The Wife of Bath’s Tale

The Prologue

“EXPERIENCE, THOUGH NO OTHER authority

Were in this world, is quite enough for me

To speak of woe that is in marriage:

For, lordings, since I twelve years was of age,

Thanks be to God who is eternally alive,

Husbands at church door have I had five

(If I so often might have wedded be)¹

And all were worthy in their degree.²

But I was told, truly, not long ago,

That since Christ never went but once

To wedding in the Cana of Galilee,³

That by the same example taught he me

That I should not be wedded but once.

Harken, also, to the sharp word,

Beside a well, that Jesus, God and man,

Spoke in reproof to the Samaritan:⁴

‘You have had five husbands,’ said he,

‘And that same man who now has you

Is not your husband;’ thus said he certain.

What he meant thereby I cannot say,

Except I ask, why the fifth man

Was not husband to the Samaritan?

How many might she have in marriage?

Yet never have I heard tell in all my time

Of this number an explanation.

Men may interpret and gloss up and down,

But well I know especially, without lie,

God bade us for to increase and multiply:

That noble text can I well understand.

Also well I know he said, my husband

Should leave father and mother, and take to me;

But of no number mention made he,

Of in succession how many.

Why should men then speak of it reproachfully?

Lo, here the wise king, Lord Solomon;

I trowe he hadde wyves mo than oon;

As, wolde god, it leveful were to me

To be refresshed half so ofte as he!

Which yifte of god hadde he for alle his wyvis!

No man hath swich, that in this world alyve is.

God woot, this noble king, as to my wit,

The firste night had many a mery fit

With ech of hem, so wel was him on lyve!

Blessed be god that I have wedded fyve!

Welcome the sixte, whan that ever he shal.

For sothe, I wol nat kepe me chast in al;

Whan myn housbond is fro the world y-gon,

Som Cristen man shal wedde me anon;

For thanne th‘apostle seith, that I am free

To wedde, a godd’s half, wher it lyketh me.

He seith that to be wedded is no sinne;

Bet is to be wedded than to brinne.

What rekketh me, thogh folk seye vileinye

Of shrewed Lameth and his bigamye?

I woot wel Abraham was an holy man,

And Jacob eek, as ferforth as I can;

And ech of hem hadde wyves mo than two;

And many another holy man also.

Whan saugh ye ever, in any maner age,

That hye god defended mariage

By expres word? I pray you, telleth me;

Or wher comanded he virginitee?

I woot as wel as ye, it is no drede,

Th’apostel, whan he speketh of maydenhede;

He seyde, that precept ther-of hadde he noon.

Men may conseille a womman to been oon

But conseilling is no comandement;

He putte it in our owene jugement

For hadde god comanded maydenhede,

Thanne hadde he dampned wedding with the dede;

And certes, if ther were no seed y-sowe,

Virginitee, wher-of than sholde it growe?

Poul dorste nat comanden atte leste

A thing of which his maister yaf noon heste.

I believe he had wives more than one.

Would to God it were allowed for me

To be refreshed half so often as he!

What a gift of God had he for all his wives!

No man has such, who in the world alive now is.

God knows this noble king, so far as I can see,

The first night had many a merry fight

With each of them, so lucky was his life!

Blessed be God that I have wedded five,

Welcome the sixth, whenever he arrives!

For in truth I will not keep myself all chaste.

When my husband is from this world gone

Some Christian man shall wed me anon;

For then the apostle says that I am free

To wed, on God’s behalf, where it pleases me.

He says that to be wedded is no sin:

Better to be wedded than to burn.

What matters it to me though folk speak badly

Of cursed Lamech and his bigamy?

I know well that Abraham was a holy man,

And Jacob also, as far as I know;

And each of them had wives more than two,

And many another holy man also.

Where can you see, in whatever age,

That high God forbade marriage

By express word? I pray you, tell me.

Or where commanded he virginity?

I know as well as you, it is no doubt,

The Apostle, when he spoke of maidenhood,

He said commandment thereof had he none.

Men may counsel a woman to be one,

But counseling is no commandment:

He put it in our own judgement.

For had God commanded maidenhood,

Then he would have damned wedding in that deed.

And certainly, if there were no seed sown,

Virginity, then whereof should it grow?

Paul dared not in the least command,

A thing of which his master gave no behest.

The dart is set up for virginitee;

Cacche who so may, who renneth best lat see.

But this word is nat take of every wight,

But ther as god list give it of his might.

I woot wel, that th‘apostel was a mayde;

But natheless, thogh that he wroot and sayde,

He wolde that every wight were swich as he,

Al nis but conseil to virginitee;

And for to been a wyf, he yaf me leve

Of indulgence; so it is no repreve

To wedde me, if that my make dye,

With-oute excepcioun of bigamye.

Al were it good no womman for to touche,

He mente as in his bed or in his couche;

For peril is bothe fyr and tow t’assemble;

Ye knowe what this ensample may resemble.

This is al and som, he heeld virginitee

More parfit than wedding in freletee.

Freeltee clepe I, but-if that he and she

Wolde leden al hir lyf in chastitee.

I graunte it wel, I have noon envye,

Thogh maydenhede preferre bigamye;

Hem lyketh to be clene, body and goost,

Of myn estaat I nil nat make no boost.

For wel ye knowe, a lord in his houshold,

He hath nat every vessel al of gold;

Somme been of tree, and doon hir lord servyse,

God clepeth folk to him in sondry wyse,

And everich hath of god a propre yifte,

Som this, som that,—as him lyketh shifte.

Virginitee is greet perfeccioun,

And continence eek with devocioun.

But Crist, that of perfeccioun is welle,

Bad nat every wight he sholde go selle

All that he hadde, and give it to the pore,

And in swich wyse folwe him and his fore.

He spak to hem that wolde live parfitly;

And lordinges, by your leve, that am nat I.

I wol bistowe the flour of al myn age

The prize is set up for virginity:

Catch it who so may: who runs best let’s see.

But this word is not taken by every person,

But to whom God chooses, in his might.

I well know that the apostle was a maid;

But nevertheless, though he wrote and said

He would that every person were such as he,

All this just recommends virginity,

And for to be a wife, he gave me leave

By indulgence. So it is no reproach

To wed me, if that my mate die,

Without accusation of bigamy,

Although were it good no woman to touch—

He meant as in his bed or in his couch—

For peril is both spark and tinder to assemble;

You know what this example may resemble.

This all and some: he held virginity

More perfect than wedding in frailty.

‘Frailty’ I call it, unless he and she

Would lead all their lives in chastity.

I grant it well, I have no envy

Though maidenhood be preferred to bigamy.

They wish to be clean, body and soul.

Of my condition I will make no boast:

For well you know, a lord in his household

Has not every vessel all of gold;

Some be of wood, and do their lord service.

God calls folk to him in sundry ways,

And everyone has from God his special virtue,

Some this, some that, as He chooses.

Virginity is great perfection,

And continence also, if coupled with devotion.

But Christ, who of perfection is the source,

Bade not every person that he should go sell

All that he had and give it to the poor,

And in such way follow him and his footsteps.

He spoke to those who would live perfectly,

And lordings, by your leave, that is not I.

I will bestow the flower of my prime age

In th’ actes and in fruit of mariage.

Telle me also, to what conclusioun

Were membres maad of generacioun,

And for what profit was a wight y-wroght?

Trusteth right wel, they wer nat maad for noght.

Glose who-so wole, and seye bothe up and doun,

That they were maked for purgacioun

Of urine, and our bothe thinges smale

Were eek to knowe a femele from a male,

And for noon other cause: sey ye no?

The experience woot wel it is noght so;

So that the clerkes be nat with me wrothe,

I sey this, that they maked been for bothe,

This is to seye, for office, and for ese

Of engendrure, ther we nat god displese.

Why sholde men elles in hir bokes sette,

That man shal yelde to his wyf hir dette?

Now wher-with sholde he make his payement

If he ne used his sely instrument?

Than were they maad up-on a creature,

To purge uryne, and eek for engendrure.

But I seye noght that every wight is holde,

That hath swich harneys as I to yow tolde,

To goon and usen hem in engendrure;

Than sholde men take of chastitee no cure.

Crist was a mayde, and shapen as a man,

And many a seint, sith that the world bigan,

Yet lived they ever in parfit chastitee.

I nil envye no virginitee;

Lat hem be breed of pured whete-seed,

And lat us wyves hoten barly-breed;

And yet with barly-breed, Mark telle can,

Our lord Jesu refresshed many a man.

In swich estaat as god hath cleped us

I wol persevere, I nam nat precious.

In wyfhode I wol use myn instrument

As frely as my maker hath it sent.

If I be daungerous, god yeve me sorwe!

Myn housbond shal it have bothe eve and morwe,

In the acts and in fruit of marriage.

Tell me also, to what purpose

Were organs for procreation shaped

And by so perfect a workman wrought?

Trust right well, they were not made for nought.

Interpret who will, and say both up and down

That they were made for purgation

Of urine, and both our things small

Were also to tell a female from a male,

And for no other cause, say you no?

The experienced know well it is not so.

So that theologians be not with me wroth,

I say this, that they were made for the both—

That is to say, for purpose and pleasure

Of procreation, therefore we do not God displease.

Why should men otherwise in their books set

That man shall give to his wife her debt?

Now where should he make his payment

If he uses not his blessed instrument?

Therefore were they made upon a creature

To purge urine, and also to engender.

But I say not that everyone is bound,

Who has such equipment that I to you told,

To go and use them in procreation:

Then should men take of chastity no concern.

Christ was a maid and formed as a man,

And many a saint, since the world began,

Lived ever in perfect chastity.

I will envy not virginity:

Let virgins be bread of the finest wheat,

And let us wives be barley-bread.

And yet with barley-bread, as Saint Mark tell can,

Our Lord Jesus refreshed many a man.

In such condition as God has called us

I will persevere, I am not fastidious.

In wifehood I will use my instrument

As generously as my Maker has it sent.

If I be reluctant, God give me sorrow!

My husband shall have it both eve and morrow,

Whan that him list com forth and paye his dette.

An housbonde I wol have, I nil nat lette,

Which shal be bothe my dettour and my thral,

And have his tribulacioun with-al

Up-on his flessh, whyl that I am his wyf.

I have the power duringe al my lyf

Up-on his propre body, and noght he.

Right thus th‘apostel tolde it un-to me;

And bad our housbondes for to love us weel.

Al this sentence me lyketh every-deel“—

Up sterte the Pardoner, and that anon,

“Now dame,” quod he, “by god and by seint John,

Ye been a noble prechour in this cas!

I was aboute to wedde a wyf; alias!

What sholde I bye it on my flesh so dere?

Yet hadde I lever wedde no wyf to-yere!”

“Abyde!” quod she, “my tale is nat bigonne;

Nay, thou shalt drinken of another tonne

Er that I go, shal savoure wors than ale.

And whan that I have told thee forth my tale

Of tribulacioun in mariage,

Of which I am expert in al myn age,

This to seyn, my-self have been the whippe;—

Than maystow chese whether thou wolt sippe

Of thilke tonne that I shal abroche.

Be war of it, er thou to ny approche;

For I shal telle ensamples mo than ten.

Who-so that nil be war by othere men,

By him shul othere men corrected be.

The same wordes wryteth Ptholomee;

Rede in his Almageste, and take it there.”

“Dame, I wolde praye yow, if your wil it were,”

Seyde this Pardoner, “as ye bigan,

Telle forth your tale, spareth for no man,

And teche us yonge men of your praktike.”

“Gladly,” quod she, “sith it may yow lyke.

But yet I praye to al this companye,

If that I speke after my fantasye,

As taketh not a-grief of that I seye;

When that he wishes to come forth, his debt to pay.

A husband will I have, I will not fail,

Who shall be both my debtor and my thrall,

And have his tribulation besides

Upon his flesh, while that I am his wife.

I have the power during all my life

Over his own body, and not he:

Right thus the Apostle told it unto me,

And bade our husbands for to love us well.

And that makes me happy, as you may tell.”

Up started the Pardoner, and that anon:

“Now dame,” said he, “by God and by Saint John,

You be a noble preacher in this case!

