ther wol I wyve;And but ye wole assente in swich manere,I prey yow, speketh na-more of this matere.’With hertly wil they sworen, and assentenTo al this thing, ther seyde no wight nay;Bisekinge him of grace, er that they wenten,That he wolde graunten hem a certein dayOf his spousaille, as sone as ever he may;For yet alwey the peple som-what dreddeLest that this markis no wyf wolde wedde.He graunted hem a day, swich as him leste,On which he wolde be wedded sikerly,And seyde, he dide al this at hir requeste;And they, with humble entente, buxomly,Knelinge up-on her knees ful reverentlyHim thanken alle, and thus they han an endeOf hir entente, and hoom agayn they wende.And heer-up-on he to his officeresComaundeth for the feste to purveye,And to his privee knightes and squyeresSwich charge yaf, as him liste on hem leye;And they to his comandement obeye,And ech of hem doth al his diligenceTo doon un-to the feste reverence.

Noght fer fro thilke paleys honurableTher-as this markis shoop his mariage,Ther stood a throp, of site delitable,In which that povre folk of that villageHadden hir bestes and hir herbergage,And of hir labour took hir sustenanceAfter that the erthe yaf hem habundance.Amonges thise povre folk ther dwelte a manWhich that was holden povrest of hem alle;But hye god som tyme senden canHis grace in-to a litel oxes stalle:Ianicula men of that throp him calle.A doghter hadde he, fair y-nogh to sighte,And Grisildis this yonge mayden highte.But for to speke of vertuous beautee,Than was she oon the faireste under sonne;For povreliche y-fostred up was she,No likerous lust was thurgh hir herte y-ronne;Wel ofter of the welle than of the tonneShe drank, and for she wolde vertu plese,She knew wel labour, but non ydel ese.But thogh this mayde tendre were of age,Yet in the brest of hir virginiteeTher was enclosed rype and sad corage;And in greet reverence and chariteeHir olde povre fader fostred she;A fewe sheep spinning on feeld she kepte,She wolde noght been ydel til she slepte.And whan she hoomward cam, she wolde bringeWortes or othere herbes tymes ofte,The whiche she shredde and seeth for hir livinge,And made hir bed ful harde and no-thing softe;And ay she kepte hir fadres lyf on-lofteWith everich obeisaunce and diligenceThat child may doon to fadres reverence.Up-on Grisilde, this povre creature,Ful ofte sythe this markis sette his yëAs he on hunting rood paraventure;And whan it fil that he mighte hir espye,He noght with wantoun loking of folyeHis yën caste on hir, but in sad wyseUp-on hir chere he wolde him ofte avyse,Commending in his herte hir wommanhede,And eek hir vertu, passing any wightOf so yong age, as wel in chere as dede.For thogh the peple have no greet insightIn vertu, he considered ful rightHir bountee, and disposed that he woldeWedde hir only, if ever he wedde sholde.The day of wedding cam, but no wight canTelle what womman that it sholde be;For which merveille wondred many a man,And seyden, whan they were in privetee,‘Wol nat our lord yet leve his vanitee?Wol he nat wedde? allas, allas the whyle!Why wol he thus him-self and us bigyle?’But natheles this markis hath don makeOf gemmes, set in gold and in asure,Broches and ringes, for Grisildis sake,And of hir clothing took he the mesureBy a mayde, lyk to hir stature,And eek of othere ornamentes alleThat un-to swich a wedding sholde falle.The tyme of undern of the same dayApprocheth, that this wedding sholde be;And al the paleys put was in array,Bothe halle and chambres, ech in his degree;Houses of office stuffed with plenteeTher maystow seen of deyntevous vitaille,That may be founde, as fer as last Itaille.This royal markis, richely arrayed,Lordes and ladyes in his companye,The whiche unto the feste were y-prayed,And of his retenue the bachelrye,With many a soun of sondry melodye,Un-to the village, of the which I tolde,In this array the righte wey han holde.Grisilde of this, god woot, ful innocent,That for hir shapen was al this array,To fecchen water at a welle is went,And cometh hoom as sone as ever she may.For wel she hadde herd seyd, that thilke dayThe markis sholde wedde, and, if she mighte,She wolde fayn han seyn som of that sighte.She thoghte, ‘I wol with othere maydens stonde,That been my felawes, in our dore, and seeThe markisesse, and therfor wol I fondeTo doon at hoom, as sone as it may be,The labour which that longeth un-to me;And than I may at leyser hir biholde,If she this wey un-to the castel holde.’And as she wolde over hir threshfold goon,The markis cam and gan hir for to calle;And she sette doun hir water-pot anoonBisyde the threshfold, in an oxes stalle,And doun up-on hir knees she gan to falle,And with sad contenance kneleth stilleTil she had herd what was the lordes wille.This thoghtful markis spak un-to this maydeFul sobrely, and seyde in this manere,‘Wher is your fader, Grisildis?’ he sayde,And she with reverence, in humble chere,Answerde, ‘lord, he is al redy here.’And in she gooth with-outen lenger lette,And to the markis she hir fader fette.He by the hond than took this olde man,And seyde thus, whan he him hadde asyde,‘Ianicula, I neither may ne canLenger the plesance of myn herte hyde.If that thou vouche-sauf, what-so bityde,Thy doghter wol I take, er that I wende,As for my wyf, un-to hir lyves ende.Thou lovest me, I woot it wel, certeyn,And art my feithful lige man y-bore;And al that lyketh me, I dar wel seynIt lyketh thee, and specially therforeTel me that poynt that I have seyd bifore,If that thou wolt un-to that purpos drawe,To take me as for thy sone-in-lawe?’This sodeyn cas this man astoned so,That reed he wex, abayst, and al quakingHe stood; unnethes seyde he wordes mo,But only thus: ‘lord,’ quod he, ‘my willingIs as ye wole, ne ayeines your lykingI wol no-thing; ye be my lord so dere;Right as yow lust governeth this matere.’