The Merchant’s Tale

The Prologue

“WEEPING AND WAILING, CARE and other sorrow

I know enough, evening and morning,”

Said the Merchant, “and so do others more

Who have wedded been. I believe that it be so,

For well I know it fares so with me.

I have a wife, the worst that may be;

For though the fiend to her coupled were,

She would him overmatch, I dare well swear.

Why should I rehearse in special

Her high malice? She is a shrew in every way.

There is a long and large difference

Between Griselda’s great patience

And of my wife the surpassing cruelty.

Were I unbound, and may I flourish,

I would never again myself snare.

We wedded men live in sorrow and care.

Try whoso will, and he shall find

That I say truth, by Saint Thomas of India,¹

As for the greater part—I say not all.

God shield that it should so befall!

Ah, good sir Host, I have wedded been

These months two, and not more, by God,

And yet I believe, he that all his life

Wifeless has been, though that men would him stab

Unto the heart, could in no manner

Tell so much sorrow as I now here

Could tell of my wife’s cursedness!”

“Now,” said our Host, “Merchant, so God you bless,

Since you know so much of that art

Full heartily I pray you tell us part.”

“Gladly,” said he, “but of my own sore,

For sorry heart, I may tell no more.”

The Tale

Whylom ther was dwellinge in Lumbardye

A worthy knight, that born was of Pavye,

In which he lived in greet prosperitee;

And sixty yeer a wyflees man was he,

And folwed ay his bodily delyt

On wommen, ther-as was his appetyt,

As doon thise foles that ben seculeer.

And whan that he was passed sixty yeer,

Were it for holinesse or for dotage,

I can nat seye, but swich a greet corage,

Hadde this knight to been a wedded man,

That day and night he dooth al that he can

T‘espyen where he mighte wedded be;

Preyinge our lord to granten him, that he

Mighte ones knowe of thilke blisful lyf

That is bitwixe an housbond and his wyf;

And for to live under that holy bond

With which that first god man and womman bond.

“Non other lyf,” seyde he, “is worth a bene;

For wedlok is so esy and so clene,

That in this world it is a paradys.”

Thus seyde this olde knight, that was so wys.

And certeinly, as sooth as god is king,

To take a wyf, it is a glorious thing,

And namely whan a man is old and hoor;

Thanne is a wyf the fruit of his tresor.

Than sholde he take a yong wyf and a feir,

On which he mighte engendren him an heir,

And lede his lyf in joye and in solas,

Wher-as thise bacheleres singe “allas,”

Whan that they finden any adversitee

In love, which nis but childish vanitee.

And trewely it sit wel to be so,

That bacheleres have often peyne and wo;

On brotel ground they builde, and brotelnesse

They finde, whan they wene sikernesse.

They live but as a brid or as a beste,

The Tale

Once there was dwelling in Lombardy

A worthy knight, who was born of Pavia,

In which he lived in great prosperity;

And sixty years a wifeless man was he,

And followed ever his bodily delight

With women, wherever led his appetite,

As do these fools who are secular.²

And when he was passed sixty years,

Were it for holiness or for dotage

I can not say, but such a great desire

Had this knight to be a wedded man

That day and night he did all he could

T‘espy where he might wedded be,

Praying our lord to grant him that he

Might once know of that same blissful life

That is between a husband and his wife,

And for to live under that holy bond

With which that first God man and woman bound.

“No other life,” said he, “is worth a bean,

For wedlock is so easy and so clean,

That in this world it is a paradise.”

Thus said this old knight, who was so wise.

And certainly, as true as God is king,

To take a wife it is a glorious thing,

And namely when a man is old and white-haired;

Then is a wife the flower of his treasure.

Then should he take a wife young and fair,

On which he might engender him an heir,

And lead his life in joy and solace,

Whereas these bachelors sing “Alas,”

When they find any adversity

In love, which is but childish vanity.

And truly it sits well to be so,

That bachelors have often pain and woe;

On shifting ground they build, and shiftiness

They find where they expected a firm foundation.

They live but as a bird or as a beast,

In libertee, and under non areste,

Ther-as a wedded man in his estaat

Liveth a lyf blisful and ordinaat,

Under the yok of mariage y-bounde;

Wel may his herte in joye and blisse habounde.

For who can be so buxom as a wyf?

Who is so trewe, and eek so ententyf

To kepe him, syk and hool, as is his make?

For wele or wo, she wol him nat forsake.

She nis nat wery him to love and serve,

Thogh that he lye bedrede til he sterve.

And yet somme clerkes seyn, it nis nat so,

Of whiche he, Theofraste, is oon of tho.

What force though Theofraste, liste lye?

“Ne take no wyf,” quod he, “for housbondrye,

As for to spare in household thy dispence;

A trewe servant dooth more diligence,

Thy good to kepe, than thyn owene wyf.

For she wol clayme half part al hir lyf;

And if that thou be syk, so god me save,

Thy verray frendes or a trewe knave

Wol kepe thee bet than she that waiteth ay

After thy good, and hath don many a day.

And if thou take a wyf un-to thyn hold,

Ful lightly maystow been a cokewold.”

This sentence, and an hundred thinges worse,

Wryteth this man, ther god his bones corse!

But take no kepe of al swich vanitee;

Deffye Theofraste and herke me.

A wyf is goddes yifte verraily;

Alle other maner yiftes hardily,

As londes, rentes, pasture, or commune,

Or moebles, alle ben yiftes of fortune,

That passen as a shadwe upon a wal.

But dredelees, if pleynly speke I shal,

A wyf wol laste, and in thyn hous endure,

Wel lenger than thee list, paraventure.

Mariage is a ful gret sacrement;

He which that hath no wyf, I holde him shent

In liberty and under no restraint,

Whereas a wedded man in his estate

Lives a life blissful and orderly

Under this yoke of marriage bond.

Well may his heart in joy and bliss abound,

For who can be so obedient as a wife?

Who is so true, and so attentive

To keep him, in health and sickness, as his mate?

For well or woe she will him not forsake;

She wearies not to him love and serve,

Though he lie bedridden until he dies.

And yet some scholars say it is not so,

Of which Theofrastus is one of those.

But so what if Theofrastus³ wants to lie?

“Take no wife,” said he, “for housekeeping,

To be frugal in your household expense.

A true servant does more diligence

Your goods to keep than your own wife,

For she will claim half part all her life.

And if you be sick, so God me save,

Your true friends, or a true servant,

Will keep you better than she who waits ever

For your goods and has done many a day.

And if you take a wife into your hold

Full easily may you be a cuckold.”

This sentence, and a hundred things worse,

Wrote this man, God his bones curse!

But take no heed of all such vanity;

Defy Theofrastus, and listen to me.

A wife is God’s gift verily;

All other manner of gifts surely,

As lands, rents, pasture, or commons,

Or movable goods—all be gifts of Fortune

That pass as a shadow upon a wall.

But doubt not, if plainly speak I shall;

A wife will last, and in your house endure,

Well longer than you wish, perchance.

Marriage is a full great sacrament.

He who has no wife, I hold him ruined;

He liveth helplees and al desolat,

I speke of folk in seculer estaat.

And herke why, I sey nat this for noght,

That womman is for mannes help y-wroght.

The hye god, whan he hadde Adam maked,

And saugh him al allone, bely-naked,

God of his grete goodnesse seyde than,

“Lat us now make an help un-to this man

Lyk to him-self;” an thanne he made him Eve.

Heer may ye se, and heer-by may ye preve,

That wyf is mannes help and his confort,

His paradys terrestre and his disport

So buxom and so vertuous is she,

They moste nedes live in unitee.

O flesh they been, and o flesh, as I gesse,

Hath but on herte, in wele and in distresse.

A wyf! a! Seinte Marie, ben‘cite!

How mighte a man han any adversitee

That hath a wyf! certes, I can nat seye.

The blisse which that is bitwixe hem tweye

Ther may no tonge telle, or herte thinke.

If he be povre, she helpeth him to swinke;

She kepeth his good, and wasteth never a deel;

Al that hir housbonde lust, hir lyketh weel;

She seith not ones “nay,” when he seith “ye.”

“Do this,” seith he; “al redy, sir,” seith she.

O blisful ordre of wedlok precious,

Thou art so mery, and eek so vertuous,

And so commended and appreved eek,

That every man that halt him worth a leek,

Up-on his bare knees oghte al his lyf

Thanken his god that him hath sent a wyf;

Or elles preye to god him for to sende

A wyf, to laste un-to his lyves ende.

For thanne his lyf is set in sikernesse;

He may nat be deceyved, as I gesse,

So that he werke after his wyves reed;

Than may he boldly beren up his heed,

They been so trewe and ther-with-al so wyse;

He lives helpless and all desolate—

I speak of folk in secular estate.

And listen why—I say not this for nought—

That woman is for man’s help wrought.

The high God, when he had Adam made,

And saw him all alone, belly-naked,

God of his great goodness said then,

“Let us now make a helpmate unto this man

Like to himself ”; and then he made Eve.

Here may you see, and here may you prove,

That wife is man’s help and his comfort,

His paradise terrestrial, and his disport.

So obedient and virtuous is she,

They must needs live in unity.

One flesh they be, and one flesh, as I guess,

Has but one heart, in health and in distress.

A wife! Ah, Saint Mary, benedicite!

How might a man have any adversity

Who has a wife? Certainly, I cannot say.

The bliss that is between the two

There may no tongue tell, or heart think.

If he be poor, she helps him to work;

She keeps his goods, and wastes nothing;

All that her husband wishes, she also wishes;

She never says “no,” when he says “yes.”

“Do this,” says he; “All ready, sire,” says she.

Oh blissful order of wedlock precious,

You are so merry, and so virtuous,

And so commended and proven also

That every man who holds himself worth a leek

Upon his bare knees ought all his life

Thank his God who him has sent a wife,

Or else pray to God him to send

A wife to last until his life’s end.

For then his life is set in sureness;

He may not be deceived, as I guess,

If he takes his wife’s advice.

Then may he surely hold up his head,

They be so true and at the same time so wise;

For which, if thou wolt werken as the wyse,

Do alwey so as wommen wol thee rede.

Lo, how that Jacob, as thise clerkes rede,

By good conseil of his moder Rebekke,

Bond the kides skin aboute his nekke;

Thurgh which his fadres benisoun he wan.

Lo, Judith, as the storie eek telle can,

By wys conseil she goddes peple kepte,

And slow him, Olofernus, whyl he slepte.

Lo Abigayl, by good conseil how she

Saved hir housbond Nabal, whan that he

Sholde han be slayn; and loke, Ester also

By good conseil delivered out of wo

The peple of god, and made him, Mardochee

Of Assuere enhaunced for to be.

Ther nis no-thing in gree superlatyf,

As seith Senek, above an humble wyf.

Suffre thy wyves tonge, as Caton bit;

She shal comande, and thou shalt suffren it;

And yet she wol obeye of curteisye.

A wyf is keper of thyn housbondrye;

Wel may the syke man biwaille and wepe,

Ther-as ther nis no wyf the hous to kepe.

I warne thee, if wysly thou wolt wirche,

Love wel thy wyf, as Crist loveth his chirche.

If thou lovest thy-self, thou lovest thy wyf;

No man hateth his flesh, but in his lyf

He fostreth it, and therfore bidde I thee,

Cherisse thy wyf, or thou shalt never thee.

Housbond and wyf, what so men jape or pleye,

Of worldly folk holden the siker weye;

They been so knit, ther may noon harm bityde:

And namely, up-on the wyves syde.

