# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Beowulf This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever.

# data[].attributes.body
Within every epic poem, or story that involves a female protagonist there are certain tropes followed; The frigid warrior, the fragile but strong woman, the weak one, or the hateful/vengeful one.

# data[].attributes.body
Author: Apurva Kandpal

This article discusses the struggles of women in literature dating back to before the 18th century.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Penny for your thoughts?

We are accepting articles on our new email: cnes.ju@gmail.com

The Journey of Women in Literature
By Apurva Kandpal Abstract This article talks about the emergence of women writers in the history of literature while tracing the struggles and challenges they faced in an extremely male-dominated society. It highlights the societal barriers and the limited access to education women have had to deal with throughout history. The article examines the gradual rise of women as acclaimed writers and the dismantling of societal institutions. Introduction
The history of literature has long been dominated by men and their works, while women's voices were marginalized and suppressed. If we go back centuries, women were seldom given any form of recognition. The society they lived in was dominated and controlled by men, and so was theliterature. Women were confined to patriarchal roles of domesticity, where their only job was to take care of their husbands and children. Due to limited access to education, the majority of the women were unable to read and write. Many women who could write resorted to using pen names or pseudonyms to hide their gender in fear of their works getting rejected. Gradually in the 18 th and 19th centuries, women writers emerged as well-known authors, and their contributions to literature started getting recognition around the world. They managed to challenge societal norms and expectations in the process of fighting for women's rights.
Challenges Faced by Women Writers
Before the 18 th century, there was very little evidence of any literary works by women, which speaks a lot about the oppression and the traditional hierarchal system that women faced. Society assigned them the roles of an ideal mother, wife, and daughter whose life was limited to the household. They were excluded from any form of political and economic participation in the society. But being closed inside four walls and the oppression they suffered added to the passion and symbolism that they managed to manifest in their works. In the presence of a male supremacist regime, the works of any women writers were blatantly ignored and hardly ever came close to publication.

In A Room of One's Own, Virginia Woolf described the oppressive lives women used to live back in their homes. She wrote that women have been sitting inside their rooms all their lives, and due to the time they spend by themselves, they have such creative ideas inside their heads that need to be harnessed by pens and brushes. Woolf, one of the most notable 20th-century authors, has written many pieces on feminism and has constantly advocated for women's rights. Social class played a huge part in a woman's life when it came to literature. Women of the lowest class found it exceedingly hard to invest time in literature, and in addition to that, a huge population of lower-class women were illiterate. High-class women were more well-learned and educated, but even among the upper class, a very small portion of those women were literate.

There were a lot of women who were forced to publish their work under male pseudonyms due to the prejudice society had towards women writers. It was extremely hard to get a book published if you were a femalewriter and even harder to find an audience who is unbiased to your work. Some great t novelists,such as the Bronte sisters, Emily, Charlotte, and Anne Bronte were among the many who published their works under male pseudonyms such as Ellis, Currer, and Acton. Mary Ann Evans, under the name George Elliot and Violet Paget under the name Vernon Lee are more examples of women who concealed their identity to get their work published.
Rise of Feminism in Literature
Literature has been one of the most artistic ways to express one's thoughts and imagination in the form of language structure. A person's insights, thoughts, and feelings are poured into the pieces they create. It is used as a space and medium through which issues concerning politics, economy, and sociology are expressed. As women started publishing works on equality and feminism, such ideas started spreading around the world. In a world where women were subjected to oppression and injustice, literature turned out to be a space where women could express their feelings and challenge the male dominance around them. For years, they continued their struggle to make their voices heard and their work to gain recognition. But it was not until the 19 th century that the notion of feminism started gaining traction.

The first wave of feminism started in the 19 th and early 20 th centuries and was mainly focused on legal rights for women that included the right to vote, the right to work, the right to fair wages, the right to education, the right to property amongmany more. Gradually, the past works of women started gaining tractionaround the world of literature. The most significant works which talked about more representation of women authors were Germaine Greer's The Female Eunuch (1970), Mary Ellman's Thinking About Women (1968), Kite Millet's Sexual Politics (1969) and various others. Simone de Beauvoir, a French writer, philosopher, and feminist activist is considered as one of the major female writers and feminists of the twentieth century. Her work, The Second Sex, is regarded as a groundbreaking work of feminist philosophy in which she brought forward the idea of gender being different from sex and gender being an aspect of an identity that is gradually acquired. Her quote " One is not born, but rather becomes a woman ", describes how gender is socially constructed by the values and culture of the society.

In the classic A Vindication of the Rights of Women, Mary Wollstonecraft (1759-1797) argued for the equality of men and women: men and women, in her view, were born with the ability to reason, and therefore power and influence must be equally available to all, regardless of their gender. This was a unique and radical view in 1792, which was when the book was first published, and is considered one of the earliest works that talk about feminism. Another famous feminist and among the most remarkable writers of the 18th century, Jane Austen in her classic Pride and Prejudice talks about the social norms of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, where the society was ruled by men who held both economic and social power, not only outside but also inside their homes.
Virginia Woolf on Feminism
Adeline Virginia Woolf is among the most famous novelist of the Modern Age. Her essay " A Room of One's Own" is one of the most prominent works of her time that deals with feminism and the patriarchal system. She traces the reasons why the works of women writers are so few in the world in comparison to men's work. Woolf wrote about how the real reason for fewer works of women was not because they did not belong to wealthy families but because they were not given the freedom to write and explore their ideas. One quote that was one of the main highlights of her essay was how women must have money and a room of their own if they wish to write fiction. She described the role women have served all these centuries as looking glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size.

Virginia Woolf, through her works, wrote about how women have been oppressed under the dominance of men for centuries and have rarely been recognized for their works. She wrote, "When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some mute and inglorious Jane Austen, some Emily Brontë who dashed her brains out on the moor or mopped and mowed about the highways crazed with the torture that her gift had put her to". Her work beautifully yet tragically described the inequality and societal roles assigned to men and women.
Conclusion
Besides Woolf, there are various other incredible feminist authors who wrote on the need for equality and raising the position of women in society as well. They published books that urged the need for recognition of women and their works in the field of literature. Authors like Anna Akhmatova, Louisa May Alcott, Charlotte Bronte, and various others were among the most accomplished women authors who wrote on feminism. Authors like Uma Chakravarty, Nivedita Menon, Arundhati Roy, Jhumpa Lahiri, and Anita Desai are among the most acclaimed feminist writers today in India. They have written books on issues that go deep into the issues of gender, caste, class, intersectionality, and sexuality. Today, women writers continue to make significant contributions to literature. Their work has gained wide recognition and has also been critically acclaimed. The history of women and literature is a journey that has crossed multiple barriers of gender, class, and caste in society. These authors now pave the way for future generations of women writers.
Author's Bio Apurva is a second-year law student at Jindal Global Law School. Her areas of interest are gender studies, intersectional feminism, queer theory, and criminal law.
Image Source: https://www.marieclaire.com.au/virginia-woolf-feminist-quotes-a-room-of-ones-own

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
This article talks about the emergence of women writers in the history of literature while tracing the struggles and challenges they faced in an extremely male-dominated society. It highlights the societal barriers and the limited access to education women have had to deal with throughout history.

