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PROLOGUE to THE CANTERBURY TALES
Geoffrey Chaucer
   
1  
When April with his showers sweet with fruit
2  
The drought of March has pierced unto the root
3  
And bathed each vein with liquor that has power
4  
To generate therein and sire the flower;
5  
When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath,
6  
Quickened again, in every holt and heath,
7  
The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun
8  
Into the Ram one half his course has run,
9  
And many little birds make melody
10  
That sleep through all the night with open eye
11  
(So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)-
12  
Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage,
13  
And palmers to go seeking out strange strands,
14  
To distant shrines well known in sundry lands.
15  
And specially from every shire's end
16  
Of England they to Canterbury wend,
17  
The holy blessed martyr there to seek
18  
Who helped them when they lay so ill and weal
19  
Befell that, in that season, on a day
20  
In Southwark, at the Tabard, as I lay
21  
Ready to start upon my pilgrimage
22  
To Canterbury, full of devout homage,
23  
There came at nightfall to that hostelry
24  
Some nine and twenty in a company
25  
Of sundry persons who had chanced to fall
26  
In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all
27  
That toward Canterbury town would ride.
28  
The rooms and stables spacious were and wide,
29  
And well we there were eased, and of the best.
30  
And briefly, when the sun had gone to rest,
31  
So had I spoken with them, every one,
32  
That I was of their fellowship anon,
33  
And made agreement that we'd early rise
34  
To take the road, as you I will apprise.
35  
But none the less, whilst I have time and space,
36  
Before yet farther in this tale I pace,
37  
It seems to me accordant with reason
38  
To inform you of the state of every one
39  
Of all of these, as it appeared to me,
40  
And who they were, and what was their degree,
41  
And even how arrayed there at the inn;
42  
And with a knight thus will I first begin.
43  
A knight there was, and he a worthy man,
44  
Who, from the moment that he first began
45  
To ride about the world, loved chivalry,
46  
Truth, honour, freedom and all courtesy.
47  
Full worthy was he in his liege-lord's war,
48  
And therein had he ridden (none more far)
49  
As well in Christendom as heathenesse,
50  
And honoured everywhere for worthiness.
51  
At Alexandria, he, when it was won;
52  
Full oft the table's roster he'd begun
53  
Above all nations' knights in Prussia.
54  
In Latvia raided he, and Russia,
55  
No christened man so oft of his degree.
56  
In far Granada at the siege was he
57  
Of Algeciras, and in Belmarie.
58  
At Ayas was he and at Satalye
59  
When they were won; and on the Middle Sea
60  
At many a noble meeting chanced to be.
61  
Of mortal battles he had fought fifteen,
62  
And he'd fought for our faith at Tramissene
63  
Three times in lists, and each time slain his foe.
64  
This self-same worthy knight had been also
65  
At one time with the lord of Palatye
66  
Against another heathen in Turkey:
67  
And always won he sovereign fame for prize.
68  
Though so illustrious, he was very wise
69  
And bore himself as meekly as a maid.
70  
He never yet had any vileness said,
71  
In all his life, to whatsoever wight.
72  
He was a truly perfect, gentle knight.
73  
But now, to tell you all of his array,
74  
His steeds were good, but yet he was not gay.
75  
Of simple fustian wore he a jupon
76  
Sadly discoloured by his habergeon;
77  
For he had lately come from his voyage
78  
And now was going on this pilgrimage.
79  
With him there was his son, a youthful squire,
80  
A lover and a lusty bachelor,
81  
With locks well curled, as if they'd laid in press.
82  
Some twenty years of age he was, I guess.
83  
In stature he was of an average length,
84  
Wondrously active, aye, and great of strength.
85  
He'd ridden sometime with the cavalry
86  
In Flanders, in Artois, and Picardy,
87  
And borne him well within that little space
88  
In hope to win thereby his lady's grace.
89  
Prinked out he was, as if he were a mead,
90  
All full of fresh-cut flowers white and red.
91  
Singing he was, or fluting, all the day;
92  
He was as fresh as is the month of May.
93  
Short was his gown, with sleeves both long and wide.
94  
Well could be sit on horse, and fairly ride.
95  
He could make songs and words thereto indite,
96  
Joust, and dance too, as well as sketch and write.
97  
So hot he loved that, while night told her tale,
98  
He slept no more than does a nightingale.
99  
Courteous he, and humble, willing and able,
100  
And carved before his father at the table.
101  
A yeoman had he, nor more servants, no,
102  
At that time, for he chose to travel so;
103  
And he was clad in coat and hood of green.
104  
A sheaf of peacock arrows bright and keen
105  
Under his belt he bore right carefully
106  
(Well could he keep his tackle yeomanly:
107  
His arrows had no draggled feathers low),
108  
And in his hand he bore a mighty bow.
109  
A cropped head had he and a sun-browned face.
110  
Of woodcraft knew he all the useful ways.
