Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

“Freend, for thy warning god yeve thee good chaunce,”

Than seyde our host, “for certes, it wolde seme

Thy lord were wys, and so I may weldeme;

He is ful jocund also, dar I leye.

Can he oght telle a mery tale or tweye,

With which he glade may this companye?”

“Who, sire? my lord? ye, ye, withouten lye,

He can of murthe, and eek of jolitee

Nat but ynough; also sir, trusteth me,

And ye him knewe as wel as do I,

Ye wolde wondre how wel and craftily

He coude werke, and that in sondry wyse.

He hath take on him many a greet empryse,

Which were ful hard for any that is here

To bringe aboute, but they of him it lere.

As homely as he rit amonges yow,

If ye him knewe, it wolde be for your prow;

Ye wolde nat forgoon his aqueyntaunce

For mochel good, I dar leye in balaunce

Al that I have in my possessioun.

He is a man of heigh discrecioun,

I warne you wel, he is a passing man.”

“Wel,” quod our host, “I pray thee, tel me than.

Is he a clerk, or noon? tel what he is.”

“Nay, he is gretter than a clerk, y-wis,”

Seyde this yeman, “and in wordes fewe,

Host, of his craft som-what I wol yow shewe.

I seye, my lord can swich subtilitee—

(But al his craft ye may nat wite at me;

And som-what helpe I yet to his working)—

That al this ground on which we been ryding,

Til that we come to Caunterbury toun,

He coude al clene turne it up-so-doun,

And pave it al of silver and of gold.”

And whan this yeman hadde thus y-told

Out of your hostelry I saw you ride,

And warned here my lord and my master,

Who to ride with you would be much obliged,

For his pleasure; he loves stories and such.”

“Friend, for your warning God give you good luck,”

Then said our Host, “for certain it would seem

Your Lord was wise, and so I may well deem.

He is full jocund also, I dare wager!

Can he at least tell a tale or two,

With which he may make glad this company?”

“Who, sire? My lord? Yea, yea, without lie,

He knows of mirth and jollity

More than enough; also sir, trust me,

And if you knew him as well as do I,

You would wonder how well and skillfully

He could work, and that in sundry ways.

He takes on himself many a great enterprise,

Which would be full hard for any here

To bring about, unless they learned it from him.

Though simply he rides among you,

If you him knew, it would be for your profit.

You would not forgo his acquaintance

For much good, I dare bet

All that I have in my possession.

He is a man of high discretion;

I warn you well, he is an outstanding person.”

“Well,” said our Host, “I pray you, tell me then,

Is he a scholar, or no? Tell what he is.”

“Nay, he is greater than a scholar, truly,”

Said this Yeoman, “and in words few,

Host, of his skill something I will you show.

“I say, my lord knows such subtlety—

But all his skill you may not learn from me,

And somewhat yet I help his workings—

That all this ground on which we be riding,

Till that we come to Canterbury town,

He could all clean turn upside-down,

And pave it all of silver and of gold.”

And when this Yeoman had this tale told

Unto our host, he seyde, “ben‘cite!

This thing is wonder merveillous to me,

Sin that thy lord is of so heigh prudence,

By-cause of which men sholde him reverence,

That of his worship rekketh he so lyte;

His oversloppe nis nat worth a myte,

As in effect, to him, so mote I go!

It is al baudy and to-tore also.

Why is thy lord so sluttish, I thee preye,

And is of power better cloth to beye,

If that his dede accorde with thy speche?

Telle me that, and that I thee biseche.”

“Why?” quod this yeman, “wherto axe ye me?

God help me so, for he shal never thee!

(But I wol nat avowe that I seye,

And therfor kepe it secree, I yow preye).

He is to wys, in feith, as I bileve;

That that is overdoon, it wol nat preve

Aright, as clerkes seyn, it is a vyce.

Wherfor in that I holde him lewed and nyce.

For whan a man hath over-greet a wit,

Ful oft him happeth to misusen it;

So dooth my lord, and that me greveth sore.

God it amende, I can sey yow na-more.”

“Ther-of no fors, good yeman,” quod our host;

“Sin of the conning of thy lord thou wost,

Tel how he dooth, I pray thee hertely,

Sin that he is so crafty and so sly.

Wher dwellen ye, if it to telle be?”

“In the suburbes of a toun,” quod he,

“Lurkinge in hernes and in lanes blinde,

Wher-as thise robbours and thise theves by kinde

Holden hir privee fereful residence,

As they that dar nat shewen hir presence;

So faren we, if I shal seye the sothe.”

“Now,” quod our host, “yit lat me talke to the;

Why artow so discoloured of thy face?”

“Peter!” quod he, “god yeve it harde grace,

I am so used in the fyr to blowe,

Unto our Host, he said, ”Benedicite!

This thing is wondrous marvelous to me,

Since that your lord has such knowledge,

Because of which men should him reverence,

Who of his distinction makes he so light.

His overcoat is not worth a mite,

Really, to him, so must I say,

It is all dirty and tattered also.

Why is your lord so sloppy, I you pray,

And is able better cloth to buy,

If his works match your speech?

Tell me that, and that I you beseech.”

“Why?” said this Yeoman, “why ask me?

God help me so, for he shall succeed never!

(But I will not reveal it in what I say,

And therefore keep it secret, I you pray.)

He is too knowing, in faith, as I believe.

What is made too much of, it will not

Succeed, as scholars say, it is a vice.

Therefore in that I hold him both simple and wise.

For when a man has too much wit,

Full often he happens to misuse it.

So does my lord, and that grieves me sore;

God it amend! I can tell you no more.”

“Thereof no matter, good Yeoman,” said our Host;

“Since the cunning of your lord you know,

Tell how he works, I pray you with all my heart,

Since he is so skillful and so expert.

Where do you live, if you don’t mind saying?”

“In the suburbs of a town,” said he,

“Lurking in hiding places and in blind alleys,

Where these robbers and thieving kinds,

Keep their secret, fear-ridden roosts,

As they who dare not show their faces;

So fare we, if I shall say the truth.”

“Now,” said our Host, “yet let me talk to you.

Why are you so discolored in your face?”

“Peter!” said he, “God give it misfortune,

I am so used in the fire to blow

That it hath chaunged my colour, I trowe.

I am nat wont in no mirour to prye,

But swinke sore and lerne multiplye,

We blondren ever and pouren in the fyr.

And for al that we fayle of our desyr.

For ever we lakken our conclusioun.

To mochel folk we doon illusioun,

And borwe gold, be it a pound or two,

Or ten, or twelve, or many sommes mo,

And make hem wenen, at the leeste weye,

That of a pound we coude make tweye!

Yet is it fals, but ay we han good hope

It for to doon, and after it we grope.

But that science is so fer us biforn,

We mowen nat, al-though we hadde it sworn,

It overtake, it slit awey so faste;

It wol us maken beggars atte laste.”

Whyl this yeman was thus in his talking,

This chanoun drough him ncer, and herde al thing

Which this yeman spak, for suspecioun

Of mennes speche ever hadde this chanoun.

For Catoun seith, that he that gilty is

Demeth al thing be spoke of him, y-wis.

That was the cause he gan so ny him drawe

To his yeman, to herknen al his sawe.

And thus he seyde un-to his yeman tho,

“Hold thou thy pees, and spek no wordes mo,

For if thou do, thou shalt it dere abye;

Thou sclaundrest me heer in this companye,

And eek discoverest that thou sholdest hyde.”

“Ye,” quod our host, “telle on, what so bityde;

Of al his threting rekke nat a myte!”

“In feith,” quod he, “namore I do but lyte.”

And whan this chanon saugh it wolde nat be,

But his yeman wolde telle his privetee,

He fledde awey for verray sorwe and shame.

“A!” quod the yeman, “heer shal aryse game,

Al that I can anon now wol I telle.

Sin he is goon, the foule feend him quelle!

That it has changed my color, I know.

I am not wont in a mirror to peer,

But work hard and learn alchemy.

We blunder ever and stare into the fire,

And for all that we fail of our desire,

For ever we lack successful conclusion.

