Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. I. Early Poetry: Chaucer to Donne

Geoffrey Chaucer (c. 1340–1400)

Extracts from The Knightes Tale

THIS passeth yeer by yeer, and day by day,

Til it fel oonës, in a morwe of May,

That Emelie, that fairer was to seene

Than is the lilie on hir stalkë grene,

And fresscher than the May with flourës newe—

For with the rosë colour strof hire hewe,

I not which was the fayrere of hem two—

Er it were day, as was hire wone to do,

Sche was arisen, and al redy dight;

For May wol han no sloggardye anight.

The sesoun priketh every gentil herte,

And maketh him out of his sleep to sterte,

And seith, ‘Arys, and do thyn observaunce.’

This makede Emelye han remembraunce

To don honour to May, and for to ryse.

I-clothed was sche fresshe for to devyse.

Hir yelwe heer was browded in a tresse,

Byhynde hir bak, a yerdë long, I gesse.

And in the gardyn at the sonne upriste

Sche walketh up and doun, and as hir liste

Sche gadereth flourës, party whyte and reede,

To make a sotil gerland for hire heede,

And as an aungel hevenlyche sche song.

The gretë tour, that was so thikke and strong,

Which of the castel was the cheef dongeoun,

(Ther as the knightës werën in prisoun,

Of which I toldë yow, and tellen schal)

Was even joynant to the gardyn-wal,

Ther as this Emelye hadde hire pleyynge.

Bright was the sonne, and cleer that morwenynge,

And Palamon, this woful prisoner,

As was his wone, by leve of his gayler,

Was risen, and romede in a chambre on heigh,

In which he al the noble cité seigh,

And eek the gardyn, ful of braunches grene,

Ther as this fresshë Emely the scheene

Was in hir walk, and romede up and doun.

This sorweful prisoner, this Palamon,

Gooth in the chambre, romyng to and fro,

And to himself compleynyng of his woo;

That he was born, ful ofte he seyde, alas!

And so byfel, by aventure or cas,

That thurgh a wyndow thikke, of many a barre

Of iren greet, and squar as eny sparre,

He caste his eyen upon Emelya,

And therwithal he bleynte and cryede, a!

As though he stongen were unto the herte.

And with that crye Arcite anon up-sterte,

And seyde, ‘Cosyn myn, what eyleth the,

That art so pale and deedly on to see?

Why crydestow? who hath the doon offence?

For Goddës love, tak al in pacience

Our prisoun, for it may non other be;

Fortune hath yeven us this adversité.

Som wikke aspect or disposicioun

Of Saturne, by som constellacioun,

Hath yeven us this, although we hadde it sworn;

So stood the heven whan that we were born;

We mote endure it: this is the schort and pleyn.’

This Palamon answerde, and seyde ageyn,

‘Cosyn, for sothe of this opynyoun

Thou hast a veyn ymaginacioun.

This prisoun causëd me not for to crye.

But I was hurt right now thurghout myn eye

Into myn herte, that wol my banë be.

The fairnesse of that lady that I see

Yond in the gardyn romë to and fro,

Is cause of al my crying and my wo.

I not whether sche be womman or goddesse;

But Venus is it, sothly as I gesse.’

And therwithal on knees adoun he fil,

And seydë: ‘Venus, if it be thy wil

Yow in this gardyn thus to transfigure,

Biforn me sorweful wrecchë creäture,

Out of this prisoun help that we may scape.

And if so be my destiné be schape

By eterne word to deyen in prisoun,

Of our lynage have sum compassioun,

That is so lowe y-brought by tyrannye.’

And with that word Arcite gan espye

Wher as this lady romede to and fro.

And with that sighte hir beauté hurte him so,

That if that Palamon was wounded sore,

Arcite is hurt as moche as he, or more.

And with a sigh he seydë pitously:

‘The fresschë beauté sleeth me sodeynly

Of hir that rometh in the yonder place;

And but I have hir mercy and hir grace,

That I may seen hir attë lestë weye,

I nam but deed; ther nys no more to seye.’

And with that word he fel doun in a traunce

A long tyme; and after he upsterte

This Palamon, that thoughte that thurgh his herte

He felte a cold swerd sodeynlichë glyde;

For ire he quook, no lenger nolde he byde.