For which this Januarie, of whom I tolde,

Considered hath, inwith his dayes olde,

The lusty lyf, the vertuous quiete,

That is in mariage hony-swete;

And for his freendes on a day he sente,

To tellen hem th‘effect of his entente.

By which, if you will do as the wise do,

Do always as women advise you.

Look, how Jacob, as these scholars advise,

By good counsel of his mother Rebecca,

Bound the kidskin about his neck,

By which his father’s blessing he won.

Look at Judith, as the stories also tell,

By wise counsel she God’s people kept,

And slew Holofernes, while he slept.

Look at Abigail, by good counsel how she

Saved her husband Nabal when he

Should have been slain; and look, Esther⁴ also

By good counsel delivered out of woe

The people of God, and made Mordecai

Of Ahasuerus to be exalted.

There is nothing more virtuous,

As said Seneca,⁵ than a humble wife.

Suffer your wife’s tongue, as Cato⁶ bid;

She shall command, and you shall endure it,

And yet she will obey of courtesy.

A wife is keeper of your household;

Well may the sick man bewail and weep,

Where there is no wife the house to keep.

I warn you, if wisely you would work,

Love well your wife, as Christ loved his church.

If you love yourself, you love your wife;

No man hates his flesh, but in his life

He fosters it, and therefore I bid you

To cherish your wife, or you shall never prosper.

Husband and wife, what so men joke or mock,

Of secular folk hold the surest way;

They be so knit there may no harm betide,

And namely upon the wife’s side.

For which this January, of whom I told,

Considered once, in his days old,

The pleasant life, the virtuous quiet,

That is in marriage honey-sweet,

And for his friends on a day he sent,

To tell them the gist of his intent.

With face sad, his tale he hath hem told;

He seyde, “freendes, I am hoor and old,

And almost, god wot, on my pittes brinke;

Up-on my soule somwhat moste I thinke.

I have my body folily despended;

Blessed be god, that it shal been amended!

For I wol be, certeyn, a wedded man,

And that anoon in al the haste I can,

Un-to som mayde fair and tendre of age.

I prey yow, shapeth for my mariage

Al sodeynly, for I wol nat abyde;

And I wol fonde t‘espyen, on my syde,

To whom I may be wedded hastily.

But for-as-muche as ye ben mo than I,

Ye shullen rather swich a thing espyen

Than I, and wher me best were to allyen.

But o thing warne I yow, my freendes dere,

I wol non old wyf han in no manere.

She shal nat passe twenty yeer, certayn;

Old fish and yong flesh wolde I have ful fayn.

Bet is,” quod he, ”a pyk than a pikerel;

And bet than old boef is the tendre veel.

I wol no womman thritty yeer of age,

It is but bene-straw and greet forage.

And eek thise olde widwes, god it woot,

They conne so muchel craft on Wades boot,

So muchel broken harm, whan that hem leste,

That with hem sholde I never live in reste.

For sondry scoles maken sotil clerkis;

Womman of manye scoles half a clerk is.

But certeynly, a yong thing may men gye,

Right as men may warm wex with handes plye.

Wherfore I sey yow pleynly, in a clause,

I wol non old wyf han right for this cause.

For if so were, I hadde swich mischaunce,

That I in hir ne coude han no plesaunce,

Thanne sholde I lede my lyf in avoutrye,

And go streight to the devel, whan I dye.

Ne children sholde I none up-on hir geten;

With face serious his tale he has told.

He said, “Friends, I am white-haired and old,

And almost, God knows, upon my pit’s brink;

Upon my soul somewhat must I think.

I have my body foolishly expended;

Blessed be God that it shall be amended!

For I will be, certainly, a wedded man,

And that anon in all the haste I can.

Unto some maid fair and tender of age,

I pray you, plan for my marriage

All suddenly, for I will not abide;

And I will try to discover, on my side,

To whom I may be wedded hastily.

But inasmuch as you be more than I,

You shall rather such a thing espy

Than I, who I were best to ally.

“But one thing I warn you, my friends dear,

I will no old wife have in any manner.

She shall not have passed twenty years, certainly;

Old fish and young flesh would I have gladly.

Better is,” said he, “a pike than a pickerel,

And better than old beef is the tender veal.

I want no woman thirty years of age;

It is but dried beanstalks and rough forage.

And also these old wives, God knows,

They know so much craft on Wade’s boat,

So much mischief, when they wish,

That with them should I never lie in rest.

For sundry schools make clever scholars;

Woman of many schools half a scholar is.

But certainly, a young thing may men guide,

Right as men may warm wax with hands ply.

Wherefore I say to you plainly, in a clause,

I will no old wife have right for this cause.

For if I had such mischance

That in her could I have no pleasure,

Then should I lead my life in adultery

And go straight to the devil when I die.

Nor children should I any upon her beget;

Yet were me lever houndes had me eten,

Than that myn heritage sholde falle

In straunge hand, and this I tell yow alle.

I dote nat, I woot the cause why

Men sholde wedde, and forthermore wot I,

Ther speketh many a man of mariage,

That woot na-more of it than woot my page,

For whiche causes man sholde take a wyf.

If he ne may nat liven chast his lyf,

Take him a wyf with greet devocioun,

By-cause of leveful procreacioun

Of children, to th‘onour of god above,

And nat only for paramour or love;

And for they sholde lecherye eschue,

And yelde hir dettes whan that they ben due;

Or for that ech of hem sholde helpen other

In meschief, as a suster shal the brother;

And live in chastitee ful holily.

But sires, by your leve, that am nat I.

For god be thanked, I dar make avaunt,

I fele my limes stark and suffisaunt

To do al that a man bilongeth to;

I woot my-selven best what I may do.

Though I be hoor, I fare as dooth a tree

That blosmeth er that fruyt y-woxen be;

A blosmy tree nis neither drye ne deed.

I fele me nowher hoor but on myn heed;

Myn herte and alle my limes been as grene

As laurer thurgh the yeer is for to sene.

And sin that ye han herd al myn entente,

I prey yow to my wil ye wole assente.”

Diverse men diversely him tolde

Of mariage manye ensamples olde.

Somme blamed it, somme preysed it, certeyn;

But atte laste, shortly for to seyn,

As al day falleth altercacioun

Bitwixen freendes in disputisoun,

Ther fil a stryf bitwixe his bretheren two,

Of whiche that oon was cleped Placebo,

I would rather that hounds had me eaten

Than my heritage should fall

Into a stranger’s hands, and this I tell you all.

I dote not; I know the causes why

Men should wed, and furthermore I know

There speaks many a man of marriage

Who knows no more of it than knows my page

For what reasons a man should take a wife.

If he may not live chaste his life,

He should take him a wife in holy devotion,

And for lawful procreation

Of children, to the honor of God above,

Not as a paramour or lover;

And by so doing they would lechery eschew,

And yield their debt when it is due;

And each of them might help the other

In mischance, as a sister shall the brother,

And live in chastity full holily.

But sires, by your leave, that am not I.

For—God be thanked!—I dare make boast

I feel my limbs strong and sufficient

To do all that a man needs to do;

I know myself best what I may do.

Though I be white-haired, I fare as does a tree

That blooms before the fruit grown be;

And a blossoming tree is neither dry nor dead.

I feel myself nowhere hoary but on my head;

My heart and all my limbs be as green

As laurel through the year is to be seen.

And since that you have heard all my intent,

I pray you to my will you will assent.”

Diverse men diversely him told

Of marriage many examples old.

Some blamed it, some praised it, certainly,

But at last, shortly to say,

As every day fall into altercation

Friends in disputation,

There fell a strife between his brothers two,

Of which one was called Placebo;⁷

Justinus soothly called was that other.

Placebo seyde, “o Januarie, brother,

Ful litel nede had ye, my lord so dere,

Conseil to axe of any that is here;

But that ye been so ful of sapience,

That yow ne lyketh, for your heighe prudence,

To weyven fro the word of Salomon.

This word seyde he un-to us everichon:

‘Wirk alle thing by conseil,’ thus seyde he,

‘And thanne shaltow nat repente thee.’

But though that Salomon spak swich a word,

Myn owene dere brother and my lord,

So wisly god my soule bringe at reste,

I hold your owene conseil is the beste.

For brother myn, of me tak this motyf,

I have now been a court-man al my lyf.

And god it woot, though I unworthy be,

I have stonden in ful greet degree

Abouten lordes of ful heigh estaat;

Yet hadde I never with noon of hem debaat.

I never hem contraried, trewely;

I woot wel that my lord can more than I.

What that he seith, I holde it ferme and stable;

I seye the same, or elles thing semblable.

A ful gret fool is any conseillour,

That serveth any lord of heigh honour,

That dar presume, or elles thenken it,

That his conseil sholde passe his lordes wit.

Nay, lordes been no foles, by my fay;

Ye han your-selven shewed heer to-day

So heigh sentence, so holily and weel,

That I consente and conferme every-deel

Your wordes alle, and your opinioun.

By god, ther nis no man in al this toun

N‘in al Itaille, that coude bet han sayd;

Crist halt him of this conseil wel apayd.

And trewely, it is an heigh corage

Of any man, that stapen is in age,

To take a yong wyf; by my fader kin,

Justinus truly was called the other.

Placebo said, “Oh January, brother,

Full little need have you, my lord so dear,

Counsel to ask of any who is here,

But you are so full of wisdom

That you do not like, for your high prudence,

To waiver from the word of Solomon.⁸

This word said he to every one:

‘Do all things by counsel,’ thus said he,

‘And you shall not repentant be.’

But though Solomon spoke such a word,

My own dear brother and my lord,

So wisely God my soul brings to rest,

I hold your own counsel is the best.

For, brother mine, of me take this advice:

I have now been a courtier all my life,

And, God knows, though I unworthy be,

I have stood in full great degree

With lords of full high estate;

Yet had I never with them any debate.

I never them contraried, truly;

I know well that my lord knows more than I.

What he says, I hold it truth unshakable;

I say the same, or else something it resembles.

A full great fool is any counselor

Who serves any lord of high honor,

Who dares presume, or else thinks it,

That his counsel should exceed his lord’s wit.

Nay, lords be no fools, by my faith!

You have yourself shown here today

Such good judgement, so holily and well,

That I consent and confirm everything

Your words all and your opinion.

By God, there is no man in all this town,

Nor in Italy, who could have better spoken!

Christ considers himself of this counsel full well satisfied.

And truly, it is a bold thing

For any man who is advanced in years

To take a young wife; by my father’s kin,

Your herte hangeth on a joly pin.

Doth now in this matere right as yow leste,

For finally I holde it for the beste.”

Justinus, that ay stille sat and herde,

Right in this wyse to Placebo answerde:

“Now brother myn, be pacient, I preye,

Sin ye han seyd, and herkneth what I seye.

Senek among his othere wordes wyse

Seith, that a man oghte him right wel avyse,

To whom he yeveth his lond or his catel.

And sin I oghte avyse me right wel

To whom I yeve my good awey fro me,

Wel muchel more I oghte avysed be

To whom I yeve my body; for alwey

I warne yow wel, it is no childes pley

To take a wyf with-outen avysement.

Men moste enquere, this is myn assent,

Wher she be wys, or sobre, or dronkelewe,

Or proud, or elles other-weys a shrewe;

A chydester, or wastour of thy good,

Or riche, or poore, or elles mannish wood.

Al-be-it so that no man finden shal

Noon in this world that trotteth hool in al,

Ne man ne beest, swich as men coude devyse;

But nathelees, it oghte y-nough suffise

With any wyf, if so were that she hadde

Mo gode thewes than hir vyces badde:

And al this axeth leyser for t‘enquere.

For god it woot, I have wept many a tere

Ful prively, sin I have had a wyf.