111  
Upon his arm he bore a bracer gay,
112  
And at one side a sword and buckler, yea,
113  
And at the other side a dagger bright,
114  
Well sheathed and sharp as spear point in the light;
115  
On breast a Christopher of silver sheen.
116  
He bore a horn in baldric all of green;
117  
A forester he truly was, I guess.
118  
There was also a nun, a prioress,
119  
Who, in her smiling, modest was and coy;
120  
Her greatest oath was but By Saint Eloy!
121  
And she was known as Madam Eglantine.
122  
Full well she sang the services divine,
123  
Intoning through her nose, becomingly;
124  
And fair she spoke her French, and fluently,
125  
After the school of Stratford-at-the-Bow,
126  
For French of Paris was not hers to know.
127  
At table she had been well taught withal,
128  
And never from her lips let morsels fall,
129  
Nor dipped her fingers deep in sauce, but ate
130  
With so much care the food upon her plate
131  
That never driblet fell upon her breast.
132  
In courtesy she had delight and zest.
133  
Her upper lip was always wiped so clean
134  
That in her cup was no iota seen
135  
Of grease, when she had drunk her draught of wine.
136  
Becomingly she reached for meat to dine.
137  
And certainly delighting in good sport,
138  
She was right pleasant, amiable- in short.
139  
She was at pains to counterfeit the look
140  
Of courtliness, and stately manners took,
141  
And would be held worthy of reverence.
142  
But, to say something of her moral sense,
143  
She was so charitable and piteous
144  
That she would weep if she but saw a mouse
145  
Caught in a trap, though it were dead or bled.
146  
She had some little dogs, too, that she fed
147  
On roasted flesh, or milk and fine white bread.
148  
But sore she'd weep if one of them were dead,
149  
Or if men smote it with a rod to smart:
150  
For pity ruled her, and her tender heart.
151  
Right decorous her pleated wimple was;
152  
Her nose was fine; her eyes were blue as glass;
153  
Her mouth was small and therewith soft and red;
154  
But certainly she had a fair forehead;
155  
It was almost a full span broad, I own,
156  
For, truth to tell, she was not undergrown.
157  
Neat was her cloak, as I was well aware.
158  
Of coral small about her arm she'd bear
159  
A string of beads and gauded all with green;
160  
And therefrom hung a brooch of golden sheen
161  
Whereon there was first written a crowned A,
162  
And under, Amor vincit omnia.
163  
Another little nun with her had she,
164  
Who was her chaplain; and of priests she'd three.
165  
A monk there was, one made for mastery,
166  
An outrider, who loved his venery;
167  
A manly man, to be an abbot able.
168  
Full many a blooded horse had he in stable:
169  
And when he rode men might his bridle hear
170  
A-jingling in the whistling wind as clear,
171  
Aye, and as loud as does the chapel bell
172  
Where this brave monk was of the cell.
173  
The rule of Maurus or Saint Benedict,
174  
By reason it was old and somewhat strict,
175  
This said monk let such old things slowly pace
176  
And followed new-world manners in their place.
177  
He cared not for that text a clean-plucked hen
178  
Which holds that hunters are not holy men;
179  
Nor that a monk, when he is cloisterless,
180  
Is like unto a fish that's waterless;
181  
That is to say, a monk out of his cloister.
182  
But this same text he held not worth an oyster;
183  
And I said his opinion was right good.
184  
What? Should he study as a madman would
185  
Upon a book in cloister cell? Or yet
186  
Go labour with his hands and swink and sweat,
187  
As Austin bids? How shall the world be served?
188  
Let Austin have his toil to him reserved.
189  
Therefore he was a rider day and night;
190  
Greyhounds he had, as swift as bird in flight.
191  
Since riding and the hunting of the hare
192  
Were all his love, for no cost would he spare.
193  
I saw his sleeves were purfled at the hand
194  
With fur of grey, the finest in the land;
195  
Also, to fasten hood beneath his chin,
196  
He had of good wrought gold a curious pin:
197  
A love-knot in the larger end there was.
198  
His head was bald and shone like any glass,
199  
And smooth as one anointed was his face.
200  
Fat was this lord, he stood in goodly case.
201  
His bulging eyes he rolled about, and hot
202  
They gleamed and red, like fire beneath a pot;
203  
His boots were soft; his horse of great estate.
204  
Now certainly he was a fine prelate:
205  
He was not pale as some poor wasted ghost.
206  
A fat swan loved he best of any roast.
207  
His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.
208  
A friar there was, a wanton and a merry,
209  
A limiter, a very festive man.
210  
In all the Orders Four is none that can
211  
Equal his gossip and his fair language.
212  
He had arranged full many a marriage
213  
Of women young, and this at his own cost.
214  
Unto his order he was a noble post.
215  
Well liked by all and intimate was he
216  
With franklins everywhere in his country,
217  
And with the worthy women of the town:
218  
For at confessing he'd more power in gown
219  
(As he himself said) than it good curate,
220  
For of his order he was licentiate.