To most folk we do illusion,

And borrow gold, be it a pound or two,

Or ten, or twelve, or many sums more,

And make them believe, at least,

That of a pound we could make two.

Yet is it false, but ever we have good hope

It for to do, and after it we grope.

But that science is so far us before,

We accomplish it not, although we had it sworn,

To achieve, it slides away so fast.

It will make us beggars at the last.”

While this Yeoman was thus in his talking,

This Canon drew him near and heard everything

That this Yeoman said, for suspicion

Of men’s speech ever had this Canon.

For Cato says that he who guilty is

Deems everything spoken to be of him.⁴

That was the reason he began to draw

Near his Yeoman, to hear his chatter.

And thus he said unto his Yeoman then:

“Hold you your peace and speak no words more,

For if you do, you shall for it dearly pay.

You slander me here to this company,

And also reveal what you should hide.”

“Yea,” said our Host, “tell on, what so betides.

Of all his threatening reckon not a mite!”

“In faith,” said he, “I do but little more.”

And when this Canon saw it would not be,

But his Yeoman would reveal his secrecy,

He fled away for true sorrow and shame.

“Ah,” said the Yeoman, “here shall arise the game;

All that I know soon now will I say.

Since he is gone, the foul fiend him slay!

For never her-after wol I with him mete

For peny ne for pound, I yow bihete!

He that me broghte first unto that game,

Er that he dye, sorwe have he and shame!

For it is ernest to me, by my feith;

That fele I wel, what so any man seith.

And yet, for al my smerte and al my grief,

For al my sorwe, labour, and meschief,

I coude never leve it in no wyse.

Now wolde god my wit mighte suffyse

To tellen al that longeth to that art!

But natheles yow wol I tellen part;

Sin that my lord is gon, I wol nat spare;

Swich thing as that I knowe, I wol declare.”—

When we had set ourselves up to exercise

Our elvish craft, we seemed wondrous wise,

Our terms were scholarly and so abstruse.

I blew the fire till my heart burst.

Why should I tell each measure of

Things that we worked upon—

As to five or six ounces, may well be,

Of silver, or some other quantity—

And busy myself to tell you the names

Of arsenic, burnt bones, iron flakes,

That into powder ground were full small;

And in an earthen pot how put is all,

And salt put in, and also paper,

Before these powders that I spoke of here;

And well-covered with a lamp of glass;

And of much other things that there were;

And of the pot and glasses sealing

That of the vapor might pass out nothing;

And of the easy fire, and brisk also,

Which was made, and of the care and woe

That we had in our ingredients purifying,

And in our amalgamation and reduction

Of quicksilver, called raw mercury?

For all our trickery we cannot succeed.

Our arsenic and purified mercury,

Our ground lead oxide on the porphyry,⁵

Of each of these of ounces a certain measure—

Nought helped us; in vain was our labor.

Nor either our vaporized spirits,

Ne our materes that lyen al fixe adoun,

Mowe in our werking no-thing us avayle.

For lost is al our labour and travayle,

And al the cost, a twenty devel weye,

Is lost also, which we upon it leye.

Ther is also ful many another thing

That is unto our craft apertening;

Though I by ordre hem nat reherce can,

By-cause that I am a lewed man,

Yet wol I telle hem as they come to minde,

Though I ne can nat sette hem in hir kinde;

As bole armoniak, verdegrees, boras,

And sondry vessels maad of erthe and glas,

Our urinales and our descensories,

Violes, croslets, and sublymatories,

Cucurbites, and alembykes eek,

And othere swiche, dere y-nough a leek.

Nat nedeth it for to reherce hem alle,

Watres rubifying and boles galle,

Arsenik, sal armoniak, and brimstoon;

And herbes coude I telle eek many oon,

As egremoine, valerian, and lunarie,

And othere swiche, if that me liste tarie.

Our lampes brenning bothe night and day,

To bringe aboute our craft, if that we may.

Our fourneys eek of calcinacioun,

And of watres albificacioun,

Unslekked lym, chalk, and gleyre of an ey,

Poudres diverse, asshes, dong, pisse, and cley,

Cered pokets, sal peter, vitriole;

And divers fyres maad of wode and cole;

Sal tartre, alkaly, and sal preparat,

And combust materes and coagulat,

Cley maad with hors or mannes heer, and oile

Of tartre, alum, glas, berm, wort, and argoile

Resalgar, and our materes enbibing;

And eek of our materes encorporing,

And of our silver citrinacioun,

Nor our residue sediment stable,

For success in our working nothing us availed,

For lost is all our labor and our travail;

And all the cost, in the devil’s name,

Is lost also, that we had outlaid.

There is also full many another thing

That is unto our craft appertaining.

Though I cannot rehearse them in order,

Because I am an unlearned man,

Yet will I tell them as they come to mind,

Though I cannot set them in their order by kind:

As Armenian bole, copper, borax,

And sundry vessels made of earth and glass,

Our flasks and our retorts,

Vials, crucibles, and sublimatories,⁶

Distillation vessels and alembics also,

And other such, expensive but not worth a leek—

No need for me to rehearse them all—

Fluids reddening, and bull’s gall,

Arsenic, sal ammoniac, and brimstone;

And herbs could I tell many a one,

As agrimony, valerian, and moonwart,

And other such, if I wished to tarry;

Our lamps burning both night and day,

To bring about our purpose, if we may;

Our furnace also of calcination,

And of waters albification;

Unslaked lime, chalk, and white of egg,

Powders diverse, ashes, dung, piss and clay,

Waxed small bags, saltpeter, copper sulphate,

And diverse fires made of wood and coal;

Potassium carbonate, alkali, purified salt,

And burned materials and coagulates;

Clay made with horse or man’s hair, and oil

Of tarter, potash alum, brewer’s yeast, unfermented beer,

potassium bitartrate,

Arsenic disulphide, and our ingredients absorbant,

And also of our ingredients compounding,

And of our silver lemon-yellow turning,

Our cementing and fermentacioun,

Our ingottes, testes, and many mo.

I wol yow telle, as was me taught also,

The foure spirites and the bodies sevene,

By ordre, as ofte I herde my lord hem nevene.

The firste spirit quik-silver called is,

The second orpiment, the thridde, y-wis,

Sal armoniak, and the ferthe brimstoon.

The bodies sevene eek, lo! hem heer anoon:

Sol gold is, and Luna silver we threpe,

Mars yren, Mercurie quik-silver we clepe,

Saturnus leed, and Jupiter is tin,

And Venus coper, by my fader kin!

This cursed craft who-so wol exercyse,

He shal no good han that him may suffyse

For al the good he spendeth ther-aboute,

He lese shal, ther-of have I no doute.

Who-so that listeth outen his folye,

Lat him come forth, and lerne multiplye;

And every man that oght hath in his cofre,

Lat him appere, and wexe a philosofre.

Ascaunce that craft is so light to lere?

Nay, nay, god woot, al be he monk or frere,

Preest or chanoun, or any other wight,

Though he sitte at his book bothe day and night,

In lernying of this elvish nyce lore,

Al is in veyn, and parde, mochel more!

To lerne a lewed man this subtiltee,

Fy! spek nat ther-of, for it wol nat be;

Al conne he letterure, or conne he noon,

As in effect, he shal finde it al oon.

For bothe two, by my savacioun,

Concluden, in multiplicacioun,

Y-lyke wel, whan they han al y-do;

This is to seyn, they faylen bothe two.

Yet forgat I to maken rehersaille

Of watres corosif and of limaille,

And of bodyes mollificacioun,

And also of hir induracioun,

Our heat fusion and effervescence,

Our ingot molds, crucibles, and many more.

I will you tell, as was taught me also,

The volatile spirits four and the metals seven,

In order, as often I heard my lord name them.

The first spirit is called quicksilver,

The second arsenic, the third, truly,

Sal ammoniac, and the fourth sulphur.

The bodies seven also, now here they are:

Sun is gold, and Luna silver we affirm,

Mars iron, Mercury quicksilver,

Saturn lead, and Jupiter is tin,

And Venus copper, by my father’s kin!