# data[].attributes.headline
The Passionate Shepard to His Love: Idealized Fantasy

# data[].attributes.subject
The Passionate Shepard to His Love: Idealized Fantasy

# data[].attributes.body
Author: Christopher Marlowe

Within the shepherd's poem to his love there are heavily implications that the shepherd has an idealized version of The Nymph and the life they would live; she was not The Nymph, purely just 'his love.' An object to be procured, and admired.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Come live with me and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove,

That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,

Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,

Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,

By shallow Rivers to whose falls

Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of Roses

And a thousand fragrant posies,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool

Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;

Fair lined slippers for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,

With Coral clasps and Amber studs:

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me, and be my love.

The Shepherds' Swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May-morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me, and be my love.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love by... | Poetry Foundation

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods, or steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the Rocks, Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow Rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

# data[].attributes.headline
Paradise Lost: The Original Inferiority 

# data[].attributes.subject
Paradise Lost: The Original Inferiority 

# data[].attributes.body
The very basis of Eve came from just one rib from Adam, signifying the patriarchy from the start of all humans. Eve's femininity was used as a weapon against her, an object of attraction and desire.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
The Angel Michael continues from the Flood to relate what shall
succeed; then, in the mention of Abraham, comes by degrees to explain,
who that Seed of the Woman shall be, which was promised Adam and Eve
in the Fall; his Incarnation, Death, Resurrection, and Ascention;
the state of the Church till his second Coming. Adam greatly satisfied
and recomforted by these Relations and Promises descends the Hill with
Michael; wakens Eve, who all this while had slept, but with gentle
dreams compos’d to quietness of mind and submission. Michael in either
hand leads them out of Paradise, the fiery Sword waving behind them,
and the Cherubim taking thir Stations to guard the Place.

# data[].attributes.body
Popular 18th Century Novelist

# data[].attributes.body
Layner questions why god would frame Eve, as he had crafted their world and them both.

# data[].attributes.body
Despite her resistance to any form of sexual union, Donne persists that it is perfectly fine as a flea already shares their blood; her concerns are of small importance, as small as a flea.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,

How little that which thou deniest me is;

It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,

And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;

Thou know'st that this cannot be said

A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead,

Yet this enjoys before it woo,

And pampered swells with one blood made of two,

And this, alas, is more than we would do.

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,

Where we almost, nay more than married are.

This flea is you and I, and this

Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;

Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,

And cloistered in these living walls of jet.

Though use make you apt to kill me,

Let not to that, self-murder added be,

And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since

Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?

Wherein could this flea guilty be,

Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?

Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou

Find'st not thy self, nor me the weaker now;

'Tis true; then learn how false, fears be:

Just so much honor, when thou yield'st to me,

Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; It sucked me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be; Thou know'st that this cannot be said A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead, Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than we would do.

# data[].attributes.headline
The Canterbury Tales: Objects to be Desired

# data[].attributes.subject
The Canterbury Tales: Objects to be Desired

# data[].attributes.body
Author: Geoffrey Chaucer

Women within "The Canterbury Tales" were often background characters, objectified, or gawked at.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Geoffrey Chaucer's influence on later British literature is difficult to overstate. The most important English writer before Shakespeare (who re-wrote Chaucer's version of the Troilus and Criseyde story), Chaucer introduced new words into English (such as "cosmos"), and his stories draw on a wealth of previous authors, especially Ovid and Boccaccio. Part of his importance to English literature is that Chaucer chose to write in English, despite his understanding of French, Italian, and Latin; his friend and contemporary poet John Gower chose to write in French, Latin, and English, specifically because he was not sure which language would preserve his writing the best. Chaucer is part of a line of poets who chose to write in their own country's vernacular. In the ancient world, Virgil had written in Latin, rather than in Greek, despite Greek's prestige at the time, and in doing so had elevated Latin to a prestigious literary language. Dante had followed the same pattern with Italian. After Chaucer, Cervantes would write in his Don Quixote that the poet's goal should be to make the literature of his own language competitive with that of any other country, citing poets such as Virgil. Chaucer lays the foundation for the English writers who followed him.

Chaucer was a product of what we would now call the middle class, although that term did not exist in Chaucer's time. Medieval England followed the three estates model, recognizing only aristocracy, clergy, and the workers. As certain groups became more prosperous, the usual goal was to work for and marry into the lower levels of the aristocracy, which is the route that Chaucer takes. Chaucer received an excellent education, and he had the opportunity to serve as a page in the household of the Countess of Ulster. Chaucer married Philippa de Roet, a lady- in-waiting, whose sister Katherine was first the mistress and then the third wife of John of Gaunt (one of the sons of Edward III and Chaucer's patron). Chaucer served as a soldier when younger, and he held a variety of jobs over the years: diplomat, customs official, justice of the peace, and member of parliament (MP) for Kent, among others, all while writing. Although Chaucer received royal annuities from both Edward III and Richard II, his most important patron remained John of Gaunt, whose son became Henry IV after deposing Richard II in 1399 (and granted Chaucer an annuity shortly thereafter).

For individuals who were not as highly educated as Chaucer, it was a more difficult prospect to advance. The British class system was not based on money, but on bloodlines; a dirt-poor aristocrat was still an aristocrat, while a rich peasant was still a peasant. Chaucer's Miller in The Canterbury Tales is keenly aware of this distinction. The Miller objects to the idea that a "better man" (line 22) than he is-namely, the Monk-should tell the next tale, claiming to have a story every bit as good as the tale just finished by the Knight. If he is insulted by being forced to yield to the Monk, the Miller threatens to leave the pilgrimage. Several of the middle class characters show a similar reluctance to accept a lower place in the social hierarchy.

Social class plays a role in Chaucer's Parlement of Fowles (sometimes called The Parliament of Birds in modern translations), which is an example of one of Chaucer's dream visions. Dream visions were popular with medieval writers because anything can happen in a dream; the narrator can talk to anyone from the past, or find himself in any location, and the writer can present the action metaphorically, rather than literally. As in all of his poems, a version of Chaucer appears as the narrator of the story: a socially-awkward book lover who portrays himself as a romantic failure. The poem begins with the narrator reading Cicero's Dream of Scipio ( Somnium Scipionis), after which he falls asleep. In his dream, Scipio Africanus the Elder leads him to a garden gate with inscriptions on it (a parallel to Virgil guiding Dante to the gate of Hell in Inferno). Inside, the narrator first encounters the temple of Venus, and then a gathering of birds presided over by Nature. The birds represent various groups in society, with the birds of prey as the nobility. Three male eagles use the language of courtly love poetry to attempt to win the same formel (female) eagle; when there is no immediate choice made, all the birds of lower class levels begin to offer their comic opinions. Courtly love poetry often focuses on the male perspective exclusively; the female is the object to be obtained, and she usually is not given a voice (or, ultimately, a choice) in the matter. The Parliament of Fowles gives the female a voice, if not necessarily a choice, about whether she wants any of them.

The Canterbury Tales is Chaucer's masterpiece of social satire. The story was incomplete at his death (although scholars have debated whether the story is, in some ways, thematically complete). Unlike previous versions of frame tales, such as Boccaccio's Decameron, Chaucer's frame is every bit as important as the stories. The General Prologue to The Canterbury Tales may be about group on a pilgrimage to Canterbury, but the travelers do nothing that identifies them as pilgrims; they eat too much instead of fasting, get drunk, wear fancy clothes, ride instead of walk, and tell stories instead of saying prayers (plus it begins and will end in a tavern). The narrator offers no overt judgment of the pilgrims, while providing enough information in the General Prologue for the audience to judge for themselves. Among the many topics satirized in Chaucer's work is, once again, courtly love. The Miller's Tale is a mocking revision of the genre by the Miller, who is responding to the story of courtly love that had just been told by the Knight. The Wife of Bath's Tale and The Franklin's Tale both offer fascinating alternatives to the regular courtly love scenario, while the Pardoner's Tale takes aim at every vice imaginable. Chaucer may follow standard medieval procedure by offering a Retraction at the end of The Canterbury Tales (asking forgiveness for anything he wrote that tended towards sin), but it is worth noting that the reader has finished his collection of stories before reaching it.