‘Yet wol I,’ quod this markis softely,‘That in thy chambre I and thou and sheHave a collacion, and wostow why?For I wol axe if it hir wille beTo be my wyf, and reule hir after me;And al this shal be doon in thy presence,I wol noght speke out of thyn audience.’And in the chambre whyl they were abouteHir tretis, which as ye shal after here,The peple cam un-to the hous with-oute,And wondred hem in how honest manereAnd tentifly she kepte hir fader dere.But outerly Grisildis wondre mighte,For never erst ne saugh she swich a sighte.No wonder is thogh that she were astonedTo seen so greet a gest come in that place;She never was to swiche gestes woned,For which she loked with ful pale face.But shortly forth this tale for to chace,Thise arn the wordes that the markis saydeTo this benigne verray feithful mayde.‘Grisilde,’ he seyde, ‘ye shul wel understondeIt lyketh to your fader and to meThat I yow wedde, and eek it may so stonde,As I suppose, ye wol that it so be.But thise demandes axe I first,’ quod he,‘That, sith it shal be doon in hastif wyse,Wol ye assente, or elles yow avyse?I seye this, be ye redy with good herteTo al my lust, and that I frely may,As me best thinketh, do yow laughe or smerte,And never ye to grucche it, night ne day?And eek whan I sey “ye,” ne sey nat “nay,”Neither by word ne frowning contenance;Swer this, and here I swere our alliance.’Wondring upon this word, quaking for drede,She seyde, ‘lord, undigne and unworthyAm I to thilke honour that ye me bede;But as ye wol your-self, right so wol I.And heer I swere that never willinglyIn werk ne thoght I nil yow disobeye,For to be deed, though me were looth to deye.’‘This is y-nogh, Grisilde myn!’ quod he.And forth he gooth with a ful sobre chereOut at the dore, and after that cam she,And to the peple he seyde in this manere,‘This is my wyf,’ quod he, ‘that standeth here.Honoureth hir, and loveth hir, I preye,Who-so me loveth; ther is na-more to seye.’And for that no-thing of hir olde gereShe sholde bringe in-to his hous, he badThat wommen sholde dispoilen hir right there;Of which thise ladyes were nat right gladTo handle hir clothes wher-in she was clad.But natheles this mayde bright of heweFro foot to heed they clothed han al newe.Hir heres han they kembd, that lay untressedFul rudely, and with hir fingres smaleA corone on hir heed they han y-dressed,And sette hir ful of nowches grete and smale;Of hir array what sholde I make a tale?Unnethe the peple hir knew for hir fairnesse,Whan she translated was in swich richesse.This markis hath hir spoused with a ringBroght for the same cause, and than hir setteUp-on an hors, snow-whyt and wel ambling,And to his paleys, er he lenger lette,With Ioyful peple that hir ladde and mette,Conveyed hir, and thus the day they spendeIn revel, til the sonne gan descende.And shortly forth this tale for to chace,I seye that to this newe markisesseGod hath swich favour sent hir of his grace,That it ne semed nat by lyklinesseThat she was born and fed in rudenesse,As in a cote or in an oxe-stalle,But norished in an emperoures halle.To every wight she woxen is so dereAnd worshipful, that folk ther she was boreAnd from hir birthe knewe hir yeer by yere,Unnethe trowed they, but dorste han sworeThat to Ianicle, of which I spak bifore,She doghter nas, for, as by coniecture,Hem thoughte she was another creature.For thogh that ever vertuous was she,She was encressed in swich excellenceOf thewes gode, y-set in heigh bountee,And so discreet and fair of eloquence,So benigne and so digne of reverence,And coude so the peples herte embrace,That ech hir lovede that loked on hir face.Noght only of Saluces in the tounPubliced was the bountee of hir name,But eek bisyde in many a regioun,If oon seyde wel, another seyde the same;So spradde of hir heigh bountee the fame,That men and wommen, as wel yonge as olde,Gon to Saluce, upon hir to biholde.Thus Walter lowly, nay but royally,Wedded with fortunat honestetee,In goddes pees liveth ful esilyAt hoom, and outward grace y-nogh had he;And for he saugh that under low degreeWas ofte vertu hid, the peple him heldeA prudent man, and that is seyn ful selde.Nat only this Grisildis thurgh hir witCoude al the feet of wyfly hoomlinesse,But eek, whan that the cas requyred it,The commune profit coude she redresse.Ther nas discord, rancour, ne hevinesseIn al that lond, that she ne coude apese,And wysly bringe hem alle in reste and ese.Though that hir housbonde absent were anoon,If gentil men, or othere of hir contreeWere wrothe, she wolde bringen hem atoon;So wyse and rype wordes hadde she,And Iugements of so greet equitee,That she from heven sent was, as men wende,Peple to save and every wrong tamende.Nat longe tyme after that this GrisildWas wedded, she a doughter hath y-bore,Al had hir lever have born a knave child.Glad was this markis and the folk therfore;For though a mayde child come al bifore,She may unto a knave child atteyneBy lyklihed, sin she nis nat bareyne.