221  
He heard confession gently, it was said,
222  
Gently absolved too, leaving naught of dread.
223  
He was an easy man to give penance
224  
When knowing he should gain a good pittance;
225  
For to a begging friar, money given
226  
Is sign that any man has been well shriven.
227  
For if one gave (he dared to boast of this),
228  
He took the man's repentance not amiss.
229  
For many a man there is so hard of heart
230  
He cannot weep however pains may smart.
231  
Therefore, instead of weeping and of prayer,
232  
Men should give silver to poor friars all bare.
233  
His tippet was stuck always full of knives
234  
And pins, to give to young and pleasing wives.
235  
And certainly he kept a merry note:
236  
Well could he sing and play upon the rote.
237  
At balladry he bore the prize away.
238  
His throat was white as lily of the May;
239  
Yet strong he was as ever champion.
240  
In towns he knew the taverns, every one,
241  
And every good host and each barmaid too-
242  
Better than begging lepers, these he knew.
243  
For unto no such solid man as he
244  
Accorded it, as far as he could see,
245  
To have sick lepers for acquaintances.
246  
There is no honest advantageousness
247  
In dealing with such poverty-stricken curs;
248  
It's with the rich and with big victuallers.
249  
And so, wherever profit might arise,
250  
Courteous he was and humble in men's eyes.
251  
There was no other man so virtuous.
252  
He was the finest beggar of his house;
253  
A certain district being farmed to him,
254  
None of his brethren dared approach its rim;
255  
For though a widow had no shoes to show,
256  
So pleasant was his In principio,
257  
He always got a farthing ere he went.
258  
He lived by pickings, it is evident.
259  
And he could romp as well as any whelp.
260  
On love days could he be of mickle help.
261  
For there he was not like a cloisterer,
262  
With threadbare cope as is the poor scholar,
263  
But he was like a lord or like a pope.
264  
Of double worsted was his semi-cope,
265  
That rounded like a bell, as you may guess.
266  
He lisped a little, out of wantonness,
267  
To make his English soft upon his tongue;
268  
And in his harping, after he had sung,
269  
His two eyes twinkled in his head as bright
270  
As do the stars within the frosty night.
271  
This worthy limiter was named Hubert.
272  
There was a merchant with forked beard, and girt
273  
In motley gown, and high on horse he sat,
274  
Upon his head a Flemish beaver hat;
275  
His boots were fastened rather elegantly.
276  
His spoke his notions out right pompously,
277  
Stressing the times when he had won, not lost.
278  
He would the sea were held at any cost
279  
Across from Middleburgh to Orwell town.
280  
At money-changing he could make a crown.
281  
This worthy man kept all his wits well set;
282  
There was no one could say he was in debt,
283  
So well he governed all his trade affairs
284  
With bargains and with borrowings and with shares.
285  
Indeed, he was a worthy man withal,
286  
But, sooth to say, his name I can't recall.
287  
A clerk from Oxford was with us also,
288  
Who'd turned to getting knowledge, long ago.
289  
As meagre was his horse as is a rake,
290  
Nor he himself too fat, I'll undertake,
291  
But he looked hollow and went soberly.
292  
Right threadbare was his overcoat; for he
293  
Had got him yet no churchly benefice,
294  
Nor was so worldly as to gain office.
295  
For he would rather have at his bed's head
296  
Some twenty books, all bound in black and red,
297  
Of Aristotle and his philosophy
298  
Than rich robes, fiddle, or gay psaltery.
299  
Yet, and for all he was philosopher,
300  
He had but little gold within his coffer;
301  
But all that he might borrow from a friend
302  
On books and learning he would swiftly spend,
303  
And then he'd pray right busily for the souls
304  
Of those who gave him wherewithal for schools.
305  
Of study took he utmost care and heed.
306  
Not one word spoke he more than was his need;
307  
And that was said in fullest reverence
308  
And short and quick and full of high good sense.
309  
Pregnant of moral virtue was his speech;
310  
And gladly would he learn and gladly teach.
311  
A sergeant of the law, wary and wise,
312  
Who'd often gone to Paul's walk to advise,
313  
There was also, compact of excellence.
314  
Discreet he was, and of great reverence;
315  
At least he seemed so, his words were so wise.
316  
Often he sat as justice in assize,
317  
By patent or commission from the crown;
318  
Because of learning and his high renown,
319  
He took large fees and many robes could own.
320  
So great a purchaser was never known.
321  
All was fee simple to him, in effect,
322  
Wherefore his claims could never be suspect.
323  
Nowhere a man so busy of his class,
324  
And yet he seemed much busier than he was.
325  
All cases and all judgments could he cite
326  
That from King William's time were apposite.
327  
And he could draw a contract so explicit
328  
Not any man could fault therefrom elicit;
329  
And every statute he'd verbatim quote.
