Geoffrey Chaucer
Geoffrey Chaucer (c. 1340–1400) wrote The Canterbury Tales in Middle English at the end of the fourteenth century, a collection of twenty-four stories told by pilgrims to entertain themselves and each other on their way to visit the shrine of Thomas à Becket at Canterbury. The tales, one of the unique masterpieces of Western literature, provide a rich, amusing, and varied portrait of English life at that time. This selection includes three of the original Canterbury tales translated into modern English verse by J. U. Nicolson: “The Reeve’s1 Tale,” “The Cook’s Tale,” and “The Lawyer’s Tale,” and each of their Prologues.
THE REEVE’S PROLOGUE
When folk had laughed their fill at this nice pass
Of Absalom and clever Nicholas,
Then divers folk diversely had their say;
And most of them were well amused and gay,
Nor at this tale did I see one man grieve,
Save it were only old Oswald the reeve,
Because he was a carpenter by craft.
A little anger in his heart was left,
And he began to grouse and blame a bit.
“S’ help me,” said he, “full well could I be quit
With blearing of a haughty miller’s eye,
If I but chose to speak of ribaldry.
But I am old; I will not play, for age;
Grass time is done, my fodder is rummage,
This white top advertises my old years,
My heart, too, is as mouldy as my hairs,
Unless I fare like medlar, all perverse.
For that fruit’s never ripe until it’s worse,
And falls among the refuse or in straw.
We ancient men, I fear, obey this law:
Until we’re rotten, we cannot be ripe;
We dance, indeed, the while the world will pipe.
Desire sticks in our nature like a nail
To have, if hoary head, a verdant tail,
As has the leek; for though our strength be gone,
Our wish is yet for folly till life’s done.
For when we may not act, then will we speak;
Yet in our ashes is there fire to reek
“Four embers have we, which I shall confess:
Boasting and lying, anger, covetousness;
These four remaining sparks belong to eld.
Our ancient limbs may well be hard to wield,
But lust will never fail us, that is truth.
And yet I have had always a colt’s tooth,
As many years as now are past and done
Since first my tap of life began to run.
For certainly, when I was born, I know
Death turned my tap of life and let it flow;
And ever since that day the tap has run
Till nearly empty now is all the tun.
The stream of life now drips upon the chime;2
The silly tongue may well ring out the time
Of wretchedness that passed so long before;
For oldsters, save for dotage, there’s no more.”
Now when our host had heard this sermoning,
Then did he speak as lordly as a king;
He said: “To what amounts, now, all this wit?
Why should we talk all day of holy writ?
The devil makes a steward for to preach,
And of a cobbler, a sailor or a leech.
Tell forth your tale, and do not waste the time.
Here’s Deptford! And it is half way to prime.
There’s Greenwich town that many a scoundrel’s in;
It is high time your story should begin.”
“Now, sirs,” then said this Oswald called the reeve,
“I pray you all, now, that you will not grieve
Though I reply and somewhat twitch his cap;
It’s lawful to meet force with force, mayhap.
“This drunken miller has related here
How was beguiled and fooled a carpenter—
Perchance in scorn of me, for I am one.
So, by your leave, I’ll him requite anon;
All in his own boor’s language will I speak.
I only pray to God his neck may break.
For in my eye he well can see the mote,
But sees not in his own the beam, you’ll note.”
THE REEVE’S TALE
At Trumpington, not far from Cambridge town,
There is a bridge wherethrough a brook runs down,
Upon the side of which brook stands a mill;
And this is very truth that now I tell.
A miller dwelt there, many and many a day;
As any peacock he was proud and gay.
He could mend nets, and he could fish, and flute,
Drink and turn cups, and wrestle well, and shoot;
And in his leathern belt he did parade
A cutlass with a long and trenchant blade.
A pretty dagger had he in his pouch;
There was no man who durst this man to touch.
A Sheffield whittler bore he in his hose;
Round was his face and turned-up was his nose.
As bald as any ape’s head was his skull;
He was a market-swaggerer to the full.
There durst no man a hand on him to lay,
Because he swore he’d make the beggar pay.
A thief he was, forsooth, of corn and meal,
And sly at that, accustomed well to steal.
His name was known as arrogant Simpkin.
A wife he had who came of gentle kin;
The parson of the town her father was.
With her he gave full many a pan of brass,3
To insure that Simpkin with his blood ally.
She had been bred up in a nunnery;
For Simpkin would not have a wife, he said,
Save she were educated and a maid
To keep up his estate of yeomanry.
And she was proud and bold as is a pie.
A handsome sight it was to see those two;
On holy days before her he would go
With a broad tippet bound about his head;
And she came after in a skirt of red,
While Simpkin’s hose were dyed to match that same.
There durst no man to call her aught but dame;
Nor was there one so hardy, in the way,
As durst flirt with her or attempt to play,
Unless he would be slain by this Simpkin
With cutlass or with knife or with bodkin.
For jealous folk are dangerous, you know,
At least they’d have their wives to think them so.
Besides, because she was a dirty bitch,
She was as high as water in a ditch;
And full of scorn and full of back-biting.
She thought a lady should be quite willing
To greet her for her kin and culture, she
Having been brought up in that nunnery.
A daughter had they got between the two,
Of twenty years, and no more children, no,
Save a boy baby that was six months old;
It lay in cradle and was strong and bold.
This girl right stout and well developed was,
With nose tip-tilted and eyes blue as glass,
With buttocks broad, and round breasts full and high,
But golden was her hair, I will not lie.
The parson of the town, since she was fair,
Was purposeful to make of her his heir,
Both of his chattels and of his estate,
But all this hinged upon a proper mate.
He was resolved that he’d bestow her high
Into some blood of worthy ancestry;
For Holy Church’s goods must be expended
On Holy Church’s blood, as it’s descended.
Therefore he’d honour thus his holy blood,
Though Holy Church itself became his food.
Large tolls this miller took, beyond a doubt,
With wheat and malt from all the lands about;
Of which I’d specify among them all
A Cambridge college known as Soler Hall;
He ground their wheat and all their malt he ground.
And on a day it happened, as they found,
The manciple got such a malady
That all men surely thought that he should die.
Whereon this miller stole both flour and wheat
A hundredfold more than he used to cheat;
For theretofore he stole but cautiously,
But now he was a thief outrageously,
At which the warden scolded and raised hell;
The miller snapped his fingers, truth to tell,
And cracked his brags and swore it wasn’t so.
There were two poor young clerks, whose names I know,
That dwelt within this Hall whereof I say.
Willful they were and lusty, full of play,
And (all for mirth and to make revelry)
After the warden eagerly did they cry
To give them leave, at least for this one round,
To go to mill and see their produce ground;
And stoutly they proclaimed they’d bet their neck
The miller should not steal one half a peck
Of grain, by trick, nor yet by force should thieve;
And at the last the warden gave them leave.
John was the one and Alain was that other;
In one town were they born, and that called Strother,
Far in the north, I cannot tell you where.
This Alain, he made ready all his gear,
And on a horse loaded the sack anon.
Forth went Alain the clerk, and also John,
With good sword and with buckler at their side.
John knew the way and didn’t need a guide,
And at the mill he dropped the sack of grain.
“Ah, Simon, hail, good morn,” first spoke Alain.
“How fares it with your fair daughter and wife?”
“Alain! Welcome,” said Simpkin, “by my life,
And John also. How now? What do you here?”
“Simon,” said John, “by God, need makes no peer;
He must himself serve who’s no servant, eh?
Or else he’s but a fool, as all clerks say.
Our manciple—I hope he’ll soon be dead,
So aching are the grinders in his head—
And therefore am I come here with Alain
To grind our corn and carry it home again;
I pray you speed us thither, as you may.”
“It shall be done,” said Simpkin, “by my fay.
What will you do the while it is in hand?”
“By God, right by the hopper will I stand,”
Said John, “and see just how the corn goes in;
I never have seen, by my father’s kin,
Just how the hopper waggles to and fro.”
Alain replied: “Well, John, and will you so?
Then will I get beneath it, by my crown,
To see there how the meal comes sifting down
Into the trough; and that shall be my sport.
For, John, in faith, I must be of your sort;
I am as bad a miller as you be.”
The miller smiled at this, their delicacy,
And thought: “All this is done but for a wile;
They think there is no man may them beguile;
But, by my thrift, I will yet blear their eyes,
For all the tricks in their philosophies.
The more odd tricks and stratagems they make,
The more I’ll steal when I begin to take.
In place of flour I’ll give them only bran.
‘The greatest clerk is not the wisest man,’
As once unto the grey wolf said the mare.
But all their arts—I rate them not a tare.”
