The Manciple’s Tale
The Prologue
KNOW YOU NOT WHERE there stands a little town
Which is called Bob-up-and-down,
1 Under the Blean Wood, on Canterbury Way?
There began our Host for to joke and play,
And said, “Sires, what! We’re stuck in the mire!
2 Is there no man, for prayer or hire,
Who will awaken our fellow all behind?
A thief might him full easily rob and bind.
See how he naps! See how, for cock’s bones,
He will fall from his horse at once!
Is that a cook of London, worse luck for us?
Do him come forth, he knows his penance;
For he shall tell a tale, by my faith,
Although it be not worth a bale of hay.
Awaken, you Cook,” said he, “God give you sorrow!
What ails you to sleep in the morning?
Have you had fleas all night, or are you soused?
Or have you with some queen all night caroused,
So that you may not hold up your head?”
This Cook, who was full pale and nothing red,
Said to our Host, “So God my soul bless,
There is fallen on me such drowsiness,
Know I not why, that I would rather have sleep
Than the best gallon of wine in Cheap.”
3“Well,” said the Manciple, “if it may do ease
To you, sir Cook, and no person displease,
Who rides here in this company,
And our Host agrees, of his courtesy,
I will now excuse you of your tale.
For, in good faith, your visage is full pale,
Your eyes are bleary, so that I think,
And well I know, your breath full sour stinks:
That shows well that you are not well disposed.
By me, certainly, you shall not be flattered.
See how you yawn, look, this drunken fellow,
As though he wolde us swolwe anon-right.
Hold cloos thy mouth, man, by thy fader kin!
The devel of helle sette his foot ther-in!
Thy cursed breeth infecte wol us alle;
Fy, stinking swyn, fy! foule moot thee falle!
A! taketh heed, sirs, of this lusty man.
Now, swete sir, wol ye justen atte fan?
Ther-to me thinketh ye been wel y-shape!
I trowe that ye dronken han wyn ape,
And that is whan men pleyen with a straw.”
And with this speche the cook wex wrooth and wraw,
And on the maunciple he gan nodde faste
For lakke of speche, and doun the hors him caste,
Wher as he lay, til that men up him took;
This was a fayr chivachee of a cook!
Alias! he nadde holde him by his ladel!
And, er that he agayn were in his sadel,
Ther was greet showving bothe to and fro,
To lifte him up, and muchel care and wo,
So unweldy was this sory palled gost.
And to the maunciple thanne spak our host,
“By-cause drink hath dominacioun
Upon this man, by my savacioun
I trowe he lewedly wolde telle his tale.
For, were it wyn, or old or moysty ale,
That he hath dronke, he speketh in his nose,
And fneseth faste, and eek he hath the pose.
He hath also to do more than y-nough
To kepe him and his capel eut of slough;
And, if he falle from his capel eft-sone,
Than shul we alle have y-nough to done,
In lifting up his hevy dronken cors.
Telle on thy tale, of him make I no fors.
But yet, maunciple, in feith thou art to nyce,
Thus openly repreve him of his vyce.
Another day he wol, peraventure,
Reclayme thee, and bringe thee to lure;
I mene, he speke wol of smale thinges,
As for to pinchen at thy rekeninges,
As though he would us swallow.
Hold closed your mouth, man, by my father’s kin!
The devil of hell set his foot therein!
Your cursed breath will infect us all.
Fie, stinking swine! Foul must you fall!
Ah, take heed, sires, of this lively fellow.
Now, sweet sir, would you a bull’s eye hit?
For that I think you be well prepared!
I believe that you are very drunk
4 And that is when men do all things wrong.”
And with this speech the Cook waxed wroth and raw,
And to the Manciple he began to shake his head
For lack of speech, and down the horse him cast,
Where he lay, until men picked him up.
This was the horsemanship of a cook!
Alas, he could not prop himself up with his ladle!
5 And before he was again in the saddle,
There was great shoving both to and fro
To lift him up, and much care and woe,
So unwieldy was this sorry pallid ghost.