330  
He rode but badly in a medley coat,
331  
Belted in a silken sash, with little bars,
332  
But of his dress no more particulars.
333  
There was a franklin in his company;
334  
White was his beard as is the white daisy.
335  
Of sanguine temperament by every sign,
336  
He loved right well his morning sop in wine.
337  
Delightful living was the goal he'd won,
338  
For he was Epicurus' very son,
339  
That held opinion that a full delight
340  
Was true felicity, perfect and right.
341  
A householder, and that a great, was he;
342  
Saint Julian he was in his own country.
343  
His bread and ale were always right well done;
344  
A man with better cellars there was none.
345  
Baked meat was never wanting in his house,
346  
Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous
347  
It seemed to snow therein both food and drink
348  
Of every dainty that a man could think.
349  
According to the season of the year
350  
He changed his diet and his means of cheer.
351  
Full many a fattened partridge did he mew,
352  
And many a bream and pike in fish-pond too.
353  
Woe to his cook, except the sauces were
354  
Poignant and sharp, and ready all his gear.
355  
His table, waiting in his hall alway,
356  
Stood ready covered through the livelong day.
357  
At county sessions was he lord and sire,
358  
And often acted as a knight of shire.
359  
A dagger and a trinket-bag of silk
360  
Hung from his girdle, white as morning milk.
361  
He had been sheriff and been auditor;
362  
And nowhere was a worthier vavasor.
363  
A haberdasher and a carpenter,
364  
An arras-maker, dyer, and weaver
365  
Were with us, clothed in similar livery,
366  
All of one sober, great fraternity.
367  
Their gear was new and well adorned it was;
368  
Their weapons were not cheaply trimmed with brass,
369  
But all with silver; chastely made and well
370  
Their girdles and their pouches too, I tell.
371  
Each man of them appeared a proper burges
372  
To sit in guildhall on a high dais.
373  
And each of them, for wisdom he could span,
374  
Was fitted to have been an alderman;
375  
For chattels they'd enough, and, too, of rent;
376  
To which their goodwives gave a free assent,
377  
Or else for certain they had been to blame.
378  
It's good to hear Madam before one's name,
379  
And go to church when all the world may see,
380  
Having one's mantle borne right royally.
381  
A cook they had with them, just for the nonce,
382  
To boil the chickens with the marrow-bones,
383  
And flavour tartly and with galingale.
384  
Well could he tell a draught of London ale.
385  
And he could roast and seethe and broil and fry,
386  
And make a good thick soup, and bake a pie.
387  
But very ill it was, it seemed to me,
388  
That on his shin a deadly sore had he;
389  
For sweet blanc-mange, he made it with the best.
390  
There was a sailor, living far out west;
391  
For aught I know, he was of Dartmouth town.
392  
He sadly rode a hackney, in a gown,
393  
Of thick rough cloth falling to the knee.
394  
A dagger hanging on a cord had he
395  
About his neck, and under arm, and down.
396  
The summer's heat had burned his visage brown;
397  
And certainly he was a good fellow.
398  
Full many a draught of wine he'd drawn, I trow,
399  
Of Bordeaux vintage, while the trader slept.
400  
Nice conscience was a thing he never kept.
401  
If that he fought and got the upper hand,
402  
By water he sent them home to every land.
403  
But as for craft, to reckon well his tides,
404  
His currents and the dangerous watersides,
405  
His harbours, and his moon, his pilotage,
406  
There was none such from Hull to far Carthage.
407  
Hardy. and wise in all things undertaken,
408  
By many a tempest had his beard been shaken.
409  
He knew well all the havens, as they were,
410  
From Gottland to the Cape of Finisterre,
411  
And every creek in Brittany and Spain;
412  
His vessel had been christened Madeleine.
413  
With us there was a doctor of physic;
414  
In all this world was none like him to pick
415  
For talk of medicine and surgery;
416  
For he was grounded in astronomy.
417  
He often kept a patient from the pall
418  
By horoscopes and magic natural.
419  
Well could he tell the fortune ascendent
420  
Within the houses for his sick patient.
421  
He knew the cause of every malady,
422  
Were it of hot or cold, of moist or dry,
423  
And where engendered, and of what humour;
424  
He was a very good practitioner.
425  
The cause being known, down to the deepest root,
426  
Anon he gave to the sick man his boot.
427  
Ready he was, with his apothecaries,
428  
To send him drugs and all electuaries;
429  
By mutual aid much gold they'd always won-
430  
Their friendship was a thing not new begun.
431  
Well read was he in Esculapius,
432  
And Deiscorides, and in Rufus,
433  
Hippocrates, and Hali, and Galen,
434  
Serapion, Rhazes, and Avicen,
435  
Averrhoes, Gilbert, and Constantine,
436  
Bernard and Gatisden, and John Damascene.
437  
In diet he was measured as could be,
438  
Including naught of superfluity,
439  
But nourishing and easy. It's no libel
440  
To say he read but little in the Bible.
