The Franklin’s Tale

The Introduction

“IN FAITH, SQUIRE, YOU have yourself well acquitted

And like a gentleman. I praise well your wit,”

Said the Franklin. “Considering your youth,

So feelingly you speak, sir, I commend you:

In my judgement, there is none that is here

Of eloquence who shall be your peer,

If you live. God give you good fortune,

And in virtue send you continuance,

For of your speech I have great pleasure.

I have a son, and by the Trinity,

I would rather than land paying yearly twenty pounds

Though it right now were fallen in my hand—

That he were a man of such discretion

As you be. Fie on property,

Unless a man be virtuous withal!

I have my son rebuked, and yet shall,

For he of virtue cares not at all;

But to play at dice, and to spend,

And lose all he has, has become his custom.

And he would rather talk with a servant

Than with any gentlemanly person

From whom he might learn gentility aright.”

“Straw for your gentleness!” said our Host.

“What, Franklin! By God, sir, well you know

That each of you must tell at least

A tale or two, or break his promise.”

“That know I well, sir,” said the Franklin;

“I pray you, hold me not in disdain

Though to this man I speak a word or two.”

“Tell your tale without words more.”

“Gladly, sir Host,” said he, “I will obey

Unto your will; now listen to what I say.

I will not oppose you in any way

As far as my wits will suffice.

I prey to god that it may plesen yow,

Than woot I wel that it is good y-now.”

The Prologue

Thise olde gentil Britons in hir dayes

Of diverse aventures maden layes,

Rymeyed in hir firste Briton tonge;

Which layes with hir instruments they songe,

Or elles redden hem for hir plesaunce;

And oon of hem have I in remembraunce,

Which I shal seyn with good wil as I can.

But sires, by-cause I am a burel man,

At my biginning first I yow biseche

Have me excused of my rude speche;

I lerned never rethoryk certeyn;

Thing that I speke, it moot be bare and pleyn.

I sleep never on the mount of Pernaso,

Ne lerned Marcus Tullius Cithero,

Colours ne knowe I none, with-outen drede,

But swiche colours as growen in the mede,

Or elles swiche as men dye or peynte.

Colours of rethoryk ben me to queynte;

My spirit feleth noght of swich matere.

But if yow list, my tale shul ye here.

The Tale

In Armorik, that called is Britayne,

Ther was a knight that loved and dide his payne

To serve a lady in his beste wyse;

And many a labour, many a greet empryse

He for his lady wroghte, er she were wonne.

For she was oon, the faireste under sonne,

And eek therto come of so heigh kinrede,

That wel unnethes dorste this knight, for drede,

Telle hir his wo, his peyne, and his distresse.

But atte laste, she, for his worthinesse,

And namely for his meke obeysaunce,

Hath swich a pitee caught of his penaunce,

That prively she fil of his accord

I pray to God that it may please you:

Then would I know that it is good enough.”

The Prologue

Those old gentle Bretons¹ in their days

Of diverse adventures made lays,

Rhymed in their old Breton tongue;

Which verses with their instruments they sung,

Or else read them for their pleasure;

And one of them have I in remembrance,

Which I shall say with as good will as I can.

But, sirs, because I am an untutored man,

At my beginning first I you beseech

Excuse me for my rough speech.

I learned never rhetoric, certainly:

Things that I speak must be bare and plain.

I slept never on the Mount of Parnassus,

Nor learned Marcus Tullius Cicero.²

Rhetorical flourishes know I none—no fear of that,

But only such flowers as grow in the meadow,

Or else such as men dye or paint.

Colors of rhetoric be to me too rarified:

My spirit has no feeling for such matter.

But if you wish, my tale shall you hear.

The Tale

In Armorica, that is called Brittany,

There was a knight who loved and took pains

To serve a lady as best he knew;

And many a labor, and many a great exploit

He for his lady performed, before she was won.

For she was one of the fairest under the sun,

And also came of such high lineage,

That scarcely dared this knight, for fear,

To tell her his woe, his pain, and his distress.

But at last she, for his worthiness,

And especially for his meek obedience,

Had such pity felt for his suffering

That secretly she consented

To take him for hir housbonde and hir lord,

Of swich lordshipe as men han over hir wyves;

And for to lede the more in blisse hir lyves,

Of his free wil be swoor hir as a knight,

That never in al his lyf he, day ne night,

Ne sholde up-on him take no maistrye

Agayn hir wil, ne kythe hir jalousye,

But hir obeye, and folwe hir wil in al

As any lovere to his lady shal;

Save that the name of soveraynetee,

That wolde he have for shame of his degree.

She thanked him, and with ful greet humblesse

She seyde, “sire, sith of your gentillesse

Ye profre me to have so large a reyne,

Ne wolde never god bitwixe us tweyne,

As in my gilt, were outher werre or stryf.

Sir, I wol be your humble trewe wyf,

Have heer my trouthe, til that myn herte breste.”

Thus been they bothe in quiete and in reste.

For o thing, sires, saufly dar I seye,

That frendes everich other moot obeye,

If they wol longe holden companye.

Love wol nat been constreyned by maistrye;

Whan maistrie comth, the god of love anon

Beteth hise winges, and farewel! he is gon!

Love is a thing as any spirit free;

Wommen of kinde desiren libertee,

And nat to ben constreyned as a thral;

And so don men, if I soth seyen shal.

Loke who that is most pacient in love,

He is at his avantage al above.

Pacience is an heigh vertu certeyn;

For it venquisseth, as thise clerkes seyn,

Thinges that rigour sholde never atteyne.

For every word men may nat chyde or pleyne.

Lerneth to suffre, or elles, so moot I goon,

Ye shul it lerne, wher-so ye wole or noon.

For in this world, certein, ther no wight is,

That he ne dooth or seith som-tyme amis.

To take him for her husband and her lord,

Of such lordship as men have over their wives.

And for to lead the more in bliss their lives,

Of his free will he swore to her as a knight

That never in all his life he, day or night,

Would upon himself take any domination

Against her will, nor display to her jealousy,

But obey her and follow her will in all

As any lover to his lady must—

Save in the appearance of sovereignty,

That he would retain, lest it reflect on his rank.

She thanked him, and with full great humbleness

She said, “Sir, since of your gentleness

You offer me to have so free a reign,

God forbid there should be between us,

Through fault of mine, any war or strife.

Sir, I will be your humble true wife:

Have here my loyal pledge until my heart bursts.”

Thus were they both in quiet and at rest.

For one thing, sirs, safely I dare say,

That friends each other must obey,

If they will long hold company.

Love will not be constrained by mastery.

When mastery comes, the God of Love at once

Beats his wings, and farewell, he is gone!

Love is a thing like any spirit free.

Women by nature desire liberty,

And not to be constrained as a slave;

And so do men, if the truth I shall say.

Consider the man who is most patient in love:

He has the advantage above all others.

Patience is a high virtue, certainly,

For it vanquishes, as these scholars say,

Things that harshness will never attain.

About every word men may not chide or complain:

Learn to suffer, or else, as I may live,

You shall it learn, whether you wish to or not.

For in this world, certainly, there no person is

Who never says or does something amiss.

Ire, siknesse, or constellacioun,

Wyn, wo, or chaunginge of complexioun

Causeth ful ofte to doon amis or speken.

On every wrong a man may nat be wreken;

After the tyme, moste be temperaunce

To every wight that can on governaunce.

And therfore hath this wyse worthy knight,

To live in ese, suffrance hir bihight,

And she to him ful wisly gan to swere

That never sholde ther be defaute in here.

Heer may men seen an humble wys accord;

Thus hath she take hir servant and hir lord,

Servant in love, and lord in mariage;

Than was he bothe in lordship and servage;

Servage? nay, but in lordshipe above,

Sith he hath bothe his lady and his love;

His lady, certes, and his wyf also,

The which that lawe of love acordeth to.

And whan he was in this prosperitee,

Hoom with his wyf he gooth to his contree,

Nat fer fro Penmark, ther his dwelling was,

Wher-as he liveth in blisse and in solas.

Who coude telle, but he had wedded be,

The joye, the ese, and the prosperitee

That is bitwixe an housbonde and his wyf?

A yeer and more lasted this blisful lyf,

Til that the knight of which I speke of thus,

That of Kayrrud was cleped Arveragus,

Shoop him to goon, and dwelle a yeer or tweyne

In Engelond, that cleped was eek Briteyne,

To seke in armes worship and honour;

For al his lust he sette in swich labour;

And dwelled ther two yeer, the book seith thus.

Now wol I stinte of this Arveragus,

And speken I wole of Dorigene his wyf,

That loveth hir housbonde as hir hertes lyf.

For his absence wepeth she and syketh,

As doon thise noble wyves whan hem lyketh,

She moorneth, waketh, wayleth, fasteth, pleyneth;

Anger, illness, or his stars,

Wine, woe, or temperament

Cause us full often to do or speak amiss.

For every wrong a man may not be avenged:

Suited for the circumstances must be moderation

As every man who self-governance understands.