This cursed craft whose whole exercise,

Shall do no good for whom it engages,

For all the money he on it spends

He shall lose it; thereof have I no doubt.

Whoso wishes to display his folly,

Let him come forth and learn alchemy;

And every man who has anything in his coffer,

Let him present himself and become a philosopher.

You think the craft is so easy to learn?

Nay, nay, God knows, be he monk or friar,

Priest or canon, or any other,

Though he sits at his book both day and night

In learning of this elvish, foolish lore,

He is in vain and, God knows, much more.

To teach an unschooled man this subtlety—

Fie! Speak not thereof, for it will not be.

And know he books or know he none,

In the end, he shall find it all the one.

For the both, by my salvation,

Conclude in transmutation

Much the same, when they are done;

That is to say, they both fail in the end.

Yet I forget to make rehearsal

Of liquids acidic, and filings of metal,

And of substances softening,

And also of their hardening;

Oiles, ablucions, and metal fusible,

To tellen al wolde passen any bible

That o-wher is; wherfor, as for the beste,

Of alle thise names now wol I me reste.

For, as I trowe, I have yow told y-nowe

To reyse a feend, al loke he never so rowe.

A! nay! lat be; the philosophres stoon,

Elixir clept, we sechen faste echoon;

For hadde we him, than were we siker y-now.

But, unto god of heven I make avow,

For al our craft, whan we han al y-do,

And al our sleighte, he wol nat come us to.

He hath y-maad us spenden mochel good,

For sorwe of which almost we wexen wood,

But that good hope crepeth in our herte,

Supposing ever, though we sore smerte,

To be releved by him afterward;

Swich supposing and hope is sharp and hard;

I warne you wel, it is to seken ever;

That futur temps hath maad men to dissever,

In trust ther-of, from al that ever they hadde.

Yet of that art they can nat wexen sadde,

For unto hem it is a bitter swete;

So semeth it; for nadde they but a shete

Which that they mighte wrappe hem inne a-night,

And a bak to walken inne by day-light,

They wolde hem selle and spenden on this craft;

They can nat stinte til no-thing be laft.

And evermore, wher that ever they goon,

Men may hem knowe by smel of brimstoon;

For al the world, they stinken as a goot;

Her savour is so rammish and so hoot,

That, though a man from hem a myle be,

The savour wol infecte him, trusteth me;

Lo, thus by smelling and threedbare array,

If that men liste, this folk they knowe may.

And if a man wol aske hem prively,

Why they been clothed so unthriftily,

They right anon wol rownen in his ere,

Oils, ablutions, and metals fusible—

To tell all would pass any bible

That ever was; therefore, as for the best,

All these names now will I let rest,

For, as I believe, I have told you enough,

To raise a fiend, though he looks ever so rough.

Ah! Nay! Let be; the philosopher’s stone,

Elixir called, we all seek eagerly;

For if we had it, then now certain would we be.

But unto God of heaven I make a vow,

For all our craft, when we were all done,

And all our cunning, he would not to us come.

He made us spend much of our money,

For sorrow of which we almost went crazy,

But that good hope crept in our hearts,

Supposing ever though we smarted,

To be relieved by him afterwards.

Such supposing and hope is sharp and hard;

I warn you well, it is to seek forever.

That future tense has made men part,

In hope thereof, from all that ever they had.

Yet of that art they cannot find peace,

For unto them it is a bitter sweet—

So seems it—for had they not but a sheet

Which they might wrap themselves in at night,

And a rough cloak to walk in by daylight,

They would spend and sell themselves on this craft.

They cannot stint until they have nothing left.

And evermore, wherever they go,

Men may them know by the smell of brimstone.

For all the world they stink as a goat;

Their odor is so rammish and gross

That though a man from them a mile be,

Their odor will infect him, trust to me.

Look, thus by smelling and threadbare raiment,

If men wish, this folk they may know.

And if a man will ask him privately

Why they be clothed so unhandsomely,

They right anon will whisper in his ear,

And seyn, that if that they espyed were,

Men wolde hem slee, by-cause of hir science;

Lo, thus this folk bitrayen innocence!

Passe over this; I go my tale un-to.

Er than the pot be on the fyr y-do,

Of metals with a certein quantitee,

My lord hem tempreth, and no man but he—

Now he is goon, I dar seyn boldely—

For, as men seyn, he can don craftily;

Algate I woot wel he hath swich a name,

And yet ful ofte he renneth in a blame;

And wite ye how? ful ofte it happeth so,

The pot to-breketh, and farwell! al is go!

Thise metals been of so greet violence,

Our walles mowe nat make hem resistence,

But if they weren wroght of lym and stoon;

They percen so, and thurgh the wal they goon,

And somme of hem sinken in-to the ground—

Thus han we lost by tymes many a pound—

And somme are scatered al the floor aboute,

Somme lepe in-to the roof; with-outen doute,

Though that the feend noght in our sighte him shewe,

I trowe he with us be, that ilke shrewe!

In helle wher that he is lord and sire,

Nis ther more wo, ne more rancour ne ire.

Whan that our pot is broke, as I have sayd,

Every man chit, and halt him yvel apayd.

Som seyde, it was long on the fyr-making,

Som seyde, nay! it was on the blowing;

(Than was I fered, for that was myn office);

“Straw!” quod the thridde, “ye been lewed and nyce,

It was nat tempred as it oghte be.”

“Nay!” quod the ferthe, “stint, and herkne me;

By-cause our fyr ne was nat maad of beech,

That is the cause, and other noon, so theech!”

I can nat telle wher-on it was long,

But wel I wot greet stryf is us among.

“What!” quod my lord, “there is na-more to done,

Of thise perils I wol be war eft-sone;

And say that if they were discovered,

Men would slay them because of their science.

Look, how these folk deceive the innocents!

Pass over this; I go unto my tale.

Before the pot be on the fire set,

Of metals with a certain quantity,

My lord them blended, and no man but he—

Now he is gone, I dare boldly say—

For as men say, he could do so well.

Although I know well he had made a name;

Yet full often he was to blame.

And you know why? Full often it happened so

The pot exploded, and farewell, all is gone!

These metals be of such great violence

Pot walls may not make them resistance,

But if they were wrought of lime or stone;

They pierce them, and through the wall they go.

And some of them sink into the ground—

Thus have we lost betimes many a pound—

And some are scattered all the floor about;

Some leap into the roof. Without doubt,

Though the fiend not to our sight himself reveals,

I believe he was with us, that same devil!

In hell, where he is lord and sire,

There is no more woe, nor rancor nor ire.

When our pot is broken, as I have said,

Every man himself holds paid badly.

Some said it was too long on the fire heating;

Some said no, it was the blowing—

Then was I afraid, for that was my chore.

“Straw!” said the third, “you be simple and unlearned,

It was not blended as it ought to have been.”

“Nay,” said the fourth, “shut up and listen:

Because our fire was not made of beechwood,

That is the cause and no other, so help me God!”

I cannot tell why it went wrong,

But well I know the strife was among us.

“What,” said my lord, “there is no more to be done;

Of these perils I will be wary from now on.

I am right siker that the pot was crased.

Be as be may, be ye no-thing amased;

As usage is, lat swepe the floor as swythe,

Plukke up your hertes, and beth gladde and blythe.”

The mullok on an hepe y-sweped was,

And on the floor y-cast a canevas,

And al this mullok in a sive y-throwe,

And sifted, and y-piked many a throwe.

“Pardee,” quod oon, “somwhat of our metal

That we concluden evermore amis.

But, be it hoot or cold, I dar seye this,

Yet is ther heer, though that we han nat al.

Al-though this thing mishapped have as now,

Another tyme it may be wel y-now,

Us moste putte our good in aventure;

A marchant, parde! may nat ay endure

Trusteth me wel, in his prosperitee;

Somtyme his good is drenched in the see,

And somtym comth it sauf un-to the londe.”

“Pees!” quod my lord, “the next tyme I wol fonde

To bringe our craft al in another plyte;

And but I do, sirs, lat me han the wyte;

Ther was defaute in som-what, wel I woot.”

