The Clerk’s Tale

The Prologue

“SIR SCHOLAR OF OXFORD,” our Host said,

“You ride as shy and still as does a maid,

Who is just married, sitting at the wedding table.

This day I have not heard a word from your tongue.

I believe you’re thinking of some sophistry,

But Solomon says, ‘Everything has its time.’

For God’s sake, be of better cheer.

It is no time to study here.

Tell us some merry tale, by your faith!

For whosoever has entered in a game,

He needs must by the rules play.

But preach not, as friars do in Lent,

To make us of our old sins weep,

Nor should your tale lead us to sleep.

Tell us some merry thing of adventures.

Your rhetorical devices, your figures of speech,

Keep them in store until you’re called to indite

In high style, as when men to kings write.

Speak so plainly at this time, we you pray,

That we may understand what you say.”

This worthy Scholar graciously replied:

“Host,” said he, “I am under your rule;

You have of us now the governance,

And therefore will I do you obedience

As far as reason requires, certainly.

I will tell you a tale that I

Learned at Padua of a worthy scholar,

As proven by his words and his work.

He is now dead and nailed in his coffin chest,

I pray to God give his soul rest!

Francis Petrarch,¹ the laureate poet,

This scholar was called whose rhetoric sweet

Illuminated all Italy with poetry,

As Legnano² did of philosophy

Or law, or other art particular;

But deeth, that wol nat suffre us dwellen heer

But as it were a twinkling of an ye,

Hem bothe hath slayn, and alle shul we dye.

But forth to tellen of this worthy man,

That taughte me this tale, as I bigan,

I seye that first with heigh style he endyteth,

Er he the body of his tale wryteth,

A proheme, in the which discryveth he

Pemond, and of Saluces the contree,

And speketh of Apennyn, the hilles hye,

That been the boundes of West Lumbardye,

And of Mount Vesulus in special,

Where as the Poo, out of a welle smal,

Taketh his firste springing and his sours,

That estward ay encresseth in his cours

To Emelward, to Ferrare, and Venyse:

The which a long thing were to devyse.

And trewely, as to my jugement,

Me thinketh it a thing impertinent,

Save that he wol conveyen his matere:

But this his tale, which that ye may here.”

The Tale

PART ONE

Ther is, at the west syde of Itaille,

Doun at the rote of Vesulus the colde,

A lusty playne, habundant of vitaille,

Wher many a tour and toun thou mayst biholde,

That founded were in tyme of fadres olde,

And many another delitable sighte,

And Saluces this noble contree highte.

A markis whylom lord was of that londe,

As were his worthy eldres him bifore;

And obeisant and redy to his honde

But death, that will not allow us here to dwell

But as it were the blink of an eye,

Them both has slain, as we all shall die.

But to tell more of this worthy man

Who taught me this tale, as I began,

I say that first with high style he composed,

Before the body of his main tale he wrote,

A prologue, in which he described the

Piedmont and Saluzzo country,

And spoke of the Apennines, the hills high,

That be the bounds of West Lombardy,

And of Mount Viso especially,

Where the River Po, out of a spring small,

Takes its origin and its source,

Then eastward flows increasing in its course

To Emilia, to Ferrara and Venice:

Which would take a long time to relate,

And truly, in my judgement,

Methinks it a thing irrelevant,

Except to introduce his story.

But this is his tale, which you may now hear.”

The Tale

PART ONE

There is, in the west of Italy,

Down at the foot of Mount Viso the cold,

A pleasant plain, abundant of food,

Where many a tower and town you may behold

That founded were in times of forefathers old,

And many another delightful sight,

And Saluzzo was this noble country called.

 

A marquis once upon a time was of that land

As were his worthy elders him before;

And obedient, ever ready to his hand

Were alle his liges, bothe lasse and more.

Thus in delyt he liveth, and hath don yore,

Biloved and drad, thurgh favour of fortune,

Bothe of his lordes and of his commune.

 

Therwith he was, to speke as of linage,

The gentilleste y-born of Lumbardye,

A fair persone, and strong, and yong of age,

And ful of honour and of curteisye;

Discreet y-nogh his contree for to gye,

Save in somme thinges that he was to blame,

And Walter was this yonge lordes name.

 

I blame him thus, that he considereth noght

In tyme cominge what mighte him bityde,

But on his lust present was al his thoght,

As for to hauke and hunte one every syde;

Wel ny alle othere cures leet he slyde,

And eek he nolde, and that was worst of alle,

Wedde no wyf, for noght that may bifalle.

 

Only that point his peple bar so sore,

That flokmele on a day they to him wente,

And oon of hem, that wysest was of lore,

Or elles that the lord best wolde assente

That he sholde telle him what his peple mente,

Or elles coude he shewe wel swich matere,

He to the markis seyde as ye shul here.

 

“O noble markis, your humanitee

Assureth us and yeveth us hardinesse,

As ofte as tyme is of necessitee

That we to yow mowe telle our hevinesse;

Accepteth, lord, now for your gentillesse,

That we with pitous herte un-to yow pleyne,

And lete your eres nat my voys disdeyne.

 

Al have I noght to done in this matere

More than another man hath in this place,

Were all his vassals, both less and more.

Thus in delight he lived, and had done of yore,

Beloved and feared, through Fortune’s favor,

Both by his commoners and his lords.

 

Also he was, to speak of lineage,

The highest born of Lombardy,

A handsome person, and strong, and young of age,

And full of honor and of courtesy;

Wise enough to govern his country—

Save in some things wherein he was to blame—

And Walter was this young lord’s name.

 

I blame him thus, that he considered not

In the future what might him betide,

But on his immediate pleasure was all his thought,

And to hunt and hawk on every side;

Well nigh all other cares let he slide,

And would not—and that was worst of all—

Wed a wife, no matter what may befall.

 

Only that point his people took so hard

That in crowds on a day they to him went,

And one of them, who was most learned,

Or because the lord would best assent

That he should tell him what his people meant,

Or because he best knew how to put it,

He to the marquis said as you shall hear.

 

“Oh noble marquis, your humanity

Assures us and gives us the boldness

As often as it is necessary,

That we may tell you our heaviness.

Accept, lord, of your gentleness,

That we with sorrowful heart to you complain,

And let your ears my voice not disdain.

 

Although I have no more to do in this matter

Than any other man in this place,

Yet for as muche as ye, my lord so dere,

Han alwey shewed me favour and grace,

I dar the better aske of yow a space

Of audience, to shewen our requeste,

And ye, my lord, to doon right as yow leste.

 

For certes, lord, so wel us lyketh yow

And al your werk and ever han doon, that we

Ne coude nat us self devysen how

We mighte liven in more felicitee,

Save o thing, lord, if it your wille be,

That for to been a wedded man yow leste,

Than were your peple in sovereyn hertes reste.

 

Boweth your nekke under that blisful yok

Of soveraynetee, noght of servyse,

Which that men clepeth spousaille or wedlok;

And thenketh, lord, among your thoghtes wyse,

How that our dayes passe in sondry wyse;

For though we slepe or wake, or rome, or ryde,

Ay fleeth the tyme, it nil no man abyde.

 

And though your grene youthe floure as yit,

In crepeth age alwey, as stille as stoon,

And deeth manaceth every age, and smit

In ech estaat, for ther escapeth noon:

And al so certein as we knowe echoon

That we shul deye, as uncerteyn we alle

Been of that day whan deeth shal on us falle.

 

Accepteth than of us the trewe entente,

That never yet refuseden your heste,

And we wol, lord, if that ye wol assente,

Chese yow a wyf in short tyme, atte leste,

Born of the gentilleste and of the meste

Of al this lond, so that it oghte seme

Honour to god and yow, as we can deme.

Yet inasmuch as you, my lord so dear,

Have always showed me favor and grace,

I dare the better ask of you a chance

For audience, to put forward our request,

And you, my lord, may do just as you wish.

 

For certainly, lord, so well do you us please

And all your work, and have always done, that we

Could not ourselves imagine how

We might live in more felicity,

Save one thing, lord, if it be your will,

And would please you to be a wedded man,

Then would your people rest in supreme happiness.

 

Bow your neck under that blissful yoke

Of sovereignty, not of service,

Which men call wedlock or marriage;

And think, lord, among your thoughts wise,

How our days pass in sundry ways;

For though we sleep or wake, or roam, or ride,

Still flees the time, for no man will it wait.

 

And though your green youth flowers as yet,

In creeps age always, silent as stone,

And death menaces every age, and smites

In every rank, for there escapes no one:

And even though certain as we each know

That we shall die, as uncertain we all

Be of that day when death shall on us fall.

 

Accept then of us this loyal good faith,

That never yet refused your wish,

And we will, lord, if you will assent,

Choose you a wife in short time, and at the least,

Born of the gentlest and of the best

Of this land, so that it will be an

Honor to God and you, as we can deem.

Deliver us out of al this bisy drede,

And take a wyf, for hye goddes sake;

For if it so bifelle, as god forbede,

That thurgh your deeth your linage sholde slake,

And that a straunge successour sholde take

Your heritage, o! wo were us alyve!

Wherfor we pray you hastily to wyve.”

 

Hir meke preyere and hir pitous chere

Made the markis herte han pitee.

“Ye wol,” quod he, “myn owene peple dere,

To that I never erst thoghte streyne me.

I me rejoysed of my libertee,

That selde tyme is founde in mariage;

Ther I was free, I moot been in servage.

 

But nathelees I see your trewe entente,

And truste upon your wit, and have don ay;

Wherfor of my free wil I wol assente

To wedde me, as sone as ever I may.

But ther-as ye han profred me to-day

To chese me a wyf, I yow relesse

That choys, and prey yow of that profre cesse.

 

For god it woot, that children ofte been

Unlyk her worthy eldres hem bifore;

Bountee comth al of god, nat of the streen

Of which they been engendred and y-bore;

I truste in goddes bountee, and therfore

My mariage and myn estaat and reste

I him bitake; he may don as him leste.

 

Lat me alone in chesinge of my wyf,

That charge up-on my bak I wol endure;

But I yow preye, and charge up-on your lyf,

That what wyf that I take, ye me assure

To worshipe hir, whyl that hir lyf may dure,

In word and werk, bothe here and everywhere,

As she an emperoures doghter were.

Deliver us out of this anxious dread

And take a wife, for high God’s sake,

For if it so befell, may God forbid,

That through your death your line should end,

And that an unknown successor should take

Your heritage, Oh, woe were us alive!

Wherefore we pray you hastily take a wife.”

 

Their meek prayer and their piteous looks

Made the marquis’ heart have pity.

“You wish,” said he, “mine own people dear,

What I never thought of doing before.

I rejoiced in a liberty

That seldom is found in marriage;

Where I was once free, I would be in service.

 

But nevertheless I see your true intent,

And trust your judgement, and have done ever,

Wherefore of my free will I will assent

To wed, as soon as ever I may.

But where you have offered me today

To choose me a wife, I release you from

That choice, and pray you withdraw that offer.

 

For, God knows, that children oft be

Unlike their worthy elders them before;

Goodness comes from God, not of the blood

Of which they be engendered and born.

I trust in God’s goodness, and therefore

My marriage and my nobility and peace

I to Him entrust, to do as he pleases.

 

Let me alone in the choosing of my wife—

That burden upon my back I will endure;

But I you pray, and charge upon your life,

That whatever wife I take, you me assure

To revere her while her life may endure,

In word and work, both here and everywhere,

As if she an emperor’s daughter were.