Ther fil, as it bifalleth tymes mo,Whan that this child had souked but a throwe,This markis in his herte longeth soTo tempte his wyf, hir sadnesse for to knowe,That he ne mighte out of his herte throweThis merveillous desyr, his wyf tassaye,Needless, god woot, he thoughte hir for taffraye.He hadde assayed hir y-nogh bifore,And fond hir ever good; what neded itHir for to tempte and alwey more and more?Though som men preise it for a subtil wit,But as for me, I seye that yvel it sitTassaye a wyf whan that it is no nede,And putten her in anguish and in drede.For which this markis wroghte in this manere;He cam alone a-night, ther as she lay,With sterne face and with ful trouble chere,And seyde thus, ‘Grisild,’ quod he, ‘that dayThat I yow took out of your povre array,And putte yow in estaat of heigh noblesse,Ye have nat that forgeten, as I gesse.I seye, Grisild, this present dignitee,In which that I have put yow, as I trowe,Maketh yow nat foryetful for to beThat I yow took in povre estaat ful loweFor any wele ye moot your-selven knowe.Tak hede of every word that I yow seye,Ther is no wight that hereth it but we tweye.Ye woot your-self wel, how that ye cam hereIn-to this hous, it is nat longe ago,And though to me that ye be lief and dere,Un-to my gentils ye be no-thing so;They seyn, to hem it is greet shame and woFor to be subgets and ben in servageTo thee, that born art of a smal village.And namely, sith thy doghter was y-bore,Thise wordes han they spoken doutelees;But I desyre, as I have doon bifore,To live my lyf with hem in reste and pees;I may nat in this caas be recchelees.I moot don with thy doghter for the beste,Nat as I wolde, but as my peple leste.And yet, god wot, this is ful looth to me;But nathelees with-oute your witingI wol nat doon, but this wol I,’ quod he,‘That ye to me assente as in this thing.Shewe now your pacience in your werkingThat ye me highte and swore in your villageThat day that maked was our mariage.’Whan she had herd al this, she noght amevedNeither in word, or chere, or countenaunce;For, as it semed, she was nat agreved:She seyde, ‘lord, al lyth in your plesaunce,My child and I with hertly obeisaunceBen youres al, and ye mowe save or spilleYour owene thing; werketh after your wille.Ther may no-thing, god so my soule save,Lyken to yow that may displese me;Ne I desyre no-thing for to have,Ne drede for to lese, save only ye;This wil is in myn herte and ay shal be.No lengthe of tyme or deeth may this deface,Ne chaunge my corage to another place.’Glad was this markis of hir answering,But yet he feyned as he were nat so;Al drery was his chere and his lokingWhan that he sholde out of the chambre go.Sone after this, a furlong wey or two,He prively hath told al his ententeUn-to a man, and to his wyf him sente.A maner sergeant was this privee man,The which that feithful ofte he founden haddeIn thinges grete, and eek swich folk wel canDon execucioun on thinges badde.The lord knew wel that he him loved and dradde;And whan this sergeant wiste his lordes wille,In-to the chambre he stalked him ful stille.‘Madame,’ he seyde, ‘ye mote foryeve it me,Thogh I do thing to which I am constreyned;Ye ben so wys that ful wel knowe yeThat lordes hestes mowe nat been y-feyned;They mowe wel been biwailled or compleyned,But men mot nede un-to her lust obeye,And so wol I; ther is na-more to seye.This child I am comanded for to take’—And spak na-more, but out the child he henteDespitously, and gan a chere makeAs though he wolde han slayn it er he wente.Grisildis mot al suffren and consente;And as a lamb she sitteth meke and stille,And leet this cruel sergeant doon his wille.Suspecious was the diffame of this man,Suspect his face, suspect his word also;Suspect the tyme in which he this bigan.Allas! hir doghter that she lovede soShe wende he wolde han slawen it right tho.But natheles she neither weep ne syked,Consenting hir to that the markis lyked.But atte laste speken she bigan,And mekely she to the sergeant preyde,So as he was a worthy gentil man,That she moste kisse hir child er that it deyde;And in her barm this litel child she leydeWith ful sad face, and gan the child to kisseAnd lulled it, and after gan it blisse.And thus she seyde in hir benigne voys,‘Far weel, my child; I shal thee never see;But, sith I thee have marked with the croys,Of thilke fader blessed mote thou be,That for us deyde up-on a croys of tree.Thy soule, litel child, I him bitake,For this night shaltow dyen for my sake.’I trowe that to a norice in this casIt had ben hard this rewthe for to se;Wel mighte a mooder than han cryed ‘allas!’But nathelees so sad stedfast was she,That she endured all adversitee,And to the sergeant mekely she sayde,‘Have heer agayn your litel yonge mayde.Goth now,’ quod she, ‘and dooth my lordes heste,But o thing wol