828
C5c
1885
REPRI
CANTERBURY TALES
Legongo nt, Good
PRESENTED TO
THE ENGLISH LIBRARY
OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
Shechen Sto

A
ARTES
LIBRARY
BY


1837
VERITAS
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
・E. PLURIBUS.INUM
STUE DUR
SCIENTIA
OF THE
SI-QUAERIS PENINSULAM AMOENAME
CIRCUMSPICE
VWVOR
n
REPRINTS FROM
CHAUCER'S
CANTERBURY TALES
AND
LEGENDE OF GOOD WOMEN.
ARRANGED FOR THE USE OF STUDENTS
IN THE
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN.
chorsen, Geoft
crcofe med.
as
SHEEHAN & CO.
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS,
ANN ARBOR, MICH,
9.5.01.
tramli
VAHS
छो
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}
THE NONNE PRESTES TALE.
A POURE wydow somdel stope in age,
Was whilom dwellyng in a narwe cotage,
Bisyde a grove, stondyng in a dale.
This wydwe of which I telle yow my tale.
Syn thilke day that sche was last a wif,
In pacience ladde a ful symple lyf,
For litel was hire catel and hire rente
By housbondrye of such as God hire sente,
Sche fond hireself, and eek hire doughtren tuo.
Thre large sowes hadde sche, and no mo,
Thre kyn, and eek a scheep that highte Malle.
Ful sooty was hire bour, and eek hire halle,
In which she eet ful many a sclender meel.
Of poynaunt sawce hire needede never a deel.
No deynte morsel passede thurgh hire throte:
Hire dyete was accordant to hire cote.
Repleccioun made hire nevere sik;
Attempre dyete was al hire phisik,
And exercise, and hertes suffisaunce.
The goute lette hire nothing for to daunce,
Ne poplexie schente nor hire heed;
No wyn ne drank sche, nother whit nor reed;
Hire bord was served most with whit and blak,
Milk and broun bred, in which sche fond no lak,
Seynd bacoun, and somtyme an ey or tweye,
For she was as it were a maner deye.
A yerd she hadde, enclosed al aboute,
With stikkes, and a drye dich withoute,
In which she hadde a cok, highte Chauntecleer,
In al the lond of crowyng nas his peer.
His vois was merier than the merye orgon,
On masse dayes that in the chirche goon:
Wel sikerer was his crowyng in his logge,
Than is a clok, or an abbay orlogge.
By nature knew he ech ascencioun
Of equinoxial in thilke toun;
For whan degrees fvftene were ascended,
Thanne crew he, that it mighte not ben amended.
His comb was redder than the fyn coral,
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And bataylld, as it were a castel wal.
His bile was blak, and as the geet it schon :
Lik asure were his legges, and his ton;
His nayles whitter than the lilye flour,
And lik the burnischt gold was his colour.
This gentil cok hadde in his governaunce
Sevene hennes, for to don al his plesaunce,
Whiche were his sustres, and his paramoures,
And wonder like to him, as of coloures.
Of whiche the faireste hewed on hire throte
Was cleped fayre damoysele Pertelote.
Curteys sche was, discret, and debonaire,
And compainable, and bar hire self ful faire,
Syn thilke day that sche was seven night old,
That trewely sche hath the herte in hold
Of Chauntecleer loken in every lith;
He lovede hire so, that wel him was therwith.
But such a joy was it to here hem synge,
When that the brighte sonne gan to springe,
In swete accord, my lief is faren on londe.'
For thilke tyme, as I have understonde,
Bestes and briddes cowde speke and synge.
And so byfel, that in a dawenynge,
As Chauntecleer among his wyves alle
Sat on his perche, that was in the halle.
And next him sat his faire Pertelote,
This Chauntecleer gan gronen in his throte,
As man that in his dreem is drecched sore.
And whan that Pertelote thus herde him rore,
Sche was agast and sayde, O herte deere,
What eyleth yow to grone in this manere?
le ben a verray sleper, fy for schame!'
And he answerde and sayde thus, Madame,
I praye yow, that ye take it nought agrief:
By God me mette I was in such meschief
Right now, that y.t myn herte is sore afright.
Now God,' quod he, my swevene rede aright,
And keep my body out of foul prisoun!
Me mette, how that I romede up and doun
Withinne our yerde, wher as I saugh a beest,
Was lik an hound, and wolde han maad areest
Upon my body, and wolde han had me deed.
His colour was betwixe yelwe and reed;
And tipped was his tail, and bothe his eeres:
With blak, unlik the remenaunt of his heres:
His snowte smal, with glowyng eyen tweye.
2et of his look for feere almost I deve:
This causede me my gronyng douteles.'
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'Avoy!' quod sche, 'fy on yow, herteles!
Alas!' quod sche, for, by that God above!
Now han ye lost my herte and al my love:
I can nought love a coward by my feith.
For certes, what so eny womman seith,
We alle desiren, if it mighte be,
To han housbandes, hardy, wise and fre.
And secre, and no nygard, ne no fool.
Ne him that is agast at every tool,
Ne noon avauntour, by that God above!
How dorste ye sayn for schame unto youre love.
That any thing mighte make vow aferd?
Han ye no mannes herte, and han a berd?
Allas! and konne ye been agast of swevenys?
Nothing, God wot, but vanite, in swevene is.
Swevenes engendren of replecciouns,
And fte of fume, and of complecciouns,
Whan humours ben to abundaunt in a wight,
Certes this dreem, which ye han met to-night.
Cometh the grete superfluite,
Of youre reede colera, parde,
Which cau eth folk to dremen in here dremes
Of arwes, and of fyr with reede leemes,
Of grete bestes, that thai woln hem byte,
Of contek, and of whe pes greete and lite:
Right as the humour of malencolie
Causeth ful many a man, in sleep, to crye.
For fere of beres, or of boles blake,
Or elles blake develes woln him take.
Of othere humours couthe I telle also,
That wirken many a man in slep ful woo:
But I wol passe as lightly as I can.
Lo Catoun, which that was so wis a man,
Sayde he nought thus, ne do no fors of dremes?
Now, sire,' quod sche, 'whan we flen fro the beemes.
For Goddes love, as tak som laxatyf;
Up peril of my soule, and of my lyf,
I counseille yow the beste, I wol not lye,
That bothe of colere, and of malencolye
Ye purge yow; and for ye schul nat tarve,
Though in this toun is noon apotecarie,
I schal myself to herbes techen yow,
That schul ben for youre hele, and for youre prow:
And in oure yerd tho herbes schal I fynde,
The whiche han of here proprete by kynde
To purgen yow bynethe, and eek above.
Forget not this, for Goddes oughne love!
Ve ben ful colerik of compleccioun.
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THE NONNE PRESTES TALE.
Ware the sonne in his ascencioun
Ne fynde yow not replet of humours hote:
And if it do, I dar wel laye a grote,
That ye schul have a fevere terciane,
Or an agu, that may be youre bane.
A day or tuo ye schul han digestives
Of wormes, or ye take youre laxatives,
Of lauriol, centaur, and fumetere,
Or elles of ellebor, that groweth there,
Of catapuce, or of gaytres beryis,
Of erbe yve, growyng in oure yerd, that mery is:
Pekke hem up right as thay growe, and ete hem in.
Be mery, housbonde, for youre fader kyn!
Dredeth no dreem; I can say yow no more.'
Madame,' quod he, graunt mercy of youre lore.
But natheles, as touching daun Catoun,
That hath of wisdom such a gret renoun,
Though that he bad no dremes for to drede,
By God, men may in olde bookes rede
Of many a man, more of auctorite
Than evere Catoun was, so mot I the,
That all the revers sayn of this sentence.
And han wel founden by experience,
That dremes ben significaciouns,
As wel of joye, as tribulaciouns,
That folk enduren in this lif present.
Ther nedeth make of this noon argument:
The verray preve scheweth it in dede.
Oon of the gretteste auctours that men rede
Saith thus, that whilom two felawes wente
On pylgrimage in a ful good entente;
And happede so, thay come into a toun,
Wher as ther was such congregacioun
Of peple, and eek so streyt of herbergage,
That thay ne founde as moche as oon cotage.
In which they bothe mighte i-logged be.
Wherfor thay mosten of necessite,
As for that night, departen compaignye;
And ech of hem goth to his hostelrye,
And took his loggyng as it wolde falle.
That oon of hem was logged in a stalle,
Fer in a verd, with oxen of the plough;
That other man was logged wel y-nough,
As was his aventure, or his fortune,
That us governeth alle as in commune.
And so bifel, that, long er it were day,
This man mette in his bed, ther as he lay,
How that his felawe gan upon him calle,
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And sayde, alas! for in an oxe stalle
This night I schal be mordred ther I lye.
Now help me, deere brother, or I dye;
In alle haste com to me,' he sayde.
This man out of his slep for fere abrayde;
But whan that he was wakned of his sleep,
He tornede him, and took of this no keep;
Him thoughte his dreem nas but a vanite.
Thus twies in his sleepyding dremede he.
And atte thridde tyme yet his lelawe
Com, as him thoughte, and sayde, 'I am now slawe;
Bihold my bloody woundes, deep and wyde!
Aris up erly in the morwe tyde,
And at the west gate of the toun,' quod he,
'A carte ful of donge there schaltow see,
In which my body is hyd ful prively;
Do thilke carte arresten boldely.