Another seyde, the fyr was over hoot:—

We fayle of that which that we wolden have,

And in our madnesse evermore we rave.

And whan we been togidres everichoon,

Every man semeth a Salomon.

But al thing which that shyneth as the gold

Nis nat gold, as that I have herd it told;

Ne every appel that is fair at ye

Ne is nat good, what-so men clappe or crye.

Right-so, lo! fareth it amonges us;

He that semeth the wysest, by Jesus!

Is most fool, whan it cometh to the preef;

And he that semeth trewest is a theef;

That shul ye knowe, er that I fro yow wende,

But that I of my tale have maad an ende.

I am right sure the pot was cracked.

Be it as it may, by no means be dismayed;

As customary, sweep the floor without delay,

Pluck up your spirits and make a blithe face.”

The rubbish into a heap was swept,

And on the floor was cast a canvas,

And all this mess in a sieve thrown,

And sifted, and thoroughly picked through.

“By God,” said one, “some of our metal

Yet is here, though we have not all.

And though this thing went wrong for now,

Another time it may go well enough,

We must trust to luck.

A merchant, by God, may not ever endure,

Trust me well, in his prosperity.

Sometimes his cargo is drowned in the sea,

And sometimes it safely reaches land.”

“Peace!” said my lord, “the next time I will try

To bring our craft to another ending,

And if I do not, sires, let me have the blame.

There was fault in it somewhat, well I know.”

Another said the fire was over-hot—

But, be it hot or cold, I dare say this,

That we always ended up amiss.

We failed to get what we tried to have,

And in our madness evermore we raved.

And when we were together everyone,

Every man seemed a Solomon.

But every thing that shines as gold

Is not gold, as I have heard told;

Nor every apple that is fair to the eye

Is good, whatsoever men chatter or cry.

Right so, look, fared it among us;

He who seemed the wisest, by Jesus,

Was most the foolish, when it came to the test;

And he was a thief who seemed most true.

That shall you know, before I from you wend,

By when I of my tale have made an end.

But worshipful chanouns religious,

Ne demeth nat that I sclaundre your hous,

Al-though my tale of a chanoun be.

Of every ordre som shrewe is, parde,

And god forbede that al a companye

Sholde rewe a singuler mannes folye.

To sclaundre yow is no-thing myn entente,

But to correcten that is mis I mente.

This tale was nat only told for yow,

But eek for othere mo; ye woot wel how

That, among Cristes apostelles twelve,

Ther nas no traytour but Judas him-selve.

Than why sholde al the remenant have blame

That giltlees were? by yow I seye the same.

Save only this, if ye wol herkne me,

If any Judas in your covent be,

Remeveth him bitymes, I yow rede,

But worshipful canons religious,

Deem not that I slander your house,

Although my tale of a canon be.

In every house some wretch is, by God,

And God forbid that all a company

Should rue a single man’s folly.

To slander you is in no way my intent,

But to correct what is amiss I mention.

This tale is not only told for you,

But also for others more; you know well how

That among Christ’s apostles twelve

There was no traitor but Judas himself.

Then why should all the others have a blemish

Who guiltless were? To you I say the same,

Save only this, if you will harken to me:

If any Judas in your house be,

Remove him soon, I advise you,

If shame or loss may causen any drede.

And beth no-thing displesed, I yow preye,

But in this cas herkneth what I shal seye.

In London was a preest, an annueleer,

That therein dwelled hadde many a yeer,

Which was so pleasaunt and so servisable

Unto the wyf, wher-as he was at table,

That she wolde suffre him no-thing for to paye

For bord ne clothing, wente he never so gaye;

And spending-silver hadde he right y-now.

Therof no fors; I wol procede as now,

And telle forth my tale of the chanoun,

That broghte this preest to confusioun.

This false chanoun cam up-on a day

Unto this preestes chambre, wher he lay,

Biseching him to lene him a certeyn

Of gold, and he wolde quyte it him ageyn.

“Lene me a mark,” quod he, “but dayes three,

And at my day I wol it quyten thee.

And if so be that thou me finde fals,

Another day do hange me by the hals!”

This preest him took a mark, and that as swythe,

And this chanoun him thanked ofte sythe,

And took his leve, and wente forth his weye,

And at the thridde day broghte his moneye,

And to the preest he took his gold agayn,

Wherof this preest was wonder glad and fayn.

“Certes,” quod he, “no-thing anoyeth me

To lene a man a noble, or two or three,

Or what thing were in my possessioun,

Whan he so trewe is of condicioun,

That in no wyse he broke wol his day;

To swich a man I can never seye nay.”

“What!” quod this chanoun, “sholde I be untrewe?

Nay, that were thing y-fallen al of-newe.

Trouthe is a thing that I wol ever kepe

Un-to that day in which that I shal crepe

In-to my grave, and elles god forbede;

Bileveth this as siker as is your crede.

If shame or loss cause any fear.

And be in no way displeased, I pray you,

But in this case listen to what I shall say.

In London was a chantry priest,⁸

Who there had dwelt many a year,

And who was so pleasant and attentive

Unto the wife, when he was at table,

That she would not allow him to pay

For board nor clothing, though he was well dressed,

And spending silver had he right enough.

No matter; I will proceed as now,

And tell forth my tale of the canon

Who brought this priest to ruin.

This false canon came upon a day

Unto this priest’s chamber, where he lay,

Beseeching him to lend him of gold a certain

Amount, and he would pay him back again.

“Lend me a mark,” said he, “for but days three,

And at my day I will repay you.

And if it so be that you find me untrue,

Another day hang me by the neck!”

This priest he took a mark, right then,

And this canon thanked him again and again,

And took his leave, and went forth his way,

And at the third day brought his money,

And to the priest he repaid his gold he him owed,

Whereof this priest was wondrous eager and glad.

“Certainly,” said he, “in no way does it annoy me

To lend a man a noble, or two, or three,

Or something in my possession,

When he so true is of disposition

That in no way he misses his due day;

To such a man I can never say nay.”

“What!” said this canon, “should I be untrue?

Nay, that would be something new.

Truth is a thing that I will ever keep

Unto that day in which that I shall creep

Into my grave, and otherwise God forbid.

Believe this as surely as your Creed.

God thanke I, and in good tyme be it sayd,

That ther was never man yet yvel apayd

For gold ne silver that he to me lente,

Ne never falshede in myn herte I mente.

And sir,” quod he, “now of my privetee,

Sin ye so goodlich han been un-to me,

And kythed to me so greet gentillesse,

Somwhat to quyte with your kindenesse,

I wol yow shewe, and, if yow list to lere,

I wol yow teche pleynly the manere,

How I can werken in philosophye.

Taketh good heed, ye shul wel seen as ye,

That I wol doon a maistrie er I go.”

“Ye,” quod the preest, “ye, sir, and wol ye so?

Marie! ther-of I pray yow hertely!”

“At your comandement, sir, trewely,”

Quod the chanoun, “and elles god forbede!”

Lo, how this theef coude his servyse bede!

Ful sooth it is, that swich profred servyse

Stinketh, as witnessen thise olde wyse;

And that ful sone I wol it verifye

In this chanoun, rote of al trecherye,

That ever-more delyt hath and gladnesse—

Swich freendly thoughtes in his herte impresse—

How Cristes peple he may to meschief bringe;

God kepe us from his fals dissimulinge!

Noght wiste this preest with whom that he delte,

Ne of his harm cominge he no-thing felte.

O sely preest! O sely innocent!

With coveityse anon thou shalt be blent!

O gracelees, ful blind is thy conceit,

No-thing ne artow war of the deceit

Which that this fox y-shapen hath to thee!

His wyly wrenches thou ne mayst nat flee.

Wherfor, to go to the conclusioun

That refereth to thy confusioun,

Unhappy man! anon I wol me hye

To tellen thyn unwit and thy folye,

And eek the falsnesse of that other wrecche,

I thank God, fortunately it may be said,

That there was never yet man evilly repaid

For gold or silver that he to me lent,

Nor ever falsehood in my heart I meant.