1.13.2 The Parliament of Birds

(ca. 1381-1382)

The life so short, the craft so long to learn,

Th'assay so hard, so sharp the conquering,

The dreadful joy, alway that flits so yern;

All this mean I by Love, that my feeling

Astoneth with his wonderful working,

So sore, y-wis, that, when I on him think,

Naught wit I well whether I fleet or sink,

For all be that I know not Love indeed, albeit,

Nor wot how that he quiteth folk their hire,

Yet happeth me full oft in books to read their service

Of his miracles, and of his cruel ire;

There read I well, he will be lord and sire;

I dare not saye, that his strokes be sore;

But God save such a lord! I can no more.

Of usage, what for lust and what for lore,

On bookes read I oft, as I you told.

But wherefore speak I alle this? Not yore

Agone, it happed me for to behold

Upon a book written with letters old;

And thereupon, a certain thing to learn,

The longe day full fast I read and yern.

For out of the old fieldes, as men saith,

Cometh all this new corn, from year to year;

And out of olde bookes, in good faith,

Cometh all this new science that men lear.

But now to purpose as of this mattere:

To reade forth it gan me so delight,

That all the day me thought it but a lite.

This book, of which I make mention,

Entitled was right thus, as I shall tell;

"Tullius, of the Dream of Scipion:"

Chapters seven it had, of heav'n, and hell,

And earth, and soules that therein do dwell;

Of which, as shortly as I can it treat,

Of his sentence I will you say the great.

First telleth it, when Scipio was come

To Africa, how he met Massinisse,

That him for joy in armes hath y-nome.

Then telleth he their speech, and all the bliss

That was between them till the day gan miss.

And how his ancestor Africane so dear

Gan in his sleep that night to him appear.

Then telleth it, that from a starry place

How Africane hath him Carthage y-shew'd,

And warned him before of all his grace

And said him, what man, learned either lewd,

That loveth common profit, well y-thew'd,

He should unto a blissful place wend,

Where as the joy is without any end.

Then asked he, if folk that here be dead

Have life, and dwelling, in another place?

And Africane said, "Yea, withoute dread;"

And how our present worldly lives' space

Meant but a manner death, what way we trace;

And rightful folk should go, after they die,

To Heav'n; and showed him the galaxy.

Then show'd he him the little earth that here is,

To regard the heaven's quantity;

And after show'd he him the nine spheres;

And after that the melody heard he,

That cometh of those spheres thrice three,

That wells of music be and melody

In this world here, and cause of harmony.

Then said he him, since earthe was so lite,

And full of torment and of harde grace,

That he should not him in this world delight.

Then told he him, in certain yeares' space,

That ev'ry star should come into his place,

Where it was first; and all should out of mind,

That in this world is done of all mankind.

Then pray'd him Scipio, to tell him all

The way to come into that Heaven's bliss;

And he said: "First know thyself immortal,

And look aye busily that thou work and wiss

To common profit, and thou shalt not miss

To come swiftly unto that place dear,

That full of bliss is, and of soules clear.

"And breakers of the law, the sooth to sayn,

And likerous folk, after that they be dead,

Shall whirl about the world always in pain,

Till many a world be passed, out of dread;

And then, forgiven all their wicked deed,

They shalle come unto that blissful place,

To which to come God thee sende grace!"

The day gan failen, and the darke night,

That reaveth beastes from their business,

Berefte me my book for lack of light,

And to my bed I gan me for to dress,

Full fill'd of thought and busy heaviness;

For both I hadde thing which that I n'old,

And eke I had not that thing that I wo'ld.

But, finally, my spirit at the last,

Forweary of my labour all that day,

Took rest, that made me to sleepe fast;

And in my sleep I mette, as that I say,

How Africane, right in the self array

That Scipio him saw before that tide,

Was come, and stood right at my bedde's side.

The weary hunter, sleeping in his bed,

To wood again his mind goeth anon;

The judge dreameth how his pleas be sped;

The carter dreameth how his cartes go'n;

The rich of gold, the knight fights with his fone;

The sicke mette he drinketh of the tun;

The lover mette he hath his lady won.

I cannot say, if that the cause were,

For I had read of Africane beforn,

That made me to mette that he stood there;

But thus said he; "Thou hast thee so well borne

In looking of mine old book all to-torn,

Of which Macrobius raught not a lite,

That somedeal of thy labour would I quite."

Cytherea, thou blissful Lady sweet!

That with thy firebrand dauntest when thee lest,

That madest me this sweven for to mette,

Be thou my help in this, for thou may'st best!

As wisly as I saw the north-north-west,

When I began my sweven for to write,

So give me might to rhyme it and endite.

This foresaid Africane me hent anon,

And forth with him unto a gate brought

Right of a park, walled with greene stone;

And o'er the gate, with letters large y-wrought,

There were verses written, as me thought,

On either half, of full great difference,

Of which I shall you say the plain sentence.

"Through me men go into the blissful place

Of hearte's heal and deadly woundes' cure;

Through me men go unto the well of grace;

Where green and lusty May shall ever dure;

This is the way to all good adventure;

Be glad, thou reader, and thy sorrow off cast;

All open am I; pass in and speed thee fast."

"Through me men go," thus spake the other side,

"Unto the mortal strokes of the spear,

Of which disdain and danger is the guide;

There never tree shall fruit nor leaves bear;

This stream you leadeth to the sorrowful weir,

Where as the fish in prison is all dry;

Th'eschewing is the only remedy."

These verses of gold and azure written were,

On which I gan astonish'd to behold;

For with that one increased all my fear,

And with that other gan my heart to bold;

That one me het, that other did me cold;

No wit had I, for error, for to choose

To enter or fly, or me to save or lose.

Right as betwixten adamantes two

Of even weight, a piece of iron set,

Ne hath no might to move to nor fro;

For what the one may hale, the other let;

So far'd I, that n'ist whether me was bet

T' enter or leave, till Africane, my guide, better for me

Me hent and shov'd in at the gates wide.

And said, "It standeth written in thy face,

Thine error, though thou tell it not to me;

But dread thou not to come into this place;

For this writing is nothing meant by thee,

Nor by none, but he Love's servant be; unless

For thou of Love hast lost thy taste, I guess,

As sick man hath of sweet and bitterness.

"But natheless, although that thou be dull,

That thou canst not do, yet thou mayest see;

For many a man that may not stand a pull,

Yet likes it him at wrestling for to be,

And deeme whether he doth bet, or he;

And, if thou haddest cunning to endite,

I shall thee showe matter of to write."

With that my hand in his he took anon,

Of which I comfort caught, and went in fast.

But, Lord! so I was glad and well-begone!

For over all, where I my eyen cast,

Were trees y-clad with leaves that ay shall last,

Each in his kind, with colour fresh and green

As emerald, that joy it was to see'n.

The builder oak; and eke the hardy ash;

The pillar elm, the coffer unto carrain;

The box, pipe tree; the holm, to whippe's lash

The sailing fir; the cypress death to plain;

The shooter yew; the aspe for shaftes plain;

Th'olive of peace, and eke the drunken vine;

The victor palm; the laurel, too, divine.