And therefore did this wise, worthy knight,

To live in ease, promise her his forebearance,

And she to him full truly did swear

That it never should be lacking in her.

Here men may see a humble, wise accord:

Thus did she take her servant and her lord,

Servant in love, and lord in marriage;

Then he was both in lordship and servitude.

Servitude? Nay, but in lordship above,

Since he had both his lady and his love;

His lady, certainly, and his wife also,

To which that law of love accords.

And when he was in this prosperity,

Home with his wife he went to his country,

Not far from Penmarch, where his dwelling was,

Where he lived in bliss and joy.

Who could tell, unless he wedded be,

The joy, the ease, the prosperity

That is between a husband and his wife?

A year and more lasted this blissful life,

Until the knight of whom I speak of thus,

Who from Kerru was called Averagus,

Prepared himself to go and dwell a year or two

In England, that was also called Britain,

To seek in arms worship and honor—

For all his pleasure he took in such labor—

And dwelled there two years, the book said thus.

Now will I cease concerning this Averagus,

And speak I will of Dorigen his wife,

Who loved her husband as her heart’s life.

For his absence wept she and sighed,

As do these noble wives when them it pleases.

She mourned, kept vigil, wailed, fasted, lamented;

Desyr of his presence hir so distreyneth,

That al this wyde world she sette at noght.

His frendes, whiche that knewe hir hevy thoght,

Conforten hir in al that ever they may;

They prechen hir, they telle hir night and day,

That causelees she sleeth hir-self, alias!

And every confort possible in this cas

They doon to hir with al hir bisinesse,

Al for to make hir leve hir hevinesse.

By proces, as ye knowen everichoon,

Men may so longe graven in a stoon,

Til som figure ther-inne emprented be.

So longe han they conforted hir, til she

Receyved hath, by hope and by resoun,

Th‘emprenting of hir consolacioun,

Thurgh which hir grete sorwe gan aswage;

She may nat alwey duren in swich rage.

And eek Arveragus, in al this care,

Hath sent hir lettres hoom of his welfare,

And that he wol come hastily agayn;

Or elles hadde this sorwe hir herte slayn.

Hir freendes sawe hir sorwe gan to slake,

And preyde hir on knees, for goddes sake,

To come and romen hir in companye,

Awey to dryve hir derke fantasye.

And finally, she graunted that requeste;

For wel she saugh that it was for the beste.

Now stood hir castel faste by the see,

And often with hir freendes walketh she

Hir to disporte up-on the bank an heigh,

Wher-as she many a ship and barge seigh

Seilinge hir cours, wher-as hem liste go;

But than was that a parcel of hir wo.

For to hir-self ful ofte “allas!” seith she,

“Is ther no ship, of so manye as I see,

Wol bringen hom my lord? than were myn herte

Al warisshed of his bittre peynes smerte.”

Another tyme ther wolde she sitte and thinke,

And caste hir eyen dounward fro the brinke.

Desire of his presence so her distressed

That all this wide world she held to be nought.

Her friends, those who knew her heavy thought,

Comforted her in all that ever they might:

They preached to her, they told her day and night,

That causelessly she was killing herself, alas!

And every comfort possible in this case

They did to her with all their diligence,

All for to make her leave her heaviness.

Over the course of time, as you all know,

Men may so long engrave a stone

Until some figure therein imprinted be.

So long did they comfort her until she

Received had, by hope and by reason,

The imprint of their consolation,

Through which her great sorrow was assuaged:

She might not always continue in such passion.

And also Averagus, in all this care,

Had sent her letters home of his welfare,

And that he would come hastily again;

Or else had this sorrow her heart slain.

Her friends saw her sorrow began to abate,

And prayed to her on their knees, for God’s sake,

To come and walk in their company,

To drive away her dark imaginings.

And finally, she granted that request,

For well she saw that it was for the best.

Now her castle stood close by the sea,

And often with her friends walked she,

Herself to amuse upon the bank on high,

Where she many a ship and barge saw

Sailing their courses, where they wished to go.

But then was that a portion of her woe,

For to herself full oft “Alas!” said she,

“Is there no ship, of so many as I see,

Will bring home my lord? Then were my heart

All cured of its bitter pains sharp.”

Another time she would sit there and think,

And cast her eyes downward from the brink.

But whan she saugh the grisly rokkes blake,

For verray fere so wolde hir herte quake,

That on hir feet she mighte hir noght sustene.

Than wolde she sitte adoun upon the grene,

And pitously in-to the see biholde,

And seyn right thus, with sorweful sykes colde:

“Eterne god, that thurgh thy purveyaunce

Ledest the world by certein governaunce,

In ydel, as men seyn, ye no-thing make;

But, lord, thise grisly feendly rokkes blake,

That semen rather a foul confusioun

Of werk than any fair creacioun

Of swich a parfit wys god and a stable,

Why han ye wroght this werk unresonable?

For by this werk, south, north, ne west, ne eest,

Ther nis y-fostred man, ne brid, ne beest;

It dooth no good, to my wit, but anoyeth.

See ye nat, lord, how mankinde it destroyeth?

An hundred thousand bodies of mankinde

Han rokkes slayn, al be they nat in minde,

Which mankinde is so fair part of thy werk

That thou it madest lyk to thyn owene merk.

Than seemed it ye hadde a greet chiertee

Toward mankinde; but how than may it be

That ye swiche menes make it to destroyen,

Whiche menes do no good, but ever anoyen?

I woot wel clerkes wol seyn, as hem leste,

By arguments, that al is for the beste,

Though I ne can the causes nat y-knowe.

But thilke god, that made wind to blowe,

As kepe my lord! this my conclusioun;

To clerkes lete I al disputisoun.

But wolde god that alle thise rokkes blake

Were sonken in-to helle for his sake!

Thise rokkes sleen myn herte for the fere.”

Thus wolde she seyn, with many a pitous tere.

Hir freendes sawe that it was no disport

To romen by the see, but disconfort;

And shopen for to pleyen somwher elles.

But when she saw the grisly rocks black,

For real fear so would her heart quake

That to stand on her feet she could not sustain.

Then would she sit down upon the green,

And piteously into the sea behold,

And say right thus, with sorrowful sighs cold:

“Eternal God, who through your providence

Guides the world by certain governance,

In vain, as men say, you nothing make.

But Lord, these grisly, fiendish rocks black,

That appear to be rather a foul confusion

Of work, than any fair creation

Of such a perfect, wise and steadfast God,

Why have you wrought this work confounding reason?

For by this work, neither south, north, west, nor east,

There is served any man, nor bird, nor beast.

It does no good, that I can see, but only injury.

See you not, Lord, how mankind it destroys?

A hundred thousand bodies of mankind

Have rocks slain, albeit unnamed:

Which mankind is so fair a part of your work

That you made it like to your own image.

Then seemed it you had great affection

Toward men; but how then may it be

That you make such means that could destroy it,

Such means that do no good, but ever injure?

I know well scholars will say as they please,

By arguments, that all is for the best,

Though I cannot their logic follow.

But that same God that made wind to blow,

May He protect my lord! This is my conclusion.

To scholars leave I all disputation,

But would God that all these black rocks

Were sunk into hell for his sake!

These rocks slay my heart with fear.”

This would she say, with many a piteous tear.

Her friends saw that for her it was no pleasure

To roam by the sea, but discomfort,

And arranged to play somewhere else.

They leden hir by riveres and by welles,

And eek in othere places delitables;

They dauncen, and they pleyen at ches and tables.

So on a day, right in the morwe-tyde,

Un-to a gardin that was ther bisyde,

In which that they had maad hir ordinaunce

Of vitaille and of other purveyaunce,

They goon and pleye hem al the longe day.

And this was on the sixte morwe of May,

Which May had peynted with his softe shoures

This gardin ful of leves and of floures;

And craft of mannes hand so curiously

Arrayed hadde this gardin, trewely,

That never was ther gardin of swich prys,

But-if it were the verray paradys.

Th’ odour of floures and the fresshe sighte

Wolde han maad any herte for to lighte

That ever was born, but-if to gret siknesse,

Or to gret sorwe helde it in distresse;

So ful it was of beautee with plesaunce.

At-after diner gonne they to daunce,

And singe also, save Dorigen allone,

Which made alwey hir compleint and hir mone;

For she ne saugh him on the daunce go,

That was hir housbonde and hir love also.

But nathelees she moste a tyme abyde,

And with good hope lete hir sorwe slyde.

Up-on this daunce, amonges othere men,

Daunced a squyer biforen Dorigen,

That fressher was and jolyer of array,

As to my doom, than is the monthe of May.

He singeth, daunceth, passinge any man

That is, or was, sith that the world bigan.

Ther-with he was, if men sholde him discryve,

Oon of the beste faringe man on-lyve;

Yong, strong, right vertuous, and riche and wys,

And wel biloved, and holden in gret prys.

And shortly, if the sothe I tellen shal,

Unwiting of this Dorigen at al,

They led her by rivers and by springs,

And also in other places delightful;

They danced, and they played at chess and backgammon.

So on a day, right in the morning,

Unto a garden that was there beside,

In which they had made their arrangements

For food and other supplies,

They went and played all the long day.