And to the Manciple then spoke our Host:
”Because drink has domination
Upon this man, by my salvation,
I believe he poorly would tell his tale.
For, were it wine or old or new ale
That he has drunk, he speaks in his nose,
And sneezes fast, and has a cold.
He has also to do more than enough
To keep himself and his horse out of the mud;
And if he falls from his horse again,
Then shall we all have enough to do
In lifting up his heavy drunken corpse.
Tell on your tale; to him I pay no heed.
“But yet, Manciple, in faith you are not so nice,
Thus openly to reprove him of his vice.
Another day he will, peradventure,
Return the favor;
I mean, he will speak of small things,
For example your reckonings,
That wer not honeste, if it cam to preef.”
“No,” quod the maunciple, “that were a greet mescheef!
So mighte he lightly bringe me in the snare.
Yet hadde I lever payen for the mare
Which he rit on, than he sholde with me stryve;
I wol nat wratthe him, al-so mote I thryve!
That that I spak, I seyde it in my bourde;
And wite ye what? I have heer, in a gourde,
A draught of wyn, ye, of a rype grape,
And right anon ye shul seen a good jape.
This cook shal drinke ther-of, if I may;
Up peyne of deeth, he wol nat seye me nay!”
And certeinly, to tellen as it was,
Of this vessel the cook drank faste, alias!
What neded him? he drank y-nough biforn.
And whan he hadde pouped in this horn,
To the maunciple he took the gourde agayn;
And of that drinke the cook was wonder fayn,
And thanked him in swich wyse as he coude.
Than gan our host to laughen wonder loude,
And seyde, “I see wel, it is necessarie,
Wher that we goon, good drink we with us carie;
For that wol turne rancour and disese
T‘acord and love, and many a wrong apese.
O thou Bachus, y-blessed be thy name,
That so canst turnen ernest in-to game!
Worship and thank be to thy deitee!
Of that matere ye gete na-more of me.
Tel on thy tale, maunciple, I thee preye.”
“Wel, sir,” quod he, “now herkneth what I seye.”
The Tale
Whan Phebus dwelled her in this erthe adoun,
As olde bokes maken mencioun
He was the moste lusty bachiler
In al this world, and eek the beste archer;
He slow Phitoun, the serpent, as he lay
Slepinge agayn the sonne upon a day;
And many another noble worthy dede
That were not honest, if it came to proof.”
“No,” said the Manciple, “that were a great mischief!
So might he easily bring me into the snare.
Yet I would rather pay for the mare
That he rides upon, than he should with me have strife.
I will not provoke him, also may I thrive!
That which I speak, I say it in jest.
And do you know what? I have here in a flask
A draft of wine, of a ripe grape,
And right anon you shall see a good jape.
This Cook shall drink thereof, if I may.
Upon pain of death, he will not say me nay.”
And certainly, to tell as it was,
Of this vessel the Cook drank fast, alas!
Why needed he? He drank enough before.
And when he had tooted in this horn,
To the Manciple he gave the flask again;
And of that drink the Cook was wondrous grateful,
And thanked him in such way as he could.
Then began our Host to laugh wondrous loud,
And said, “I see well it is necessary,
Where we go, that good drink we with us carry;
For that will turn rancor and discord
To accord and love, and many a wrong appease.
“Oh Bacchus, blessed be your name,
Who can turn earnest into game!
Worship and thanks be to your deity!
Of that matter you get no more of me.
Tell on your tale, Manciple, I you pray.”
“Well, sire,” said he, “now harken to what I say.”
The Tale
When Phoebus
6 dwelt here in this earth adown,
As old books make mention,
He was the most lusty bachelor
In all this world, and also the best archer.
He slew Python, the serpent,
7 as he lay
Sleeping in the sun upon a day;
And many another noble deed
He with his bowe wroghte, as men may rede.
Pleyen he coude on every minstralcye,
And singen, that it was a melodye,
To heren of his clere vois the soun.
