Canterbury Tales and Other Poems by Geoffrey Chaucer (always you kirsty moseley .txt) 📖

assassinated in 1369.

 

31. Bernabo Visconti, Duke of Milan, was deposed and imprisoned by his nephew, and died a captive in 1385. His death is the latest historical fact mentioned in the Tales; and thus it throws the date of their composition to about the sixtieth year of Chaucer’s age.

 

32. The story of Ugolino is told in the 33rd Canto of the “Inferno.”

 

THE NUN’S PRIEST’S TALE.

 

THE PROLOGUE.

 

“Ho!” quoth the Knight, “good sir, no more of this; That ye have said is right enough, y-wis, of a surety And muche more; for little heaviness

Is right enough to muche folk, I guess.

I say for me, it is a great disease, source of distress, annoyance Where as men have been in great wealth and ease, To hearen of their sudden fall, alas!

And the contrary is joy and great solas, delight, comfort As when a man hath been in poor estate, And climbeth up, and waxeth fortunate, And there abideth in prosperity;

Such thing is gladsome, as it thinketh me, And of such thing were goodly for to tell.”

 

“Yea,” quoth our Hoste, “by Saint Paule’s bell.

Ye say right sooth; this monk hath clapped* loud; *talked He spake how Fortune cover’d with a cloud I wot not what, and als’ of a tragedy

Right now ye heard: and pardie no remedy It is for to bewaile, nor complain

That that is done, and also it is pain, As ye have said, to hear of heaviness.

Sir Monk, no more of this, so God you bless; Your tale annoyeth all this company;

Such talking is not worth a butterfly, For therein is there no sport nor game; Therefore, Sir Monke, Dan Piers by your name, I pray you heart’ly, tell us somewhat else, For sickerly, n’ere* clinking of your bells, *were it not for the That on your bridle hang on every side, By heaven’s king, that for us alle died, I should ere this have fallen down for sleep, Although the slough had been never so deep; Then had your tale been all told in vain.

For certainly, as these clerkes sayn,

Where as a man may have no audience,

Nought helpeth it to telle his sentence.

And well I wot the substance is in me, If anything shall well reported be.

Sir, say somewhat of hunting, <1> I you pray.”

 

“Nay,” quoth the Monk, “I have *no lust to play; no fondness for Now let another tell, as I have told.” jesting*

Then spake our Host with rude speech and bold, And said unto the Nunne’s Priest anon, “Come near, thou Priest, come hither, thou Sir John, <2>

Tell us such thing as may our heartes glade. gladden Be blithe, although thou ride upon a jade.

What though thine horse be bothe foul and lean?

If he will serve thee, reck thou not a bean; Look that thine heart be merry evermo’.”

 

“Yes, Host,” quoth he, “so may I ride or go, But* I be merry, y-wis I will be blamed.” *unless And right anon his tale he hath attamed commenced <3>

And thus he said unto us every one,

This sweete priest, this goodly man, Sir John.

 

Notes to the Prologue to the Nun’s Priest’s Tale 1. The request is justified by the description of Monk in the Prologue as “an out-rider, that loved venery.”

 

2. On this Tyrwhitt remarks; “I know not how it has happened, that in the principal modern languages, John, or its equivalent, is a name of contempt or at least of slight. So the Italians use ‘Gianni,’ from whence ‘Zani;’ the Spaniards ‘Juan,’ as ‘Bobo Juan,’ a foolish John; the French ‘Jean,’ with various additions; and in English, when we call a man ‘a John,’ we do not mean it as a title of honour.” The title of “Sir” was usually given by courtesy to priests.

 

3. Attamed: commenced, broached. Compare French, “entamer”, to cut the first piece off a joint; thence to begin.

 

THE TALE. <1>

 

A poor widow, *somedeal y-stept* in age, somewhat advanced

Was whilom dwelling in a poor cottage, Beside a grove, standing in a dale.

This widow, of which I telle you my tale, Since thilke day that she was last a wife, In patience led a full simple life,

For little was *her chattel and her rent. her goods and her income*

By husbandry* of such as God her sent, thrifty management She found herself, and eke her daughters two. *maintained Three large sowes had she, and no mo’; Three kine, and eke a sheep that highte Mall.

Full sooty was her bow’r,* and eke her hall, *chamber In which she ate full many a slender meal.

Of poignant sauce knew she never a deal. whit No dainty morsel passed through her throat; Her diet was *accordant to her cote. in keeping with her cottage*

Repletion her made never sick;

Attemper* diet was all her physic, moderate And exercise, and hearte’s suffisance. contentment of heart*

The goute *let her nothing for to dance, did not prevent her Nor apoplexy shente* not her head. from dancing hurt No wine drank she, neither white nor red: Her board was served most with white and black, Milk and brown bread, in which she found no lack, Seind* bacon, and sometimes an egg or tway; singed For she was as it were a manner dey. kind of day labourer* <2>

A yard she had, enclosed all about

With stickes, and a drye ditch without, In which she had a cock, hight Chanticleer; In all the land of crowing *n’as his peer. was not his equal*

His voice was merrier than the merry orgon, organ <3>

On masse days that in the churches gon.