And sire,” said he, ”now confidentially,

Since you so good have been to me,

And shown to me such great gentleness,

Somewhat to repay you for your kindness

I will show you, and if you wish to learn,

I will you teach plainly the manner

How I can work in alchemy.

Take good heed; you will see with your own eyes

That masterfully will I perform before I go.”

“Yea,” said the priest, “yea, sire, and will you so?

By Saint Mary, thereof I pray you heartily.”

“At your commandment, sir, truly,”

Said the canon, “and anything else may God forbid!”

Look, how this thief could his service proffer!

For truth it is such favors unasked for

Stink, so say the wise,

And that full soon will I verify

In this canon, root of all treachery,

Who evermore found delight and cheer—

Such fiendish thoughts his heart held near—

Of how to Christ’s people he might destruction bring.

God keep us from his false dissembling!

Not knew this priest with whom he dealt,

Nor of his harm coming he any thing felt.

Oh nice priest! Oh innocent naive!

By covetousness soon will you be fleeced!

Oh unfortunate one, full blind is your mind

In no way are you aware of the deceit

Which this fox has for you prepared!

His wily tricks you may not flee.

Wherefore, to go to the conclusion,

That refers to your ruin,

Unlucky man, anon I will me hie

To tell your unwit and your folly,

And also the falseness of that other wretch,

As ferforth as that my conning may strecche.

This chanoun was my lord, ye wolden wene?

Sir host, in feith, and by the hevenes quene,

It was another chanoun, and nat he,

That can an hundred fold more subtiltee!

He hath bitrayed folkes many tyme;

Of his falshede it dulleth me to ryme.

Ever whan that I speke of his falshede,

For shame of him my chekes wexen rede;

Algates, they biginnen for to glowe,

For reednesse have I noon, right wel I knowe,

In my visage; for fumes dyverse

Of metals, which ye han herd me reherce,

Consumed and wasted han my reednesse.

Now tak heed of this chanouns cursednesse!

“Sir,” quod he to the preest, “lat your man gon

For quik-silver, that we it hadde anon;

And lat him bringen ounces two or three;

And whan he comth, as faste shul ye see

A wonder thing, which ye saugh never er this.”

“Sir,” quod the preest, “it shal be doon, y-wis.”

He bad his servant fecchen him this thing,

And he al redy was at his bidding,

And wente him forth, and cam anon agayn

With this quik-silver, soothly for to sayn,

And took thise ounces three to the chanoun;

And he hem leyde fayre and wel adoun,

And bad the servant coles for to bringe,

That he anon mighte go to his werkinge.

The coles right anon weren y-fet,

And this chanoun took out a crosselet

Of his bosom, and shewed it the preest.

“This instrument,” quod he, “which that thou seest,

Tak in thyn hand, and put thy-self ther-inne

Of this quik-silver an ounce, and heer biginne,

In the name of Crist, to wexe a philosofre.

Ther been ful fewe, whiche that I wolde profre

To shewen hem thus muche of my science.

For ye shul seen heer, by experience,

As far as my understanding will stretch.

This canon was my lord, do you suppose?

Sir Host, in faith, and by heaven’s queen,

It was another canon, and not he,

Who knew a hundredfold more subtlety.

He has betrayed folk many times;

Of his falseness it depresses me to rhyme.

Whenever I speak of his falsehood,

For shame of him my cheeks wax red.

At least they begin to glow,

For redness have I none, right well I know,

In my visage; for fumes diverse

Of metals, which you have heard me rehearse,

Consumed and wasted have my redness.

Now take heed of this canon’s cursedness!

“Sire,” said he to the priest, “let your man go

For quicksilver, that we have it anon;

And let him bring ounces two or three;

And when he comes, as fast as you shall see

A wondrous thing, which you never saw before this.”

“Sire,” said the priest, “it shall be done, truly.”

He bade his servant fetch him this thing,

And he already was at his bidding,

And went him forth, and came anon again

With this quicksilver, shortly to say,

And took these ounces three to the canon;

And he them laid fair and well down,

And bade the servant coals to bring,

That he anon might go to his working.

The coals right anon were fetched,

And this canon took out his crucible

From his bosom, and showed it to the priest.

“This instrument,” said he, “which you see,

Take in your hand, and put yourself therein

Of this quicksilver an ounce, and here begin,

In name of Christ, to become an alchemist.

There be full few to whom I would offer

To show them this much of my science.

For you shall see here, by experience,

That this quik-silver wol I mortifye

Right in your sighte anon, withouten lye,

And make it as good silver and as fyn

As ther is any in your purs or myn,

Or elleswher, and make it malliable;

And elles, holdeth me fals and unable

Amonges folk for ever to appere!

I have a poudre heer, that coste me dere,

Shal make al good, for it is cause of al

My conning, which that I yow shewen shal.

Voydeth your man, and lat him be ther-oute,

And shet the dore, whyls we been aboute

Our privetee, that no man us espye

Whyls that we werke in this philosophye.”

Al as he bad, fulfilled was in dede,

This ilke servant anon-right out yede,

And his maister shette the dore anon,

And to hir labour speedily they gon.

This preest, at this cursed chanouns bidding,

Up-on the fyr anon sette this thing,

And blew the fyr, and bisied him ful faste;

And this chanoun in-to the croslet caste

A poudre, noot I wher-of that it was

Y-maad, other of chalk, other of glas,

Or som-what elles, was nat worth a flye

To blynde with the preest; and bad him hye

The coles for to couchen al above

The croslet; “for, in tokening I thee love,”

Quod this chanoun, “thyn owene hondes two

Shul werche al thing which that shal heer be do.”

“Graunt mercy,” quod the preest, and was ful glad,

And couched coles as the chanoun bad.

And whyle he bisy was, this feendly wrecche,

This fals chanoun, the foule feend him fecche!

Out of his bosom took a bechen cole,

In which ful subtilly was maad an hole,

And ther-in put was of silver lymaille

An ounce, and stopped was, with-outen fayle,

The hole with wex, to kepe the lymail in.

That this quicksilver I will solidify

Right in your sight anon, without lie,

And make it as good as silver and as fine

As there is any in your purse or mine,

Or elsewhere, and make it malleable;

Or if not hold me false and worthless

Among folk forever to appear.

I have a powder here, that cost me dear,

Shall make it all good, for it is cause of all

My cunning, which I shall show you.

Send away your man, and let him be gone out,

And shut the door, while we be about

Our secrecy, that no man us espy,

Whilst that we work in this philosophy.”

All as he bade was fulfilled in deed.

This same servant anon right went out,

And his master anon shut the door,

And speedily went they to their labor.

This priest, at this cursed canon’s bidding,

Upon the fire anon set this thing,

And blew the fire, and busied him full fast.

And this canon into the crucible cast

A powder, I know not of what it was

Made, maybe of chalk, maybe of glass,

Or something else, which was not worth a fly,

To blind with this priest; and bade him hie

The coals for to arrange all above

The crucible. “For as a sign that I you love,”

Said this canon, “your own hands two

Shall work all things which we shall here do.”

“Grant mercy,” said the priest, and was full glad,

And set the coals as the canon bade.

And while he busy was, this fiendish wretch,

This false canon—the foul fiend him fetch!—

Out of his bosom took a beechwood charcoal,

In which full subtly was made a hole,

And therein were put an ounce of silver filings,

And was stopped, without fail,

This hole with wax, to keep the filings in.

And understondeth, that this false gin

Was nat maad ther, but it was maad bifore;

And othere thinges I shal telle more

Herafterward, which that he with him broghte;

Er he cam ther, him to bigyle he thoghte,

And so he dide, er that they wente a-twinne;

Til he had terved him, coude he not blinne.

It dulleth me whan that I of him speke,

On his falshede fayn wolde I me wreke,

If I wiste how; but he is heer and ther:

He is so variaunt, he abit no-wher.

But taketh heed now, sirs, for goddes love!

He took his cole of which I spak above,

And in his hond he baar it prively.

And whyls the preest couched busily

The coles, as I tolde yow er this,

This chanoun seyde, “freend, ye doon amis;

This is nat couched as it oghte be;

But sone I shal amenden it,” quod he.