Certes the king of Thebes, Amphioun,
That with his singing walled that citee,
Coude never singen half so wel as he.
Therto he was the semelieste man
That is or was, sith that the world bigan.
What nedeth it his fetures to discryve?
For in this world was noon so fair on lyve.
He was ther-with fulfild of gentillesse,
Of honour, and of parfit worthinesse.
This Phebus, that was flour of bachelrye,
As wel in fredom as in chivalrye,
For his desport, in signe eek of victorie
Of Phitoun, so as telleth us the storie,
Was wont to beren in his hand a bowe.
Now had this Phebus in his hous a crowe,
Which in a cage he fostred many a day,
And taughte it speken, as men teche a jay.
Whyt was this crowe, as is a snow-whyt swan,
And countrefete the speche of every man
He coude, whan he sholde telle a tale.
Ther-with in al this world no nightingale
Ne coude, by an hondred thousand deel,
Singen so wonder merily and weel.
Now had this Phebus in his hous a wyf,
Which that he lovede more than his lyf,
And night and day dide ever his diligence
Hir for to plese, and doon hir reverence,
Save only, if the sothe that I shal sayn,
Jalous he was, and wolde have kept hir fayn;
For him were looth by-japed for to be.
And so is every wight in swich degree;
But al in ydel, for it availleth noght,
A good wyf, that is clene of werk and thoght,
Sholde nat been kept in noon await, certayn;
And trewely, the labour is in vayn
He with his bow wrought, as men may read.
Play he could on every instrument,
And sing so that it was melodious
To hear the sound of his clear voice.
Certainly the king of Thebes, Amphioun,
Who with his singing walled that city,
Could never sing half so well as he.
And in addition he was the handsomest man
Who is or was since the world began.
Why need we his features to describe?
For in this world there was none so fair alive.
He was fulfilled of gentleness,
Of honor and of perfect worthiness.
This Phoebus, who was the flower of knighthood,
As well in character as in chivalry,
For his pleasure, and as a sign also of his victory
Over Python, as tells us the story,
Was wont to bear in his hand a bow.
Now had this Phoebus in his house a crow
That in a cage he fostered many a day,
And taught it to speak, as men teach a jay.
White was this crow as is a snow white swan,
And counterfeit the speech of every man
He could, when he should tell a tale.
And also in all this world no nightingale
Could, by a hundred thousandth part,
Sing so wondrous merrily and well.
Now had this Phoebus in his house a wife
Whom he loved more than his life,
And night and day did ever his diligence
Her for to please and do her reverence,
Save only, if the truth I shall say,
Jealous he was, and would have kept her under lock and key.
For he was loath betrayed to be,
And so is every person in such estate,
But all in vain, for it avails not.
A good woman, who is clean of work and thought,
Should not be kept under watch, certainly;
And truly the labor is in vain
To kepe a shrewe, for it wol nat be.
This holde I for a verray nycetee,
To spille labour, for to kepe wyves;
Thus writen olde clerkes in hir lyves.
But now to purpos, as I first bigan:
This worthy Phebus dooth all that he can
To plesen hir, weninge by swich plesaunce,
And for his manhede and his governaunce,
That no man sholde han put him from hir grace.
But god it woot, ther may no man embrace
As to destreyne a thing, which that nature
Hath naturelly set in a creature.
Tak any brid, and put it in a cage,
And do al thyn entente and thy corage
To fostre it tendrely with mete and drinke,
Of alle deyntees that thou canst bithinke,
And keep it al-so clenly as thou may;
Al-though his cage of gold be never so gay,
Yet hath this brid, by twenty thousand fold,
Lever in a forest, that is rude and cold,
Gon ete wormes and swich wrecchednesse.
For ever this brid wol doon his bisinesse
To escape out of his cage, if he may;
His libertee this brid desireth ay.
Lat take a cat, and fostre him wel with milk,
And tendre flesh, and make his couche of silk,
And lat him seen a mous go by the wal;
Anon he weyveth milk, and flesh, and al,
And every deyntee that is in that hous,
Swich appetyt hath he to ete a mous.