A garden saw I, full of blossom'd boughes,

Upon a river, in a greene mead,

Where as sweetness evermore enow is,

With flowers white, blue, yellow, and red,

And colde welle streames, nothing dead,

That swamme full of smalle fishes light,

With finnes red, and scales silver bright.

On ev'ry bough the birdes heard I sing,

With voice of angels in their harmony,

That busied them their birdes forth to bring;

The pretty conies to their play gan hie;

And further all about I gan espy

The dreadful roe, the buck, the hart, and hind,

Squirrels, and beastes small, of gentle kind.

Of instruments of stringes in accord

Heard I so play a ravishing sweetness,

That God, that Maker is of all and Lord,

Ne hearde never better, as I guess:

Therewith a wind, unneth it might be less,

Made in the leaves green a noise soft,

Accordant the fowles' song on loft.

Th'air of the place so attemper was,

That ne'er was there grievance of hot nor cold;

There was eke ev'ry wholesome spice and grass,

Nor no man may there waxe sick nor old:

Yet was there more joy a thousand fold

Than I can tell, or ever could or might;

There ever is clear day, and never night.

Under a tree, beside a well, I sey

Cupid our lord his arrows forge and file;

And at his feet his bow all ready lay;

And well his daughter temper'd, all the while,

The heades in the well; and with her wile

She couch'd them after, as they shoulde serve

Some for to slay, and some to wound and kerve.

Then was I ware of Pleasance anon right,

And of Array, and Lust, and Courtesy,

And of the Craft, that can and hath the might

To do by force a wight to do folly;

Disfigured was she, I will not lie;

And by himself, under an oak, I guess,

Saw I Delight, that stood with Gentleness.

Then saw I Beauty, with a nice attire,

And Youthe, full of game and jollity,

Foolhardiness, Flattery, and Desire,

Messagerie, and Meed, and other three;

Their names shall not here be told for me:

And upon pillars great of jasper long

I saw a temple of brass y-founded strong.

And [all] about the temple danc'd alway

Women enough, of whiche some there were

Fair of themselves, and some of them were gay

In kirtles all dishevell'd went they there;

That was their office ever, from year to year;

And on the temple saw I, white and fair,

Of doves sitting many a thousand pair.

Before the temple door, full soberly,

Dame Peace sat, a curtain in her hand;

And her beside, wonder discreetely,

Dame Patience sitting there I fand,

With face pale, upon a hill of sand;

And althernext, within and eke without,

Behest, and Art, and of their folk a rout.

Within the temple, of sighes hot as fire

I heard a swough, that gan aboute ren,

Which sighes were engender'd with desire,

That made every hearte for to bren

Of newe flame; and well espied I then,

That all the cause of sorrows that they dree

Came of the bitter goddess Jealousy.

The God Priapus saw I, as I went

Within the temple, in sov'reign place stand,

In such array, as when the ass him shent

With cry by night, and with sceptre in hand:

Full busily men gan assay and fand

Upon his head to set, of sundry hue,

Garlandes full of freshe flowers new.

And in a privy corner, in disport,

Found I Venus and her porter Richess,

That was full noble and hautain of her port;

Dark was that place, but afterward lightness

I saw a little, unneth it might be less;

And on a bed of gold she lay to rest,

Till that the hote sun began to west.

Her gilded haires with a golden thread

Y-bounden were, untressed, as she lay;

And naked from the breast unto the head

Men might her see; and, soothly for to say,

The remnant cover'd, welle to my pay,

Right with a little kerchief of Valence;

There was no thicker clothe of defence.

The place gave a thousand savours swoot;

And Bacchus, god of wine, sat her beside;

And Ceres next, that doth of hunger boot;

And, as I said, amiddes lay Cypride,

To whom on knees the younge folke cried

To be their help: but thus I let her lie,

And farther in the temple gan espy,

That, in despite of Diana the chaste,

Full many a bowe broke hung on the wall,

Of maidens, such as go their time to waste

In her service: and painted over all

Of many a story, of which I touche shall

A few, as of Calist', and Atalant',

And many a maid, of which the name I want.

Semiramis, Canace, and Hercules,

Biblis, Dido, Thisbe and Pyramus,

Tristram, Isoude, Paris, and Achilles,

Helena, Cleopatra, Troilus,

Scylla, and eke the mother of Romulus;

All these were painted on the other side,

And all their love, and in what plight they died.

When I was come again into the place

That I of spake, that was so sweet and green,

Forth walk'd I then, myselfe to solace:

Then was I ware where there sat a queen,

That, as of light the summer Sunne sheen

Passeth the star, right so over measure

She fairer was than any creature.

And in a lawn, upon a hill of flowers,

Was set this noble goddess of Nature;

Of branches were her halles and her bowers

Y-wrought, after her craft and her measure;

Nor was there fowl that comes of engendrure

That there ne were prest, in her presence,

To take her doom, and give her audience.

For this was on Saint Valentine's Day,

When ev'ry fowl cometh to choose her make,

Of every kind that men thinken may;

And then so huge a noise gan they make,

That earth, and sea, and tree, and ev'ry lake,

So full was, that unnethes there was space

For me to stand, so full was all the place.

And right as Alain, in his Plaint of Kind,

Deviseth Nature of such array and face;

In such array men mighte her there find.

This noble Emperess, full of all grace,

Bade ev'ry fowle take her owen place,

As they were wont alway, from year to year,

On Saint Valentine's Day to stande there.

That is to say, the fowles of ravine

Were highest set, and then the fowles smale,

That eaten as them Nature would incline;

As worme-fowl, of which I tell no tale;

But waterfowl sat lowest in the dale,

And fowls that live by seed sat on the green,

And that so many, that wonder was to see'n.

There mighte men the royal eagle find,

That with his sharpe look pierceth the Sun;

And other eagles of a lower kind,

Of which that clerkes well devise con;

There was the tyrant with his feathers dun can describe

And green, I mean the goshawk, that doth pine

To birds, for his outrageous ravine.

The gentle falcon, that with his feet distraineth

The kinge's hand; the hardy sperhawk eke,

The quaile's foe; the merlion that paineth

Himself full oft the larke for to seek;

There was the dove, with her eyen meek;

The jealous swan, against his death that singeth;

The owl eke, that of death the bode bringeth

The crane, the giant, with his trumpet soun';

The thief the chough; and eke the chatt'ring pie;

The scorning jay; the eel's foe the heroun;

The false lapwing, full of treachery;

The starling, that the counsel can betray;

The tame ruddock, and the coward kite;

The cock, that horologe is of thorpes lite.

The sparrow, Venus' son; the nightingale,

That calleth forth the freshe leaves new;

The swallow, murd'rer of the bees smale,

That honey make of flowers fresh of hue;

The wedded turtle, with his hearte true;

The peacock, with his angel feathers bright;

The pheasant, scorner of the cock by night;

The waker goose; the cuckoo ever unkind;

The popinjay, full of delicacy;

The drake, destroyer of his owen kind;

The stork, the wreaker of adultery;

The hot cormorant, full of gluttony;

The raven and the crow, with voice of care;

The throstle old; and the frosty fieldfare.

What should I say? Of fowls of ev'ry kind

That in this world have feathers and stature,

Men mighten in that place assembled find,

Before that noble goddess of Nature;

And each of them did all his busy cure

Benignely to choose, or for to take,

By her accord, his formel or his make.