I was about to wed a wife. Alas,

Why should I pay for it with my flesh so dear?

Now would I prefer to wed no wife this year!”

“Abide!” said she, “my tale is not begun.

Nay, you shall drink of another barrel

Before I go, which shall taste worse than ale.

And when that I have told you forth my tale

Of tribulation in marriage,

Of which I’ve been expert all my years—

This is to say, I myself have been the whip—

Then you choose whether or not to sip

Of that same cask I will broach.

Be wary of it, before you too near approach,

For I shall tell examples more than ten.

‘He who won’t be warned by other men,

By him shall other men corrected be.’

The same words wrote Ptolemy:

Read in his Almagest,⁵ and take it there.”

“Dame, I would pray you, if you will it be,”

Said this Pardoner, “as you began,

Tell forth your tale, hold back for no man,

And teach us young men of your practice.”

“Gladly,” said she, “since it may you please.

But yet I pray to all this company,

If I speak according to my fantasy,

Take it not badlv what I say;

For myn entente nis but for to pleye.

Now sires, now wol I telle forth my tale.—

As ever mote I drinken wyn or ale,

I shal seye sooth, tho housbondes that I hadde,

As three of hem were gode and two were badde.

The three men were gode, and riche, and olde;

Unnethe mighte they the statut holde

In which that they were bounden un-to me.

Ye woot wel what I mene of this, pardee!

As help me god, I laughe whan I thinke

How pitously a-night I made hem swinke;

And by my fey, I tolde of it no stoor.

They had me yeven hir gold and hir tresoor;

Me neded nat do lenger diligence

To winne hir love, or doon hem reverence.

They loved me so wel, by god above,

That I ne tolde no deyntee of hir love!

A wys womman wol sette hir ever in oon

To gete hir love, ther as she hath noon.

But sith I hadde hem hoolly in myn hond,

And sith they hadde me yeven all hir lond,

What sholde I taken hede hem for to plese,

But it were for my profit and myn ese?

I sette hem so a-werke, by my fey,

That many a night they songen ‘weilawey!’

The bacoun was nat fet for hem, I trowe,

That som men han in Essex at Dunmowe.

I governed hem so wel, after my lawe,

That ech of hem ful blisful was and fawe

To bringe me gaye thinges fro the fayre.

They were ful glad whan I spak to hem fayre;

For god it woot, I chidde hem spitously.

Now herkneth, how I bar me proprely,

Ye wyse wyves, that can understonde.

Thus shul ye speke and bere hem wrong on honde;

For half so boldely can ther no man

Swere and lyen as a womman can.

I sey nat this by wyves that ben wyse,

But-if it be whan they hem misavyse.

For my intent is not but to play.

Now sires, now will I tell forth my tale.

As ever might I drink wine or ale,

I shall say the truth of those husbands that I had,

As three of them were good and two were bad.

The three men were good, and rich, and old;

Just barely could they the statute uphold

By which they were bound to me.

You know well what I mean by this, by God!

So help me, I laugh when I think

How pitiably at night I made them work;

And by my faith, I set by it no store.

They had given me their land and their treasure;

I needed not to work at it any longer

To win their love, or do them honor.

They loved me so well, by God above,

That I took for granted all their love!

A prudent woman will busy herself every moment

To get herself beloved, where she has none.

But since I had them wholly in my hand,

And since they had given me all their land,

Why should I take care for them to please,

Unless it were for my profit and my ease?

I set them so to working, by my faith,

That many a night they sang ‘wellaway!’

That reward in Essex,⁶ I promise,

Went not to them for married bliss.

I governed them so well after my law

That each of them full happy was and eager

To bring me gay things from the fair.

They were full glad when I spoke to them nicely,

For God knows, I chided them with spite.

Now listen how I handled myself:

You prudent wives, who can understand,

Thus shall you speak and put them in the wrong,

For half so boldly can any man

Swear and lie as a woman can.

I say this not about wives who be careful,

Unless they do something not so wary.

A wys wyf, if that she can hir good,

Shal beren him on hond the cow is wood,

And take witnesse of hir owene mayde

Of hir assent; but herkneth how I sayde.

‘Sir olde kaynard, is this thyn array?

Why is my neighebores wyf so gay?

She is honoured over-al ther she goth;

I sitte at hoom, I have no thrifty cloth.

What dostow at my neighebores hous?

Is she so fair? artow so amorous?

What rowne ye with our mayde? ben’cite!

Sir olde lechour, lat thy japes be!

And if I have a gossib or a freend,

With-outen gilt, thou chydest as a fiend,

If that I walke or pleye un-to his hous!

Thou comest hoom as dronken as a mous,

And prechest on thy bench, with yvel preef!

Thou seist to me, it is a greet meschief

To wedde a povre womman, for costage;

And if that she be riche, of heigh parage,

Than seistow that it is a tormentrye

To suffre hir pryde and hir malencolye.

And if that she be fair, thou verray knave,

Thou seyst that every holour wol hir have;

She may no whyle in chastitee abyde,

That is assailled up-on ech a syde.

Thou seyst, som folk desyre us for richesse,

Som for our shap, and som for our fairnesse;

And som, for she can outher singe or daunce,

And som, for gentillesse and daliaunce;

Som, for hir handes and hir armes smale;

Thus goth al to the devel by thy tale.

Thou seyst, men may nat kepe a castel-wal;

It may so longe assailled been over-al.

And if that she be foul, thou seist that she

Coveiteth every man that she may see;

For as a spaynel she wol on him lepe,

Til that she finde som man hir to chepe;

Ne noon so grey goos goth ther in the lake,

A wise wife, if she knows her own good,

Shall assure him the talking bird is crazy,⁷

And take as witness her own maid

With her consent. But listen how I said:

‘Sir old dotard, is this your idea of raiment?

Why is my neighbor’s wife dressed so gaily?

She is honored wherever she goes:

I sit at home, I have no good clothes.

What do you at my neighbor’s house?

Is she so fair? Are you so amorous?

What whisper you with our maid? benedicite!

Sir old lecher, let your pranks be!

And if I have a male confidant or a friend,

Not a paramour, you scold like a fiend,

If that I walk or play unto his house!

You come home drunk as a mouse,

And preach from your bench, bad luck to you!

You say to me, it is a great mischief

To wed a poor woman, due to expense.

And if that she be rich, of high parentage,

Then you say that it is a torment

To suffer her pride and temperament.

And if that she be fair, you, true knave,

You say that every lecher will her have:

She may no while in chastity abide

Who is assailed on every side.

You say some folk desire us for our money,

Some for our shape, and some for our beauty,

And some because she can either sing or dance,

And some for good breeding and coquetry,

Some for her hands and her arms slender;

Thus go all to the devil, by your account.

You say men may not defend a castle wall,

If it may be everywhere assailed.

And if that she be ugly, you say that she

Covets every man that she may see;

For as a spaniel she would on him leap,

Till that she find some man with her to sleep.

There swims no goose so gray in the lake

As, seistow, that wol been with-oute make.

And seyst, it is an hard thing for to welde

A thing that no man wol, his thankes, helde.

Thus seistow, lorel, whan thow goost to bedde;

And that no wys man nedeth for to wedde,

Ne no man that entendeth un-to hevene.

With wilde thonder-dint and firy levene

Mote thy welked nekke be to-broke!

Thow seyst that dropping houses, and eek smoke,

And chyding wyves, maken men to flee

Out of hir owene hous; a! ben‘cite!

What eyleth swich an old man for to chyde?

Thow seyst, we wyves wol our vyces hyde

Til we be fast, and than we wol hem shewn;

Wel may that be a proverbe of a shrewe!

Thou seist, that oxen, asses, hors, and houndes,

They been assayed at diverse stoundes;

Bacins, lavours, er that men hem bye,

Spones and stoles, and al swich housbondrye,

And so been pottes, clothes, and array;

But folk of wyves maken noon assay

Til they be wedded; olde dotard shrewe!

And than, seistow, we wol oure vices shewe.

Thou seist also, that it displeseth me

But-if that thou wolt preyse my beautee,

And but thou poure alwey up-on my face,

And clepe me “faire dame” in every place;

And but thou make a feste on thilke day

That I was born, and make me fresh and gay,

And but thou do to my norice honour,

And to my chamberere with-inne my bour,

And to my fadres folk and his allyes;—

Thus seistow, olde barel ful of lyes!

And yet of our apprentice Janekyn,

For his crisp heer, shyninge as gold so fyn,

And for he squiereth me bothe up and doun,

Yet hastow caught a fals suspecioun;

I wol hym noght, thogh thou were deed to-morwe.

As, you say, that would be without a mate.

And you say, it is a hard thing to control

A thing that no man willingly will hold.

Thus say you, wretch, when you go to bed,

And that no wise man needs for to wed,

Nor any man who intends heaven to enter.

With wild thunderclap and fiery lightning

May your withered neck be broken!

You say that leaking houses and smoke

And chiding wives make men flee

Out of their own house; ah, benedicite!

What ails such an old man for to chide?

You say we wives will our vices hide

Till we be married, and then we will them reveal—

Well may that be a proverb fit for a villain!

You say that oxen, asses, horses, and hounds,

They be tested at various times;

Basins, washbowls, before men them buy,

Spoons and stools, and all such household goods,

And so be pots, clothes and the rest;

But folk of wives make no test

Till they be wedded. Old nasty wretch!

And then, you say, we will our vices show.

You say also that it displeases me

Unless you will praise my beauty,

And look with longing upon my face,

And call me “fair dame” in every place;

And unless you make a feast on that same day

That I was born, and make me fresh and gay,

And unless you do to my nurse honor,

And to my chambermaid within my bedchamber,

And to my father’s folk and his cousins—

Thus say you, old barrel full of lies!

And yet of our apprentice Jankin,

For his curly hair, shining as gold so fine,

And because he squires me both up and down,

Yet you have caught a false suspicion.

I want him not, though you were dead tomorrow.

But tel me this, why hydestow,

with sorwe,

The keyes of thy cheste awey fro me?

It is my good as wel as thyn, pardee.

What wenestow make an idiot of our dame?

Now by that lord, that called is seint Jame,

Thou shalt nat bothe, thogh that thou were wood,

Be maister of my body and of my good;

That oon thou shalt forgo, maugree thyne yen;

What nedeth thee of me to enquere or spyën?

I trowe, thou woldest loke me in thy cheste!

Thou sholdest seye, “wyf, go wher thee leste,

Tak your disport, I wol nat leve no talis;

I knowe yow for a trewe wyf, dame Alis.”

We love no man that taketh kepe or charge

Wher that we goon, we wol ben at our large.

Of alle men y-blessed moot he be,

The wyse astrologien Dan Ptholome,

That seith this proverbe in his Almageste,

“Of alle men his wisdom is the hyeste,

That rekketh never who hath the world in honde.”

By this proverbe thou shalt understonde,

Have thou y-nogh, what thar thee recche or care

How merily that othere folkes fare?

For certeyn, olde dotard, by your leve,

Ye shul have queynte right y-nough at eve.

He is to greet a nigard that wol werne

A man to lighte his candle at his lanterne;

He shal have never the lasse light, pardee;

Have thou y-nough, thee thar nat pleyne thee.

Thou seyst also, that if we make us gay

With clothing and with precious array,

That it is peril of our chastitee;

And yet, with sorwe, thou most enforce thee,

And seye thise wordes in the apostles name,

“In habit, maad with chastitee and same,

Ye wommen shul apparaille yow,” quod he,

“And noght in tressed heer and gay perree,

As perles, ne with gold, ne clothes riche;”

But tell me this, why do you hide—and you’ll be

sorry—

The keys of your treasure chest away from me?

It is my property as well as yours, by God.

Why, what do you mean making an idiot of our dame?

Now by that lord who is called Saint James,

You shall not both, though you were mad with rage,

Be master of all my goods and my body;

One of them shall you forfeit, no matter what you try.

What does it help you on me to inquire or spy?

I believe, you would lock me in your chest!

You should say, “Wife, go where you please;

Have your fun, I will not any tales believe.

I know you for a true wife, Dame Alice.”