And forthermore, this shal ye swere, that ye

Agayn my choys shul neither grucche ne stryve;

For sith I shal forgoon my libertee

At your requeste, as ever moot I thryve,

Ther as myn herte is set, ther wol I wyve;

And but ye wole assente in swich manere,

I prey yow, speketh na-more of this matere.”

With hertly wil they sworen, and assenten

To al this thing, ther seyde no wight nay;

Bisekinge him of grace, er that they wenten,

That he wolde graunten hem a certein day

Of his spousaille, as sone as ever he may;

For yet alwey the peple som-what dredde

Lest that this markis no wyf wolde wedde.

 

He graunted hem a day, swich as him leste,

On which he wolde be wedded sikerly,

And seyde, he dide al this at hir requeste;

And they, with humble entente, buxonly,

Knelinge up-on her knees ful reverently

Him thanken alle, and thus they han an ende

Of hir entente, and hoom agayn they wende.

And heer-up-on he to his officeres

Comaundeth for the feste to purveye,

And to his privee knightes and squyeres

Swich charge yaf, as him liste on hem leye;

And they to his comandement obeye,

And ech of hem doth al his diligence

To doon un-to the feste reverence.

And furthermore this shall you swear, that you

Against my choice shall neither grouch nor strive;

For since I shall forego my liberty

At your request, as I may thrive,

Where my heart is set, there will I take a wife.

And unless you will assent in such manner,

I pray you, speak no more of this matter.”

 

With sincere hearts they swore and assented

To all this thing—there said no person nay—

Beseeching of him his grace, before they went,

That he would grant them a certain day

For his wedding, as soon as ever he may;

For yet still the people somewhat dreaded

Lest that this marquis no wife would wed.

 

He granted them a day, such as it him pleased,

On which he would be wedded surely,

And said he did all this at their request.

And they, with humble intent, submissively,

Kneeling upon their knees full reverently,

All thanked him; and thus they had an end

Of their purpose, and home again they went.

And hereupon he to his household

Commanded for the feast to provide,

And to his personal knights and squires

Such charge gave as upon them he chose to lay;

And they to the commandment obeyed,

And each of them did all his best

To do honor unto the feast.

PART TWO

Noght fer fro thilke paleys honurable

Ther-as this markis shoop his mariage,

Ther stood a throp, of site delitable,

In which that povre folk of that village

Hadden hir bestes and hir herbergage,

And of hir labour took hir sustenance

After that th‘erthe yaf hem habundance.

Amonges thise povre folk ther dwelte a man

Which that was holden povrest of hem alle;

But hye god som tyme senden can

His grace in-to a litel oxes stalle:

Janicula men of that throp him calle.

A doghter hadde he, fair y-nogh to sighte,

And Grisildis this yonge mayden highte.

But for to speke of vertuous beautee,

Than was she oon the faireste under sonne;

For povreliche y-fostred up was she,

No likerous lust was thurgh hir herte y-ronne:

Wel ofter of the welle than of the tonne

She drank, and for she wolde vertu plese,

She knew wel labour, but non ydel ese.

But thogh this mayde tendre were of age,

Yet in the brest of hir virginitee

Ther was enclosed rype and sad corage;

And in greet reverence and charitee

Hir olde povre fader fostred she;

A fewe sheep spinning on feeld she kepte,

She wolde noght been ydel til she slepte.

And whan she hoomward cam, she wolde bringe

Wortes or othere herbes tymes ofte,

The whiche she shredde and seeth for hir livinge,

And made hir bed ful harde and no-thing softe;

And ay she kept hir fadres lyf on-lofte

With everich obeisaunce and diligence

That child may doon to fadres reverence.

PART TWO

Not far from this worthy place

Where the marquis prepared for marriage,

There stood a village, of site delightful,

In which poor folk of that village

Had their beasts and their habitations,

And by their labor took their sustenance

Such as provided their land’s abundance.

Among these poor folk there dwelt a man

Who was held to be poorest of them all;

But high God sometimes can send

His grace into a little ox’s stall.

Janicula men of that town him called;

A daughter had he, fair enough to the eye,

And Griselda was this young maiden’s name.

But to speak of virtuous beauty,

Then was she one of the fairest under the sun;

Because she was raised in poverty,

No greed through her heart ran.

Water from the spring, not wine from the cask

She drank; and because she would virtue please,

She knew well labor, but not idle ease.

But though this maid tender was of age,

Yet in the breast of her virginity

There was enclosed a firm and mature heart;

And in great reverence and charity

Her old poor father cared for she.

A few sheep, while spinning, on watch she kept;

She would not be idle till she slept.

And when she homeward went, she would often bring

Plants or other herbs,

Which she shredded and boiled for her living,

And made her bed full hard and nothing soft;

And ever she her father’s life sustained

With every obedience and diligence

That a child may do for her parent.

Up-on Grisilde, this povre creature,

Ful ofte sythe this markis sette his ye

As he on hunting rood paraventure;

And whan it fil that he mighte hir espye,

He noght with wantoun loking of folye

His yen caste on hir, but in sad wyse

Up-on hir chere he wolde him ofte avyse,

 

Commending in his herte hir wommanhede,

And eek hir vertu, passing any wight

Of so yong age, as wel in chere as dede.

For thogh the peple have no greet insight

In vertu, he considered ful right

Hir bountee, and disposed that he wolde

Wedde hir only, if ever he wedde sholde.

 

The day of wedding cam, but no wight can

Telle what womman that it sholde be;

For which merveille wondred many a man,

And seyden, whan they were in privetee,

“Wol nat our lord yet leve his vanitee?

Wol he nat wedde? alias, alias the whyle!

Why wol he thus him-self and us bigyle?”

 

But natheles this markis hath don make

Of gemmes, set in gold and in asure,

Broches and ringes, for Grisildis sake,

And of hir clothing took he the mesure

By a mayde, lyk to hir stature,

And eek of othere ornamentes alle

That un-to swich a wedding sholde falle.

 

The tyme of undern of the same day

Approcheth; that this wedding sholde be;

And al the paleys put was in array,

Bothe halle and chambres, ech in his degree;

Houses of office stuffed with plentee

Ther maystow seen of deyntevous vitaille,

That may be founde, as fer as last Itaille.

Upon Griselda, this poor creature,

Full oftentimes this marquis set his eye

As he while hunting by chance rode by;

And when it befell that he might her espy,

He not with wanton, foolish looks

His eyes cast upon her, but in a serious way

Upon her face he would often ponder,

 

Commending in his heart her womanhood,

And also her virtue, surpassing any person

Of so young age, as well in looks as deed.

For though common folk have no great insight

In virtue, he considered fully

Her goodness, and decided that he would

Wed her only, if wed he ever should.

 

The day of wedding came, but no one could

Tell what woman it would be;

For which wondered many a man

And said, when they were in private,

“Will not our lord yet leave his levity?

Will he not wed? alas, alas the while!

Why will he thus himself and us beguile?”

 

But nevertheless this marquis had ordered made

Of gems, set in gold and in azure

Brooches and rings, for Griselda’s sake,

And of her clothing too he took the measure

By a maid, like to her stature,

And also of other adornments all

That unto such a wedding should fall.

 

As midmorning of the same day

Approached, that this wedding should be;

And all the palace was put in order,

Both hall and chambers, each in its degree;

Kitchens stuffed with plenty

There you could see, with dainty foods

That may be found as far as extends Italy.

This royal markis, richely arrayed,

Lordes and ladyes in his companye,

The whiche unto the feste were y-prayed,

And of his retenue the bachelrye,

With many a soun of sondry melodye,

Un-to the village, of the which I tolde,

In this array the righte wey han holde.

 

Grisilde of this, god woot, ful innocent,

That for hir shapen was al this array,

To fecchen water at a welle is went,

And cometh hoom as sone as ever she may.

For wel she hadde herd seyd, that thilke day

The markis sholde wedde, and, if she mighte,

She wolde fayn han seyn som of that sighte.

 

She thoghte, “I wol with othere maydens stonde,

That been my felawes, in our dore, and see

The markisesse, and therfor wol I fonde

To doon at hoom, as sone as it may be,

The labour which that longeth un-to me;

And than I may at leyser hir biholde,

If she this wey un-to the castel holde.”

 

And as she wolde over hir threshfold goon,

The markis cam and gan hir for to calle;

And she set doun hir water-pot anoon

Bisyde the threshfold, in an oxes stalle,

And doun up-on hir knees she gan to falle,

And with sad contenance kneleth stille

Til she had herd what was the lordes wille.

 

This thoghtful markis spak un-to this mayde

Ful sobrely, and seyde in this manere,

“Wher is your fader, Grisildis?” he sayde,

And she with reverence, in humble chere,

Answerde, “lord, he is al redy here.”

And in she gooth with-outen lenger lette,

And to the markis she hir fader fette.

This royal marquis, richly dressed,

Lords and ladies in his company,

Who unto the feast were asked,

And the young knights of his retinue,

With many a sound of various melodies,

Unto the village of which I spoke,

In their array the straight way took.

Griselda, full unaware

That all this parade was prepared for her,

Went to fetch water at the well,

And came home as soon as ever she could.

For well she had heard said that very day

The marquis should wed, and if she might,

She would gladly have seen some of that sight.

She thought, “I will with other maidens stand,

Who be my companions, in our door and see

The marchioness, and therefore will I try

To finish up at home as soon as may be

The labor that belongs to me;

And then I may at leisure her behold,

If she this way unto the castle goes.”

 

And as she would over her threshold go,

The marquis came and began for her to call;

And she set down her pail anon

Beside the threshold, in an ox’s stall,

And down on her knees she began to fall,

And with earnest countenance knelt still

Till she had heard what was the lord’s will.

 

The thoughtful marquis spoke unto this maid

Full gravely, and said in this manner:

“Where is your father, Griselda?”

And she with reverence, in a humble way,

Answered, “Lord, he is here, ready to serve you.”

And she went in without delay,

And to the marquis her father led.

He by the hond than took this olde man,

And seyde thus, whan he him hadde asyde,

“Janicula, I neither may ne can

Lenger the plesance of my herte hyde.

If that thou vouche-sauf, what-so bityde,

Thy doghter wol I take, er that I wende,

As for my wyf, un-to hir lyves ende.

Thou lovest me, I woot it wel, certyn,

And art my feithful lige man y-bore;

And al that lyketh me, I dar wel seyn

It lyketh thee, and specially therfore

Tel me that poynt that I have seyd bifore,

If that thou wolt un-to that purpos drawe,

To take me as for thy sone-in-lawe?”

 

This sodeyn cas this man astoned so,

That reed he wex, abayst, and al quaking

He stood; unnethes seyde he wordes mo,

But only thus: “lord,” quod he, “my willing

Is as ye wole, ne ayeines your lyking

I wol no-thing; ye be my lord so dere;

Right as yow lust governeth this matere.”

 

“Yet wol I,” quod this markis softely,

“That in thy chambre I and thou and she

Have a collacion, and wostow why?

For I wol axe if it hir wille be

To be my wyf, and reule hir after me;

And al this shal be doon in thy presence,

I wol noght speke out of thyn audience.”

 

And in the chambre whyl they were aboute

Hir tretis, which as ye shal after here,

The peple cam un-to the hous with-oute,

And wondred hem in how honest manere

And tentifly she kepte hir fader dere.