My gold causede my mordre, soth to sayn.'
And tolde him every poynt how he was slayn,
With a ful pitous face, pale of hewe.
And truste wel, his dreem he fond ful trewe;
For on the morwe, as sone as it was day,
To his felawes in he took the way;
And whan that he cam to this oxe stalle,
After his felawe he bigan to calle.
The hostiler answered him anoon,
And sayde, "Sire, youre felawe is agoon,
Als soone as day he wente out of the toun.'
This man gan falle in great suspecioun,
Remembring on his dremes that he mette,
And forth he goth, no lenger wolde he lette,
Unto the west gate of the toun, and fond
A dong carte, as it wente to dong lond,
That was arrayed in that same wise
As ye had hern the deede man devise;
And with an hardy herte he gan to crie
Vengeaunce and justice of this felonye.
'My felawe mordred is this same night,
And in this carte he lith gapinge upright.
I crve out on the ministres,' quod he,
'That schulde kepe and reule this cite;
Harrow! allas! her lith my felawe slayn!'
What scholde I more unto this tale sayn?
The peple outsterte, and caste the carte to grounde,
And in the middel of the dong thay founde
The dede man, that mordred was al newe:
'O blisful God, that art so just and trewe!
Lo, how that thou bywreyest mordre alway!
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Mordre wil out, that se we day by day.
Mordre is so wlatsom and abhominable
To God, that is so just and resonable,
That he ne wol nought suffre it hiled be:
Though it, abyde a yeer, or tuo, or thre,
Mordre wil out, this my conclusioun.'
And right anoon, the mynistres of that toun
Han hent the cartere, and so sore him pyned,
And eek the hostiler so so ne engyned,
That thay biknewe here wikkednesse anoon.
And were anhonged by the nekke boon.
'Here may men sen that dremes ben to drede.
And certes, in the same book I rede,
Right in the nexte chapitre after this,
(I gabbe nought, so hive I joye and blis,)
Tuo men that wolde han passed over see
For certeyn cause into a fer contre,
If that the wynd ne hadde ben contrarie,
That made hem in a cite for to tarie,
That stood ful merye upon an haven syde.
But on a day, agayn the even tyde,
The wynd gan chaunge, and blew right as hem leste.
Jolyf and glad they wente unto here reste,
And casten hem ful erly for to saylle;
But to that oon man fel a gret mervaylle.
That oon of hem in slepyng as he lay,
Him mette a wonder drem, agayn the day;
Him thoughte a man stood by his beddes syde,
And him comaundede, that he schulde abyde,
And sayde him thus, 'If thou to-morwe wende,
Thow schalt be dreynt; my tale is at an ende.'
He wook, and tolde his felawe what he mette,
And prayde him his viage for to lette;
As for that day, he prayde him to abybe.
His felawe that lay by his beddes syde,
Gan för to lawghe, and scornede him ful faste.
'No drem,' quod he, may so myn herte agaste.
That I wil lette for to do my thinges.
<
I sette not a straw by thy dremynges,
For swevenes been but vanitees and japes.
Men dreme al day of owles or of apes,
And eek of many a mase therwithal;
Men dreme of thing that nevere was ne schal.
But sith I see that thou wilt her abyde,
And thus forslouthe wilfully thy tyde,
God wot it reweth me, and have good day.'
And thus he took his leve, and wente his way.
But er that he hadde half his course i-sayled,
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THE NONNE PRESTES TALE.
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Noot I nought why, ne what meschaunce it ayled,
But casuelly the schippes botme rente,
And schip and man under the water wente
In sight of othere schippes ther byside,
That with hem sailede at the same tyde.
And therfore, faire Pertelote so deere,
By suche ensamples olde maistow leere
That no man scholde be to reccheles
Of dremes, for I say the douteles,
That many a dreem ful sore is for to drede.
'Lo, in the lif of seint Kenelm, I rede.
That was Kenulphus sone, the noble king
Of Mercenrike, how Kenelm mette a thing.
A lite er he was mordred, on a day
His mordre in his avysioun he say.
His norice him expounede every del
His swevene, and bad him for to kepe him wel
For traisoun; but he nas but seven yer old,
And therfore litel tale hath he told
Of any drem, so holy was his herte.
By God, I hadde levere than my scherte,
That ye hadde rad his legende, as have I.
Dame Pertelote, I saye yow trewely,
Macrobeus, that writ the avisioun
In Affrike of the worthy Cipioun,
Affermeth dremes, and saith that thay been
Warnyng of thinges that men after seen.
And forther more, I pray you loketh wel
In the olde Testament, of Daniel,
If he held dremes eny vanyte.
Red eek of Joseph, and ther schul ye see
Wher dremes ben somtyme (I say nought alle)
Warnyng of thinges that schul after falle.
Loke of Egipte the king, daun Pharao,
His bakere and his botiler also,
Wher thay ne felte noon effect in dremes.
Who so wol seken actes of sondry remes,
May rede of dremes many a wonder thing.
Lo Cresus, which that was of Lyde king,
Mette he not that he sat upon a tre,
Which signifiede he schulde anhanged be?
Lo hire Andromacha, Ectores wif,
That day that Ector schulde lese his lif,
Sche dremede on the same night byforn,
How that the lif of Ector schulde be lorn,
If thilke day he went in to bataylle;
Sche warnede him, but it mighte nought availle;
He wente for to fighte natheles,
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THE NONNE PRESTES TALE.
And he was slayn anoon of Achilles.
But thilke tale is al to long to telle,
And eek it is neigh day, I may not duelle.
Schortly I saye, as for conclusioun,
That I schal han of this avisioun
Adversite; and I saye forther-more,
That I ne telle of laxatives no store,
For they ben venymous, I wot right wel;
I hem defye, I love hem nevere a del.
'Now let us speke of mirthe, and stynte al this;
Madame Pertelote, so have I blis,
Of o thing God hath sent me large grace;
For whan I see the beaute of your face,
re ben so scarlet reed aboute your eyghen,
It maketh al my drede for to deyghen,
For, also siker as In principio,
Mulier est hominis confusio.
(Madame, the sentence of this Latyn is,
Womman is mannes joye and al his blis.).
I am so ful of joye and of solas
That I defye bothe swevene and drem.'
And with that word he fleigh doun fro the beem,
For it was day, and eek his hennes alle :
And with a chuk he gan hem for to calle,
For he hadde founde a corn, lay in the yerd.
Real he was, he was no more aferd;
He loketh as it were a grim lioun;
And on his toon he rometh up and doun,
Him deyneth not to sette his foot to grounde.
He chukketh, whan he hath a corn i-founde,
And to him rennen than his wives alle.
Thus real, as a prince is in his halle,
Leve I this chauntecleer in his pasture;
And after wol I telle his aventure.
Whan that the moneth in which the world bigan,
That highte March, whan God first made man,
Was complet, and y-passed were also,
Syn March bygan, thritty dayes and tuo,
Byfel that Chuuntecleer in al his pride,
His seven wyves walkyng him by syde,
Caste up his eyghen to the brighte sonne,
That in the signe of Taurus hadde i-ronne
Twenty degrees and oon, and somwhat more;
He knew by kynde, and by noon other lore,
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That it was prime, and crew with blisful stevene.
'The sonne,' he sayde, 'is clomben up on hevene
Fourty degrees and oon, and more i-wis.
Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis,
Herkneth these blisful briddes how they synge,
And seth the fressche floures how they springe;
Ful in myn hert of revel and solaas.'
But sodeinly him fel a sorweful caas;
For evere the latter ende of joy is wo.
Got wothat wordly joye is soone ago;
And if a rethor couthe faire endite,
He in a chronique saufly mighte it write.
As for a soverayn notabilite.
Now every wys man let him herkne me;
This story is also trewe, I undertake,
As is the book of Launcelot de Lake,
That wommen holde in ful grete reverencc.
Now wol I torne agayne to my sentence.
A col-fox, ful of sleigh iniquite,
That in the grove hadde woned yeres thre,
By heigh ymaginacioun forncast,
The same nighte thurghout the hegges brast,
Into the verd, ther Chauntecleer the faire,
Was wont, and eek his wyves to repaire;
And in a bed of wortes stille he lay,
Til it was passed undern of the day,
Waytyng his time on Chauntecleer to falle:
As gladly doon these homicides alle,
That in awayte lyggen to mordre men.
O false mordrer lurkyng in thy den!
O newe Scariot, newe Genilon!
False dissimulour, O Greek Sinon,
That broughtest Troye al outrely to sorwe!
O Chauntecleer, accursed be that morwe,
That thou into that yerd floughe fro the bemes!
Thou were ful wel iwarned by thy dremes,
That thilke day was perilous to the.
But what that God forwot mot needes be
After the opynyoun of certeyn clerkis.
Witnesse on him that eny perfit clerk is,
That in scole is gret altercacioun
In this matere, and great disputisoun,
And hath ben of an hundred thousend men.
But I ne can not bulte it to the bren,
As can the holy doctor Augustyn,
Or Boece, or the bischop Bradwardyn,
Whether that Goddes worthy forwetyng
Streineth me needely for to don a thing,
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(Needely clepe I simple necessite);
Or elles if fre choys be graunted me,
To do that same thing or do it nought,
Though God forewot it er that it was wrought;
Or if his wityng streyneth nevere a deel,
But by necesite condicionel.