We love no man who keeps track or cares

Where that we go, when we tend to our affairs.

Of all men blessed may he be,

The wise astrologer Lord Ptolemy,

Who says this proverb in his Almagest:

“Of all men his wisdom is the highest,

Who never cares who has this world in his hand.”

By this proverb you shall understand,

If you have enough, why should you count or care

How merrily that other folks fare?

For certain, old dotard, by your leave,

You shall have quite enough at eve.

He is too great a niggard who would refuse

A man to light a candle at his lantern;

He shall not miss the light, by God.

If you have enough, you should not complain.

You say also that if we make us gay

With clothing and jewelry,

That is risky for our chastity;

And further—may you regret it—you insist,

And say these words in the Apostle’s name:⁸

“In clothing made with chastity and shame,

You women should yourselves attire,” said he,

“And not in braided hair and jewelry,

Nor pearls, nor gold, nor garments fancy.”

After thy text, ne after thy rubriche

I wol nat wirche as muchel as a gnat.

Thou seydest this, that I was lyk a cat;

For who-so wolde senge a cattes skin,

Thanne wolde the cat wel dwellen in his in;

And if the cattes skin be slyk and gay,

She wol nat dwelle in house half a day,

But forth she wole, er any day be dawed,

To shewe hir skin, and goon a-caterwawed;

This is to seye, if I be gay, sir shrewe,

I wol renne out, my borel for to shewe.

Sire olde fool, what eyleth thee to spyën?

Thogh thou preye Argus, with his hundred yen,

To be my warde-cors, as he can best,

In feith, he shal nat kepe me but me lest;

Yet coude I make his berd, so moot I thee.

Thou seydest eek, that ther ben thinges three,

The whiche thinges troublen al this erthe,

And that no wight ne may endure the ferthe;

O leve sir shrewe, Jesu shorte thy lyf!

Yet prechestow, and seyst, an hateful wyf

Y-rekened is for oon of thise meschances.

Been ther none othere maner resemblances

That ye may lykne your parables to,

But-if a sely wyf be oon of tho?

Thou lykenest wommanes love to helle,

To bareyne lond, ther water may not dwelle.

Thou lyknest it also to wilde fyr;

The more it brenneth, the more it hath desyr

To consume every thing that brent wol be.

Thou seyst, that right as wormes shende a tree,

Right so a wyf destroyeth hir housbonde;

This knowe they that been to wyves bonde.’

Lordinges, right thus, as ye have understonde,

Bar I stifly myne olde housbondes on honde,

That thus they seyden in hir dronkenesse;

And al was fals, but that I took witnesse

On Janekin and on my nece also.

O lord, the peyne I dide hem and the wo,

Neither by your text, nor your reading of it,

Will I live as much as would a gnat.

You said this, that I was like a cat:

For whoso would singe a cat’s fur,

Then would the cat well dwell in his home;

And if the cat’s fur be sleek and gay,

She will not dwell at home half a day,

But go forth she will, before day has dawned,

To show her fur and go caterwauling.

This is to say, if I be pretty, sir welladay,

I will go out, my wardrobe for to display.

Sir old fool, how does it help you to spy?

Though you beg Argus,⁹ with his hundred eyes,

To be my minder, as best he knows,

In faith, he shall follow only as I allow;

I could give him the slip, so may I thrive.

You say also that there be things three,

Which trouble all this earth,

And that no person may endure the fourth.

Oh dear sir welladay, may Jesus shorten your life!

You’re still preaching that a hateful wife

Is the cause of one of these mischances.

Be there no other resemblances

That you may liken to your parables,

Unless an innocent wife be one of those?

You liken also woman’s love to hell,

To barren land, where water may not dwell;

You liken it also to wild fire:

The more it burns, the more it has desire

To consume every thing that burned can be.

You say that just as worms damage a tree,

Right so a wife destroys her husband;

This know they who to wives be bound:

Lordings, right thus, as you have understood,

I led my old husbands so firmly by their snoots

That thus they said in their drunkenness;

And all was false, and yet I took witness

From Jankin and my niece also.

Oh Lord, the suffering I caused them and the woe,

Ful giltelees, by goddes swete pyne!

For as an hors I coude byte and whyne.

I coude pleyne, thogh I were in the gilt,

Or elles often tyme hadde I ben spilt.

Who-so that first to mille comth, first grint;

I pleyned first, so was our werre y-stint.

They were ful glad t‘excusen hem ful blyve

Of thing of which they never agilte hir lyve.

Of wenches wolde I beren him on honde,

Whan that for syk unnethes mighte he stonde.

Yet tikled it his herte, for that he

Wende that I hadde of him so greet chiertee.

I swoor that al my walkinge out by nighte

Was for t‘espye wenches that he dighte;

Under that colour hadde I many a mirthe.

For al swich wit is yeven us in our birthe;

Deceite, weping, spinning god hath yive

To wommen kindely, whyl they may live.

And thus of o thing I avaunte me,

Atte ende I hadde the bettre in ech degree,

By sleighte, or force, or by som maner thing,

As by continuel murmur or grucching;

Namely a-bedde hadden they meschaunce,

Ther wolde I chyde and do hem no plesaunce;

I wolde no lenger in the bed abyde,

If that I felte his arm over my syde,

Til he had maad his raunson un-to me;

Than wolde I suffre him do his nycetee.

And ther-fore every man this tale I telle,

Winne who-so may, for al is for to selle.

With empty hand men may none haukes lure;

For winning wolde I al his lust endure,

And make me a feyned appetyt;

And yet in bacon hadde I never delyt;

That made me that ever I wolde hem chyde.

For thogh the pope had seten hem bisyde,

I wolde nat spare hem at hir owene bord.

For by my trouthe, I quitte hem word for word.

As help me verray god omnipotent,

Full guiltless, by God’s sweet suffering!

For like a horse could I bite and whinny.

I would complain, though I was guilty,

Otherwise oftentimes would I have been ruined.

Whoso to the mill first comes, first grinds.

I complained first, so was our strife concluded.

They were full glad to excuse full quickly themselves

Of things which they were never guilty of.

Of wenches would I accuse them on every hand,

When that for illness they could scarcely stand.

Yet warmed I his heart, for all he

Thought I had for him this great charity.

I swore that all my walking out by night

Was to espy wenches that he might lay by.

Under that pretense had I many a mirth,

For all such cleverness is given us in our birth.

Deceit, weeping, spinning God has given

To women by nature while they may live.

And thus of one thing I boast:

In the end I got the better of them in every way,

By trickery, or force, or some other thing,

As by continual murmur or grouching.

Especially in bed had they misfortune:

There would I scold and give them no pleasure;

I would no longer in the bed abide,

If that I felt his arm over my side,

Till he had paid his ransom unto me;

Then would I suffer him to do his little folly.

And therefore to every man this tale I tell,

Profit whoso may, for all is for sale.

With empty hand men may no hawks lure.

For gain would I all his lust endure,

And make me a feigned appetite

And yet in old meat never had I delight.

That is why that ever I would them chide.

For though the Pope had them sat beside,

I would not spare them at their own table.

For by my troth, I requited them word for word.

So help me true God omnipotent,

Thogh I right now sholde make my testament,

I ne owe hem nat a word that it nis quit.

I broghte it so aboute by my wit,

That they moste yeve it up, as for the beste;

Or elles we never been in reste.

For thogh he loked as a wood leoun,

Yet sholde he faille of his conclusioun.

Thanne wolde I seye, ‘gode lief, tak keep

How mekely loketh Wilkin oure sheep;

Com neer, my spouse, let me ba thy cheke!

Ye sholde been al pacient and meke,

And han a swete spyced conscience,

Sith ye so preche of Jobes pacience.

Suffreth alwey, sin ye so wel can preche;

And but ye do, certein we shal yow teche

That it is fair to have a wyf in pees.

Oon of us two moste bowen, doutelees;

And sith a man is more resonable

Than womman is, ye moste been suffrable.

What eyleth yow to grucche thus and grone?

Is it for ye wolde have my queynte allone?

Why taak it al, lo, have it every-deel;

Peter! I shrewe yow but ye love it weel!

For if I wolde selle my bele chose,

I coude walke as fresh as is a rose;

But I wol kepe it for your owene tooth.

Ye be to blame, by god, I sey yow sooth:

Swiche maner wordes hadde we on honde.

Now wol I speken of my fourthe housbonde.

My fourthe housbonde was a revelour,

This is to seyn, he hadde a paramour;

And I was yong and ful of ragerye,

Stiborn and strong, and joly as a pye.

Wel coude I daunce to an harpe smale,

And singe, y-wis, as any nightingale,

Whan I hade dronke a draughte of swete wyn.

Metellius, the foule cherl, the swyn,

That with a staf birafte his wyf hir lyf,

For she drank wyn, thogh I hadde been his wyf,

Though I right now should make my will and testament,

I left no word unreturned.

I brought it so about, by my cleverness,

That they must give it up, as for the best,

Or else had we never been in rest.

For though he looked like a lion maddened,

Yet should he fail in the end.

Then would I say, ‘Sweetheart, take heed

How meekly looks Wilkin our sheep!

Come near, my spouse, let me kiss your cheek!

You should be all patient and meek,

And have a disposition seasoned sweetly,

Since you so speak of Job’s patience.

Endure always, since you so well can preach;

And unless you do, for certain we shall you teach

That it is nice to have a wife in peace.

One of us two must give in, doubtless,

And since a man is more reasonable

Than woman is, you must be patient.

What ails you to grouch and groan?

Is it that you would have my quack alone?

Why take it all! Lo, have it every bit!

By Saint Peter! I curse you but you love it well!

For if I would sell my belle chose,

I could walk as fresh as is a rose;

But I will keep it for your own appetite.

You be to blame, by God, I tell you the truth.’

Like that back and forth we bandied.

Now will I speak of my fourth husband.

My fourth husband was a reveler—

That is to say, he had a paramour—

And I was young and full of appetite,

Stubborn and strong, and jolly as a magpie.

Well could I dance to a harp small,

And sing, truly, as any nightingale,

When I had drunk a draught of sweet wine.

Metellius, the foul churl, the swine,

Who with a staff bereft his wife of her life

For she drank wine, though if I had been his wife,

He sholde nat han daunted me fro drinke;

And, after wyn, on Venus moste I thinke:

For al so siker as cold engendreth hayl,

A likerous mouth moste han a likerous tayl.

In womman vinolent is no defence,

This knowen lechours by experience.

But, lord Crist! whan that it remembreth me

Up-on my yowthe, and on my jolitee,

It tikleth me aboute myn herte rote.

Unto this day it dooth myn herte bote

That I have had my world as in my tyme.

But age, alias! that al wol envenyme,

Hath me biraft my beautee and my pith;

Lat go, fare-wel, the devel go therwith!

The flour is goon, ther is na-more to telle,

The bren, as I best can, now moste I selle;

But yet to be right mery wol I fonde.

Now wol I tellen of my fourthe housbonde.

I seye, I hadde in herte greet despyt

That he of any other had delyt.

But he was quit, by god and by seint Joce!

I made him of the same wode a croce;

Nat of my body in no foul manere,

But certeinly, I made folk swich chere,

That in his owene grece I made him frye

For angre, and for verray jalousye.

By god, in erthe I was his purgatorie,

For which I hope his soule be in glorie

For god it woot, he sat ful ofte and song

Whan that his shoo ful bitterly him wrong.

Ther was no wight, save god and he, that wiste,

In many wyse, how sore I him twiste.

He deyde whan I cam fro Jerusalem,

And lyth y-grave under the rode-beem,

Al is his tombe noght so curious

As was the sepulcre of him, Darius,

Which that Appelles wroghte subtilly;

It nis but wast to burie him preciously.

Lat him fare-wel, god yeve his soule reste,

He should not have frightened me from drink!

And after wine on Venus must I think,

For all so surely as cold engenders hail,

A thirsty mouth must have a thirsty tail.

In women full of wine there’s no defence—

This know lechers by experience.

But, Lord Christ! When I think

Upon my youth, and on my gaiety,

It tickles me about my heart’s root.

Unto this day it does my heart good

That in my time I have had my world.