And this was on the sixth morning of May,

Which May had painted with his soft showers

This garden full of leaves and flowers;

And craft of man’s hand had so skillfully

Adorned this garden truly,

That never was there a garden so priceless,

Unless it was itself the true Paradise.

The odor of flowers and the fresh sight

Would have made any heart light

That ever was born, unless too great sickness

Or too great sorrow held it in distress,

So full it was of beauty with delight.

In afternoon they began to dance,

And sing also, save Dorigen alone,

Who made always her complaint and her moan,

For she saw him not on the dance go,

Who was her husband and her love also.

But nevertheless she must a time abide,

And with good hope let her sorrow slide.

In this dance, among other men,

Danced a squire before Dorigen,

Who fresher was and jollier of dress,

In my judgement, than is the month of May.

He sang, he danced, surpassing any man

That is, or was, since that the world began.

He was, if men should him describe,

One of the handsomest men alive:

Young, strong, right virtuous, and rich and wise,

And well beloved, and held in great esteem.

And shortly, if the truth I shall tell,

Unknown to this Dorigen at all,

This lusty squyer, servant to Venus,

Which that y-cleped was Aurelius,

Had loved hir best of any creature

Two yeer and more, as was his aventure,

But never dorste he telle hir his grevaunce;

With-outen coppe he drank al his penaunce.

He was despeyred, no-thing dorste he seye,

Save in his songes somwhat wolde he wreye

His wo, as in a general compleyning;

He seyde he lovede, and was biloved no-thing.

Of swiche matere made he manye layes,

Songes, compleintes, roundels, virelayes,

How that he dorste nat his sorwe telle,

But languissheth, as a furie dooth in helle;

And dye he moste, he seyde, as dide Ekko

For Narcisus, that dorste nat telle hir wo.

In other manere than ye here me seye,

Ne dorste he nat to hir his wo biwreye;

Save that, paraventure, som-tyme at daunces,

Ther yonge folk kepen hir observaunces,

It may wel be he loked on hir face

In swich a wyse, as man that asketh grace;

But no-thing wiste she of his entente.

Nathelees, it happed, er they thennes wente,

By-cause that he was hir neighebour,

And was a man of worship and honour,

And hadde y-knowen him of tyme yore,

They fille in speche; and forth more and more

Un-to his purpos drough Aurelius,

And whan he saugh his tyme, he seyde thus:

“Madame,” quod he, “by god that this world made,

So that I wiste it mighte your herte glade,

I wolde, that day that your Arveragus

Wente over the see, that I, Aurelius,

Had went ther never I sholde have come agayn;

For wel I woot my service is in vayn.

My guerdon is but bresting of myn herte;

Madame, reweth upon my peynes smerte;

For with a word ye may me sleen or save,

This joyful squire, servant to Venus,

Who was called Aurelius,

Had loved her best of any creature

Two years or more, as was his lot,

But never dared he tell her his sorrow:

Drinking his penance straight from the bottle.

He was in despair; nothing dared he say,

Save in his songs somewhat would he reveal

His woe, as in a general lamentation;

He said he loved, and was beloved not at all.

Of such matter made he many ballads,

Songs, complaints, roundels, lays,

How that he dared not his sorrow tell,

But languished as a fury does in hell;

And die he must, he said, as did Echo

For Narcissus, who dared not tell her woe.

In other manner than you hear me say,

He dared not to her his woe betray,

Save that, perchance, sometimes at dances,

Where young folk may speak in glances,

It may well be he looked on her face

In such a way as a man who asks for grace,

But nothing knew she of his intention.

Nevertheless, it happened, before they departed,

Because that he was her neighbor,

And was a man of worship and honor,

And she had known him for a long time,

They fell into conversation; and forth more and more

Unto his purpose drew Aurelius,

And when he saw his time, he said thus:

“Madam,” said he, “by God that this world made,

If only I knew that it might your heart gladden,

I would that when your Averagus

Went over the sea, that I, Aurelius,

Had gone there and never again returned.

For well I know my service is in vain:

My reward is but a breaking of my heart.

Madame, take pity on my pains sharp,

For with a word you may me slay or save.

Heer at your feet god wolde that I were grave!

I ne have as now no leyser more to seye;

Have mercy, swete, or ye wol do me deye!”

She gan to loke up-on Aurelius:

“Is this your wil,” quod she, “and sey ye thus?

Never erst,” quod she, “ne wiste I what ye mente

But now, Aurelie, I knowe your entente,

By thilke god that yaf me soule and lyf,

Ne shal I never been untrewe wyf

In word ne werk, as fer as I have wit:

I wol ben his to whom that I am knit;

Tak this for fynal answer as of me.”

But after that in pley thus seyde she:

“Aurelie,” quod she, “by heighte god above,

Yet wolde I graunte yow to been your love,

Sin I yow see so pitously complayne;

Loke what day that, endelong Britayne,

Ye remoeve alle the rokkes, stoon by stoon,

That they ne lette ship ne boot to goon—

I seye, whan ye han maad the coost so clene

Of rokkes, that ther nis no stoon y-sene,

Than wol I love yow best of any man;

Have heer my trouthe in al that ever I can.”

“Is ther non other grace in yow?” quod he.

“No, by that lord,” quod she, “that maked me!

For wel I woot that it shal never bityde.

Lat swiche folies out of your herte slyde.

What deyntee sholde a man han in his lyf

For to go love another mannes wyf,

That hath hir body whan so that him lyketh?”

Aurelius ful ofte sore syketh;

Wo was Aurelie, whan that he this herde,

And with a sorweful herte he thus answerde:

“Madame,” quod he, “this were an impossible!

Than moot I dye of sodein deth horrible.”

And with that word he turned him anoon.

Tho com hir othere freendes many oon,

And in the aleyes romeden up and doun,

And no-thing wiste of this conclusioun,

Here at your feet would that I were in my grave!

I have no chance any more to say:

Have mercy, sweet, or you will make me die!”

She stared upon Aurelius:

“Is this your will,” said she, “and say you thus?

Never before,” said she, “Knew I what you meant.

But now, Aurelius, I know your intent,

By that same God who gave me soul and life,

Never shall I be an untrue wife,

In word or deed, as far as I have wit.

I will be his to whom that I am knit:

Take this for final answer as of me.”

But after that in play thus said she:

“Aurelius, by high god above,

Yet would I grant you to be your love,

Since I see you so piteously complain;

On whatever day that, Brittany all along,

You remove all the rocks, stone by stone,

That they no ship prevent from going—

I say, when you have made the coast so clean

Of rocks, that there is no stone seen—

Then will I love you best of any man;

Have here my pledge, in all that ever I can.”

“Is there no other mercy in you?” said he.

“No, by that Lord,” said she, “who made me!

For well I know that it shall happen never.

Let such follies out of your heart slide.

What delight should a man have in his life

To go love another man’s wife,

Who has her body when he likes?”

Aurelius full sore painfully sighed;

Woe was him, when he this heard,

And with a sorrowful heart he thus answered:

“Madame,” said he, “this is an impossibility!

Then must I die a horrible, sudden death.”

And with that word he turned away anon.

Then came to her other friends many a one,

And in the garden paths roamed up and down,

And none knew of this outcome;

But sodeinly bigonne revel newe

Til that the brighte sonne loste his hewe;

For th‘orisonte hath reft the sonne his light;

This is as muche to seye as it was night.

And hoom they goon in joye and in solas,

Save only wrecche Aurelius, alias!

He to his hous is goon with sorweful herte;

He seeth he may nat fro his deeth asterte.

Him semed that he felte his herte colde;

Up to the hevene his handes he gan holde,

And on his knowes bare he sette him doun,

And in his raving seyde his orisoun.

For verray wo out of his wit he breyde.

He niste what he spak, but thus he seyde;

With pitous herte his pleynt hath he bigonne

Un-to the goddes, and first un-to the sonne:

He seyde, “Appollo, god and governour

Of every plaunte, herbe, tree and flour,

That yevest, after thy declinacioun,

To ech of hem his tyme and his sesoun,

As thyn herberwe chaungeth lowe or hye,

Lord Phebus, cast thy merciable ye

On wrecche Aurelie, which that am but lorn.

Lo, Lord! my lady hath my deeth y-sworn

With-oute gilt, but thy benignitee

Upon my dedly herte have som pitee!

For wel I woot, lord Phebus, if yow lest,

Ye may me helpen, save my lady, best.

Now voucheth sauf that I may yow devyse

How that I may been holpe and in what wyse.

Your blisful suster, Lucina the shene,

That of the see is chief goddesse and quene,

Though Neptunus have deitee in the see,

Yet emperesse aboven him is she:

Ye knowen wel, lord, that right as hir desyr

Is to be quiked and lightned of your fyr,

For which she folweth yow ful bisily,

Right so the see desyreth naturelly

To folwen hir, as she that is goddesse

But suddenly began revelry anew

Until the bright sun lost his hue,

For the horizon had taken from the sun his light—

This is as much to say as it was night—

And home they went in joy and solace,

Save only wretched Aurelius, alas!