But outerly Grisildis wondre mighte,

For never erst ne saugh she swich a sighte.

He by the hand then took this old man,

And said when he had him aside,

“Janicula, I neither may nor can

Longer the pleasure of my heart hide.

If you will permit, whatever may betide,

Your daughter will I take, before I depart—

For my wife, until our lives end.

 

You love me, I know it well, certain,

And were my faithful vassal born;

And all that pleases me, I dare well say

Also pleases you; and especially therefore

Answer me that question I have said before:

If you will

Take me for your son-in-law.”

 

This sudden turn this man bewildered so

That red he turned, abashed and all trembling

He stood. Scarcely said he words more,

But only thus: “Lord,” said he, “my wish

Is as you will; against your liking

I wish no thing, you be my lord so dear.

Right as you please govern this matter.”

 

“Then I would like,” said this marquis softly,

“That in your chamber you and I and she

Have a talk, and do you know why?

For I will ask if her will it be

To be my wife, and govern herself after me.

And all this shall be done in your presence—

I will not speak out of your audience.”

 

And in the chamber while they made

Their contract, as you shall after hear,

The people came to the house outside,

And wondered at how attentively

And tenderly she kept her father dear.

But especially Griselda might have wondered,

For never before had she seen such a sight.

No wonder is thogh that she were astoned

To seen so greet a gest come in that place;

She never was to swiche gestes woned,

For which she loked with ful pale face.

But shortly forth this tale for to chace,

Thise arn the wordes that the markis sayde

To this benigne verray feithful mayde.

 

“Grisilde,” he seyde, “ye shul wel understonde

It lyketh to your fader and to me

That I yow wedde, and eek it may so stonde,

As I suppose, ye wol that it so be.

But thise demandes axe I first,” quod he,

“That, sith it shal be doon in hastif wyse,

Wol ye assente, or elles yow avyse?

 

I seye this, be ye redy with good herte

To al my lust, and that I frely may,

As me best thinketh, do yow laughe or smerte,

And never ye to grucche it, night ne day?

And eek whan I sey ‘ye,’ ne sey nat ‘nay,’

Neither by word ne frowning contenance;

Swer this, and here I swere our alliance.”

 

Wondring upon this word, quaking for drede,

She seyde, “lord, undigne and unworthy

Am I to thilke honour that ye me bede;

But as ye wol your-self, right so wol I.

And heer I swere that never willingly

In werk ne thoght I nil yow disobeye,

For to be deed, though me were looth to deye.”

 

“This is y-nogh, Grisilde myn!” quod he.

And forth he gooth with a ful sobre chere

Out at the dore, and after that cam she,

And to the peple he seyde in this manere,

“This is my wyf,” quod he, “that standeth here,

Honoureth hir, and loveth hir, I preye,

Who-so me loveth; ther is na-more to seye.”

No wonder that she was bewildered

To see so great a guest come in that place;

She never was to such guests accustomed,

And so she looked with full pale face.

But shortly, this matter to pursue,

These are the words that the marquis said

To this gracious, true, faithful maid.

 

“Griselda,” he said, “you shall well understand

It pleases your father and me

That I you wed, and also it may be the case,

As I suppose, you will that it so be.

But these demands I ask first,” said he,

“That since it shall be done in haste,

Will you assent, or else deliberate?

 

I say this, be you ready with good heart

To honor my every wish, and that I freely may,

As I think best, make you laugh or suffer,

And you never to complain about it, night or day?

And also when I say ‘yes,’ you say not ‘nay,’

Neither by word nor frowning countenance?

Swear this, and here I swear our alliance.”

 

Wondering upon this speech, trembling for dread,

She said, “Lord, undeserving and unworthy

Am I to that honor that you offer me;

But as you will it yourself, right so will I,

And here I swear that never willingly

In deed nor thought will I disobey you,

Even to die, though to die I loathe would be.”

 

“This is enough, Griselda, mine!” said he.

And forth he went with a full sober face

Out at the door, and after that came she,

And to the people he said in this manner:

“This is my wife,” said he, “who stands here.

Honor her and love her I pray

Whoso me loves; there is no more to say.”

And for that no-thing of hir olde gere

She sholde bringe in-to his hous, he bad

That wommen sholde dispoilen hir right there;

Of which thise ladyes were nat right glad

To handle hir clothes wher-in she was clad.

But natheles this mayde bright of hewe

Fro foot to heed they clothed han al newe.

 

Hir heres han they kembd, that lay untressed

Ful rudely, and with hir fingres smale

A corone on hir heed they han y-dressed,

And sette hir ful of nowches grete and smale;

Of hir array what sholde I make a tale?

Unnethe the peple hir knew for hir fairnesse,

Whan she translated was in swich richesse.

 

This markis hath hir spoused with a ring

Broght for the same cause, and than hir sette

Up-on an hors, snow-whyt and wel ambling,

And to his paleys, er he lenger lette,

With joyful peple that hir ladde and mette,

Conveyed hir, and thus the day they spende

In revel, til the sonne gan descende.

 

And shortly forth this tale for to chace,

I seye that to this newe markisesse

God hath swich favour sent hir of his grace,

That it ne semed nat by lyklinesse

That she was born and fed in rudenesse,

As in a cote or in an oxe-stalle,

But norished in an emperoures halle.

 

To every wight she woxen is so dere

And worshipful, that folk ther she was bore

And from hir birthe knewe hir yeer by yere,

Unnethe trowed they, but dorste han swore

That to Janicle, of which I spak bifore,

She doghter nas, for, as by conjecture,

Hem thoughte she was another creature.

And so that none of her old clothes

She should bring into his house, he bade

That women should undress her right there;

Of which these ladies were not right glad

To handle her clothes wherein she was clad.

But nevertheless, this maid bright of hue

From foot to head they clothed all new.

 

Her hair they combed, that lay unbraided

Full artless, and with their fingers small

A crown on her head they placed,

And adorned her full of jewels great and small.

Of her apparel why should I make a tale?

Scarcely the people knew her for her fairness,

When she was transformed in such richness.

 

 

This marquis had her married with a ring

Brought for the same purpose, and then her set

Upon a horse, snow-white and soft-gaited,

And to his palace, with no further delay,

With joyful people who her met and led,

Conveyed her; and thus the day they spent

In revel, till the sun did set.

 

And shortly, this tale to pursue,

I say that to this new marquess

God had such favor sent her of his grace,

That it seemed not likely

That she was born and fed in lowliness,

As in a cottage or an ox stall,

But nourished in an emperor’s hall.

 

To every person she grew so dear

And of honor worthy, that people where she was born

And from her birth knew her year by year,

Scarcely could believe—though they it would swear

That to Janicula, of whom I spoke before,

She daughter was, for, as by conjecture,

To them she seemed another creature.

For thogh that ever vertuous was she,

She was encressed in swich excellence

Of thewes gode, y-set in heigh bountee,

And so discreet and fair of eloquence,

So benigne and so digne of reverence,

And coude so the peples herte embrace,

That ech hir lovede that loked on hir face.

 

Noght only of Saluces in the toun

Publiced was the bountee of hir name,

But eek bisyde in many a regioun,

If oon seyde wel, another seyde the same;

So spradde of hir heigh bountee the fame,

That men and wommen, as wel yonge as olde,

Gon to Saluce, upon hir to biholde.

 

Thus Walter lowly, nay but royally,

Wedded with fortunat honestetee,

In goddes pees liveth ful esily

At hoom, and outward grace y-nogh had he;

And for he saugh that under low degree

Was ofte vertu hid, the peple him helde

A prudent man, and that is seyn ful selde.

 

Nat only this Grisildis thurgh hir wit

Coude al the feet of wyfly hoomlinesse,

But eek, whan that the cas requyred it,

The commune profit coude she redresse.

Ther nas discord, rancour, ne hevinesse

In al that lond, that she ne coude apese,

And wysly bringe hem alle in reste and ese.

 

Though that hir housbonde absent were anoon,

If gentil men, or othere of hir contree

Were wrothe, she wolde bringen hem atoon;

So wyse and rype wordes hadde she,

And jugements of so greet equitee,

That she from heven sent was, as men wende,

Peple to save and every wrong t‘amende.

For although ever virtuous was she,

She was increased in such excellence

Of qualities fine, set in high goodness,

And so wise and fair of speech,

So gracious and so worthy of reverence,

And could so the people’s hearts hold fast,

That each loved her who looked upon her face.

 

Not only in the town of Saluzzo

Published was the goodness of her name,

But also in many another region:

If one spoke well, another said the same.

So spread of her high goodness the fame

That men and women, as well young as old,

Went to Saluzzo upon her to behold.

 

Thus Walter lowly—nay but royally—

Wedded with fortunate honor,

In God’s peace lived full easily

At home, and outward grace enough had he;

And because he saw that under low degree

Was often virtue hid, the people held him

A prudent man, and that is full seldom seen.

 

Not only this Griselda through her wit

Knew all the tasks of a housewife’s skill,

But also, when the case required it,

The common good could she amend.

There was no discord, rancor, nor heaviness

In all the land that she could not appease,

And wisely bring them all peace and ease.

 

Though her husband absent were,

If gentlemen or others of her country

Were angry, she would soon bring them into one;

So wise and mature words had she,

And judgements of so great even-handedness,

That she was sent from heaven, as men imagined,

People to save and every wrong to mend.

Nat longe tyme after that this Grisild

Was wedded, she a doughter hath y-bore,

Al had hir lever have born a knave child.

Glad was this markis and the folk therfore;

For though a mayde child come al bifore,

She may unto a knave child atteyne

By lyklihed, sin she nis nat bareyne.

PART THREE

Ther fil, as it bifalleth tymes mo,

Whan that this child had souked but a throwe,

This markis in his herte longeth so

To tempte his wyf, hir sadnesse for to knowe,

That he ne mighte out of his herte throwe

This merveillous desyr, his wyf t‘assaye,

Needless, god woot, he thoughte hir for t’affraye.

 

He hadde assayed hir y-nogh bifore,

And fond hir ever good; what neded it

Hir for to tempte and alwey more and more?

Though som men preise it for a subtil wit,

But as for me, I seye that yvel it sit

T‘assaye a wyf whan that it is no nede,

And putten her in anguish and in drede.

 

For which this markis wroghte in this manere;

He cam alone a-night, ther as she lay,

With sterne face and with ful trouble chere,

And seyde thus, “Grisild,” quod he, “that day

That I yow took out of your povre array,

And putte yow in estaat of heigh noblesse,

Ye have nat that forgeten, as I gesse.

 

I seye, Grisild, this present dignitee,

In which that I have put yow, as I trowe,

Maketh yow nat foryetful for to be

That I yow took in povre estaat ful lowe

For any wele ye moot your-selven knowe.

Not long time after this Griselda

Was wedded, she a daughter had borne.

Although she’d rather have borne a son,

Glad was this marquis and the folk therefore;

For though a maid child came before,

She may unto a boy child attain

By likelihood, since she was not barren.

PART THREE

There happened, as it so often does,

When this child had nursed but a short while,

That this marquis in his heart longed so

To tempt his wife, her fidelity to know,

That he could not out of his heart throw

This strange desire, to test his wife;

Needlessly, God knows, he decided her to frighten.

 

He had tested her enough before

And found her ever good. Why should he need

To tempt her always more and more,

Though some men praised it for subtle wit?