I wol not han to do of such mateere;
My tale is of a cok, as ye schul heere,
That took his counseil of his wyf with sorwe,
To walken in the yerd upon the morwe,
That he had met the drem, that I of tolde.
Wommennes counseils ben ful ofte colde;
Wommannes counsiel brought us first to woo,
And made Adam fro paradys to go,
Ther as he was ful merye, and wel at ese.
But for I not, to whom it mighte displese,
If I counseil of wommen wolde blame,
Passe over, for I said it in my game.
Red auctours, where thay trete of such mateere,
And what they sayn of wommen ye may heere.
These been the cokkes wordes, and not myne;
I can noon harme of no womman divine.
Faire in the sond, to bathe hire merily,
Lith Pertelote, and alle her sustres by,
Agayne the sonne; and Chauntecleer so free,
Sang merier than the mermayde in the see;
For Phisiologus seith sikerly,
How that they syngen wel and merily.
And so byfel that as he caste his eye,
Among the wortes on a boterflye,
He was war of this fox that lay ful lowe.
No thing ne list him than for to crowe,
But cryde anon 'cok, cok,' and up he sterte,
As man that was affrayed in his herte,
For naturelly a beest desireth flee,
Fro this contrarie, if he may it see,
Though he nevere erst hadde seyn it with his eye.
This Chauntecleer, whan he gan him espye,
He wolde han fled, but that the fox anon
Saide, Gentil sire, allas! wher wol ye goon?
Be ye affrayd of me that am your freend?
Now certes, I were worse than a feend,
If I to you would harme or villeynye.
I am nought come youre counsail for tespye,
But trewely the cause of my comynge
Was oonly for to herkne how that ye singe.
For trewly ye have als merye a stevene,
As eny aungel hath, that is in hevene;
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Therwith ve han in musik more felynge,
Than hadde Boece, or any that can synge.
My lord your fader (God his soule blesse)
And eek your moder of hire gentilnesse
Han in myn house ibeen, to my gret ese;
And certes, sire, ful fayn wolde I yow plese.
But for men speke of syngyng, I wol saye,
So mot I brouke wel myn eyen twaye,
Save you, I herde nevere man so synge,
As dede youre fader in the morwenynge.
Certes it was of herte al that he song.
And for to make his vois the more strong,
He wolde so peyne him that with bothe his eyen
He moste wynke, so lowde he wolde crien,
And stonden on his typtoon therwithal,
And strecche forth his nekke long and smal.
And eek he was of such discrecioun,
That ther nas no man in no regioun
That him in song or wisdom might passe.
I have wel rad in daun Burnel the Asse
Among his vers, how that ther was a cok,
For that a prestes sone yaf him a knok
Upon his leg, whil he was yong and nyce,
He made him for to lese his benefice.
But certeyn ther nis no comparisoun
Betwix the wisdom and discrecioun
Of youre fader, and of his subtilte.
Now syngeth, sire, for seinte Charite,
Let se, konne ye youre fader countrefete?”
This Chauntecleer his wynges gan to bete,
As man that couthe his tresoun nought espye,
So was he ravyssht with his flaterie.
Allas! ye lordes, many a fals flatour
Is in youre courtes, and many a losengour,
That plesen yow wel more by my faith,
Than he that sothfastnesse unto yow saith.
Redeth Ecclesiaste of flaterie;
Beth war, ye lordes, of here treccherie.
This Chauntecleer stood heighe upon his toos:
Strecching his nekke, and held his eyghen cloos,
And gan to crowe lowde for the noones;
And daun Russel the fox sterte up at oones,
And by the garget hente Chauntecleer,
And on his bak toward the woode him beer.
For yit was ther no man that hadde him sewed.
O destiny that maist not been eschewed!
Allas, that Chauntecleer fleigh fro the bemes!
Allas, his wif ne roughte nought of dremes!
47.5
480
485
490
495
500
505
510
14
THE NONNE PRESTES TALE.
And on a Friday fel al this meschaunce.
O Venus, that art goddesse of plesaunce,
Syn that thy servant was this Chauntecleer,
And in thy service dide al his poweer,
More for delit, than world to multiplie,
Why woldestow suffre him on thy day to dye?
O Gaufred, dere mayster sovrayn,
That whan thy worthy king Richard was slayn
With schot, compleynedest his deth so sore,
Why ne hadde I now thy sentence and thy lore,
The Friday for to chide, as deden ye?
(For on a Fryday sothly slayn was he,)
Than wolde I schewe yow how that I couthe pleyne.
For Chaunteclercs drede and, for his peyne.
Certes such cry ne lamentacioun
Was nevere of ladies maad, whan Ilioun
Was wonne, and Pirrus with his streite swerd,
Whan he hadde hente kyng Priam by the berd,
And slayn him (as saith us Eneydos),
As maden alle the hennes in the clos,
Whan they hadde seyn of Chauntecleer the sighte.
But soveraignly dame Pertelote schrighte,
Ful lowder than dide Hasdrubales wyf;
Whan that hire housbonde hadde lost his lyf,
And that the Romayns hadde i-brent Cartage,
Sche was so ful of torment and of rage,
That wilfully into the fyr sche sterte,
And brende hirselven with a stedefast herte.
()
O woful hennes, right, so criden ye,
As, whan that Nero brente the cite
Of Rome, criden senatoures wyves,
For that here housbondes losten alle here lyves;
Withouten gult this Nero hath hem slayn.
Now wol I torne to my tale agayn:
This sely widwe, and eek hire doughtres tuo,
Herden these hennes crie and maken wo,
And out at dores sterten thay anoon,
And seyen the fox toward the grove goon,
And bar upon his bak the cok away;
They criden, 'Out! harrow and weylaway?
Ha, ha, the fox!' and after him they ran,
And eek with staves many another man;
Ran Colle our dogge, and Talbot and Garlond,
And Malkyn, with a distaï in hire hond;
Ran cow and calf, and eek the verray hogges
So were they fered for berkyng of the dogges
And schowtyng of the men and wymmen eke,
Thay ronne so hem thoughte here herte breke.
،
520
525
530
535
540
545
550
555
560
565
THE NONNE PRESTES TALE.
15
Thay yelleden as feendes doon in helle;
The dokes criden as men wolde hem quelle;
The gees for fere flowen over the trees;
Out of the hyves cam the swarm of bees;
So hidous was the noyse, a benedicite!
Certes he Jakke Straw, and his meyne,
Ne maden nevere schoutes half so schrille,
Whan that thay wolden any Flemyng kille,
As thilke day was maad upon the fox.
Of bras thay broughten beemes, and of box,
Of horn, of boon, in whiche thay blewe and powpede
And tчerwithal thay schrykede and they howpede;
It semede as that hevene schulde falle.
Now, goode men, I praye you herkneth alle;
Lo, how fortune torneth sodeinly
The hope and pride eek of her enemy!
This cok that lay upon the foxes bak,
In al his drede, unto the fox he spak,
And saide,Sire, if that I were as ye,
Yet schulde I sayn (as wis God helpe me),
Turneth ayein, ye proude cherles alle!
A verray pestilens upon yow falle!
Now am I come unto this woodes syde,
Maugre your heed, the cok schal heer abyde;
I wol him ete in faith, and that anoon.'
The fox answerde, 'In faith, it schal be doon.'
And as he spak that word, al sodeinly
This cok brak from his mouth delyverly,
And heigh upon a tree he fleigh anoon.
And whan the fox seigh he was i-goon,
Allas!' quod he, 'O Chauntecleer, allas!
I have to yow,' quod he, 'y-don trespas,
In-as-moche as I makede yow aferd,
Whan I yow hente, and broughte out of the yerd:
But, sire, I dede it in no wikke intente;
Com doun, and I schal telle yow what I mente.
I schal seye soth to you, God help me so.'
Nay, than,' quod he, 'I schrewe us bothe tuo
And first I schrewe myself, bothe blood and boones,
If thou bigile me any ofter than oones.
Thou schalt no more, thurgh thy flaterye,
Do me to synge and wynke with myn eye.
For he that wynketh whan he scholde see,
Al wilfully, God let him never the!'
'Nay,' quod the fox, but God yive him meschaunce,
That is so indiscret of governaunce,
That jangleth whan he scholde holde his pees.
Lo, such it is for to be reccheles,
'
570
575
580
585
290
595
600
605
610
615
16
PROLOGUE TO THE
1
And necgligent, and trust on flaterie.
But ye that holden this tale a foyle,
As of a fox, or of a cok and hen,
Taketh the moralite therof, goode men.
For seint Poul saith that all that writen is,
To oure docirine it is i-write i-wys.
Taketh the fruyt, and let the chaf be stille.
Now, goode God, if that be thy wille,
As saith my lord, so make us alle good men;
And bringe us to his heighe blisse. Amen.
PROLOGUE TO
THE LEGENDE OF GOOD WOMEN.*
A THOUSAND timis I have herd men tell
That there is joie in heven and pain in hell,
And I acord it wele that it is fo,
But natheleffe yet wot I wele alfo
That there n'is non dwelling in this countre
That eithir hath in heven or hell ibe,
Ne maie of it none othir waies wittin
But as he herd faied or found it writtin,
For by affaie there maie no man it preve.
But God forbede but that men fhuldin leve
Well more thing than thei han feen with eye!
Men fhall nat wenin every thing a lie
But if himfelt it feeth or els it doeth,
For God wote thing is nevir the leffe foth
Though every wight ne maie is not ife.