I preye yow of your grace,That, but my lord forbad yow, atte lesteBurieth this litel body in som placeThat bestes ne no briddes it to-race.’But he no word wol to that purpos seye,But took the child and wente upon his weye.This sergeant cam un-to his lord ageyn,And of Grisildis wordes and hir chereHe tolde him point for point, in short and playn,And him presenteth with his doghter dere.Somwhat this lord hath rewthe in his manere;But nathelees his purpos heeld he stille,As lordes doon, whan they wol han hir wille;And bad his sergeant that he privelySholde this child ful softe winde and wrappeWith alle circumstances tendrely,And carie it in a cofre or in a lappe;But, up-on peyne his heed of for to swappe,That no man sholde knowe of his entente,Ne whenne he cam, ne whider that he wente;But at Boloigne to his suster dere,That thilke tyme of Panik was countesse,He sholde it take, and shewe hir this matere,Bisekinge hir to don hir bisinesseThis child to fostre in alle gentilesse;And whos child that it was he bad hir hydeFrom every wight, for oght that may bityde.The sergeant gooth, and hath fulfild this thing;But to this markis now retourne we;For now goth he ful faste imaginingIf by his wyves chere he mighte see,Or by hir word aperceyve that sheWere chaunged; but he never hir coude findeBut ever in oon y-lyke sad and kinde.As glad, as humble, as bisy in servyse,And eek in love as she was wont to be,Was she to him in every maner wyse;Ne of hir doghter noght a word spak she.Non accident for noon adversiteeWas seyn in hir, ne never hir doghter nameNe nempned she, in ernest nor in game.

In this estaat ther passed been foure yeerEr she with childe was; but, as god wolde,A knave child she bar by this Walter,Ful gracious and fair for to biholde.And whan that folk it to his fader tolde,Nat only he, but al his contree, merieWas for this child, and god they thanke and herie.Whan it was two yeer old, and fro the brestDeparted of his norice, on a dayThis markis caughte yet another lestTo tempte his wyf yet ofter, if he may.O needles was she tempted in assay!But wedded men ne knowe no mesure,Whan that they finde a pacient creature.‘Wyf,’ quod this markis, ‘ye han herd er this,My peple sikly berth our mariage,And namely, sith my sone y-boren is,Now is it worse than ever in al our age.The murmur sleeth myn herte and my corage;For to myne eres comth the voys so smerte,That it wel ny destroyed hath myn herte.Now sey they thus, “whan Walter is agoon,Then shal the blood of Ianicle succedeAnd been our lord, for other have we noon;”Swiche wordes seith my peple, out of drede.Wel oughte I of swich murmur taken hede;For certeinly I drede swich sentence,Though they nat pleyn speke in myn audience.I wolde live in pees, if that I mighte;Wherfor I am disposed outerly,As I his suster servede by nighte,Right so thenke I to serve him prively;This warne I yow, that ye nat sodeynlyOut of your-self for no wo sholde outraye;Beth pacient, and ther-of I yow preye.’‘I have,’ quod she, ‘seyd thus, and ever shal,I wol no thing, ne nil no thing, certayn,But as yow list; noght greveth me at al,Thogh that my doghter and my sone be slayn,At your comandement, this is to sayn.I have noght had no part of children tweyneBut first siknesse, and after wo and peyne.Ye been our lord, doth with your owene thingRight as yow list; axeth no reed at me.For, as I lefte at hoom al my clothing,Whan I first cam to yow, right so,’ quod she,‘Left I my wil and al my libertee,And took your clothing; wherfor I yow preye,Doth your plesaunce, I wol your lust obeye.And certes, if I hadde prescienceYour wil to knowe er ye your lust me tolde,I wolde it doon with-outen necligence;But now I woot your lust and what ye wolde,Al your plesaunce ferme and stable I holde;For wiste I that my deeth wolde do yow ese,Right gladly wolde I dyen, yow to plese.Deth may noght make no comparisounUn-to your love:’ and, whan this markis seyThe constance of his wyf, he caste adounHis yën two, and wondreth that she mayIn pacience suffre al this array.And forth he gooth with drery contenaunce,But to his herte it was ful greet plesaunce.This ugly sergeant, in the same wyseThat he hir doghter caughte, right so he,Or worse, if men worse can devyse,Hath hent hir sone, that ful was of beautee.And ever in oon so pacient was she,That she no chere made of hevinesse,But kiste hir sone, and after gan it blesse;Save this; she preyed him that, if he mighte,Hir litel sone he wolde in erthe grave,His tendre limes, delicat to sighte,Fro foules and fro bestes for to save.But she non answer of him mighte have.He wente his wey, as him no-thing ne roghte;But to Boloigne he tendrely it broghte.This markis wondreth ever lenger the moreUp-on hir pacience, and if that heNe hadde soothly knowen ther-bifore,That parfitly hir