“Now lat me medle therwith but a whyle,

For of yow have I pitee, by seint Gyle!

Ye been right hoot, I see wel how ye swete,

Have heer a cloth, and wype away the wete.”

And whyles that the preest wyped his face,

This chanoun took his cole with harde grace,

And leyde it above, up-on the middeward

Of the croslet, and blew wel afterward,

Til that the coles gonne faste brenne.

“Now yeve us drinke,” quod the chanoun thenne,

“As swythe al shal be wel, I undertake;

Sitte we doun, and lat us mery make.”

And whan that this chanounes bechen cole

Was brent, al the lymaille, out of the hole,

Into the croslet fil anon adoun;

And so it moste nedes, by resoun,

Sin it so even aboven couched was;

But ther-of wiste the preest no-thing, alas!

He demed alle the coles y-liche good,

For of the sleighte he no-thing understood.

And understand that this trick thing

Was not made there, but it was made before;

And other things I shall tell more

Hereafterward, which he with him brought.

Before he came there, him to beguile he thought,

And so he did, before they went apart;

Till he had skinned him, he could not cease.

It depresses me when I of him speak.

On his falsehood gladly would I vengeance wreak,

If I knew how, but he is here and there;

He is so changeable, he abides nowhere.⁹

But take heed now, sires, for God’s love!

He took his charcoal of which I spoke above,

And in his hand he bore it secretly.

And while the priest arranged busily

The coals, as I told you before this,

This canon said, “Friend, you do amiss.

This is not arranged as it ought be;

But soon I shall amend it,” said he.

“Now let me meddle with it a little while,

For of you I have pity, by Saint Gile!

You be right eager, I see how you sweat.

Have here a cloth, and wipe away the wet.”

And while the priest wiped his face,

This canon took his charcoal—to him no grace!—

And laid it above the middle

Of the crucible, and blew well afterward

Till that the coals began to fast burn.

“Now give us drink,” said the canon then;

“And quickly all shall be well, I undertake.

Sit we down, and let us merry make.”

And when that this canon’s beechwood coal

Was burnt, all of the filings out of the hole

Into the crucible fell soon adown;

And so it must needs, by reason

Since it was so precisely arranged above.

But alas! the priest nothing knew thereof.

He deemed all the coals alike good,

For of that trick he nothing understood.

And whan this alkamistre saugh his tyme,

“Rys up,” quod he, “sir preest, and stondeth by me;

And for I woot wel ingot have ye noon,

Goth, walketh forth, and bring us a chalk-stoon;

For I wol make oon of the same shap

That is an ingot, if I may han hap.

And bringeth eek with yow a bolle or a panne,

Ful of water, and ye shul see wel thanne

How that our bisinesse shal thryve and preve.

And yet, for ye shul han no misbileve

Ne wrong conceit of me in your absence,

I ne wol nat been out of your presence

But go with yow, and come with yow ageyn.”

The chambre-dore, shortly for to seyn,

They opened and shette, and wente hir weye.

And forth with hem they carieden the keye,

And come agayn with-outen any delay.

What sholde I tarien al the longe day?

He took the chalk, and shoop it in the wyse

Of an ingot, as I shal yow devyse.

I seye, he took out of his owene sieve

A teyne of silver (yvele mote he cheve!)

Which that ne was nat but an ounce of weighte;

And taketh heed now of his cursed sleighte!

He shoop his ingot, in lengthe and eek in brede,

Of this teyne, with-outen any drede,

So slyly, that the preest it nat espyde;

And in his sieve agayn he gan it hyde;

And fro the fyr he took up his matere,

And in th‘ingot putte it with mery chere,

And in the water-vessel he it caste

Whan that him luste, and bad the preest as faste,

“Look what ther is, put in thyn hand and grope,

Thow finde shalt ther silver, as I hope;

What, devel of helle! sholde it elles be?

Shaving of silver silver is, pardee!”

He putte his hond in, and took up a teyne

Of silver fyn, and glad in every veyne

Was this preest, whan he saugh that it was so.

And when this alchemist saw his time,

“Rise up,” said he, “sir priest, and stand by me;

And for well I know ingot mold have you none,

Go, walk forth, and bring a chalk stone;

For I will make of it the same shape

That is an ingot, if I may have good luck.

And bring also with you a bowl or a pan

Full of water, and you shall see well then

How our business shall thrive and succeed.

And yet, that you shall have no disbelief

Or wrong idea of me in your absence,

I will not be out of your presence,

But go with you and come with you again.”

The chamber door, shortly for to say,

They opened and shut, and went their way.

And forth with them they carried the key,

And returned again without delay.

Why should I tarry all the long day?

He took the chalk and made it into the shape

Of an ingot, as I shall you describe.

I say, he took out of his own sleeve

A small silver ingot—so does he evil!—

That was not but an ounce of weight.

And take heed now of his cursed sleight!

He shaped his mold in length and breadth

Of this ingot, without any doubt,

So slyly that the priest not it espied,

And in his sleeve again he began it to hide,

And from the fire he took up his material,

And into the mold put it with merry face,

And in the water-vessel he it cast,

When that he desired, and bade the priest at last,

“Look what there is; put it in your hand and test.

You shall find there silver, as I hope.”

What, devil of hell, shall it else be?

Shavings of silver, silver is, by God!

He put his hand in and took up an ingot

Of silver fine, and glad in every vein

Was this priest, when he saw it was so.

“Goddes blessing, and his modres also,

And alle halwes have ye, sir chanoun,”

Seyde this preest, “and I hir malisoun,

But, and ye vouche-sauf to techen me

This noble craft and this subtilitee,

I wol be youre, in al that ever I may!”

Quod the chanoun, “yet wol I make assay

The second tyme, that ye may taken hede

And been expert of this, and in your nede

Another day assaye in myn absence

This disciplyne and this crafty science.

Lat take another ounce,” quod he tho,

“Of quik-silver, with-outen wordes mo,

And do ther-with as ye han doon er this

With that other, which that now silver is.”

This preest him bisieth in al that he can

To doon as this chanoun, this cursed man,

Comanded him, and faste he blew the fyr,

For to come to th‘effect of his desyr.

And this chanoun, right in the mene whyle,

Al redy was, the preest eft to bigyle,

And, for a countenance, in his hande he bar

And holwe stikke (tak keep and be war!)

In the ende of which an ounce, and na-more,

Of silver lymail put was, as bifore

Was in his cole, and stopped with wex weel

For to kepe in his lymail every deel.

And whyl this preest was in his bisinesse,

This chanoun with his stikke gan him dresse

To him anon, and his pouder caste in

As he did er; (the devel out of his skin

Him terve, I pray to god, for his falshede;

For he was ever fals in thoght and dede);

And with this stikke, above the croslet,

That was ordeyned with that false get,

He stired the coles, til relente gan

The wex agayn the fyr, as every man,

But it a fool be, woot wel it mot nede,

And al that in the stikke was out yede,

“God’s blessing, and his mother’s also,

And all saints, have you, sir canon,”

Said the priest, “and I here me curse,

Unless you vouchsafe to teach me

This noble craft and this subtlety,

I will be yours in all that ever I may.”

Said the canon, “Yet will I make assay

The second time, that you may take heed

And be an expert of this, and as you need

Another day, assay in my absence

This discipline and this crafty science.

Let take another ounce,” said he then,

“Of quicksilver, without words more,

And do therewith as you have done before this

With that other, which now silver is.”

This priest busied himself in all that he could

To do as this canon, this cursed man,

Commanded him, and fast blew the fire,

For to come to the effect of his desire.

And this canon, right in the meanwhile,

Already was this priest again to beguile,

And for the sake of show in his hand he bore

A hollow stick—take care and beware!—

In the end of which an ounce, and no more,

Of silver filings put was, as before

Was in his charcoal, and stopped with wax well

For to keep in his filings every bit.

And while this priest was about his business,

This canon with his wand began to touch

The fire anon, and his powder cast in

As he did before—the devil out his skin

Him flay, I pray to God, for his falsehood!