Out of the door he went, then, secretly,
When he had seen his chance, and quietly;
He looked up and looked down, until he found
The clerks’ horse where it stood, securely bound.
Behind the mill, under an arbour green;
And to the horse he went, then, all unseen;
He took the bridle off him and anon,
When the said horse was free, why he was gone
Toward the fen, for wild mares ran therein,
And with a neigh he went, through thick and thin.
This miller straight went back and no word said,
But did his business and with these clerks played,
Until their corn was fairly, fully ground.
But when the flour was sacked and the ears bound,
This John went out, to find his horse away,
And so he cried: “Hello!” and “Weladay!
Our horse is lost! Alain, for Jesus’ bones
Get to your feet, come out, man, now, at once!
Alas, our warden’s palfrey’s lost and lorn!”
This Alain forgot all, both flour and corn,
Clean out of mind was all his husbandry,
“What? Which way did he go?” began to cry.
The wife came bounding from the house, and then
She said: “Alas! Your horse went to the fen,
With the wild mares, as fast as he could go.
A curse light on the hand that tied him so,
And him that better should have knotted rein!”
“Alas!” quoth John, “Alain, for Jesus’ pain,
Lay off your sword, and I will mine also;
I am as fleet, God knows, as is a roe;
By God’s heart, he shall not escape us both!
Why didn’t you put him in the barn? My oath!
Bad luck, by God, Alain, you are a fool!”
These foolish clerks began to run and roll
Toward the marshes, both Alain and John.
And when the miller saw that they were gone,
He half a bushel of their flour did take
And bade his wife go knead it and bread make.
He said: “I think those clerks some trickery feared;
Yet can a miller match a clerkling’s beard,
For all his learning; let them go their way.
Look where they go, yea, let the children play,
They’ll catch him not so readily, by my crown!”
Those simple clerks went running up and down
With “Look out! Halt! Halt! Down here! ’Ware the rear!
Go whistle, you, and I will watch him here!”
But briefly, till it came to utter night,
They could not, though they put forth all their might,
That stallion catch, he always ran so fast,
Till in a ditch they trapped him at the last.
Weary and wet, as beast is in the rain,
Came foolish John and with him came Alain.
“Alas,” said John, “the day that I was born!
Now are we bound toward mockery and scorn.
Our corn is stolen, folk will call us fools,
The warden and the fellows at the schools,
And specially this miller. Weladay!”
Thus John complained as he went on his way
Toward the mill, with Bayard4 once more bound.
The miller sitting by the fire he found,
For it was night, and farther could they not;
But, for the love of God, they him besought
For shelter and for supper, for their penny.
The miller said to them: “If there be any,
Such as it is, why you shall have your part.
My house is small, but you have learned your art;
You can, by metaphysics, make a place
A full mile wide in twenty feet of space.
Let us see now if this place will suffice,
Or make more room with speech, by some device.”
“Now, Simon,” said John, “by Saint Cuthbert’s beard,
You’re always merry and have well answered.
As I’ve heard, man shall take one of two things:
Such as he finds, or take such as he brings.
But specially, I pray you, mine host dear,
Give us some meat and drink and some good cheer,
And we will pay you, truly, to the full.
With empty hand no man takes hawk or gull;
Well, here’s our silver, ready to be spent.”
This miller to the town his daughter sent
For ale and bread, and roasted them a goose,
And tied their horse, that it might not go loose;
And then in his own chamber made a bed,
With sheets and with good blankets fairly spread,
Not from his bed more than twelve feet, or ten.
The daughter made her lone bed near the men,
In the same chamber with them, by and by;
It could not well be bettered, and for why?
There was no larger room in all the place.
They supped and talked, and gained some small solace,
And drank strong ale, that evening, of the best.
Then about midnight all they went to rest.
Well had this miller varnished his bald head,
For pale he was with drinking, and not red.
He hiccoughed and he mumbled through his nose,
As he were chilled, with humours lachrymose.
To bed he went, and with him went his wife.
As any jay she was with laughter rife,
So copiously was her gay whistle wet.
The cradle near her bed’s foot-board was set,
Handy for rocking and for giving suck.
And when they’d drunk up all there was in crock,
To bed went miller’s daughter, and anon
To bed went Alain and to bed went John.
There was no more; they did not need a dwale.5
This miller had so roundly bibbed his ale
That, like a horse, he snorted in his sleep,
While of his tail behind he kept no keep.
His wife joined in his chorus, and so strong,
Men might have heard her snores a full furlong;
And the girl snored, as well, for company.
Alain the clerk, who heard this melody,
He poked at John and said: “Asleep? But how?
Did you hear ever such a song ere now?
Lo, what a compline is among them all!
Now may the wild-fire on their bodies fall!
Who ever heard so outlandish a thing?
But they shall have the flour of ill ending.
Through this long night there’ll be for me no rest;
But never mind, ’twill all be for the best.
For, John,” said he, “so may I ever thrive,
As, if I can, that very wench I’ll swive.
Some recompense the law allows to us;
For, John, there is a statute which says thus,
That if a man in one point be aggrieved,
Yet in another shall he be relieved.
Our corn is stolen, to that there’s no nay,
And we have had an evil time this day.
But since I may not have amending, now,
Against my loss I’ll set some fun—and how!
By God’s great soul it shan’t be otherwise!”
This John replied: “Alain, let me advise.
The miller is a dangerous man,” he said,
“And if he be awakened, I’m afraid
He may well do us both an injury.”
But Alain said: “I count him not a fly.”
And up he rose and to the girl he crept.
This wench lay on her back and soundly slept,
Until he’d come so near, ere she might spy,
It was too late to struggle, then, or cry;
And, to be brief, these two were soon as one.
Now play, Alain! For I will speak of John.
This John lay still a quarter-hour, or so,
Pitied himself and wept for all his woe.
“Alas,” said he, “this is a wicked jape!
Now may I say that I am but an ape.
Yet has my friend, there, something for his harm;
He has the miller’s daughter on his arm.
He ventured, and his pains are now all fled,
While I lie like a sack of chaff in bed;
And when this jape is told, another day,
I shall be held an ass, a milksop, yea!
I will arise and chance it, by my fay!
‘Unhardy is unhappy,’ as they say.”
And up he rose, and softly then he went
To find the cradle for expedient,
And bore it over to his own foot-board.
Soon after this the wife no longer snored,
But woke and rose and went outside to piss,
And came again and did the cradle miss,
And groped round, here and there, but found it not.
“Alas!” thought she, “my way I have forgot.
I nearly found myself in the clerks’ bed.
Eh, ben’cite, but that were wrong!” she said.
And on, until by cradle she did stand.
And, groping a bit farther with her hand,
She found the bed, and thought of naught but good,
Because her baby’s cradle by it stood,
And knew not where she was, for it was dark;
But calmly then she crept in by the clerk,
And lay right still, and would have gone to sleep.
But presently this John the clerk did leap,
And over on this goodwife did he lie.
No such gay time she’d known in years gone by.
He pricked her hard and deep, like one gone mad.
And so a jolly life these two clerks had
Till the third cock began to crow and sing.
Alain grew weary in the grey dawning,
For he had laboured hard through all the night;
And said: “Farewell, now, Maudy, sweet delight!
The day is come, I may no longer bide;
But evermore, whether I walk or ride,
I am your own clerk, so may I have weal.”
“Now, sweetheart,” said she, “go and fare you well!
But ere you go, there’s one thing I must tell.
When you go walking homeward past the mill,
Right at the entrance, just the door behind,
You shall a loaf of half a bushel find
That was baked up of your own flour, a deal
Of which I helped my father for to steal.
And, darling, may God save you now and keep!”
And with that word she almost had to weep.
Alain arose and thought: “Ere it be dawn,
I will go creep in softly by friend John.”
And found the cradle with his hand, anon.
“By God!” thought he, “all wrong I must have gone;
My head is dizzy from my work tonight,
And that’s why I have failed to go aright.
I know well, by this cradle, I am wrong,
For here the miller and his wife belong.”
And on he went, and on the devil’s way,
Unto the bed wherein the miller lay.
He thought to have crept in by comrade John,
So, to the miller, in he got anon,
And caught him round the neck, and softly spake,
Saying: “You, John, you old swine’s head, awake,
For Christ’s own soul, and hear a noble work,
For by Saint James, and as I am a clerk,
I have, three times in this short night, no lack,
Swived that old miller’s daughter on her back,
While you, like any coward, were aghast.”
“You scoundrel,” cried the miller, “you trespassed?
Ah, traitor false and treacherous clerk!” cried he,
“You shall be killed, by God’s own dignity!