children lovede she,He wolde have wend that of som subtiltee,And of malice or for cruel corage,That she had suffred this with sad visage.But wel he knew that next him-self, certayn,She loved hir children best in every wyse.But now of wommen wolde I axen fayn,If thise assayes mighte nat suffyse?What coude a sturdy housbond more devyseTo preve hir wyfhod and hir stedfastnesse,And he continuing ever in sturdinesse?But ther ben folk of swich condicioun,That, whan they have a certein purpos take,They can nat stinte of hir entencioun,But, right as they were bounden to a stake,They wol nat of that firste purpos slake.Right so this markis fulliche hath purposedTo tempte his wyf, as he was first disposed.He waiteth, if by word or contenanceThat she to him was changed of corage;But never coude he finde variance;She was ay oon in herte and in visage;And ay the forther that she was in age,The more trewe, if that it were possible,She was to him in love, and more penible.For which it semed thus, that of hem twoTher nas but o wil; for, as Walter leste,The same lust was hir plesance also,And, god be thanked, al fil for the beste.She shewed wel, for no worldly unresteA wyf, as of hir-self, no-thing ne sholdeWille in effect, but as hir housbond wolde.The sclaundre of Walter ofte and wyde spradde,That of a cruel herte he wikkedly,For he a povre womman wedded hadde,Hath mordred bothe his children prively.Swich murmur was among hem comunly.No wonder is, for to the peples ereTher cam no word but that they mordred were.For which, wher-as his peple ther-biforeHad loved him wel, the sclaundre of his diffameMade hem that they him hatede therfore;To been a mordrer is an hateful name.But natheles, for ernest ne for gameHe of his cruel purpos nolde stente;To tempte his wyf was set al his entente.Whan that his doghter twelf yeer was of age,He to the court of Rome, in subtil wyseEnformed of his wil, sente his message,Comaunding hem swiche bulles to devyseAs to his cruel purpos may suffyse,How that the pope, as for his peples reste,Bad him to wedde another, if him leste.I seye, he bad they sholde countrefeteThe popes bulles, making menciounThat he hath leve his firste wyf to lete,As by the popes dispensacioun,To stinte rancour and dissenciounBitwixe his peple and him; thus seyde the bulle,The which they han publiced atte fulle.The rude peple, as it no wonder is,Wenden ful wel that it had been right so;But whan thise tydinges cam to Grisildis,I deme that hir herte was ful wo.But she, y-lyke sad for evermo,Disposed was, this humble creature,Thadversitee of fortune al tendure.Abyding ever his lust and his plesaunce,To whom that she was yeven, herte and al,As to hir verray worldly suffisaunce;But shortly if this storie I tellen shal,This markis writen hath in specialA lettre in which he sheweth his entente,And secrely he to Boloigne it sente.To the erl of Panik, which that hadde thoWedded his suster, preyde he speciallyTo bringen hoom agayn his children twoIn honurable estaat al openly.But o thing he him preyede outerly,That he to no wight, though men wolde enquere,Sholde nat telle, whos children that they were,But seye, the mayden sholde y-wedded beUn-to the markis of Saluce anon.And as this erl was preyed, so dide he;For at day set he on his wey is goonToward Saluce, and lordes many oon,In riche array, this mayden for to gyde;Hir yonge brother ryding hir bisyde.Arrayed was toward hir mariageThis fresshe mayde, ful of gemmes clere;Hir brother, which that seven yeer was of age,Arrayed eek ful fresh in his manere.And thus in greet noblesse and with glad chere,Toward Saluces shaping hir Iourney,Fro day to day they ryden in hir wey.

Among al this, after his wikke usage,This markis, yet his wyf to tempte moreTo the uttereste preve of hir corage,Fully to han experience and loreIf that she were as stedfast as bifore,He on a day in open audienceFul boistously hath seyd hir this sentence:‘Certes, Grisilde, I hadde y-nough plesaunceTo han yow to my wyf for your goodnesse,As for your trouthe and for your obeisaunce,Nought for your linage ne for your richesse;But now knowe I in verray soothfastnesseThat in gret lordshipe, if I wel avyse,Ther is gret servitute in sondry wyse.I may nat don as every plowman may;My peple me constreyneth for to takeAnother wyf, and cryen day by day;And eek the pope, rancour for to slake,Consenteth it, that dar I undertake;And treweliche thus muche I wol yow seye,My newe wyf is coming by the weye.Be strong of herte, and voyde anon hir place,And thilke dower that ye broghten meTak it agayn, I graunte it of my grace;Retourneth to your fadres hous,’ quod he;‘No man may alwey han prosperitee;With evene herte I rede yow tendureThe strook of fortune or of aventure.’And she answerde agayn in pacience,‘My lord,’ quod she, ‘I woot, and wiste