Preyse who-so wole a wedded mannes lyf,

Certein, I finde in it but cost and care,

And observances, of alle blisses bare.

And yet, god woot, my neighebores aboute,

And namely of wommen many a route,

Seyn that I have the moste stedefast wyf,

And eek the mekeste oon that bereth lyf.

But I wot best wher wringeth me my sho.

Ye mowe, for me, right as yow lyketh do;

Your heart hangs on a jolly pin!

Do now in this matter right as you wish,

For finally I hold it for the best.”

Justinus, who ever sat still and heard,

Right in this way he to Placebo answered:

“Now brother mine, be patient, I pray,

Since you have spoken, listen to what I say.

Seneca, among other words wise,

Says that a man ought him consider well

To whom he gives his land or his goods.⁹

And since I ought consider right well

To whom I give my property,

So much more ought I thoughtful be

With regard to whom I give my body.

I warn you well, it is no child’s play

To take a wife without deliberation.

Men must inquire—this is my opinion—

Whether she be wise, or sober, or a drinker,

Or proud, or else otherwise a shrew,

A scold or a waster of your goods,

Or fierce, or poor, or else man-crazy.

Albeit that no man shall find

One in this world who is without fault,

Neither man, nor beast, such as man can imagine;

But nevertheless it ought enough suffice

With any wife, if she has

More virtues good than vices bad;

And all this requires leisure for to inquire.

For, God knows, I have wept many a tear

Full privately, since I have had a wife.

Praise whoso will a wedded man’s life,

Certainly in it I find but cost and care

And duties, of all blisses bare.

And yet, God knows, my neighbors nearabout,

And namely of women many a crowd,

Say that I have the most steadfast wife,

And also the meekest one alive;

But I know best where pinches me my shoe.

You may, so far as I care, do as you choose;

Avyseth yow, ye been a man of age,

How that ye entren in-to mariage,

And namely with a yong wyf and a fair.

By him that made water, erthe, and air,

The yongest man that is in al this route

Is bisy y-nogh to bringen it aboute

To han his wyf allone, trusteth me.

Ye shul nat plese hir fully yeres three,

This is to seyn, to doon hir ful plesaunce.

A wyf axeth ful many an observaunce.

I prey yow that ye be nat yvel apayd.”

“Wel,” quod this Januarie, “and hastow sayd?

Straw for thy Senek, and for thy proverbes,

I counte nat a panier ful of herbes

Of scole-termes; wyser men than thow,

As thou hast herd, assenteden right now

To my purpos; Placebo, what sey ye?”

“I seye, it is a cursed man,” quod he,

“That letteth matrimoine, sikerly.”

And with that word they rysen sodeynly,

And been assented fully, that he sholde

Be wedded whanne him list and wher he wolde.

Heigh fantasye and curious bisinesse

Fro day to day gan in the soule impresse

Of Januarie aboute his mariage.

Many fair shap, and many a fair visage

Ther passeth thurgh his herte, night by night.

As who-so toke a mirour polished bright,

And sette it in a commune market-place,

Than sholde he see many a figure pace

By his mirour; and, in the same wyse,

Gan Januarie inwith his thoght devyse

Of maydens, whiche that dwelten him bisyde.

He wiste nat wher that he mighte abyde.

For if that oon have beautee in hir face,

Another stant so in the peples grace

For hir sadnesse, and hir benignitee,

That of the peple grettest voys hath she.

And somme were riche, and hadden badde name.

Take heed—you be a man of age—

How you enter into marriage,

And namely a young wife and fair.

By him who made water, earth and air,

The youngest man who is in all this company

Is busy enough to bring it about

To have his wife to himself alone. Trust me,

You shall not please her fully years three—

This is to say, to do her full pleasure.

A wife asks full many a duty.

I pray you that you be not displeased.”

“Well,” said this January, “and are you finished?

Straw for your Seneca, and for your proverbs!

I give not a basket full of herbs

For a scholar’s words. Wiser men than you,

As you may have heard, agree right now

To my purpose. Placebo, what say you?”

“I say it is a cursed man,” said he,

“Who hinders matrimony, certainly.”

And with that word they rose suddenly,

And were agreed fully that he should

Be wedded when he wanted and where he would.

High imagination and long thought

From day to day began to fasten the mind

Of January about his marriage.

Many a fair shape and many a fair visage

There passed through his heart night by night,

And whoso took a mirror, polished bright,

And set it in a common market-place,

Then should he see many a visage pace

By his mirror; and in the same way

Began January within his thought to imagine

Maidens who dwelt him nearby.

He knew not where or how he might decide.

For if one had beauty in her face,

Another stood so in the people’s grace

For her seriousness and her benignity

That of the people greatest praise had she;

And some were rich and had bad names.

But nathelees, bitwixe ernest and game,

He atte laste apoynted him on oon,

And leet alle othere from his herte goon,

And chees hir of his owene auctoritee;

For love is blind al day, and may nat see.

And whan that he was in his bed y-broght,

He purtreyed, in his herte and in his thoght,

Hir fresshe beautee and hir age tendre,

Hir myddel smal, hir armes longe and sclendre,

Hir wyse governaunce, hir gentillesse,

Hir wommanly beringe and hir sadnesse.

And whan that he on hir was condescended,

Him thoughte his chois mighte nat ben amended.

For whan that he him-self concluded hadde,

Him thoughte ech other mannes wit so badde,

That impossible it were to replye

Agayn his chois, this was his fantasye.

His freendes sente he to at his instaunce,

And preyed hem to doon him that plesaunce,

That hastily they wolden to him come;

He wolde abregge hir labour, alle and some.

Nedeth na-more for him to go ne ryde,

He was apoynted ther he wolde abyde.

Placebo cam, and eek his freendes sone,

And alderfirst he bad hem alle a bone,

That noon of hem none argumentes make

Agayn the purpos which that he hath take;

“Which purpos was plesant to god,” seyde he,

“And verray ground of his prosperitee.”

He seyde, ther was a mayden in the toun,

Which that of beautee hadde greet renoun,

Al were it so she were of smal degree;

Suffyseth him hir youthe and hir beautee.

Which mayde, he seyde, he wolde han to his wyf,

To lede in ese and holinesse his lyf.

And thanked god, that he mighte han hire al,

That no wight of his blisse parten shal.

And preyde hem to labouren in this nede,

And shapen that he faille nat to spede;

But nevertheless, between earnest and play,

He at last settled his heart on one,

And let all others from his heart go,

And chose her on his own;

For love is blind always, and cannot see.

And when he had gone to bed,

He portrayed in his heart and in his thought

Her fresh beauty and her age tender,

Her middle small, her arms long and slender,

Her discretion, her gentility,

Her womanly bearing, and her seriousness.

And when he on her was decided,

He thought his choice might not be amended.

For when he himself had concluded,

He thought each other man’s wit so bad

That impossible it were to reply

Against his choice; this was his fantasy.

His friends he sent to, at his request,

And prayed them to do him the pleasure

That hastily they would to him come;

He would shorten their labor, all and some.

Needed no more for him to go or ride;

He was decided where he would abide.

Placebo came, and his friends soon,

And first of all he asked of them a favor,

That none of them should arguments make

Against the decision that he had taken,

Which decision was pleasing to God, said he,

And of his welfare the true foundation.

He said there was a maiden in the town,

Who for her beauty had great renown,

Albeit she was of small degree;

Sufficed him her youth and her beauty.

Which maid, he said, he would have for his wife,

To lead in ease and holiness his life;

And thanked God that he might have her all,

That no person his bliss should share.

And prayed them to labor in this need,

And arrange that toward it he would speed;

For thanne, he seyde, his spirit was at ese.

“Thanne is,” quod he, “no-thing may me displese,

Save o thing priketh in my conscience,

The which I wol reherce in your presence.

I have,” quod he, ”herd seyd, ful yore ago,

Ther may no man han parfite blisses two,

This is to seye, in erthe and eek in hevene.

For though he kepe him fro the sinnes sevene,

And eek from every branche of thilke tree,

Yet is ther so parfit felicitee,

And so greet ese and lust in mariage,

That ever I am agast, now in myn age,

That I shal lede now so mery a lyf,

So delicat, with-outen wo and stryf,

That I shal have myn hevene in erthe here.

For sith that verray hevene is boght so dere,

With tribulacioun and greet penaunce,

How sholde I thanne, that live in swich plesaunce

As alle wedded men don with hir wyvis,

Come to the blisse ther Crist eterne on lyve is?

This is my drede, and ye, my bretheren tweye,

Assoilleth me this questioun, I preye.”

Justinus, which that hated his folye,

Answerde anon, right in his japerye;

And for he wolde his longe tale abregge,

He wolde noon auctoritee allegge,

But seyde, “sire, so ther be noon obstacle

Other than this, god of his hye miracle

And of his mercy may so for yow wirche,

That, er ye have your right of holy chirche,

Ye may repente of wedded mannes lyf,

In which ye seyn ther is no wo ne stryf.

And elles, god forbede but he sente

A wedded man him grace to repente

Wel ofte rather than a sengle man!

And therfore, sire, the beste reed I can,

Dispeire yow noght, but have in your memorie,

Paraunter she may be your purgatorie!

She may be goddes mene, and goddes whippe;

For then, he said, his spirit was at ease.

”There is,” said he, ”nothing that may me displease,

Save one thing pricks in my conscience,

Which I will rehearse in your presence.

“I have,” said he, “heard said, full long ago,

That no man may have perfect blisses two—

That is to say, on earth and also in heaven.

For though he keeps himself from the sins seven,

And also from every branch of that tree,

Yet is there perfect felicity

And so great ease and pleasure in marriage

That ever I am afraid now in my age

That I shall lead now so merry a life,

So delicious, without woe and strife,

That I shall have my heaven on earth here.

For since that true heaven is bought so dear

With tribulation and great penance,

How should I then, who lives in such pleasure

As wedded men do with their wives,

Come to the bliss where with Christ eternal life is?

This is my dread, and you, my brethren two,

Resolve for me this question, I pray you.”

Justinus, who hated his folly,

Answered anon right in mockery;

And in order to his long tale abridge,

He would no authority allege,

But said, “Sire, may there be no obstacle

Other than this, God of his high miracle

And of his mercy may so for you work

That, before your last rites of holy church,

You may repent of the wedded man’s life,

In which you say there is no woe or strife.

Or to say it another way: God forbid but that he sends

A wedded man his grace to repent

More often than a single man!

And therefore, sire—the best I know—

Despair you not, but have in your memory,

Peradventure she may be your purgatory!

She may be God’s instrument and God’s whip;

Than shal your soule up to hevene skippe

Swifter than dooth an arwe out of the bowe!

I hope to god, her-after shul ye knowe,

That their nis no so greet felicitee

In mariage, ne never-mo shal be,

That yow shal lette of your savacioun,

So that ye use, as skile is and resoun,

The lustes of your wyf attemprely,

And that ye plese hir nat to amorously,

And that ye kepe yow eek from other sinne.

My tale is doon:—for my wit is thinne.

Beth nat agast her-of, my brother dere.”—

(But lat us waden out of this matere.

The Wyf of Bathe, if ye han understonde,

Of mariage, which we have on honde,

Declared hath ful wel in litel space).—

“Fareth now wel, god have yow in his grace.”

And with this word this Justin and his brother

Han take hir leve, and ech of hem of other.

For whan they sawe it moste nedes be,

They wroghten so, by sly and wys tretee,

That she, this mayden, which that Maius highte,

As hastily as ever that she mighte,

Shal wedded be un-to this Januarie.