He to his house is gone with sorrowful heart.

He sees he may not from his death escape:

He thought he felt his heart grow cold.

Up to the heavens his hands he held,

And on his knees bare he set him down,

And in his raving said his prayer,

For sheer grief out of his mind gone.

He knew not what he spoke, but this he said;

With piteous heart his complaint did he begin

Unto the gods, and first unto the sun:

He said, “Apollo,³ god and governor

Of every plant, herb, tree and flower,

Who gives, according to your distance from the equator,

To each of them his time and season,

As your lodging changes low or high,

Lord Phoebus, cast your merciful eye

On wretched Aurelius, who is lost.

Look, lord! My lady has my death sworn

Without guilt, unless your kindness

Upon my dying heart has some pity!

For well I know, lord Phoebus, if you it pleases,

You may help me, except for my lady, best.

Now vouchsafe that I may you describe

How I may be helped and in what way.

Your blissful sister, Lucina the bright,

Who of the sea is chief goddess and queen—

Though Neptune has deity in the sea,

Yet empress above him is she—

You know well, lord, that right as her desire

Is to be quickened and lighted by your fire,

For which she follows you full busily,

Just so the sea desires naturally

To follow her, as she who is goddess

Bothe in the see and riveres more and lesse.

Wherfore, lord Phebus, this is my requeste—

Do this miracle, or do myn herte breste—

That now, next at this opposicioun,

Which in the signe shal be of the Leoun,

As preyeth hir so greet a flood to bringe,

That fyve fadme at the leeste it overspringe

The hyeste rokke in Armorik Briteyne;

And lat this flood endure yeres tweyne;

Than certes to my lady may I seye:

‘Holdeth your heste, the rokkes been aweye.’

Lord Phebus, dooth this miracle for me;

Preye hir she go no faster cours than ye;

I seye, preyeth your suster that she go

No faster cours than ye thise yeres two.

Than shal she been evene atte fulle alway,

And spring-flood laste bothe night and day.

And, but she vouche-sauf in swiche manere

To graunte me my sovereyn lady dere,

Prey hir to sinken every rok adoun

In-to hir owene derke regioun

Under the ground, ther Pluto dwelleth inne,

Or never-mo shal I my lady winne.

Thy temple in Delphos wol I barefoot seke;

Lord Phebus, see the teres on my cheke,

And of my peyne have som compassioun.”

And with that word in swowne he fil adoun,

And longe tyme he lay forth in a traunce.

His brother, which that knew of his penaunce,

Up caughte him and to bedde he hath him broght.

Dispeyred in this torment and this thoght

Lete I this woful creature lye;

Chese he, for me, whether he wol live or dye.

Arveragus, with hele and greet honour,

As he that was of chivalrye the flour,

Is comen hoom, and othere worthy men.

O blisful artow now, thou Dorigen,

That hast thy lusty housbonde in thyne armes,

The fresshe knight, the worthy man of armes,

Both of the sea and rivers more and less.

Wherefore, lord Phoebus, this is my request:

Do this miracle—or make my heart burst—

That at the next opposition of moon and sun,

Which in the sign shall be of the Lion,

Pray her so great a flood to bring

That by five fathoms at least it covers

The highest rock in Brittany;

And let this flood endure years two.

Then certainly to my lady may I say:

‘Keep your promise, the rocks be away.’

Lord Phoebus, do this miracle for me!

Pray her that she go no faster course than you;

I say, pray your sister that she go

No faster course than you these years two.

Then shall she be at full always,

And spring-flood last both night and day.

And unless she agrees in such manner

To grant me my sovereign lady dear,

Pray her to sink every rock down

Into her own dark region

Under the ground, where Pluto dwells in,

Or never more shall I my lady win.

The temple in Delphi will I barefoot seek.

Lord Phoebus, see the tears on my cheek,

And of my pain have some compassion.”

And with that word in swoon he fell down,

And long time he lay thereafter in a trance.

His brother, who knew of his suffering,

Picked him up and to bed he brought him.

Despairing in this torment and this thought

Let I—the storyteller—let this woeful creature lie:

Let Aurelius choose—for all I care—if he lives or dies.

Averagus, with health and great honor,

As that he was of chivalry the flower,

Came home, and other worthy men.

Oh blissful are you now, Dorigen,

Who have your lusty husband in your arms,

The lively knight, the worthy man of arms,

That loveth thee, as his owene hertes lyf.

No-thing list him to been imaginatyf

If any wight had spoke, whyl he was oute,

To hire of love; he hadde of it no doute.

He noght entendeth to no swich matere,

But daunceth, justeth, maketh hir good chere;

And thus in joye and blisse I lete hem dwelle,

And of the syke Aurelius wol I telle.

In langour and in torment furious

Two yeer and more lay wrecche Aurelius,

Er any foot he mighte on erthe goon;

Ne confort in this tyme hadde he noon,

Save of his brother, which that was a clerk;

He knew of al this wo and al this werk.

For to non other creature certeyn

Of this matere he dorste no word seyn.

Under his brest he bar it more secree

Than ever dide Pamphilus for Galathee.

His brest was hool, with-oute for to sene,

But in his herte ay was the arwe kene.

And wel ye knowe that of a sursanure

In surgerye is perilous the cure,

But men mighte touche the arwe, or come therby

His brother weep and wayled prively,

Til atte laste him fil in remembraunce,

That whyl he was at Orliens in Fraunce,

As yonge clerkes, that been likerous

To reden artes that been curious,

Seken in every halke and every herne

Particuler sciences for to lerne,

He him remembered that, upon a day,

At Orliens in studie a book he say

Of magik naturel, which his felawe,

That was that tyme bacheler of lawe,

Al were he ther to lerne another craft,

Had prively upon his desk y-laft;

Which book spak muche of the operaciouns,

Touchinge the eighte and twenty mansiouns

That longen to the mone, and swich folye,

Who loves you as his own heart’s life.

He had not the slightest imagining

That any person had spoken, while he was away,

To her of love; he had no fear of it.

He paid no attention to such a thing,

But danced, jousted, made her good cheer;

And thus in joy and bliss I let him dwell,

And of the sick Aurelius will I tell.

In sickness and in torment furious

Two years or more lay wretched Aurelius,

Before he could walk any step on earth.

No comfort in this time had he,

Save of his brother, who was a scholar:

He knew of all this woe and this affair,

For to no other creature, certainly,

Of this matter dare he a word say.

Within his breast he bore it more secretly

Than ever did Pamphilus for Galatea.⁴

His breast was whole from without seen,

But in his heart ever was the arrow keen;

And well you know that to cure an infection deep

By surgery is perilous,

In case men might touch the arrow, or come near it.

His brother wept and wailed secretly,

Until at last he recalled,

That while he was. at Orleans in France,⁵

Because young scholars desiring

To read arts that be recondite

Seek in every corner and nook

Abstruse sciences for to learn—

He remembered that, upon a day,

At Orleans in study a book he saw

Of magic astronomical, that his colleague,

Who was at that time a bachelor of law—

Although he was there to learn another craft—

Had secretly left it upon his desk:

Which book spoke much of the operations

Touching the eight and twenty mansions

That belong to the moon⁶—and such folly

As in our dayes is nat worth a flye;

For holy chirches feith in our bileve

Ne suffreth noon illusion us to greve.

And whan this book was in his remembraunce,

Anon for joye his herte gan to daunce,

And to him-self he seyde prively:

“My brother shal be warisshed hastily;

For I am siker that ther be sciences,

By whiche men make diverse apparences

Swiche as thise subtile tregetoures pleye.

For ofte at festes have I wel herd seye,

That tregetours, with-inne an halle large,

Have maad come in a water and a barge,

And in the halle rowen up and doun.

Somtyme hath semed come a grim leoun;

And somtyme floures springe as in a mede;

Somtyme a vyne, and grapes whyte and rede;

Somtyme a castel, al of lym and stoon;

And whan hem lyked, voyded it anoon.

Thus semed it to every mannes sighte.

Now than conclude I thus, that if I mighte

At Orliens som old felawe y-finde,

That hadde this mones mansions in minde,

Or other magik naturel above,

He sholde wel make my brother han his love.

For with an apparence a clerk may make

To mannes sighte, that alle the rokkes blake

Of Britaigne weren y-voyded everichon,

And shippes by the brinke comen and gon,

And in swich forme endure a day or two;

Than were my brother warisshed of his wo.

Than moste she nedes holden hir biheste,

Or elles he shal shame hir atte leste.”

What sholde I make a lenger tale of this?

Un-to his brotheres bed he comen is,

And swich confort he yaf him for to gon

To Orliens, that he up stirte anon,

And on his wey forthward thanne is he fare,

In hope for to ben lissed of his care.

As in our days is not worth a fly;

For our faith in holy church’s belief

Permits no such illusions to make us grieve.

And when this book was in his remembrance,

Anon for joy his heart began to dance,

And to himself he said secretly:

“My brother shall be cured hastily;

For I am sure that there be sciences

By which men make diverse illusions

Such as are made by these subtle magicians.