But age, alas! that all will poison,

Has me bereft my beauty and my vigor.

Let it go, farewell! The devil with it go!

The flower is gone, there is no more to tell:

The husk, as best I can, now must I sell;

But yet to be right merry will I try.

Now will I tell of my fourth husband.

I say, I had in heart great spite

That he of any other had delight.

But he was repaid, by God and Saint Joce!

I made him of the same wood a cross—

Not of my body in an unclean manner,

But certainly, to other men I was so nice

That in his own grease I made him fry

For anger and for pure jealousy.

By God, on earth I was his purgatory,

For which I hope his soul be in glory.

For God it knows, he sat full often and sang

When that his shoe full bitterly fitted him wrong.

There was no person, save God and he, who knew

How many ways I sorely him tormented.

He died when I returned from Jerusalem,

And lies buried inside a chapel,

Although his tomb was not so ornamented

As was the sepulchre of old Darius,¹⁰

Which that Appelles skillfully wrought;

It would have been a waste to bury him at high cost.

May he fare well, God rest his soul!

He is now in the grave and in his cheste.

Now of my fifthe housbond wol I telle.

God lete his soule never come in helle!

And yet was he to me the moste shrewe;

That fele I on my ribbes al by rewe,

And ever shal, un-to myn ending-day

But in our bed he was so fresh and gay,

And ther-with-al so wel coude he me glose,

Whan that he wolde han my bele chose,

That thogh he hadde me bet on every boon,

He coude winne agayn my love anoon.

I trowe I loved him beste, for that he

Was of his love daungerous to me.

We wommen han, if that I shal nat lye,

In this matere a queynte fantasye;

Wayte what thing we may nat lightly have,

Ther-after wol we crye al-day and crave.

Forbede us thing, and that desyren we;

Prees on us faste, and thanne wol we flee.

With daunger oute we al our chaffare;

Greet prees at market maketh dere ware,

And to greet cheep is holde at litel prys;

This knoweth every womman that is wys.

My fifthe housbonde, god his soule blesse!

Which that I took for love and no richesse,

He som-tyme was a clerk of Oxenford,

And had left scole, and wente at hoom to bord

With my gossib, dwellinge in oure toun,

God have hir soule! hir name was Alisoun.

She knew myn herte and eek my privetee

Bet than our parisshe-preest, so moot I thee!

To hir biwreyed I my conseil al.

For had myn housbonde pissed on a wal,

Or doon a thing that sholde han cost his lyf,

To hir, and to another worthy wyf,

And to my nece, which that I loved weel,

I wolde han told his conseil every-deel.

And so I dide ful often, god it woot,

That made his face ful often reed and hoot

He is now in the grave and in his box.

Now of my fifth husband will I tell—

God let his soul never come in hell!

And yet he was to me the worst rascal.

Soreness on my ribs I still feel from a scuffle,

And ever shall unto my dying day.

But in our bed he was so fresh and gay,

And therewithal so well could he me persuade

When he would have my belle chose,

That though he would have beaten me on every bone,

He could win again my love anon.

I believe I loved him best for that he

Was of his love grudging to me.

We women have, if that I shall not lie,

In this matter an odd fantasy:

Whatever thing we may not lightly have,

Thereafter we will cry all day and crave.

Forbid us something, and that desire we;

Pursue us hard, and then we will flee.

For the haughty we set out all our wares:

Great crowd at market makes things dear,

And for too good a bargain we little care.

This knows every woman who is wise.

My fifth husband, God his soul bless!

Who that I took for love and no riches,

He was once a scholar at Oxford,

And had left school, and went home to board

With my close friend, dwelling in our town—

God save her soul, her name was Alison.

She knew my heart and also my secrets

Better than our parish priest,¹¹ so may I flourish!

To her revealed I my feelings all,

For had my husband pissed on a wall,

Or done a thing that should have cost his life,

To her and to another worthy wife,

And to my niece, whom I loved well,

I would tell his secrets in detail.

And so I did often, God well knows,

That made his face full often red and hot

For verray shame, and blamed him-self for he

Had told to me so greet a privetee.

And so bifel that ones, in a Lente,

(So often tymes I to my gossib wente,

For ever yet I lovede to be gay,

And for to walke, in March, Averille, and May,

Fro hous to hous, to here sondry talis),

That Jankin clerk, and my gossib dame Alis,

And I my-self, in-to the feldes wente.

Myn housbond was at London al that Lente;

I hadde the bettre leyser for to pleye,

And for to see, and eek for to be seye

Of lusty folk; what wiste I wher my grace

Was shapen for to be, or in what place?

Therefore I made my visitaciouns,

To vigilies and to processiouns,

To preching eek and to thise pilgrimages,

To pleyes of miracles and mariages,

And wered upon my gaye scarlet gytes.

Thise wormes, ne thise motthes, ne thise mytes,

Upon my peril, frete hem never a deel;

And wostow why? for they were used weel.

Now wol I tellen forth what happed me.

I seye, that in the feeldes walked we,

Til trewely we hadde swich daliance,

This clerk and I, that of my purveyance

I spak to him, and seyde him, how that he,

If I were widwe, sholde wedde me.

For certeinly, I sey for no bobance,

Yet was I never with-outen purveyance

Of mariage, n‘of othere thinges eek.

I holde a mouses herte nat worth a leek,

That hath but oon hole for to sterte to,

And if that faille, thanne is al y-do.

I bar him on honde, he hadde enchanted me;

My dame taughte me that soutiltee.

And eek I seyde, I mette of him al night;

He wolde han slayn me as I lay up-right,

And al my bed was ful of verray blood,

For pure shame, and blamed himself because he

Had told me so great a secrecy.

And so it befell that once during Lent—

So oftentimes that to my friend I went,

For ever yet I loved to be gay,

And for to walk in March, April and May,

From house to house, to hear sundry tales—

That Jankin the scholar and my friend Alis

And I myself into the fields went.

My husband was at London all that Lent:

I had the better chance to play,

And for to see, and also to be seen

By lusty folk. What knew I where grace

Was meant for me, or in what place?

Therefore I made my visitations,

To feast day services and processions,

To preaching and to these pilgrimages,

To plays of miracles, and marriages,

And wore my gay scarlet gowns.

Those worms, nor moths, nor mites,

Upon my soul’s peril, ate them not at all;

And you know why? For they were used well.

Now will I tell forth what happened to me.

I say that in the fields walked we,

Till truly we were getting on so well,

This scholar and I, that in my foresight

I spoke to him and how that he,

If I were widowed, should wed me.

For certainly, I say for no boast,

Yet I was never without future provision

Of marriage, not to mention other things.

I hold a mouse’s heart not worth a leek

That has but one hole for to run,

And if that fails, all is done.

I had him believe he had enchanted me—

My mother taught me that subtlety—

And also I said I dreamed of him all night:

That he would me slay as on my back I lay,

And all my bed was full of wet blood;

But yet I hope that he shal do me good;

For blood bitokeneth gold, as me was taught.

And al was fals, I dremed of it right naught,

But as I folwed ay my dames lore,

As wel of this as of other thinges more.

But now sir, lat me see, what I shal seyn?

A! ha! by god, I have my tale ageyn.

Whan that my fourthe housbond was on bere,

I weep algate, and made sory chere,

As wyves moten, for it is usage,

And with my coverchief covered my visage;

But for that I was purveyed of a make,

I weep but smal, and that I undertake.

To chirche was myn housbond born a-morwe

With neighebores, that for him maden sorwe;

And Jankin oure clerk was oon of tho.

As help me god, whan that I saugh him go

After the bere, me thoughte he hadde a paire

Of legges and of feet so clene and faire,

That al myn herte I yaf un-to his hold.

He was, I trowe, a twenty winter old,

And I was fourty, if I shal seye sooth;

But yet I hadde alwey a coltes tooth.

Gat-tothed I was, and that bicam me weel;

I hadde the prente of sëynt Venus seel.

As help me god, I was a lusty oon,

And faire and riche, and yong, and wel bigoon;

And trewely, as myne housbondes tolde me,

I had the beste quoniam mighte be.

For certes, I am al Venerien

In felinge, and myn herte is Marcien.

Venus me yaf my lust, my likerousnesse,

And Mars yaf me my sturdy hardinesse

Myn ascendent was Taur, and Mars ther-inne.

Allas! alias! that ever love was sinne!

I folwed ay myn inclinacioun

By vertu of my constellacioun;

That made me I coude noght withdrawe

My chambre of Venus from a good felawe.

But yet I hoped that he should do me good,

For blood betokens gold, as I was taught.

And all was false—I dreamed of it right not,

But as I followed always my dame’s lore

As well with this as other things more.

But now, sire, let me see, what was I saying?

Aha! By God, I have my tale again.

When that my fourth husband was on his bier,

I wept of course, and wore a sorry expression

As wives must, for it is the custom,

And with my kerchief covered my face;

But because I was provided with a mate,

I wept but little, and that I declare.

To church was my husband borne in the morning

With neighbors, who for him made sorrow;

And Jankin our scholar was one of those.

So help me God! When I saw him walk

After the bier, me thought he had a pair

Of legs and of feet so neat and fair,

That all my heart I gave to his hold.

He was, I believe, twenty winters old,

And I was forty, if I shall say right;

But yet I had always a colt’s appetite.

Gap-toothed I was, and that became me well;

I had the birthmark of Saint Venus’ seal.¹²

So help me God, I was a lusty one,

And fair, and rich, and young;

And truly, as my husbands told me,

I had the best pudendum¹³ that might be.

For certainly, I am all Venerian

In feeling, and my heart is Martian:

Venus gave me my lust, my lecherousness,

And Mars gave me my sturdy boldness;

My ascendant was Taurus, and Mars therein.¹⁴

Alas! Alas! that ever love was sin!

I followed always my inclination

By virtue of my constellation;

So that I could not withhold

My chamber of Venus from a good fellow.

Yet have I Martes mark up-on my face,

And also in another privee place.

For, god so wis be my savacioun,

I ne loved never by no discrecioun,

But ever folwede myn appetyt,

Al were he short or long, or blak or whyt:

I took no kepe, so that he lyked me,

How pore he was, ne eek of what degree.

What sholde I seye, but, at the monthes ende,

This joly clerk Jankin, that was so hende,

Hath wedded me with greet solempnitee,

And to him yaf I al the lond and fee

That ever was me yeven ther-bifore;

But afterward repented me ful sore.

He nolde suffre nothing of my list.

By god, he smoot me ones on the list,

For that I rente out of his book a leef,

That of the strook myn ere wex al deef.

Stiborn I was as is a leonesse,

And of my tonge a verray jangleresse,

And walke I wolde, as I had doon biforn,

From hous to hous, al-though he had it sworn.

For which he often tymes wolde preche,

And me of olde Romayn gestes teche,

How he, Simplicius Gallus, lefte his wyf,

And hir forsook for terme of al his lyf,

Noght but for open-heeded he hir say

Lokinge out at his dore upon a day.

Another Romayn tolde he me by name,

That, for his wyf was at a someres game

With-oute his witing, he forsook hir eke.

And than wolde he up-on his Bible seke

That ilke proverbe of Ecclesiaste,

Wher he comandeth and forbedeth faste,

Man shal nat suffre his wyf go roule aboute;

Than wolde he seye right thus, withouten doute,

‘Who-so that buildeth his hous al of salwes,

And priketh his blinde hors over the falwes,

And suffreth his wyf to go seken halwes,

Yet I have Mars’ mark upon my face,

And also in another private place.

For, God so wise be my salvation,

I never loved with any wisdom,

But ever followed my appetite:

Whether he were short or long or black or white,

I didn’t care, so long as he pleased me,

How poor he was, nor of what level in society.

What should I say but, at the month’s end,

This jolly scholar Jankin, who was so nice,

Had wedded me with great solemnity,

And to him gave I all the land and property

That ever was given me therebefore.

But afterward I regretted it full sore;

He wouldn’t give me anything I pleased.

By God, he hit me once on the ear

Because I tore from his book a leaf,

And from that stroke my ear went deaf.

Stubborn I was as is a lioness,

And with my tongue a true wasp,

And walked I would, as I had before done,

From house to house, although he had it forbidden.