Lo, here hath lust his dominacioun,
And appetyt flemeth discrecioun.
A she-wolf hath also a vileins kinde;
The lewedeste wolf that she may finde,
Or leest of reputacion wol she take,
In tyme whan hir lust to han a make.
Alle thise ensamples speke I by thise men
That been untrewe, and no-thing by wommen.
For men han ever a likerous appetyt
To keep a shrew, for it will not be.
This hold I to be pure folly,
To waste labor for to keep wives:
Thus wrote old scholars in their lives.
But now to the point, as I first began:
This worthy Phoebus did all he could
To please her, supposing that for such pleasure,
And for his character and his behavior,
That no man should put him from her grace.
But, God knows, there may no man embrace
To restrain a thing that nature
Has naturally set in a creature.
Take any bird, and put it in a cage,
8 And do all your intent and all your strength
To foster it tenderly with meat and drink
Of all the dainties that you can bethink,
And keep it all so carefully as you may,
Although his cage of gold be never so gay,
Yet would this bird, by twenty thousand fold,
Rather in a forest that is rude and cold
Go eat worms and such wretchedness.
For ever this bird will do his business
To escape out of his cage, if he may.
His liberty this bird desires always.
Or take a cat, and foster him well with milk
And tender flesh, and make his couch of silk,
And let him see a mouse go by the wall,
Anon he waives milk and meat and all,
And every dainty that is in that house,
Such appetite has he to eat a mouse.
Look, here has lust his domination,
And appetite overcomes discretion.
A she-wolf is also of an evil kind.
The lewdest wolf that she may find
Of least reputation, will she take,
In times when she lusts to have a mate.
All these examples I mention of men
Who have been untrue, and nothing of women,
For men have ever a lecherous appetite
On lower thing to parfourne hir delyt
Than on hir wyves, be they never so faire,
Ne never so trewe, ne so debonaire.
Flesh is so newefangel, with meschaunce,
That we ne conne in no-thing han plesaunce
That souneth in-to vertu any whyle.
This Phebus, which that thoghte upon no gyle,
Deceyved was, for al his jolitee;
For under him another hadde she,
A man of litel reputacioun,
Noght worth Phebus in comparisoun.
The more harm is; it happeth ofte so,
Of which ther cometh muchel harm and wo.
And so bifel, whan Phebus was absent,
His wyf anon hath for hir lemman sent;
Hir lemman? certes, this is a knavish speche!
Foryeveth it me, and that I yow biseche.
The wyse Plato seith, as ye may rede,
The word mot nede accorde with the dede.
If men shal telle proprely a thing,
The word mot cosin be to the werking.
I am a boistous man, right thus seye I,
Ther nis no difference, trewely,
Bitwixe a wyf that is of heigh degree,
If of hir body dishonest she be,
And a povre wenche, other than this—
If it so be, they werke bothe amis—
But that the gentile, in estaat above,
She shal be cleped his lady, as in love;
And for that other is a povre womman,
She shal be cleped his wenche, or his lemman.
And, god it woot, myn owene dere brother,
Men leyn that oon as lowe as lyth that other.
Right so, bitwixe a titlelees tiraunt
And an outlawe, or a theef erraunt,
The same I seye, ther is no difference.
To Alisaundre told was this sentence;
That, for the tyrant is of gretter might,
By force of meynee for to sleen doun-right,
For lower things to perform their delight
Than on their wives, be they ever so fair,
Or ever so true, or ever so debonair.
Flesh is so fond of novelty, worse luck for us,
That we can in no way have enjoyment
With anything that makes us virtuous.
This Phoebus, who thought not of guile,
Deceived was, for all his handsomeness.
For under him another had she,
A man of little reputation,
Not worthy of Phoebus in comparison.
And more’s the harm it happens often so,
And from which comes much misery and woe.
And so it happened, when Phoebus was absent,
His wife anon has for her stallion sent.