But as for me, I say that it ill becomes a man

To test a wife when there is no need,

And put her in anguish and in dread.

 

For which this marquis wrought in this manner:

He came alone at night, where she lay,

With stern face and full troubled look,

And said thus: “Griselda, that day

That I you took out of your poor place

And put you in estate of high noblesse,

You have not that forgotten, as I guess.

 

I say, Griselda, this present dignity,

In which I have put you, as I believe,

Perhaps makes you forget

That I took you in poor estate full low.

For any happiness you may yourself know,

Tak hede of every word that I yow seye,

Ther is no wight that hereth it but we tweye.

 

Ye woot your-self wel, how that ye cam here

In-to this hous, it is nat longe ago,

And though to me that ye be lief and dere,

Un-to my gentils ye be no-thing so;

They seyn, to hem it is greet shame and wo

For to be subgets and ben in servage

To thee, that born art of a smal village.

 

And namely, sith thy doghter was y-bore,

Thise wordes han they spoken doutelees;

But I desyre, as I have doon bifore,

To live my lyf with hem in reste and pees;

I may nat in this caas be recchelees.

I moot don with thy doghter for the beste,

Nat as I wolde, but as my peple leste.

 

And yet, god wot, this is ful looth to me;

But nathelees with-oute your witing

I wol nat doon, but this wol I,” quod he,

”That ye to me assente as in this thing.

Shewe now your pacience in your werking

That ye me highte and swore in your village

That day that maked was our mariage.”

 

Whan she had herd al this, she noght ameved

Neither in word, or chere, or countenaunce;

For, as it semed, she was nat agreved;

She seyde, “lord, al lyth in your plesaunce,

My child and I with hertly obeisaunce

Ben youres al, and ye mowe save or spille

Your owene thing; werketh after your wille.

 

Ther may no-thing, god so my soule save,

Lyken to yow that may displese me;

Ne I desyre no-thing for to have,

Ne drede for to lese, save only ye;

Take heed of every word that I say to you:

There’s no one who hears it but we two.

 

You know well yourself how you came here

Into this house, not long ago,

And though to me you be beloved and dear,

Unto my gentlefolk you be nothing so;

They say it is a great shame and woe

To be subjects and be in service

To you, who born art of a small village.

 

And especially since your daughter was born

These words have they spoken, doubtless;

But I desire, as I have done before,

To live my life with them in rest and peace;

I may not in this case be heedless.

I must do with your daughter for the best,

Not as I would, but as my people wish.

 

And yet, God knows, this is full loath to me.

But nevertheless without your knowing

I will not act, but this I wish,” said he,

”That you to me assent in this thing.

Show now your patience in your deeds

That you me promised and swore in your village

That day that made was our marriage.”

 

When she had heard all this, she no motion made

Neither in word nor manner nor countenance;

For as it seemed, she was not aggrieved.

She said, “Lord, all lies in your pleasure;

My child and I with heartfelt obedience

Be yours all, and you may save or destroy

Your own thing: do as you wish.

 

There may be no thing, God so my soul save;

That pleases you that displeases me;

Nor do I desire anything to have,

Nor dread to lose, save only you;

This wil is in myn herte and ay shal be.

No lengthe of tyme or deeth may this deface,

Ne chaunge my corage to another place.”

 

Glad was this markis of hir answering,

But yet he feyned as he were nat so;

Al drery was his chere and his loking

Whan that he sholde out of the chambre go.

Sone after this, a furlong wey or two,

He prively hath told al his entente

Un-to a man, and to his wyf him sente.

 

A maner sergeant was this privee man,

The which that feithful ofte he founden hadde

In thinges grete, and eek swich folk wel can

Don execucioun on thinges badde.

The lord knew wel that he him loved and dradde;

And whan this sergeant wiste his lordes wille,

In-to the chambre he stalked him ful stille.

 

“Madame,” he seyde, “ye mote foryeve it me,

Thogh I do thing to which I am constreyned;

Ye ben so wys that ful wel knowe ye

That lordes hestes mowe nat been y-feyned;

They mowe wel been biwailled or compleyned,

But men mot nede un-to her lust obeye,

And so wol I; ther is na-more to seye.

 

This child I am comanded for to take“—

And spak na-more, but out the child he hente

Despitously, and gan a chere make

As though he wolde han slayn it er he wente.

Grisildis mot al suffren and consente;

And as a lamb she siteth meke and stille,

And leet this cruel sergeant doon his wille.

 

Suspecious was the diffame of this man,

Suspect his face, suspect his word also;

Suspect the tyme in which he this bigan.

This will is in my heart and ever shall be.

No length of time or death may this deface,

Nor change my heart to another place.”

Glad was this marquis for her answer,

But yet he feigned as he were not so;

All sad was his face and his look

When he left the chamber.

Soon after this, within a little while,

He secretly told all his plan

Unto a man, and sent him to his wife.

 

A sergeant-at-arms was this trusted man,

Whom often he had found faithful

In things great, and also such folk well know

How to perform in things bad.

The lord well knew that he him loved and feared;

And when this sergeant knew his lord’s will,

Into the chamber he crept full silent and still.

 

“Madame,” said he, “you must forgive me,

Though I do something to which I am constrained.

You be so wise that full well you know

That lords’ wishes may not be avoided,

They may well be bewailed or lamented,

But men must unto their will obey,

And so will I; there is no more to say.

 

This child I am commanded for to take“—

And spoke no more, but the child he seized

Cruelly, and made

As though he would slay it before he left.

Griselda must all suffer and all consent;

And as a lamb she sat meek and still,

And let this cruel sergeant do his will.

 

Suspect was the reputation of this man,

Suspect his face, suspect his word also;

Suspect the time in which he this began.

Alias! hir doghter that she lovede so

She wende he wolde han slawen it right tho.

But natheles she neither weep ne syked,

Consenting hir to that the markis lyked.

 

But atte laste speken she bigan,

And mekely she to the sergeant preyde,

So as he was a worthy gentil man,

That she moste kisse hir child er that it deyde;

And in her barm this litel child she leyde

With ful sad face, and gan the child to kisse

And lulled it, and after gan it blisse.

 

And thus she seyde in hir benigne voys,

“Far weel, my child; I shal thee never see;

But, sith I thee have marked with the croys,

Of thilke fader blessed mote thou be,

That for us deyde up-on a croys of tree.

Thy soule, litel child, I him bitake,

For this night shaltow dyen for my sake.”

 

I trowe that to a norice in this cas

It had ben hard this rewthe for to se;

Wel mighte a mooder than han cryed “allas!”

But nathelees so sad stedfast was she,

That she endured all adversitee,

And to the sergeant mekely she sayde,

“Have heer agayn your litel yonge mayde.

 

Goth now,” quod she, ”and dooth my lordes heste,

But o thing wol I preye yow of your grace,

That, but my lord forbad yow, atte leste

Burieth this litel body in som place

That bestes ne no briddes it to-race.”

But he no word wol to that purpos seye,

But took the child and wente upon his weye.

 

This sergeant cam un-to his lord ageyn,

And of Grisildis wordes and hir chere

Alas! her daughter that she loved so,

She thought he would have slain it right then.

But nevertheless she neither wept nor sighed,

Conforming herself to what the marquis liked.

But finally to speak she began,

And meekly she to the sergeant begged,

So as he was a worthy gentleman,

That she might kiss her child before it died;

And in her lap this little child she laid

With a full sad face, and began the child to bless

And lulled it, and after began it to kiss.

 

And thus she said in her gracious voice,

“Farewell, my child; I shall you never see.

But since I have marked you with the cross

Of our Father, blessed may he be,

Who for us died upon a cross.

Your soul, little child, to him I commend,

For this night shall you die for my sake.”

 

I believe that to a nurse in this case

It would have been hard this pitiful sight to see;

Well might a mother have then cried “alas!”

But nevertheless so firmly steadfast was she

That she endured all adversity,

And to the sergeant meekly she said,

“Have here again your little young maid.

 

Go now,” said she, ”and do my lord’s wish.

But one thing will I pray you of your grace,

That, unless my lord forbid it you, at least

Bury this little body in some place

Where no beasts nor birds tear it to pieces.”

But he no word to that purpose said,

But took the child and went upon his way.

 

This sergeant came unto his lord again,

And of Griselda’s words and her behavior

He tolde him point for point, in short and playn,

And him presenteth with his doghter dere.

Somwhat this lord hath rewthe in his manere;

But nathelees his purpos heeld he stille,

As lordes doon, whan they wol han hir wille;

 

And bad his sergeant that he prively

Sholde this child ful softe winde and wrappe

With alle circumstances tendrely,

And carie it in a cofre or in a lappe;

But, up-on peyne his heed of for to swappe,

That no man sholde knowe of his entente,

Ne whenne he cam, ne whider that he wente;

 

But at Boloigne to his suster dere,

That thilke tyme of Panik was countesse,

He sholde it take, and shewe hir this matere,

Bisekinge hir to don hir bisinesse

This child to fostre in alle gentilesse;

And whos child that it was he bad hir hyde

From every wight, for oght that may bityde.

 

The sergeant gooth, and hath fulfild this thing;

But to this markis now retourne we;

For now goth he ful faste imagining

If by his wyves chere he mighte see,

Or by hir word aperceyve that she

Were chaunged; but he never hir coude finde

But ever in oon y-lyke sad and kinde.

 

As glad, as humble, as bisy in servyse,

And eek in love as she was wont to be,

Was she to him in every maner wyse;

Ne of hir doghter noght a word spak she.

Non accident for noon adversitee

Was seyn in hir, ne never hir doghter name

Ne nempned she, in ernest nor in game.

He told him point for point, in short and plain,

And presented to him his daughter dear.

This lord showed some pity in his manner,

But nevertheless his purpose held he still,

As lords do when they will have their will.

 

And bade this sergeant that he secretly

Should this child soft wind and wrap

Tenderly in every way,

And carry it in a box or a sling;

But upon pain of having his head chopped,

That no man should know of his intent,

Nor whence he came, nor whither he went;

 

But at Bologna to his sister dear,

Who at that time was of Panico countess,

He should take it, and explain to her this matter,

Beseeching her to do her best,

This child to foster in all gentleness;

And whose child it was he bade her hide

From every man, no matter what might betide.

 

The sergeant went, and had fulfilled this thing;

But to this marquis now return we.

For now he went full fast wondering

If by his wife’s expression he might see,

Or by her word perceive, that she

Were changed; but he found her

Ever steadfast and kind.

 

As glad, as humble, as busy in service,

And also in love as she was accustomed to be,

Was she to him in every way;

Nor of her daughter a word spoke she.

No outward sign of any adversity

Was seen in her, nor ever her daughter’s name

Spoke she, in earnest or in play.

PART FOUR

In this estaat ther passed been foure yeer

Er she with childe was; but, as god wolde,

A knave child she bar by this Walter,

Ful gracious and fair for to biholde.

And whan that folk it to his fader tolde,

Nat only he, but al his contree, merie

Was for this child, and god they thanke and herie.

 

Whan it was two yeer old, and fro the brest

Departed of his norice, on a day

This markis caughte yet another lest

To tempte his wyf yet ofter, if he may.

O needles was she tempted in assay!

But wedded men ye knowe no mesure,

Whan that they finde a pacient creature.

 

“Wyf,” quod this markis, “ye han herd er this,

My peple sikly berth our mariage,

And namely, sith my sone y-boren is,

Now is it worse than ever in al our age.