For which he oftentimes would preach,

And me of old Roman stories teach,

How Simplicius Gallus¹⁵ left his wife,

And her forsook the rest of his life,

Only because he her bareheaded saw

Looking out their door upon a day.

Another Roman told he me by name,

Who, because his wife was at a summer’s revel

Without his knowing, he too her forsook.

And then would he in his Bible seek

That same proverb of Ecclesiasticus

Where he commands and sternly forbids

Man should not allow his wife to roam about:

Then would he say right thus, without doubt:

‘Whoso builds his house of willow twigs,

And spurs his blind horse over ploughed furrows,

And his wife to go seek shrines allows,

Is worthy to been hanged on the galwes!’

But al for noght, I sette noght an hawe

Of his proverbes n’of his olde sawe,

Ne I wolde nat of him corrected be.

I hate him that my vices telleth me,

And so do mo, god woot! of us than I.

This made him with me wood al outrely;

I nolde noght forbere him in no cas.

Now wol I seye yow sooth, by seint Thomas,

Why that I rente out of his book a leef,

For which he smoot me so that I was deef.

He hadde a book that gladly, night and day,

For his desport he wolde rede alway.

He cleped it Valerie and Theofraste,

At whiche book he lough alwey ful faste.

And eek ther was som-tyme a clerk at Rome,

A cardinal, that highte Seint Jerome,

That made a book agayn Jovinian;

In whiche book eek ther was Tertulan,

Crisippus, Trotula, and Helowys,

That was abbesse nat fer fron Parys;

And eek the Parables of Salomon,

Ovydes Art, and bokes many on,

And alle thise wer bounden in o volume.

And every night and day was his custume,

Whan he had leyser and vacacioun

From other worldly occupacioun,

To reden on this book of wikked wyves.

He knew of hem mo legendes and lyves

Than been of gode wyves in the Bible.

For trusteth wel, it is an impossible

That any clerk wol speke good of wyves,

But-if it be of holy seintes lyves,

Ne of noon other womman never the mo.

Who peyntede the leoun, tel me who?

By god, if wommen hadde writen stories,

As clerkes han with-inne hir oratories,

They wolde han writen of men more wikkednesse

Than al the mark of Adam may redresse.

Is worthy to be hanged on the gallows!’

But all for nought, I give not a hawthorne berry

For his proverbs nor for his old saw,

Nor would I by him corrected be.

I hate him who my vices describes to me,

And so do more of us, God knows, than I.

This made him with me angry completely:

I would not go along with him in any case.

Now will I tell you the truth, by Saint Thomas,

Why I tore out of his book a leaf,

For which he smacked me so that I was deaf.

He had a book that gladly, night and day,

For his disport he would read always.

He called it Valerie and Theofraste,¹⁶

At which book he would laugh and laugh.

And also there was once a scholar at Rome,

A cardinal, who was called Saint Jerome,

Who made a book against Jovinian;

In which book there was Tertullian,

Chrysippus, Trotula,¹⁷ and Heloise,

Who was the abbess not far from Paris;

And also the Proverbs of Solomon,

Ovid’s Art of Love, and books many a one,

And all these were bound in one volume.

And every night and day was his custom,

When he had leisure and free time

From other worldly occupation,

To read in this book of wicked wives.

He knew of them more legends and lives

Than there are of good wives in the Bible.

For trust well, it is an impossibility

That any scholar will speak good of wives,

But unless it be of holy saints’ lives,

Nothing of any other woman ever.

Who painted the lion,¹⁸ tell me, who?

By God, if women had written stories,

As scholars have within their oratories,

They would have written of men more wickedness

Than all the sex of Adam may redress.

The children of Mercurie and of Venus

Been in hir wirking ful contrarious;

Mercurie loveth wisdom and science,

And Venus loveth ryot and dispence.

And, for hir diverse disposicioun,

Ech falleth in otheres exaltacioun;

And thus, god woot! Mercurie is desolat

In Pisces, wher Venus is exaltat;

And Venus falleth ther Mercurie is reysed;

Therfore no womman of no clerk is preysed.

The clerk, whan he is old, and may noght do

Of Venus werkes worth his olde sho,

Than sit he doun, and writ in his dotage

That wommen can nat kepe hir mariage!

But now to purpos, why I tolde thee

That I was beten for a book, pardee.

Up-on a night Jankin, that was our syre,

Redde on his book, as he sat by the fyre,

Of Eva first, that, for hir wikkednesse,

Was al mankinde broght to wrecchednesse,

For which that Jesu Crist him-self was slayn,’

That boghte us with his herte-blood agayn.

Lo, here expres of womman may ye finde,

That womman was the los of al mankinde.

Tho redde he me how Sampson loste his heres,

Slepinge, his lemman kitte hem with hir sheres;

Thurgh whiche tresoun loste he bothe his yën.

Tho redde he me, if that I shal nat lyen,

Of Hercules and of his Dianyre,

That caused him to sette himself a-fyre.

No-thing forgat he the penaunce and wo

That Socrates had with hise wyves two;

How Xantippa caste pisse up-on his heed;

This sely man sat stille, as he were deed;

He wyped his heed, namore dorste he seyn

But ‘er that thonder stinte, comth a reyn.’

Of Phasipha, that was the quene of Crete,

For shrewednesse, him thoughte the tale swete;

Fy! spek na-more—it is a grisly thing—

The children of Mercury and of Venus¹⁹

Be in their behavior full contrarious:

Mercury loves science and wisdom,

And Venus loves revelry and to spend;

And, because of their diverse dispositions,

Each falls in the moment of the other’s highest ascent,

And thus, God knows, Mercury is powerless

In Pisces where Venus is at her greatest,

And Venus falls there where Mercury has risen;

Therefore no woman by a scholar is prized.

The scholar, when he is old, and may not do

Of Venus’ works worth his old shoe—

Then sits he down and writes in his dotage

That women cannot be faithful in marriage!

But now to the purpose why I told you

That I was beaten for a book, by God.

Upon a night Jankin, who was my lord,

Read in his book as he sat by the fire

Of Eve first, who for her wickedness

Was all mankind brought to wretchedness,

For which that Jesus Christ himself was slain,

Who bought us with his heartblood again.

Lo, here specifically of woman may you find

Who caused the loss to all mankind.

Then read he me how Samson lost his hair:

Sleeping, she cut it with her shears,

Through which treason lost he both his eyes.

Then read he me, if that I shall not lie,

Of Hercules and his Deianira,²⁰

Who caused him to set himself afire.

Nothing forgot he the sorrow and the woe

That Socrates had with his wives two—

How Xantippe cast piss upon his head:

This poor man sat still, as if he were dead;

He wiped his head; no more dared he say

But ‘Before thunder ceases, there comes a rain.’

Of Pasiphae²¹ who was the Queen of Crete

Out of meanness him thought the tale sweet—

Fie! Speak no more, it is a grisly thing,

Of hir horrible lust and hir lyking.

Of Clitemistra, for hir lecherye,

That falsly made hir housbond for to dye,

He redde it with ful good devocioun.

He tolde me eek for what occasioun

Amphiorax at Thebes loste his lyf;

Myn housbond hadde a legende of his wyf,

Eriphilem, that for an ouche of gold

Hath prively un-to the Grekes told

Wher that hir housbonde hidde him in a place,

For which he hadde at Thebes sory grace.

Of Lyvia tolde he me, and of Lucye,

They bothe made hir housbondes for to dye;

That oon for love, that other was for hate;

Lyvia hir housbond, on an even late,

Empoysoned hath, for that she was his fo.

Lucya, likerous, loved hir housbond so,

That, for he sholde alwey up-on hir thinke,

She yaf him swich a maner love-drinke,

That he was deed, er it were by the morwe;

And thus algates housbondes han sorwe.

Than tolde he me, how oon Latumius

Compleyned to his felawe Arrius,

That in his gardin growed swich a tree,

On which, he seyde, how that his wyves three

Hanged hem-self for herte despitous.

‘0 leve brother,’ quod this Arrius,

‘Yif me a plante of thilke blissed tree,

And in my gardin planted shal it be!’

Of latter date, of wyves hath he red,

That somme han slayn hir housbondes in hir bed,

And lete hir lechour dighte hir al the night

Whyl that the corps lay in the floor up-right.

And somme han drive nayles in hir brayn

Whyl that they slepte, and thus they han hem slayn.

Somme han hem yeve poysoun in hir drinke.

He spak more harm than herte may bithinke.

And ther-with-al, he knew of mo proverbes

Than in this world ther growen gras or herbes.

Of her horrible lust and her liking.

Of Clytemnestra,²² for her lechery,

Who falsely made her husband for to die,

He read it with full good devotion.

He told me also for what occasion

Amphiaraus²³ at Thebes lost his life.

My husband had a legend of his wife,

Eriphilem, who for a brooch of gold

Had secretly unto the Greeks told

Where her husband hid in a place,

For which he had at Thebes misfortune.

Of Livia told he me, and of Lucilia.

They both made their husbands for to die,

That one for love, the other was for hate.

Livia her husband, on an evening late,

Poisoned him, for she was his foe.

Lucilia, lecherous, loved her husband so,

That, so he should always upon her think,

She gave him such a kind of love-drink,

That he was dead before it was the morrow;

And thus always husbands have sorrow.

Then he told me how one Latumius

Complained unto his companion Arrius,²⁴

Who in his garden grew a certain tree

On which he said how his wives three

Hanged themselves for spite.

‘Oh dear brother,’ said this Arrius,

‘Give me a cutting of that blessed tree,

And in my garden planted shall it be!’

Of later date, of wives had he read

Who some had slain their husbands in their beds,

And let their lovers lie with them all night

While the corpse lay on the floor with open eyes.

And some had driven nails in their brains

While they slept, and thus they had them slain.

Some had in their drink them given poison.

He spoke more harm than heart may imagine.

And in addition he knew of more proverbs

Than in this world there grow grass or herbs.

‘Bet is,’ quod he, ‘thyn habitacioun

Be with a leoun or a foul dragoun,

Than with a womman usinge for to chyde.

Bet is,’ quod he, ‘hye in the roof abyde

Than with an angry wyf doun in the hous;

They been so wikked and contrarious;

They haten that hir housbondes loveth ay.’

He seyde, ‘a womman cast hir shame away,

Whan she cast of hir smok;’ and forthermo,

‘A fair womman, but she be chaast also,

Is lyk a gold ring in a sowes nose.’

Who wolde wenen, or who wolde suppose

The wo that in myn herte was, and pyne?

And whan I saugh he wolde never fyne

To reden on this cursed book al night,

Al sodeynly three leves have I plight

Out of his book, right as he radde, and eke,

I wit my fist so took him on the cheke,

That in our fyr he fil bakward adoun.

And he up-stirte as dooth a wood leoun,

And with his fist he smoot me on the heed,

That in the floor I lay as I were deed.

And when he saugh how stille that I lay,

He was agast, and wolde han fled his way,

Til atte laste out of my swogh I breyde:

‘0! hastow slayn me, false theef?’ I seyde,

‘And for my land thus hastow mordred me?

Er I be deed, yet wol I kisse thee.’

And neer he cam, and kneled faire adoun,

And seyde, ‘dere suster Alisoun,

As help me god, I shal thee never smyte;

That I have doon, it is thy-self to wyte.

Foryeve it me, and that I thee biseke’—

And yet eft-sones I hitte him on the cheke,

And seyde, ‘theef, thus muchel am I wreke;

Now wol I dye, I may no lenger speke.’

But atte laste, with muchel care and wo,

We fille acorded, by us selven two.

He yaf al the brydel in myn hond

‘Better it is,’ said he, ‘your habitation

Be with a lion or a foul dragon,

Than with a woman accustomed for to chide.

Better it is,’ said he, ‘high on the roof abide

Than with an angry wife down in the house;

They be so wicked and contrarious

They hate what their husbands love ever.’

He said, ‘A woman casts her shame away,

When she casts off her underclothes;’ and furthermore,

‘A fair woman, unless she be chaste also,

Is like a gold ring in a sow’s nose.’

