Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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

The Canterbury Tales

The Prologue

WHAN that Aprille with his shoures soteThe droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote,And bathed every veyne in swich licour,Of which vertu engendred is the flour;Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breethInspired hath in every holt and heethThe tendre croppes, and the yonge sonneHath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,And smale fowles maken melodye,That slepen al the night with open yë,(So priketh hem nature in hir corages):Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages(And palmers for to seken straunge strondes)To ferne halwes, couthe in sondry londes;And specially, from every shires endeOf Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,The holy blisful martir for to seke,That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke.Bifel that, in that seson on a day,In Southwerk at the Tabard as I layRedy to wenden on my pilgrimageTo Caunterbury with ful devout corage,At night was come in-to that hostelryeWel nyne and twenty in a companye,Of sondry folk, by aventure y-falleIn felawshipe, and pilgrims were they alle,That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde;The chambres and the stables weren wyde,And wel we weren esed atte beste.And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste,So hadde I spoken with hem everichon,That I was of hir felawshipe anon,And made forward erly for to ryse,To take our wey, ther as I yow devyse.But natheles, whyl I have tyme and space,Er that I ferther in this tale pace,Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun,To telle yow al the condiciounOf ech of hem, so as it semed me,And whiche they weren, and of what degree;And eek in what array that they were inne:And at a knight than wol I first biginne.A KNIGHT ther was, and that a worthy man,That fro the tyme that he first biganTo ryden out, he loved chivalrye,Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisye.Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre,And therto hadde he riden (no man ferre)As wel in Cristendom as hethenesse,And ever honoured for his worthinesse.At Alisaundre he was, whan it was wonne;Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonneAboven alle naciouns in Pruce.In Lettow hadde he reysed and in Ruce,No Cristen man so ofte of his degree.In Gernade at the sege eek hadde he beOf Algezir, and riden in Belmarye.At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye,Whan they were wonne; and in the Grete SeeAt many a noble aryve hadde he be.At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene,And foughten for our feith at TramisseneIn listes thryes, and ay slayn his foo.This ilke worthy knight had been alsoSomtyme with the lord of Palatye,Ageyn another hethen in Turkye:And evermore he hadde a sovereyn prys.And though that he were worthy, he was wys,And of his port as meke as is a mayde.He never yet no vileinye ne saydeIn al his lyf, un-to no maner wight.He was a verray parfit gentil knight.But for to tellen yow of his array,His hors were gode, but he was nat gay.Of fustian he wered a gipounAl bismotered with his habergeoun;For he was late y-come from his viage,And wente for to doon his pilgrimage.With him ther was his sone, a yong SQUYER,A lovyere, and a lusty bacheler,With lokkes crulle, as they were leyd in presse.Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse.Of his stature he was of evene lengthe,And wonderly deliver, and greet of strengthe.And he had been somtyme in chivachye,In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Picardye,And born him wel, as of so litel space,In hope to stonden in his lady grace.Embrouded was he, as it were a medeAl ful of fresshe floures, whyte and rede.Singinge he was, or floytinge, al the day;He was as fresh as is the month of May.Short was his goune, with sleves longe and wyde.Wel coude he sitte on hors, and faire ryde.He coude songes make and wel endyte,Iuste and eek daunce, and wel purtreye and wryte.So hote he lovede, that by nightertaleHe sleep namore than dooth a nightingale.Curteys he was, lowly, and servisable,And carf biforn his fader at the table.A YEMAN hadde he, and servaunts namoAt that tyme, for him liste ryde so;And he was clad