Bernarde the monke ne faugh not all parde,
Than mote we to bokis that we finde,
(Through which the olde thingis ben in minde)
620
625
* Some ladres in the court took offence at Chaucer's large fpeeches against
the untruth of women, therefore the Queen enjoined him to compile this book
in the commendation of fundry maidens and wives who thewed themfelves
faithful to faithlefs men. This' feems to have been written after The Flower
and the Leaf.
LEGENDE OF GOOD WOMEN.
17
་
1
And to the doctrine of thefe olde wife,
Yeve credence in every fkilfull wife,
That tellin of thefe old apprevid ftories
Of holines, of reignis, of victories,
Of love, of hate, and othir fondrie thinges,
Of whiche I maie not makin reherfinges;
And if that olde bokis were awaie
I lorne were of all remembraunce the kaie.
Well ought us than honourin and beleve
Thefe bokis there we han none othir preve.
And as for me, though that I can but lite,
On bokis for to rede I me délite,
And to 'hem yeve I faithe and ful credence,
And in mine herte have 'hem in reverence
So hertily, that there is game none
That fro my bokis makith me to gone,
But it be feldome, on the holie daie,
Save certainly whan that the month of Maie
Is comin, and I here the foulis fing,
And that the flouris ginnin for to fpring,
Farewell my boke and my devocion.
Now have I than eke this condicion,
That above all the flouris in the mede
Than love I mofte thefe flouris white and rede,
Soche that men callin Daifies in our toun;
To them have I fo grete affectioun,
As I faied erft, whan comin is the Maie,
That in my bedde there dawith me no daie
That I n'am up and walking in the mede
To fene this floure ayenft the funne fprede
Whan it uprifith erly by the morowe;
That blisfull fight foftinith all my forowe;
So glad am I when that I have prefence
Of it to doin it all reverence,
As fhe that is of all flouris the floure,
Fulfillid of all vertue and honoure,
And ever ilike faire and frefhe of hewe
As wel in wintir as in fummir newe;
This love I evre', and fhall until I die,
All fwere I not of this, I woll nat lie.
There lovid no wight hottir in his life;
And whan that it is eve I renne blithe,
As fone as evir the funne ginneth weft,
To fene this floure how it woll go to reft;
For fere of night, fo hatith the derkneffe,
Her chere is plainly fpred in the brightneffe
Of the funne, for there it woll unclofe :
Alas, that I ne' had Englifhe, rime, or profe,
C
18
PROLOGUE TO THE
Suffifaunt this floure to praife aright!
But helpith ye that han conning and might,
Ye lovirs, that can make of fentiment;
In this cafe ought ye to be diligent
To forthrin me fomwhat in my labour,
Whether ye ben with the Lefe or the Flour,
For well I wote that ye han here beforne
Of making ropen and lad awaie the corne,
And I come aftir glening here and there,
And am full glad if I maie finde an ere
Of any godely worde that ye han lefte;
And though it happe me to reherfin eft
That ye han in your frefhe fongis faied
Forberith me, and beth not ill apaied,
Sith that ye fe I doe it in the' honour
Of Love, and eke in fervice of the flour,
Whom that I ferve as I have wit or might;
She is the clereneffe and the very light
That in this derke world me windith and ledeth;
The hert within my wofull breft you dredeth
And loveth fo fore, that ye ben verily
The maiftris of my wit and nothing I;
My worde, my workes, is knit fo in your bonde,
That as an harpe obeyith to the honde,
And makith foune aftir his fingiring,
Right fo mowe ye out of mine herte bring
Soch voice right as you lift to laugh or pain;
Be ye my guide and ladie foverain:
As to mine yerthly god to you I call
Bothe in this werke and in my forowis all.
But wherfore that I fpake to yeve credence
To old ftories, and doen 'hem reverence,
And that men muftin more thing bileve
Than men may fene at eye or ellis preve,
That fhall I fein whan that I fe my time;
I maie not all at onis fpeke in rime;
My bufie ghoft, that thurftith alwaie newe
To fene this flour fo yong, fo fref he of hewe,
Conftrainid me with fo gredie defire
That in mine herte I felin yet the fire
That made me to rife er it were daie,
And this was now the firft morowe of Maie,
With dredfull herte and glad devocion
For to ben at the refurrection
Of this floure, whan that it fhould unclofe
Again the funne, that rofe as redde as rofe,
That in the breft was of the beft that daie
That Agenor' is doughtir ladde awaie;
LEGENDE OF GOOD WOMEN.
19
And doune on knees anon right I me fette,
And as I could this frefhe floure I grette,
Kneling alwaie till it unclosid was
Upon the fmall, and foft, and fwete gras,
That was with flouris fwete embroudid al,
Of foche fwetneffe and foche odour oer all
That for to fpekin of gomme, herbe, or tre,
Comparifon maie none imakid be,
For it furmountith plainly all odoures,
And of riche beaute the moft gaye of floures.
Forgottin had the yerth his pore eftate
Of winter, that him nakid made and mate,
And with his fworde of colde fo fore greved;
Now hath the' atempre foĥne al that releved
That nakid was, and clad it newe again;
The fmalle foulis of the fefon fain,
That of the panter and the net ben fcaped,
Upon the foulir that 'hem made awhaped
In wintir, and deftroyid had ther brode,
In his difpite them thought it did 'hem gode
To fing of him, and in ther fong difpife
The fould chorle that for his covitife
Had 'hem betrayid with his fophiftrie:
This was ther fong; The foulir we defie,
And all his crafte; and fome yfongin clere
Layis of love, that joie it was to here,
In worfhipping and praifing of her make,
And for the newe blisfull fomir's fake;
Upon the braunchis full of blofmis foft
In ther delite thei tournid 'hem full oft,
And fongin, Bliffid be Sainct Valentine!
For on his daie I chefe you to be mine,
Withoutin repenting, mine herte fwete!
And therwithall their beckis gonnin mete,
Yelding honour and humble obeifaunce
To Love, and didden ther othir obfervaunce
That longith unto love and to nature;
Conftrewe that as you lift; I doe no cure:
And tho that had doin unkindeneffe,
As doeth the tidife for newefangelneffe,
Befoughtin mercie of ther trefpafiing,
And humilly fongin ther repenting,
And fworin on the blofmis to be true,
So that ther makis would upon 'hem ruc:
And at the laft thei madin ther acorde,
All found thei Daungir for the time a lorde,
Yet Pite thorough his ftrong gentill might
Foryave. and made mercy paffin right
20
PROLOGUE TO THE
Through Innocence and rulid Curtefie;
But I ne clepe nat innocence folie,
Ne falfe pite, for vertue is the mene,
As Ethicke faieth, in foche manir I mene:
And thus thefe foulis, voide of all malice,
Accordidin to love, and laftin vice
Of hate, and fougin all of one acorde,
Welcome Sommir, our governour and lorde :
And Zephyrus and Flora gentilly
Yave to the flouris foft and tendirly
Ther fote breth, and made 'hem for to fprede,
As god and goddeffe of the flourie mede,
In which me thought I might daie by daie
Dwellin alwaie the joly monthe of Maie
Withoutin flepe, withoutin mete or drinke:
Adoune full foftily I gan to finke,
And lening on my elbowe and my fide
The longe daie I fhope me for to' abide,
For nothing ellis, and I fhall nat lie,
But for to lokin upon the Daifie,
That well by refon men it calle maie
The Daifie, or els the eye of the daie,
The emprife, and the floure of flouris all:
I praie to God that faire mote fhe fall,
And all that lovin flouris for her fake!
But natheleffe ne wene nat that I make
In prailin of the Floure again the Lefe
No more than of the corne again the fhefe,
For as to me n'is levir none ne lother;
I n'am witholdin yet with neithir nother,
Ne' I n'ot who fervith Lefe ne who the Floure;
Well broukin thei ther fervice or laboure;
For this thing is all of anothir tonne,
Of old ftorie, er foche thing was begonne.
Whan that the funne out of the fouth gan weft,
And that this floure gan clofe and gon to reft,
For derkues of the night the whiche fhe drede,
Home to mine houfe full fwiftly I me fpede
To gone to reft, and erly for to rife
To fene this floure to fprede as I devife;
And in a little herbir that I have,
That benchid was of turvis frefh igrave,
I bad men fhouldin me my couche make;
For deinte of the new fommir's fake
I bad 'hem ſtrawin flouris on my bedde:
Whan I was laied and had mine eyin hedde
I fell aflepe, and flept an houre or two,
Me met how I laie in the midowe the
LEGENDE OF GOOD WOMEN.