I trowe it were to longe yow to tarie,

If I yow tolde of every scrit and bond,

By which that she was feffed in his lond;

Or for to herknen of hir riche array.

But finally y-comen is the day

That to the chirche bothe be they went

For to receyve the holy sacrement.

Forth comth the preest, with stole aboute his nekke,

And bad hir be lyk Sarra and Rebekke,

In wisdom and in trouthe of mariage;

And seyde his orisons, as is usage,

And crouched hem, and bad god sholde hem blesse,

And made al siker-y-nogh with holinesse.

Thus been they wedded with solempnitee,

And at the feste sitteth he and she

Then shall your soul up to heaven skip

Swifter than does an arrow from a bow.

I hope to God, hereafter shall you know

That there is never so great felicity

In marriage, nor ever more shall be,

That shall keep you from your salvation,

So that you use, as proper is and reason,

The pleasures of your wife temperately,

And that you please her not too amorously,

And that you keep you also from other sin.

My tale is done, for my wit is thin.

Be not afraid, my brother dear,

But let us wade out of this matter.

The Wife of Bath, if you have understood,¹⁰

Of marriage, which we have on hand,

Declared full well in little space.

Farewell now. God have you in his grace.”

And with this word Justin and his brother

Have taken their leave, and each of them the other.

For when they saw that it must needs be,

They wrought so, by clever and prudent negotiation,

That she, this maid who May was called,

As hastily as ever that she might

Shall wedded be unto this January.

I believe it would too long you to tarry,

If I you told of every document and bond

By which she was endowed with his land,

Or for to hear of her rich raiment.

But finally come was the day

That to the church they both went

To receive the holy sacrament.

Forth came the priest, with stole about his neck,

And bade her be like Sarah and Rebecca¹¹

In prudence and devotion in marriage;

And said his orisons, as is customary,

And crossed them, and bade God should them bless,

And made all secure enough with holiness.

Thus were they wedded with solemnity,

And at the feast sat he and she

With other worthy folk up-on the deys.

Al ful of joye and blisse is the paleys,

And ful of instruments and of vitaille,

The moste deyntevous of al Itaille.

Biforn hem stoode swiche instruments of soun,

That Orpheus, ne of Thebes Amphioun,

Ne maden never swich a melodye.

At every cours than cam loud minstraleye,

That never tromped Joab, for to here,

Nor he, Theodomas, yet half so clere,

At Thebes, whan the citee was in doute.

Bacus the wyn hem skinketh al aboute,

And Venus laugheth up-on every wight.

For Januarie was bicome hir knight,

And wolde bothe assayen his corage

In libertee, and eek in mariage;

And with hir fyrbrond in hir hand aboute

Daunceth biforn the bryde and al the route.

And certeinly, I dar right wel seyn this,

Ymenëus, that god of wedding is,

Saugh never his lyf so mery a wedded man.

Hold thou thy pees, thou poete Marcian,

That wrytest us that ilke wedding murie

Of hir, Philologye, and him, Mercurie,

And of the songes that the Muses songe.

To smal is bothe thy penne, and eek thy tonge,

For to descryven of this mariage.

Whan tendre youthe hath wedded stouping age,

Ther is swich mirthe that it may nat be writen;

Assayeth it your-self, than may ye witen

If that I lye or noon in this matere.

Maius, that sit with so benigne a chere,

Hir to biholde it seemed fayëryë;

Quene Ester loked never with swich an ye

On Assauer, so meke a look hath she.

I may yow nat devyse al hir beautee;

But thus muche of hir beautee telle I may,

That she was lyk the brighte morwe of May,

Fulfild of alle beautee and plesaunce.

With other worthy folk upon the dais.

All full of joy and bliss was the palace,

And full of music and victuals,

The most delicious of all Italy.

Before them stood instruments of such sound

That neither Orpheus, nor Amphioun,

Ever made such a melody.

With every course there came loud minstrelsy

That trumpeted such as joab never heard,

Nor did Theodamas,¹² even half so clear

At Thebes when its fate was in doubt.

Bacchus the wine poured all about,

And Venus smiled upon every person,

For January had become her knight

And would both try his courage

In liberty, and also in marriage;

And with her torch in her hand about

Danced before the bride and all the crowd.

And certainly, I dare right well say this,

Hymen, who god of wedding is,

Saw never in his life so merry a wedded man.

Hold you your peace, you poet Martianus,¹³

Who writes of such a wedding merry

Of Philology and Mercury,

And of the songs the Muses sang!

Too small are both your pen, and your tongue,

For to describe this marriage.

When tender youth has married stooping age,

There is such mirth that it may not be written.

Try it yourself; then may you know

If I lie or not in this matter.

May, who sat with a look so gracious,

It seemed enchantment to behold her face.

Queen Esther¹⁴ never looked with such an eye

On Ahasuerus, so meek a look as had she.

I may you not describe all her beauty.

But this much of her beauty I may tell,

That she was like the bright morning of May,

Filled with beauty and delight.

This Januarie is ravisshed in a traunce

At every time he loked on hir face;

But in his herte he gan hir to manace,

That he that night in armes wolde hir streyne

Harder than ever Paris dide Eleyne.

But nathelees, yet hadde he greet pitee,

That thilke night offenden hir moste he;

And thoughte, “allas! o tendre creature!

Now wolde god ye mighte wel endure

Al my corage, it is so sharp and kene;

I am agast ye shul it nat sustene.

But god forbede that I dide al my might!

Now wolde god that it were woxen night,

And that the night wolde lasten evermo.

I wolde that al this peple were ago.”

And finally, he doth al his labour,

As he best mighte, savinge his honour,

To haste hem fro the mete in subtil wyse.

The tyme cam that reson was to ryse;

And after that, men daunce and drinken faste,

And spyces al aboute the hous they caste;

And ful of joye and blisse is every man;

All but a squyer, highte Damian,

Which carf biforn the knight ful many a day.

He was so ravisshed on his lady May,

That for the verray peyne he was ny wood;

Almost he swelte and swowned ther he stood.

So sore hath Venus hurt him with hir brond,

As that she bar it daunsinge in hir hond.

And to his bed he wente him hastily;

Na-more of him as at this tyme speke I.

But ther I lete him wepe y-nough and pleyne,

Til fresshe May wol rewen on his peyne.

O perilous fyr, that in the bedstraw bredeth!

O famulier foo, that his servyce bedeth!

O servant traitour, false hoomly hewe,

Lyk to the naddre in bosom sly untrewe,

God shilde us alle from your aqueyntaunce!

O Januarie, dronken in plesaunce

This January was ravished in a trance

Every time he looked on her face;

But in his heart he began her to menace

That he that night in his arms would her press

Harder than ever Helen was by Paris.

Yet nevertheless had he great pity

That that night injure her must he,

And thought, “Alas! O tender creature,

Now would to God you might endure

All my ardor, it is so sharp and keen!

I am afraid that you shall it not sustain.

But God forbid that I use all my might!

Now would to God that it were night,

And that the night would last for evermore.

I wish that all these people were gone.”

And finally he did all he could

As best he could, as etiquette permitted,

To hasten them from the meal in subtle ways.

The time came when it was right to rise;

And after that men danced and drank,

And spices all about the house they cast,

And full of joy and bliss was every man—

All but a squire, called Damian,

Who carved before the knight full many a day.

He was so ravished by his lady May

That for the pain of love he was almost mad.

He almost fainted and swooned where he stood,

So sore had Venus hurt him with her torch,

As she bore it dancing in her hand;

And he went hastily to his bed.

No more of him at this time speak I,

But there I let him weep enough and complain

Till fresh May will take pity on his pain.

Oh perilous fire, that in the bedstraw smolders!

Oh home-breaker, who his service offers!

Oh traitorous, domestic false,

Like to the adder in the bosom untrue,

God shield us all from your acquaintance!

Oh January, drunk in delight

Of mariage, see how thy Damian,

Thyn owene squyer and thy borne man,

Entendeth for to do thee vileinye.

God graunte thee thyn hoomly fo t‘espye.

For in this world nis worse pestilence

Than hoomly foo al day in thy presence.

Parfourned hath the sonne his ark diurne,

No lenger may the body of him sojourne

On th‘orisonte, as in that latitude.

Night with his mantel, that is derk and rude,

Gan oversprede the hemisperie aboute;

For which departed is this lusty route

Fro Januarie, with thank on eevry syde.

Horn to hir houses lustily they ryde,

Wher-as they doon hir thinges as hem leste,

And whan they sye hir tyme, goon to reste.

Sone after that, this hastif Januarie

Wolde go to bedde, he wolde no lenger tarie.

He drinketh ipocras, clarree, and vernage

Of spyces hote, t’encresen his corage;

And many a letuarie hadde he ful fyn,

Swiche as the cursed monk dan Constantyn

Hath writen in his book de Coitu;

To eten hem alle, he nas no-thing eschu.

And to his privee freendes thus seyde he:

“For goddes love, as sone as it may be,

Lat voyden al this hous in curteys wyse.”

And they han doon right as he wol devyse.

Men drinken, and the travers drawe anon;

The bryde was broght a-bedde as stille as stoon;

And whan the bed was with the preest y-blessed,

Out of the chambre hath every wight him dressed.

And Januarie hath faste in armes take

His fresshe May, his paradys, his make.

He lulleth hir, he kisseth hir ful ofte

With thikke bristles of his berd unsofte,

Lyk to the skin of houndfish, sharp as brere,

For he was shave al newe in his manere.

He rubbeth hir aboute hir tendre face,

In marriage, see how your Damian,

Your own squire and your man born,

Intends for to do you villainy.

God grant that you your servant foe espy!

For in this world there is no worse pestilence

Than a household foe all day in your presence.

Performed has the sun his arc diurnal;

No longer may his body sojourn

On the horizon, as in that latitude

Night with his mantle, that is dark and rude,

Began overspreading the hemisphere about;

For which departed was this lively crowd

From January, with thank you on every side.

Home to their houses lively they rode,

Where they did their things as they wished,

And when they saw it time, went to rest.

Soon after that, this urgent January

Would go to bed; he would no longer tarry.

He drank cordials, clarets and liqueurs

Spiced hot to increase his ardor;

And many an elixir had he full fine,

Such as the cursed monk, Sir Constantine,¹⁵

Had written in his book De Coitu;

To eat them all he has nothing eschewed.

And to his close friends thus said he:

“For God’s love, as soon as it may be,

Please leave this house in a courteous way.”

And they did right as he contrived.

They drank a toast and drew the curtains soon.

The bride was brought to bed still as a stone;

And when the bed was by the priest blessed,

Out of the chamber has every person himself expressed,

And January has hard in his arms taken

His fresh May, his paradise, his mate.

He lulled her, he kissed her full often;

With thick bristles of his beard unsoft,

Like to the skin of a dogfish, sharp as briars—

For he was shaven all new in his manner—

He fondled her about her tender face,

And seyde thus, “allas! I moot trespace

To yow, my spouse, and yow gretly offende,

Er tyme come that I wil doun descende.

But nathelees, considereth this,” quod he,

“Ther nis no werkman, what-so-ever he be,

That may bothe werke wel and hastily;

This wol be doon at leyser parfitly.

It is no fors how longe that we pleye;

In trewe wedlok wedded be we tweye;

And blessed be the yok that we been inne,

For in our actes we mowe do no sinne.

A man may do no sinne with his wyf,

Ne hurte him-selven with his owene knyf;

For we han leve to pleye us by the lawe.”

Thus laboureth he til that the day gan dawe;

And than he taketh a sop in fyn clarree,

And upright in his bed than sitteth he,

And after that he sang ful loude and clere,

And kiste his wyf, and made wantoun chere.