in cote and hood of grene;A sheef of pecok-arwes brighte and keneUnder his belt he bar ful thriftily;(Wel coude he dresse his takel yemanly:His arwes drouped noght with fetheres lowe),And in his hand he bar a mighty bowe.A not-heed hadde he, with a broun visage.Of wode-craft wel coude he al the usage.Upon his arm he bar a gay bracer,And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler,And on that other syde a gay daggere,Harneised wel, and sharp as point of spere;A Cristofre on his brest of silver shene.An horn he bar, the bawdrik was of grene;A forster was he, soothly, as I gesse.Ther was also a Nonne, a PRIORESSE,That of hir smyling was ful simple and coy;Hir gretteste ooth was but by sëynt Loy;And she was cleped madame Eglentyne.Ful wel she song the service divyne,Entuned in hir nose ful semely;And Frensh she spak ful faire and fetisly,After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,For Frensh of Paris was to hir unknowe.At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle;She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle,Ne wette hir fingres in hir sauce depe.Wel coude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe,That no drope ne fille up-on hir brest.In curteisye was set ful muche hir lest.Hir over lippe wyped she so clene,That in hir coppe was no ferthing seneOf grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte.Ful semely after hir mete she raughte,And sikerly she was of greet disport,And ful plesaunt, and amiable of port,And peyned hir to countrefete chereOf court, and been estatlich of manere,And to ben holden digne of reverence.But, for to speken of hir conscience,She was so charitable and so pitous,She wolde wepe, if that she sawe a mousCaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde.Of smale houndes had she, that she feddeWith rosted flesh, or milk and wastel-breed.But sore weep she if oon of hem were deed,Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte:And al was conscience and tendre herte.Ful semely hir wimpel pinched was;Hir nose tretys; hir eyen greye as glas;Hir mouth ful smal, and ther-to softe and reed;But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed;It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe;For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe.Ful fetis was hir cloke, as I was war.Of smal coral aboute hir arm she barA peire of bedes, gauded al with grene;And ther-on heng a broche of gold ful shene,On which ther was first write a crowned A,And after, Amor vincit omnia.Another NONNE with hir hadde she,That was hir chapeleyne, and PREESTES three.A MONK ther was, a fair for the maistrye,An out-rydere, that lovede venerye;A manly man, to been an abbot able.Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable:And, whan he rood, men mighte his brydel hereGinglen in a whistling wind as clere,And eek as loude as dooth the chapel-belle,Ther as this lord was keper of the celle.The reule of seint Maure or of seint Beneit,By-cause that it was old and som-del streit,This ilke monk leet olde thinges pace,And held after the newe world the space.He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen,That seith, that hunters been nat holy men;Ne that a monk, whan he is cloisterlees,Is lykned til a fish that is waterlees;This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloistre.But thilke text held he nat worth an oistre;And I seyde, his opinioun was good.What sholde he studie, and make him-selven wood,Upon a book in cloistre alwey to poure,Or swinken with his handes, and laboure,As Austin bit? How shal the world be served?Lat Austin have his swink to him reserved.Therfore he was a pricasour aright;Grehoundes he hadde, as swifte as fowel in flight;Of priking and of hunting for the hareWas al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare.I seigh his sleves purfiled at the hondWith grys, and that the fyneste of a lond;And, for to festne his hood under his chin,He hadde of gold y-wroght a curious pin:A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was.His heed was balled, that shoon as any glas,And eek his face, as he had been anoint.He was a lord ful fat and in good point;His eyen stepe, and rollinge in his heed,That stemed as a forneys of a leed;His botes souple, his hors in greet estat.Now certeinly he was a fair prelat;He was nat pale