Who dares be bold enough to bring to shame
My daughter, who is born of such a name?”
And by the gullet, then, he caught Alain.
And pitilessly he handled him amain,
And on the nose he smote him with his fist.
Down ran the bloody stream upon his breast;
And on the floor, with nose and mouth a-soak,
They wallowed as two pigs do in a poke.
And up they came, and down they both went, prone,
Until the miller stumbled on a stone,
And reeled and fell down backwards on his wife,
Who nothing knew of all this silly strife;
For she had fallen into slumber tight
With John the clerk, who’d been awake all night.
But at the fall, from sleep she started out.
“Help, holy Cross of Bromholm!” did she shout,
“In manus tuas, Lord, to Thee I call!
Simon, awake, the Fiend is on us all
My heart is broken, help, I am but dead!
There lies one on my womb, one on my head!
Help, Simpkin, for these treacherous clerks do fight!”
John started up, as fast as well he might,
And searched along the wall, and to and fro,
To find a staff; and she arose also,
And knowing the room better than did John,
She found a staff against the wall, anon;
And then she saw a little ray of light,
For through a hole the moon was shining bright;
And by that light she saw the struggling two,
But certainly she knew not who was who,
Except she saw a white thing with her eye.
And when she did this same white thing espy,
She thought the clerk had worn a nightcap here.
And with the staff she nearer drew, and near,
And, thinking to hit Alain on his poll,
She fetched the miller on his bald white skull,
And down he went, crying out, “Help, help, I die!”
The two clerks beat him well and let him lie;
And clothed themselves, and took their horse anon.
And got their flour, and on their way were gone.
And at the mill they found the well-made cake
Which of their meal the miller’s wife did bake.
Thus is the haughty miller soundly beat,
And thus he’s lost his pay for grinding wheat,
And paid for the two suppers, let me tell,
Of Alain and of John, who’ve tricked him well.
His wife is taken, also his daughter sweet;
Thus it befalls a miller who’s a cheat.
And therefore is this proverb said with truth,
“An evil end to evil man, forsooth.”
The cheater shall himself well cheated be.
And God, Who sits on high in majesty,
Save all this company, both strong and frail!
Thus have I paid this miller with my tale.
HERE IS ENDED THE REEVE’S TALE
THE COOK’S PROLOGUE
The cook from London, while the reeve yet spoke,
Patted his back with pleasure at the joke.
“Ha, ha!” laughed he, “by Christ’s great suffering,
This miller had a mighty sharp ending
Upon his argument of harbourage!
For well says Solomon, in his language,
‘Bring thou not every man into thine house;’
For harbouring by night is dangerous.
Well ought a man to know the man that he
Has brought into his own security.
I pray God give me sorrow and much care
If ever, since I have been Hodge6 of Ware,
Heard I of miller better brought to mark.
A wicked jest was played him in the dark.
But God forbid that we should leave off here;
And therefore, if you’ll lend me now an ear,
From what I know, who am but a poor man,
I will relate, as well as ever I can,
A little trick was played in our city.”
Our host replied: “I grant it readily.
Now tell on, Roger; see that it be good;
For many a pasty have you robbed of blood,
And many a Jack of Dover7 have you sold
That has been heated twice and twice grown cold.
From many a pilgrim have you had Christ’s curse,
For of your parsley they yet fare the worse,
Which they have eaten with your stubble goose;8
For in your shop full many a fly is loose.
Now tell on, gentle Roger, by your name.
But yet, I pray, don’t mind if I make game,
A man may tell the truth when it’s in play.”
“You say the truth,” quoth Roger, “by my fay!
But ‘true jest, bad jest’ as the Fleming saith.
And therefore, Harry Bailey, on your faith,
Be you not angry ere we finish here,
If my tale should concern an inn-keeper.
Nevertheless, I’ll tell not that one yet,
But ere we part your jokes will I upset.”
And thereon did he laugh, in great good cheer,
And told his tale, as you shall straightway hear.
THUS ENDS THE PROLOGUE OF THE COOK’S TALE
THE COOK’S TALE
There lived a ’prentice, once, in our city,
And of the craft of victuallers was he;
Happy he was as goldfinch in the glade,
Brown as a berry, short, and thickly made,
With black hair that he combed right prettily.
He could dance well, and that so jollily,
That he was nicknamed Perkin Reveller.
He was as full of love, I may aver,
As is a beehive full of honey sweet;
Well for the wench that with him chanced to meet.
At every bridal would he sing and hop,
Loving the tavern better than the shop.
When there was any festival in Cheap,
Out of the shop and thither would he leap,
And, till the whole procession he had seen,
And danced his fill, he’d not return again.
He gathered many fellows of his sort
To dance and sing and make all kinds of sport.
And they would have appointments for to meet
And play at dice in such, or such, a street.
For in the whole town was no apprentice
Who better knew the way to throw the dice
Than Perkin; and therefore he was right free
With money, when in chosen company.
His master found this out in business there;
For often-times he found the till was bare.
For certainly a revelling bond-boy
Who loves dice, wine, dancing, and girls of joy—
His master, in his shop, shall feel the effect,
Though no part have he in this said respect;
For theft and riot always comrades are,
And each alike he played on gay guitar.
Revels and truth, in one of low degree,
Do battle always, as all men may see.
This ’prentice shared his master’s fair abode
Till he was nigh out of his ’prenticehood,
Though he was checked and scolded early and late,
And sometimes led, for drinking, to Newgate;
But at the last his master did take thought,
Upon a day, when he his ledger sought,
On an old proverb wherein is found this word:
“Better take rotten apple from the hoard
Than let it lie to spoil the good ones there.”
So with a drunken servant should it fare;
It is less ill to let him go, apace,
Than ruin all the others in the place.
Therefore he freed and cast him loose to go
His own road unto future care and woe;
And thus this jolly ’prentice had his leave.
Now let him riot all night long, or thieve.
But since there’s never thief without a buck
To help him waste his money and to suck
All he can steal or borrow by the way,
Anon he sent his bed and his array
To one he knew, a fellow of his sort,
Who loved the dice and revels and all sport,
And had a wife that kept, for countenance,
A shop, and whored to gain her sustenance.
OF THIS COOK’S TALE CHAUCER MADE NO MORE
INTRODUCTION TO THE LAWYER’S PROLOGUE
The Words of the Host to the Company
Our good host saw well that the shining sun
The arc of artificial day9 had run
A quarter part, plus half an hour or more;
And though not deeply expert in such lore,
He reckoned that it was the eighteenth day
Of April, which is harbinger to May;
And saw well that the shadow of each tree
Was, as to length, of even quantity
As was the body upright causing it.
And therefore by the shade he had the wit
To know that Phoebus, shining there so bright,
Had climbed degrees full forty-five in height;
And that, that day, and in that latitude,
It was ten of the clock, he did conclude,
And suddenly he put his horse about.
“Masters,” quoth he, “I warn all of this rout,
A quarter of this present day is gone;
Now for the love of God and of Saint John,
Lose no more time, or little as you may;
Masters, the time is wasting night and day,
And steals away from us, what with our sleeping
And with our sloth, when we awake are keeping,
As does the stream, that never turns again,
Descending from the mountain to the plain.
And well may Seneca, and many more,
Bewail lost time far more than gold in store.
‘For chattels lost may yet recovered be,
But time lost ruins us for aye,’ says he.
It will not come again, once it has fled,
Not any more than will Mag’s maidenhead
When she has lost it in her wantonness;
Let’s not grow mouldy thus in idleness.
“Sir Lawyer,” said he, “as you have hope of bliss,
Tell us a tale, as our agreement is;
You have submitted, by your free assent,
To stand, in this case, to my sole judgment;
Acquit yourself, keep promise with the rest,
And you’ll have done your duty, at the least.”
“Mine host,” said he, “by the gods, I consent;
To break a promise is not my intent.
A promise is a debt, and by my fay
I keep all mine; I can no better say.
For such law as man gives to other wight,
He should himself submit to it, by right;
Thus says our text; nevertheless, ’tis true
I can relate no useful tale to you,
But Chaucer, though he speaks but vulgarly
In metre and in rhyming dextrously,
Has told them in such English as he can,
In former years, as knows full many a man.
For if he has not told them, my dear brother,
In one book, why he’s done so in another.
For he has told of lovers, up and down,
More than old Ovid mentions, of renown,
In his Epistles, that are now so old.
Why should I then re-tell what has been told?
In youth he told of Ceyx and Alcyon,
And has since then spoken of everyone—
Of noble wives and lovers did he speak.