Her stallion? Certainly, this is knavish speech!
Forgive me it, I you beseech.
The wise Plato says, as you may read,
The word must needs accord with the deed.
If men shall tell properly a thing,
The word must cousin be to the working.
I am a plain man, right thus say I:
There is no difference, truly,
Between a wife who is of high degree,
If of her body she dishonest be,
And a poor wench, other than this—
If it so be they both work amiss—
Except that the gentlewoman, estate above,
She shall be called his lady, as in love;
And if the other is a woman poor,
She shall be called his trollop or his whore.
And, God knows, my own dear brother,
Men lay as low with one as with the other.
Right so between a titleless tyrant
And an outlaw or thief arrant,
The same I say: there is no difference.
To Alexander was told this sentence,
9 That, though the tyrant is of greater might
In his army’s strength for to slay downright,
And brennen hous and hoom, and make al plain,
Lo! therfor is he cleped a capitain;
And, for the outlawe hath but smal meynee,
And may nat doon so greet an harm as he,
Ne bringe a contree to so greet mescheef,
Men clepen him an outlawe or a theef.
But, for I am a man noght textuel,
I wol noghte telle of textes never a del;
I wol go to my tale, as I bigan.
Whan Phebus wyf had sent for hir lemman,
Anon they wroghten al hir lust volage.
The whyte crowe, that heng ay in the cage,
Biheld hir werk, and seyde never a word.
And whan that hoom was come Phebus, the lord,
This crowe sang “cokkow! cokkow! cokkow!”
“What, brid?” quod Phebus, “what song singestow?
Ne were thow wont so merily to singe
That to myn herte it was a rejoisinge
To here thy vois? alias! what song is this?”
“By god,” quod he, “I singe nat amis;
Phebus,” quod he, “for al thy worthinesse,
For al thy beautee and thy gentilesse,
For al thy song and al thy minstralcye,
For al thy waiting, blered is thyn ye
With oon of litel reputacioun,
Noght worth to thee, as in comparisoun,
The mountance of a gnat; so mote I thryve!
For on thy bed thy wyf I saugh him swyve.”
What wol ye more? the crowe anon him tolde,
By sadde tokenes and by wordes bolde,
How that his wyf had doon hir lecherye,
Him to gret shame and to gret vileinye;
And tolde him ofte, he saugh it with his yën.
This Phebus gan aweyward for to wryen,
Him thoughte his sorweful herte brast a-two;
His bowe he bente, and sette ther-inne a flo,
And in his ire his wyf thanne hath he slayn.
This is th‘effect, ther is na-more to sayn;
For sorwe of which he brak his minstralcye,
And burn houses and homes, and lay to waste,
Look, therefore he is called a captain;
And though the outlaw has not but a few men,
And may not do so great a harm as he,
Nor bring a country to so great mischief,
Men call him an outlaw or a thief.
But I am not learned from books,
In no way will I cite their texts;
I will tell my tale, as I began.
When Phoebus’ wife had sent for her stud,
Anon they wrought all their foolish lust.
The white crow, that ever in the cage perched,
Beheld their work, and said never a word.
And when home was come Phoebus, the lord,
This crow sang, “Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”
10“What, bird?” said Phoebus. “What song sing you?
Were you not wont so merrily to sing
That to my heart it was a rejoicing
To hear your voice? Alas, what song is this?”
“By God,” said he, “I sing not amiss.
Phoebus,” said he, “for all your worthiness,
For all your beauty and your gentleness,
For all your song and all your minstrelsy,
For all your waiting, bleared is your eye
By one of little reputation,
Not worthy of you in comparison.
The value of a gnat, so may I thrive!
For on your bed I saw him enjoy your wife!”
What would you more? The crow anon him told,
By strong proofs and words bold,
How his wife had done her lechery,
Him to great shame and to great villainy,
And told him he saw it often with his own eyes.
This Phoebus began away to turn,
And thought his sorrowful heart would burst in two.
His bow he bent, and sent thereby an arrow,
And in his ire his wife then has he slain.