as a for-pyned goost.A fat swan loved he best of any roost.His palfrey was as broun as is a berye.A FRERE ther was, a wantown and a merye,A limitour, a ful solempne man.In alle the ordres foure is noon that canSo muche of daliaunce and fair langage.He hadde maad ful many a mariageOf yonge wommen, at his owne cost.Un-to his ordre he was a noble post.Ful wel biloved and famulier was heWith frankeleyns over-al in his contree,And eek with worthy wommen of the toun:For he had power of confessioun,As seyde him-self, more than a curat,For of his ordre he was licentiat.Ful swetely herde he confessioun,And plesaunt was his absolucioun;He was an esy man to yeve penaunceTher as he wiste to han a good pitaunce;For unto a povre ordre for to yiveIs signe that a man is wel y-shrive.For if he yaf, he dorste make avaunt,He wiste that a man was repentaunt.For many a man so hard is of his herte,He may nat wepe al-thogh him sore smerte.Therfore, in stede of weping and preyeres,Men moot yeve silver to the povre freres.His tipet was ay farsed ful of knyvesAnd pinnes, for to yeven faire wyves.And certeinly he hadde a mery note;Wel coude he singe and pleyen on a rote.Of yeddinges he bar utterly the prys.His nekke whyt was as the flour-de-lys;Ther-to he strong was as a champioun.He knew the tavernes wel in every toun,And everich hostiler and tappestereBet than a lazar or a beggestere;For un-to swich a worthy man as heAcorded nat, as by his facultee,To have with seke lazars aqueyntaunce.It is nat honest, it may nat avaunceFor to delen with no swich poraille,But al with riche and sellers of vitaille.And over-al, ther as profit sholde aryse,Curteys he was, and lowly of servyse.Ther nas no man no-wher so vertuous.He was the beste beggere in his hous;
[And yaf a certeyn ferme for the graunt;
Noon of his bretheren cam ther in his haunt;]For thogh a widwe hadde noght a sho,So plesaunt was his “In principio,”Yet wolde he have a ferthing, er he wente.His purchas was wel bettre than his rente.And rage he coude, as it were right a whelpe.In love-dayes ther coude he muchel helpe.For there he was nat lyk a cloisterer,With a thredbar cope, as is a povre scoler,But he was lyk a maister or a pope.Of double worsted was his semi-cope,That rounded as a belle out of the presse.Somwhat he lipsed, for his wantownesse,To make his English swete up-on his tonge;And in his harping, whan that he had songe,His eyen twinkled in his heed aright,As doon the sterres in the frosty night.This worthy limitour was cleped Huberd.A MARCHANT was ther with a forked berd,In mottelee, and hye on horse he sat,Up-on his heed a Flaundrish bever hat;His botes clasped faire and fetisly.His resons he spak ful solempnely,Souninge alway thencrees of his winning.He wolde the see were kept for any thingBitwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle.Wel coude he in eschaunge sheeldes selle.This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette;Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette,So estatly was he of his governaunce,With his bargaynes, and with his chevisaunce.For sothe he was a worthy man with-alle,But sooth to seyn, I noot how men him calle.A CLERK ther was of Oxenford also,That un-to logik hadde longe y-go.As lene was his hors as is a rake,And he nas nat right fat, I undertake;But loked holwe, and ther-to soberly.Ful thredbar was his overest courtepy;For he had geten him yet no benefyce,Ne was so worldly for to have offyce.For him was lever have at his beddes heedTwenty bokes, clad in blak or reed,Of Aristotle and his philosophye,Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrye.But al be that he was a philosophre,Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre;But al that he mighte of his freendes hente,On bokes and on lerninge he it spente,And bisily gan for the soules preyeOf hem that yaf him wher-with to scoleye.Of studie took he most cure and most hede.Noght o word spak he more than was nede,And that was seyd in forme and reverence,And short and quik, and ful of hy sentence.Souninge in moral vertu was his speche,And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.A SERGEANT OF THE LAWE, war and wys,That often hadde been at the parvys,Ther was also, ful riche of excellence.Discreet he was, and of greet reverence:He semed swich, his wordes weren so wyse.Iustyce he was