But to the point. Nature held on her hand

A formel eagle, of shape the gentilest

That ever she among her workes fand,

The most benign, and eke the goodliest;

In her was ev'ry virtue at its rest,

So farforth that Nature herself had bliss

To look on her, and oft her beak to kiss.

Nature, the vicar of th'Almighty Lord, -

That hot, cold, heavy, light, and moist, and dry,

Hath knit, by even number of accord, -

In easy voice began to speak, and say:

"Fowles, take heed of my sentence," I pray;

And for your ease, in furth'ring of your need,

As far as I may speak, I will me speed.

"Ye know well how, on Saint Valentine's Day,

By my statute, and through my governance,

Ye choose your mates, and after fly away

With them, as I you pricke with pleasance;

But natheless, as by rightful ordinance,

May I not let, for all this world to win,

But he that most is worthy shall begin.

"The tercel eagle, as ye know full weel,

The fowl royal, above you all in degree,

The wise and worthy, secret, true as steel,

The which I formed have, as ye may see,

In ev'ry part, as it best liketh me, -

It needeth not his shape you to devise, -

He shall first choose, and speaken in his guise.

"And, after him, by order shall ye choose,

After your kind, evereach as you liketh;

And as your hap is, shall ye win or lose;

But which of you that love most entriketh,

God send him her that sorest for him siketh."

And therewithal the tercel gan she call,

And said, "My son, the choice is to thee fall.

"But natheless, in this condition

Must be the choice of ev'reach that is here,

That she agree to his election,

Whoso he be, that shoulde be her fere;

This is our usage ay, from year to year;

And whoso may at this time have this grace,

In blissful time he came into this place."

With head inclin'd, and with full humble cheer,

This royal tercel spake, and tarried not:

"Unto my sov'reign lady, and not my fere,

I chose and choose, with will, and heart, and thought,

The formel on your hand, so well y-wrought,

Whose I am all, and ever will her serve,

Do what her list, to do me live or sterve.

"Beseeching her of mercy and of grace,

As she that is my lady sovereign,

Or let me die here present in this place,

For certes long may I not live in pain;

For in my heart is carven ev'ry vein:

Having regard only unto my truth, wounded with love

My deare heart, have on my woe some ruth.

"And if that I be found to her untrue,

Disobeisant, or wilful negligent,

Avaunter, or in process love a new,

I pray to you, this be my judgement, of time

That with these fowles I be all to-rent,

That ilke day that she me ever find

To her untrue, or in my guilt unkind.

"And since none loveth her so well as I,

Although she never of love me behet,

Then ought she to be mine, through her mercy;

For other bond can I none on her knit;

For weal or for woe, never shall I let

To serve her, how far so that she wend;

Say what you list, my tale is at an end."

Right as the freshe redde rose new

Against the summer Sunne colour'd is,

Right so, for shame, all waxen gan the hue

Of this formel, when she had heard all this;

Neither she answer'd well, nor said amiss,

So sore abashed was she, till Nature either well or ill

Said, "Daughter, dread you not, I you assure."

Another tercel eagle spake anon,

Of lower kind, and said that should not be;

"I love her better than ye do, by Saint John!

Or at the least I love her as well as ye,

And longer have her serv'd in my degree;

And if she should have lov'd for long loving,

To me alone had been the guerdoning.

"I dare eke say, if she me finde false,

Unkind, janglere, rebel in any wise,

Or jealous, do me hange by the halse;

And but I beare me in her service

As well ay as my wit can me suffice,

From point to point, her honour for to save,

Take she my life and all the good I have."

A thirde tercel eagle answer'd tho:

"Now, Sirs, ye see the little leisure here;

For ev'ry fowl cries out to be ago

Forth with his mate, or with his lady dear;

And eke Nature herselfe will not hear,

For tarrying her, not half that I would say;

And but I speak, I must for sorrow dey.

Of long service avaunt I me no thing,

But as possible is me to die to-day,

For woe, as he that hath been languishing

This twenty winter; and well happen may

A man may serve better, and more to pay,

In half a year, although it were no more.

Than some man doth that served hath full yore.

"I say not this by me for that I can

Do no service that may my lady please;

But I dare say, I am her truest man

As to my doom, and fainest would her please;

At shorte words, until that death me seize,

I will be hers, whether I wake or wink.

And true in all that hearte may bethink."

Of all my life, since that day I was born,

So gentle plea, in love or other thing,

Ye hearde never no man me beforn;

Whoso that hadde leisure and cunning

For to rehearse their cheer and their speaking:

And from the morrow gan these speeches last,

Till downward went the Sunne wonder fast.

The noise of fowles for to be deliver'd

So loude rang, "Have done and let us wend,"

That well ween'd I the wood had all to-shiver'd:

"Come off!" they cried; "alas! ye will us shend!

When will your cursed pleading have an end?

How should a judge either party believe,

For yea or nay, withouten any preve?"

The goose, the duck, and the cuckoo also,

So cried "keke, keke," "cuckoo," "queke queke," high,

That through mine ears the noise wente tho.

The goose said then, "All this n'is worth a fly!

But I can shape hereof a remedy;

And I will say my verdict, fair and swith,

For water-fowl, whoso be wroth or blith."

"And I for worm-fowl," said the fool cuckow;

For I will, of mine own authority,

For common speed, take on me the charge now;

For to deliver us is great charity."

"Ye may abide a while yet, pardie,"

Quoth then the turtle; "if it be your will

A wight may speak, it were as good be still.

"I am a seed-fowl, one th'unworthiest,

That know I well, and the least of cunning;

But better is, that a wight's tongue rest,

Than entremette him of such doing meddle with

Of which he neither rede can nor sing; counsel

And who it doth, full foul himself accloyeth,

For office uncommanded oft annoyeth."

Nature, which that alway had an ear

To murmur of the lewedness behind,

With facond voice said, "Hold your tongues there,

And I shall soon, I hope, a counsel find,

You to deliver, and from this noise unbind;

I charge of ev'ry flock ye shall one call,

To say the verdict of you fowles all."

The tercelet said then in this mannere;

"Full hard it were to prove it by reason,

Who loveth best this gentle formel here;

For ev'reach hath such replication,

That by skilles may none be brought adown;

I cannot see that arguments avail;

Then seemeth it that there must be battaile."

"All ready!" quoth those eagle tercels tho;

"Nay, Sirs!" quoth he; "if that I durst it say,

Ye do me wrong, my tale is not y-do,done

For, Sirs, - and take it not agrief, I pray, -

It may not be as ye would, in this way:

Ours is the voice that have the charge in hand,

And to the judges' doom ye muste stand.

"And therefore 'Peace!' I say; as to my wit,

Me woulde think, how that the

worthiest Of knighthood, and had

longest used it, Most of estate, of blood

the gentilest, Were fitting most for her,

if that her lest

And, of these three she knows herself, I trow,

Which that he be; for it is light to know." easy

The water-fowles have their heades laid

Together, and of short advisement, after brief deliberation

When evereach his verdict had y-said

They saide soothly all by one assent,

How that "The goose with the facond gent,

That so desired to pronounce our need,

Shall tell our tale;" and prayed God her speed.

And for those water-fowles then began

The goose to speak. and in her cackeling

She saide, "Peace, now! take keep ev'ry man,

And hearken what reason I shall forth bring;

My wit is sharp, I love no tarrying;

I say I rede him, though he were my brother,

But she will love him, let him love another!"

"Lo! here a perfect reason of a goose!"

Quoth the sperhawke. "Never may she the!