And whoso will that weighty volume seek
Called Legend of Good Women, need not chide;
There may be ever seen the large wounds wide
Of Lucrece, Babylonian Thisbe;
Dido’s for false Aeneas when fled he;
Demophoon and Phyllis and her tree;
The plaint of Deianira and Hermione;
Of Ariadne and Hypsipyle;
The barren island standing in the sea;
The drowned Leander and his fair Hero;
The tears of Helen and the bitter woe
Of Briseis and that of Laodomea;
The cruelty of that fair Queen Medea,
Her little children hanging by the neck
When all her love for Jason came to wreck!
O Hypermnestra, Penelope, Alcestis,
Your wifehood does he honour, since it best is!
“But certainly no word has written he
Of that so wicked woman, Canace,
Who loved her own blood brother sinfully.
Of suchlike cursed tales, I say ‘Let be!’
Nor yet of Tyrian Apollonius;
Nor how the wicked King Antiochus
Bereft his daughter of her maidenhead
(Which is so horrible a tale to read),
When down he flung her on the paving stones.
And therefore he, advisedly, truth owns,
Would never write, in one of his creations,
Of such unnatural abominations.
And I’ll refuse to tell them, if I may.
“But for my tale, what shall I do this day?
Any comparison would me displease
To Muses whom men call Pierides
(The Metamorphoses show what I mean).
Nevertheless, I do not care a bean
Though I come after him with my plain fare.
I’ll stick to prose. Let him his rhymes prepare.”
And thereupon, with sober face and cheer,
He told his tale, as you shall read it here.
THE LAWYER’S PROLOGUE
O Hateful evil! State of Poverty!
With thirst, with cold, with hunger so confounded!
To ask help shameth thy heart’s delicacy;
If none thou ask, by need thou art so wounded
That need itself uncovereth all the wound hid!
Spite of thy will thou must, for indigence,
Go steal, or beg, or borrow thine expense.
Thou blamest Christ, and thou say’st bitterly,
He misdistributes riches temporal;
Thy neighbour dost thou censure, sinfully,
Saying thou hast too little and he hath all.
“My faith,” sayest thou, “sometime the reckoning shall
Come on him, when his tail shall burn for greed,
Not having helped the needy in their need.”
Hear now what is the judgment of the wise:
“Better to die than live in indigence;”
“Thy very pauper neighbours thee despise.”
If thou be poor, farewell thy reverence!
Still of the wise man take this full sentence:
“The days of the afflicted are all sin.”
Beware, therefore, that thou come not therein!
“If thou be poor, thy brother hateth thee,
And all thy friends will flee from thee, alas!”
O wealthy merchants, full of weal ye be,
O noble, prudent folk in happier case!
Your dice-box doth not tumble out ambsace,10
But with six-cinq11 ye throw against your chance;12
And so, at Christmas, merrily may ye dance!
Ye search all land and sea for your winnings,
And, as wise folk, ye know well the estate
Of all realms; ye are sires of happenings
And tales of peace and tales of war’s debate.
But I were now of tales all desolate,
Were ’t not a merchant, gone this many a year,
Taught me the story which you now shall hear.
In Syria, once, there dwelt a company
Of traders rich, all sober men and true,
That far abroad did send their spicery,
And cloth of gold, and satins rich in hue;
Their wares were all so excellent and new
That everyone was eager to exchange
With them, and sell them divers things and strange.
It came to pass, the masters of this sort
Decided that to Rome they all would wend,
Were it for business or for only sport;
No other message would they thither send,
But went themselves to Rome; this is the end.
And there they found an inn and took their rest
As seemed to their advantage suited best.
Sojourned have now these merchants in that town
A certain time, as fell to their pleasance.
And so it happened that the high renown
Of th’ emperor’s daughter, called the fair Constance,
Reported was, with every circumstance,
Unto these Syrian merchants, in such wise,
From day to day, as I will now apprise.
This was the common voice of every man:
“Our emperor of Rome, God save and see,
A daughter has that since the world began,
To reckon as well her goodness as beauty,
Was never such another as is she;
I pray that God her fame will keep, serene,
And would she were of all Europe the queen.
“In her is beauty high, and without pride;
Youth, without crudity or levity;
In all endeavours, virtue is her guide;
Meekness in her has humbled tyranny;
She is the mirror of all courtesy;
Her heart’s a very shrine of holiness;
Her hand is freedom’s agent for largess.”
And all this voice said truth, as God is true.
But to our story let us turn again.
These merchants all have freighted ships anew,
And when they’d seen the lovely maid, they fain
Would seek their Syrian homes with all their train,
To do their business as they’d done of yore,
And live in weal; I cannot tell you more.
Now so it was, these merchants stood in grace
Of Syria’s sultan; and so wise was he
That when they came from any foreign place
He would, of his benignant courtesy,
Make them good cheer, inquiring earnestly
For news of sundry realms, to learn, by word,
The wonders that they might have seen and heard.
Among some other things, especially
These merchants told him tales of fair Constance;
From such nobility, told of earnestly,
This sultan caught a dream of great pleasance,
And she so figured in his remembrance
That all his wish and all his busy care
Were, throughout life, to love that lady fair.
Now peradventure, in that mighty book
Which men call heaven, it had come to pass,
In stars, when first a living breath he took,
That he for love should get his death, alas!
For in the stars, far clearer than is glass,
Is written, God knows, read it he who can,—
And truth it is—the death of every man.
In stars, full many a winter over-worn,
Was written the death of Hector, Achilles,
Of Pompey, Julius, long ere they were born;
The strife at Thebes; and of great Hercules,
Of Samson, of Turnus, of Socrates,
The death to each; but men’s wits are so dull
There is no man may read this to the full.
This sultan for his privy-council sent,
And, but to tell it briefly in this place,
He did to them declare his whole intent,
And said that, surely, save he might have grace
To gain Constance within a little space,
He was but dead; and charged them, speedily
To find out, for his life, some remedy.
By divers men, then, divers things were said;
They reasoned, and they argued up and down;
Full much with subtle logic there they sped;
They spoke of spells, of treachery in Rome town;
But finally, as to an end foreknown,
They were agreed that nothing should gainsay
A marriage, for there was no other way.
Then saw they therein so much difficulty,
When reasoning of it (to make all plain,
Because such conflict and diversity
Between the laws of both lands long had lain)
They held: “No Christian emperor were fain
To have his child wed under our sweet laws,
Given us by Mahomet for God’s cause.”
But he replied: “Nay, rather then than lose
The Lady Constance, I’ll be christened, yes!
I must be hers, I can no other choose.
I pray you let be no rebelliousness;
Save me my life, and do not be careless
In getting her who thus alone may cure
The woe whereof I cannot long endure.”
What needs a copious dilation now?
I say: By treaties and by embassy,
And the pope’s mediation, high and low,
And all the Church and all the chivalry,
That, to destruction of Manometry
And to augmenting Christian faith so dear,
They were agreed, at last, as you shall hear.
The sultan and his entire baronage
And all his vassals, they must christened be,
And he shall have Constance in true marriage,
And gold (I know not in what quantity),
For which was found enough security;
This, being agreed, was sworn by either side.
Now, Constance fair, may great God be your guide!
Now would some men expect, as I may guess,
That I should tell of all the purveyance
The emperor, of his great nobleness,
Has destined for his daughter, fair Constance.
But men must know that so great ordinance
May no one tell within a little clause
As was arrayed there for so high a cause.
Bishops were named who were with her to wend,
Ladies and lords and knights of high renown,
And other folk—but I will make an end,
Except that it was ordered through the town
That everyone, with great devotion shown,
Should pray to Christ that He this marriage lead
To happy end, and the long voyage speed.
The day is come, at last, for leave-taking,
I say, the woeful, fatal day is come,
When there may be no longer tarrying,
But to go forth make ready all and some;
Constance, who was with sorrow overcome,
Rose, sad and pale, and dressed herself to wend;
For well she saw there was no other end.
Alas! What wonder is it that she wept?
She shall be sent to a strange country, far
From friends that her so tenderly have kept,
And bound to one her joy to make or mar
Whom she knows not, nor what his people are.
Husbands are all good, and have been of yore,
That know their wives, but I dare say no more.
“Father,” she said, “your wretched child, Constance,
Your daughter reared in luxury so soft,
And you, my mother, and my chief pleasance,
Above all things, save Christ Who rules aloft,
Constance your child would be remembered oft
Within your prayers, for I to Syria go,
Nor shall I ever see you more, ah no!
“Unto the land of Barbary13 my fate
Compels me now, because it is your will;
But Christ, Who died to save our sad estate,
So give me grace, His mandates I’ll fulfill;
I, wretched woman, though I die, ’tis nil.
Women are born to slave and to repent,
And to be subject to man’s government.”