He was al coltish, ful of ragerye,

And ful of jargon as a flekked pye.

The slakke skin aboute his nekke shaketh,

Whyl that he sang; so chaunteth he and craketh.

But god wot what that May thoughte in hir herte,

Whan she him saugh up sittinge in his sherte,

In his night-cappe, and with his nekke lene;

She preyseth nat his pleying worth a bene.

Than seide he thus, “my reste wol I take;

Now day is come, I may no lenger wake.”

And doun he leyde his head, and sleep til pryme.

And afterward, whan that he saugh his tyme,

Up ryseth Januarie; but fresshe May

Holdeth hir chambre un-to the fourthe day,

As usage is of wyves for the beste.

For every labour som-tyme moot han reste,

Or elles longe may he nat endure;

This is to seyn, no lyves creature,

Be it of fish, or brid, or beest, or man.

Now wol I speke of woful Damian,

And said thus, “Alas! I must injure

You, my spouse, and you greatly offend

Before I will down descend.

But nevertheless, consider this,” said he,

“There is no workman, whatsoever he be,

Who may work both well and hastily;

This will be done at leisure perfectly.

It matters not how long we play;

In true wedlock coupled be we two,

And blessed be the yoke that we be in,

For in our acts we may do no sin.

A man may do no sin with his wife,

Nor hurt himself with his own knife,

For we have leave to play together by the law.”

Thus labored he until day began to dawn;

And then he took a sip of fine claret,

And upright in his bed then he sat,

And after that he sang full loud and clear,

And kissed his wife, his look all lechery.

He was all coltish, full of wantonness,

And full of chatter as a spotted magpie.

The slack skin about his neck shook

While that he sang, so crooned he and croaked.

But God knows what May thought in her heart,

When she saw him sitting up in his shirt,

In his night-cap, and with his neck lean;

She praised not his performance worth a bean.

Then said he thus, “My rest will I take;

Now day is come, I may no longer wake.”

And down he laid his head and slept till prime.

And afterward, when he saw his time,

Up rose January; but fresh May

Held her chamber unto the fourth day.

As custom is of wives for the best.

For every laborer sometime must have rest,

Or else long may he not endure—

This is to say, every creature needs respite,

Be it fish, or bird, or bird, or beast, or man.

Now will I speak of woeful Damian,

That languissheth for love, as ye shul here;

Therfore I speke to him in this manere:

I seye, “O sely Damian, alias!

Answere to my demaunde, as in this cas,

How shaltow to thy lady fresshe May

Telle thy wo? She wole alwey seye ”nay”;

Eek if thou speke, she wol thy wo biwreye;

God be thyn help, I can no bettre seye.”

This syke Damian in Venus fyr

So brenneth, that he dyeth for desyr;

For which he putte his lyf in aventure,

No lenger mighte he in this wyse endure;

But prively a penner gan he borwe,

And in a lettre wroot he al his sorwe,

In manere of a compleynt or a lay,

Un-to his faire fresshe lady May.

And in a purs of silk, heng on his sherte,

He hath it put, and leyde it at his herte.

The mone that, at noon, was, thilke day

That Januarie hath wedded fresshe May,

In two of Taur, was in-to Cancre gliden;

So longe hath Maius in hir chambre biden,

As custume is un-to thise nobles alle.

A bryde shal nat eten in the halle,

Til dayes foure or three dayes atte leste

Y-passed been; than lat hir go to feste.

The fourthe day compleet fro noon to noon,

Whan that the heighe masse was y-doon,

In halle sit this Januarie, and May

As fresh as is the brighte someres day.

And so bifel, how that this gode man

Remembred him upon this Damian,

And seyde, “Seinte Marie! how may this be,

That Damian entendeth nat to me?

Is he ay syk, or how may this bityde?”

His squyeres, whiche that stoden ther bisyde,

Excused him by-cause of his siknesse,

Which letted him to doon his bisinesse;

Noon other cause mighte make him tarie.

Who languishes for love, as you shall hear;

Therefore I speak to him in this manner:

I say, “Oh, wretched Damian, alas!

Answer to my demand, as in this case.

How shall you to your lady, fresh May,

Tell your woe? She will always say nay.

And if you speak, she will you betray.

God be your help! I can no better say.”

This sick Damian in Venus’ fire

So burned that he died for desire,

For which he put his life in danger.

No longer might he in this way endure,

But secretly a pen he borrowed,

And in a letter wrote he all his sorrow,

In manner of a lament or lay,

Unto his fresh, fair lady May;

And in a purse of silk hung in his shirt

He had put it, and laid it at his heart.

The moon, that at noon was that day

That January had wedded fresh May

In the second degree of Taurus, was into Cancer gliding;¹⁶

So long had May in her chamber abided,

As custom was unto these nobles all.

A bride shall not eat in the hall

Till days four, or three days at least,

Passed have been; then let her go to the feast.

The fourth day complete from noon to noon,

When the high mass was done,

In hall sits this January and May,

As fresh as is the bright summer’s day.

And so it befell that this good man

Remembered him upon this Damian,

And said, “Saint Mary! How may this be,

That Damian attends not on me?

Is he still sick, or how may this betide?”

His squires, who stood there beside,

Excused him by cause of his sickness,

Which prevented him from doing his business;

No other cause might make him tarry,

“That me forthinketh,” quod this Januarie,

“He is a gentil squyer, by my trouthe!

If that he deyde, it were harm and routhe;

He is as wys, discreet, and as secree

As any man I woot of his degree;

And ther-to manly and eek servisable,

And for to been a thrifty man right able.

But after mete, as sone as ever I may,

I wol my-self visyte him and eek May,

To doon him al the confort that I can.”

And for that word him blessed every man,

That, of his bountee and his gentillesse,

He wolde so conforten in siknesse

His squyer, for it was a gentil dede.

“Dame,” quod this Januarie, “tak good hede,

At-after mete ye, with your wommen alle,

Whan ye han been in chambre out of this halle,

That alle ye go see this Damian;

Doth him disport, he is a gentil man;

And telleth him that I wol him visyte,

Have I no-thing but rested me a lyte;

And spede yow faste, for I wole abyde

Til that ye slepe faste by my syde.”

And with that word he gan to him to calle

A squyer, that was marchal of his halle,

And tolde him certeyn thinges, what he wolde.

This fresshe May hath streight hir wey y-holde,

With alle hir wommen, un-to Damian.

Doun by his beddes syde sit she than,

Confortinge him as goodly as she may.

This Damian, whan that his tyme he say,

In secree wise his purs, and eek his bille,

In which that he y-writen hadde his wille,

Hath put in-to hir hand, with-outen more,

Save that he syketh wonder depe and sore,

And softely to hir right thus seyde he:

“Mercy! and that ye nat discovere me;

For I am deed, if that this thing be kid.”

This purs hath she inwith hir bosom hid,

“That grieves me,” said this January,

“He is a gentle squire, by my troth!

If he died, it were harm and pity.

He is as wise, discreet and trustworthy

As any man I know of his degree,

And also manly and willing,

And to be a success right able.

But after dinner, as soon as ever I may,

I will myself visit him, and also May,

To do him all the comfort that I can.”

And for that word blessed him every man,

Who of his bounty and his gentleness

He would so comfort in sickness

His squire, for it was a gentle deed.

“Dame,” said this January, “take good heed,

After dinner you with your women all,

When you have departed hall,

That all you go see this Damian.

Give him comfort—he is a gentle man;

And tell him that I will him visit,

As soon as I have rested me a little;

And speed you fast, for I will abide

Till you sleep fast by my side.”

And with that word he began to call

A squire, who was marshall of his hall,

And told him certain things, that he wished.

Thus fresh May has straight her way made

With all her women unto Damian.

Down by his bedside she sat then,

Comforting him as well as she could.

This Damian, when his time he saw,

In secret his purse and also his billet-doux,

In which he had written his desire,

Has put into her hand, without more,

Save that he sighed wondrous deep and sore,

And softly to her right thus said he:

“Mercy! And that you not reveal me

For I am dead if this thing be known.”

This purse has she in her bosom hid

And wente hir wey; ye gete namore of me.

But un-to Januarie y-comen is she,

That on his beddes syde sit ful softe.

He taketh hir, and kisseth hir ful ofte,

And leyde him doun to slepe, and that anon.

She feyned hir as that she moste gon

Ther-as ye woot that every wight mot nede.

And whan she of this bille hath taken hede,

She rente it al to cloutes atte laste,

And in the privee softely it caste.

Who studieth now but faire fresshe May?

Adoun by olde Januarie she lay,

That sleep, til that the coughe hath him awaked;

Anon he preyde hir strepen hir al naked;

He wolde of hir, he seyde, han som plesaunce,

And seyde, hir clothes dide him encombraunce,

And she obeyeth, be hir lief or looth.

But lest that precious folk be with me wrooth,

How that he wroghte, I dare nat to yow telle;

Or whether hir thoughte it paradys or helle;

But here I lete hem werken in hir wyse

Til evensong rong, and that they moste aryse.

Were it by destinee or aventure,

Were it by influence or by nature,

Or constellacion, that in swich estat

The hevene stood, that tyme fortunat

Was for to putte a bille of Venus werkes

(For alle thing hath tyme, as seyn thise clerkes)

To any womman, for to gete hir love,

I can nat seye; but grete god above,

That knoweth that non act is causelees,

He deme of al, for I wol holde my pees.

But sooth is this, how that this fresshe May

Hath take swich impression that day,

For pitee of this syke Damian,

That from hir herte she ne dryve can

The remembraunce for to doon him ese.

“Certeyn,” thoghte she, “whom that this thing displese,

I rekke noght, for here I him assure,

And went her way; you get no more of me.

But unto January she is come,

Who on his bedside sits full quietly,

He took her, and kissed her full often,

And laid himself down to sleep, and that anon.

She pretended that she had to go

There where every person must needs visit;

And when of this billet-doux she had read,

She tore it all into pieces little

And into the privy them quietly cast.

Who ponders now but fair fresh May?

Adown by old January she lay,

Who slept until a cough has him awakened,

Anon he asked that she strip herself all naked;

He would of her, he said, have some play;

He said her clothes got in the way,

And she obeyed, be her willing or loathe.

But lest that precious folk be with me wroth,

How that he wrought, I dare not you tell,

Or whether she thought it paradise or hell.

But here I leave them work in their ways

Till evensong rang and that they must arise.

Were it destiny or by chance,

Were it by nature or influence,

Or constellation, that in such estate

The heavens stood that time fortunate

To present a petition for Venus’ work—

For everything has its time, as say these scholars—

For any woman to get her love,

I cannot say; but great God above,

Who knows that no act is causeless,

May he judge all, for I will hold my peace.

But the truth is this, how this fresh May

Has had such a feeling that day

Of pity for this sick Damian

That from her heart drive she could not

The thought of giving him some comfort.

“Certainly,” thought she, “who this thing displeases

I care not, for here I him pledge

To love him best of any creature,

Though he na-more hadde than his sherte.”

Lo, pitee renneth sone in gentil herte.

Heer may ye se how excellent franchyse

In wommen is, whan they hem narwe avyse.

Som tyrant is, as ther be many oon,

That hath an herte as hard as any stoon,

Which wolde han lete him sterven in the place

Wel rather than han graunted him hir grace;

And hem rejoysen in hir cruel pryde,

And rekke nat to been an homicyde.

This gentil May, fulfilled of pitee,

Right of hir hande a lettre made she,

In which she graunteth him hir verray grace;

Ther lakketh noght but only day and place,

Wher that she mighte un-to his lust suffyse:

For it shal be right as he wol devyse.