Lo such a thing 'tis t'have a tongue loose!

Now, pardie: fool, yet were it bet for thee

Have held thy peace, than show'd thy nicety;

It lies not in his wit, nor in his will,

But sooth is said, a fool cannot be still."

The laughter rose of gentle fowles all;

And right anon the seed-fowls chosen had

The turtle true, and gan her to them call,

And prayed her to say the soothe sad

Of this mattere, and asked what she rad;

And she answer'd, that plainly her intent

She woulde show, and soothly what she meant.

"Nay! God forbid a lover shoulde change!"

The turtle said, and wax'd for shame all red:

"Though that his lady evermore be strange,

Yet let him serve her ay, till he be dead;

For, sooth, I praise not the goose's rede

For, though she died, I would none other make;

I will be hers till that the death me take."

"Well bourded!" quoth the ducke, "by my hat!

That men should loven alway causeless,

Who can a reason find, or wit, in that?

Danceth he merry, that is mirtheless?

Who shoulde reck of that is reckeless?

Yea! queke yet," quoth the duck, "full well and fair! no care for him

There be more starres, God wot, than a pair!"

"Now fy, churl!" quoth the gentle tercelet,

"Out of the dunghill came that word aright;

Thou canst not see which thing is well beset;

Thou far'st by love, as owles do by light,-

The day them blinds, full well they see by night;

Thy kind is of so low a wretchedness,

That what love is, thou caust not see nor guess."

Then gan the cuckoo put him forth in press,

For fowl that eateth worm, and said belive:

"So I," quoth he, "may have my mate in peace,

I recke not how longe that they strive.

Let each of them be solain all their life;

This is my rede, since they may not accord;

This shorte lesson needeth not record."

"Yea, have the glutton fill'd enough his paunch,

Then are we well!" saide the emerlon;

"Thou murd'rer of the heggsugg, on the branch

That brought thee forth, thou most rueful glutton,

Live thou solain, worme's corruption!

For no force is to lack of thy nature;

Go! lewed be thou, while the world may dare!"

"Now peace," quoth Nature, "I commande here;

For I have heard all your opinion,

And in effect yet be we ne'er the nere.

But, finally, this is my conclusion, -

That she herself shall have her election

Of whom her list, whoso be wroth or blith;

Him that she chooseth, he shall her have as swith.

"For since it may not here discussed be

Who loves her best, as said the tercelet,

Then will I do this favour t' her, that she

Shall have right him on whom her heart is set,

And he her, that his heart hath on her knit:

This judge I, Nature, for I may not lie

To none estate; I have none other eye.

"But as for counsel for to choose a make,

If I were Reason, [certes] then would I

Counsaile you the royal tercel take,

As saith the tercelet full skillfully,

As for the gentilest, and most worthy,

Which I have wrought so well to my pleasance,

That to you it ought be a suffisance."

With dreadful voice the formel her answer'd:

"My rightful lady, goddess of Nature,

Sooth is, that I am ever under your yerd,

As is every other creature,

And must be yours, while that my life may dure;

And therefore grante me my firste boon,

And mine intent you will I say right soon."

"I grant it you," said she; and right anon

This formel eagle spake in this degree:

"Almighty queen, until this year be done

I aske respite to advise me;

And after that to have my choice all free;

This is all and some that I would speak and say;

Ye get no more, although ye do me dey.

"I will not serve Venus, nor Cupide,

For sooth as yet, by no manner [of] way."

"Now since it may none other ways betide,"

Quoth Dame Nature, "there is no more to say;

Then would I that these fowles were away,

Each with his mate, for longer tarrying here."

And said them thus, as ye shall after hear.

"To you speak I, ye tercels," quoth Nature;

"Be of good heart, and serve her alle three;

A year is not so longe to endure;

And each of you pain him in his degree

For to do well, for, God wot, quit is she

From you this year, what after so befall;

This entremess is dressed for you all."

And when this work y-brought was to an end,

To ev'ry fowle Nature gave his make,

By even accord, and on their way they wend:

And, Lord! the bliss and joye that they make!

For each of them gan other in his wings take,

And with their neckes each gan other wind,

Thanking alway the noble goddess of Kind.

But first were chosen fowles for to sing,-

As year by year was alway their usance, -

To sing a roundel at their departing,

To do to Nature honour and pleasance;

The note, I trowe, maked was in France;

The wordes were such as ye may here find

The nexte verse, as I have now in mind:

Qui bien aime, tard oublie.

"Now welcome summer, with thy sunnes soft,

That hast these winter weathers overshake

Saint Valentine, thou art full high on loft,

Which driv'st away the longe nightes blake;

Thus singe smalle fowles for thy sake:

Well have they cause for to gladden oft,

Since each of them recover'd hath his make;

Full blissful may they sing when they awake."

And with the shouting, when their song was do,

That the fowls maden at their flight away,

I woke, and other bookes took me to,

To read upon; and yet I read alway.

I hope, y-wis, to reade so some day,

That I shall meete something for to fare

The bet; and thus to read I will not spare.

THE PROLOGUE

Experience, though none authority

Were in this world, is right enough for me

To speak of woe that is in marriage:

For, lordings, since I twelve year was of age,

(Thanked be God that is etern on live),

Husbands at the church door have I had five,

For I so often have y-wedded be,

And all were worthy men in their degree.

But me was told, not longe time gone is

That sithen Christe went never but ones since

To wedding, in the Cane of Galilee,

That by that ilk example taught he me, That I not wedded shoulde be but once.

Lo, hearken eke a sharp word for the nonce, Beside a welle Jesus, God and man,

Spake in reproof of the Samaritan:

"Thou hast y-had five husbandes," said he;

"And thilke man, that now hath wedded thee,

Is not thine husband:" thus said he certain;

What that he meant thereby, I cannot sayn.

But that I aske, why the fifthe man

Was not husband to the Samaritan?

How many might she have in marriage?

Yet heard I never tellen in mine age in my life

Upon this number definitioun.

Men may divine, and glosen up and down;

But well I wot, express without a lie,

God bade us for to wax and multiply;

That gentle text can I well understand.

Eke well I wot, he said, that mine husband

Should leave father and mother, and take to me;

But of no number mention made he,

Of bigamy or of octogamy;

Why then should men speak of it villainy?

Lo here, the wise king Dan Solomon,

I trow that he had wives more than one;

As would to God it lawful were to me

To be refreshed half so oft as he!

What gift of God had he for all his wives?

No man hath such, that in this world alive is.

God wot, this noble king, as to my wit,

The first night had many a merry fit

With each of them, so well was him on live.

Blessed be God that I have wedded five!

Welcome the sixth whenever that he shall.

For since I will not keep me chaste in all,

When mine husband is from the world y-gone,

Some Christian man shall wedde me anon.

For then th' apostle saith that I am free

To wed, a' God's half, where it liketh me.

He saith, that to be wedded is no sin;

Better is to be wedded than to brin. burn

What recketh me though folk say villainy

Of shrewed Lamech, and his bigamy?

I wot well Abraham was a holy man,

And Jacob eke, as far as ev'r I can.

And each of them had wives more than two;

And many another holy man also.

Where can ye see, in any manner age,

That highe God defended marriage

By word express? I pray you tell it me;

Or where commanded he virginity?

I wot as well as you, it is no dread,

Th' apostle, when he spake of maidenhead,

He said, that precept thereof had he none:

Men may counsel a woman to be one,

But counseling is no commandement;

He put it in our owen judgement.