I think, at Troy, when Pyrrhus broke the wall;
When Ilium burned; when Thebes fell, that city;
At Rome, for all the harm from Hannibal,
Who vanquished Roman arms in campaigns three—
I think was heard no weeping for pity
As in the chamber at her leave-taking;
Yet go she must, whether she weep or sing.
O primal-moving, cruel Firmament,
With thy diurnal pressure, that doth sway
And hurl all things from East to Occident,
Which otherwise would hold another way,
Thy pressure set the heavens in such array,
At the beginning of this wild voyage,
That cruel Mars hath murdered this marriage.
Unfortunate ascendant tortuous,
Of which the lord has helpless fall’n, alas,
Out of his angle to the darkest house!
O Mars! O Atazir in present case!14
O feeble Moon, unhappy is thy pace!
Thou’rt in conjunction where thou’rt not received,
And where thou should’st go, thou hast not achieved.
Imprudent emperor of Rome, alas!
Was no philosopher15 in all thy town?
Is one time like another in such case?
Indeed, can there be no election shown,
Especially to folk of high renown,
And when their dates of birth may all men know?
Alas! We are too ignorant or too slow.
To ship is brought this fair and woeful maid,
Full decorously, with every circumstance.
“Now Jesus Christ be with you all,” she said;
And there’s no more, save “Farewell, fair Constance!”
She strove to keep a cheerful countenance,
And forth I let her sail in this manner,
And turn again to matters far from her.
The mother of the sultan, well of vices,
Has heard the news of her son’s full intent,
How he will leave the ancient sacrifices;
And she at once for her own council sent;
And so they came to learn what thing she meant.
And when they were assembled, each compeer,
She took her seat and spoke as you shall hear.
“My lords,” said she, “you know well, every man,
My son intends to forgo and forget
The holy precepts of our Alkoran,
Given by God’s own prophet, Mahomet.
But I will make one vow to great God yet:
The life shall rather from my body start
Than Islam’s laws out of my faithful heart!
“What should we get from taking this new creed
But thralldom for our bodies and penance?
And afterward, be drawn to Hell, indeed,
For thus denying our faith’s inheritance?
But, lords, if you will give your sustenance,
And join me for the wisdom I’ve in store,
I swear to save us all for evermore.”
They swore and they assented, every man,
To live by her and die, and by her stand;
And each of them, in what best wise he can,
Shall gather friends and followers into band;
And she shall take the enterprise in hand,
The form of which I soon will you apprise,
And to them all she spoke, then, in this wise.
“We will first feign the Christian faith to take;
Cold water will not harm us from the rite;
And I will such a feast and revel make
As will, I trust, to lull be requisite.
For though his wife be christened ever so white,
She shall have need to wash away the red,
Though a full font of water be there sped.”
O sultana, root of iniquity!
Virago, you Semiramis second!
O serpent hid in femininity,
Just as the Serpent deep in Hell is bound!
O pseudo-woman, all that may confound
Virtue and innocence, through your malice,
Is bred in you, the nest of every vice!
O Satan, envious since that same day
When thou wert banished from our heritage,
Well know’st thou unto woman thine old way!
Thou made’st Eve bring us into long bondage.
Thou wilt destroy this Christian marriage.
Thine instrument—ah welaway the while!—
Make’st thou of woman when thou wilt beguile!
Now this sultana whom I blame and harry,
Let, secretly, her council go their way.
Why should I longer in my story tarry?
She rode unto the sultan, on a day,
And told him she’d renounce her old faith, yea,
Be christened at priests’ hands, with all the throng,
Repentant she’d been heathen for so long.
Beseeching him to do her the honour
To let her have the Christian men to feast:
“To entertain them will be my labour.”
The sultan said: “I’ll be at your behest.”
And, kneeling, thanked her for that fair request,
So glad he was he knew not what to say;
She kissed her son, and homeward went her way.
Explicit prima pars.
Sequitur pars secunda.
Arrived now are these Christian folk at land,
In Syria, with a great stately rout,
And hastily this sultan gave command,
First to his mother and all the realm about,
Saying his wife was come, beyond a doubt,
And prayed her that she ride to meet the queen,
That all due honour might be shown and seen.
Great was the crush and rich was the array
Of Syrians and Romans, meeting here;
The mother of the sultan, rich and gay,
Received her open-armed, with smiling cheer,
As any mother might a daughter dear;
And to the nearest city, with the bride,
At gentle pace, right festively they ride.
I think the triumph of great Julius,
Whereof old Lucan make so long a boast,
Was not more royal nor more curious
Than was the assembling of this happy host.
But this same Scorpion, this wicked ghost—
The old sultana, for all her flattering,
Chose in that sign full mortally to sting.
The sultan came himself, soon after this,
So regally ’twere wonderful to tell,
And welcomed her into all joy and bliss.
And thus in such delight I let them dwell.
The fruit of all is what I now shall tell.
When came the time, men thought it for the best
Their revels cease, and got them home to rest.
The time came when this old sultana there
Has ordered up the feast of which I told,
Whereto the Christian folk did them prepare,
The company together, young and old.
There men might feast and royalty behold,
With dainties more than I can e’en surmise;
But all too dear they’ve bought it, ere they rise.
O sudden woe! that ever will succeed
On worldly bliss, infused with bitterness;
That ends the joy of earthly toil, indeed;
Woe holds at last the place of our gladness.
Hear, now, this counsel for your certainness:
Upon your most glad day, bear then in mind
The unknown harm and woe that come behind.
For, but to tell you briefly, in one word—
The sultan and the Christians, every one,
Were all hewed down and thrust through at the board,
Save the fair Lady Constance, she alone.
This old sultana, aye, this cursed crone
Has, with her followers, done this wicked deed,
For she herself would all the nation lead.
There was no Syrian that had been converted,
Being of the sultan’s council resolute,
But was struck down, ere from the board he’d started.
And Constance have they taken now, hot-foot,
And on a ship, of rudder destitute,
They her have placed, bidding her learn to sail
From Syria to Italy—or fail.
A certain treasure that she’d brought, they add,
And, truth to tell, of food great quantity
They have her given, and clothing too she had;
And forth she sails upon the wide salt sea.
O Constance mine, full of benignity,
O emperor’s young daughter, from afar
He that is Lord of fortune be your star!
She crossed herself, and in a pious voice
Unto the Cross of Jesus thus said she:
O bright, O blessed Altar of my choice,
Red with the Lamb’s blood full of all pity,
That washed the world from old iniquity,
Me from the Fiend and from his claws, oh keep
That day when I shall drown within the deep!
“Victorious Tree, Protection of the true,
The only thing that worthy was to bear
The King of Heaven with His wounds so new,
The White Lamb Who was pierced through with the spear,
Driver of devils out of him and her
Who on Thine arms do lay themselves in faith,
Keep me and give me grace before my death!”
For years and days drifted this maiden pure,
Through all the seas of Greece and to the strait
Of dark Gibraltar did she adventure;
On many a sorry meal now may she bait;
Upon her death full often may she wait
Before the wild waves and the winds shall drive
Her vessel where it shall some day arrive.
Men might well ask: But why was she not slain?
And at that feast who could her body save?
And I reply to that demand, again:
Who saved young Daniel in the dreadful cave
Where every other man, master and knave,
Was killed by lions ere he might up-start?
No one, save God, Whom he bore in his heart.
God willed to show this wondrous miracle
Through her, that we should see His mighty works;
And Christ Who every evil can dispel,
By certain means does oft, as know all clerks,
Do that whereof the end in darkness lurks
For man’s poor wit, which of its ignorance
Cannot conceive His careful purveyance.
Now, since she was not slain at feast we saw,
Who kept her that she drowned not in the sea?
But who kept Jonah in the fish’s maw
Till he was spewed forth there at Nineveh?
Well may men know it was no one but He
Who saved the Hebrew people from drowning
When, dry-shod, through the sea they went walking.
Who bade the four great spirits of tempest,
That power have to harry land and sea,
“Not north, nor south, nor yet to east, nor west
Shall ye molest the ocean, land, or tree”?
Truly, the Captain of all this was He
Who from the storm has aye this woman kept,
As well when waking as in hours she slept.
Where might this woman get her drink and meat?
Three years and more, how lasted her supply?
Who gave Egyptian Mary food to eat
In cave or desert? None but Christ, say I.
Five thousand folk, the gospels testify,
On five loaves and two fishes once did feed.
And thus God sent abundance for her need.
Forth into our own ocean then she came,
Through all our wild white seas, until at last,
Under a keep, whose name I cannot name,
Far up Northumberland, her ship was cast,
And on the sands drove hard and stuck so fast
That thence it moved not, no, for all the tide,
It being Christ’s will that she should there abide.