21
To fene this floure that I love fo and drede,
And from aferre came walking in the mede
The god of Love, and in his hande a quene,
And fhe was clad in roiall habite grene,
A fret of golde fhe had next her here,
And upon that a white coroune fhe bere
With flourounis fmall, and, I fhall nat lie,
For all the world right as a Daifie
Icrounid is, with white levis lite,
So were the flourouns of her croune white,
For of o perle fine orientall·
Her white coroune was imakid all,
For which the white coroune above the grene
Ymade her like a Daifie for to fene,
Confidrid eke her fret of gold above;
Iclothid was this mightie god of Love
In filke embroidid, full of grene greves,
In whiche there was a fret of red rofe leves,
The frefhift fens the worlde was firft bigon;
His gilt here was ycrounid with a fon
In ftede of golde, for hevineffe and weight,
Therwith me thought his face fhone fo bright
That well unnethis might I him behold,
And in his hand methought I fawe him hold
Two firie dartis as the gledis rede,
And angelike his wingis fawe I fprede;
And all be that men fain that blinde is he
Algatis me thought that he might wele fe,
For fternily on me he gan behold,
So that his loking doeth min herte cold;
And by the hande he helde this noble quene,
Crounid with white, and clothid al in grene,
So womanly, fo benigne, and fo meke,
That in this worlde though that men woldin feke
Half her beaute ne fhouldin thei nat finde
In creture that yformid is by Kinde,
And therfore maie I fain, as thinkith me,
This fong is praifing of this ladie fre:
Hide, Abfolon, thy gilte treffis clere,
Hester, laie thou thy mekeneffe all adoun,
Hide, Jonathas, all thy frendly manere,
Penelope, and Marcia Catoun,
Make of your wifehode no comparifoun,
Hide ye your beauties Ifoude and Helein,
My ladie cometh, that all this maie diftain.
Thy faire bodie ne let it not appere
Lavine, and thou Lucrece, of Rome toun,
And Polyxene, that boughtin love fo dere,
22
PROLOGUE TO THE
And Cleopatra, with all thy paffioun,
Hide ye your trouthe of love and your renoun,
And thou Thifbe, that haft of love foche pain,
My ladie cometh, that all this maie diftain.
Hero, Dido, Laodomia', ifere,
And Phyllis, hanging for Demophoon,
And Canace, efpyid by thy chere,
Hypfipyle, betrayid by Jafon,
Makith of your trouth neithir hofte ne foun,
Nor Hypermneftra' or Ariadne, ye twaine,
My ladie cometh, that all this maie diftain.
This balade maie full well ifongin be,
As I have faid erft, by my ladie fre,
For certainly all thefe mowe not fuffice
To' apperin with my ladie in no wife,
For as the sunne woll the fire diftain,
So paffith all my ladie foverain,
That is fo gode, fo faire, fo debonaire,
I praie to God that evir fall her faire!
For ne had comfort ben of her prefence
I had ben dedde without any defence
For drede of Lov'is wordis and his chere,
As whan time is hereaftir ye fhall here.
Behinde this god of Love upon the grene
I fawe coming of ladyis ninetene,
In roial habit, a full esie pace,
And aftir them of women foche a trace
1
Tnat fens that God Adam had made of yerth
The thirde part of mankinde, or the ferth,
Ne wende Inat by poffibilite
Had evir in this wide worlde ibe,
And true of love thefe women were echon:
Now whether was that a wondir thing or non,
That right anon as that thei gonne efpie
This floure which that I clepe the Daifie,
Full fodainly thei ftintin all at ones,
And knelid doune as it were for the nones,
And fongin with o voice. Hele and honour
To trouth of womanbede, and to this flour,
That berith our aldir prife in figuring,
Her white coroune berith the witneffing!
And with that worde a compas enviroun
Thei fittin 'hem full foftily adoun:
Firft fat the god of Love, and fith his quene,
With the white coroune, yclad all in grene,
And fithin all the remnaunt by and by,
As thei were of eftate, full curtifly;
Ne nat a worde was fpokin in the place
1
LEGENDE OF GOOD WOMEN.
23
The mountenance of a furlong waie of fpace,
I kneling by this floure in gode entent
Abode to knowin what this peple ment,
As ftill as any ftone, till at the last
This god of Love ou me his eyin caft,
And faid, Who knelith there? and I answerd
Unto his afking whan that I it herde,
And faid, Sir, It am I, and come him nere,
And falued him. (Quod he) What doeft thou here
So nigh mine owne floure fo boldily?
It werin bettir worthy truily.
A worme to nighin nere my flour than thou.
And why, Sir, (quod I) and it likith you?
For thou (qod he) art therto nothing able;
It is my relike digne and delitable,
And thou my fo, and all my folke werrieft,
And of mine old fervauntis thou miffaieft,
And hindrift 'hem with thy tranflacion,
And lettift folke from ther devocion
To fervin me, and holdift it folie
To fervin Love; thou maieft it nat denie,
For in plain text, withoutin nede of glofe,
Thou haft tranflatid The Romaunt of the Rofe,
That is an herefie ayenft my lawe,
And makift wife folke fro me to withdrawe;
And of Crefeide thou haft faide as the lift,
That makith men to women leffe to trifte,
That ben as trewe as er was any ftele:
Of thine anfwere avifin the right wele,
For though that thou renvid haft my lawe
As othir wretchis have done many' a daie,
By Seint Venus, which that my mothir is,
If that thou live thou fhalt repentin this
So cruilly that it fhal wel be tene.
Tho fpake this lady, clothid all in grene,
And fayid, God, right of your curtifie
Ye mote herkin if that he can replie
Ayenft al this that ye have to him meved;
A God ne fhoulde nat be thus agreved,
But of his deite he fhall be ftable,
And therto gracious and merciable,
And if ye n'ere a god that knowin all
Than might it be, as I you tellin fhall,
This man to you maie fafely ben accufed,
That as by right him oughtin ben excufed,
For in your court is many' a lofingeour,
And many a queint tetoler accufour
That tabouren in your eris many' a foun
24
PROLOGUE TO THE
Right after ther imaginacioun
To have your daliaunce, and for envy;
Thefe ben the cauffs, and, I fhal nat lie,
Envie is lave'ndir of the court alwaie,
For fhe ne partith neithir night ne daie
Out of the houfe of Cæfar, thus faith Dant,
Who fo that goeth algate fhe wol nat want.
And eke peraunter for this man is nice
He mightin done it, geffing no malice,
But for he ufith thingis for to make
Him reckith nought of what matir he take,
Or him was bodin makin thilke twey
Of fome perfone, and durft it nat withfey,
Or him repentith uttirly of this,
He ne' hath nat done fo grevoufly amis
To tranflatin that old clerkis writen,
As though that he of malice would enditen
Difpite of Love, and had himfelfe it wrought;
This fhould a rightwife lorde have in his thonght,
And nat be like tirauntes of Lombardie,
That han no rewarde but at tirannie;
For he that king or lorde is naturel,
Him ought not be a tiraunt ne cruel
As a fermour, to done the harme he can,
He muft thinkin it is his liege man,
As in his trefour, and his golde in cofer,
This is the fentence of the philofopher;
A kinge to kepe his liegis in juftice,
Withoutin doute that is his office,
Al wol he kepe his lordes in ther degre,
As it is right and fkil that thei fhoulde be
Enhaunfid and honourid, and moft dere,
For thei ben halfegoddis in this worlde here,
Yet mote he done both right to pore and riche,
Al be that ther eftate be nath both liche,
And have of povir folke compaffion;
For lo the gentil kinde of the lion!
For whan a flie offendith him or biteth
He with his taile awaie the flie yfiniteth
Al efily. for of his genterie
Him deinith nat to wreke him on a flie,
As doeth a curre or els anothir beft;
In noble corage ought to ben areft,
And wayin every thinge, by equite,
And have regarde unto his owne degre;
For, Sir, it is no maiftrie for a lorde
To dampne a man without anfwere of word
And for a lorde that is ful foule to uſe;
LEGENDE OF GOOD WOMEN.
25
And it fo be he maie him nat excufe,
But afkith mercy with a dredeful herte,
And profirith him right in his bare fherte
To ben right at your owue jugement,
Than ought a god by fhort avifement
Confidre' his owne honour and his trefpace,
For fith no caufe of deth lieth in this cafe
You ought to ben the lightlier merciable;
Lettith your ire, and beth somwhat tretable;
The man hath fervid you of his conninges,
And forthrid well your law in his makinges;
Al be it that he can nat wel endite,
Yet hath he madin leude folke delite
To fervin you, in preifing of your name;
He made the boke that hight The House of Fame,
And eke The Deth of Blaunche the Ducheffe,
And The Parliament of Foulis, as I geffe,
And al The Love of Palamon and Arcite
Of Thebis, though the ftorie is knowen lite,
And many an hymne for your holy daies,
That hightin Balades, Rondils, Virelaies;
And for to fpeke of othlr holineffe,
He hash in profe tranflatid Boece,
And made The Life alfo of Saint Cecile,
He madin alfo, gon is a greate while,
Origines, upon the Maudelaine,
Him oughtin now to have the lefe paine;
He hath made many' a ley and many, a thing.
'
Now as ye be a god and eke a king,
I your Alcefte, whilom Quene of Thrace,
I afke you this man right of your grace
That ye him nevir hurte in al his live,
And he fhal fwerin to you, and that blive,
He fhal ner more agiltin in this wife,
But fhal makin as ye wol him devife
Of women trewe in loving al their life,
Where fo ye wol of maidin or of wife,
And forthrin you as muche as he miffeide
Or in The Rofe, or ellis in Crefeide.
The God of Love anfwerde her thus anon:
Madame, (quod he) it is fo longe agon
That I you knew fo charitable' and trewe,
That nevir yet fithin the worlde was newe
To me ne founde I bettir none than ye;
If that I wol yfavin my degre
I may nor wol nat werne yovr requeft;
Al lieth in you; doth with him as you left.
I al foryeve withoutin lengir fpace,
D
26
PROLOGUE TO THE
"
For who fo yeveth a yefte or doth a grace
Do it betime, his thanke fhal be the more,
And demith ye what he fhal do therefore.