441  
In blue and scarlet he went clad, withal,
442  
Lined with a taffeta and with sendal;
443  
And yet he was right chary of expense;
444  
He kept the gold he gained from pestilence.
445  
For gold in physic is a fine cordial,
446  
And therefore loved he gold exceeding all.
447  
There was a housewife come from Bath, or near,
448  
Who- sad to say- was deaf in either ear.
449  
At making cloth she had so great a bent
450  
She bettered those of Ypres and even of Ghent.
451  
In all the parish there was no goodwife
452  
Should offering make before her, on my life;
453  
And if one did, indeed, so wroth was she
454  
It put her out of all her charity.
455  
Her kerchiefs were of finest weave and ground;
456  
I dare swear that they weighed a full ten pound
457  
Which, of a Sunday, she wore on her head.
458  
Her hose were of the choicest scarlet red,
459  
Close gartered, and her shoes were soft and new.
460  
Bold was her face, and fair, and red of hue.
461  
She'd been respectable throughout her life,
462  
With five churched husbands bringing joy and strife,
463  
Not counting other company in youth;
464  
But thereof there's no need to speak, in truth.
465  
Three times she'd journeyed to Jerusalem;
466  
And many a foreign stream she'd had to stem;
467  
At Rome she'd been, and she'd been in Boulogne,
468  
In Spain at Santiago, and at Cologne.
469  
She could tell much of wandering by the way:
470  
Gap-toothed was she, it is no lie to say.
471  
Upon an ambler easily she sat,
472  
Well wimpled, aye, and over all a hat
473  
As broad as is a buckler or a targe;
474  
A rug was tucked around her buttocks large,
475  
And on her feet a pair of sharpened spurs.
476  
In company well could she laugh her slurs.
477  
The remedies of love she knew, perchance,
478  
For of that art she'd learned the old, old dance.
479  
There was a good man of religion, too,
480  
A country parson, poor, I warrant you;
481  
But rich he was in holy thought and work.
482  
He was a learned man also, a clerk,
483  
Who Christ's own gospel truly sought to preach;
484  
Devoutly his parishioners would he teach.
485  
Benign he was and wondrous diligent,
486  
Patient in adverse times and well content,
487  
As he was ofttimes proven; always blithe,
488  
He was right loath to curse to get a tithe,
489  
But rather would he give, in case of doubt,
490  
Unto those poor parishioners about,
491  
Part of his income, even of his goods.
492  
Enough with little, coloured all his moods.
493  
Wide was his parish, houses far asunder,
494  
But never did he fail, for rain or thunder,
495  
In sickness, or in sin, or any state,
496  
To visit to the farthest, small and great,
497  
Going afoot, and in his hand, a stave.
498  
This fine example to his flock he gave,
499  
That first he wrought and afterwards he taught;
500  
Out of the gospel then that text he caught,
501  
And this figure he added thereunto-
502  
That, if gold rust, what shall poor iron do?
503  
For if the priest be foul, in whom we trust,
504  
What wonder if a layman yield to lust?
505  
And shame it is, if priest take thought for keep,
506  
A shitty shepherd, shepherding clean sheep.
507  
Well ought a priest example good to give,
508  
By his own cleanness, how his flock should live.
509  
He never let his benefice for hire,
510  
Leaving his flock to flounder in the mire,
511  
And ran to London, up to old Saint Paul's
512  
To get himself a chantry there for souls,
513  
Nor in some brotherhood did he withhold;
514  
But dwelt at home and kept so well the fold
515  
That never wolf could make his plans miscarry;
516  
He was a shepherd and not mercenary.
517  
And holy though he was, and virtuous,
518  
To sinners he was not impiteous,
519  
Nor haughty in his speech, nor too divine,
520  
But in all teaching prudent and benign.
521  
To lead folk into Heaven but by stress
522  
Of good example was his busyness.
523  
But if some sinful one proved obstinate,
524  
Be who it might, of high or low estate,
525  
Him he reproved, and sharply, as I know.
526  
There is nowhere a better priest, I trow.
527  
He had no thirst for pomp or reverence,
528  
Nor made himself a special, spiced conscience,
529  
But Christ's own lore, and His apostles' twelve
530  
He taught, but first he followed it himselve.
531  
With him there was a plowman, was his brother,
532  
That many a load of dung, and many another
533  
Had scattered, for a good true toiler, he,
534  
Living in peace and perfect charity.
535  
He loved God most, and that with his whole heart
536  
At all times, though he played or plied his art,
537  
And next, his neighbour, even as himself.
538  
He'd thresh and dig, with never thought of pelf,
539  
For Christ's own sake, for every poor wight,
540  
All without pay, if it lay in his might.
541  
He paid his taxes, fully, fairly, well,
542  
Both by his own toil and by stuff he'd sell.
543  
In a tabard he rode upon a mare.