This is the effect, there is no more to say;
For sorrow of which he broke his instruments,
Bothe harpe, and lute, and giterne, and sautrye;
And eek he brak his arwes and his bowe.
And after that, thus spak he to the crowe:
“Traitour,” quod he, “with tonge of scorpioun,
Thou hast me broght to my confusioun!
Alias! that I was wroght! why nere I deed?
O dere wyf, O gemme of lustiheed,
That were to me so sad and eek so trewe,
Now lystow deed, with face pale of hewe,
Ful giltelees, that dorste I swere, y-wis!
O rakel hand, to doon so foule amis!
O trouble wit, O ire recchelees,
That unavysed smytest giltelees!
O wantrust, ful of fals suspecioun,
Where was thy wit and thy discrecioun?
O every man, be-war of rakelnesse,
Ne trowe no-thing with-outen strong witnesse;
Smyt nat to sone, er that ye witen why,
And beeth avysed wel and sobrely
Er ye doon any execucioun,
Up-on your ire, for suspecioun.
Alias! a thousand folk hath rakel ire
Fully fordoon, and broght hem in the mire.
Allas! for sorwe I wol my-selven slee!”
And to the crowe, “O false theef!” seyde he,
“I wol thee quyte anon thy false tale!
Thou songe whylom lyk a nightingale;
Now shaltow, false theef, thy song forgon,
And eek thy whyte fetheres everichon,
Ne never in al thy lyf ne shaltou speke.
Thus shal men on a traitour been awreke;
Thou and thyn of-spring ever shul be blake,
Ne never swete noise shul ye make,
But ever crye agayn tempest and rayn,
In tokeninge that thurgh thee my wyf is slayn.”
And to the crowe he stirte, and that anon,
And pulled his whyte fetheres everichon,
And made him blak, and refte him al his song,
And eek his speche, and out at dore him slong
Both harp, and lute, and zither and psaltery;
And also he broke his arrows and his bow,
And after that spoke he to the crow:
“Traitor,” said he, “with tongue of scorpion,
You have me brought to my ruin;
Alas, that I was made! Why am I not dead?
O dear wife! O gem of delight!
You who were to me so steady and so true,
Now lie you dead, with face pale of hue,
Full guiltless, that dare I swear, truly!
Oh rash hand, to do so foul a wrong!
Oh troubled mind, oh ire reckless,
That thoughtlessly slew the guiltless!
Oh distrust, full of false suspicion,
Where was your wit and your discretion?
Oh every man, beware of rashness!
Believe nothing without strong evidence.
Smite not too soon, before you know why,
And be advised well and soberly
Before you do any execution
In your ire out of suspicion.
Alas, a thousand folk in rash ire
Fully be undone, and bring themselves into the mire.
Alas! For sorrow I will myself slay!”
And to the crow, “Oh false thief!” said he,
“I will you requite anon for your false tale.
You sang once like a nightingale;
Now shall you, false thief, your song forego,
And also your white feathers every one,
Nor ever in your life shall you speak.
Thus men shall on a traitor vengeance wreak;
You and your offspring ever shall be black
Nor ever sweet noise shall you make,
But ever cry against tempest and rain,
As a sign that through you my wife is slain.”
And to the crow he started, and that anon,
And pulled his white feathers every one,
And made him black, and bereft him of his song,
And also of his speech, and out the door him slung
Un-to the devel, which I him bitake;
And for this caas ben alle crowes blake.—
Lordings, by this ensample I yow preye,
Beth war, and taketh kepe what I seye:
Ne telleth never no man in your lyf
How that another man hath dight his wyf;
He wol yow haten mortally, certeyn.
Daun Salomon, as wyse clerkes seyn,
Techeth a man to kepe his tonge wel;
But as I seyde, I am noght textuel.
But nathelees, thus taughte me my dame:
“My sone, thenk on the crowe, a goddes name;
My sone, keep wel thy tonge and keep thy freend.