Go, thankith now my lady here (quod he.)
I rofe, and down I fet me on my kne,
And fayid thus; Madame, the God above
For yelde yon that ye the god of Love
Have makid me his wrathe to foryeve,
And give me grace fo longe for to live
That I maie know fothily what ye be
That have me holpen and put in this degre!
But trewily I wende as in this caas
Nought have agilte ne done to Love trefpas;
For why?
a trewe man withoutin drede
Hath nat to partin with a thev'is dede;
Ne a trewe lovir ought me not to blame
Though that I fpeke a falfe lovir fome fhame,
Thei oughtin rather with me for to holde
For that I of Crefeide wrote or tolde,
Or of the Rofe; what fo mine author ment
Algatis God wote it was mine entent
To forthrin trouth in love, and it cherice,
And to ben ware fro falfeneffe and fro vice,
By whiche enfample this was my mening.
And fhe anfwerde, Let be thine arguing,
For Love ne wol not countirpletid be
In right ne wrong, and lerne that of me:
Thou haft thy grace, and holde the right therto;
Now woll I faine what penaunce thou fhalt do
For thy trefpace: Underftandith it here
Thou fhalt while that thou livift yere by yere
The mofte partie of thy time fpende
In making of a glorious Legende
Of Gode Women, both maidinis and wives,
That werin trewe in loving all ther lives,
And tellin of falfe men that 'hem betraien,
That al ther life ne do nat but affaien
How many women thei maie done a fhame,
For in your world that is nat holde a game;
And though that the like nat a lovir be
Speke wel of love, this penaunce yeve I the,
And to the god of Love I fhal so praie
That he fhal charge his fervanites by' any waie
To forthrin the, and wel thy labour quite;
Go now thy waie, this penaunce is but lite;
And when this boke is made yeve in the Quene
On my behalfe, at Eltham or at Shene.
The god of Love gan fmile, and thau he feidę;
LEGENDE OF GOOD WOMEN.
27
Woft thou (quod he) wher this be wife or maide,
Or quene or counteffe, or of what degre,
That hath fo litill penaune yevin the,
That haft defervid forely for to fmerte?
But pite rennith fone in gentle herte,
That maift thou fene; fhe kithith what fhe is.
And I anfwerde, Naie, Sir, fo have I blis,
No more but that I fe wel fhe is gode.
That is a trewe tale by mine hode
(Quod Love) and that thou knowist wel parde,
If it be fo that thou avife the:
Haft thou nat in a boke in thy chefte
The grete godeneffe of the Quene Alcefte,
That turnid was into a Daifie,
She that for her hufbonde chefe to die,
And eke to gone to hell rathir than he,
And Hercules refcuid her parde,
And brought her out of hel againe to blis?
And I anfwerde againe, and fayid, Yes;
Now know I her; and is this gode Alcefte,
The Daifie, and mine owne hert'is reste?
Now fele I wel the godeneffe of this wife,
That both aftir her deth and in her life
Her grete bounte doublith her renoun,
Wel hath fhe quit me mine affectioun
That I have to her floure the Daifie;
No wondir is though Jove her ftellifie,
As tellith Agaton, for her godeneffe,
Her white corowne berith of it witneffe,
For all fo many virtuis had fhe,
As fmal flourounis in her crowne be;
In remembraunce of her and in honour
Cybilla mede the Daiefie, and the flour,
Icrownid all with white, as men maie fe,
And Mars yave her a corown red parde,
Inftede of rubies fet among the white;
Therwith this quene woxe red for fhame alive
Whan fhe was praifid fo in her prefence.
Than fayid Love, A ful grete negligence
Was it to the, that ilke time thou made
(Hide, Abfolon, thy treffis) in balade,
That thou forgette her in thy fonge to fette,
Sith that thou art fo gretly in her dette,
And wotift wel that kalender if f he,
To any woman that wol lovir be,
For fhe taught all the crafte of trewe loving,
And namily of wifehode, the living,
And all the bondis that she ought to kepe;
1
28
LEGENDE OF GOOD WOMEN.
Thy titil witte was thilke time aflepe;
But now I charge the upon thy life
That in thy Legende thou make of this wife,
Whan thou haft othir finale imaide before;
And fare now wel, I charge the no more,
But er I go this muche I wol the tel,
Ne fhal no trewe lovir come in hel.
Thefe othir ladies fitting here arowe,
Ben in my balade, if thou conft 'hem knowe,
And in thy bokis al thou fhalt 'hem finde,
Have 'hem now in thy Legende al in minde,
I mene of them that ben in thy knowing,
For here ben twenty thoufande mo fitting
Than that thou knowift, and gode women al,
And trewe of love, for ought that maie befal;
Makith the metris of 'hem as the lefte.
I mote gone home, the funne drawith wefte,
To Paradis, with al this companie,
And fervin alwaie the frefh Daifie :
At Cleopatra' I wol that thou beginne,
And fo forthe, and my love fo fhalt thou winne;
For let fe now what man that lovir be
Wol done fo ftrong a paine for love as fhe.
I wote wel that thou maieft not al it rime
That fuche loviris diddin in ther time;
It were to longe to redin and to here;
Suffifith me thou make in this manere,
That thou reherce of al ther life the grete,
Aftir thefe oide authors lifte for to trete;
For whofo fhal fo many' a ftorie tel
Sey fhortily, or he fhal to longe dwell.
And with that worde my bokis gan I take,
And right thus on my Legende gan I make.
1
THE LEGENDE OF CLEOPATRA.
29
HERE BEGINNETH
THE LEGENDE OF CLEOPATRA,
QUENE OF EGYPTE.
AFTER the dethe of Ptolemy the King,
That all of Egypt had in his governing,
Reignid his fuftir Quene Cleopatras,
Til on a time bifel there fuche a caas,
That out of Rome was fent a fenatour
To conquerin relmis, and bring honour
Unto the toune of Rome, as was ufaunce,
To have the worlde at her obeifaunce,
And, fothe to faie, Antonius was his name.
So fil it, as Fortune him ought a fhame
Whan he was fallin in profperite
Rebel unto the toune of Rome is he,
And or al this the fuftir of Cæfare
He left her faefely, er that fhe was ware,
And would algatis han anothir wife,
For whiche he toke with Rome and Cæfar f trife.
Natheleffe, for fothe this ilke fenatour
Was a ful worthy gentil werriour,
And of his deth it was ful grete damage;
But Love had brought this man in fuch a rage,
And him fo narrow boundin in his laas,
And al for the love of Cleopatras,
That al the worlde he fet at no value;
Him thought there was nothing to him fo due
As Cleopatras for to love and fèrve;
Him roughte nat in armis for to fterve
In the defence of her and of her right.
This noble Quene eke lovid fo this knight
Through his deferte and for his chivalrie.
As certainlie, but if that bokis lie,
He was of perfon and of gentilneffe,
And of difcretion and of hardineffe,
Worthy to any wight that livin maie,
And fhe was faire as is the roſe in Maie;
And, for to makin fhort is the beft,
She woxe his wife, and had him as her left.
The wedding and the fefte to devife,
30
THE LEGENDE OF CLEOPATRĂ.
To me that have itakin fuche emprife
Of ſo many a ftorie for to make,
It were to longe, left that I fhould flake
Of thing that berith more effecte and charge,
For men maie ovirlade a fhippe or barge;
And forthy to effecte than wol I fkippe,
And al the remnaunt I wol let it flippe.
Octavian, that wode was of this dede,
Shope him an hofte on Antony to lede,
Al uttirly for his diftruction,
With ftoute Romainis, cruil as liou:
To fhip thei went; and thus I let 'hem faile.
Antonius was ware, and wol not faile
To metin with thefe Romaines if he maie,
Toke eke his rede, and both upon a daie,
His wife and he, and al his hoft, forth went
To fhip anone, no lenger thei ne ftent,
And in the fe it happid 'hein to mete;
Up goeth the trumpe, and for to fhoute and fhete.
And painin 'hem to fet on with the funne;
With grifly foune out goith the grete gonne,
And hertily thei hurtlin al at ones,
And fro the top doune comith the grete ftones,
In goth the grapinel fo ful of crokes
Among the ropis ran the fhering hokes,
In with the polaxe prefith he and he,
Behinde the mafte beginnith he to fle,
And out againe, and drivith him or borde,
He ftickith him upon his fper'is orde,
He rent the faile with hokis like a fithe,
He bringeth the cuppe, and biddith 'hem be blith,
He pourith prefen upon the hatchis flider,
With pottis ful of lime thei gon togidir.
And thus the longe daie in fight thei fpende,
Til at the laft, as every thing hath ende,
Antonius is fhent and put to flight,
And al his folke to go that beft go might.
Fleeth eke the Quene, with al her purple faile,
For ftrokis whiche that went as thicke as haile;
No wondir was, fhe might it nat endure :
And whan Antony fawe that avinture,
Alas (quod he) the daie that I was borne!
My worf hip in this daie thus have I lorne,
And for difpaire out of his witte he fterte,
And rofe himfelfe anon throughout the herte
Er that he ferthir went out of the place :
His wife, that could of Cæfar have no grace,
To Egypt fled for drede and for diftreffe;
THE LEGENDE OF CLEOPATRA.
31
But herkenith, ye that spekin of kindeneffe.