For often at feasts have I well heard said

That magicians within a hall large

Have conjured up water and a barge,

And in the hall rowed up and down;

Sometimes a grim lion has appeared;

And sometimes flowers spring as in a meadow;

Sometimes a vine, and grapes white and red;

Sometimes a castle, all of lime and stone—

And when they liked, vanished it anon.

Thus it seemed to every man’s sight.

Now then conclude I thus, that if I might

At Orleans some old companion find

Who had this moon’s mansions in mind,

Or other magic even higher,

Should well make my brother have his love.

For with an illusion a scholar may make

It appear that all the black rocks

Of Brittany were removed every one,

And ships by the coast come and go,

And in such form endure a week or two.

Then were my brother cured of his woe;

Then she needs must keep her promise,

Or else he shall blame her at the least.”

Why should I make a longer tale of this?

Unto his brother’s bed he went,

And comforted with advice to go

To Orleans, that he leapt up anon,

And set off to travel there,

In hope for to be eased of his care.

Whan they were come almost to that citee,

But-if it were a two furlong or three,

A yong clerk rominge by him-self they mette,

Which that in Latin thriftily hem grette,

And after that he seyde a wonder thing:

“I knowe,” quod he, “the cause of your coming”;

And er they ferther any fote wente,

He told hem al that was in hir entente.

This Briton clerk him asked of felawes

The whiche that he had knowe in olde dawes;

And he answerde him that they dede were,

For which he weep ful ofte many a tere.

Doun of his hors Aurelius lighte anon,

And forth with this magicien is he gon

Hoom to his hous, and made hem wel at ese.

Hem lakked no vitaille that mighte hem plese;

So wel arrayed hous as ther was oon

Aurelius in his lyf saugh never noon.

He shewed him, er he wente to sopeer,

Forestes, parkes ful of wilde deer;

Ther saugh he hertes with hir hornes hye,

The gretteste that ever were seyn with ye.

He saugh of hem an hondred slayn with houndes,

And somme with arwes blede of bittre woundes.

He saugh, whan voided were thise wilde deer

Thise fauconers upon a fair river,

That with hir haukes han the heron slayn.

Tho saugh he knightes justing in a playn;

And after this, he dide him swich plesaunce,

That he him shewed his lady on a daunce

On which him-self he daunced, as him thoughte.

And whan this maister, that this magik wroughte,

Saugh it was tyme, he clapte his handes two,

And farewel! al our revel was ago.

And yet remoeved they never out of the hous,

Whyl they saugh al this sighte merveillous,

But in his studie, ther-as his bookes be,

They seten stille, and no wight but they three

To him this maister called his squyer,

When they were come almost to that city,

All but a furlong or two or three,

A young scholar roaming by himself they met,

Who suitably greeted them in Latin,

And after that he said a wondrous thing:

“I know,” said he, “the cause of your coming.”

And before they a step further went,

He told them all that was in their intent.

This Breton scholar asked him about colleagues

Whom he had known in the old days;

And he answered him that they dead were,

For which he wept full often many a tear.

Down from his horse Aurelius alighted anon,

And forth with this magician he did go

Home to his house, and made themselves at ease.

They lacked no food that might them please;

So well furnished a house was it that

Aurelius had never seen one better.

He showed him, before he went to supper,

Forests, parks full of wild deer:

There saw he harts with their horns high,

The greatest that ever were seen with eyes;

He saw of them a hundred slain with hounds,

And some of arrows bled from bitter wounds.

He saw, when departed were these wild deer,

These falconers upon a river fair,

Who with their hawks had the heron slain.

Then saw he knights jousting on a plain;

And after this he did him such pleasure

That he showed him his lady in a dance

In which he himself danced, or so it seemed.

And when this master who this magic wrought

Saw it was time, he clapped his hands two,

And farewell! all our revel was gone.

And yet moved they never out of the house

While they saw all this sight marvelous,

But in his study, there where his books were,

They sat still, and no person but they three.

This master called his squire,

And seyde him thus: “is redy our soper?

Almost an houre it is, I undertake,

Sith I yow bad our soper for to make,

Whan that thise worthy men wenten with me

In-to my studie, ther-as my bookes be.”

“Sire,” quod this squyer, “whan it lyketh yow,

It is al redy, though ye wol right now.”

“Go we than soupe,” quod he, “as for the beste;

This amorous folk som-tyme mote han reste.”

At-after soper fille they in tretee,

What somme sholde this maistres guerdon be,

To remoeven alle the rokkes of Britayne,

And eek from Gerounde to the mouth of Sayne.

He made it straunge, and swoor, so god him save,

Lasse than a thousand pound he wolde nat have,

Ne gladly for that somme he wolde nat goon.

Aurelius, with blisful herte anoon,

Answerde thus, “fy on a thousand pound!

This wyde world, which that men seye is round,

I wolde it yeve, if I were lord of it.

This bargayn is ful drive, for we ben knit.

Ye shal be payed trewely, by my trouthe!

But loketh now, for no necligence or slouthe,

Ye tarie us heer no lenger than to-morwe.”

“Nay,” quod this clerk, “have heer my feith to borwe.”

To bedde is goon Aurelius whan him leste,

And wel ny al that night he hadde his reste;

What for his labour and his hope of blisse,

His woful herte of penaunce hadde a lisse.

Upon the morwe, whan that it was day,

To Britaigne toke they the righte way,

Aurelius, and this magicien bisyde,

And been descended ther they wolde abyde;

And this was, as the bokes me remembre,

The colde frosty seson of Decembre.

Phebus wax old, and hewed lyk latoun,

That in his hote declinacioun

Shoon as the burned gold with stremes brighte;

But now in Capricorn adoun he lighte,

And said this, “Is ready our supper?

Almost an hour it is, I declare,

Since I bade you our supper for to make,

When these worthy men went with me

Into my study, there as my books be.”

“Sire,” said this squire, “when it pleases you,

It is all ready, should you want it right now.”

“Go we for supper,” said he, “as for the best:

These amorous folk must sometimes have rest.”

At after-supper fell they into negotiations

What sum should the master’s reward be,

To remove all the rocks of Brittany,

And also from the Gironde to the mouth of the Seine.

He made it difficult, and swore, so God him save,

Less than a thousand pounds he would not have,

And not gladly for that sum would he go.

Aurelius with blissful heart anon

Answered thus, “Fie on a thousand pounds!

This wide world, which that men say is round,

I would give, if I were lord of it.

This bargain is concluded, for we be agreed.

You shall be paid truly, by my troth!

But look now, for no negligence or sloth,

Should you delay us here, no longer than tomorrow.”

“Nay,” said the scholar, “have here my faith as pledge.”

To bed went Aurelius when he wished,

And well nigh all that night he had his rest:

What with his labor and his hope of bliss,

His woeful heart from suffering had relief.

Upon the morrow, when it was day,

To Brittany took they the right way,

Aurelius and this magician beside,

And dismounted there where they would stay;

And this was, as these books remind me,

The cold frosty season of December.

Phoebus waxed old,⁷ and colored like brass,

That in his hot declination

Shone as burnished gold with beams bright;

But now in Capricorn down he alighted,

Wher-as he shoon ful pale, I dar wel seyn.

The bittre frostes, with the sleet and reyn,

Destroyed hath the grene in every yerd.

Janus sit by the fyr, with double berd,

And drinketh of his bugle-horn the wyn.

Biforn him stant braun of the tusked swyn,

And “Nowel” cryeth every lusty man.

Aurelius, in al that ever he can,

Doth to his maister chere and reverence,

And preyeth him to doon his diligence

To bringen him out of his peynes smerte,

Or with a swerd that he wolde slitte his herte.

This subtil clerk swich routhe had of this man,

That night and day he spedde him that he can,

To wayte a tyme of his conclusioun;

This is to seye, to make illusioun,

By swich an apparence or jogelrye,

I ne can no termes of astrologye,

That she and every wight sholde wene and seye,

That of Britaigne the rokkes were aweye,

Or elles they were sonken under grounde.

So atte laste he hath his tyme y-founde

To maken his japes and his wrecchednesse

Of swich a supersticious cursednesse.

His tables Toletanes forth he broght,

Ful wel corrected, ne ther lakked noght,

Neither his collect ne his expans yeres,

Ne his rotes ne his othere geres,

As been his centres and his arguments,

And his proporcionels convenients

For his equacions in every thing.

And, by his eighte spere in his wirking,

He knew ful wel how fer Alnath was shove

Fro the heed of thilke fixe Aries above

That in the ninthe speere considered is;

Ful subtilly he calculed al this.

Whan he had founde his firste mansioun,

He knew the remenant by proporcioun;

And knew the arysing of his mone weel,

Where he shone pale, I dare well say.

The bitter frosts, with the sleet and rain,

Destroyed hath the green in every garden.

Janus sat by the fire with double beard,

And drank of his ox-horn goblet the wine;

Before him stood meat of the tusked swine,

And “Noel” cried every lusty man.