The murmur sleeth myn herte and my corage;

For to myne eres comth the voys so smerte,

That it wel ny destroyed hath myn herte.

 

Now sey they thus, ‘whan Walter is agoon,

Then shal the blood of Janicle succede

And been our lord, for other have we noon;’

Swiche wordes seith my peple, out of drede,

Wel oughte I of swich murmur taken hede;

For certeinly I drede swich sentence,

Though they nat pleyn speke in myn audience.

 

I wolde live in pees, if that I mighte;

Wherfor I am disposed outerly,

As I his suster servede by nighte,

Right so thenke I to serve him prively;

This warne I yow, that ye nat sodeynly

PART FOUR

In this condition there passed four years

Before she with child was; but, as God willed,

A boy child she bore by this Walter,

Full gracious and handsome to behold.

And when his father learned of his birth,

Not only he, but all his country, was merry

For this child, and God they thanked and praised.

 

When it was two years old and from the breast

Departed of his nurse, on a day

This marquis conceived yet another desire

To tempt his wife again, if he may.

Oh, needlessly was she put to the test!

But wedded men know no measure

When that they find a patient creature.

 

“Wife,” said this marquis, “you have heard before this,

My people bear ill our marriage,

And especially, since my son is born,

Now it is worse than ever in all our days.

The murmur slays my heart and spirit,

For to my ears comes the voice so sharp

That it has well nigh destroyed my heart.

 

Now they say thus, ‘When Walter is gone,

Then shall the blood of Janicula succeed

And be our Lord, for other we have none;’

Such words say my people, without doubt.

Well ought I of such murmur take heed,

For certainly, I dread such opinion,

Though they speak it not in my hearing.

I would live in peace if I might;

Wherefore I am disposed entirely,

As I his sister dealt with by night,

Right so I think to take care of him in secret.

This I warn you, that you do not suddenly

Out of your-self for no wo sholde outraye;

Beth pacient, and ther-of I yow preye.”

 

“I have,” quod she, “seyd thus, and ever shal,

I wol no thing, ne nil no thing, certayn,

But as yow list; noght greveth me at al,

Thogh that my doghter and my sone be slayn,

At your comandement, this is to sayn.

I have noght had no part of children tweyne

But first siknesse, and after wo and peyne.

 

Ye been our lord, doth with your owene thing

Right as yow list; axeth no reed at me.

For, as I lefte at hoom al my clothing,

Whan I first cam to yow, right so,” quod she,

”Lefte I my wil and al my libertee,

And took your clothing; wherfor I yow preye,

Doth your plesaunce, I wol your lust obeye.

 

And certes, if I hadde prescience

Your wil to knowe er ye your lust me tolde,

I wolde it doon with-outen necligence;

But now I woot your lust and what ye wolde,

Al your plesaunce ferme and stable I holde;

For wiste I that my deeth wolde do yow ese,

Right gladly wolde I dyen, yow to plese.

 

Deth may noght make no comparisoun

Un-to your love:” and, whan this markis sey

The constance of his wyf, he caste adoun

His yën two, and wondreth that she may

In pacience suffre al this array.

And forth he gooth with drery contenaunce,

But to his herte it was ful greet plesaunce.

 

This ugly sergeant, in the same wyse

That he hir doghter caughte, right so he,

Or worse, if men worse can devyse,

Hath hent hir sone, that ful was of beautee.

Lose control of yourself in sorrow:

Be patient, and thereof I pray you.”

 

“I have,” said she, “said thus, and ever shall,

I desire nothing, certainly,

Unless it pleases you; it grieves me not at all,

Though my daughter and my son be slain—

At your commandment, this is to say.

I have had no part of children two

But first childbearing, and after woe and pain.

 

You be our lord, do with your own thing

Right as you wish, ask no advice from me.

For as I left at home all my clothing

When I first came to you, right so,” said she,

”Left I my will and all my liberty,

And took your clothing. Wherefore I you pray,

Do your pleasure, I will your desire obey.

 

And certainly, if I had prescience

Your will to know before you told it to me,

I would do it without negligence.

But now I know your pleasure and what you will,

All your desire firmly and steadfastly I hold;

For if I knew my death would do you ease,

Right gladly would I die, you to please.

 

Death may not make comparison

With your love.” And when this marquis saw

The constancy of his wife, he cast down

His eyes two, and wondered that she could

In patience suffer all these events.

And forth he went with doleful countenance,

But to his heart it was full great pleasant.

 

This fearsome sergeant, in the same way

That he her daughter took away, right so he—

Or worse, if men can devise—

Had seized her son, who was full of beauty.

And ever in oon so pacient was she,

That she no chere made of hevinesse,

But kiste hir sone, and after gan it blesse;

 

Save this; she preyed him that, if he mighte,

Hir litel sone he wolde in erthe grave,

His tendre limes, delicat to sighte,

Fro foules and fro bestes for to save.

But she non answer of him mighte have.

He wente his wey, as him no-thing ne roghte;

But to Boloigne he tendrely it broghte.

 

This markis wondreth ever lenger the more

Up-on hir pacience, and if that he

Ne hadde soothly knowen ther-bifore,

That parfitly hir children lovede she,

He wolde have wend that of som subtiltee,

And of malice or for cruel corage,

That she had suffred this with sad visage.

 

But wel he knew that next him-self, certayn,

She loved hir children best in every wyse.

But now of wommen wolde I axen fayn,

If thise assayes mighte nat suffyse?

What coude a sturdy housbond more devyse

To preve hir wyfhod and hir stedfastnesse,

And he continuing ever in sturdinesse?

 

But ther ben folk of swich condicioun,

That, whan they have a certein purpos take,

They can nat stinte of hir entencioun,

But, right as they were bounden to a stake,

They wol nat of that firste purpos slake.

Right so this markis fulliche hath purposed

To tempte his wyf, as he was first disposed.

 

He waiteth, if by word or contenance

That she to him was changed of corage;

But never coude he finde variance;

And ever and always so patient was she

That she no expression made of heaviness,

But kissed her son, and after began him to bless.

 

Save this: she prayed the sergeant that he might

Her little son in the earth bury,

To save his tender limbs, delicate to see,

From birds and beasts.

But she no answer from him received.

He went on his way, as though he cared not at all,

But to Bologna he brought it tenderly.

 

This marquis wondered ever more

Upon her patience, and if he

Had not truly known before

How perfectly her children loved she,

He would have thought that it was by some trick,

Or through a cruel heart,

That she suffered this with unchanged face.

 

But well he knew that next to himself, certainly,

She loved her children best in every way.

But now of women would I like to ask,

If these trials might not suffice?

What could a cruel husband more devise

To test her wifehood and her steadfastness,

And he continuing even with cruelty?

 

But there be folk of such disposition

Who, when they have a certain course taken,

They cannot stop short of their destination;

But just as if they were bound to a stake,

They will not of that first purpose slake.

Right so this marquis fully has intended

To tempt his wife as he was first disposed.

 

He watched if by word or countenance

That she to him was changed in her heart,

But never could he find variance:

She was ay oon in herte and in visage;

And ay the forther that she was in age,

The more trewe, if that it were possible,

She was to him in love, and more penible.

 

For which it semed thus, that of hem two

Ther nas but o wil; for, as Walter leste,

The same lust was hir plesance also,

And, god be thanked, al fil for the beste.

She shewed wel, for no worldly unreste

A wyf, as of hir-self, no-thing ne sholde

Wille in effect, but as hir housbond wolde.

 

The sclaundre of Walter ofte and wyde spradde,

That of a cruel herte he wikkedly,

For he a povre womman wedded hadde,

Hath mordred bothe his children prively.

Swich murmur was among hem comunly.

No wonder is, for to the peples ere

Ther cam no word but that they mordred were.

 

For which, wher-as his peple ther-bifore

Had loved him wel, the sclaundre of his diffame

Made hem that they him hatede therfore;

To been a mordrer is an hateful name.

But natheles, for ernest ne for game

He of his cruel purpos nolde stente;

To tempte his wyf was set al his entente.

 

Whan that his doghter twelf yeer was of age,

He to the court of Rome, in subtil wyse

Enformed of his wil, sente his message,

Comaunding hem swiche bulles to devyse

As to his cruel purpos may suffyse,

How that the pope, as for his peples reste,

Bad him to wedde another, if him leste.

 

I seye, he bad they sholde countrefete

The popes bulles, making mencioun

She was ever unchanged in heart and visage.

And ever the older that she was in age,

The more true, if that were possible,

She was to him in love, and more painstaking.

 

For which it seemed thus, that for them both

There was but one will; for, as Walter wished,

That same desire was her pleasure also;

And, God be thanked, all turned out for the best.

She showed well that for no earthly distress

A wife, for her own sake, should nothing

Wish for but as her husband would.

 

 

The scandal of Walter wide and often spread

That of a cruel heart he wickedly,

Because he a poor woman had wed,

Had murdered both his children in secret.

Such murmur was commonly among them.

No wonder is, for to the people’s ear

There came no word but that they murdered were.

 

For which, whereas his people heretofore

Had loved him well, the scandal of his ill repute

Made them hate him for it:

To be a murderer is a hateful name.

But nevertheless, neither in earnest nor play,

He of his cruel purpose would relent.

To tempt his wife was set all his intent.

 

When his daughter twelve years was of age,

He to the court of Rome, in secret ways

Informed of his will, sending his emissary,

Commanding them such papal bulls³ to devise

As to his cruel purpose might suffice:

That the Pope, for his people’s peace,

Bade him to wed another if he wished.

 

I say, he bade they should counterfeit

The Pope’s bulls, making mention

That he hath leve his firste wyf to lete,

As by the popes dispensacioun,

To stinte rancour and dissencioun

Bitwixe his peple and him; thus seyde the bulle,

The which they han publiced atte fulle.

 

The rude peple, as it no wonder is,

Wenden ful wel that it had been right so;

But whan thise tydinges cam to Grisildis,

I deme that hir herte was ful wo.

But she, y-lyke sad for evermo,

Disposed was, this humble creature,

Th‘adversitee of fortune al t’endure.

 

Abyding ever his lust and his plesaunce,

To whom that she was yeven, herte and al,

As to hir verray worldly suffisaunce;

But shortly if this storie I tellen shal,

This markis writen hath in special

A lettre in which he sheweth his entente,

And secrely he to Boloigne is sente.

 

To th‘erl of Panik, which that hadde tho

Wedded his suster, preyde he specially

To bringen hoom agayn his children two

In honurable estaat al openly.

But o thing he him preyede outerly,

That he to no wight, though men wolde enquere,

Sholde nat telle, whos children that they were,

 

But seye, the mayden sholde y-wedded be

Un-to the markis of Saluce anon.

And as this erl was preyed, so dide he;

For at day set he on his wey is goon

Toward Saluce, and lordes many oon,

In riche array, this mayden for to gyde;

Hir yonge brother ryding hir bisyde.

That he had permission his first wife to leave,

By the Pope’s dispensation,

To stop rancor and dissention

Between his people and him—thus said the bull,

Which they had published full well.

 

The common people, as it no wonder is,

Believed full well that it had been right so;

But when these tidings came to Griselda,

I am sure her heart was full of woe.

But she, constant evermore,

Disposed was, this humble creature,

The adversity of Fortune all to endure,

 

Serving ever his desire and his pleasure,

To whom she had given heart and all,

As being her true, earthly contentment.