ful often in assyse,By patente, and by pleyn commissioun;For his science, and for his heigh renounOf fees and robes hadde he many oon.So greet a purchasour was no-wher noon.Al was fee simple to him in effect,His purchasing mighte nat been infect.No-wher so bisy a man as he ther nas,And yet he semed bisier than he was.In termes hadde he caas and domes alle,That from the tyme of king William were falle.Therto he coude endyte, and make a thing,Ther coude no wight pinche at his wryting;And every statut coude he pleyn by rote.He rood but hoomly in a medlee coteGirt with a ceint of silk, with barres smale;Of his array telle I no lenger tale.A FRANKELEYN was in his companye;Whyt was his berd, as is the dayesye.Of his complexioun he was sangwyn.Wel loved he by the morwe a sop in wyn.To liven in delyt was ever his wone,For he was Epicurus owne sone,That heeld opinioun, that pleyn delytWas verraily felicitee parfyt.An housholdere, and that a greet, was he;Seint Iulian he was in his contree.His breed, his ale, was alwey after oon;A bettre envyned man was no-wher noon.With-oute bake mete was never his hous,Of fish and flesh, and that so plentevous,It snewed in his hous of mete and drinke,Of alle deyntees that men coude thinke.After the sondry sesons of the yeer,So chaunged he his mete and his soper.Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in mewe,And many a breem and many a luce in stewe.Wo was his cook, but-if his sauce werePoynaunt and sharp, and redy al his gere.His table dormant in his halle alwayStood redy covered al the longe day.At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire;Ful ofte tyme he was knight of the shire.An anlas and a gipser al of silkHeng at his girdel, whyt as morne milk.A shirreve hadde he been, and a countour;Was no-wher such a worthy vavasour.An HABERDASSHER and a CARPENTER,A WEBBE, a DYERE, and a TAPICER,Were with us eek, clothed in o liveree,Of a solempne and greet fraternitee.Ful fresh and newe hir gere apyked was;Hir knyves were y-chaped noght with bras,But al with silver, wroght ful clene and weel,Hir girdles and hir pouches every-deel.Wel semed ech of hem a fair burgeys,To sitten in a yeldhalle on a deys.Everich, for the wisdom that he can,Was shaply for to been an alderman.For catel hadde they y-nogh and rente,And eek hir wyves wolde it wel assente;And elles certein were they to blame.It is ful fair to been y-clept “ma dame,”And goon to vigilyës al bifore,And have a mantel royalliche y-bore.A COOK they hadde with hem for the nones,To boille the chiknes with the mary-bones,And poudre-marchant tart, and galingale.Wel coude he knowe a draughte of London ale.He coude roste, and sethe, and broille, and frye,Maken mortreux, and wel bake a pye.But greet harm was it, as it thoughte me,That on his shine a mormal hadde he;For blankmanger, that made he with the beste.A SHIPMAN was ther, woning fer by weste:For aught I woot, he was of Dertemouthe.He rood up-on a rouncy, as he couthe,In a gowne of falding to the knee.A daggere hanging on a laas hadde heAboute his nekke under his arm adoun.The hote somer had maad his hewe al broun;And, certeinly, he was a good felawe.Ful many a draughte of wyn had he y-draweFrom Burdeux-ward, whyl that the chapman sleep.Of nyce conscience took he no keep.If that he faught, and hadde the hyer hond,By water he sente hem hoom to every lond.But of his craft to rekene wel his tydes,His stremes and his daungers him bisydes,His herberwe and his mone, his lodemenage,Ther nas noon swich from Hulle to Cartage.Hardy he was, and wys to undertake;With many a tempest hadde his berd been shake.He knew wel alle the havenes, as they were,From Gootlond to the cape of Finistere,And every cryke in Britayne and in Spayne;His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne.With us ther was a DOCTOUR OF PHISYK,In al this world ne was ther noon him lykTo speke of phisik and of surgerye;For he was grounded in astronomye.He kepte his pacient a ful greet delIn houres, by his magik naturel.Wel coude he fortunen the ascendentOf his images for his pacient.He knew the cause of everich maladye,Were it of hoot or cold, or moiste, or drye,And where engendred, and of what humour;He was a verrey parfit practisour.The cause y-knowe, and of his harm the rote,Anon he yaf the seke man his bote.Ful redy hadde he his apothecaries,To