The warden of the castle down did fare
To view this wreck, and through the ship he sought
And found this weary woman, full of care;
He found, also, the treasure she had brought.
In her own language mercy she besought
That he would help her soul from body win
To free her from the plight that she was in.
A kind of bastard Latin did she speak,
But, nevertheless, these folk could understand;
The constable no longer thought to seek,
But led the sorrowing woman to the land;
There she knelt down and thanked God, on the sand,
But who or what she was, she would not say,
For threat or promise, though she died that day.
She said she’d been bewildered by the sea,
And had lost recollection, by her truth;
The warden had for her so great pity,
As had his wife, that both they wept for ruth.
She was so diligent to toil, in sooth,
To serve and please all folk within that place,
That all loved her who looked upon her face.
This warden and Dame Hermengild, his wife,
Were pagans, and that country, everywhere;
But Hermengild now loved her as her life,
And Constance has so long abided there,
And prayed so oft, with many a tearful prayer,
That Jesus has converted, through His grace,
Dame Hermengild, the lady of that place.
In all that land no Christian dared speak out
All Christians having fled from that country,
For pagan men had conquered all about
The regions of the north, by land and sea;
To Wales was fled the Christianity
Of the old Britons dwelling in this isle;
That was their refuge in the wild meanwhile.
Yet ne’er were Christian Britons so exiled
But some of them assembled, privately,
To honour Christ, and heathen folk beguiled;
And near the castle dwelt of such men three.
But one of them was blind and could not see,
Save with the inner optics of his mind,
Wherewith all men see after they go blind.
Bright was the sun upon that summer’s day
When went the warden and his wife also,
And Constance, down the hill, along the way
Toward the sea, a furlong off, or so,
To frolic and to wander to and fro;
And in their walk on this blind man they came,
With eyes fast shut, a creature old and lame.
“In name of Christ!” this blind old Briton cried,
“Dame Hermengild, give me my sight again.”
But she was frightened of the words, and sighed,
Lest that her husband, briefly to be plain,
Should have her, for her love of Jesus, slain;
Till Constance strengthened her and bade her work
The will of God, as daughter of His kirk.
The warden was confounded by that sight,
And asked: “What mean these words and this affair?”
Constance replied: “Sir, it is Jesus’ might
That helps all poor folk from the foul Fiend’s snare.”
And so far did she our sweet faith declare
That she the constable, before ’twas eve,
Converted, and in Christ made him believe.
This constable, though not lord of that place
Where he’d found Constance, wrecked upon the sand,
Had held it well for many a winter’s space,
For Alla, king of all Northumberland,
Who was full wise and hardy of his hand
Against the Scots, as men may read and hear,
But I will to my tale again—give ear.
Satan, that ever waits, men to beguile,
Saw now, in Constance, all perfection grown,
And wondering how to be revenged the while,
He made a young knight, living in the town,
Love her so madly, with foul passion flown,
That verily he thought his life should spill,
Save that, of her, he once might have his will.
He wooed her, but it all availed him naught;
She would not sin in any wise or way;
And, for despite, he plotted in his thought
To make her die a death of shame some day.
He waited till the warden was away,
And, stealthily by night, he went and crept
To Hermengild’s bed-chamber, while she slept.
Weary with waking for her orisons,
Slept Constance, and Dame Hermengild also.
This knight, by Satan’s tempting, came at once
And softly to the bedside he did go.
And cut the throat of Hermengild, and so
Laid the hot reeking knife by fair Constance,
And went his way—where God give him mischance!
Soon after came the warden home again,
And with him Alla, king of all that land,
And saw his wife so pitilessly slain,
For which he wept and cried and wrung his hand;
And in the bed the bloody dagger, and
The Lady Constance. Ah! What could she say?
For very woe her wits went all away.
King Alla was apprised of this sad chance,
And told the time, and where, and in what wise
Was found in a wrecked ship the fair Constance,
As heretofore you’ve heard my tale apprise.
But in the king’s heart pity did arise
When he saw so benignant a creature
Fallen in distress of such misadventure.
For as the lamb unto his death is brought,
So stood this innocent before the king;
And the false knight that had this treason wrought,
He swore that it was she had done this thing.
Nevertheless, there was much sorrowing
Among the people, saying, “We cannot guess
That she has done so great a wickedness.
“For we have seen her always virtuous,
And loving Hermengild as she loved life.”
To this bore witness each one in that house,
Save he that slew the victim with his knife.
The gentle king suspected motive rife
In that man’s heart; and thought he would inquire
Deeper therein, the truth to learn entire.
Alas, Constance! You have no champion,
And since you cannot fight, it’s welaway!
But He Who died for us the cross upon,
And Satan bound (who lies yet where he lay),
So be your doughty Champion this day!
For, except Christ a miracle make known,
You shall be slain, though guiltless, and right soon.
She dropped upon her knees and thus she prayed:
“Immortal God, Who saved the fair Susanna
From lying blame, and Thou, O gracious Maid
(Mary, I mean, the daughter of Saint Anna),
Before whose Child the angels sing hosanna,
If I be guiltless of this felony,
My succour be, for otherwise I die!”
Have you not sometime seen a pallid face
Among the crowd, of one that’s being led
Toward his death—one who had got no grace?
And such a pallor on his face was spread
All men must mark it, full of horrid dread,
Among the other faces in the rout.
So stood fair Constance there and looked about.
O queens that live in all prosperity,
Duchesses, and you ladies, every one,
Have pity, now, on her adversity;
An emperor’s young daughter stands alone;
She has no one to whom to make her moan.
O royal blood that stands there in such dread,
Far are your friends away in your great need!
This King Alla has such compassion shown
(Since gentle heart is full of all pity),
That from his two eyes ran the tears right down.
“Now hastily go fetch a book,” quoth he,
“And if this knight will swear that it was she
Who slew the woman, then will we make clear
The judge we shall appoint the case to hear.”
A book of Gospels writ in British tongue
Was brought, and on this Book he swore anon
Her guilt; but then the people all among
A clenched hand smote him on the shoulder-bone,
And down he fell, as stunned as by a stone,
And both his eyes burst forth out of his face
In sight of everybody in that place.
A voice was heard by all that audience,
Saying: “You have here slandered the guiltless
Daughter of Holy Church, in high Presence;
Thus have you done, and further I’ll not press.”
Whereat were all the folk aghast, no less;
As men amazed they stand there, every one,
For dread of vengeance, save Constance alone.
Great was the fear and, too, the repentance
Of those that held a wrong suspicion there
Against this simple innocent Constance;
And by this miracle so wondrous fair,
And by her mediation and her prayer,
The king, with many another in that place,
Was there converted, thanks to Christ His grace!
This lying knight was slain for his untruth,
By sentence of King Alla, hastily;
Yet Constance had upon his death great ruth.
And after this, Jesus, of His mercy,
Caused Alla take in marriage, solemnly,
This holy maiden, so bright and serene,
And thus has Christ made fair Constance a queen.
But who was sad, if I am not to lie,
At this but Lady Donegild, she who
Was the king’s mother, full of tyranny?
She thought her wicked heart must burst in two;
She would he’d never thought this thing to do;
And so she hugged her anger that he’d take
So strange a wife as this creature must make.
Neither with chaff nor straw it pleases me
To make a long tale, here, but with the corn.
Why should I tell of all the royalty
At that wedding, or who went first, well-born,
Or who blew out a trumpet or a horn?
The fruit of every tale is but to say,
They eat and drink and dance and sing and play.
They went to bed, as was but just and right,
For though some wives are pure and saintly things,
They must endure, in patience, in the night,
Such necessaries as make pleasurings
To men whom they have wedded well with rings,
And lay their holiness a while aside;
There may no better destiny betide.
On her he got a man-child right anon;
And to a bishop and the warden eke
He gave his wife to guard, while he was gone
To Scotland, there his enemies to seek;
Now Constance, who so humble is, and meek,
So long is gone with child that, hushed and still,
She keeps her chamber, waiting on Christ’s will.
The time was come, a baby boy she bore;
Mauritius they did name him at the font;
This constable sent forth a messenger
And wrote unto King Alla at the front
Of all this glad event, a full account,
And other pressing matters did he say.
He took the letter and went on his way.
This messenger, to forward his own ends,
To the king’s mother rode with swiftest speed,
Humbly saluting her as down he bends:
“Madam,” quoth he, “be joyful now indeed!
To God a hundred thousand thanks proceed.
The queen has borne a child, beyond all doubt,
To joy and bliss of all this land about.