Aurelius, in all that ever he could,

Made to this master good cheer and reverence,

And prayed him to do his diligence

To bring him out of his pains sharp,

Or with a sword would he slit his heart.

This subtle scholar such compassion had for this man

That night and day he worked as fast as he could,

To watch for a time this matter to conclude;

This is to say, to make illusion,

By such an apparition of magic—

I do not know terms of astrology—

That she and every person should suppose and say

That of Brittany the rocks were away,

Or else they were sunken underground.

So at last he has his time found

To make his tricks and his wretched business

From such a superstitious cursedness.

His tables Toledan⁸ forth he brought,

Full well corrected, there lacked nought,

Neither his collect nor his expanse years,

Nor his statistics nor his other gear,

As were his centers and his arguments,

And his proportionals convenient

For his equations in every thing.

And by his eighth sphere in his working

He knew full well how far Alnath was advanced

From that head of that same fixed Aries above

That in the ninth sphere considered is:

Full subtly he calculated all this.

When he had found his first mansion,

He knew the remainder by proportion,

And he knew the rising of his moon well,

And in whos face, and terme, and every-deel;

And knew ful weel the mones mansioun

Accordaunt to his operacioun,

And knew also his othere observaunces

For swiche illusiouns and swiche meschaunces

As hethen folk used in thilke dayes;

For which no lenger maked he delayes,

But thurgh his magik, for a wyke or tweye,

It semed that alle the rokkes were aweye.

Aurelius, which that yet despeired is

Wher he shal han his love or fare amis,

Awaiteth night and day on this miracle;

And whan he knew that ther was noon obstacle,

That voided were thise rokkes everichon,

Doun to his maistres feet he fil anon,

And seyde, “I woful wrecche, Aurelius,

Thanke yow, lord, and lady myn Venus,

That me han holpen fro my cares colde:”

And to the temple his wey forth hath he holde,

Wher-as he knew he sholde his lady see.

And whan he saught his tyme, anon-right he,

With dredful herte and with ful humble chere,

Salewed hath his sovereyn lady dere:

“My righte lady,” quod this woful man,

“Whom I most drede and love as I best can,

And lothest were of al this world displese,

Nere it that I for yow have swich disese,

That I moste dyen heer at your foot anon,

Noght wolde I telle how me is wo bigon;

But certes outher moste I dye or pleyne;

Ye slee me giltelees for verray peyne.

But of my deeth, thogh that ye have no routhe,

Avyseth yow, er that ye breke your trouthe.

Repenteth yow, for thilke god above,

Er ye me sleen by-cause that I yow love.

For, madame, wel ye woot what ye han hight;

Nat that I chalange any thing of right

Of yow my sovereyn lady, but your grace;

But in a gardin yond, at swich a place,

And in whose face, and the division, and everything;

And he knew full well the moon’s mansion,

According to his operation,

And he knew also his other ceremonies

For such illusions and mischiefs,

As heathen folk used in those days.

For which no longer made he delays,

But through his magic, for a week or two,

It seemed that all the rocks were away.

Aurelius, who yet despairing was

Whether he shall have his love or fare amiss,

Awaited night and day on this miracle;

And when he knew that there was no obstacle—

That removed were these rocks every one—

Down to his master’s feet he fell anon

And said, “I woeful wretch, Aurelius,

Thank you, lord, and my lady Venus,

Who have helped me from my cares cold.”

And to the temple forth his way did he hold,

Where he knew he should his lady see.

And when he saw his time, right away he,

With fearful heart and with full humble manner,

Greeted his sovereign lady dear:

“My right lady,” said this woeful man,

“Whom I most fear and love as best I can,

And most loathe of all this world to displease,

Were it not for you that I have such misery

That I must die here at your foot anon,

I would not tell how woebegone I am.

But certainly must I die or complain;

You slay me, guiltless, with real pain.

But of my death, though of that you have no pity,

Take heed, before you break your pledge.

Repent, for the sake of God above,

Before you slay me because I love you.

For, madame, well you know what you have promised—

Not that I claim anything by right

Of you, my sovereign lady, but your grace

But in a garden yonder, at such a place,

Ye woot right wel what ye bihighten me;

And in myn hand your trouthe plighten ye

To love me best, god woot, ye seyde so,

Al be that I unworthy be therto.

Madame, I speke it for the honour of yow,

More than to save myn hertes lyf right now;

I have do so as ye comanded me;

And if ye vouche-sauf, ye may go see.

Doth as yow list, have your biheste in minde,

For quik or deed, right ther ye shul me finde;

In yow lyth al, to do me lyve or deye;—

But wel I woot the rokkes been aweye!”

He taketh his leve, and she astonied stood,

In al hir face nas a drope of blood;

She wende never han come in swich a trappe:

“Allas!” quod she, “that ever this sholde happe

For wende I never, by possibilitee,

That swich a monstre or merveille mighte be!

It is agayns the proces of nature:”

And hoom she goeth a sorweful creature.

For verray fere unnethe may she go,

She wepeth, wailleth, al a day or two,

And swowneth, that it routhe was to see;

But why it was, to no wight tolde she;

For out of toune was goon Arveragus.

But to hir-self she spak, and seyde thus,

With face pale and with ful sorweful chere,

In hir compleynt, as ye shul after here:

“Allas,” quod she, “on thee, Fortune,

I pleyne,

That unwar wrapped hast me in thy cheyne;

For which, t‘escape, woot I no socour

Save only deeth or elles dishonour;

Oon of thise two bihoveth me to chese.

But nathelees, yet have I lever lese

My lyf than of my body have a shame,

Or knowe my-selven fals, or lese my name,

And with my deth I may be quit, y-wis.

Hath ther nat many a noble wyf, er this,

You know right well that you promised me;

And in my hand your troth you pledged

To love me best. God knows, you said so,

Albeit that I unworthy be thereto.

Madame, I speak it for the honor of you

More than to save my heart’s life right now.

I have done as you commanded me;

And if you are willing, you may go see.

Do as you wish, have your promise in mind,

For, quick or dead, you shall there me find.

In you lies all to make me live or die:

But well I know the rocks be away!”

He took his leave, and she astonished stood;

In all her face was not a drop of blood.

She thought never to have come in such a trap.

“Alas!” said she, “that this should ever happen!

For thought I never, by possibility,

That such a strange thing or marvel might be!

It is against the course of nature.”

And home she went a sorrowful creature.

For deep fear hardly could she walk.

She wept, she wailed, a whole day or two,

And swooned, that it pitiful was to see;

But why it was, to no person told she,

For out of town was gone Averagus.

But to herself she spoke, and said thus,

With pale face and with sorrowful mien,

In her lament, and you shall after hear:

“Alas,” said she, “To you, Fortune, I make my

complaint,

Who unaware has wrapped me in your chain,

From which to escape I know no succor

Save only death or else dishonor;

One of these two must I choose.

But nevertheless would I rather lose

My life, than of my body to have a shame,

Or know myself false, or lose my good name;

And with my death I may be quit, I know.

Has there not many a noble wife before now,

And many a mayde y-slayn hir-self, alias!

Rather than with hir body doon trespas?

Yis, certes, lo, thise stories beren witnesse;

Whan thretty tyraunts, ful of cursednesse,

Had slayn Phidoun in Athenes, atte feste,

They comanded his doghtres for t‘areste,

And bringen hem biforn hem in despyt

Al naked, to fulfille hir foul delyt,

And in hir fadres blood they made hem daunce

Upon the pavement, god yeve hem mischaunce!

For which thise woful maydens, ful of drede,

Rather than they wolde lese hir maydenhede,

They prively ben stirt in-to a welle,

And dreynte hem-selven, as the bokes telle.

They of Messene lete enquere and seke

Of Lacedomie fifty maydens eke,

On whiche they wolden doon hir lecherye;

But was ther noon of al that companye

That she nas slayn, and with a good entente

Chees rather for to dye than assente

To been oppressed of hir maydenhede.

Why sholde I thanne to dye been in drede?

Lo, eek the tiraunt Aristoclides

That loved a mayden, heet Stimphalides,

Whan that hir fader slayn was on a night,

Un-to Dianes temple goth she right,

And hente the image in hir handes two,

Fro which image wolde she never go.

No wight ne mighte hir handes of it arace,

Til she was slayn right in the selve place.

Now sith that maydens hadden swich despyt

To been defouled with mannes foul delyt,

Wel oghte a wyf rather hir-selven slee

Than be defouled, as it thinketh me.

What shal I seyn of Hasdrubales wyf,

That at Cartage birafte hir-self hir lyf?

For whan she saugh that Romayns wan the toun,

She took hir children alle, and skipte adoun

In-to the fyr, and chees rather to dye

And many a maid, slain herself, alas!

Rather than with her body do trespass?

Yes, certainly, these stories bear witness;⁹

When thirty tyrants, full of cursedness,

Had slain Phidon in Athens at the feast,

They commanded his daughters for to be seized,

And brought them before them to scorn

All naked, to fulfill their foul delight,

And in their father’s blood they made them dance

Upon the pavement, God give them mischance!