But shortly of this story I tell shall,

This marquis had written in secret

A letter in which he revealed his intent,

And secretly he to Bologna it sent.

 

To the Earl of Panico, who had

Wedded his sister, he specially requested

To bring home again his children two

In honorable estate all openly.

But one thing he requested above all,

That he to no one, though men would inquire,

Should tell whose children that they were,

 

But say the maid should wedded be

Unto the Marquis of Saluzzo anon.

And as this earl was asked, so did he,

For on the appointed day he set on his way

Toward Saluzzo, with lords many a one

In rich display, this maiden to guide,

Her young brother riding her beside.

Arrayed was toward hir mariage

This fresshe mayde, ful of gemmes clere;

Hir brother, which that seven yeer was of age,

Arrayed eek ful fresh in his manere.

And thus in greet noblesse and with glad chere,

Toward Saluces shaping hir journey,

Fro day to day they ryden in hir wey.

PART FIVE

Among al this, after his wikke usage,

This markis, yet his wyf to tempte more

To the uttereste preve of hir corage,

Fully to han experience and lore

If that she were as stedfast as bifore,

He on a day in open audience

Ful boistously hath seyd hir this sentence:

 

“Certes, Grisilde, I hadde y-nough plesaunce

To han yow to my wyf for your goodnesse,

As for your trouthe and for your obeisaunce,

Nought for your linage ne for your richesse;

But now knowe I in verray soothfastnesse

That in gret lordshipe, if I wel avyse,

Ther is gret servitute in sondry wyse.

 

I may nat don as every plowman may;

My peple me constreyneth for to take

Another wyf, and cryen day by day;

And eek the pope, rancour for to slake,

Consenteth it, that dar I undertake;

And treweliche thus muche I wol yow seye,

My newe wyf is coming by the weye.

 

Be strong of herte, and voyde anon hir place,

And thilke dower that ye broghten me

Tak it agayn, I graunte it of my grace;

Retourneth to your fadres hous,” quod he;

”No man may alwey han prosperitee;

Adorned for her marriage was

This fresh maid, covered with jewels shining;

Her brother who was seven years of age,

Dressed also full fresh in his manner.

And thus grandly and with glad aspect,

Toward Saluzzo on their journey,

From day to day they rode on their way.

PART FIVE

Meanwhile, in his wicked way,

This marquis yet his wife to test more

To the utmost of her soul and heart,

Fully to see and know

If she was as steadfast as before,

He on a day in open court

Full roughly had to her announced:

 

“Truly, Griselda, I had pleasure enough

To have you to my wife for your goodness—

And for your truth and your obedience—

Not for your lineage or your riches.

But now I know in certain truth

That in great lordship, if I well discern,

There is great servitude in sundry ways.

 

I may not do as any plowman may.

My people constrain me to take

Another wife, and call for it day by day;

And also the Pope, rancor to appease,

Consents to it, so I dare declare;

And truly this much I will to you say,

My new wife is coming along the way.

 

Be strong of heart, and vacate at once her place;

And that same dowry that you brought me

Take it again, I grant it of my grace.

Return to your father’s house,” said he.

”No man may always have prosperity;

With evene herte I rede yow t‘endure

The strook of fortune or of aventure.”

 

 

And she answerde agayn in pacience,

“My lord,” quod she, “I woot, and wiste alway

How that bitwixen your magnificence

And my poverte no wight can ne may

Maken comparison; it is no nay.

I ne heeld me never digne in no manere

To be your wyf, no, ne your chamberere.

 

And in this hous, ther ye me lady made—

The heighe god take I for my witnesse,

And also wisly he my soule glade—

I never heeld me lady ne maistresse,

But humble servant to your worthinesse,

And ever shal, whyl that my lyf may dure,

Aboven every worldy creature.

 

That ye so longe of your benignitee

Han holden me in honour and nobleye,

Wher-as I was noght worthy for to be,

That thonke I god and yow, to whom I preye

Foryelde it yow; there is na-more to seye.

Un-to my fader gladly wol I wende,

And with him dwelle un-to my lyves ende.

 

Ther I was fostred of a child ful smal,

Til I be deed, my lyf ther wol I lede

A widwe clene, in body, herte, and al.

For sith I yaf to yow my maydenhede

And am your trewe wyf, it is no drede,

God shilde swich a lordes wyf to take

Another man to housbonde or to make.

 

And of your newe wyf, god of his grace

So graunte yow wele and prosperitee:

For I wol gladly yelden hir my place,

In which that I was blisful wont to be,

With steady heart I advise you to endure

This stroke of Fortune or of chance.”

 

And she again answered in patience,

“My lord,” said she, “I know and knew always,

That between your magnificence

And my poverty no man can

Make comparison; it cannot be denied.

I never held myself worthy in any way

To be your wife, nor your chambermaid.

 

And in this house where you made me a lady—

The high God I take for witness,

And also as surely as he my soul gladdens—

I never considered myself a lady or mistress,

But humble servant to your worthiness,

And ever shall, while that my life may last,

Above every worldly creature.

 

That you so long of your graciousness

Have held me in honor and nobility,

Where I was not worthy to be,

For that I thank God and you, and I pray God to

Repay you for it. There is no more to say.

Unto my father gladly will I wend,

And with him dwell until my life’s end.

 

There I was raised from a child full small,

Till I be dead, my life there will I lead:

A widow pure, in body, heart and all.

For since I gave to you my maidenhood,

I am your true wife, there is no doubt.

God forbid such a lord’s wife to take

Another man to husband or as mate.

 

 

And with your new wife, God by his grace

So grant you prosperity and happiness!

For I will gladly yield her my place,

In which I was blissful accustomed to be.

For sith it lyketh yow, my lord,”quod she,

”That whylom weren al myn hertes reste,

That I shal goon, I wol gon whan yow leste.

 

But ther-as ye me profre swich dowaire

As I first broghte, it is wel in my minde

It were my wrecched clothes, no-thing faire,

The which to me were hard now for to finde.

O gode god! how gentil and how kinde

Ye semed by your speche and your visage

The day that maked was our mariage!

 

But sooth is seyd, algate I finde it trewe—

For in effect it preved is on me—

Love is noght old as whan that it is newe.

But certes, lord, for noon adversitee,

To dyen in the cas, it shal nat be

That ever in word or werk I shal repente

That I yow yaf myn herte in hool entente.

 

My lord, ye woot that, in my fadres place,

Ye dede me strepe out of my povre wede,

And richely me cladden, of your grace.

To yow broghte I noght elles, out of drede,

But feyth and nakednesse and maydenhede.

And here agayn my clothing I restore,

And eek my wedding-ring, for evermore.

 

The remenant of your jewels redy be

In-with your chambre, dar I saufly sayn;

Naked out of my fadres hous,“ quod she,

”I cam, and naked moot I turne agayn.

Al your plesaunce wol I folwen fayn;

But yet I hope it be nat your entente

That I smoklees out of your paleys wente.

 

Ye coude nat doon so dishoneste a thing,

That thilke wombe in which your children leye

Sholde, biforn the peple, in my walking,

For since it pleases you, my lord,” said she,

”Who once was all my heart’s rest,

That I shall go, I will go when you wish.

 

But though you offer me such dowry

As I first brought, it is well in my mind

It was my wretched clothes, in no way nice,

And which to me were hard now to find.

Oh good God! How gentle and how kind

You seemed by your speech and your visage

The day that made was our marriage!

 

But it is truly said—in any case I find it true,

For in effect it is proven to me—

Love is not the same old as when it is new.

But certainly, lord, for no adversity,

Even if I die in this case, it shall not be

That ever in word or deed I shall repent

That I gave you my heart in whole intent.

 

My lord, you know well that in my father’s place

You stripped my poor clothes from me,

And clad me richly, by your grace.

To you I brought nought else, there is no doubt,

But faith and nakedness and maidenhood.

And here again your clothing I restore,

And also your wedding ring, for evermore.

 

The remainder of your jewels is prepared

Within your chamber, dare I safely say.

Naked out of my father’s house,”said she,

”I came, and naked must I return again.

All your pleasure willingly I will follow.

But yet I hope it be not your intent

That smockless out of your palace I should go.

 

You could not do so dishonest a thing

That this womb in which your children lay

Should before the people, in my walking,

Be seyn al bare; wherfor I yow preye,

Lat me nat lyk a worm go by the weye.

Remembre yow, myn owene lord so dere,

I was your wyf, thogh I unworthy were.

 

Wherfor, in guerdon of my maydenhede,

Which that I broghte, and noght agayn I bere,

As voucheth sauf to yeve me, to my mede,

But swich a smok as I was wont to were,

That I therwith may wrye the wombe of here

That was your wyf; and heer take I my leve

Of yow, myn owene lord, lest I yow greve.”

 

“The smok,” quod he, “that thou hast on thy bak,

Lat it be stille, and ber it forth with thee.”

But wel unnethes thilke word he spak,

But wente his wey for rewthe and for pitee.

Biforn the folk hir-selven strepeth she,

And in hir smok, with heed and foot al bare,

Toward hir fader hous forth is she fare.

 

 

The folk hir folwe wepinge in hir weye,

And fortune ay they cursen as they goon;

But she fro weping kepte hir yen dreye,

Ne in this tyme word ne spak she noon.

Hir fader, that this tyding herde anoon,

Curseth the day and tyme that nature

Shoop him to been a lyves creature.

 

For out of doute this olde povre man

Was ever in suspect of hir mariage;

For ever he demed, sith that it bigan,

That whan the lord fulfiled had his corage,

Him wolde thinke it were a disparage

To his estaat so lowe for t‘alighte,

And voyden hir as sone as ever he mighte.

Agayns his doghter hastilich goth he,

For he by noyse of folk knew hir cominge,

Be seen all naked; wherefore I you pray,

Let me not like a worm go along the way.

Remember you, my own lord so dear,

I was your wife, though I unworthy were.

 

Wherefore in recompense for my maidenhood,

That I brought, and not again may bear,

Vouchsafe to give me as my reward

Only such a smock as I was wont to wear,

That I may hide the womb of her

Who was your wife. And here I take my leave

From you, my own lord, lest you I grieve.”

 

“That smock,” said he, “that you have on your back,

Let it remain still, and bear it forth with you.”

But he could hardly speak those words,

And went his way, in compassion and pity.

Before the folk herself stripped she,

And in her smock, with head and foot all bare,

Toward her father’s house forth she fared.

 

The folk followed her, weeping on their way,

And Fortune ever they cursed as they went.

But she from weeping kept her eyes dry,

Nor in this time did she speak at all.

Her father, who this news heard anon,

Cursed the day and time that nature

Created him to be a living creature.

 

For certainly this old poor man

Was ever doubtful of her marriage;

For ever he thought, since it began,

That when the lord had fulfilled his desire,

He would think it a disgrace

To his estate so low to alight,

And get rid of her as soon as he might.

Toward his daughter hastily went he,

For by noise of folk he knew her coming,

And with hir olde cote, as it mighte be,

He covered hir, ful sorwefully wepinge;

But on hir body mighte he it nat bringe.

For rude was the cloth, and more of age

By dayes fele than at hir mariage.

 

Thus with hir fader, for a certeyn space,

Dwelleth this flour of wyfly pacience,

That neither by hir wordes ne hir face

Biforn the folk, ne eek in hir absence,

Ne shewed she that hir was doon offence;

Ne of hir heigh estaat no remembraunce

Ne hadde she, as by hir countenaunce.