sende him drogges and his letuaries,For ech of hem made other for to winne;Hir frendschipe nas nat newe to biginne.Wel knew he the olde Esculapius,And Deiscorides, and eek Rufus,Old Ypocras, Haly, and Galien;Serapion, Razis, and Avicen;Averrois, Damascien, and Constantyn;Bernard, and Gatesden, and Gilbertyn.Of his diete mesurable was he,For it was of no superfluitee,But of greet norissing and digestible.His studie was but litel on the Bible.In sangwin and in pers he clad was al,Lyned with taffata and with sendal;And yet he was but esy of dispence;He kepte that he wan in pestilence.For gold in phisik is a cordial,Therfore he lovede gold in special.A good WYF was ther of bisyde BATHE,But she was som-del deef, and that was scathe.Of clooth-making she hadde swiche an haunt,She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt.In al the parisshe wyf ne was ther noonThat to the offring bifore hir sholde goon;And if ther dide, certeyn, so wrooth was she,That she was out of alle charitee.Hir coverchiefs ful fyne were of ground;I dorste swere they weyeden ten poundThat on a Sonday were upon hir heed.Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed,Ful streite y-teyd, and shoos ful moiste and newe.Bold was hir face, and fair, and reed of hewe.She was a worthy womman al hir lyve,Housbondes at chirche-dore she hadde fyve,Withouten other companye in youthe;But therof nedeth nat to speke as nouthe.And thryes hadde she been at Ierusalem;She hadde passed many a straunge streem;At Rome she hadde been, and at Boloigne,In Galice at seint Iame, and at Coloigne.She coude muche of wandring by the weye;Gat-tothed was she, soothly for to seye.Up-on an amblere esily she sat,Y-wimpled wel, and on hir heed an hatAs brood as is a bokeler or a targe;A foot-mantel aboute hir hipes large,And on hir feet a paire of spores sharpe.In felawschip wel coude she laughe and carpe.Of remedyes of love she knew per-chaunce,For she coude of that art the olde daunce.A good man was ther of religioun,And was a povre PERSOUN of a toun;But riche he was of holy thoght and werk.He was also a lerned man, a clerk,That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche;His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche.Benigne he was, and wonder diligent,And in adversitee ful pacient;And swich he was y-preved ofte sythes.Ful looth were him to cursen for his tythes,But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute,Un-to his povre parisshens abouteOf his offring, and eek of his substaunce.He coude in litel thing han suffisaunce.Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer a-sonder,But he ne lafte nat, for reyn ne thonder,In siknes nor in meschief, to visyteThe ferreste in his parisshe, muche and lyte,Up-on his feet, and in his hand a staf.This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf,That first he wroghte, and afterward he taughte;Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte;And this figure he added eek ther-to,That if gold ruste, what shal iren do?For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste,No wonder is a lewed man to ruste;And shame it is, if a preest take keep,A shiten shepherde and a clene sheep.Wel oghte a preest ensample for to yive,By his clennesse, how that his sheep shold live.He sette nat his benefice to hyre,And leet his sheep encombred in the myre,And ran to London, un-to sëynt Poules,To seken him a chaunterie for soules,Or with a bretherhed to been withholde;But dwelte at hoom, and kepte wel his folde,So that the wolf ne made it nat miscarie;He was a shepherde and no mercenarie.And though he holy were, and vertuous,He was to sinful man nat despitous,Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne,But in his teching discreet and benigne.To drawen folk to heven by fairnesseBy good ensample, was his bisinesse:But it were any persone obstinat,What-so he were, of heigh or lowe estat,Him wolde he snibben sharply for the nones.A bettre preest, I trowe that nowher noon is.He wayted after no pompe and reverence,Ne maked him a spyced conscience,But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve,He taughte, and first he folwed it him-selve.With him ther was a PLOWMAN, was his brother,That hadde y-lad of dong ful many a fother,A trewe swinker and a good was he,Livinge in pees and parfit charitee.God loved he best