For, hadde God commanded maidenhead,

Then had he damned wedding out of dread;

And certes, if there were no seed y-sow,

Virginity then whereof should it grow?

Paul durste not commanden, at the least,

A thing of which his Master gave no hest.

The dart is set up for virginity;

Catch whoso may, who runneth best let see.

But this word is not ta'en of every wight,

But there as God will give it of his might.

I wot well that th' apostle was a maid,

But natheless, although he wrote and said,

He would that every wight were such as he,

All is but counsel to virginity.

And, since to be a wife he gave me leave

Of indulgence, so is it no repreve

To wedde me, if that my make should die,

Without exception of bigamy;

All were it good no woman for to touch

(He meant as in his bed or in his couch),

For peril is both fire and tow t'assemble

Ye know what this example may resemble.

This is all and some, he held virginity

More profit than wedding in frailty:

(Frailty clepe I, but if that he and she frailty,

Would lead their lives all in chastity),

I grant it well, I have of none envy

Who maidenhead prefer to bigamy;

It liketh them t' be clean in body and ghost;

Of mine estate I will not make a boast.

For, well ye know, a lord in his household

Hath not every vessel all of gold;

Some are of tree, and do their lord service.

God calleth folk to him in sundry wise,

And each one hath of God a proper gift,

Some this, some that, as liketh him to shift.

Virginity is great perfection,

And continence eke with devotion:

But Christ, that of perfection is the well,

Bade not every wight he should go sell

All that he had, and give it to the poor,

And in such wise follow him and his lore:

He spake to them that would live perfectly, -

And, lordings, by your leave, that am not I;

I will bestow the flower of mine age

In th' acts and in the fruits of marriage.

Tell me also, to what conclusion

Were members made of generation,

And of so perfect wise a wight y-wrought?

Trust me right well, they were not made for nought.

Glose whoso will, and say both up and down,

That they were made for the purgatioun

Of urine, and of other thinges smale,

And eke to know a female from a male:

And for none other cause? say ye no?

Experience wot well it is not so.

So that the clerkes be not with me wroth,

I say this, that they were made for both,

That is to say, for office, and for ease

Of engendrure, there we God not displease.

Why should men elles in their bookes set,

That man shall yield unto his wife her debt?

Now wherewith should he make his payement,

If he us'd not his silly instrument?

Then were they made upon a creature

To purge urine, and eke for engendrure.

But I say not that every wight is hold,

That hath such harness as I to you told,

To go and use them in engendrure;

Then should men take of chastity no cure.

Christ was a maid, and shapen as a man,

And many a saint, since that this world began,

Yet ever liv'd in perfect chastity.

I will not vie with no virginity.

Let them with bread of pured wheat be fed,

And let us wives eat our barley bread.

And yet with barley bread, Mark tell us can,

Our Lord Jesus refreshed many a man.

In such estate as God hath cleped us,

I'll persevere, I am not precious,

In wifehood I will use mine instrument

As freely as my Maker hath it sent.

If I be dangerous God give me sorrow;

Mine husband shall it have, both eve and morrow,

When that him list come forth and pay his debt.

A husband will I have, I will no let,

Which shall be both my debtor and my thrall,

And have his tribulation withal

Upon his flesh, while that I am his wife.

I have the power during all my life

Upon his proper body, and not he;

Right thus th' apostle told it unto me,

And bade our husbands for to love us well;

All this sentence me liketh every deal.

Up start the Pardoner, and that anon;

"Now, Dame," quoth he, "by God and by Saint John,

Ye are a noble preacher in this case.

I was about to wed a wife, alas!

What? should I bie it on my flesh so dear?

Yet had I lever wed no wife this year."

"Abide," quoth she; "my tale is not begun

Nay, thou shalt drinken of another tun

Ere that I go, shall savour worse than ale.

And when that I have told thee forth my tale

Of tribulation in marriage,

Of which I am expert in all mine age,

(This is to say, myself hath been the whip),

Then mayest thou choose whether thou wilt sip

Of thilke tunne, that I now shall broach.

Beware of it, ere thou too nigh approach,

For I shall tell examples more than ten:

Whoso will not beware by other men,

By him shall other men corrected be:

These same wordes writeth Ptolemy;

Read in his Almagest, and take it there."

"Dame, I would pray you, if your will it were,"

Saide this Pardoner, "as ye began,

Tell forth your tale, and spare for no man,

And teach us younge men of your practique."

"Gladly," quoth she, "since that it may you like.

But that I pray to all this company,

If that I speak after my fantasy,

To take nought agrief what I may say;

For mine intent is only for to play.

Now, Sirs, then will I tell you forth my tale.

As ever may I drinke wine or ale

I shall say sooth; the husbands that I had

Three of them were good, and two were bad

The three were goode men, and rich, and old

Unnethes mighte they the statute hold

In which that they were bounden unto me.

Yet wot well what I mean of this, pardie.

As God me help, I laugh when that I think

How piteously at night I made them swink,

But, by my fay, I told of it no store:

They had me giv'n their land and their treasor,

Me needed not do longer diligence

To win their love, or do them reverence.

They loved me so well, by God above,

That I tolde no dainty of their love.

A wise woman will busy her ever-in-one

To get their love, where that she hath none.

But, since I had them wholly in my hand,

And that they had me given all their land,

Why should I take keep them for to please,

But it were for my profit, or mine ease?

I set them so a-worke, by my fay,

That many a night they sange, well-away!

The bacon was not fetched for them, I trow,

That some men have in Essex at Dunmow.

I govern'd them so well after my law,

That each of them full blissful was and fawe

To bringe me gay thinges from the fair.

They were full glad when that I spake them fair,

For, God it wot, I chid them spiteously.

Now hearken how I bare me properly.

Ye wise wives, that can understand,

Thus should ye speak, and bear them wrong on hand,

For half so boldely can there no man

Swearen and lien as a woman can.

(I say not this by wives that be wise,

But if it be when they them misadvise.)

A wise wife, if that she can her good,

Shall beare them on hand the cow is wood,

And take witness of her owen maid

Of their assent: but hearken how I said.

"Sir olde kaynard, is this thine array?

Why is my neigheboure's wife so gay?

She is honour'd over all where she go'th,

I sit at home, I have no thrifty cloth.

What dost thou at my neigheboure's house?

Is she so fair? art thou so amorous?

What rown'st thou with our maid? benedicite,

Sir olde lechour, let thy japes be.

And if I have a gossip, or a friend

(Withoute guilt), thou chidest as a fiend,

If that I walk or play unto his house.

Thou comest home as drunken as a mouse,

And preachest on thy bench, with evil prefe:

Thou say'st to me, it is a great mischief

To wed a poore woman, for costage:

And if that she be rich, of high parage;

Then say'st thou, that it is a tormentry

To suffer her pride and melancholy.

And if that she be fair, thou very knave,

Thou say'st that every holour will her have;

She may no while in chastity abide,

That is assailed upon every side.

Thou say'st some folk desire us for richess,

Some for our shape, and some for our fairness,

And some, for she can either sing or dance,

And some for gentiless and dalliance,

Some for her handes and her armes smale:

Thus goes all to the devil, by thy tale;

Thou say'st, men may not keep a castle wall

That may be so assailed over all.

And if that she be foul, thou say'st that she

Coveteth every man that she may see;

For as a spaniel she will on him leap,

Till she may finde some man her to cheap;

And none so grey goose goes there in the lake,

(So say'st thou) that will be without a make.