For which these woeful maidens, full of dread,

Rather than they would lose their maidenhood,

They secretly leapt into a well,

And drowned themselves, as the books tell.

The men of Messena had inquiries made and sought

From Sparta fifty maidens also,

On whom they would perform their lechery;

But there was none of all that company who

Was not slain, and with good will

Chose to die rather than assent

To be ravished of her maidenhood.

Why should I then to die be in dread?

Look also at the tyrant Aristoclides

Who loved a maiden, named Stimphalades,

When that her father slain was on a night,

Unto Diana’s temple went she right,

And clasped the holy image in her hands two,

From which image would she never go.

No person might her hands of it tear away,

Until she was slain right in the place.

Now since that maidens had such scorn

To be defiled with man’s foul delight,

Well ought a wife rather herself slay

Than be defiled, as it seems to me.

What shall I say of Hasdrubal’s wife,

Who at Carthage took from herself her life?

From when she saw that Romans won the town,

She took her children all, and jumped down

Into the fire, and chose rather to die

Than any Romayn dide hir vileinye.

Hath nat Lucresse y-slayn hir-self, alias !

At Rome, whanne she oppressed was

Of Tarquin, for hir thoughte it was a shame

To liven whan she hadde lost hir name?

The sevene maydens of Milesie also

Han slayn hem-self, for verray drede and wo,

Rather than folk of Gaule hem sholde oppresse.

Mo than a thousand stories, as I gesse,

Coude I now telle as touchinge this matere.

Whan Habradate was slayn, his wyf so dere

Hirselves slow, and leet hir blood to glyde

In Habradates woundes depe and wyde,

And seyde, ‘my body, at the leeste way,

Ther shal no wight defoulen, if I may.’

What sholde I mo ensamples heer-of sayn,

Sith that so manye han hem-selven slayn

Wel rather than they wolde defouled be?

I wol conclude, that it is bet for me

To sleen my-self, than been defouled thus.

I wol be trewe un-to Arveragus,

Or rather sleen my-self in som manere,

As dide Demociones doghter dere,

By-cause that she wolde nat defouled be.

O-Cedasus! it is ful greet pitee,

To reden how thy doghtren deyde, alias!

That slowe hem-selven for swich maner cas.

As greet a pitee was it, or wel more,

The Theban mayden, that for Nichanore

Hir-selven slow, right for swich maner wo.

Another Theban mayden dide right so;

For oon of Macedoine hadde hir oppressed,

She with hir deeth hir maydenhede redressed.

What shal I seye of Nicerates wyf,

That for swich cas birafte hir-self hir lyf?

How trewe eek was to Alcebiades

His love, that rather for to dyen chees

Than for to suffre his body unburied be!

Lo which a wyf was Alcestè;” quod she.

Than any Roman should do her villainy.

Did not Lucretia slay herself, alas!

At Rome, when she violated was

By Tarquin, for to her seemed it was a shame

To live when she had lost her name?

The seven maidens of Miletus also

Slew themselves, for great dread and woe,

Rather than folk of Gaul should them oppress.

More than a thousand stories, as I guess,

Could I now tell as touching this matter.

When Abradates was slain, his wife so dear

Herself slew, and let her blood glide

In Abradates’ wounds deep and wide,

And said, ‘My body, at least

There shall no person defile, if I may it prevent.’

Why should I more examples here recite,

Since so many have themselves slain

Rather than be defiled?

I will conclude that it is better for me

To slay myself than be defiled thus.

I will be true unto Averagus,

Or rather slay myself in some manner—

As did Demotion’s daughter dear,

By cause that she would not defiled be.

Oh Scedasus! It is full great pity

To read how your daughter died, alas!

Who slew herself for such a kind of case.

As great a pity was it, or well more,

The Theban maiden who for Nicanor

Herself slew for such kind of woe.

Another Theban maiden did right so:

Because one of Macedonia had her oppressed,

She with her death her maidenhood redressed.

What shall I say of Niceratus’ wife

Who for such case bereft herself her life?

How true also was to Alcibiades

His love, who chose to die rather

Than for to suffer his body unburied be!

Look, what a wife was Alcestis,” said she.

”What seith Omer of gode Penalopee?

Al Grece knoweth of hir chastitee.

Pardee, of Laodomya is writen thus,

That whan at Troye was slayn Protheselaus,

No lenger wolde she live after his day.

The same of noble Porcia telle I may;

With-oute Brutus coude she nat live,

To whom she hadde al hool hir herte yive.

The parfit wyfhod of Arthemesye

Honoured is thurgh al the Barbarye.

O Teuta, queen! thy wyfly chastitee

To alle wyves may a mirour be.

The same thing I seye of Bilia,

Of Rodogone, and eek Valeria.”

Thus pleyned Dorigene a day or tweye,

Purposing ever that she wolde deye.

But nathelees, upon the thridde night,

Horn came Arveragus, this worthy knight,

And asked hir, why that she weep so sore?

And she gan wepen ever lenger the more.

“Alias!” quod she, “that ever was I born!

Thus have I seyd,” quod she, “thus have I sworn‘—

And told him al as ye han herd bifore;

It nedeth nat reherce it yow na-more.

This housbond with glad chere, in freendly wyse,

Answerde and seyde as I shal yow devyse:

“Is ther oght elles, Dorigen, but this?”

“Nay, nay,” quod she, “god help me so, as wis;

This is to muche, and it were goddes wille.”

“Ye, wyf,” quod he, “lat slepen that is stille;

It may be wel, paraventure, yet to-day.

Ye shul your trouthe holden, by my fay!

For god so wisly have mercy on me,

I hadde wel lever y-stiked for to be,

For verray love which that I to yow have,

But-if ye sholde your trouthe kepe and save.

Trouthe is the hyeste thing that man may kepe:”—

But with that word he brast anon to wepe,

And seyde, “I yow forbede, up peyne of deeth,

”What said Homer of good Penelope?

All Greece knew of her chastity.

By God, of Laodamia is written thus,

Who when at Troy was slain Protesilaus,

No longer would she live after his day.

The same of noble Portia tell I may:

Without Brutus could she not live,

To whom she had wholly her heart given.

The perfect wifehood of Artemisia

Honored is through all Barbary.

Oh Teuta, queen! your wifely chastity

To all wives may a mirror be.

The same thing I say of Bilia,

Of Rhodogune, and also Valeria.”

Thus lamented Dorigen a day or two,

Intending ever that she would die.

But nevertheless, upon the third night,

Home came Averagus, this worthy knight,

And asked her why she wept so painfully;

And she began weeping ever longer and more.

“Alas!” said she, “that ever I was born!

Thus have I said,” said she, “thus have I sworn,”

And told him all as you have heard before;

I need not repeat it anymore.

Her husband, in a kind manner,

Answered and said as I shall you relate:

“Is there nought else, Dorigen, but this?”

“Nay, nay,” said she, “God help me;

This is too much, if it were God’s will.”

“Yea, wife,” said he, “let sleep what is still.

It may well yet turn out all right today.

You should your pledge keep, by my faith!

For, God have mercy on me,

I would rather be stabbed,

For the true love I for you have,

Than have you not keep your word.

Fidelity is the highest thing that man may keep.”

But with that, he burst at once into tears,

And said, “I forbid you, upon pain of death,

That never, whyl thee lasteth lyf ne breeth,

To no wight tel thou of this aventure.

As I may best, I wol my wo endure,

Ne make no contenance of hevinesse,

That folk of yow may demen harm or gesse.”

And forth he cleped a squyer and a mayde:

“Goth forth anon with Dorigen,” he sayde,

“And bringeth hir to swich a place anon.”

They take hir leve, and on hir wey they gon;

But they ne wiste why she thider wente.

He nolde no wight tellen his entente.

Paraventure an heep of yow, y-wis,

Wol holden him a lewed man in this,

That he wol putte his wyf in jupartye;

Herkneth the tale, er ye up-on hir crye.

She may have bettre fortune than yow semeth;

And whan that ye han herd the tale, demeth.

This squyer, which that highte Aurelius,

On Dorigen that was so amorous,

Of aventure happed hir to mete

Amidde the toun, right in the quikkest strete,

As she was boun to goon the wey forth-right

Toward the gardin ther-as she had hight.

And he was to the gardinward also;

For wel he spyed, whan she wolde go

Out of hir hous to any maner place.

But thus they mette, of aventure or grace;

And he saleweth hir with glad entente,

And asked of hir whiderward she wente?

And she answerde, half as she were mad,

“Un-to the gardin, as myn housbond bad,

My trouthe for to holde, alias! alias!”

Aurelius gan wondren on this cas,

And in his herte had greet compassioun

Of hir and of hir lamentacioun,

And of Arveragus, the worthy knight,

That bad hir holden al that she had hight,

So looth him was his wyf sholde breke hir trouthe;

And in his herte he caughte of this greet routhe,

Ever, while you draw breath,

To tell anyone of this—

As I may best, I will my woe endure—

Nor look sad,

So that folk suspect something is amiss.”

And forth he called a squire and a maid:

“Go forth anon with Dorigen,” he said,

“And bring her to a certain place anon.”