And whan she saugh hir time, up-on a day,

To visite this Damian goth May,

And sotilly this lettre doun she threste

Under his pilwe, rede it if him leste.

She taketh him by the hand, and harde him twiste

So secrely, that no wight of it wiste,

And bad him been al hool, and forth she wente

To Januarie, whan that he for hir sente.

Up ryseth Damian the nexte morwe,

Al passed was his siknesse and his sorwe.

He kembeth him, he proyneth him and pyketh,

He dooth al that his lady lust and lyketh;

And eek to Januarie he gooth as lowe

As ever died a dogge for the bowe.

He is so plesant un-to every man,

(For craft is al, who-so that do it can)

That every wight is fayn to speke him good;

And fully in his lady grace he stood.

Thus lete I Damian aboute his nede,

And in my tale forth I wol procede.

Somme clerkes holden that felicitee

Stant in delyt, and therefor certeyn he,

To love him best of any creature,

Though he no more has than his shirt.”

Look, how pity runs soon in a gentle heart!

Here you may see how excellent generosity

In women is, when they consider carefully.

There are tyrants, as there many be,

Who have a heart as hard as any stone,

Who would have let him die in the place

Rather than have granted him her grace,

And they would rejoice in their cruel pride,

And consider not their homicide.

This gentle May, full of pity,

Right of her hand a letter made she,

In which she granted him her grace.

There lacked only but day and place

Where she might satisfy his desire,

For it should be as he aspired.

And when she saw her time, upon a day

To visit this Damian went May,

And discreetly this letter down she thrust

Under his pillow; to read it if he wished.

She took him by the hand and tightly it clasped

So secretly that no person of it guessed,

And bade him get well soon, and forth she went

To January, when he for her sent.

Up rose Damian the next morning,

All passed was his sickness and his sorrow.

He combed, he groomed and he washed,

He did all that his lady might like and desire,

And also to January did he go as low

As ever did a dog for the hunter’s bow.

He was so pleasant unto every man

(For craft is all, as whoso has it knows)

That every person was glad to speak of him good,

And fully in his lady’s grace he stood.

Thus leave I Damian about his needs,

And in my tale forth I will proceed.

Some scholars hold that felicity

Consists in sensuality, and therefore certainly,

This noble Januarie, with al his might,

In honest wyse, as longeth to a knight,

Shoop him to live ful deliciously.

His housinge, his array, as honestly

To his degree was maked as a kinges.

Amonges othere of his honest thinges,

He made a gardin, walled al with stoon;

So fair a gardin woot I nowher noon.

For out of doute, I verraily suppose,

That he that wroot the Romance of the Rose

Ne coude of it the beautee wel devyse;

Ne Priapus ne mighte nat suffyse,

Though he be god of gardins, for to telle

The beautee of the gardin and the welle,

That stood under a laurer alwey grene.

Ful ofte tyme he, Pluto, and his quene,

Prosperpina, and al hir fayërye

Disporten hem and maken melodye

Aboute that welle, and daunced, as men tolde.

This noble knight, this Januarie the olde,

Swich deintee hath in it to walke and pleye,

That he wol no wight suffren bere the keye

Save he him-self; for of the smale wiket

He bar alwey of silver a smal cliket,

With which, whan that him leste, he it unshette.

And whan he wolde paye his wyf hir dette

In somer seson, thider wolde he go,

And May his wyf, and no wight but they two;

And thinges whiche that were nat doon a-bedde,

He in the gardin parfourned hem and spedde.

And in this wyse, many a mery day,

Lived this Januarie and fresshe May.

But worldly joye may nat alwey dure

To Januarie, ne to no creature.

O sodeyn hap, o thou fortune instable,

Lyk to the scorpioun so deceivable,

That flaterest with thyn heed when thou wolt stinge;

Thy tayl is deeth, thurgh thyn enveniminge.

O brotil joye! o swete venim queynte!

This noble January, with all his might,

In respectable ways, as befitted a knight,

Tried to live full deliciously.

His house, his finery were

For his rank as respectable as a king’s.

Among other of his respectable things,

He made a garden, walled all with stone;

So fair a garden know I nowhere one.

For, without doubt, I truly suppose

That he who wrote the Romance of the Rose¹⁷

Could not of it the beauty well imagine;

Nor that Priapus¹⁸ might suffice,

Though he be god of gardens, to tell

The beauty of the garden and the spring

That stood under a laurel evergreen.

Full oftentime Pluto and his queen,

Proserpina, and all their fairy crew,¹⁹

Disported them and made melody

About that spring, and danced, as men told.

This noble knight, this January the old,

Such delight had in it to walk and play,

That he would no person suffer to bear the key

Save for himself; for of the small wicket gate

He carried always of silver a latchkey,

With which, when he wished, he it opened.

And when he would pay his wife her debt

In summer season, there would he go,

And May his wife, and no person but they two;

And things which that were not done abed,

He in the garden performed them with success.

And in this way, many a merry day,

Lived this January and fresh May.

But worldly joy may not always endure

For January, nor for any creature.

Oh sudden chance! Oh you Fortune unstable!

Like to the scorpion so deceitful,

That flatters with his head when his tail will sting;

Your tail is death, through your poisoning.

Oh unstable joy! Oh sweet sly venom!

O monstre, that so subtilly canst peynte

Thy yiftes, under hewe of stedfastnesse,

That thou deceyvest bothe more and lesse!

Why hastow Januarie thus deceyved,

That haddest him for thy ful frend receyved?

And now thou hast biraft him bothe hise yen,

For sorwe of which desyreth he to dyen.

Allas! this noble Januarie free,

Amidde his lust and his prosperitee,

Is woxen blind, and that al sodeynly.

He wepeth and he wayleth pitously;

And ther-with-al the fyr of jalousye,

Lest that his wyf sholde falle in som folye,

So brente his herte, that he wolde fayn

That som man bothe him and hir had slayn.

For neither after his deeth, nor in his lyf,

Ne wolde he that she were love ne wyf,

But ever live as widwe in clothes blake,

Soul as the turtle that lost hath hir make.

But atte laste, after a monthe or tweye,

His sorwe gan aswage, sooth to seye;

For whan he wiste it may noon other be,

He paciently took his adversitee;

Save, out of doute, he may nat forgoon

That he nas jalous evermore in oon;

Which jalousye it was so outrageous,

That neither in halle, n‘in noon other hous,

Ne in noon other place, never-the-mo,

He nolde suffre hir for to ryde or go,

But-if that he had hand on hir alway;

For which ful ofte wepeth fresshe May,

That loveth Damian so benignely,

That she mot outher dyen sodeynly,

Or elles she mot han him as hir leste;

She wayteth whan hir herte wolde breste.

Up-on that other syde Damian

Bicomen is the sorwefulleste man

That ever was; for neither night ne day

Ne mighte he speke a word to fresshe May,

Oh monster, that so subtly can paint

Your gifts under guise of steadfastness,

That deceive both more and less!

Why have you January thus deceived,

Whom you had as your friend received?

And now you have bereft him both his eyes,

For sorrow of which desires he to die.

Alas, this January unconstrained,

Amid his pleasure and prosperity,

Was struck blind, and that all suddenly.

He weeped and wailed piteously;

And at once the fire of jealousy,

Lest that his wife should fall in some folly,

So burned his heart that he would rather

That some man had slain both him and her.

For neither after his death nor in his life

Would he have her be another’s paramour or wife,

But ever live as widow in clothes black,

Solitary as the turtledove that has lost her mate.

But at last, after a month or two,

His sorrow began to assuage, truth to tell

For when he knew it might not otherwise be,

He patiently took his adversity,

Save, doubtless, that he could not forgo

His constant jealousy,

Which jealousy was so outrageous

That neither in hall, nor any other room,

Nor in any other place, evermore,

Would he suffer her to ride or go,

Unless he had hand on her always;

For which full often wept fresh May,

Who loved Damian so benignly

That she must either die suddenly

Or she must have him as she wished.

She thought that her heart would burst.

Upon the other side Damian

Became the sorrowfullest man

Who ever was, for neither night nor day

Might he speak a word to fresh May,

As to his purpos, of no swich matere,

But-if that Januarie moste it here,

That hadde an hand up-on hir evermo.

But nathelees, by wryting to and fro

And privee signes, wiste he what she mente;

And she knew eek the fyn of his entente.

O Januarie, what mighte it thee availle,

Thou mightest see as fer as shippes saille?

For also good is blind deceyved be,

As be deceyved whan a man may see.

Lo, Argus, which that hadde an hondred yen,

For al that ever he coude poure or pryen,

Yet was he blent; and, god wot, so ben mo,

That wenen wisly that it be nat so.

Passe over is an ese, I sey na-more.

This fresshe May, that I spak of so yore,

In warme wex hath emprented the cliket,

That Januarie bar of the smale wiket,

By which in-to his gardin ofte he wente.

And Damian, that knew al hir entente,

The cliket countrefeted prively;

Ther nis na-more to seye, but hastily

Som wonder by this cliket shal bityde,

Which ye shul heren, if ye wole abyde.

O noble Ovyde, ful sooth seystou, god woot!

What sleighte is it, thogh it be long and hoot,

That he nil finde it out in som manere?

By Piramus and Tesbee may men lere;

Thogh they were kept ful longe streite overal,

They been accorded, rouninge thurgh a wal,

Ther no wight coude han founde out swich a sleighte.

But now to purpos; er that dayes eighte

Were passed, er the monthe of Juil, bifil

That Januarie hath caught so greet a wil,

Thurgh egging of his wyf, him for to pleye

In his gardin, and no wight but they tweye,

That in a morwe un-to this May seith he:

“Rys up, my wyf, my love, my lady free;

The turtles vois is herd, my douve swete;

About his purpose, of no such matter,

For fear that January might it hear,

Who had his hand on hers evermore.

But nevertheless, by writing to and fro

By secret signs knew he what she meant,

And she knew also the object of his intent.

Oh January, what might it you avail,

Though you might see as far as ships sail?

For it is just as good to be deceived when blind

As to be deceived when a man may see.

Look, Argus,²⁰ who had a hundred eyes,

For all that ever he could pore or pry,

Yet he was blind and, God knows, so be more

Who are so sure that it be not so.

What you don’t see won’t hurt you, I say no more.

This fresh May, whom I spoke of before,

In warm wax has imprinted the key

That January bore of the small gate,

By which into his garden he often went;

And Damian, who knew all her intent,

The key counterfeited secretly.

There is no more to say, but hastily

Some miracle will this key betide,

Which you shall hear, if you will abide.

Oh noble Ovid, full truth say you, God knows,

What magic it is, through effort hot and long,

By which Love will find a way somehow?

By Pyramus and Thisbe may men learn; ²¹

Though they were kept apart by measures strict,²¹

They agreed, whispering through a wall,

Where no one could imagine such a trick.

But now to the point: before eight days

Were passed in June, befell

That January had caught a desire so great,

Through the urging of his wife, him for to play

In his garden, and no person but they two,

That in a morning unto his May said he:

“Rise up, my wife, my love, my lady free!

The turtledove’s voice is heard, my dove sweet;

The winter is goon, with alle his reynes wete;

Com forth now, with thyn eyën columbyn!

How fairer been thy brestes than is wyn!

The gardin is enclosed al aboute;

Com forth, my whyte spouse; out of doute,

Thou hast me wounded in myn herte, o wyf!

No spot of thee ne knew I al my lyf.

Com forth, and lat us taken our disport;

I chees thee for my wyf and my confort.”