544  
There were also a reeve and miller there;
545  
A summoner, manciple and pardoner,
546  
And these, beside myself, made all there were.
547  
The miller was a stout churl, be it known,
548  
Hardy and big of brawn and big of bone;
549  
Which was well proved, for when he went on lam
550  
At wrestling, never failed he of the ram.
551  
He was a chunky fellow, broad of build;
552  
He'd heave a door from hinges if he willed,
553  
Or break it through, by running, with his head.
554  
His beard, as any sow or fox, was red,
555  
And broad it was as if it were a spade.
556  
Upon the coping of his nose he had
557  
A wart, and thereon stood a tuft of hairs,
558  
Red as the bristles in an old sow's ears;
559  
His nostrils they were black and very wide.
560  
A sword and buckler bore he by his side.
561  
His mouth was like a furnace door for size.
562  
He was a jester and could poetize,
563  
But mostly all of sin and ribaldries.
564  
He could steal corn and full thrice charge his fees;
565  
And yet he had a thumb of gold, begad.
566  
A white coat and blue hood he wore, this lad.
567  
A bagpipe he could blow well, be it known,
568  
And with that same he brought us out of town.
569  
There was a manciple from an inn of court,
570  
To whom all buyers might quite well resort
571  
To learn the art of buying food and drink;
572  
For whether he paid cash or not, I think
573  
That he so knew the markets, when to buy,
574  
He never found himself left high and dry.
575  
Now is it not of God a full fair grace
576  
That such a vulgar man has wit to pace
577  
The wisdom of a crowd of learned men?
578  
Of masters had he more than three times ten,
579  
Who were in law expert and curious;
580  
Whereof there were a dozen in that house
581  
Fit to be stewards of both rent and land
582  
Of any lord in England who would stand
583  
Upon his own and live in manner good,
584  
In honour, debtless (save his head were wood),
585  
Or live as frugally as he might desire;
586  
These men were able to have helped a shire
587  
In any case that ever might befall;
588  
And yet this manciple outguessed them all.
589  
The reeve he was a slender, choleric man
590  
Who shaved his beard as close as razor can.
591  
His hair was cut round even with his ears;
592  
His top was tonsured like a pulpiteer's.
593  
Long were his legs, and they were very lean,
594  
And like a staff, with no calf to be seen.
595  
Well could he manage granary and bin;
596  
No auditor could ever on him win.
597  
He could foretell, by drought and by the rain,
598  
The yielding of his seed and of his grain.
599  
His lord's sheep and his oxen and his dairy,
600  
His swine and horses, all his stores, his poultry,
601  
Were wholly in this steward's managing;
602  
And, by agreement, he'd made reckoning
603  
Since his young lord of age was twenty years;
604  
Yet no man ever found him in arrears.
605  
There was no agent, hind, or herd who'd cheat
606  
But he knew well his cunning and deceit;
607  
They were afraid of him as of the death.
608  
His cottage was a good one, on a heath;
609  
By green trees shaded with this dwelling-place.
610  
Much better than his lord could he purchase.
611  
Right rich he was in his own private right,
612  
Seeing he'd pleased his lord, by day or night,
613  
By giving him, or lending, of his goods,
614  
And so got thanked- but yet got coats and hoods.
615  
In youth he'd learned a good trade, and had been
616  
A carpenter, as fine as could be seen.
617  
This steward sat a horse that well could trot,
618  
And was all dapple-grey, and was named Scot.
619  
A long surcoat of blue did he parade,
620  
And at his side he bore a rusty blade.
621  
Of Norfolk was this reeve of whom I tell,
622  
From near a town that men call Badeswell.
623  
Bundled he was like friar from chin to croup,
624  
And ever he rode hindmost of our troop.
625  
A summoner was with us in that place,
626  
Who had a fiery-red, cherubic face,
627  
For eczema he had; his eyes were narrow
628  
As hot he was, and lecherous, as a sparrow;
629  
With black and scabby brows and scanty beard;
630  
He had a face that little children feared.
631  
There was no mercury, sulphur, or litharge,
632  
No borax, ceruse, tartar, could discharge,
633  
Nor ointment that could cleanse enough, or bite,
634  
To free him of his boils and pimples white,
635  
Nor of the bosses resting on his cheeks.
636  
Well loved he garlic, onions, aye and leeks,
637  
And drinking of strong wine as red as blood.
638  
Then would he talk and shout as madman would.
639  
And when a deal of wine he'd poured within,
640  
Then would. he utter no word save Latin.
641  
Some phrases had he learned, say two or three,
642  
Which he had garnered out of some decree;
643  
No wonder, for he'd heard it all the day;
644  
And all you know right well that even a jay
645  
Can call out Wat as well as can the pope.
646  
But when, for aught else, into him you'd grope,
647  
'Twas found he'd spent his whole philosophy;
648  
Just Questio quid juris would he cry.
649  
He was a noble rascal, and a kind;
650  
A better comrade 'twould be hard to find.