with al his hole herteAt alle tymes, thogh him gamed or smerte,And thanne his neighebour right as him-selve.He wolde thresshe, and ther-to dyke and delve,For Cristes sake, for every povre wight,Withouten hyre, if it lay in his might.His tythes payed he ful faire and wel,Bothe of his propre swink and his catel.In a tabard he rood upon a mere.Ther was also a Reve and a Millere,A Somnour and a Pardoner also,A Maunciple, and my-self; ther were namo.The MILLER was a stout carl, for the nones,Ful big he was of braun, and eek of bones;That proved wel, for over-al ther he cam,At wrastling he wolde have alwey the ram.He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke knarre,Ther nas no dore that he nolde heve of harre,Or breke it, at a renning, with his heed.His berd as any sowe or fox was reed,And ther-to brood, as though it were a spade.Up-on the cop right of his nose he hadeA werte, and ther-on stood a tuft of heres,Reed as the bristles of a sowes eres;His nose-thirles blake were and wyde.A swerd and bokeler bar he by his syde;His mouth as greet was as a greet forneys.He was a Ianglere and a goliardeys,And that was most of sinne and harlotryes.Wel coude he stelen corn, and tollen thryes;And yet he hadde a thombe of gold, pardee.A whyt cote and a blew hood wered he.A baggepype wel coude he blowe and sowne,And ther-with-al he broghte us out of towne.A gentil MAUNCIPLE was ther of a temple,Of which achatours mighte take exempleFor to be wyse in bying of vitaille.For whether that he payde, or took by taille,Algate he wayted so in his achat,That he was ay biforn and in good stat.Now is nat that of God a ful fair grace,That swich a lewed mannes wit shal paceThe wisdom of an heep of lerned men?Of maistres hadde he mo than thryes ten,That were of lawe expert and curious;Of which ther were a doseyn in that hous,Worthy to been stiwardes of rente and londOf any lord that is in Engelond,To make him live by his propre good,In honour dettelees, but he were wood,Or live as scarsly as him list desire;And able for to helpen al a shireIn any cas that mighte falle or happe;And yit this maunciple sette hir aller cappe.The REVE was a sclendre colerik man,His berd was shave as ny as ever he can.His heer was by his eres round y-shorn.His top was dokked lyk a preest biforn.Ful longe were his legges, and ful lene,Y-lyk a staf, ther was no calf y-sene.Wel coude he kepe a gerner and a binne;Ther was noon auditour coude on him winne.Wel wiste he, by the droghte, and by the reyn,The yelding of his seed, and of his greyn.His lordes sheep, his neet, his dayerye,His swyn, his hors, his stoor, and his pultrye,Was hoolly in this reves governing,And by his covenaunt yaf the rekening,Sin that his lord was twenty yeer of age;Ther coude no man bringe him in arrerage.Ther nas baillif, ne herde, ne other hyne,That he ne knew his sleighte and his covyne;They were adrad of him, as of the deeth.His woning was ful fair up-on an heeth,With grene treës shadwed was his place.He coude bettre than his lord purchace.Ful riche he was astored prively,His lord wel coude he plesen subtilly,To yeve and lene him of his owne good,And have a thank, and yet a cote and hood.In youthe he lerned hadde a good mister;He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter.This reve sat up-on a ful good stot,That was al pomely grey, and highte Scot.A long surcote of pers up-on he hade,And by his syde he bar a rusty blade.Of Northfolk was this reve, of which I telle,Bisyde a toun men clepen Baldeswelle.Tukked he was, as is a frere, aboute,And ever he rood the hindreste of our route.A SOMNOUR was ther with us in that place,That hadde a fyr-reed cherubinnes face,For sawcefleem he was, with eyen narwe.As hoot he was, and lecherous, as a sparwe;With scalled browes blake, and piled berd;Of his visage children were aferd.Ther nas quik-silver, litarge, ne brimstoon,Boras, ceruce, ne oille of tartre noon,Ne oynement that wolde clense and byte,That him mighte helpen of his whelkes whyte,Nor of the knobbes sittinge on his chekes.Wel loved he garleek, oynons, and eek lekes,And for to drinken strong wyn, reed as blood.Thanne wolde he speke, and crye as he were wood.And whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn,Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn.A fewe termes hadde he, two or three,That he had lerned