Swiche olde lewed wordes used he;

On Damian a signe made she,

That he sholde go biforen with his cliket:

This Damian thanne hath opened the wiket,

And in he stirte, and that in swich manere,

That no wight mighte it see neither y-here;

And stille he sit under a bush anoon.

This januarie, as blind as is a stoon,

With Maius in his hand, and no wight mo,

In-to his fresshe gardin is ago,

And clapte to the wiket sodeynly.

“Now, wyf,” quod he, “heer nis but thou and I,

That art the creature that I best love.

For, by that lord that sit in heven above,

Lever ich hadde dyen on a knyf,

Than thee offende, trewe dere wyf!

For goddes sake, thenk how I thee chees,

Noght for no coveityse, doutelees,

But only for the love I had to thee.

And thogh that I be old, and may nat see,

Beth to me trewe, and I shal telle yow why.

Three thinges, certes, shul ye winne ther-by;

First, love of Crist, and to your-self honour,

And al myn heritage, toun and tour;

I yeve it yow, maketh chartres as yow leste;

This shal be doon to-morwe er sonne reste.

So wisly god my soule bringe in blisse,

I prey yow first, in covenant ye me kisse.

And thogh that I be jalous, wyte me noght.

Ye been so depe enprented in my thoght,

The winter is gone with all his rains wet.

Come forth now, with your dovelike eyes!

How fairer be your breasts than is wine!

The garden is enclosed all about;

Come forth, my lily-white spouse! Without doubt

You have me wounded in my heart, Oh wife!

No fault in you have I known in all my life.²²

Come forth, and let us take our disport;

I choose you for my wife and my comfort.”

Such old lewd words used he.

To Damian a sign made she,

That he should go before with his key.

This Damian then opened the gate,

And in he went, and that in such manner

That no person might him see or hear,

And still he sat under a bush anon.

This January, as blind as is a stone,

With May in his hand, and no person more,

Into his fresh garden is a-gone,

And shut the wicket suddenly.

“Now wife,” said he, “here are but you and I,

You are the creature that I best love.

For by that Lord who sits in heaven above,

I would rather die upon a knife

Than you offend, true dear wife!

For God’s sake, think how I you chose,

Without doubt not for cupidity,

But only for the love I had for you.

And though I am old and cannot see,

Be to me true, and I will tell you why.

Three things, certainly, shall you gain thereby:

First, love of Christ, and to yourself honor,

And all my inheritance, town and tower;

I give to you, make contracts as you wish;

This shall be done tomorrow before the sun rests,

So surely God my soul brings in bliss.

I pray you first, in covenant you me kiss;

And though I be jealous, blame me not.

You be so deep imprinted in my thought

That, whan that I considere your beautee,

And ther-with-al the unlykly elde of me

I may nat, certes, thogh I sholde dye,

Forbere to been out of your companye

For verray love; this is with-outen doute.

Now kis me, wyf, and lat us rome aboute.”

This fresshe May, whan she thise wordes herde,

Benignely to Januarie answerde,

But first and forward she bigan to wepe,

“I have,” quod she, “a soule for to kepe

As wel as ye, and also myn honour,

And of my wyfhod thilke tendre flour,

Which that I have assured in your hond,

Whan that the preest to yow my body bond;

Wherfore I wole answere in this manere

By the leve of yow, my lord so dere:

I prey to god, that never dawe the day

That I ne sterve, as foule as womman may,

If ever I do un-to my kin that shame,

Or elles I empeyre so my name,

That I be fals; and if I do that lakke,

Do strepe me and put me in a sakke,

And in the nexte river do me drenche.

I am a gentil womman and no wenche.

Why speke ye thus? but men ben ever untrewe,

And wommen have repreve of yow ay newe.

Ye han non other contenance, I leve,

But speke to us of untrust and repreve.”

And with that word she saugh wher Damian

Sat in the bush, and coughen she bigan,

And with hir finger signes made she,

That Damian sholde climbe up-on a tree,

That charged was with fruit, and up he wente;

For verraily he knew al hir entente,

And every signe that she coude make

Wel bet that Januarie, hir owene make.

For in a lettre she had told him al

Of this matere, how he werchen shal.

And thus I lete him sitte up-on the pyrie,

That, when I consider your beauty

And at the same time the unsuitability of my age,

I may not, certainly, though I should die,

Forebear to be out of your company

For true love; this is without doubt.

Now kiss me, wife, and let us roam about.”

This fresh May, when she these words heard,

Graciously to January answered,

But first of all she began to weep.

“I have,” said she, “a soul for to keep

As well as you, and also my honor,

And of my wifehood the tender flower,

Which I have entrusted in your hand,

When the priest to you my body bound;

Therefore I will answer in this manner,

By leave of you, my lord so dear:

I pray to God that never dawns the day

That I die, as foul women may,

If I ever do unto my kin that shame,

Or else I damage so my name,

That I am false; and if I do that offense,

Do strip me and put me in a sack,

And in the next river do me drown.

I am a gentle woman and no wench.

Why speak you thus? But men are ever untrue,

And women have reproof always of you.

You have no other way, I believe,

But to speak to us of faithlessness and reproof.”

And with that word she saw where Damian

Sat in the bush, and coughing she began,

And with her finger signs made she

That Damian should climb upon a tree

That laden was with fruit, and up he went.

For truly he knew all her intent,

And every design that she could make,

Well better than January, her own mate,

For in a letter she had told him all

Of this matter, how work he shall.

And thus I let him sit upon the pear tree,

And Januarie and May rominge myrie.

Bright was the day, and blew the firmament,

Phebus of gold his stremes doun hath sent,

To gladen every flour with his warmnesse.

He was that tyme in Geminis, as I gesse,

But litel fro his declinacioun

Of Cancer, Jovis exaltacioun.

And so bifel, that brighte morwe-tyde,

That in that gardin, in the ferther syde,

Pluto, that is the king of fayërye,

And many a lady in his companye,

Folwinge his wyf, the quene Proserpyne,

Ech after other, right as any lyne—

Whyl that she gadered floures in the mede,

In Claudian ye may the story rede,

How in his grisly carte he hir fette:—

This king of fairye thanne adoun him sette

Up-on a bench of turves, fresh and grene,

And right anon thus seyde he to his quene.

“My wyf,” quod he, “ther may no wight sey nay;

Th‘experience so preveth every day

The treson whiche that wommen doon to man.

Ten hondred thousand [stories] telle I can

Notable of your untrouthe and brotilnesse.

O Salomon, wys, richest of richesse,

Fulfild of sapience and of worldly glorie,

Ful worthy been thy wordes to memorie

To every wight that wit and reson can.

Thus preiseth he yet the bountee of man:

”Amonges a thousand men yet fond I oon,

But of wommen alle fond I noon.”

Thus seith the king that knoweth your wikkednesse;

And Jesus filius Syrak, as I gesse,

Ne speketh of yow but selde reverence.

A wilde fyr and corrupt pestilence

So falle up-on your bodies yet to-night!

Ne see ye nat this honurable knight,

By-cause, allas! that he is blind and old,

His owene man shal make him cokewold;

And January and May roaming merry.

Bright was the day, and blue the firmament;

Phoebus had of gold his streams down sent

To gladden every flower with his warmness.

He was that time in Gemini,²³ as I guess,

But little from his declination

Of Cancer, Jupiter in exaltation.

And so befell, that bright morningtide

That in that garden, in the further side,

Pluto, who is king of the Underworld,

And many a lady in his company,

Following his wife, the queen Proserpina,

Whom he carried off from Aetna

While she gathered flowers in the meadow—

In Claudian you may the stories read,

How in his horrid chariot he her fetched—

This king of the Underworld down him set

Upon a bench of turf, fresh and green,

And right anon thus said he to his queen:

‘My wife,” said he, ”there may no one say nay;

As experience proves every day

Of the treasons that women do to men.

Ten hundred thousand tales I can tell

Notable for your untruth and fickleness.

Oh Solomon,²⁴ wise and richest of the rich,

Full of knowledge and worldly glory,

Full worthy are your words for remembrance

By every person whose wit and reason can.

Thus praised he yet the goodness of man:

“Among a thousand men yet found I one,

But of women all found I none.”

Thus said the king who knows your wickedness.

And Jesus, filius Syrak,²⁵ as I guess,

Speaks of you but seldom reverence.

A burning rash and pestilence

So fall upon your bodies yet tonight!

See you not this honorable knight,

Because, alas, that he is blind and old,

His own man shall make him cuckold.

Lo heer he sit, the lechour, in the tree.

Now wol I graunten, of my magestee,

Un-to this olde blinde worthy knight

That he shal have ayeyn his eyen sight,

Whan that his wyf wold doon him vileinye;

Than shal he knowen al hir harlotrye

Both in repreve of hir and othere mo.”

“Ye shal,” quod Proserpyne, “wol ye so;

Now, by my modres sires soule I swere,

That I shal yeven hir suffisant answere,

And alle wommen after, for hir sake;

That, though they be in any gilt y-take,

With face bold they shulle hem-self excuse,

And bere hem doun that wolden hem accuse.

For lakke of answer, noon of hem shal dyen.

Al hadde man seyn a thing with bothe his yen,

Yit shul we wommen visage it hardily,

And wepe, and swere, and chyde subtilly,

So that ye men shul been as lewed as gees.

What rekketh me of your auctoritees?

I woot wel that this Jew, this Salomon,

Fond of us wommen foles many oon.

But though that he ne fond no good womman,

Yet hath ther founde many another man

Wommen ful trewe, ful gode, and vertuous.

Witnesse on hem that dwelle in Cristes hous,

With martirdom they preved hir constance.

The Romayn gestes maken remembrance

Of many a verray trewe wyf also.

But sire, ne be nat wrooth, al-be-it so,

Though that he seyde he fond no good womman,

I prey yow take the sentence of the man;

He mente thus, that in sovereyn bontee

Nis noon but god, that sit in Trinitee.

Ey! for verray god, that nis but oon,

What make ye so muche of Salomon?

What though he made a temple, goddes hous?

What though he were riche and glorious?

So made he eek a temple of false goddis,

Look, where he sits, the lecher, in a tree!

Now will I grant, of my majesty,

Unto this old, blind, worthy knight

That he shall have ever his eyesight,

When his wife should do him villainy.

Then shall he know all her harlotry,

Both in reproof of her and others more.”

“You shall?” said Proserpina, “Will say so?

Now by my mother’s sire’s soul I swear

That I shall give her sufficient answer,

And all women after, for her sake,

That, even if they are in the act taken,

With faces bold they shall themselves excuse,

And bear down on those who would them accuse.

For lack of answer none of them shall die.

Albeit had a man seen a thing with both his eyes,

Yet shall women keep a brave face,

And weep, and promise, and chide subtly,

So that men shall be dumb as geese.

What care I of your authorities?

“I know well that this Jew, this Solomon,

Found among us women fools many a one.

But though he found no good woman,

Yet have there found many another man

Women full true, full good, and virtuous.

Witness those who dwell in Christ’s house;

With martyrdom they prove their constancy.

The Roman histories also make remembrance

Of many a true wife also.

But sire, be not wroth, albeit so,

Though that he found no good woman,

I pray you take the gist of the man;

He meant thus, that in perfect goodness

Is none but God, and neither he nor she.

“Eh! by the true God and no other,

Why make you so much of Solomon?

What though he made a temple, God’s house?

What though he was rich and glorious?

So made he also a temple of false gods.

How mighte he do a thing that more forbode is?

Pardee, as faire as ye his name emplastre.

He was a lechour and an ydolastre;

And in his elde he verray god forsook.