 

No wonder is, for in hir grete estaat

Hir goost was ever in pleyn humylitee;

No tendre mouth, non herte delicaat,

No pompe, no semblant of royaltee,

But ful of pacient benignitee,

Discreet and prydeles, ay honurable,

And to hir housbonde ever meke and stable.

 

 

Men speke of Job and most for his humblesse,

As clerkes, whan hem list, can wel endyte,

Namely of men, but as in soothfastnesse,

Thogh clerkes preyse wommen but a lyte,

Ther can no man in humblesse him acquyte

As womman can, ne can ben half so trewe

As wommen been, but it be falle of-newe.

PART SIX

Fro Boloigne is this erl of Panik come,

Of which the fame up-sprang to more and lesse,

And in the peples eres alle and some

Was couth eek, that a newe markisesse

He with him broghte, in swich pompe and richesse,

That never was ther seyn with mannes ye

So noble array in al West Lumbardye.

And with her old cloak, as well as he could,

He covered her full sorrowfully weeping.

But around her body might he it not bring,

For rough was the cloth and she more of age

By many days than at her marriage.

Thus with her father for a certain while,

Dwelt this flower of wifely patience,

Who neither by her words nor her face

Before the folk, or in their absence,

Showed that she was done offense;

Nor of her high estate any remembrance

Had she, to judge by her countenance.

 

No wonder is, for in her high estate

Her spirit was ever in perfect humility:

No tender palate, no heart delicate,

No pomp, no semblance of royalty,

But full of patient graciousness,

Discreet and prideless, ever honorable,

And to her husband ever meek and constant.

 

Men speak of Job and most of all of his humility,

As scholars, when they wish, can well write,

Namely of men, but with regard to the truth,

Though scholars praise women very little,

There can no man in humility himself acquit

As women can, nor who can be half so true

As women, unless it be something new.

PART SIX

From Bologna is this Earl of Panico come,

Whose fame became known to great and small,

And in the people’s ears all and one

Was known also that a new marquess

He brought with him, in such pomp and richness,

That never was there seen with man’s eye

So noble a display in West Lombardy.

The markis, which that shoop and knew al this,

Er that this erl was come, sente his message

For thilke sely povre Grisildis;

And she with humble herte and glad visage,

Nat with no swollen thoght in hir corage,

Cam at his heste, and on hir knees hir sette,

And reverently and wysly she him grette.

 

“Grisild,” quod he, “my wille is outerly,

This mayden, that shal wedded been to me,

Receyved be to-morwe as royally

As it possible is in myn hous to be.

And eek that every wight in his degree

Have his estaat in sitting and servyse

And heigh plesaunce, as I can best devyse.

 

I have no wommen suffisaunt certayn

The chambres for t‘arraye in ordinaunce

After my lust, and therfor wolde I fayn

That thyn were al swich maner governaunce;

Thou knowest eek of old al my plesaunce;

Though thyn array be badde and yvel biseye,

Do thou thy devoir at the leeste weye.”

 

“Nat only, lord, that I am glad,” quod she,

“To doon your lust, but I desyre also

Yow for to serve and plese in my degree

With-outen feynting, and shal evermo.

Ne never, for no wele ne no wo,

Ne shal the gost with-in myn herte stente

To love yow best with al my trewe entente.”

 

And with that word she gan the hous to dighte,

And tables for to sette and beddes make;

And peyned hir to doon al that she mighte,

Preying the chambereres, for goddes sake,

To hasten hem, and faste swepe and shake;

And she, the moste servisable of alle,

Hath every chambre arrayed and his halle.

The marquis, who planned and knew all this,

Before this earl had come had sent his messenger

For that same good poor Griselda;

And she with humble heart and glad visage,

With no prideful thought in her soul,

Came at his command, and set herself on her knees,

And reverently and discreetly she him greeted.

“Griselda,” said he, “my will is completely

That this maiden, who shall wedded be to me,

Be received tomorrow as royally

As it is possible in my house to be,

And also that every person in his degree,

Have his place at the table and service

And high pleasure, as I can best devise.

 

I have not women enough, certainly,

The chambers to put in order

After my desire, and therefore would I be pleased

That you would of all such things have governance;

You know of old my preference.

Though your clothing is bad and poor to see,

Fulfill your duty, all the same.”

 

“Not only, lord, am I glad,” said she,

“To do your pleasure, but I desire also

To serve you and please you as befits my degree

Without weariness, and shall evermore.

And never, for happiness or woe,

Shall the spirit within my heart stint

To love you best with all my true intent.”

 

And with that word she began the house to prepare,

And tables to set and beds to make;

And took pains to do all that she might,

Praying the chambermaids, for God’s sake,

To hurry, and fast sweep and shake.

And she, the most diligent of all,

Had every chamber arranged and his hall.

Abouten undern gan this erl alighte,

That with him broghte thise noble children tweye,

For which the peple ran to seen the sighte

Of hir array, so richely biseye;

And than at erst amonges hem they seye,

That Walter was no fool, thogh that him leste

To chaunge his wyf, for it was for the beste.

 

For she is fairer, as they demen alle,

Than is Grisild, and more tendre of age,

And fairer fruit bitwene hem sholde falle,

And more plesant, for hir heigh linage;

Hir brother eek so fair was of visage,

That hem to seen the peple hath caught plesaunce,

Commending now the markis governaunce.—

 

“O stormy peple! unsad and ever untrewe!

Ay undiscreet and chaunging as a vane,

Delyting ever in rumbel that is newe,

For lyk the mone ay wexe ye and wane;

Ay ful of clapping, dere y-nogh a jane;

Your doom is fals, your constance yvel preveth,

A ful greet fool is he that on yow leveth!”

 

Thus seyden sadde folk in that citee,

Whan that the peple gazed up and doun,

For they were glad, right for the noveltee,

To han a newe lady of hir toun.

Na-more of this make I now mencioun;

But to Grisilde agayn wol I me dresse,

And telle hir constance and hir bisinesse.—

 

Ful bisy was Grisilde in every thing

That to the feste was apertinent;

Right noght was she abayst of hir clothing,

Though it were rude and somdel eek to-rent.

But with glad chere to the yate is went,

With other folk, to grete the markisesse,

And after that doth forth hir bisinesse.

About midmorn this earl alighted,

Who with him brought these noble children two,

For which the people ran to see the sight

Of their display, so rich to see,

And then for the first time among themselves to say

That Walter was no fool to want

To change his wife, for it was for the best.

 

For she is fairer, as they judged all,

Than is Griselda, and more young of age,

And fairer fruit of her womb between them should fall,

And more pleasant, due to her high lineage;

Her brother also was so fair of visage

That to see them the people pleased,

Commending now the marquis’ decision.

 

“Oh stormy people! inconstant and ever untrue!

As unwise and changeable as a weathervane!

Delighting ever in rumor that is new,

Just as the moon ever waxes and wanes!

Ever full of chatter, not worth a pence!

Your judgement is false, your constancy untrue,

A full great fool is he who believes in you!”

 

Thus said steadfast folk in that city,

When that the people gazed up and down,

For they were glad, just for the novelty,

To have a new lady of their town.

No more of this make I now mention,

But to Griselda will I myself address,

And tell her constancy and her goodness.

 

Full busy was Griselda in everything

That to the feast appertained;

Right not was she of her clothing ashamed,

Though it was rude and somewhat torn.

But with glad cheer to the gate she went

With other folk, to greet the marquess,

And after that continued her business.

With so glad chere his gestes she receyveth,

And conningly, everich in his degree,

That no defaute no man apercyveth;

But ay they wondren what she mighte be

That in so povre array was for to see,

And coude swich honour and reverence;

And worthily they preisen hir prudence.

 

In al this mene whyle she ne stente

This mayde and eek hir brother to commende

With al hir herte, in ful benigne entente,

So wel, that no man coude hir prys amende.

But atte laste, whan that thise lordes wende

To sitten doun to mete, he gan to calle

Grisilde, as she was bisy in his halle.

 

“Grisilde,” quod he, as it were in his pley,

“How lyketh thee my wyf and hir beautee?”

“Right wel,” quod she, “my lord; for, in good fey,

A fairer say I never noon than she.

I prey to god yeve hir prosperitee;

And so hope I that he wol to yow sende

Plesance y-nogh un-to your lyves ende.

 

O thing biseke I yow and warne also,

That ye ne prikke with no tormentinge

This tendre mayden, as ye han don mo;

For she is fostred in hir norishinge

More tendrely, and, to my supposinge,

She coude nat adversitee endure

As coude a povre fostred creature.”

 

And whan this Walter say hir pacience,

Hir glade chere and no malice at al,

And he so ofte had doon to hir offence,

And she ay sad and constant as a wal,

Continuing ever hir innocence overal,

This sturdy markis gan his herte dresse

To rewen up-on hir wyfly stedfastnesse.

With glad cheer his guests she received,

And so skillfully, each in his degree,

That no fault could any man perceive;

But ever they wondered who she might be

Who in such poor clothing appeared,

And yet knew such honor and reverence;

And worthily they praised her prudence.

 

In all this while she did not cease

This maid and her brother to commend

With all her heart, in full benign intent,

So well that no man could her praise exceed.

But at last, when this lord thought

To sit down to the feast, he began to call

Griselda, as she was busy in the hall.

 

“Griselda,” said he, quite playfully,

“How do you like my wife and her beauty?”

“Right well,” said she, “my lord, for in good faith,

A fairer saw I never any than she.

I pray to God give her prosperity,

And so I hope that he will to you send

Pleasure enough until your lives’ end.

One thing I beseech you, and warn also

That you neither goad nor torment

This tender maiden, as you have to others done.

For she was raised in her upbringing

More tenderly, and to my supposing,

She could not adversity endure

As could a poverty-raised creature.”

And when this Walter saw her patience,

Her glad cheer and no malice at all—

And though he so often had done to her offence,

She was ever firm and constant as a wall,

Continuing ever her innocence in every way—

This cruel marquis did his heart turn

To take pity on her wifely constancy.

“This is y-nogh, Grisilde myn,” quod he,

“Be now na-more agast ne yvel apayed;

I have thy feith and thy benignitee,

As wel as ever womman was, assayed,

In greet estaat, and povreliche arrayed.

Now knowe I, dere wyf, thy stedfastnesse,”—

And hir in armes took and gan hir kesse.

 

And she for wonder took of it no keep;

She herde nat what thing he to hir seyde;

She ferde as she had stert out of a sleep,

Til she out of hir masednesse abreyde.

“Grisilde,” quod he, “by god that for us deyde,

Thou art my wyf, ne noon other I have,

Ne never hadde, as god my soule save!

 

This is thy doghter which thou hast supposed

To be my wyf; that other feithfully

Shal be myn heir, as I have ay purposed;

Thou bare him in thy body trewely.

At Boloigne have I kept hem prively;

Tak hem agayn, for now maystow nat seye

That thou hast lorn non of thy children tweye.

 

And folk that otherweyes han seyd of me,

I warne hem wel that I have doon this dede

For no malice ne for no crueltee,

But for t‘assaye in thee thy wommanhede,

And nat to sleen my children, god forbede!

But for to kepe hem prively and stille,

Til I thy purpos knewe and al thy wille.”