Ye men that falfely fwerin many an othe
That ye wol die if that your love be wrothe,
Here maie ye fene of women fuch a trouth
This woful Cleopatre' had made fuche routh
That ther n'is tonge none that maie it tel,
But on the' morowe fhe wol no lengir dwel,
But made her fubtil werkmen make a fhrine
Of al the rubies and the ftonis fine
In al Egypt whiche hat f he coulde etpie,
And fhe put ful the fhrine of fpicirie,
And lette the corfe enbaume, and forth fhe fette
This ded corfe, and fhe in the fhrine is fhette;
And next the fhrine a pit than doth the grave,
And al the ferpentis that fhe might have
She put 'hem in that grave, and thus fhe fiede;
Now love, to whom my forowful hert obeide
So ferforthly, that fro that blisful hour
That I you fwore to ben al frely your,
I mene you, Antonius, my knight,
That nevir waking in the daie or night
Ye n'ere out of mine hert'is remembraunce,
For wele or wo, for carole or for daunce,
And in my felfe this covenant made I tho,
That right fuche as ye feltin, wele or wo,
As ferforth as it in my power laie,
Unreprovable' unto my wifehode aie,
The fame would I felin in life or dethe,
And thilke covenaunt while mne laftith brethe
I wol fulfil, and thaf fhal wel be fene,
Was ner unto her love a trewir queue;
And with that word nakid, with ful gode hert,
Among the ferpentes in the pitte fhe ftert,
And there fhe chefe to have her burying:
Anone the nedirs gonne her for to fting,
And fhe her deth recevith with god chere,
For love of Antony that was her dere;
And this is ftorial forthe, it is no fable.
Now er I finde a man thus trewe and ftable,
And wol for love his deth fo frely take,
I praie God let our hedis nevir ake!
ܕ܂
O
>
1
32
THE LEGENDE OF THISBE.
HERE FOLOWETH
THE LEGENDE OF THISBE,
OF BABYLONE.
Ar Babylone whilom fil it thus,
The whiche toun the Quene Simiramus
Let dichin al about, and wallis make
Ful hie of harde tilis wel ibake:
There werin dwelling in this noble toun
Two lordis which that were of grete renoun,
And wonidin fo nigh upon a grene,
That ther na's but a ftone wal 'hem bitwene,
As oftin in grete tounis is the wonne,
And, fothe to faine, that one man had a fonne,
Of al that londe one of the luftyift,
That othir had a doughtir the fairift
That eftward in the world was tho dwelling;
The name of everiche gan to othir fpring,
By women that were neighbouris aboute,
For in that countre yet withoutin doute
Maidinis ben ikepte for jeloufie
Ful ftraitely, left thei diddin fome folie.
This younge man was clepid Pyramus,
And Thifbe hight the maide (Nafo faith thus)
And thus by reporte was ther name ifhove,
That as thei woxe in age fo woxe ther love;
And certaine, as by refon of ther age,
Ther might have ben betwixt 'hem inariage,
But that ther fathirs n'olde it nat affent;
And thei in love ylike fore bothe brent
That none of al ther frendis might it lette,
But privily fomtimis yet thei mette
By fleight, and pakin fome of ther defire,
As wrie the glede and hottir is the fire;
Forbid a love and it is ten times fo wode.
This wal with that betwixt 'hem both yftode
Was cloven two right fro the top adoun
Of olde time of his foundacioun,
But yet this clifte was fo narow and lite
It was nat fene, (dere inough a mite)
THE LEGENDE OF THISBE.
33
But what is that that love can not efpie?
Ye lovirs two, if that I fhal nat lie,
Ye foundin firft this litile narowe clifte,
And with a founde as fofte as any fhrifte
Thei let ther wordis through the clifte pace,
And toldin, while that thei ftodin in the place,
Al ther eomplaint of love and al ther wo,
At every time whan thei durftin fo.
Upon that one fide of the wal ftode he,
And on that othir fide ftode Thifbe,
The fwete foune of othir to reçeve,
And thus ther wardeins wouldin thei difceve,
And every daie this wal thei wouldin threte,
And wifh to God that it were doun ibete;
Thus would thei faine, Alas! thou wickid wal,
Thorough thine envie thou us lettift al
Why n'ilt thou cleve or fallin al atwo?
Or at the lefte, but thou wouldift fo,
Yet wouldift thou but onis let us mete.
Or onis that we mightin kiffin fwete,
Than were we curid of our caris colde;
But natheleffe. yet be we to the holde,
In as much as thou fuffrift for to gone
Our wordis through thy lime and eke thy ftone,
Yet oughtin we with the ben wel apaide.
And whan thefe idil wordis werin faide
The colde wal thei woldin kiffe of ftone,
And take ther leve, and forth thei woldin gone,
And this was gladly in the evintide,
Or wondir erly, left men it efpide;
And longe time thei wrought in this manere,
Til on a daie, whan Phoebus gan to clere,
Aurora with the ftremis of her hete
Had dryid up the dewe of herbis wete,
Unto this clifte, as it was wonte to be,
Come Pyramus, and aftir come Thifbe,
And plightin trouth right fully in ther faie,
That ilke fame night to ftele awaie,
And to begile ther wardeins everichone,
And forth out of the cite for to gone;
And for the feldis ben fo brode and wide
For to metin in o place at o tide
Thei fettin markes ther metingis fhould be
There King Ninus was graven undir a tre,
For olde Painims, that idollis heried,
Ufidin tho in feldis to ben beried;
And fafte by his grave was a wel,
And fhortily of this tale for to țel,
E
34
THE LEGENDE OF THISBE.
This covenaunt was affirmid wondir faft,
And longe 'hem thoughtin that the fonne laft.
That it n'ere gone undir the fe adoun.
This Thif be hath fo grete affectioun,
And fo grete liking Pyramus to fe,
That whan fhe fawe her time might ybe
At night fhe ftale awaie ful privily,
With her face iwimplid full fubtilly,
For al her frendis, (for to fave her trouthe)
She hath forfake, alas! and that is routhe,
That evir woman would ybe fo trewe
To truftin man but fhe the bet him knewe;
And to the tre fhe goeth a ful gode pace,
For love made her fo hardy in this cafe,
And by the welle adoun fhe gan her dreffe.
Alas! than comith a wilde lioneffe
Out of the wode, withoutin more areft,
With blode mouthe of ftrangling of a beft,
To drinkin of the wel there as fhe sat;
And whan that Thif be had efpyid that
She rift her up with a ful drery herte,
And in a cave with dredful fote fhe fterte,
For by the mone f he fawe it wel withall,
And as fhe ran her wimple let fhe fall,
And toke none hede, fo sore fhe was awhaped,
And eke fo glad for that fhe was efcapid;
And thus fhe sat and lurkith wondir ftill
Whan that this lioneffe hath dronke her fill
Aboutin the well gan fhe for to winde,
And right anon the wimple gan fhe finde,
And with her blody mothe it al to rente;
Whan this was done no lengie fhe ne ftente,
But to the wode her way than hath fhe nome.
And at the laft this Pyramus is come,
But al to longe, alas! at home was he;
The mone fhone, men mightin wel ife:
And in his waie, as that he come ful faft,
His eyin to the grounde adoun he caft,
And in the fonde, as he behelde adoun,
He faw the ftepis brode of a lioun,
And in his hert he fodainly agrofe,
And pale he wexte, therwith his hert arofe,
And nere he came, and founde fhe wimple torne;
Alas! (quod he) the daie that I was borne!
This o night wol both us loviris fle;
How fhould I afkin mercy of Thifbe
Whan I am he that have you flaine? alas!
My biding hathe you flaine in this caas:
THE LEGENDE OF THISBË.
35
Alas! to bidde a woman gone by night
In place there as perill fallin might,
And I fo flowe: alas! I ne had be
Here in this place a furlonge waie er ye.
Now what lioun that is in this foreft
My body mote he rentin, or what beft
That wilde is, gnawin mote he now my herte,
And with that worde he to the wimple fterte,
And kifte it ofte, and wepte on it ful fore,
And faid, Wimple, alas! there n'is no more,
But thou fhalt fele as well thę blode of me
As thou haft felte the bleding of Thifbe:
And with that worde he fmote him to the herte,
The blode out of the wounde as brode afterte
As watir, whan the conduite brokin is.
Now Thifbe, which that ne wift not of this,
But fitting in her drede fhe thoughte thus,
Yf it fo fallin that my Pyramus
Be comen hithir, and may me nat ifinde,
He maie me holdin falfe and eke unkinde.
And out fhe çometh, and aftir him gan fpien
Both with her herte and eke with her eien,
And thought I wol him tellin of my drede
Both of the lioneffe and of my dede;
And at the laft her love than hath fhe founde
Ybeting with his helis on the grounde
Al blody', and therwithal abacke fhe fterte,
And like the wawis quappe began her herte,
And pale as boxe fhe woxe, and in a throwe
Avifid her, and gan him wel to knowe,
That it was Pyramus, her herte dere:
O! who could writin whiche a dedly chere
Hath Thifbe now! and how her here fhe rent,
And how fhe gan her felfin to turment,
And how fhe lieth and fwounith on the ground,
And how fhe wept of teris ful his wounde,
How medlith fhe his blode with her complaint,
How with his blod her felvin gan fhe paint,
How clippith fhe the red ded corfe, alas!