For he was ever false in thought and deed—

And with this wand above the crucible,

That was prepared with that hollow end,

He stirred the coals until melting began

The wax against the fire, as every man,

But who a fool be, knows well it must needs do,

And all that was in the stick went out,

And in the croslet hastily it fel.

Now gode sirs, what wol ye bet than wel?

Whan that this preest thus was bigyled ageyn,

Supposing noght but trouthe, soth to seyn,

He was so glad, that I can nat expresse

In no manere his mirthe and his gladnesse;

And to the chanoun he profred eftsone

Body and good; “ye,” quod the chanoun sone,

“Though povre I be, crafty thou shalt me finde;

I warne thee, yet is ther more bihinde.

Is ther any coper her-inne?” seyde he.

“Ye,” quod the preest, “sir, I trowe wel ther be.”

“Elles go bye us som, and that as swythe,

Now, gode sir, go forth thy wey and hy the.”

He wente his wey, and with the coper cam,

And this chanoun it in his handes nam,

And of that coper weyed out but an ounce.

Al to simple is my tonge to pronounce,

As ministre of my wit, the doublenesse

Of this chanoun, rote of al cursednesse.

He seemed freendly to hem that knewe him noght,

But he was freendly bothe in herte and thoght.

It werieth me to telle of his falsnesse,

And nathelees yet wol I it expresse,

To th‘entente that men may be war therby,

And for noon other cause, trewely.

He putte his ounce of coper in the croslet,

And on the fyr as swythe he hath it set,

And caste in poudre, and made the preest to blowe,

And in his werking for to stoupe lowe,

As he dide er, and al nas but a jape;

Right as him liste, the preest he made his ape;

And afterward in th‘ingot he it caste,

And in the panne putte it at the laste

Of water, and in he putte his owene hond.

And in his sieve (as ye biforn-hond

Herde me telle) he hadde a silver teyne.

He slyly took it out, this cursed heyne—

Unwiting this preest of his false craft—

And into the crucible hastily it fell.

Now, good sirs, what can be better than well?

When this priest thus was beguiled again,

Supposing nought but truth to witness,

He was so glad that I cannot express

In any manner his mirth and his gladness;

And to the canon he offered again

Body and soul. “Yea,” said the canon soon,

“Though I poor be, skillful shall you find me.

I warn you, there is yet more to see.

Is there any copper here?” said he.

“Yes,” said the priest, “I think—or maybe not.”

“Then go buy us some, and right quick;

Now sir, go forth your way and hurry.”

He went his way, and with the copper came,

And this canon took it in his hands,

And of that copper weighed out but an ounce.

All too simple is my tongue to pronounce,

As minister of my wit, the duplicity

Of this canon, root of all cursedness!

He seemed friendly to those who knew him not,

But he was fiendish both in work and thought.

It wearies me to tell of his falseness,

And nevertheless yet will I express it,

With the intent that men may be warned thereby,

And for no other cause, truly.

He put this ounce of copper in the crucible,

And on the fire immediately he has it set,

And cast in the powder, and made the priest to blow,

And in his working for to stoop low,

As he did before—and all was but a jape;

Right as he wished, the priest he made his ape!

And afterward in the mold he it cast,

And in the pan put it at the last

Of water, and in he put his own hand,

And in his sleeve (as you beforehand

Heard me tell) he had a silver ingot.

He slyly took it out, this cursed wretch,

Ignorant this priest of his false craft,

And in the pannes botme he hath it laft;

And in the water rombled to and fro,

And wonder prively took up also

The coper teyne, noght knowing this preest,

And hidde it, and him hente by the breest,

And to him spak, and thus seyde in his game,

“Stoupeth adoun, by god, ye be to blame,

Helpeth me now, as I dide yow whyl-er,

Putte in your hand, and loketh what is ther.”

This preest took up this silver teyne anon,

And thanne seyde the chanoun, “lat us gon

With thise three teynes, which that we han wroght,

To son goldsmith, and wite if they been oght.

For, by my feith, I nolde, for myn hood,

But-if that they were silver, fyn and good,

And that as swythe preved shal it be.”

Un-to the goldsmith with thise teynes three

They wente, and putte thise teynes in assay

To fyr and hamer; mighte no man sey nay,

But that they weren as hem oghte be.

This sotted preest, who was gladder than he?

Was never brid gladder agayn the day,

Ne nightingale, in the sesoun of May,

Nas never noon that luste bet to singe;

Ne lady lustier in carolinge

Or for to speke of love and wommanhede,

Ne knight in armes to doon an hardy dede

To stonde in grace of his lady dere,

Than had this preest this sory craft to lere;

And to the chanoun thus he spak and seyde,

“For love of god, that for us alle deyde,

And as I may deserve it un-to yow,

What shal this receit coste? telleth now!”

“By our lady,” quod this chanoun, “it is dere,

I warne yow wel; for, save I and a frere,

In Engelond ther can no man it make.”

“No fors,” quod he, “now, sir, for goddes sake,

What shal I paye? telleth me, I preye.”

“Y-wis,” quod he, “it is ful dere, I seye;

And in the pan’s bottom he has it left;

And in the water groped to and fro,

And wondrous secretly took up also

The copper piece, the priest still deceived,

And hid it, and him grasped by the breast,

And him spoke, and thus said in his game:

”Stoop down, by God, be you to blame!

Help me now, as I did you before;

And put in your hand, and look what is there.”

This priest took up this silver ingot anon,

And then said the canon, ”Let us go

With these three ingots, that we have wrought,

To some goldsmith and learn if they be what they ought,

For, by my faith, I would not want, by my hood,

That they were anything but silver fine and good,

And that soon shall it tested be.”

Unto the goldsmith with these ingots three

They went and put their ingots in assay

To fire and hammer; might no man say nay,

But that they were as they ought to be.

This besotted priest, who was gladder than he?

Was never a bird gladder at daybreak,

No nightingale, in the season of May,

Was ever any that lusted better to sing;

Nor lady lustier in caroling,

Or for to speak of love and womanhood,

Nor knight in arms to do a brave deed,

To stand in grace of his lady dear,

Than was this priest this sorry craft to learn.

And to the canon thus he spoke and said:

“For love of God, who for us all died,

And as I may you repay,

What shall this recipe cost? Tell now!”

“By our lady,” said the canon, “it is dear,

I warn you well; for save I and a confrere,

In England there can no man it make.”

“No matter,” said he, “no, sire, for God’s sake,

What shall I pay? Tell me, I pray.”

“Truly,” said he, “it is full dear, I say.

Sir, at o word, if that thee list it have,

Ye shul paye fourty pound, so god me save!

And, nere the freendship that ye did er this

To me, ye sholde paye more, y-wis.”

This preest the somme of fourty pound anon

Of nobles fette, and took hem everichon

To this chanoun, for this ilke receit;

Al his werking nas but fraude and deceit.

“Sir preest,” he seyde, “I kepe han no loos

Of my craft, for I wolde it kept were cloos;

And as ye love me, kepeth it secree;

For, and men knewe al my subtilitee,

By god, they wolden han so greet envye

To me, by-cause of my philosophye,

I sholde be deed, ther were non other weye.”

“God it forbede!” quod the preest, “what sey ye?”

Yet hadde I lever spenden al the good

Which that I have (and elles wexe I wood!)

Than that ye sholden falle in swich mescheef.”

“For your good wil, sir, have ye right good preef.”

Quod the chanoun, “and far-wel, grant mercy!”

He wente his wey and never the preest him sy

After that day; and whan that this preest sholde

Maken assay, at swich tyme as he wolde,

Of this receit, far-wel! it wolde nat be!

Lo, thus bijaped and bigyled was he!

Thus maketh he his introduccioun

To bringe folk to hir destruccioun.—

Considereth, sirs, how that, in ech estaat,

Bitwixe men and gold ther is debaat

So ferforth, that unnethes is ther noon

This multiplying blent so many oon,

That in good feith I trowe that it be

The cause grettest of swich scarsetee.

Philosophres speken so mistily

In this craft, that men can nat come therby,

For any wit that men han now a-dayes.