Who would guess, or who would suppose

The woe that in my heart was, and pain?

And when I saw that he would never finish

To read in this cursed book all night,

All suddenly three pages have I ripped

Out of his book, right as he read, and also

I with my fist so hit him on the cheek

That in our fire he fell backward down.

And he got up as does an angry lion,

And with his fist he struck me on the head

That on the floor I lay as if I were dead.

And when he saw how still that I lay,

He was aghast, and would have fled away,

Till at last out of my swoon I breathed:

‘Oh! have you slain me, you thief?’ I said,

‘And for my land have you murdered me?

Before I be dead, yet will I kiss you.’

And near he came, and kneeled fair down,

And said, ‘Dear sister Alison,

So help me God, I shall never you strike;

But for what I’ve done, you have yourself to blame.

Forgive it me, and that I you beseech—’

And yet again I hit him on the cheek

And said, ‘Thief! thus much I am avenged.

Now will I die: I may no longer speak.’

But at last, with much care and woe,

We came to an agreement between us two.

He gave me the bridle completely in my hand,

To han the governance of hous and lond,

And of his tonge and of his hond also,

And made him brenne his book anon right tho.

And whan that I hadde geten un-to me,

By maistrie, al the soveraynetee,

And that he seyde, ‘myn owene trewe wyf,

Do as thee lust the terme of al thy lyf,

Keep thyn honour, and keep eek myn estaat’—

After that day we hadden never debaat.

God help me so, I was to him as kinde

As any wyf from Denmark un-to Inde,

And also trewe, and so was he to me.

I prey to god that sit in magestee,

So blesse his soule, for his mercy dere!

Now wol I seye my tale, if ye wol here.”

 

Biholde the wordes bitween the Somonour and the Frere

 

The Frere lough, whan he hadde hend al this,

“Now, dame,” quod he, “so have I joye or blis,

This is a long preamble of a tale!”

And whan the Somnour herde the Frere gale,

“Lo!” quod the Somnour, “goddes armes two!

A frere wol entremette him ever-mo.

Lo, gode men, a flye and eek a frere

Wol falle in every dish and eek matere.

What spekestow of preambulacioun?

What! amble, or trotte, or pees, or go sit doun;

Thou lettest our disport in this manere.”

“Ye, woltow so, sir Somnour?” quod the Frere,

“Now, by my feith, I shal, er that I go,

Telle of a Somnour swich a tale or two,

That alle the folk shal laughen in this place.”

“Now elles, Frere, I bishrewe thy face,”

Quod this Somnour, “and I bishrewe thy face,”

But-if I telle tales two or three

Of freres er I come to Sidingborne,

That I shal make thyn herte for to morne;

For wel I woot thy pacience is goon.”

To have the governance of house and land,

And of his tongue and his hand also;

And made him burn his book anon right then.

And when that I had gotten for myself,

By mastery, all the sovereignty,

And that he said, ‘My own true wife,

Do as you please for the rest of your life;

Preserve your honor, and keep my reputation—’

After that day we had never debate.

God help me so, I was to him as kind

As any wife from Denmark unto India,

And just as true, and so was he to me.

I pray to God who sits in majesty,

So bless his soul by his mercy dear!

Now will I say my tale, if you will hear.”

 

Behold the words between the Summoner and the Friar

 

The Friar laughed when he had heard all this.

“Now dame,” said he, “as I may have joy or bliss,

This is a long preamble for a tale!”

And when the Summoner heard the Friar say that aloud,

“Behold,” said the Summoner, “God’s two arms,

A friar will insinuate himself evermore!

Behold, good men, a fly and also a friar

Will fall in every dish and every topic.

Why do you speak of perambulation?

Behold! Amble, or trot, or walk, or go sit down!

You interrupt our fun in this manner.”

“So you’d say, sir Summoner?” said the Friar;

“Now by my faith, I shall, before I go,

Tell of a summoner such a tale or two

That all the folk shall laugh in this place.”

“Now otherwise, Friar, I will curse your face,”

Said this Summoner, “and I curse me

Unless I tell tales two or three ²⁵

Of friars, before I come to Sittingbourne,²⁵

So that I shall make your heart for to mourn—

For well I know your patience is gone.”

Our hoste cryde “pees! and that anoon!”

And seyde, “lat the womman telle hir tale.

Ye fare as folk that dronken been of ale.

Do, dame, tel forth your tale, and that is best.”

“Al redy, sir,” quod she, “right as yow lest,

If I have licence of this worthy Frere.”

“Yis, dame,” quod he, “tel forth, and I wol here.”

The Tale

In th‘old dayes of the king Arthour,

Of which that Britons speken greet honour,

Al was this land fulfiled of fayerye.

The elf-queen, with hir joly companye,

Daunced ful ofte in many a grene mede;

This was the olde opinion, as I rede.

I speke of manye hundred yeres ago;

But now can no man see none elves mo.

For now the grete charitee and prayeres

Of limitours and othere holy freres,

That serchen every lond and every streem,

As thikke as motes in the sonne-beem,

Blessinge halles, chambres, kichenes, boures,

Citees, burghes, castels, hye toures,

Thropes, bernes, shipnes, dayeryes,

This maketh that ther been no fayeryes.

For ther as wont to walken was an elf,

Ther walketh now the limitour himself

In undermeles and in morweninges,

And seyth his matins and his holy thinges

As he goth in his limitacioun.

Wommen may go saufly up and doun,

In every bush, or under every tree;

Ther is noon other incubu but he,

And he ne wol doon hem but dishonour.

And so bifel it, that this king Arthour

Hadde in his hous a lusty bacheler,

That on a day cam rydinge fro river;

And happed that, allone as she was born,

He saugh a mayde walkinge him biforn,

Our Host cried “Peace! and that anon!”

And said, “Let the woman tell her tale.

You act as folk do who have had too much ale.

Do, dame, tell forth your tale, and that is best.”

“All ready, sire,” said she, “right as you wish,

If I have the permission of this worthy Friar.”

“Yes, dame,” said he, “tell forth, and I will hear.”

The Tale

In the old days of King Arthur,

Of whom Britons speak great honor,

All was this land filled with fairies.

The elf-queen with her jolly company

Danced full often in many a green meadow.

This was the old opinion, as I read—

I speak of many hundred years ago—

But now can man see elves no more.

For now the great charity and prayers

Of beggars and other holy friars,²⁶

Who visit every land and every stream,

As thick as dustmotes in the sunbeam,

Blessing halls, chambers, kitchens, bedrooms,

Cities, towns, castles, high towers,

Villages, barns, sheds, dairies—

This causes there to be no fairies.

For there where was wont to walk an elf,

There walks now the limitour²⁷ himself

In afternoons and in mornings,

And says his Matins and his holy things

As he goes in his territory.

Women may now go safely up and down:

In every bush or under every tree

There is no other incubus but he,

And he will only do them dishonor.

And so it happened that this King Arthur

Had in his house a lusty young knight,

Who on a day came riding from the river;

And it happened that, alone as he was born,

He saw a maid walking him before,

Of whiche mayde anon, maugree hir heed,

By verray force he rafte hir maydenheed;

For which oppressioun was swich clamour

And swich pursute un-to the king Arthour,

That dampned was this knight for to be deed

By cours of lawe, and sholde han lost his heed

Paraventure, swich was the statut tho;

But that the quene and othere ladies mo

So longe preyeden the king of grace,

Til he his lyf him graunted in the place,

And yaf him to the quene al at hir wille,

To chese, whether she wolde him save or spille.

The quene thanketh the king with al hir might,

And after this thus spak she to the knight,

Whan that she saugh hir tyme, up-on a day:

“Thou standest yet,” quod she, “in swich array,

That of thy lyf yet hastow no suretee.

I grante thee lyf, if thou canst tellen me

What thing is it that wommen most desyren?

Be war, and keep thy nekke-boon from yren.

And if thou canst nat tellen it anoon,

Yet wol I yeve thee leve for to gon

A twelf-month and a day, to seche and lere

An answere suffisant in this matere.

And suretee wol I han, er that thou pace,

Thy body for to yelden in this place.”

Wo was this knight and sorwefully he syketh;

But what! he may nat do al as him lyketh.

And at the laste, he chees him for to wende,

And come agayn, right at the yeres ende,

With swich answere as god wolde him purveye;

And taketh his leve, and wendeth forth his weye.

He seketh every hous and every place,

Wher-as he hopeth for to finde grace,

To lerne, what thing wommen loven most;

But he ne coude arryven in no cost,

Wher-as he mighte finde in this matere

Two creatures accordingee in-fere.

Somme seyde, wommen loven best richesse,

Of which maid anon, no matter what she did,

By force itself he took her maidenhead.

For which wrong was such clamor

And such pleading unto King Arthur,

That condemned was this knight for to be dead

By course of law, and should have lost his head—

As it happened such was the law then—

Except that the queen and other ladies more

So long begged the king for grace

Till he his life granted in the place,

And gave him to the queen entirely at her will,

To choose whether she would him save or kill.

The queen thanked the king with all her might,

And after this thus spoke she to the knight

When she saw her time, upon a day:

“You stand yet,” said she, “in such danger

That of your life you have yet no guarantee.

I grant you life, if you can tell me

What thing it is that women most desire.

Be careful, and keep your neck from the blade of iron.

And if you cannot tell it now,

Yet will I give you leave to go

For twelve months and a day, to seek and learn

An answer sufficient in this matter.

And a surety bond will have, before you leave,

To guarantee your return to this place.”

Woeful was this knight and sorrowfully he sighed.

But what! He may not do all as he liked,

And at last he chose to his way wend,

And come again, right at the year’s end,

With such answer as God would him provide;

And he took his leave and wended forth his way.

He sought every house and every place

Where he hoped to have the good grace,

To learn what thing women love most;

But he could arrive at no country or coast

Where he might find in this matter

Two creatures agreeing with each other.

Some said women love best riches,

Somme seyde, honour, somme seyde, jolynesse;

Somme, riche array, somme seyden, lust abedde,

And ofte tyme to be widwe and wedde.

Somme seyde, that our hertes been most esed,

Whan that we been y-flatered and y-plesed.

He gooth ful ny the sothe, I wol nat lye;

A man shal winne us best with flaterye;

And with attendance, and with bisinesse,

Been we y-lymed, bothe more and lesse.

And somme seyn, how that we loven best

For to be free, and do right as us lest,

And that no man repreve us of our vyce,

But seye that we be wyse, and no-thing nyce.

For trewely, ther is noon of us alle,

If any wight wol clawe us on the galle,

That we nil kike, for he seith us sooth;

Assay, and he shal finde it that so dooth.

For be we never so vicious with-inne,

We wol been holden wyse, and clene of sinne.

And somme seyn, that greet delyt han we

For to ben holden stable and eek secree,

And in o purpos stedefastly to dwelle,

And nat biwreye thing that men us telle.

But that tale is nat worth a rake-stele;

Pardee, we wommen conne no-thing hele;

Witnesse on Myda; wol ye here the tale?

Ovyde, amonges othere thinges smale,

Seyde, Myda hadde, under his longe heres,

Growinge up-on his heed two asses eres,

The whiche vyce he hidde, as he best mighte,

Ful subtilly from every mannes sighte,

That, save his wyf, ther wiste of it na-mo.

He loved hir most, and trusted hir also;

He preyde hir, that to no creature

She sholde tellen of his disfigure.

She swoor him “nay, for al this world to winne,

She nolde do that vileinye or sinne,

To make hir housbond han so foul a name;

She nolde nat telle it for hir owene shame.”

Some said honor, some said jollyness;

Some rich adornment, some said lust abed,

And oftentime to be widowed and again then wed.

Some said that our hearts have been most eased

When that we be flattered and pleased.

He got very near the truth, I will not lie:

A man shall win us best with flattery;

And with attention and with diligence

Be we snared, both more and less.

And some said how that we love best

For to be free and do right as we wish,

And that no man reproach us for our vice,

But say that we be not foolish, but all wise.

For truly, there is none of us all,

If any person would scratch our sore wounds,

Who will not kick back if he tells the truth:

Try, and he who does shall find it so.