How doth this woful Thifbe in this caas,
How kiffith fhe his frosty mouthe fo colde!
Who hath don this? and who hath ben fo bolde
To fleen my life? o fpeke my Pyramus,
I am thy Thifbe that the callith thus;
And therwithal fhe liftith up his hed.
This wofull man, that was nat fully ded,
Whan that he herde the name of Thifbe crien,
On her he caft his hevy dedly eyen,
36
THE LEGENDE OF THISBE.
And doun againe, and yeldith up the goft.
Thifbe rift up withoutin noife or boft,
And faw her wimple and his empty fheth,
And eke his fwerde, that him hath don to deth.
Than fpake fhe thus; My woful hande (quod fhe)
Is ftronge inough in fuche a werke to me,
For love fhal yeve me ftrength and hardineffe
To make my wounde large inough I geffe;
I wol the folowen ded, and I wol be
Felawe and caufe eke of thy deth, (quod fhe)
And though that nothing fave the deth only
Might the fro me departin trewily,
Thou fhalt no more departin now fro me
Than fro the deth, for I wol go with the.
And now, ye wretchid jeloufe fathirs our,
We that ywerin whilom childrin your,
We prayin you withoutin more envie
That in o grave we both motin lie,
Sens love hath brought us to this pitous ende:
And rightwife God to every lovir fende,
That lovith trewly, more profperite
Than evir had Pyramus and Thifbe,
And let no gentil woman her affure
To puttin her in fuche avinture :
But God forbid but that a woman can
Ben as true and as loving as a man,
And for my part I fhal anon it kith;
And with that word his fwerd fhe toke fwith,
That warme was of her lov'is blode and hote,
And to the herte fhe her felvin fmote.
And thus are Thifbe and Pyramus age :
Of trewe men I findin but fewe mo
In al my bokis fave this Pyramus,
And therfore have I fpokin of him thus,
For it is deinte to us men to finde
A man that can in love be trewe and kinde.
Here maie ye fene, what lovir fo he be,
A woman dare and can as wel as he.
THE LEGENDE OF PHILOMELA.
37
HERE FOLOWETH
THE LEGENDE OF PHILOMELA.
THOU уevir of the formis that haft wrought
The fayre' world, and bare it in thy thought
Eternally er thy werke began,
Why madift thou to the flaundir of man?
Or allbe that it was not thy doyng,
As for that ende to make foche a thing,
Why fuffredeft thou that Tereus was bore,
That is in love fo falfe and fo forfwore,
That fro this world up to the firft hevin
Corrumpith whan that folke his name nevin?
And as to me, fo grifly was his dede,
That whan that I this foule ftorie rede
Myne eyin wexin foule and fore alfo,
Yet lafteth the venyme of fo long ago
That it enfectith him that wolde beholde
The ftorie of Tereus of which I tolde.
Of Thrace was he the lorde, and kyn to Marte,
The cruil god that ftante with blody darte;
And weddid had he with full blisful chere
King Pandion's faire doughtir dere
That hight Progne, the floure of her countre,
Though Juno lifte not at the feft to be
Ne Hymen, that the god of Weddying is,
But as the fefte redy ben iwis
The Furis three, with all her mortall bronde.
The oule all night above the balkis wonde,
That prophete is of wo and of mifchaunce.
This revill, full of song and full of daunce,
Lafted a fourtenight or little laffe;
But fhortlie of this ftorie for to passe,
(For I am werie of hym for to tell)
Five yere his wife and he togithir dwell,
Till on a daie fhe gan fo fore to long
To fene her fuftir, that fhe fawe not long,
That for defire fhe ne ne wist what to saie,
But to her hufbonde gan fhe for to praie,
For Godd'is love, that fhe mote onis gone
To fene her fustre', and come ayen anon,
Or ellis but fhe mote to her wende
38
THE LEGENDE OF PHILOMELA.
She praised him that he would aftir her fende;
And this was daie by daie all her praiere.
With all humbleffe of wifehode, worde and chere.
This Tercus let make his f hippis yare,
And into Greece himfelf is forthe ifare:
Unto his fathir in lawe gan he to praie
To vouchfafin that for a moneth or twaie
That Philomela his wive's fustir might
On Progne' his wife but onis have a fight,
And fhe fhall come to you again anon,
My felf with her I will bothe come and gon,
And as my hert's life I will her kepe.
This olde Pandion, this kyng, gan to wepe
For tenderneffe of herte for to leve
His doughtir gon, and for to yeve her leve;
Of all this worlde he lovid nothyng fo;
But at the lafte leve hath fhe to go,
For Philomela with falt teris eke
Gan of her fathir his grace to befeke
To fene her fustir, that her longith fo,
And hym embracith it with her armis two
And therewithal so yonge and faire was fhe,
That when that Tereus fawe her beaute,
And of arraie that there was none her liche,
And yet of beaute fhe to fo riche,
He cast his fierie herte upon her fo
That he woll have her how fo that it go,
And with hif wilis knelid and so praied
Till at the last Pandion thus yfaied:
Now fonne, (quod he) that art to me fo derc,
I the betake my yonge doughtir here,
That bereth the keie of all myne hert'is life,
And grete me well my doughtir and thy wife.
And yeve her leve fomtyme for to pleie,
That fhe maie fe onis or I deie.
And fothly he hath made hym riche feft,
And to his folke the mofte and eke the left
That with him came, and gave him yeftis grete,
And him conveyeth through the maftirftrete
Of Athenis and to the fe hym brought,
And tournith home, no malice he ne thought.
The oris pullith forth the veffil faft,
And into Thrace arriveth at the laft,
And up into a foreft he her led,
And to a cave full privily hym sped,
And in this dark cave, if that her left
Or ne lift nought, he had her foe to reft,
Of which her heart agrose, and fayid thus:
THE LEGENDE OF PHILOMELA.
39
Where is my fustir, brothir Tereus?
And there withall she wept full tendirlie,
And quoke for fere all pale and pituouslie,
Right as the lambe that of the wolfe is bitten,
Or as the culver that of the' egle is smitten,
And is out of his clawis forthe efcaped,
Yet is still aferde and fore awhaped,
Left It be hent eftfonis; so state she;
But uttirlie it maie none othir be,
By force hath this traitor ydoen a dede
That he hath reft her of her maidinhede
Maugre her hed, by ftrength and by his might.
Lo, here a dede of men, and that aright!
She cryith Sustir with full loude fteven,
And Fathir dere! o helpe me God in heven!
All helpith not: and yet this falfe thefe,
Hath done his lady yet a more mifchefe,
For fere left that she fhould his fhame crie,
And doen him opinlie a vilanie,
And with his fwerd her tong of kerfith he,
And in a caftill made her for to be
Full privily in prisone evirmore,
And kept her to his ufage and his ftore,
So that she might nevir more asterte.
O fely Philomela! woe is thine herte,
Huge ben thy forrowis, and wondir smerte;
God wreke the, and fende the thy bone!
Now it is time I make an ende fone,
This Tereus is to his wife icome,
And in his armis hath his wife inome,
And pitoufly he wept, and fhoke his hedde,
And fwote her that he found her fuftir dedde,
For which this felie Progne hath foche wo
That nigh her sorrowfull herte brake atwo:
And thus in teri, let I Progne dwell,
And of her fuftir forthe I woll you tel.
This wofull ladie lernid had in youth
So that fhe workin and embraudin couth,
And wevin in her ftole the redevore,
As it of women hath ben wovid yore;
And, fothly for no faine, fhe hath her fill
Of mete and drinke, of clothing at her will,
And coufh eke rode well inough and endite,
But with a penne fhe ne could not write,
But lettirs can fhe wevin to and fro,
So that by that the yero was all ago
She had ywovin in a flamen large
How fhe was prought from Athens in a barge,
40
THE LEGENDE OF PHILOMELA.
1
And in a cave how that fhe was ybrought,
And all the thyng that Tereus ywrought
She wave it wel, and wrote the ftorie' above
How she was fervid for her fuftir's love;
And to a knave a ring the yave anon,
And prayid him by fignis for to gon
Unto the Quene, and berin her that clothe,
And by fignis fwore him many an othe
She fhould him yevin what the gettin might.
This knave anon unto the Quene him dight,
And toke it her, and all the manir tolde:
And when that Progne hath this thing behold
No worde f he spake for forowe and for rage,
But fainid her to go on pilgrimage
To Bacchus temple; and in a little ftounde
Her dombe fuftis yfittyng hath she founde,
Weping in the caftill her felf alone;
Alas the wo, the constraint and the mone,
That Progne upon her domb fuf ir maketh!
In armis everiche of 'hem othir taketh;
And thus I let 'hem in their forowe dwell,
The remenaunt is no charge for to tell,
For this all and some, thus was fhe ferved
Thai nevir ought agiltid ne deferved
Unto this cruill man that she of wifte.
Ye maie beware of men if that you lifte,
For all be that he woll not for his fhame
Doin as Tereus to lefe his name,
Ne ferfe you as a murtherer or a knave,
Full little while fhullin ye trewe him have,
That woll I fain, al wer he now my brother,
But it so be that he maie have none other.
愛
​1:
UNIV. OF MIOH.
AUG 2F 1910
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1
4
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828
BOOK CARD
AUTHOR Chaucer's C50
1885
Canterbury tales,
bury
209
19
TITLE
SIGNATURE
1
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1


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