out of som decree;No wonder is, he herde it al the day;And eek ye knowen wel, how that a IayCan clepen ‘Watte,’ as well as can the pope.But who-so coude in other thing him grope,Thanne hadde he spent al his philosophye;Ay ‘Questio quid iuris’ wolde he crye.He was a gentil harlot and a kinde;A bettre felawe sholde men noght finde.He wolde suffre, for a quart of wyn,A good felawe to have his concubynA twelf-month, and excuse him atte fulle:Ful prively a finch eek coude he pulle.And if he fond o-wher a good felawe,He wolde techen him to have non awe,In swich cas, of the erchedeknes curs,But-if a mannes soule were in his purs;For in his purs he sholde y-punisshed be.‘Purs is the erchedeknes helle,’ seyde he.But wel I woot he lyed right in dede;Of cursing oghte ech gilty man him drede—For curs wol slee, right as assoilling saveth—And also war him of a significavit.In daunger hadde he at his owne gyseThe yonge girles of the diocyse,And knew hir counseil, and was al hir reed.A gerland hadde he set up-on his heed,As greet as it were for an ale-stake;A bokeler hadde he maad him of a cake.With him ther rood a gentil PARDONEROf Rouncival, his freend and his compeer,That streight was comen fro the court of Rome.Ful loude he song, ‘Com hider, love, to me.’This somnour bar to him a stif burdoun,Was never trompe of half so greet a soun.This pardoner hadde heer as yelow as wex,But smothe it heng, as dooth a strike of flex;By ounces henge his lokkes that he hadde,And ther-with he his shuldres overspradde;But thinne it lay, by colpons oon and oon;But hood, for Iolitee, ne wered he noon,For it was trussed up in his walet.Him thoughte, he rood al of the newe Iet;Dischevele, save his cappe, he rood al bare.Swiche glaringe eyen hadde he as an hare.A vernicle hadde he sowed on his cappe.His walet lay biforn him in his lappe,Bret-ful of pardoun come from Rome al hoot.A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot.No berd hadde he, ne never sholde have,As smothe it was as it were late y-shave;I trowe he were a gelding or a mare.But of his craft, fro Berwik into Ware,Ne was ther swich another pardoner.For in his male he hadde a pilwe-beer,Which that, he seyde, was our lady veyl:He seyde, he hadde a gobet of the seylThat sëynt Peter hadde, whan that he wenteUp-on the see, til Iesu Crist him hente.He hadde a croys of latoun, ful of stones,And in a glas he hadde pigges bones.But with thise relikes, whan that he fondA povre person dwelling up-on lond,Up-on a day he gat him more moneyeThan that the person gat in monthes tweye.And thus, with feyned flaterye and Iapes,He made the person and the peple his apes.But trewely to tellen, atte laste,He was in chirche a noble ecclesiaste.Wel coude he rede a lessoun or a storie,But alderbest he song an offertorie;For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe,He moste preche, and wel affyle his tonge,To winne silver, as he ful wel coude;Therefore he song so meriely and loude.Now have I told you shortly, in a clause,Thestat, tharray, the nombre, and eek the causeWhy that assembled was this companyeIn Southwerk, at this gentil hostelrye,That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle.But now is tyme to yow for to telleHow that we baren us that ilke night,Whan we were in that hostelrye alight.And after wol I telle of our viage,And al the remenaunt of our pilgrimage.But first I pray yow, of your curteisye,That ye narette it nat my vileinye,Thogh that I pleynly speke in this matere,To telle yow hir wordes and hir chere;Ne thogh I speke hir wordes properly.For this ye knowen al-so wel as I,Who-so shal telle a tale after a man,He moot reherce, as ny as ever he can,Everich a word, if it be in his charge,Al speke he never so rudeliche and large;Or elles he moot telle his tale untrewe,Or feyne thing, or finde wordes newe.He may nat spare, al-thogh he were his brother;He moot as wel seye o word as another.Crist spak him-self ful brode in holy writ,And wel ye woot, no vileinye is it.Eek Plato seith, who-so that can him rede,The wordes mote be cosin to the dede.Also I prey yow to foryeve it me,Al have I nat set folk in hir degreeHere in this tale, as that they sholde stonde;My wit is short, ye may wel understonde.Greet chere made our hoste us everichon,And to the soper sette he us anon;And served us with vitaille at the beste.Strong