And whan that he hadde herd Arcitës tale,

As he were wood, with facë deed and pale,

He sterte him up out of the bussches thikke,

And seyde: ‘Arcytë, falsë traitour wikke,

Now art thou hent, that lovest my lady so,

For whom that I have al this peyne and wo,

And art my blood, and to my counseil sworn,

As I ful ofte have told thee heer byforn,

And hast byjapëd heer duk Theseus,

And falsly chaungëd hast thy namë thus;

I wol be deed, or ellës thou schalt dye.

Thou schalt not love my lady Emelye,

But I wil love hir oonly and no mo;

For I am Palamon, thy mortal fo.

And though that I no wepne have in this place,

But out of prisoun am astert by grace,

I dredë not that outher thou schalt dye,

Or thou ne schalt not loven Emelye.

Ches which thou wilt, for thou schalt not asterte.’

This Arcitë, with ful despitous herte,

Whan he him knew, and hadde his talë herd,

As fers as lyoun pullede out a swerd,

And seidë thus: ‘By God that sit above,

Nere it that thou art sik and wood for love,

And eek that thou no wepne hast in this place,

Thou schuldest nevere out of this grovë pace,

That thou ne schuldest deyen of myn hond.

For I defye the seurté and the bond

Which that thou seyst that I have maad to the.

What, verray fool, think wel that love is fre!

And I wol love hir mawgre al thy might.

But, for as muche thou art a worthy knight,

And wilnest to derreyne hir by batayle,

Have heer my trouthe, to-morwe I nyl not fayle,

Withouten wityng of any other wight,

That heer I wol be founden as a knight,

And bryngen harneys right inough for the;

And ches the beste, and leve the worste for me.

And mete and drynkë this night wil I brynge

Inough for the, and clothes for thy beddynge.

And if so be that thou my lady wynne,

And sle me in this woode ther I am inne,

Thou maist wel han thy lady as for me.’

This Palamon answerde: ‘I graunte it the.’

And thus they ben departed til a-morwe,

When ech of hem hadde leyd his feith to borwe.

O Cupide, out of alle charité!

O regne, that wolt no felawe han with the!

Ful soth is seyd, that lovë ne lordschipe

Wol not, his thankes, han no felaweschipe.

Wel fynden that Arcite and Palamoun.

Arcite is riden anon unto the toun,

And on the morwe, er it were dayës light,

Ful prively two harneys hath he dight,

Bothe suffisaunt and metë to darreyne

The batayle in the feeld betwixe hem tweyne.

And on his hors, allone as he was born,

He caryeth al this harneys him byforn;

And in the grove, at tyme and place i-set,

This Arcite and this Palamon ben met.

Tho chaungen gan the colour in here face.

Right as the honter in the regne of Trace

That stondeth at the gappë with a spere,

Whan honted is the lyoun or the bere,

And hereth him come ruschyng in the greves,

And breketh bothë bowës and the leves,

And thinketh, ‘Here comth my mortel enemy,

Withoutë faile, he mot be deed or I;

For eyther I mot slen him at the gappe,

Or he mot sleen me, if that me myshappe:’

So ferden they, in chaungyng of here hewe,

As fer as everich of hem other knewe.

Ther nas no ‘good day,’ ne no saluyng;

But streyt withouten word or rehersyng,

Everych of hem halp for to armen other,

As frendly as he were his owën brother;

And after that with scharpë sperës stronge

They foynen ech at other wonder longe.

Thou myghtest wenë that this Palamon

In his fightynge were as a wood lyoun,

And as a cruel tygre was Arcite:

As wildë boorës gonnë they to smyte

That frothen white as foom for irë wood.

Up to the ancle foughte they in her blood.

First in the temple of Venus maystow se

Wrought on the wal, ful pitous to byholde,

The broken slepës, and the sykës colde;

The sacred teerës, and the waymentyng;

The fyry strokës of the desiryng,

That lovës servauntz in this lyf enduren;

The othës, that her covenantz assuren.

Plesaunce and hope, desyr, fool-hardynesse,

Beauté and youthë, bauderye, richesse,

Charmës and forcë, lesynges, flaterye,

Dispensë, busynesse, and jelousye,

That werede of yelwe goldes a gerland,

And a cokkow sittyng on hir hand;

Festës, instrumentës, caroles, daunces,

Lust and array, and alle the circumstaunces

Of love, whiche that I rekned have and schal,

By ordre weren peynted on the wal.