For be we ever so vicious within,

We want to be thought wise, and clean of sin.

And some say that great delight have we

For to be thought steadfast and discreet,

And in one purpose steadfastly to dwell,

And not reveal things that men us tell—

But that tale is not worth a rake handle.

By God, we women know not how anything to conceal:

Witness on Midas—will you hear this tale?

Ovid, among other things brief,

Said Midas²⁸ had under his long hairs,

Growing upon his head two asses’ ears,

The which flaw he hid as best he might

Full cleverly from every man’s sight.

So that, save his wife, there knew of it no one.

He loved her most, and trusted her also;

He begged her that to no creature

She should tell of his disfigure.

She swore him that no, for all the world to win,

She would not do that bad deed or sin,

To make her husband have so foul a name.

She would not tell it to spare her own shame.

But nathelees, hir thoughte that she dyde,

That she so longe sholde a conseil hyde;

Hir thoughte it swal so sore aboute hir herte,

That nedely som word hir moste asterte;

And sith she dorste telle it to no man,

Doun to a mareys faste by she ran;

Til she came there, hir herte was a-fyre,

And, as a bitore bombleth in the myre,

She leyde hir mouth un-to the water doun:

“Biwreye me nat, thou water, with thy soun,”

Quod she, “to thee I telle it, and namo;

Myn housbond hath longe asses eres two!

Now is myn herte all hool, now is it oute;

I mighte no lenger kepe it, out of doute.”

Heer may ye se, thogh we a tyme abyde,

Yet out it moot, we can no conseil hyde;

The remenant of the tale if ye wol here,

Redeth Ovyde, and ther ye may it lere.

This knight, of which my tale is specially,

Whan that he saugh he mighte nat come therby,

This is to seye, what wommen loven moost,

With-inne his brest ful sorweful was the goost;

But hoom he gooth, he mighte nat sojourne.

The day was come, that hoomward moste he tourne,

And in his wey it happed him to ryde,

In al this care, under a forest-syde,

Wher-as he saugh up-on a daunce go

Of ladies foure and twenty, and yet mo;

Toward the whiche daunce he drow ful yerne,

In hope that som wisdom sholde he lerne.

But certeinly, er he came fully there,

Vanisshed was this daunce, he niste where.

No creature saugh he that bar lyf,

Save on the grene he saugh sittinge a wyf;

A fouler wight ther may no man devyse.

Agayn the knight this olde wyf gan ryse.

And seyde, “sir knight, heer-forth ne lyth no wey.

Tel me, what that ye seken, by your fey?

Paraventure it may the bettre be;

But nevertheless, she thought that she should die

If she should for long the secret hide.

Her thought it swelled so sore about her heart

That need be some word out of her must start,

And since she dared tell no man,

Down to a nearby marsh she ran.

Till she came there her heart was on fire,

And as a bittern’s call booms in the mire,

She laid her mouth unto the water down:

”Betray me not, you water, with your sound,”

Said she, ”to you I tell it, and else no one;

My husband has long asses’ ears two!

Now is my heart again all whole, now is it out.

I might no longer keep it, with no doubt.”

Here you may see, though we a while abide,

Yet out it must, we can no secret hide.

The ending of this tale if you will hear,

Read Ovid, and there you may it learn.

This knight of which my tale is specially,

When he saw he might not get his answer,

That is to say, what women love most,

Within his breast full sorrowful was his soul,

But home he went, he might not linger.

The day was come that homeward must he turn,

And on his way it happened him to ride

In all this care by a forest side,

Where he saw engaged in a dance

Of ladies four and twenty and yet more;

Toward which dance he drew with yearning,

In hope that some wisdom he could learn.

But certainly, before he came fully there,

Vanished was this dance, he knew not where.

No creature saw he that bore life,

Save on the grass he saw sitting a woman—

An uglier person may no man imagine.

To meet the knight this old lady arose,

And said, “Sir knight, through here there’s no way.

Tell me what you seek, by your faith!

Perhaps it may the better be:

Thise olde folk can muchel thing,” quod she.

“My leve mooder,” quod this knight certeyn,

“I nam but deed, but-if that I can seyn

What thing it is that wommen most desyre;

Coude ye me wisse, I wolde wel quyte your hyre.”

“Plight me thy trouthe, heer in myn hand,” quod she,

“The nexte thing that I requere thee,

Thou shalt it do, if it lye in thy might;

And I wol telle it yow er it be night.”

“Have heer my trouthe,” quod the knight, “I grante.”

“Thanne,” quod she, “I dar me wel avante,

Thy lyf is sauf, for I wol stonde therby,

Up-on my lyf, the queen wol seye as I.

Lat see which is the proudeste of hem alle,

That wereth on a coverchief or a calle,

That dar seye nay, of that I shal thee teche;

Lat us go forth with-outen lenger speche.”

Tho rouned she a pistel in his ere,

And bad him to be glad, and have no fere.

Whan they be comen to the court, this knight

Seyde, “he had holde his day, as he hadde hight,

And redy was his answere,” as he sayde.

Ful many a noble wyf, and many a mayde,

And many a widwe, for that they ben wyse,

The quene hir-self sittinge as a justyse,

Assembled been, his answere for to here;

And afterward this knight was bode appere.

To every wight comanded was silence,

And that the knight sholde telle in audience,

What thing that worldly wommen loven best.

This knight ne stood nat stille as doth a best,

But to his questioun anon answerde

With manly voys, that al the court it herde:

“My lige lady, generally,” quod he,

“Wommen desyren to have sovereyntee

As wel over hir housbond as hir love,

And for to been in maistrie him above;

This is your moste desyr, thogh ye me kille,

Doth as yow list, I am heer at your wille.”

We old folks know many things,” said she.

“My dear mother,” said this knight, “for certain

I am good as dead, unless I can say

What thing it is that women most desire.

Could you tell me, I will repay your hire:”

“Pledge me your promise, here in my hand,” said she,

“The next thing that I request of thee,

You shall do it, if it lies in your power,

And I will tell it you before it be night.”

“Have here my promise,” said the knight. “I grant it.”

“Then,” said she, “I dare well boast

Your life is safe, for I will stand thereby.

Upon my life, the queen will say as well as I.

Let see which is the proudest of them all,

Who wears a kerchief or a crown,

Who dares to deny that which I teach.

Let us go forth without longer speech.”

Then whispered she a message in his ear,

And bade him to be glad and have no fear.

When they returned to the court, this knight

Said he had kept to his day, as he had pledged,

And ready was his answer, as he said.

Full many a noble wife, and many a maid,

And many a widow—because they be wise—

The queen herself sitting as a judge,

Assembled were, his answer for to hear;

And then this knight was bidden to appear.

To every person commanded was silence,

And thus the knight should tell his audience

What thing that worldly women love best.

This knight stood not still as does a beast,

But to his question anon answered

With manly voice, so that all the court it heard:

“My liege lady, generally,” said he,

“Women desire to have sovereignty

As well over their husband as their lovers,

And for to be in mastery them above.

This is your greatest desire, though you me kill.

Do as you wish—I am here at your will.”

In al the court ne was ther wyf ne mayde,

Ne widwe, that contraried that he sayde,

But seyden, “he was worthy han his lyf.”

And with that word up stirte the olde wyf,

Which that the knight saugh sittinge in the grene:

“Mercy,” quod she, “my sovereyn lady quene!

Er that your court departe, do me right.

I taughte this answere un-to the knight;

For which he plighte me his trouthe there,

The firste thing I wolde of him requere,

He wolde it do, if it lay in his might.

Bifore the court than preye I thee, sir knight,”

Quod she, “that thou me take un-to thy wyf;

For wel thou wost that I have kept thy lyf.

If I sey fals, sey nay, up-on thy fey!”

This knight answerde, “alias! and weylawey!

I woot right wel that swich was my biheste.

For goddes love, as chees a newe requeste;

Tak al my good, and lat my body go.”

“Nay than,” quod she, “I shrewe us bothe two!

For thogh that I be foul, and old, and pore,

I nolde for al the metal, ne for ore,

That under erthe is grave, or lyth above,

But-if thy wyf I were, and eek thy love.”

“My love?” quod he; “nay, my dampnacioun!

Alias! that any of my nacioun

Sholde ever so foule disparaged be!”

But al for noght, the ende is this, that he

Constreyned was, he nedes moste hir wedde;

And taketh his olde wyf, and gooth to bedde.

Now wolden som men seye, paraventure,

That, for my necligence, I do no cure

To tellen yow the joye and al th‘array

That at the feste was that ilke day.

To whiche thing shortly answere I shal;

I seye, ther nas no joye ne feste at al,

Ther nas but hevinesse and muche sorwe;

For prively he wedded hir on a morwe,

And al day after hidde him as an oule;

In all the court there was no wife, nor maid,

Nor widow who contraried what he said,

But said he was worthy to have his life.

And with that upstarted the old lady,

Who that the knight saw sitting in the grass:

“Mercy!” said she, “my sovereign lady queen!

Before your court departs, do me right.

I taught this answer unto the knight;

For which he gave me his promise there,

The first thing I would of him require

He would it do, if it lay in his might.

Before the court then I pray thee, sir knight,”

Said she, “that you me take unto your wife,

For well you know that I have saved your life.

If I say false, say no, upon your faith!”

This knight answered, “Alas and wellaway!

I know right well that such was my promise.

For God’s love, choose a new request:

Take all my goods, and let my body go.”

“No then,” said she, “I curse us both two!

For though I be ugly and old and poor,

I would not for all the metal nor the ore

That under the earth is buried or lies above

Be anything but your wife, and your love.”

“My love?” said he. “No, my damnation!

Alas! that any of my lineage

Should ever so foul degraded be!”

But all for nought, the end is this, that he

Constrained was: he must needs her wed,

And take his old wife and go to bed.

Now would some men say, perhaps,

That out of my negligence I fail

To tell you the joy and all the show

That at the feast was that same day.

To which thing briefly answer I shall:

I say there was no joy nor feast at all;

There was but heaviness and much sorrow,

For privately he married her on the morrow,

And all day afterward hid himself like an owl,

So wo was him, his wyf looked so foule.

Greet was the wo the knight hadde in his thoght,

Whan he was with his wyf a-bedde y-broght;

He walweth, and he turneth to and fro.

His olde wyf lay smylinge evermo,

And seyde, “o dere housbond, ben‘cite!

Fareth every knight thus with his wyf as ye?

Is this the lawe of king Arthures hous?

Is every knight of his so dangerous?

I am your owene love and eek your wyf,

I am she, which that saved hath your lyf;

And certes, yet dide I yow never unright;

Why fare ye thus with me this firste night?

Ye faren lyk a man had lost his wit;

What is my gilt? for godd’s love, tel me it,

And it shal been amended, if I may.”

“Amended?” quod this knight, “allas! nay, nay!

It wol nat been amended never mo!

Thou art so loothly, and so old also,

And ther-to comen of so lowe a kinde,

That litel wonder is, thogh I walwe and winde.

So wolde god myn herte wolde breste!”

“Is this,” quod she, “the cause of your unreste?”

“Ye, certainly,” quod he, “no wonder is.”

“Now, sire,” quod she, “I coude amende al this,

If that me liste, er it were dayes three,

So wel ye mighte bere yow un-to me.

But for ye speken of swich gentillesse

As is descended out of old richesse,

That therfore sholden ye be gentil men,

Swich arrogance is nat worth an hen.

Loke who that is most vertuous alway,

Privee and apert, and most entendeth ay

To do the gentil dedes that he can,

And tak him for the grettest gentil man.

Crist wol, we clayme of him our gentillesse,

Nat of our eldres for hir old richesse.

For thogh they yeve us al hir heritage,

For which we clayme to been of heigh parage,

For woe was with him, his wife looked so foul.

Great was the woe the knight had in his thought,

When he was with his wife to bed brought;

He wallowed, and he turned to and fro.

His old wife lay smiling ever so,

And said, “Oh dear husband, benedicite!

Behaves every knight this way to his wife as you?

Is this the law of King Arthur’s household?

Is every knight of his so cold?

I am your own love and also your wife;

I am she who has saved your life;

And certainly did I never you unright.