Whan she this herde, aswowne doun she falleth

For pitous joye, and after hir swowninge

She bothe hir yonge children un-to hir calleth,

And in hir armes, pitously wepinge,

Embraceth hem, and tendrely kissinge

Ful lyk a mooder, with hir salte teres

She batheth bothe hir visage and hir heres.

“This is enough, Griselda mine,” said he,

“Be now no more afraid or ill-pleased;

I have your faith and your steadfastness,

As well as any woman who ever was tested.

In both great estate, and poorly dressed,

Now I know, dear wife, your faithfulness,”

And took her in his arms and began her to kiss.

And she for wonder took of it no heed;

She heard not what thing he to her said;

She acted as if she had started out of a sleep,

Until she out of her bewilderment awoke.

“Griselda,” said he, “by God who for us died,

You are my wife, no other do I have,

Nor ever had, as God my soul save!

 

This is your daughter whom you have supposed

To be my wife; that other faithfully

Shall be my heir, as I have ever intended;

You bore him in your body truly.

At Bologna I have kept him secretly;

Take him again, for now may you not say

That you have lost either of your children two.

 

And folk who otherwise have said of me,

I advise them that I have done this deed

For no malice nor for cruelty,

But to test you in your womanhood,

And not to slay my children, God forbid!

But to keep them secretly and in silence,

Until I your purpose knew and all your will.”

 

When she this heard, fainting down she fell

For piteous joy, and after her swooning

She both her young children to her called,

And in her arms, piteously weeping,

Embraced them, and tenderly kissing,

Full like a mother, with her salt tears

She bathed both their faces and their hair.

O, which a pitous thing it was to see

Hir swowning, and hir humble voys to here!

“Grauntmercy, lord, that thanke I yow,” quod she,

“That ye han saved me my children dere!

Now rekke I never to ben deed right here;

Sith I stonde in your love and in your grace,

No fors of deeth, ne whan my spirit pace!

 

O tendre, o dere, o yonge children myne,

Your woful mooder wende stedfastly

That cruel houndes or som foul vermyne

Hadde eten yow; but god, of his mercy,

And your benigne fader tendrely

Hath doon yow kept;” and in that same stounde

Al sodeynly she swapte adoun to grounde.

 

And in her swough so sadly holdeth she

Hir children two, whan she gan hem t‘embrace,

That with greet sleighte and greet difficultee

The children from hir arm they gonne arace.

O many a teer on many a pitous face

Doun ran of hem that stoden hir bisyde;

Unnethe abouten hir mighte they abyde.

 

Walter hir gladeth, and hir sorwe slaketh;

She ryseth up, abaysed, from hir traunce.

And every wight hir joye and feste maketh,

Til she hath caught agayn hir contenaunce.

Walter hir dooth so feithfully plesaunce,

That it was deyntee for to seen the chere

Bitwixe hem two, now they ben met y-fere.

 

Thise ladyes, whan that they hir tyme say,

Han taken hir, and in-to chambre goon,

And strepen hir out of hir rude array,

And in a cloth of gold that brighte shoon,

With a coroune of many a riche stoon

Up-on hir heed, they in-to halle hir broghte,

And ther she was honoured as hir oghte.

Oh what a piteous thing it was to see

Her swooning, and her piteous voice to hear!

“Great thanks, lord, God reward you,” said she,

“That you have saved me my children dear!

Now I do not care if I should die right here;

Since I stand in your love and your grace

Death has no force, nor do I care when!

 

Oh tender, oh dear, oh young children mine,

Your woeful mother thought steadfastly

That cruel hounds or some foul beast

Had eaten you; but God of his mercy,

And your gracious father, tenderly

Had you cared for;” and then

All suddenly fell she to the ground.

 

And in her swoon so firmly held she

Her children two, when she them embraced,

That with great skill and great difficulty

The children from her arms away they tore.

Oh many a tear on many a piteous face

Down ran of them who stood there beside;

Scarcely about her might they abide.

 

Walter comforted her and her sorrow eased;

She rose up, embarrassed, from her trance,

And every person for her made gladness

Until she composed again her countenance.

Walter so faithfully did her kindness

That it was a delight to see the happiness

Between the two, now that they were together.

 

These ladies, when they their time saw,

Had taken her and into chamber went,

And removed her rude apparel,

And in a cloth of gold that bright shone,

With a crown of many a rich stone

Upon her head, they into hall her brought,

And there she was honored as they ought.

Thus hath this pitous day a blisful ende,

For every man and womman dooth his might

This day in murthe and revel to dispende

Til on the welkne shoon the sterres light.

For more solempne in every mannes sight

This feste was, and gretter of costage,

Than was the revel of hir mariage.

 

Ful many a yeer in heigh prosperitee

Liven thise two in concord and in reste,

And richely his doghter maried he

Un-to a lord, oon of the worthieste

Of al Itaille; and than in pees and reste

His wyves fader in his court he kepeth,

Til that the soule out of his body crepeth.

 

His sone succedeth in his heritage

In reste and pees, after his fader day;

And fortunat was eek in mariage,

Al putte he nat his wyf in greet assay.

This world is nat so strong, it is no nay,

As it hath been in olde tymes yore,

And herkneth what this auctour seith therfore.

 

This storie is seyd, nat for that wyves sholde

Folwen Grisilde as in humilitee,

For it were importable, though they wolde;

But for that every wight, in his degree,

Sholde be constant in adversitee

As was Grisilde; therfor Petrark wryteth

This storie, which with heigh style he endyteth.

For, sith a womman was so pacient

Un-to a mortal man, wel more us oghte

Receyven al in gree that god us sent;

For greet skile is, he preve that he wroghte.

But he ne tempteth no man that he boghte,

As seith seint Jame, if ye his pistel rede;

He preveth folk al day, it is no drede,

Thus had this piteous day a blissful end,

For every man and woman did his best

This day in mirth and revel to spend

Until in the sky shone the stars’ light.

For more splendid in every man’s sight

This feast was, and greater of cost,

Than was the revel of her marriage.

Full many a year in high prosperity

Lived these two in concord and in rest,

And richly his daughter married he

Unto a lord, one of the worthiest

Of all Italy, and then in peace and rest

His wife’s father in his court he kept,

Until the soul out of his body crept.

His son succeeded in his heritage,

In rest and peace, after his father’s day,

And fortunate was also in marriage,

Although put he not his wife in great trial.

This world is not so strong, it cannot be denied,

As it was in times of yore.

And listen to what this Petrarch said therefore:

 

This story is told, not that wives should

Follow Griselda in humility,

For it would be unbearable if they did;

But so that every person in his degree

Should be constant in adversity

As was Griselda. Therefore Petrarch wrote

This story, which with high style he composed.

For since a woman was so patient

Unto a mortal man, well more we ought

Receive in good will what God us sends.

There is reason for him to test what he created,

But he tempts no man whom he has saved—

As said Saint James, if you his epistle read.

He tests folk all day, doubtless,

And suffreth us, as for our exercyse,

With sharpe scourges of adversitee

Ful ofte to be bete in sondry wyse;

Nat for to knowe our wil, for certes he,

Er we were born, knew al our freletee;

And for our beste, is al his governaunce;

Lat us than live in vertuous suffraunce.

 

But o word, lordinges, herkneth er I go:—

It were ful hard to finde now a dayes

In al a toun Grisildes three or two;

For, if that they were put to swiche assayes,

The gold of hem hath now so badde alayes

With bras, that thogh the coyne be fair at yö,

It wolde rather breste a-two than plye.

 

For which heer, for the wyves love of Bathe,

Whos lyf and al hir secte god mayntene

In heigh maistrye, and elles were it scathe,

I wol with lusty herte fresshe and grene

Seyn yow a song to glade yow, I wene,

And lat us stinte of ernestful matere:—

Herkneth my song, that seith in this manere.

The Envoy

Grisilde is deed, and eek hir pacience,

And bothe atones buried in Itaille;

For which I crye in open audience,

No wedded man so hardy be t‘assaille

His wyves pacience, in hope to finde

Grisildes, for in certein he shall faille!

 

O noble wyves, ful of heigh prudence,

Lat noon humilitee your tonge naille,

Ne lat no clerk have cause or diligence

To wryte of yow a storie of swich mervaille

As of Grisildis pacient and kinde;

Lest Chichevache yow swelwe in hir entraille!

And allows us, for our discipline,

With sharp scourges of adversity

Full often to be beaten in sundry ways,

Not to know our will, for certain he,

Before we were born, knew all our frailty.

And for our best is all his governance:

Let us then live in virtuous patience.

 

But one word, lordings, listen before I go:

It is full hard to find nowadays

In an entire town Griseldas three or two;

For if they were put to such tests,

The gold of them has now such bad alloy

With brass, that though the coin be fair to see,

It would rather break in two than bend.

 

 

For which right now, for love of the Wife of Bath—

Whose life and all her sect God maintains

In high mastery, and otherwise would be a pity—

I will with glad heart fresh and green

Sing you a song to gladden you, I think,

And let us stop talking now of serious matter.

Listen to my song, that says in this manner:

The Envoy⁴

Griselda is dead, and also her patience,

And both together buried in Italy.

For which I cry in open hearing:

No wedded man so bold be to try

His wife’s patience, in hope to find

Griselda, for in certain he shall fail!

 

Oh noble wives, full of high prudence,

Let no humility your tongue nail down,

Nor let any scholar have cause or diligence

To write of you a story of such a marvel

As Griselda, patient and kind in her travail,

Lest Chichevache⁵ swallow you into her entrails!

Folweth Ekko, that holdeth no silence,

But evere answereth at the countretaille;

Beth nat bidaffed for your innocence,

But sharply tak on yow the governaille.

Emprinteth wel this lesson in your minde

For commune profit, sith it may availle.

 

Ye archewyves, stondeth at defence,

Sin ye be stronge as is a greet camaille;

Ne suffreth nat that men yow doon offence.

And sclendre wyves, feble as in bataille,

Beth egre as is a tygre yond in Inde;

Ay clappeth as a mille, I yow consaille.

 

Ne dreed hem nat, do hem no reverence;

For though thyn housbonde armed he in maille,

The arwes of thy crabbed eloquence

Shal perce his brest, and eek his aventaille;

In jalousye I rede eek thou him binde,

And thou shalt make him couche as dooth a quaille.

 

If thou be fair, ther folk ben in presence

Shew thou thy visage and thyn apparaille;

If thou be foul, be free of thy dispence,

To gete thee freendes ay do thy travaille;

Be ay of chere as light as leef on linde,

And lat him care, and wepe, and wringe, and waille!

Follow Echo, who holds no silence,

But ever answers in counterreply;

Be not made a fool through your innocence,

But sharply take control.

Imprint well this lesson in your mind

For common profit, since it may avail.

 

You archwives, stand up in self-defense—

Since you be strong as is a camel—

Suffer not that men do you offense.

And slender wives, feeble in battle,

Be fierce as is an Indian tiger;

And chatter as loudly as a mill.

 

Fear them not, do them no honor;

For though your husband be armed in mail,

The arrows of your crabbed eloquence

Shall pierce his breast, and his visor as well.

In jealousy I advise you also him bind,

And you shall make him cower as does a quail.

 

If you be fair, where folk be present

Show your face and your apparel;

If you be ugly, be free spending

To get your friends ever to take your side.

Be cheerful and light as a leaf of the linden tree,

And let him worry, and weep, and wring, and wail!