THE MERRY WORDS OF THE HOST TO THE MONK: When my tale of Melibeus and of Prudence and her kindness was ended, our Host said: “As I am a faithful man, and by the precious body of Madrian, I had rather than a barrel of ale that Goodlief, my wife, had heard this story! For she is by no means of such patience as was this Melibeus’ wife, Prudence.
“By God’s bones! When I beat my servingboys, she brings me the great knotted clubs and shouts, ‘Kill every one of those dogs, and break their backs and every bone in their bodies!’ And if any of my neighbors will not bow to my wife in church, or is so bold as to offend her, when she gets home she roars in my face and screams, ‘False coward, avenge your wife! By God’s bones, I will take your dagger and you can have my distaff and go spin!’ Day and night she carries on just that way. ‘Alas,’ she says, ‘that I was ever created to marry a milksop or a cowardly ape who is intimidated by everybody! You dare not stand up for your wife’s rights!’
“This is my life, unless I pick a quarrel. And I must take myself out of the house as fierce and foolhardy as a lion, or else I am lost. I know quite well that on some occasion she will cause me to kill some neighbor and run away. For I am dangerous when I have my knife in hand, although I dare not stand up to her, for she is big in the arms, by my faith; whoever says or does anything against her shall find that out. But let’s pass on from this subject.
“My lord Monk,” he said, “cheer up, for really you must tell a tale. See, we are close to Rochester! Go ahead, my own lord, don’t spoil our sport. But, by my faith, I don’t know your name. Shall I call you my lord Don John, or Don Thomas, or Don Alban? Of what order are you, by your father’s soul? I vow to God, you have a very handsome complexion. It must be a fine pasture where you feed. You are not like a penitent or a ghost; upon my faith, you are some official, some worthy sacristan, or some cellarer, for, by my father’s soul, the way I see it you are a master when you are at home—not a poor cloisterer or novice, but a wily and discreet governor, and, with all that, a very handsome man in brawn and bone. I pray God to send confusion to the man who first led you into the religious life! You would have ridden chickens, all right. If you had had as much freedom as you have strength to do all you wanted in procreation, you would have begotten many a child. Alas, why do you wear so wide a coat? If I were Pope, as God may send me sorrow, not only you but every vigorous man, no matter how close his head was shaven, would have a wife. All the world is lost, for religion has taken in all the men best at child-getting, and we laymen are but shrimps. Wretched limbs come from feeble trees. That’s why our heirs are so skinny and weak that they cannot easily have children. That’s why our wives turn to religious men, for you can make Venus’ payments better than we can; God knows, you pay with no counterfeit coins! But don’t be angry, my lord, because I make jokes. Many times I have heard truth spoken in jest!”
The worthy Monk took all this patiently, and said: “I shall do my very best, as far as is within the limits of virtue, to tell you a tale, or two, or three. And if you care to listen, I shall tell you the life of St. Edward—or better, I shall first tell you some tragedies, of which I have a hundred in my cell. A tragedy means a certain story, such as those preserved for us in old books, concerning one who stood in great prosperity, but who fell from that high station into misery and ended wretchedly. They are usually written in verses of six feet which are called hexameters. Many are also written in prose and in various sorts of meters. This definition should suffice.
“Now listen, if you care to hear. But, first, I beseech you in this matter to excuse me for my ignorance if I do not tell these stories about popes, emperors, and kings in their proper chronological order, as one finds them written, but tell them some before and some behind, just as they come to my memory.”