A wikked tonge is worse than a feend.
My sone, from a feend men may hem blesse;
My sone, god of his endelees goodnesse
Walled a tonge with teeth and lippes eke,
For man sholde him avyse what he speke.
My sone, ful ofte, for to muche speche,
Hath many a man ben spilt, as clerkes teche;
But for a litel speche avysely
Is no men shent, to speke generally.
My sone, thy tonge sholdestow restreyne
At alle tyme, but whan thou doost thy peyne
To speke of god, in honour and preyere.
The firste vertu, sone, if thou wolt lere,
Is to restreyne and kepe wel thy tonge.—
Thus lerne children whan that they ben yonge.—
My sone, of muchel speking yvel-avysed,
Ther lasse speking hadde y-nough suffysed,
Comth muchel harm, thus was me told and taught.
In muchel speche sinne wanteth naught.
Wostow wher-of a rakel tonge serveth?
Right as a swerd forcutteth and forkerveth
An arm a-two, my dere sone, right so
A tonge cutteth frendship al a-two.
A jangler is to god abhominable;
Reed Salomon, so wys and honurable;
Reed David in his psalmes, reed Senekke.
Unto the devil, to whom I him commit;
And for this case be all crows black.
Lordings, by this example I you pray,
Beware, and take heed what I say:
Never tell any man in your life
How another man had his wife;
He will hate you mortally, for certain.
Lord Solomon, as wise scholars say,
Teaches a man to keep his tongue well.
11 But, as I say, I am not learned in books.
Nevertheless, thus taught me my mother:
“My son, think on a crow, in God’s name!
My son, hold well your tongue, and keep your friends.
A wicked tongue is worse than a fiend;
My son, from a fiend men may them bless.
My son, God of his endless goodness
Walled a tongue with teeth and lips also,
For man should consider before he speaks.
My son, full often, for too much speech
Has many a man died, as scholars teach,
But for speech little and discreet
Is no man ruined, to speak generally.
My son, your tongue you should restrain
At all times, except when you devote yourself
To speak of God, in honor and prayer.
The first virtue, son, if you will learn,
Is to restrain and keep well your tongue;
Thus learn children when they be young.
My son, of much talking ill-advised,
When less speaking would have sufficed,
Comes much harm; thus I was told and taught.
In much chatter sin lacks not.
Know you what a rash tongue can do?
Right as a sword cuts
An arm in two, my dear son, right so
A tongue cuts a friendship apart.
A tongue-wagger is to God abominable.
Read Solomon, so wise and honorable;
Read David in his psalms, read Seneca.
My sone, spek nat, but with thyn heed thou bekke
Dissimule as thou were deef, if that thou here
A jangler speke of perilous matere.
The Fleming seith, and lerne it, if thee leste,
That litel jangling causeth muchel reste.
My sone, if thou no wikked word hast seyd,
Thee thar nat drede for to be biwreyd;
But he that hath misseyd, I dar wel sayn,
He may by no wey clepe his word agayn.
Thing that is seyd, is seyd; and forth it gooth,
Though him repente, or be him leef or looth.
He is his thral to whom that he hath sayd
A tale, of which he is now yvel apayd.
My sone, be war, and be non auctour newe
Of tydinges, whether they ben false or trewe.
Wher-so thou come, amonges hye or lowe,
Kepe wel thy tonge, and thenk up-on the crowe.”
My son, speak not, but with your head you nod.
Dissimulate as if you were deaf, if you hear
A chatterbox speak of perilous matter.
The Fleming says, and learn if you wish,
That to talk less will give you more rest.
My son, if you no wicked word have said,
You then need not dread to be betrayed;
But if you have missaid, I dare well say,
You may by no way recall your word again.
Something that is said is said, and forth it goes,
Though you repent, or be ever so loath.
He is in thrall to whom he has told
A tale for which he is now evilly repaid.
My son, beware, and be no author new
Of tidings, whether they be false or true.
Whereso you go, among high or low,
Keep well your tongue and think upon the crow.”