alwayHow that bitwixen your magnificenceAnd my poverte no wight can ne mayMaken comparison; it is no nay.I ne heeld me never digne in no manereTo be your wyf, no, ne your chamberere.And in this hous, ther ye me lady made—The heighe god take I for my witnesse,And also wisly he my soule glade—I never heeld me lady ne maistresse,But humble servant to your worthinesse,And ever shal, whyl that my lyf may dure,Aboven every worldly creature.That ye so longe of your benigniteeHan holden me in honour and nobleye,Wher-as I was noght worthy for to be,That thonke I god and yow, to whom I preyeForyelde it yow; there is na-more to seye.Un-to my fader gladly wol I wende,And with him dwelle un-to my lyves ende.Ther I was fostred of a child ful smal,Til I be deed, my lyf ther wol I ledeA widwe clene, in body, herte, and al.For sith I yaf to yow my maydenhede,And am your trewe wyf, it is no drede,God shilde swich a lordes wyf to takeAnother man to housbonde or to make.And of your newe wyf, god of his graceSo graunte yow wele and prosperitee:For I wol gladly yelden hir my place,In which that I was blisful wont to be,For sith it lyketh yow, my lord,’ quod she,‘That whylom weren al myn hertes reste,That I shal goon, I wol gon whan yow leste.But ther-as ye me profre swich dowaireAs I first broghte, it is wel in my mindeIt were my wrecched clothes, no-thing faire,The which to me were hard now for to finde.O gode god! how gentil and how kindeYe semed by your speche and your visageThe day that maked was our mariage!But sooth is seyd, algate I finde it trewe—For in effect it preved is on me—Love is noght old as whan that it is newe.But certes, lord, for noon adversitee,To dyen in the cas, it shal nat beThat ever in word or werk I shal repenteThat I yow yaf myn herte in hool entente.My lord, ye woot that, in my fadres place,Ye dede me strepe out of my povre wede,And richely me cladden, of your grace.To yow broghte I noght elles, out of drede,But feyth and nakednesse and maydenhede.And here agayn my clothing I restore,And eek my wedding-ring, for evermore.The remenant of your Iewels redy beIn-with your chambre, dar I saufly sayn;Naked out of my fadres hous,’ quod she,‘I cam, and naked moot I turne agayn.Al your plesaunce wol I folwen fayn;But yet I hope it be nat your ententeThat I smoklees out of your paleys wente.Ye coude nat doon so dishoneste a thing,That thilke wombe in which your children leyeSholde, biforn the peple, in my walking,Be seyn al bare; wherfor I yow preye,Lat me nat lyk a worm go by the weye.Remembre yow, myn owene lord so dere,I was your wyf, thogh I unworthy were.Wherfor, in guerdon of my maydenhede,Which that I broghte, and noght agayn I bere,As voucheth sauf to yeve me, to my mede,But swich a smok as I was wont to were,That I therwith may wrye the wombe of hereThat was your wyf; and heer take I my leveOf yow, myn owene lord, lest I yow greve.’‘The smok,’ quod he, ‘that thou hast on thy bak,Lat it be stille, and ber it forth with thee.’But wel unnethes thilke word he spak,But wente his wey for rewthe and for pitee.Biforn the folk hir-selven strepeth she,And in hir smok, with heed and foot al bare,Toward hir fader hous forth is she fare.The folk hir folwe wepinge in hir weye,And fortune ay they cursen as they goon;But she fro weping kepte hir yën dreye,Ne in this tyme word ne spak she noon.Hir fader, that this tyding herde anoon,Curseth the day and tyme that natureShoop him to been a lyves creature.For out of doute this olde povre manWas ever in suspect of hir mariage;For ever he demed, sith that it bigan,That whan the lord fulfild had his corage,Him wolde thinke it were a disparageTo his estaat so lowe for talighte,And voyden hir as sone as ever he mighte.Agayns his doghter hastilich goth he,For he by noyse of folk knew hir cominge,And with hir olde cote, as it mighte be,He covered hir, ful sorwefully wepinge;But on hir body mighte he it nat bringe.For rude was the cloth, and more of ageBy dayes fele than at hir mariage.Thus with hir fader, for a certeyn space,Dwelleth this flour of wyfly pacience,That neither by hir wordes ne hir faceBiforn the folk, ne eek in hir absence,Ne shewed she that hir was doon offence;Ne of hir heigh estaat no remembraunceNe hadde she, as by hir countenaunce.No wonder is, for in hir grete estaatHir goost was ever in pleyn humylitee;No tendre mouth, non herte delicaat,No pompe, no semblant of royaltee,But ful of pacient benignitee,Discreet and prydeles, ay honurable,And to hir housbonde ever meke and stable.Men speke of Iob and most for his humblesse,As clerkes, whan hem list, can wel endyte,Namely of men, but as in soothfastnesse,Thogh clerkes preyse wommen but a lyte,Ther can no man in humblesse him acquyteAs womman can, ne can ben half so treweAs wommen been, but it be falle of-newe.