And mo than I can make of mencioun.

For sothly, al the mount of Citheroun,

Ther Venus hath hir principal dwellyng,

Was schewed on the wal in portreying,

With al the gardyn, and the lustynesse.

Nought was foryete the porter Ydelnesse,

Ne Narcisus the fayre of yore agon,

Ne yet the folye of kyng Salamon,

Ne eek the gretë strengthe of Hercules,

Thenchauntëmentz of Médea and Circes,

Ne of Turnus the hardy fiers corage,

The richë Cresus, caytif in servage.

Thus may ye seen that wisdom ne richesse,

Beauté ne sleightë, strengthe, ne hardynesse,

Ne may with Venus holdë champartye,

For as hir list the world than may sche gye,

Lo, alle thise folk i-caught were in hir las,

Til they for wo ful often sayde allas.

Sufficeth heer ensamples oon or tuo,

And though I couthe rekne a thousend mo.

The statue of Venus, glorious for to see,

Was naked fletyng in the largë see,

And fro the navel doun al covered was

With wawës grene, and brighte as any glas.

A citole in hir right hond haddë sche,

And on hir heed, ful semely for to see,

A rosë garland, fresch and wel smellyng,

Above hir heed hir dowvës flickeryng.

Biforn hir stood hir sonë Cupido,

Upon his schuldres wyngës hadde he two;

And blynd he was, as it is oftë seene;

A bowe he bar and arwes brighte and kene.

Why schulde I nought as wel eek telle you al

The portreiture, that was upon the wal

Withinne the temple of mighty Mars the reede?

Al peynted was the wal in lengthe and breede

Lik to the estres of the grisly place,

That highte the gretë temple of Mars in Trace,

In thilkë coldë frosty regioun,

Ther as Mars hath his sovereyn mansioun.

First on the wal was peynted a forest,

In which ther dwelleth neyther man ne best,

With knotty knarry bareyne treës olde

Of stubbës scharpe and hidous to byholde;

In which ther ran a swymbel in a swough,

As though a storm schulde bersten every bough:

And downward on an hil under a bente,

Ther stood the temple of Marz armypotente,

Wrought al of burned steel, of which thentré

Was long and streyt, and gastly for to see.

And therout cam a rage and such a vese,

That it made al the gates for to rese.

The northern light in at the dorës schon,

For wyndowe on the wal ne was ther noon,

Thurgh which men mighten any light discerne.

The dore was al of ademaunt eterne,

I-clenched overthwart and endëlong

With iren tough; and, for to make it strong,

Every piler the temple to susteene

Was tonnë greet, of iren bright and schene.

Ther saugh I first the derke ymaginyng

Of felonye, and al the compassyng;

The cruel ire, as reed as eny gleede;

The pikëpurs, and eek the palë drede;

The smyler with the knyf under the cloke;

The schepne brennyng with the blakë smoke;

The tresoun of the murtheryng in the bed;

The open werre, with woundës al bi-bled;

Contek with bloody knyf, and scharp manace.

Al ful of chirkyng was that sory place.

The sleëre of himself yet saugh I there,

His hertë-blood hath bathëd al his here;

The nayl y-dryven in the schode a-nyght;

The coldë deth, with mouth gapyng upright.

Amyddës of the temple sat meschaunce,

With disconfort and sory contenaunce.

Yet saugh I woodnesse laughying in his rage;

Armed complaint, outhees, and fiers outrage.

The caroigne in the bussh, with throte y-corve:

A thousand slain, and not of qualme y-storve;

The tiraunt, with the prey by force y-raft;

The toun destroyëd, ther was no thyng laft.

Yet sawgh I brent the schippes hoppesteres;

The huntë strangled with the wildë beres:

The sowe freten the child right in the cradel;

The cook i-skalded, for al his longe ladel.

Nought was foryete by the infortune of Marte;

The cartere over-ryden with his carte,

Under the whel ful lowe he lay adoun.

Ther were also of Martes divisioun,

The barbour, and the bocher; and the smyth

That forgeth scharpë swerdës on his stith

And al above depeynted in a tour

Saw I conquést sittyng in gret honour,

With the scharpë swerd over his heed

Hangynge by a sotil twynës threed.