“Lo, here are letters sealed that say this thing,
Which I must bear with all the speed I may;
If you will send aught to your son, the king,
I am your humble servant, night and day.”
Donegild answered: “As for this time, nay;
But here tonight I’d have you take your rest;
Tomorrow I will say what I think best.”
This messenger drank deep of ale and wine,
And stolen were his letters, stealthily,
Out of his box, while slept he like a swine;
And counterfeited was, right cleverly,
Another letter, wrought full sinfully,
Unto the king, of this event so near,
All from the constable, as you shall hear.
The letter said, the queen delivered was
Of such a fiendish, horrible creature,
That in the castle none so hardy as
Durst, for a lengthy time, there to endure.
The mother was an elf or fairy, sure,
Come there by chance of charm, or sorcery,
And all good men hated her company.
Sad was the king when this letter he’d seen;
But to no man he told his sorrows sore,
But with his own hand he wrote back again:
“Welcome what’s sent from Christ, for evermore,
To me, who now am learned in His lore;
Lord, welcome be Thy wish, though hidden still,
My own desire is but to do Thy will.
“Guard well this child, though foul it be or fair,
And guard my wife until my home-coming;
Christ, when He wills it, may send me an heir
More consonant than this with my liking.”
This letter sealed, and inwardly weeping,
To the same messenger ’twas taken soon,
And forth he went; there’s no more to be done.
O messenger, possessed of drunkenness,
Strong is your breath, your limbs do falter aye,
And you betray all secrets, great and less;
Your mind is gone, you jangle like a jay;
Your face is mottled in a new array!
Where drunkenness can reign, in any rout,
There is no counsel kept, beyond a doubt.
O Donegild, there is no English mine
Fit for your malice and your tyranny!
Therefore you to the Fiend I do resign,
Let him go write of your foul treachery!
Fie, mannish women! Nay, by God, I lie!
Fie, fiendish spirit, for I dare well tell,
Though you walk here, your spirit is in Hell!
This messenger came from the king again,
And at the king’s old mother’s court did light,
And she was of this messenger full fain
To please him in whatever way she might.
He drank until his girdle was too tight,
He slept and snored and mumbled, drunken-wise,
All night, until the sun began to rise.
Again were his letters stolen, every one,
And others counterfeited, in this wise:
“The king commands his constable, anon,
On pain of hanging by the high justice,
That he shall suffer not, in any guise,
Constance within the kingdom to abide
Beyond three days and quarter of a tide.
“But in the ship wherein she came to strand
She and her infant son and all her gear
Shall be embarked and pushed out from the land,
And charge her that she never again come here.”
O Constance mine, well might your spirit fear,
And, sleeping, in your dream have great grievance
When Donegild arranged this ordinance.
This messenger, the morrow, when he woke,
Unto the castle held the nearest way,
And to the constable the letter took;
And when he’d read and learned what it did say,
Often he cried “Alas!” and “Welaway!
Lord Christ,” quoth he, “how may this world endure?
So full of sin is many a bad creature.
O mighty God, and is it then Thy will?
Since Thou art righteous judge, how can it be
That innocence may suffer so much ill
And wicked folk reign in prosperity?
O good Constance, alas! Ah, woe is me
That I must be your torturer, or die
A shameful death! There is no other way.”
Wept both the young and old of all that place
Because the king this cursed letter sent,
And Constance, with a deathly pallid face,
Upon the fourth day to the ship she went.
Nevertheless, she took as good intent
The will of Christ, and kneeling on the strand,
She said: “Lord, always welcome Thy command!
“He that did keep me from all lying blame
The while I lived among you, sun and snow,
He can still guard me from all harm and shame
Upon salt seas, albeit I see not how.
As strong as ever He was, so is He now.
In Him I trust and in His Mother dear,
He is my sail, the star by which I steer.”
Her little child lay crying in her arm,
And kneeling, piteously to him she said:
“Peace, little son, I will do you no harm.”
With that the kerchief took she from her braid,
And binding it across his eyes, she laid
Again her arm about and lulled him fast
Asleep, and then to Heaven her eyes up-cast.
“Mother,” she said, “O Thou bright Maid, Mary,
True is it that through woman’s incitement
Mankind was banished and is doomed to die,
For which Thy Son upon the cross was rent;
Thy blessed eyes saw all of His torment;
Wherefore there’s no comparison between
Thy woe and any woe of man, though keen.
“Thou sawest them slay Thy Son before Thine eyes;
And yet lives now my little child, I say!
O Lady bright, to Whom affliction cries,
Thou glory of womanhood, O Thou fair May,
Haven of refuge, bright star of the day,
Pity my child, Who of Thy gentleness
Hast pity on mankind in all distress!
“O little child, alas! What is your guilt,
Who never wrought the smallest sin? Ah me,
Why will your too hard father have you killed?
Have mercy, O dear constable!” cried she,
“And let my little child bide, safe from sea;
And if you dare not save him, lest they blame,
Then kiss him once in his dear father’s name!”
Therewith she gazed long backward at the land,
And said: “Farewell, my husband merciless!”
And up she rose and walked right down the strand
Toward the ship; followed her all the press;
And ever she prayed her child to cry the less;
And took her leave; and with a high intent
She crossed herself; and aboard ship she went.
Victualled had been the ship, ’tis true—indeed
Abundantly—for her, and for long space;
Of many other things that she should need
She had great plenty, thanks be to God’s grace!
Through wind and weather may God find her place
And bring her home! I can no better say;
But out to sea she stood upon her way.
Explicit secunda pars.
Sequitur pars tercia.
Alla the king came home soon after this
Unto his castle, of the which I’ve told,
And asked for wife and child, whom he did miss.
The constable about his heart grew cold,
And plainly all the story he then told,
As you have heard, I cannot tell it better,
And showed the king his seal and the false letter.
And said: “My lord, as you commanded me,
On pain of death, so have I done—in vain!”
The messenger was tortured until he
Made known the facts to all men, full and plain,
From night to night, in what beds he had lain.
And thus, by dint of subtle questioning,
’Twas reasoned out from whom this harm did spring.
The hand was known, now, that the letter wrote,
And all the venom of this cursed deed,
But in what wise I certainly know not,
The effect is this, that Alla, for her meed,
His mother slew, as men may plainly read,
She being false to her sworn allegiance,
And thus old Donegild ended with mischance.
The sorrow that this Alla, night and day,
Felt for his wife, and for his child also,
There is no human tongue on earth to say.
But now will I back to fair Constance go,
Who drifted on the seas, in pain and woe,
Five years and more, as was Lord Christ’s command,
Before her ship approached to any land.
Under a heathen castle, at the last,
Whereof the name not in my text I find,
Constance and her young son the sea did cast.
Almighty God, Redeemer of mankind,
Have Constance and her little child in mind!
Who must fall into heathen hands and soon
Be near to death, as I shall tell anon.
Down from the castle came full many a wight
To stare upon the ship and on Constance.
But briefly, from the castle, on a night,
The warden’s steward—God give him mischance!—
A thief who had renounced allegiance
To Christ, came to the ship and said he should
Possess her body, whether or not she would.
Woe for this wretched woman then began,
Her child cried out and she cried, piteously;
But blessed Mary helped her soon; the man
With whom she struggled well and mightily,
This thief fell overboard all suddenly,
And in the sea was drowned by God’s vengeance;
And thus has Christ unsullied kept Constance.
O foul desire of lechery, lo thine end!
Not only dost thou cripple a man’s mind,
But verily dost thou his body rend;
The end of all thy work and thy lusts blind
Is bitterness; how many may we find
That not for actions but for mere intent
To do this sin, to shame or death are sent.
How could this poor weak woman have the strength
To keep herself against that renegade?
Goliath of immeasurable length,
How could young David such a death have made,
So slight and without armour? How arrayed
Himself to look upon that dreadful face?
Men may well see, it was but God’s own grace!
Who gave to Judith courage all reckless
To slay him, Holofernes, in his tent,
And to deliver out of wretchedness
The folk of God? I say, for this intent
That just as God a soul of vigour sent
To them, and saved them out of their mischance,
So sent He might and vigour to Constance.
Forth went her ship and through the narrow mouth
Of Ceuta and Gibraltar, on its way,
Sometimes to west, and sometimes north or south,
Aye and sometimes east, many a weary day,
Until Christ’s Mother (blest be She for aye!)
Did destine, out of good that is endless,
To make an end of Constance’ heaviness.
But let us leave this Constance now, and turn
To speak of that same Roman emperor
Who does, from Syria, by letters, learn
The slaughter of Christians and the dishonour
Done to his daughter by a vile traitor—
I mean that old sultana, years ago,
Who, at the feast, slew all men, high and low.