was the wyn, and wel to drinke us leste.A semely man our hoste was with-alleFor to han been a marshal in an halle;A large man he was with eyen stepe,A fairer burgeys is ther noon in Chepe:Bold of his speche, and wys, and wel y-taught,And of manhod him lakkede right naught.Eek therto he was right a mery man,And after soper pleyen he bigan,And spak of mirthe amonges othere thinges,Whan that we hadde maad our rekeninges;And seyde thus: ‘Now, lordinges, trewely,Ye been to me right welcome hertely:For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye,I ne saugh this yeer so mery a companyeAt ones in this herberwe as is now.Fayn wolde I doon yow mirthe, wiste I how.And of a mirthe I am right now bithoght,To doon yow ese, and it shal coste noght.Ye goon to Caunterbury; God yow spede,The blisful martir quyte yow your mede.And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye,Ye shapen yow to talen and to pleye;For trewely, confort ne mirthe is noonTo ryde by the weye doumb as a stoon;And therfore wol I maken yow disport,As I seyde erst, and doon yow som confort.And if yow lyketh alle, by oon assent,Now for to stonden at my Iugement,And for to werken as I shal yow seye,To-morwe, whan ye ryden by the weye,Now, by my fader soule, that is deed,But ye be merye, I wol yeve yow myn heed.Hold up your hond, withouten more speche.’Our counseil was nat longe for to seche;Us thoughte it was noght worth to make it wys,And graunted him withouten more avys,And bad him seye his verdit, as him leste.‘Lordinges,’ quod he, ‘now herkneth for the beste;But tak it not, I prey yow, in desdeyn;This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn,That ech of yow, to shorte with your weye,In this viage, shal telle tales tweye,To Caunterbury-ward, I mene it so,And hom-ward he shal tellen othere two,Of aventures that whylom han bifalle.And which of yow that bereth him best of alle,That is to seyn, that telleth in this casTales of best sentence and most solas,Shal have a soper at our aller costHere in this place, sitting by this post,Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbury.And for to make yow the more mery,I wol my-selven gladly with yow ryde,Right at myn owne cost, and be your gyde.And who-so wol my Iugement withseyeShal paye al that we spenden by the weye.And if ye vouche-sauf that it be so,Tel me anon, with-outen wordes mo,And I wol erly shape me therfore.’This thing was graunted, and our othes sworeWith ful glad herte, and preyden him alsoThat he wold vouche-sauf for to do so,And that he wolde been our governour,And of our tales Iuge and reportour,And sette a soper at a certeyn prys;And we wold reuled been at his devys,In heigh and lowe; and thus, by oon assent,We been acorded to his Iugement.And ther-up-on the wyn was fet anon;We dronken, and to reste wente echon,With-outen any lenger taryinge.A-morwe, whan that day bigan to springe,Up roos our host, and was our aller cok,And gadrede us togidre, alle in a flok,And forth we riden, a litel more than pas,Un-to the watering of seint Thomas.And there our host bigan his hors areste,And seyde; ‘Lordinges, herkneth, if yow leste.Ye woot your forward, and I it yow recorde.If even-song and morwe-song acorde,Lat se now who shal telle the firste tale.As ever mote I drinke wyn or ale,Who-so be rebel to my IugementShal paye for al that by the weye is spent.Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer twinne;He which that hath the shortest shal beginne.Sire knight,’ quod he, ‘my maister and my lord,Now draweth cut, for that is myn acord.Cometh neer,’ quod he, ‘my lady prioresse;And ye, sir clerk, lat be your shamfastnesse,Ne studieth noght; ley hond to, every man.’Anon to drawen every wight bigan,And shortly for to tellen, as it was,Were it by aventure, or sort, or cas,The sothe is this, the cut fil to the knight,Of which ful blythe and glad was every wight;And telle he moste his tale, as was resoun,By forward and by composicioun,As ye han herd; what nedeth wordes mo?And whan this gode man saugh it was so,As he that wys was and obedientTo kepe his forward by his free assent,He seyde: ‘Sin I shal biginne the game,What, welcome be the cut, a Goddes name!Now lat us ryde, and herkneth what I seye.’And with that word we riden forth our weye;And he bigan with right a mery chereHis tale anon, and seyde in this manere.