They took their leave, and on their way they went,

But they knew not why she thither went:

He would no one tell of his intent.

Perhaps many of you, certainly,

Will hold him a foolish man in this,

That he would put his wife in jeopardy.

Listen to the tale entire, before you complain.

She may have better fortune than you think,

So when you have heard the tale, then decide.

This squire, who was called Aurelius,

Of Dorigen who was so amorous,

By chance happened her to meet

Amid the town, right in the busiest street,

As she was on her way

To the garden as she had promised;

And he was headed to the garden also,

For he watched closely when she would go

Out of her house to any kind of place.

But thus they met, by chance or fate;

And he saluted her cheerfully,

And asked her whither she went;

And she answered, half as if she were mad,

“Unto the garden, as my husband bade,

My pledge for to hold, alas! alas!”

Aurelius fell to wondering on this event,

And in his heart had great compassion

For her and for her lamentation,

And for Averagus, the worthy knight,

Who bade her hold to all she had said,

So loath he was that his wife should break her pledge.

And in his heart he took great pity on this,

Consideringe the beste on every syde,

That fro his lust yet were him lever abyde

Than doon so heigh a cherlish wrecchednesse

Agayns franchyse and alle gentillesse;

For which in fewe wordes seyde he thus:

“Madame, seyth to your lord Arveragus,

That sith I see his grete gentillesse

To yow, and eek I see wel your distresse,

That him were lever han shame (and that

were routhe)

Than ye to me sholde breke thus your trouthe,

I have wel lever ever to suffre wo

Than I departe the love bitwix yow two.

I yow relesse, madame, in-to your hond

Quit every surement and every bond,

That ye han maad to me as heer-biforn,

Sith thilke tyme which that ye were born.

My trouthe I plighte, I shal yow never repreve

Of no biheste, and here I take my leve,

As of the treweste and the beste wyf

That ever yet I knew in al my lyf.

But every wyf be-war of hir biheste,

On Dorigene remembreth atte leste.

Thus can a squyer doon a gentil dede,

As well as can a knight, with-outen drede.”

She thonketh him up-on hir knees al bare,

And hoom un-to hir housbond is she fare,

And tolde him al as ye han herd me sayd;

And be ye siker, he was so weel apayd,

That it were impossible me to wryte;

What sholde I lenger of this cas endyte?

Arveragus and Dorigene his wyf

In sovereyn blisse leden forth hir lyf.

Never eft ne was ther angre hem bitwene;

He cherisseth hir as though she were a quene;

And she was to him trewe for evermore.

Of thise two folk ye gete of me na-more.

Aurelius, that his cost hath al forlorn,

Curseth the tyme that ever he was born:

Considering the best on every side,

So that his desire he thought it better to deny

Than do so great a churlish wretched thing

Against generosity and all nobility;

For which in few words said he thus:

“Madame, say to your lord Averagus,

That since I see his great nobility

To you, and also I see well your distress,

That he would rather have shame (and that would be

a pity)

Than you should break your pledge,

I would rather ever suffer woe

Than divide the love between you two.

I release you, madame, into your own hands,

Discharged of every oath and every bond

That you had made to me before,

Since that same time that you were born.

My troth I pledge, I shall never you reprove

Of any promise, and here I take my leave,

Of the truest and best wife

That ever yet I knew in all my life.

But every wife be careful of her behest!

Of Dorigen remember at the least.

Thus can a squire do a gentle deed

As well as can a knight, without a doubt.”

She thanked him upon her knees all bare,

And home unto her husband she did fare,

And told him all as you have heard me say;

And you can be sure, he was so well pleased

That it were impossible for me to write.

What should I longer of this case relate?

Averagus and Dorigen his wife

In sovereign bliss led forth their lives.

Never again was there anger them between:

He cherished her as if she were a queen,

And she was to him true for evermore.

Of these two folk you hear from me no more.

Aurelius, who his expense has all lost,

Cursed the time that ever he was born:

“Allas,” quod he, “allas! that I bihighte

Of pured gold a thousand pound of wighte

Un-to this philosophre! how shal I do?

I see na-more but that I am fordo.

Myn heritage moot I nedes selle,

And been a begger; heer may I nat dwelle,

And shamen al my kinrede in this place,

But I of him may gete bettre grace.

But nathelees, I wol of him assaye,

At certeyn dayes, yeer by yeer, to paye,

And thanke him of his grete curteisye;

My trouthe wol I kepe, I wol nat lye.”

With herte soor he gooth un-to his cofre,

And broghte gold un-to this philosophre,

The value of fyve hundred pound, I gesse,

And him bisecheth, of his gentillesse,

To graunte him dayes of the remenaunt,

And seyde, “maister, I dar wel make avaunt,

I failled never of my trouthe as yit;

For sikerly my dette shal be quit

Towardes yow, how-ever that I fare

To goon a-begged in my kirtle bare.

But wolde ye vouche-sauf, up-on seurtee,

Two yeer or three for to respyten me,

Than were I wel; for elles moot I selle

Myn heritage; ther is na-more to telle.”

This philosophre sobrely answerde,

And seyde thus, whan he thise wordes herde:

“Have I nat holden covenant un-to thee?”

“Yes, certes, wel and trewely,” quod he.

“Hastow nat had thy lady as thee lyketh?”

“No, no,” quod he, and sorwefully he syketh.

“What was the cause? tel me if thou can.”

Aurelius his tale anon bigan,

And tolde him al, as ye han herd bifore;

It nedeth nat to yow reherce it more.

He seide, “Arveragus, of gentillesse,

Had lever dye in sorwe and in distresse

Than that his wyf were of hir trouthe fals.”

“Alas,” said he, “alas! that I promised

Of refined gold a thousand pounds by weight

To this philosopher! How shall I do?

I see no more but that I am ruined.

My inheritance must I needs sell

And be a beggar; here I may not dwell,

And shame all my kin in this place,

Unless I of him may have a period of grace.

But nevertheless, I will with him try to arrange

At certain days, year by year, to pay,

And thank him for his great courtesy;

My pledge will I keep, I will not lie.”

With heart sore he went unto his coffer,

And brought gold unto this philosopher

The value of five hundred pounds, I guess,

And him beseeched out of his gentleness

To grant him time to pay the rest,

And said, “Master, I dare well make boast

I failed never of my word as yet;

For surely my debt shall be paid

Toward you, even if I must

Go a-begging in my shirt bare.

If you will grant, upon surety,

Two years or three of respite for me,

Then I will be well; otherwise must I sell

My heritage; there is no more to tell.”

This philosopher soberly answered,

And said thus, when he these words heard:

“Have I not kept covenant with you?”

“Yes, certainly, well and truly,” said he.

“Have you had your lady as you wished?”

“No, no,” said he, and sorrowfully he sighed.

“And what was the cause, tell me if you can.”

Aurelius his tale anon began,

And told him all, as you have heard before:

I need not recite it any more.

He said, “Averagus, of gentleness,

Would rather have died in sorrow and in distress

Than that his wife were of her pledge false.”

The sorwe of Dorigen he tolde him als,

How looth hir was to been a wikked wyf,

And that she lever had lost that day hir lyf,

And that hir trouthe she swoor, thurgh innocence:

She never erst herde speke of apparence;

“That made me han of hir so greet pitee.

And right as frely as he sente hir me,

As frely sente I hir to him ageyn.

This al and som, ther is na-more to seyn.”

This philosophre answerde, “leve brother,

Everich of yow dide gentilly til other.

Thou art a squyer, and he is a knight;

But god forbede, for his blisful might,

But-if a clerk coude doon a gentil dede

As wel as any of yow, it is no drede!

Sire, I relesse thee thy thousand pound,

As thou right now were cropen out of the ground,

Ne never er now ne haddest knowen me.

For sire, I wol nat take a peny of thee

For al my craft, ne noght for my travaille.

Thou hast y-payed wel for my vitaille;

It is y-nogh, and farewel, have good day:”

And took his hors, and forth he gooth his way.

Lordinges, this question wolde I aske now,

Which was the moste free, as thinketh yow?

Now telleth me, er that ey ferther wende.

I can na-more, my tale is at an ende.

The sorrow of Dorigen he told him also,

How loath she was to be a wicked wife,

And that she would rather have lost that day her life,

And that her promise she swore through innocence,

She never before heard speak of illusions.

“That made me have of her so great pity;

And just as generously as he sent her to me

As freely I sent her to him again.

This is the whole, there is no more to say.”

This philosopher answered, “Dear brother,

Each of you did gently toward the other.

You are a squire, and he is a knight;

But God forbid, for his blissful might,

That a scholar could not do a gentle deed

As well as any of you, without a doubt!

Sir, I release you your thousand pounds,

As if you right now had crept out of the ground,

And never before had you known me.

For sir, I will not take a penny from you

For all my craft, nor anything for my labor.

You have paid well for my victuals and play;

It is enough. And farewell, have a good day”

And took his horse, and forth he went his way.

Lordings, this question then would I ask now:

Who was the most generous, as think you?

Now tell me, before we further wend.

I know no more: my tale is at an end.