For which this emperor did send anon
A senator, with royal ordinance,
And other lords, God knows, and many a one,
On Syrians to take full high vengeance.
They burn, they slay, they give them all mischance
Through many a day; but, briefly to make end,
Homeward to Rome, at last, the victors wend.
This senator returned with victory
To Rome again, sailing right royally,
And spoke the ship (so goes the old story)
In which our Constance sat so piteously,
Nothing he knew of who she was, or why
She was in such a plight; nor would she say
Aught of herself, though she might die that day.
He took her into Rome, and to his wife
Gave her in charge, and her young son also;
And in his house she lived awhile her life.
Thus can Our Lady bring from deepest woe
Most woeful Constance, aye and more, we know.
And for a long time dwelt she in that place,
Engaged in God’s good works, such was her grace.
The senator’s good wife her own aunt was,
Yet for all that she knew her never the more;
I will no longer tarry in this case,
But to King Alla, whom we left, of yore,
Weeping for his lost wife and sighing sore.
I will return, and I will leave Constance
Under the senator’s roof and governance.
King Alla, who had had his mother slain,
Upon a day fell to such repentance,
That, but to tell it briefly and be plain,
To Rome he came to pay his just penance
And put himself in the pope’s ordinance,
In high and low; and Jesus Christ he sought
To pardon all the wicked deeds he’d wrought.
The news anon through all Rome town was borne,
How King Alla would come on pilgrimage,
By harbingers that unto him were sworn;
Whereat the senator, as was usage,
Rode out to him, with many of his lineage,
As well to show his own magnificence
As do to any king a reverence.
Great welcome gave this noble senator
To King Alla, and he to him also;
Each of them showed the other much honour;
And so befell that, in a day or so,
This senator to King Alla did go
To feast, and briefly, if I may not lie,
Constance’ young son went in his company.
Some men would say, ’twas instance of Constance
That sent him with the senator to feast;
I cannot tell you every circumstance,
Be it as may be, he was there, at least.
But truth is that, at his mother’s behest,
Before the king, during the banquet’s space,
The child stood, looking in King Alla’s face.
This child aroused within the king great wonder,
And to the senator he said, anon:
“Whose is the fair child that is standing yonder?”
“I know not,” quoth he, “by God and Saint John!
A mother he has, but father has he none
That I know of ”—and briefly, at a bound,
He told King Alla how this child was found.
“But God knows,” said this senator, as well,
“So virtuous a liver, in my life
1 never saw, as she is, nor heard tell
Of earthly woman, maiden, no nor wife.
I dare say, she would rather have a knife
Thrust through her breast than play a female trick;
There is no man could bring her to the prick.”
Now this boy was as like unto Constance
As it was possible for one to be.
Alla had kept the face in remembrance
Of Dame Constance, and thereon now mused he:
Mayhap the mother of the child was she
Who was his wife. And inwardly he sighed,
And left the table with a hasty stride.
“In faith,” thought he, “a phantom’s in my head!
I ought to hold, by any right judgment,
That in the wide salt sea my wife is dead.”
And afterward he made this argument:
“How know I but that Christ has hither sent
My wife by sea, as surely as she went
To my own land, the which was evident?”
And, after noon, home with the senator
Went Alla, all to test this wondrous chance.
The senator did Alla great honour,
And hastily he sent for fair Constance.
But, trust me, she was little fain to dance
When she had heard the cause of that command.
Scarcely upon her two feet could she stand.
When Alla saw his wife, he greeted her,
Then wept till it was a sad thing to see.
For, at the first glance, when she entered there,
He knew full verily that it was she.
And she for grief stood dumb as ever tree;
So was her heart shut up in her distress
When she remembered his unkindliness.
Twice did she swoon away there, in his sight;
He wept and he protested piteously.
“Now God,” quoth he, “and all His angels bright
So truly on my spirit have mercy
As of your ills all innocent am I,
As is Maurice, my son, so like your face,
Or may the foul Fiend take me from this place!”
Long was the sobbing and the bitter pain
Before their woeful hearts could find surcease;
Great was the pity to hear them complain,
Whereof their sorrows surely did increase.
I pray you all my labour to release;
1 cannot tell their grief until tomorrow,
I am so weary, speaking long of sorrow.
But, truth being known and all doubt now dismissed,
And Alla proven guiltless of her woe,
I think a hundred times they must have kissed,
And such great bliss there was between the two
That, save the joy that nevermore shall go,
There was naught like it, present time or past,
Nor shall be, ever, while the world shall last.
Then prayed she of her husband, all meekly,
As for her pain a splendid anodyne,
That he would pray her father, specially,
That, of his majesty, he would incline
And that, some day, would come with him to dine;
She prayed him, also, he should in no way
Unto her father one word of her say.
Some men would say, it was the child Maurice
Did bear this message to the emperor;
But, as I guess, King Alla was too nice
In etiquette to one of such honour
As he that was of Christendom the flower,
To send a child; and it is best to deem
He went himself, and so it well may seem.
This emperor has granted, graciously,
To come to dinner, as he’s been besought,
And, well I think, he pondered busily
Upon the child, and on his daughter thought.
Alla went to his inn, and, as he ought,
Made ready for the feast in every wise
As far as his experience could devise.
The morrow came, and Alla rose to dress,
And, too, his wife, the emperor to meet;
And forth they rode in joy and happiness.
And when she saw her father in the street,
She lighted down, and falling at his feet,
“Father,” quoth she, “your young child, your Constance,
Is now gone clean out of your remembrance.
“I am your daughter Constance,” then said she,
“That once you sent to Syria. ’Tis I.
It is I, father, who, on the salt sea,
Was sent, alone to drift and doomed to die.
But now, good father, mercy must I cry:
Send me no more to heathendom, godless,
But thank my lord, here, for his kindliness.”
But all the tender joy, who’ll tell it all
That was between the three who thus are met?
But of my tale, now, make an end I shall;
The day goes fast, I will no longer fret.
These happy folk at dinner are all set,
And there, in joy and bliss, I let them dwell;
Happier a thousand fold than I can tell.
This child Maurice was, since then, emperor
Made by the pope, and lived right christianly.
Unto Christ’s Church he did a great honour;
But I let all his story pass me by.
Of Constance is my tale, especially.
In ancient Roman histories men may find
The life of Maurice; I’ve it not in mind.
This King Alla, when came the proper day,
With his Constance, his saintly wife so sweet,
To England went again, by the straight way,
Where they did live in joy and quiet meet.
But little while it lasts us, thus complete.
Joy of this world, for time will not abide;
From day to day it changes as the tide.
Who ever lived in such delight one day
That was not stirred therefrom by his conscience,
Desire, or anger, or some kindred fray,
Envy, or pride, or passion, or offense?
I say but to one ending this sentence:
That but a little while in joy’s pleasance
Lasted the bliss of Alla and Constance.
For death, that takes from high and low his rent,
When but a year had passed, as I should guess,
Out of the world King Alla quickly sent,
For whom Constance felt heavy wretchedness.
Now let us pray that God his soul will bless!
And of Dame Constance, finally to say,
Towards the town of Rome she took her way.
To Rome is come this holy one and pure,
And finds that all her friends are safe and sound;
For now she’s done with all her adventure;
And when she’d come there, and her father found,
Down on her two knees fell she to the ground,
Weeping but joyful gave she God her praise
A hundred thousand times for all His ways.
In virtue, and with alms and holy deed,
They all live there, nor ever asunder wend;
Till death does part them, such a life they lead.
And fare now well, my tale is at an end.
And Jesus Christ, Who of His might may send
Joy after woe, govern us by His grace
And keep us all that now are in this place! Amen.
HERE ENDS THE LAWYER’S TALE
1 A reeve was a manager of an estate or farm.
2 Chime (or chimb): the edge or rim of a cask, formed by the projecting ends of the staves.
3 Brass: money of brass, bronze or copper.
4 Bayard: the horse, any horse.
5 Dwale: an opiate, a sleeping potion.
6 Hodge: a nickname for Roger.
7 Jack of Dover: a slang term for a meat pie which, not being sold the day it was cooked, the gravy was drawn off.
8 Stubble goose: an old goose fed on stubble, not on grain.
9 From sunrise to sunset.
10 Double-ace.
11 Six and five.
12 Chance: similar to the “point” in the modern game of craps.
13 Barbary: (Barbre, in original); from F. barbarie, barbarous, but with especial reference to Saracens or pagans. Hence confused with Ar. Barbar, the people of Barbary.
14 Atazir: the influence of a star on other stars or on men.
15 Philosopher: astrologer in the present instance.