Well sickerer* was his crowing in his lodge, more punctual

Than is a clock, or an abbay horloge. clock <4>

By nature he knew each ascension

Of th’ equinoctial in thilke town;

For when degrees fiftene were ascended, Then crew he, that it might not be amended.

His comb was redder than the fine coral, Embattell’d <5> as it were a castle wall.

His bill was black, and as the jet it shone; Like azure were his legges and his tone; toes His nailes whiter than the lily flow’r, And like the burnish’d gold was his colour, This gentle cock had in his governance Sev’n hennes, for to do all his pleasance, Which were his sisters and his paramours, And wondrous like to him as of colours.

Of which the fairest-hued in the throat Was called Damoselle Partelote,

Courteous she was, discreet, and debonair, And companiable,* and bare herself so fair, *sociable Since the day that she sev’n night was old, That truely she had the heart in hold

Of Chanticleer, locked in every lith; limb He lov’d her so, that well was him therewith, But such a joy it was to hear them sing, When that the brighte sunne gan to spring, In sweet accord, *“My lefe is fare in land.” <6> my love is For, at that time, as I have understand, gone abroad*

Beastes and birdes coulde speak and sing.

 

And so befell, that in a dawening,

As Chanticleer among his wives all

Sat on his perche, that was in the hall, And next him sat this faire Partelote, This Chanticleer gan groanen in his throat, As man that in his dream is dretched* sore, oppressed And when that Partelote thus heard him roar, She was aghast, and saide, “Hearte dear, *afraid What aileth you to groan in this mannere?

Ye be a very sleeper, fy for shame!”

And he answer’d and saide thus; “Madame, I pray you that ye take it not agrief; amiss, in umbrage By God, *me mette* I was in such mischief,* I dreamed *trouble Right now, that yet mine heart is sore affright’.

Now God,” quoth he, “my sweven* read aright *dream, vision.

And keep my body out of foul prisoun.

*Me mette,* how that I roamed up and down I dreamed

Within our yard, where as I saw a beast Was like an hound, and would have *made arrest siezed*

Upon my body, and would have had me dead.

His colour was betwixt yellow and red; And tipped was his tail, and both his ears, With black, unlike the remnant of his hairs.

His snout was small, with glowing eyen tway; Yet of his look almost for fear I dey; died This caused me my groaning, doubteless.”

 

“Away,” <7> quoth she, “fy on you, hearteless! coward Alas!” quoth she, “for, by that God above!

Now have ye lost my heart and all my love; I cannot love a coward, by my faith.

For certes, what so any woman saith,

We all desiren, if it mighte be,

To have husbandes hardy, wise, and free, And secret,* and no niggard nor no fool, discreet Nor him that is aghast of every tool,* afraid **rag, trifle Nor no avantour,* by that God above! *braggart How durste ye for shame say to your love That anything might make you afear’d?

Have ye no manne’s heart, and have a beard?

Alas! and can ye be aghast of swevenes? dreams Nothing but vanity, God wot, in sweven is, Swevens *engender of repletions, are caused by over-eating*

And oft of fume,* and of complexions, *drunkenness When humours be too abundant in a wight.

Certes this dream, which ye have mette tonight, Cometh of the great supefluity

Of youre rede cholera,* pardie, bile Which causeth folk to dreaden in their dreams Of arrows, and of fire with redde beams, Of redde beastes, that they will them bite, Of conteke, and of whelpes great and lite;* contention **little Right as the humour of melancholy

Causeth full many a man in sleep to cry, For fear of bulles, or of beares blake, Or elles that black devils will them take, Of other humours could I tell also,

That worke many a man in sleep much woe; That I will pass as lightly as I can.

Lo, Cato, which that was so wise a man, Said he not thus, ‘Ne do no force of dreams,’<8> attach no weight to

Now, Sir,” quoth she, “when we fly from these beams, For Godde’s love, as take some laxatife; On peril of my soul, and of my life,

I counsel you the best, I will not lie, That both of choler, and melancholy,

Ye purge you; and, for ye shall not tarry, Though in this town is no apothecary,

I shall myself two herbes teache you,

That shall be for your health, and for your prow; profit And in our yard the herbes shall I find, The which have of their property by kind nature To purge you beneath, and eke above.

Sire, forget not this for Godde’s love; Ye be full choleric of complexion;

Ware that the sun, in his ascension,

You finde not replete of humours hot;

And if it do, I dare well lay a groat, That ye shall have a fever tertiane,

Or else an ague, that may be your bane, A day or two ye shall have digestives

Of wormes, ere ye take your laxatives, Of laurel, centaury, <9> and fumeterere, <10>

Or else of elder-berry, that groweth there, Of catapuce, <11> or of the gaitre-berries, <12>

Or herb ivy growing in our yard, that merry is: Pick them right as they grow, and eat them in, Be merry, husband, for your father’s kin; Dreade no dream; I can say you no more.”

 

“Madame,” quoth he, “grand mercy of your lore, But natheless, as touching *Dan Catoun, Cato That hath of wisdom such a great renown,