Why do you thus with me this first night?

You act like a man who has lost his wit!

What is my guilt? For God’s love, tell me it,

And it shall be amended, if I may.”

“Amended?” said this knight, “alas! nay, nay!

It will not be amended ever more!

You are so ugly, and so old also,

And come from such lowly birth,

That little wonder is it that I toss and turn.

So would God my heart burst!”

“Is this,” said she, “the cause of your unrest?”

“Yes, certainly,” said he, “no wonder is.”

“Now sir,” said she, “I could amend all this,

If that I wish, before it were days three,

So long as you behave well toward me.

Though you speak of such gentleness

As is descended out of old riches—

Therefore you should be a gentle man—

Such arrogance is not worth a hen.

See who is most virtuous always,

In private and public, and who ever intends

To do the gentle deeds that he can,

And take him for the greatest gentleman.

Christ wills that we draw from him our gentleness,

Not of our ancestors from their old riches.

For though they give us all their heritage—

For which we claim to be of high parentage—

Yet may they nat biquethe, for no-thing,

To noon of us hir vertuous living,

That made hem gentil men y-called be;

And bad us folwen hem in swich degree.

Wel can the wyse poete of Florence,

That highte Dant, speken in this sentence;

Lo in swich maner rym is Dantes tale:

‘Ful selde up ryseth by his branches smale

Prowesse of man; for god, of his goodnesse,

Wol that of him we clayme our gentillesse;’

For of our eldres may we no-thing clayme

But temporel thing, that man may hurte and mayme.

Eek every wight wot this as wel as I,

If gentillesse were planted naturelly

Un-to a certeyn linage, doun the lyne,

Privee ne apert, than wolde they never fyne

To doon of gentillesse the faire offyce;

They mighte do no vileinye or vyce.

Tak fyr, and ber it in the derkeste hous

Bitwix this and the mount of Caucasus,

And lat men shette the dores and go thenne;

Yet wol the fyr as faire lye and brenne,

As twenty thousand men mighte it biholde;

His office naturel ay wol it holde,

Up peril of my lyf, til that it dye.

Heer may ye see wel, how that genterye

Is nat annexed to possessioun,

Sith folk ne doon hir operacioun

Alwey, as dooth the fyr, lo! in his kinde.

For, god it woot, men may wel often finde

A lordes sone do shame and vileinye:

And he that wol han prys of his gentrye

For he was boren of a gentil hous,

And hadde hise eldres noble and vertuous,

And nil him-selven do no gentil dedis,

Ne folwe his gentil auncestre that deed is,

He nis nat gentil, be he duk or erl;

For vileyns sinful dedes make a cherl.

For gentillesse nis but renomee

Yet may they not bequeath, in any way,

To any of us their virtuous living

That made them be called gentlemen,

Though they bade us follow them to such condition.

We know the wise poet of Florence,

Called Dante,²⁹ speaks on this topic;

Behold, in such manner is Dante’s tale:

‘Seldom grows as shoots from his family tree

The excellence of man, for God in his goodness

Desires that from him we claim our gentleness;’

For of our elders we can make no claim

But of temporal things, that can hurt and maim.

And every person knows this as well as I,

That if gentleness were planted naturally

Within a certain lineage through its generations,

Privately and publicly, they would never cease

To do the fair office of virtue—

They could do no violence or villainy.

Take fire, bear it into the darkest house

Between here and the Mount of Caucasus,

And let men shut the doors and go away,

Yet will the fire as fair lie and burn,

As when twenty thousand men might it behold:

Its nature will it retain,

Upon peril of my life, until it dies.

Here may you see well how that gentility

Is not attached to possession,

Since folk do their work

Always, as does the fire, according to their natures.

For, God knows, men may often find

A lord’s son doing shame and villainy;

And he who will have esteem for his gentility

Because he was born of a gentle house,

And had his elders noble and virtuous,

And will himself do no gentle deeds,

Nor follow his gentle ancestor who dead is,

He is not gentle, be he duke or earl;

For villainous sinful deeds make a churl.

For gentleness is nothing but the renown

Of thyne auncestres, for hir heigh bountee,

Which is a strange thing to thy persone.

Thy gentillesse cometh fro god allone;

Than comth our verray gentillesse of grace,

It was no-thing biquethe us with our place.

Thenketh how noble, as seith Valerius,

Was thilke Tullius Hostilius,

That out of povert roos to heigh noblesse.

Redeth Senek, and redeth eek Boëce,

Ther shul ye seen expres that it no drede is,

That he is gentil that doth gentil dedis;

And therfore, leve housbond, I thus conclude,

Al were it that myne auncestres were rude,

Yet may the hye god, and so hope I,

Grante me grace to liven vertuously.

Thanne am I gentil, whan that I biginne

To liven vertuously and weyve sinne.

And ther-as ye of povert me repreve,

The hye god, on whom that we bileve,

In wilful povert chees to live his lyf.

And certes every man, mayden, or wyf,

May understonde that Jesus, hevene king,

Ne wolde nat chese a vicious living.

Glad povert is an honest thing, certeyn;

This wol Senek and othere clerkes seyn.

Who-so that halt him payd of his poverte,

I holde him riche, al hadde he nat a sherte.

He that coveyteth is a povre wight,

For he wolde han that is nat in his might.

But he that noght hath, ne coveyteth have

Is riche, al-though ye holde him but a knave.

Verray povert, it singeth proprely;

Juvenal seith of povert merily:

‘The povre man, whan he goth by the weye,

Bifore the theves he may singe and pleye.’

Povert is hateful good, and, as I gesse,

A ful greet bringer out of bisinesse;

A greet amender eek of sapience

To him that taketh it in pacience.

Of your ancestors, for their great goodness,

Which is quite foreign to your person.

Your gentleness comes from God alone.

Thence comes our true gentleness of grace:

It was in no way bequeathed us with our status.

Think how noble, as said Valerius,

Was that Tullius Hostilius,

Who out of poverty rose to high nobility.

Read Seneca, and read also Boethius:

There shall you see clearly that no doubt is

That he is gentle who does gentle deeds.

And therefore, dear husband, I must conclude:

Albeit that my ancestors were humble,

Yet may the high God, and so hope I,

Grant me grace to live virtuously.

Then I am gentle, when I begin

To live virtuously and waive sin.

And there as you of poverty me reprove,

The high God, in whom we believe,

In willed poverty chose to live his life.

And certainly every man, maiden or wife,

May understand that Jesus, heaven’s king,

Would not choose a vicious way of living.

Glad poverty is an honest thing, certainly;

This will Seneca and other scholars say.

Whoso with poverty is content,

I hold him rich, though he have no shirt.

He who covets is the person poor,

For he would have what is not in his power.

But he who nothing has, and nothing covets,

Is rich, though you hold him but of low estate.

True poverty, it sings by its nature.

Juvenal said of poverty merrily:

‘The poor man, when he goes by the way,

Even among thieves he may sing and play.’

Poverty is a hated good, and as I guess,

A great spur for hard work’s dedication;

A great amender also of wisdom

To him who with patience it endures.

Povert is this, al-though it seme elenge:

Possessioun, that no wight wol chalenge.

Povert ful ofte, whan a man is lowe,

Maketh his god and eek him-self to knowe.

Povert a spectacle is, as thinketh me,

Thurgh which he may his verray frendes see.

And therfore, sire, sin that I noght yow greve,

Of my povert na-more ye me repreve.

Now, sire, of elde ye repreve me;

And certes, sire, thogh noon auctoritee

Were in no book, ye gentils of honour

Seyn that men sholde an old wight doon favour,

And clepe him fader, for your gentillesse;

And auctours shal I finden, as I gesse.

Now ther ye seye, that I am foul and old,

Than drede you noght to been a cokewold;

For filthe an elde, al-so mote I thee,

Been grete wardeyns up-on chastitee.

But nathelees, sin I knowe your delyt,

I shal fulfille your worldly appetyt.

“Chees now,” quod she, “oon of thise thinges tweye,

To han me foul and old til that I deye,

And be to yow a trewe humble wyf,

And never yow displese in al my lyf,

Or elles ye wol han me yong and fair,

And take your aventure of the repair

That shal be to your hous, by-cause of me,

Or in som other place, may wel be.

Now chees your-selven, whether that yow lyketh.”

This knight avyseth him and sore syketh,

But atte laste he seyde in this manere,

“My lady and my love, and wyf so dere,

I put me in your wyse governance;

Cheseth your-self, which may be most plesance,

And most honour to yow and me also.

I do no fors the whether of the two;

For as yow lyketh, it suffiseth me.”

“Thanne have I gete of yow maistrye,” quod she,

“Sin I may chese, and governe as me lest?”

Poverty is this, although it seems misery,

A possession that no person will covet.

Poverty full often, when a man is low,

Makes him his God and himself know;

Poverty a pair of spectacles may be,

Through which he may his true friends see.

And therefore, sir, since with it I do not you trouble,

For my poverty no more should you me reprove.

Now sir, of old age you may blame me:

And certainly, sir, even if no authority

Were in any book, you who claim honor

Say that men should to an old person do favor

And call him father, out of your gentleness;

And authorities shall I find, as I guess.

Now when you say that I am ugly and old,

Then you need not to be a cuckold,

For filth and age, as I may prosper,

Be great protectors of chastity.

But nevertheless, since I know your delight,

I shall fulfill your worldly appetite.

“Choose now,” said she, “one of these things two:

To have me foul and old till that I die

And be to you a true and humble wife,

And never you displease in all my life,

Or else you will have me young and fair,

And take your chances with the crowd

Who shall come to your house, because of me,

Or in some other place, as may well be.

Now choose whichever pleases you.”

This knight thought hard and sorely sighed,

But at last he said in this manner:

“My lady and my love and my wife so dear,

I put me in your wise governance:

Choose yourself which may give the most pleasure

And most honor to you and me too.

I do not care which of the two you choose,

For as you like, so it suffices me.”

“Then have I gotten over you mastery,” said she,

“Since I may choose and govern as I please?”

“Ye certes, wyf,” quod he, “I holde it best.”

“Kis me,” quod she, “we be no lenger wrothe;

For, by my trouthe, I wol be to yow bothe,

This is to seyn, ye, bothe fair and good.

I prey to god that I most sterven wood,

But I to yow be al-so good and trewe

As ever was wyf, sin that the world was newe.

And, but I be to-morn as fair to sene

As any lady, emperyce, or quene,

That is bitwixe the est and eke the west,

Doth with my lyf and deeth right as yow lest.

Cast up the curtin, loke how that it is.”

And whan the knight saugh verraily al this,

That she so fair was, and so yong ther-to,

For joye he hente hir in his armes two,

His herte bathed in a bath of blisse;

A thousand tyme a-rewe he gan hir kisse.

And she obeyed him in every thing

That mighte doon him plesance or lyking.

And thus they live, un-to hir lyves ende,

In parfit joye; and Jesu Crist us sende

Housbondes meke, yonge, and fresshe a-beede,

And grace t‘overbyde hem that we wedde.

And eek I preye Jesu shorte hir lyves

That wol nat be governed by hir wyves;

And olde and angry nigardes of dispence,

God sende hem sone verray pestilence.

“Yes, certainly, wife,” said he, “I hold it best.”

“Kiss me,” said she, “we be no longer angry,

For by my troth, I will to you both be,

This is to say, yes, both fair and good.

I pray to God that I die dimwitted,

Unless I am to you both good and true

As ever was wife, since the world was new.

And unless I be tomorrow as fair to see

As any lady, empress, or queen,

Between east and west,

Do with my life and death just as you wish.

Cast up the curtain: look at me.”

And when the knight did he saw in truth,

That she was fair and young also,

For joy he clasped her in his arms two;

His heart bathed in a bath of bliss.

A thousand times he began to her kiss,

And she obeyed him in every thing

That might give him pleasure or delight.

And thus they lived until their lives’ end

In perfect joy. And Jesus Christ us send

Husbands meek, young, and fresh in bed,

And grace to outlive those that we wed.

And I pray Jesus to shorten their lives

Who not will be governed by their wives;

And old and angry niggards with their pence,

God send them soon true pestilence.