And if that god ne hadde, as seith the book,

Y-spared him for his fadres sake, he sholde

Have lost his regne rather than he wolde.

I sette noght of al the vileinye,

That ye of wommen wryte, a boterflye.

I am a womman, nedes moot I speke,

Or elles swelle til myn herte breke.

For sithen he seyde that we ben jangleresses,

As ever hool I mote brouke my tresses,

I shal nat spare, for no curteisye,

To speke him harm that wolde us vileinye.”

“Dame,” quod this Pluto, “be no lenger wrooth;

I yeve it up; but sith I swoor myn ooth

That I wolde graunten him his sighte ageyn,

My word shal stonde, I warne yow, certeyn.

I am a king, it sit me noght to lye.”

“And I,” quod she, “a queene of fayerye.

Hir answere shal she have, I undertake;

Lat us na-more wordes heer-of make.

For sothe, I wol no lenger yow contrarie.”

Now lat us turne agayn to Januarie,

That in the gardin with his faire May

Singeth, ful merier than the papejay,

“Yow love I best, and shal, and other noon.”

So longe aboute the aleyes is he goon,

Til he was come agaynes thilke pyrie,

Wher-as this Damian sitteth ful myrie

An heigh, among the fresshe leves grene.

This fresshe May, that is so bright and shene,

Gan for to syke, and seyde, “allas, my syde!

Now sir;” quod she, ”for aught that may bityde,

I moste han of the peres that I see,

Or I mot dye, so sore longeth me

To eten of the smale peres grene.

Help, for hir love that is of hevene quene!

How could he have done a thing that more forbidden was?

By God, as fair as you wash his name white with plaster,

He was an idolator and a lecher,

And in his age he the true God forsook;

And if God had not, as says the book,

Spared him for his father’s sake, he would

Have lost his reign sooner than he wanted.

I care not, for all the villainy

That you of women write, a butterfly!

I am a woman, needs must I speak,

Or else swell till my heart breaks.

For since he said that we be chatterboxes,

As long as I will braid my tresses,

I shall not spare, for any courtesy,

To speak harm of him who depicts us shamefully.”

“Dame,” said this Pluto, “be no longer wroth;

I give it up! But since I swore my oath

That I would grant him his sight again,

My word shall stand, I warn you certain.

I am a king; it suits me not to lie.”

“And I,” said she, “a queen of the Underworld!

Her answer shall she have, I undertake.

Let us no more words hereof make;

For truth, I will no longer you contrary.”

Now let us turn again to January,

Who in the garden with his fair May

Singing full merrier than a popinjay,

“You love I best, and shall, and other none.”

So long about the paths did he go,

Till he was come again to that pear tree

Where this Damian sat full merry

On high among the fresh leaves green.

This fresh May, who is so bright and shining,

Began for to sigh, and said, “Alas, my side!

Now sir,” said she, “no matter what,

I must have of the pears that I see,

If I must die, so sore do I yearn

To eat of the small pears green.

Help, for her love that is of Heaven’s queen!

I telle yow wel, a womman in my plyt

May han to fruit so greet an appetyt,

That she may dyen, but she of it have.”

“Allas!” quod he, “that I ne had heer a knave

That coude climbe; allas! alias!” quod he,

“That I am blind.” “Ye, sir, no fors,” quod she:

“But wolde ye vouche-sauf, for goddes sake,

The pyrie inwith your armes for to take,

(For wel I woot that ye mistruste me)

Thanne sholde I climbe wel y-nogh,” quod she,

“So I my foot mighte sette upon your bak.”

“Certes,” quod he, “ther-on shal be no lak,

Mighte I yow helpen with myn herte blood.”

He stoupeth doun, and on his bak she stood,

And caughte hir by a twiste, and up she gooth.

Ladies, I prey yow that ye be nat wrooth;

I can nat glose, I am a rude man.

And sodeynly anon this Damian

Gan pullen up the smok, and in he throng.

And whan that Pluto saugh this grete wrong,

To Januarie he gaf agayn his sighte,

And made him see, as wel as ever he mighte.

And whan that he hadde caught his sighte agayn,

Ne was ther never man of thing so fayn.

But on his wyf his thought was evermo;

Up to the tree he caste his eyen two,

And saugh that Damian his wyf had dressed

In swich manere, it may nat ben expressed

But if I wolde speke uncurteisly:

And up he yaf a roring and a cry

As doth the moder whan the child shal dye:

“Out! help! allas! harrow!” he gan to crye,

“O stronge lady store, what dostow?”

And she answerde, “sir, what eyleth yow?

Have pacience, and reson in your minde,

I have yow holpe on bothe your eyen blinde.

Up peril of my soule, I shal nat lyen,

As me was taught, to hele with your yën,

Was no-thing bet to make yow to see

I tell you well, a woman in my condition

May have for fruit so great an appetite

That she may die unless she has it.”

“Alas,” said he, “That I have not here a knave

Who could climb! Alas, alas,” said he,

“For I am blind!” “Yea, sir, no matter,” said she;

“But would you vouchsafe, for God’s sake,

The pear tree in your arms for to take,

For well I know that you mistrust me,

Then should I climb well enough,” said she,

“So I my foot might set upon your back.”

“Certainly,” said he, “thereon shall be no lack,

Might I you help with my heart’s blood.”

He stooped down, and on his back she stood,

And caught herself a branch, and up she went—

Ladies, I pray you not be wroth;

I cannot gloss, I am a rude man—

And suddenly anon this Damian

Pulled up her smock, and in he thrust.

And when that Pluto saw this great wrong,

To January he gave his sight again,

And made him see as well as ever he might.

And when he had again caught his sight,

There was never a man of anything so glad,

But on his wife his thought was evermore.

Up to the tree he cast his eyes two,

And saw that Damian his wife had addressed

In such manner it may not be expressed,

Unless I would speak indecorously;

And up he gave a roaring and a cry,

As does a mother when the child shall die:

“Help! Help! Alas! Help!” he began to cry,

“Oh bold, crude hussy, what do you do?”

And she answered, “Sir, what ails you?

Have patience and reason in your mind.

I have you helped with both your eyes blind.

On peril of my soul, I shall not lie,

As I was taught, to heal your eyes,

Was nothing better to make you see,

Than strugle with a man up-on a tree.

God woot, I dide it in ful good entente.”

“Strugle!” quod he, “ye, algate in it wente!

God yeve yow bothe on shames deeth to dyen!

He swyved thee, I saugh it with myne yen,

And elles be I hanged by the hals!”

“Thanne is,” quod she, “my medicyne al fals;

For certeinly, if that ye mighte see,

Ye wolde nat seyn thise wordes un-to me;

Ye han som glimsing and no parfit sighte.”

“I see,” quod he, “as wel as ever I mighte,

Thonked be god! with bothe myne eyen two,

And by my trouthe, me thoughte he dide thee so.”

“Ye maze, maze, gode sire,” quod she,

“This thank have I for I have maad yow see;

Allas!” quod she, “that ever I was so kinde!”

“Now, dame,” quod he, “lat al passe out of minde.

Com doun, my lief, and if I have missayd,

God help me so, as I am yvel apayd.

But, by my fader soule, I wende has seyn,

How that this Damian had by thee leyn,

And that thy smok had leyn up-on his brest.”

“Ye, sire,” quod she, “ye may wene as yow lest;

But, sire, a man that waketh out of his sleep,

He may nat sodeynly wel taken keep

Up-on a thing, ne see it parfitly,

Til that he be adawed verraily;

Right so a man, that longe hath blind y-be,

Ne may nat sodeynly so wel y-see,

First whan his sighte is newe come ageyn,

As he that hath a day or two y-seyn.

Til that your sighte y-satled be a whyle,

Ther may ful many a sighte yow bigyle.

Beth war, I prey yow; for, by hevene king,

Ful many a man weneth to seen a thing,

And it is al another than it semeth.

He that misconceyveth, he misdemeth.”

And with that word she leep doun fro the tree.

This Januarie, who is glad but he?

Than struggle with a man upon a tree.

God knows, I did it in full good intent.”

“Struggle?” said he, “Yea, entirely in it went!

God give you both a shameless death to die!

He paired with you; I saw it with my eyes,

Or else I be hanged by the neck!”

“Then is,” said she, “my medicine false;

For certainly, if that you might see,

You would not say these words unto me.

You have some glimpsing, and no perfect sight.”

“I see,” said he, “as well as ever I might,

Thanks be God. With both my eyes two,

And by my troth, I thought he did you.”

“You are bewildered, dazed, good sir,” said she;

“These thanks I have for having made you see.

Alas,” said she, “that ever I was so kind!”

“Now Dame,” said he, “let that all pass out of mind.

Come down, my beloved, and if I have misspoken,

God help me so, as I am evil paid.

But by my father’s soul, I supposed I saw

How this Damian had by you lain,

And that your smock lay upon his breast.”

“Yea, sir,” said she, “you may suppose as you wish.

But sir, a man who wakes out of his sleep,

He may not suddenly well take heed

Upon a thing, or see it perfectly,

Till he be awakened fully.

Right so a man who long has blind been,

May not suddenly so well see,

First when his sight is new come again,

As he who has a day or two seen.

Until your sight settled be awhile

There may full many a sight you beguile.

Beware, I pray you, for by heaven’s king,

Full many a man supposes to see something,

And it is other than what it seemed.

He who misconceives, misjudges.”

And with that word she leapt down from the tree.

This January, who is glad but he?

He kisseth hir, and clippeth hir ful ofte,

And on hir wombe he stroketh hir ful softe,

And to his palays hoom he hath hir lad.

Now, gode men, I pray yow to be glad.

Thus endeth heer my tale of Januarie;

God blesse us and his moder Seinte Marie!

The Epilogue

“Ey! goddes mercy!” seyde our Hoste tho,

“Now swich a wyf I pray god kepe me fro!

Lo, whiche sleightes and subtilitees

In wommen been! for ay as bisy as bees

Ben they, us sely men for to deceyve,

And from a sothe ever wol they weyve;

By this Marchauntes Tale it preveth weel.

But doutelees, as trewe as any steel

I have a wyf, though that she povre be;

But of hir tonge a labbing shrewe is she,

And yet she hath an heep of vyces mo;

Ther-of no fors, lat alle swiche thinges go.

But, wite ye what? in conseil be it seyd,

Me reweth sore I am un-to hir teyd.

For, and I sholde rekenen every vyce

Which that she hath, y-wis, I were to nyce,

And cause why; it sholde reported be

And told to hir of somme of this meynee;

Of whom, it nedeth nat for to declare,

Sin wommen connen outen swich chaffare;

And eek my wit suffyseth nat ther-to

To tellen al; wherfor my tale is do.”

He kissed her and embraced her full often,

And on her belly her stroked her full softly,

And to his palace home he has her led.

Now, good men, I pray you to be glad.

Thus ends here my tale of January;

God bless us, and his mother Saint Mary!

The Epilogue

“Hey! God’s mercy!” said our Host then,

“Now such a wife I pray God keep me from!

Lo, what tricks and deceits

In women be! For ever as busy as bees

Be they, us naive men to deceive,

And from the truth ever will they weave;

By this Merchant’s tale it proves well.

But doubtless, as true as any steel

I have a wife, though a poor one she be,

But of her tongue, a blabbing shrew is she,

And yet she has a heap of vices more;

And so what! Let all such things go.

But do you know? Confidentially let it be said,

I repent sorely that I am to her tied.

But if I recounted every vice

That she has, I’d be a fool.

And why? I would reported be

And told on to her by some of this company—

Of whom, it needs not to name,

Some women can display such wares;

And I know enough to not

Tell all; therefore ended is my tale.”