651  
Why, he would suffer, for a quart of wine,
652  
Some good fellow to have his concubine
653  
A twelve-month, and excuse him to the full
654  
(Between ourselves, though, he could pluck a gull).
655  
And if he chanced upon a good fellow,
656  
He would instruct him never to have awe,
657  
In such a case, of the archdeacon's curse,
658  
Except a man's soul lie within his purse;
659  
For in his purse the man should punished be.
660  
The purse is the archdeacon's Hell, said he.
661  
But well I know he lied in what he said;
662  
A curse ought every guilty man to dread
663  
(For curse can kill, as absolution save),
664  
And 'ware significavit to the grave.
665  
In his own power had he, and at ease,
666  
The boys and girls of all the diocese,
667  
And knew their secrets, and by counsel led.
668  
A garland had he set upon his head,
669  
Large as a tavern's wine-bush on a stake;
670  
A buckler had he made of bread they bake.
671  
With him there rode a gentle pardoner
672  
Of Rouncival, his friend and his compeer;
673  
Straight from the court of Rome had journeyed he.
674  
Loudly he sang Come hither, love, to me,
675  
The summoner joining with a burden round;
676  
Was never horn of half so great a sound.
677  
This pardoner had hair as yellow as wax,
678  
But lank it hung as does a strike of flax;
679  
In wisps hung down such locks as he'd on head,
680  
And with them he his shoulders overspread;
681  
But thin they dropped, and stringy, one by one.
682  
But as to hood, for sport of it, he'd none,
683  
Though it was packed in wallet all the while.
684  
It seemed to him he went in latest style,
685  
Dishevelled, save for cap, his head all bare.
686  
As shiny eyes he had as has a hare.
687  
He had a fine veronica sewed to cap.
688  
His wallet lay before him in his lap,
689  
Stuffed full of pardons brought from Rome all hot.
690  
A voice he had that bleated like a goat.
691  
No beard had he, nor ever should he have,
692  
For smooth his face as he'd just had a shave;
693  
I think he was a gelding or a mare.
694  
But in his craft, from Berwick unto Ware,
695  
Was no such pardoner in any place.
696  
For in his bag he had a pillowcase
697  
The which, he said, was Our True Lady's veil:
698  
He said he had a piece of the very sail
699  
That good Saint Peter had, what time he went
700  
Upon the sea, till Jesus changed his bent.
701  
He had a latten cross set full of stones,
702  
And in a bottle had he some pig's bones.
703  
But with these relics, when he came upon
704  
Some simple parson, then this paragon
705  
In that one day more money stood to gain
706  
Than the poor dupe in two months could attain.
707  
And thus, with flattery and suchlike japes,
708  
He made the parson and the rest his apes.
709  
But yet, to tell the whole truth at the last,
710  
He was, in church, a fine ecclesiast.
711  
Well could he read a lesson or a story,
712  
But best of all he sang an offertory;
713  
For well he knew that when that song was sung,
714  
Then might he preach, and all with polished tongue.
715  
To win some silver, as he right well could;
716  
Therefore he sang so merrily and so loud.
717  
Now have I told you briefly, in a clause,
718  
The state, the array, the number, and the cause
719  
Of the assembling of this company
720  
In Southwark, at this noble hostelry
721  
Known as the Tabard Inn, hard by the Bell.
722  
But now the time is come wherein to tell
723  
How all we bore ourselves that very night
724  
When at the hostelry we did alight.
725  
And afterward the story I engage
726  
To tell you of our common pilgrimage.
727  
But first, I pray you, of your courtesy,
728  
You'll not ascribe it to vulgarity
729  
Though I speak plainly of this matter here,
730  
Retailing you their words and means of cheer;
731  
Nor though I use their very terms, nor lie.
732  
For this thing do you know as well as I:
733  
When one repeats a tale told by a man,
734  
He must report, as nearly as he can,
735  
Every least word, if he remember it,
736  
However rude it be, or how unfit;
737  
Or else he may be telling what's untrue,
738  
Embellishing and fictionizing too.
739  
He may not spare, although it were his brother;
740  
He must as well say one word as another.
741  
Christ spoke right broadly out, in holy writ,
742  
And, you know well, there's nothing low in it.
743  
And Plato says, to those able to read:
744  
The word should be the cousin to the deed.
745  
Also, I pray that you'll forgive it me
746  
If I have not set folk, in their degree
747  
Here in this tale, by rank as they should stand.
748  
My wits are not the best, you'll understand.
749  
Great cheer our host gave to us, every one,
750  
And to the supper set us all anon;
751  
And served us then with victuals of the best.
752  
Strong was the wine and pleasant to each guest.
753  
A seemly man our good host was, withal,
754  
Fit to have been a marshal in some hall;
755  
He was a large man, with protruding eyes,
756  
As fine a burgher as in Cheapside lies;
757  
Bold in his speech, and wise, and right well taught,
758  
And as to manhood, lacking there in naught.