They mowe wel chiteren, as doon thise jayes,

And in her termes sette hir lust and peyne,

Sir, in a word, if that you wish it to have,

You shall pay forty pounds, so God me save!

And if were not for your kindness before this

To me, you would pay more, I guess.”

This priest the sum of forty pounds anon

Of nobles fetched, and took them every one

To this canon for this recipe.

All his working was nought but fraud and deceit.

“Sir priest,” he said, “I care not for renown

In my craft, for I would it were kept discreet;

And, as you love me, keep it secret.

For, if men knew all my subtlety,

By God, they would have so great envy

Of me by cause of my alchemy

I should be dead; there is no other way.”

“God it forbid,” said the priest, “what say you?

I would spend everything

That I have, or go crazy,

Rather than you should fall in such mischief.”

“For your good will, sir, have you right good proof,”

Said the canon, “and farewell, grant mercy!”

He went his way, and never the priest him saw

After that day; and when that the priest should

Make assay, at such time as he would,

Of this recipe, farewell! It would not be.

Look, thus tricked and beguiled was he!

Thus made he his introduction,

To bring folk to their destruction.

Consider, sires, how that, in each estate,

Between men and gold there is strife

So fierce that of gold there is to be had almost none.

This alchemistry deceives so many

That in good faith I believe it be

The cause greatest of such scarcity.

Alchemists speak so hazily

Of this craft that men cannot learn it thereby,

At least not with the wits that men have nowadays.

They more often chatter as do jays,

And in their terms set their lust and pain,

But to hir purpos shul they never atteyne.

A man may lightly lerne, if he have aught,

To multiplye, and bringe his good to naught!

Lo! swich a lucre is in this lusty game,

A mannes mirthe it wol torne un-to grame,

And empten also grete and hevy purses,

And maken folk for to purchasen curses

Of hem, that han hir good therto y-lent.

O! fy! for shame! they that han been brent,

Alias! can they nat flee the fyres hete?

Ye that it use, I rede ye it lete,

Lest ye lese al; for bet than never is late.

Never to thryve were to long a date.

Though ye prolle ay, ye shul it never finde;

Ye been as bolde as is Bayard the blinde,

That blundreth forth, and peril casteth noon;

He is as bold to renne agayn a stoon

As for to goon besydes in the weye.

So faren ye that multiplye, I seye.

If that your yën can nat seen aright,

Loke that your minde lakke noght his sight.

For, though ye loke never so brode, and stare,

Ye shul nat winne a myte on that chaffare,

But wasten al that ye may rape and renne.

Withdrawe the fyr, lest it to faste brenne;

Medleth na-more with that art, I mene,

For, if ye doon, your thrift is goon ful clene.

And right as swythe I wol yow tellen here,

What philosophres seyn in this matere.

Lo, thus seith Arnold of the Newe Toun,

As his Rosarie maketh mencioun;

He seith right thus, with-outen any lye,

“Ther may no man Mercurie mortifye,

But it be with his brother knowleching.

How that he, which that first seyde this thing,

Of philosophres fader was, Hermes;

He seith, how that the dragoun, doutelees,

Ne deyeth nat, but-if that he be slayn

With his brother; and that is for to sayn,

But to their purpose shall they never attain.

A man may easily learn, if he has anything,

To alchemize, and bring himself to nought!

Look! Such gain is in this fine game,

That a man’s mirth it will turn unto shame,

And empty also great and heavy purses,

And make folk for to purchase curses

On those to whom they their goods leant.

Oh, fie, for shame! They who have been burnt,

Alas, can they not flee the fire’s heat?

You who it use, I advise you leave it,

Lest you lose all; for better than never is late.

Never to thrive is too long a wait.

Though you prowl forever, you shall never find it.

You be as bold as is Bayard the blind,¹⁰

Who blunders forth and peril thinks not upon.

He is as likely to run against a stone

As for to go along the road.

So fare you who alchemize, I say.

If your eyes cannot see aright,

Look that your mind lacks not its sight.

For though you look never so hard and stare,

You shall nothing profit in those wares,

But rather lose all that you may acquire.

Dampen the fire, lest it too fast burn;

Meddle no more with that art, I say,

For if you do, your good is gone full clean.

And right as rain I will tell you here

What alchemists say in this matter.

Look, thus says Arnaldus of Villanova,¹¹

As he in his Rosarie made mention;

He says right thus, without any lie:

“There may no man mercury solidify

But it be with his brother sulphur;

How be that he who first said this thing

Of alchemists’ father was, Hermes Trismegistus;¹²

He said how the dragon, doubtless,

Dies not unless he be slain

With his brother; or put another way

By the dragoun, Mercurie and noon other

He understood; and brimstoon by his brother,

That out of sol and luna were y-drawe.

And therfor,” seyde he, “tak heed to my sawe,

Let no man bisy him this art for to seche,

But-if that he th‘entencioun and speche

Of philosophres understonde can;

And if he do, he is a lewed man.

For this science and this conning,” quod he,

“Is of the secree of secrees, parde.”

Also ther was a disciple of Plato,

That on a tyme seyde his maister to,

As his book Senior wol bere witnesse,

And this was his demande in soothfastnesse:

“Tel me the name of the privy stoon?”

And Plato answerde unto him anoon,

“Tak the stoon that Titanos men name.”

“Which is that?” quod he, “Magnesia is the same,”

Seyde Plato. “Ye, sir, and is it thus?

This is ignotum per ignotius.

What is Magnesia, good sir, I yow preye?”

“It is a water that is maad, I seye,

Of elementes foure,” quod Plato.

“Tel me the rote, good sir,” quod he tho,

“Of that water, if that it be your wille?”

“Nay, nay,” quod Plato, “certein, that I nille.

The philosophres sworn were everichoon,

That they sholden discovere it un-to noon,

Ne in no book it wryte in no manere;

For un-to Crist it is so leef and dere

That he wol nat that it discovered be,

But wher it lyketh to his deitee

Man for t‘enspyre, and eek for to defende

Whom that him lyketh; lo, this is the ende.”

Thanne conclude I thus; sith god of hevene

Ne wol nat that the philosophres nevene

How that a man shal come un-to this stoon,

I rede, as for the beste, lete it goon.

For who-so maketh god his adversarie,

By the dragon we mean Mercury, and no other.

And Sulphur, known as brimstone, is his brother,

And these are drawn from Silver and from Gold.

And therefore,” said he—”take heed to my screed¹³—

Let no man busy him this art to seek,

Unless he the intention and speech

Of alchemists understands;

And if he does, he is a wretched man.

For this science and this cunning,“ he said,

”Is of the secret of the secrets, by God.”

Also there was a disciple of Plato,¹⁴

Who once upon a time told his master so,

As in his book Senior Zadith will bear witness,

And this was his request in truthfulness:

“Tell me the name of the secret stone.”

And Plato answered him anon,

“Take the stone that Titanos men name.”

“Which is that?” said he. “Magnasia is the same,”

Said Plato. “Yea, sire, and is it thus?

This is ignotum per ignocius.¹⁵

What is Magnasia, good sire, I you pray?”

“It is water that is made, I say,

Of elements four,” said Plato.

“Tell me the root, good sire,” said he then.

“Of that water, if it be your will.”

“Nay, nay,” said Plato, “certainly, I will not.

The alchemists swear every one

That they should tell it unto no one,

Neither in a book nor write it in any way.

For unto Christ is it so near and dear

Who would not that it discovered be,

Except where it pleases his deity

Men to enlighten, and also to defend

Those whom he likes; look, this is the end.”

Then I conclude this, since God of heaven

Wills not that the philosophers name

How a man shall come unto this stone,

I advise, as for the best, let it go.

For whoso makes God his adversary,

As for to werken any thing in contrarie

Of his wil, certes, never shal he thryve,

Thogh that he multiplye terme of his lyve.

And ther a poynt; for ended is my tale;

God sende every trewe man bote of his bale!—Amen

By working anything in contrary

To his will, certainly, never shall he thrive,

Though all his life he alchemize.

And there a stop, for ended is my tale.

God send every true man a cure for what him ails!—Amen

The Prologue

The Tale

PART ONE

The Tale

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART TWO