Fro Boloigne is this erl of Panik come,Of which the fame up-sprang to more and lesse,And in the peples eres alle and someWas couth eek, that a newe markisesseHe with him broghte, in swich pompe and richesse,That never was ther seyn with mannes yëSo noble array in al West Lumbardye.The markis, which that shoop and knew al this,Er that this erl was come, sente his messageFor thilke sely povre Grisildis;And she with humble herte and glad visage,Nat with no swollen thoght in hir corage,Cam at his heste, and on hir knees hir sette,And reverently and wysly she him grette.‘Grisild,’ quod he, ‘my wille is outerly,This mayden, that shal wedded been to me,Receyved be to-morwe as royallyAs it possible is in myn hous to be.And eek that every wight in his degreeHave his estaat in sitting and servyseAnd heigh plesaunce, as I can best devyse.I have no wommen suffisaunt certaynThe chambres for tarraye in ordinaunceAfter my lust, and therfor wolde I faynThat thyn were al swich maner governaunce;Thou knowest eek of old al my plesaunce;Though thyn array be badde and yvel biseye,Do thou thy devoir at the leeste weye.’‘Nat only, lord, that I am glad,’ quod she,‘To doon your lust, but I desyre alsoYow for to serve and plese in my degreeWith-outen feynting, and shal evermo.Ne never, for no wele ne no wo,Ne shal the gost with-in myn herte stenteTo love yow best with al my trewe entente.’And with that word she gan the hous to dighte,And tables for to sette and beddes make;And peyned hir to doon al that she mighte,Preying the chambereres, for goddes sake,To hasten hem, and faste swepe and shake;And she, the moste servisable of alle,Hath every chambre arrayed and his halle.Abouten undern gan this erl alighte,That with him broghte thise noble children tweye,For which the peple ran to seen the sighteOf hir array, so richely biseye;And than at erst amonges hem they seye,That Walter was no fool, thogh that him lesteTo chaunge his wyf, for it was for the beste.For she is fairer, as they demen alle,Than is Grisild, and more tendre of age,And fairer fruit bitwene hem sholde falle,And more plesant, for hir heigh linage;Hir brother eek so fair was of visage,That hem to seen the peple hath caught plesaunce,Commending now the markis governaunce.—Auctor.‘O stormy peple! unsad and ever untrewe!Ay undiscreet and chaunging as a vane,Delyting ever in rumbel that is newe,For lyk the mone ay wexe ye and wane;Ay ful of clapping, dere y-nogh a Iane;Your doom is fals, your constance yvel preveth,A ful greet fool is he that on yow leveth!’Thus seyden sadde folk in that citee,Whan that the peple gazed up and doun,For they were glad, right for the noveltee,To han a newe lady of hir toun.Na-more of this make I now mencioun;But to Grisilde agayn wol I me dresse,And telle hir constance and hir bisinesse.—Ful bisy was Grisilde in every thingThat to the feste was apertinent;Right noght was she abayst of hir clothing,Though it were rude and somdel eek to-rent.But with glad chere to the yate is went,With other folk, to grete the markisesse,And after that doth forth hir bisinesse.With so glad chere his gestes she receyveth,And conningly, everich in his degree,That no defaute no man aperceyveth;But ay they wondren what she mighte beThat in so povre array was for to see,And coude swich honour and reverence;And worthily they preisen hir prudence.In al this mene whyle she ne stenteThis mayde and eek hir brother to commendeWith al hir herte, in ful benigne entente,So wel, that no man coude hir prys amende.But atte laste, whan that thise lordes wendeTo sitten doun to mete, he gan to calleGrisilde, as she was bisy in his halle.‘Grisilde,’ quod he, as it were in his pley,‘How lyketh thee my wyf and hir beautee?’‘Right wel,’ quod she, ‘my lord; for, in good fey,A fairer say I never noon than she.I prey to god yeve hir prosperitee;And so hope I that he wol to yow sendePlesance y-nogh un-to your lyves ende.O thing biseke I yow and warne also,That ye ne prikke with no tormentingeThis tendre mayden, as ye han don mo;For she is fostred in hir norishingeMore tendrely, and, to my supposinge,She coude nat adversitee endureAs coude a povre fostred creature.’And whan this Walter say hir pacience,Hir glade chere and no malice at al,And he so ofte had doon to hir offence,And she ay sad and constant as a wal,Continuing ever hir innocence overal,This sturdy markis gan his herte dresseTo rewen up-on hir wyfly stedfastnesse.‘This is y-nogh, Grisilde myn,’ quod he,‘Be now na-more agast ne yvel apayed;I have thy feith and thy benignitee,As wel as ever womman was, assayed,In greet estaat, and povreliche arrayed.Now knowe I, dere wyf, thy stedfastnesse,’—And hir in armes took and gan hir kesse.And she for wonder took of it no keep;She herde nat what thing he to hir seyde;She ferde as she had stert out of a sleep,Til she out of hir masednesse abreyde.‘Grisilde,’ quod he, ‘by god that for us deyde,Thou art my wyf, ne noon other I have,Ne never hadde, as god my soule save!This is thy doghter which thou hast supposedTo be my wyf; that other feithfullyShal be myn heir, as I have ay purposed;Thou bare him in thy body trewely.At Boloigne have I kept hem prively;Tak hem agayn, for now maystow nat seyeThat thou hast lorn non of thy children tweye.And folk that otherweyes han seyd of me,I warne hem wel that I have doon this dedeFor no malice ne for no crueltee,But for tassaye in thee thy wommanhede,And nat to sleen my children, god forbede!But for to kepe hem prively and stille,Til I thy purpos knewe and al thy wille.’Whan she this herde, aswowne doun she fallethFor pitous Ioye, and after hir swowningeShe bothe hir yonge children un-to hir calleth,And in hir armes, pitously wepinge,Embraceth hem, and tendrely kissingeFul lyk a mooder, with hir salte teresShe batheth bothe hir visage and hir heres.O, which a pitous thing it was to seeHir swowning, and hir humble voys to here!