759  
Also, he was a very merry man,
760  
And after meat, at playing he began,
761  
Speaking of mirth among some other things,
762  
When all of us had paid our reckonings;
763  
And saying thus: Now masters, verily
764  
You are all welcome here, and heartily:
765  
For by my truth, and telling you no lie,
766  
I have not seen, this year, a company
767  
Here in this inn, fitter for sport than now.
768  
Fain would I make you happy, knew I how.
769  
And of a game have I this moment thought
770  
To give you joy, and it shall cost you naught.
771  
You go to Canterbury; may God speed
772  
And the blest martyr soon requite your meed.
773  
And well I know, as you go on your way,
774  
You'll tell good tales and shape yourselves to play;
775  
For truly there's no mirth nor comfort, none,
776  
Riding the roads as dumb as is a stone;
777  
And therefore will I furnish you a sport,
778  
As I just said, to give you some comfort.
779  
And if you like it, all, by one assent,
780  
And will be ruled by me, of my judgment,
781  
And will so do as I'll proceed to say,
782  
Tomorrow, when you ride upon your way,
783  
Then, by my father's spirit, who is dead,
784  
If you're not gay, I'll give you up my head.
785  
Hold up your hands, nor more about it speak.
786  
Our full assenting was not far to seek;
787  
We thought there was no reason to think twice,
788  
And granted him his way without advice,
789  
And bade him tell his verdict just and wise,
790  
Masters, quoth he, here now is my advice;
791  
But take it not, I pray you, in disdain;
792  
This is the point, to put it short and plain,
793  
That each of you, beguiling the long day,
794  
Shall tell two stories as you wend your way
795  
To Canterbury town; and each of you
796  
On coming home, shall tell another two,
797  
All of adventures he has known befall.
798  
And he who plays his part the best of all,
799  
That is to say, who tells upon the road
800  
Tales of best sense, in most amusing mode,
801  
Shall have a supper at the others' cost
802  
Here in this room and sitting by this post,
803  
When we come back again from Canterbury.
804  
And now, the more to warrant you'll be merry,
805  
I will myself, and gladly, with you ride
806  
At my own cost, and I will be your guide.
807  
But whosoever shall my rule gainsay
808  
Shall pay for all that's bought along the way.
809  
And if you are agreed that it be so,
810  
Tell me at once, or if not, tell me no,
811  
And I will act accordingly. No more.
812  
This thing was granted, and our oaths we swore,
813  
With right glad hearts, and prayed of him, also,
814  
That he would take the office, nor forgo
815  
The place of governor of all of us,
816  
Judging our tales; and by his wisdom thus
817  
Arrange that supper at a certain price,
818  
We to be ruled, each one, by his advice
819  
In things both great and small; by one assent,
820  
We stood committed to his government.
821  
And thereupon, the wine was fetched anon;
822  
We drank, and then to rest went every one,
823  
And that without a longer tarrying.
824  
Next morning, when the day began to spring,
825  
Up rose our host, and acting as our cock,
826  
He gathered us together in a flock,
827  
And forth we rode, a jog-trot being the pace,
828  
Until we reached Saint Thomas' watering-place.
829  
And there our host pulled horse up to a walk,
830  
And said: Now, masters, listen while I talk.
831  
You know what you agreed at set of sun.
832  
If even-song and morning-song are one,
833  
Let's here decide who first shall tell a tale.
834  
And as I hope to drink more wine and ale,
835  
Whoso proves rebel to my government
836  
Shall pay for all that by the way is spent.
837  
Come now, draw cuts, before we farther win,
838  
And he that draws the shortest shall begin.
839  
Sir knight, said he, my master and my lord,
840  
You shall draw first as you have pledged your word.
841  
Come near, quoth he, my lady prioress:
842  
And you, sir clerk, put by your bashfulness,
843  
Nor ponder more; out hands, flow, every man!
844  
At once to draw a cut each one began,
845  
And, to make short the matter, as it was,
846  
Whether by chance or whatsoever cause,
847  
The truth is, that the cut fell to the knight,
848  
At which right happy then was every wight.
849  
Thus that his story first of all he'd tell,
850  
According to the compact, it befell,
851  
As you have heard. Why argue to and fro?
852  
And when this good man saw that it was so,
853  
Being a wise man and obedient
854  
To plighted word, given by free assent,
855  
He slid: Since I must then begin the game,
856  
Why, welcome be the cut, and in God's name!
857  
Now let us ride, and hearken what I say.
858  
And at that word we rode forth on our way;
859  
And he began to speak, with right good cheer,
860  
His tale anon, as it is written here.

 

    
 

Geoffrey Chaucer Geoffrey Chaucer Poetry
 

CLASSICAL: John Wilmot Lady Mary Wroth Geoffrey Chaucer
 

POETRY: Ancient Classical Modern Contemporary
 
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