‘Grauntmercy, lord, that thanke I yow,’ quod she,‘That ye han saved me my children dere!Now rekke I never to ben deed right here;Sith I stonde in your love and in your grace,No fors of deeth, ne whan my spirit pace!O tendre, o dere, o yonge children myne,Your woful mooder wende stedfastlyThat cruel houndes or som foul vermyneHadde eten yow; but god, of his mercy,And your benigne fader tendrelyHath doon yow kept;’ and in that same stoundeAl sodeynly she swapte adoun to grounde.And in her swough so sadly holdeth sheHir children two, whan she gan hem tembrace,That with greet sleighte and greet difficulteeThe children from hir arm they gonne arace.O many a teer on many a pitous faceDoun ran of hem that stoden hir bisyde;Unnethe abouten hir mighte they abyde.Walter hir gladeth, and hir sorwe slaketh;She ryseth up, abaysed, from hir traunce,And every wight hir Ioye and feste maketh,Til she hath caught agayn hir contenaunce.Walter hir dooth so feithfully plesaunce,That it was deyntee for to seen the chereBitwixe hem two, now they ben met y-fere.Thise ladyes, whan that they hir tyme say,Han taken hir, and in-to chambre goon,And strepen hir out of hir rude array,And in a cloth of gold that brighte shoon,With a coroune of many a riche stoonUp-on hir heed, they in-to halle hir broghte,And ther she was honoured as hir oghte.Thus hath this pitous day a blisful ende,For every man and womman dooth his mightThis day in murthe and revel to dispendeTil on the welkne shoon the sterres light.For more solempne in every mannes sightThis feste was, and gretter of costage,Than was the revel of hir mariage.Ful many a yeer in heigh prosperiteeLiven thise two in concord and in reste,And richely his doghter maried heUn-to a lord, oon of the worthiesteOf al Itaille; and than in pees and resteHis wyves fader in his court he kepeth,Til that the soule out of his body crepeth.His sone succedeth in his heritageIn reste and pees, after his fader day;And fortunat was eek in mariage,Al putte he nat his wyf in greet assay.This world is nat so strong, it is no nay,As it hath been in olde tymes yore,And herkneth what this auctour seith therfore.This storie is seyd, nat for that wyves sholdeFolwen Grisilde as in humilitee,For it were importable, though they wolde;But for that every wight, in his degree,Sholde be constant in adversiteeAs was Grisilde; therfor Petrark wrytethThis storie, which with heigh style he endyteth.For, sith a womman was so pacientUn-to a mortal man, wel more us oghteReceyven al in gree that god us sent;For greet skile is, he preve that he wroghte.But he ne tempteth no man that he boghte,As seith seint Iame, if ye his pistel rede;He preveth folk al day, it is no drede,And suffreth us, as for our excercyse,With sharpe scourges of adversiteeFul ofte to be bete in sondry wyse;Nat for to knowe our wil, for certes he,Er we were born, knew al our freletee;And for our beste is al his governaunce;Lat us than live in vertuous suffraunce.But o word, lordinges, herkneth er I go:—It were ful hard to finde now a dayesIn al a toun Grisildes three or two;For, if that they were put to swiche assayes,The gold of hem hath now so badde alayesWith bras, that thogh the coyne be fair at yë,It wolde rather breste a-two than plye.For which heer, for the wyves love of Bathe,Whos lyf and al hir secte god maynteneIn heigh maistrye, and elles were it scathe,I wol with lusty herte fresshe and greneSeyn yow a song to glade yow, I wene,And lat us stinte of ernestful matere:—Herkneth my song, that seith in this manere.

Grisilde is deed, and eek hir pacience,And bothe atones buried in Itaille;For which I crye in open audience,No wedded man so hardy be tassailleHis wyves pacience, in hope to findeGrisildes, for in certein he shall faille!O noble wyves, ful of heigh prudence,Lat noon humilitee your tonge naille,Ne lat no clerk have cause or diligenceTo wryte of yow a storie of swich mervailleAs of Grisildis pacient and kinde;Lest Chichevache yow swelwe in hir entraille!Folweth Ekko, that holdeth no silence,But evere answereth at the countretaille;Beth nat bidaffed for your innocence,But sharply tak on yow the governaille.Emprinteth wel this lesson in your mindeFor commune profit, sith it may availle.Ye archewyves, stondeth at defence,Sin ye be stronge as is a greet camaille;Ne suffreth nat that men yow doon offence.And sclendre wyves, feble as in bataille,Beth egre as is a tygre yond in Inde;Ay clappeth as a mille, I yow consaille.Ne dreed hem nat, do hem no reverence;For though thyn housbonde armed be in maille,The arwes of thy crabbed eloquenceShal perce his brest, and eek his aventaille;In Ialousye I rede eek thou him binde,And thou shalt make him couche as dooth a quaille.If thou be fair, ther folk ben in presenceShew thou thy visage and thyn apparaille;If thou be foul, be free of thy dispence,To gete thee freendes ay do thy travaille;Be ay of chere as light as leef on linde,And lat him care, and wepe, and wringe, and waille!