And say'st, it is a hard thing for to weld wield,

A thing that no man will, his thankes, held.

Thus say'st thou, lorel, when thou go'st to bed,

And that no wise man needeth for to wed,

Nor no man that intendeth unto heaven.

With wilde thunder dint and fiery leven

Mote thy wicked necke be to-broke.

Thou say'st, that dropping houses, and eke smoke,

And chiding wives, make men to flee

Out of their owne house; ah! ben'dicite,

What aileth such an old man for to chide?

Thou say'st, we wives will our vices hide,

Till we be fast, and then we will them shew.

Well may that be a proverb of a shrew.

Thou say'st, that oxen, asses, horses, hounds,

They be assayed at diverse stounds,

Basons and lavers, ere that men them buy,

Spoones, stooles, and all such husbandry,

And so be pots, and clothes, and array,

But folk of wives make none assay,

Till they be wedded, - olde dotard shrew! -

And then, say'st thou, we will our vices shew.

Thou say'st also, that it displeaseth me,

But if that thou wilt praise my beauty,

And but thou pore alway upon my face,

And call me faire dame in every place;

And but thou make a feast on thilke day

That I was born, and make me fresh and gay;

And but thou do to my norice honour,

And to my chamberere within my bow'r,

And to my father's folk, and mine allies;

Thus sayest thou, old barrel full of lies.

And yet also of our prentice Jenkin,

For his crisp hair, shining as gold so fine,

And for he squireth me both up and down,

Yet hast thou caught a false suspicioun:

I will him not, though thou wert dead to-morrow.

But tell me this, why hidest thou, with sorrow,

The keyes of thy chest away from me?

It is my good as well as thine, pardie.

What, think'st to make an idiot of our dame?

Now, by that lord that called is Saint Jame,

Thou shalt not both, although that thou wert wood,

Be master of my body, and my good,

The one thou shalt forego, maugre thine eyen.

What helpeth it of me t'inquire and spyen?

I trow thou wouldest lock me in thy chest.

Thou shouldest say, 'Fair wife, go where thee lest;

Take your disport; I will believe no tales;

I know you for a true wife, Dame Ales.' Alice

We love no man, that taketh keep or charge care

Where that we go; we will be at our large.

Of alle men most blessed may he be,

The wise astrologer Dan Ptolemy,

That saith this proverb in his Almagest:

'Of alle men his wisdom is highest,

That recketh not who hath the world in hand.

By this proverb thou shalt well understand,

Have thou enough, what thar thee reck or care

How merrily that other folkes fare?

For certes, olde dotard, by your leave,

Ye shall have [pleasure] right enough at eve.

He is too great a niggard that will werne

A man to light a candle at his lantern;

He shall have never the less light, pardie.

Have thou enough, thee thar not plaine thee

Thou say'st also, if that we make us gay

With clothing and with precious array,

That it is peril of our chastity.

And yet, - with sorrow! - thou enforcest thee,

And say'st these words in the apostle's name:

'In habit made with chastity and shame

Ye women shall apparel you,' quoth he

'And not in tressed hair and gay perrie,

As pearles, nor with gold, nor clothes rich.'

After thy text nor after thy rubrich

I will not work as muchel as a gnat.

Thou say'st also, I walk out like a cat;

For whoso woulde singe the catte's skin

Then will the catte well dwell in her inn;

And if the catte's skin be sleek and gay,

She will not dwell in house half a day,

But forth she will, ere any day be daw'd,

To shew her skin, and go a caterwaw'd.

This is to say, if I be gay, sir shrew,

I will run out, my borel for to shew.

Sir olde fool, what helpeth thee to spyen?

Though thou pray Argus with his hundred eyen

To be my wardecorps, as he can best

In faith he shall not keep me, but me lest:

Yet could I make his beard, so may I the.

"Thou sayest eke, that there be thinges three,

Which thinges greatly trouble all this earth,

And that no wighte may endure the ferth:

O lefe sir shrew, may Jesus short thy life.

Yet preachest thou, and say'st, a hateful wife

Y-reckon'd is for one of these mischances.

Be there none other manner resemblances

That ye may liken your parables unto,

But if a silly wife be one of tho?

Thou likenest a woman's love to hell;

To barren land where water may not dwell.

Thou likenest it also to wild fire;

The more it burns, the more it hath desire

To consume every thing that burnt will be.

Thou sayest, right as wormes shend a tree,

Right so a wife destroyeth her husbond;

This know they well that be to wives bond."

Lordings, right thus, as ye have understand,

Bare I stiffly mine old husbands on hand,

That thus they saiden in their drunkenness;

And all was false, but that I took witness

On Jenkin, and upon my niece also.

O Lord! the pain I did them, and the woe,

'Full guilteless, by Godde's sweete pine;

For as a horse I coulde bite and whine;

I coulde plain, an' I was in the guilt,

Or elles oftentime I had been spilt

Whoso first cometh to the nilll, first grint;

I plained first, so was our war y-stint.

They were full glad to excuse them full blive

Of things that they never aguilt their live.

Of wenches would I beare them on hand,

When that for sickness scarcely might they stand,

Yet tickled I his hearte for that he

Ween'd that I had of him so great cherte:

I swore that all my walking out by night

Was for to espy wenches that he dight:

Under that colour had I many a mirth.

For all such wit is given us at birth;

Deceit, weeping, and spinning, God doth give

To women kindly, while that they may live.

And thus of one thing I may vaunte me,

At th' end I had the better in each degree,

By sleight, or force, or by some manner thing,

As by continual murmur or grudging, complaining

Namely a-bed, there hadde they mischance,

There would I chide, and do them no pleasance:

I would no longer in the bed abide,

If that I felt his arm over my side,

Till he had made his ransom unto me,

Then would I suffer him do his nicety.

And therefore every man this tale I tell,

Win whoso may, for all is for to sell;

With empty hand men may no hawkes lure;

For winning would I all his will endure,

And make me a feigned appetite,

And yet in bacon had I never delight:

That made me that I ever would them chide.

For, though the Pope had sitten them beside,

I would not spare them at their owen board,

For, by my troth, I quit them word for word

As help me very God omnipotent,

Though I right now should make my testament

I owe them not a word, that is not quit

I brought it so aboute by my wit,

That they must give it up, as for the best

Or elles had we never been in rest.

For, though he looked as a wood lion,

Yet should he fail of his conclusion.

Then would I say, "Now, goode lefe tak keep

How meekly looketh Wilken oure sheep!

Come near, my spouse, and let me ba thy cheek

Ye shoulde be all patient and meek,

And have a sweet y-spiced conscience,

Since ye so preach of Jobe's patience.

Suffer alway, since ye so well can preach,

And but ye do, certain we shall you teach

That it is fair to have a wife in peace.

One of us two must bowe doubteless:

And since a man is more reasonable

Than woman is, ye must be suff'rable.

What aileth you to grudge thus and groan?

Is it for ye would have my [love] alone?

Why, take it all: lo, have it every deal, whit

Peter! shrew you but ye love it

For if I woulde sell my belle chose,

I coulde walk as fresh as is a rose,

But I will keep it for your owen tooth.

Ye be to blame, by God, I say you sooth."

Such manner wordes hadde we on hand.

Now will I speaken of my fourth husband.

My fourthe husband was a revellour;

This is to say, he had a paramour,

And I was young and full of ragerie,

Stubborn and strong, and jolly as a pie.

Then could I dance to a harpe smale,

And sing, y-wis, as any nightingale,

When I had drunk a draught of sweete wine.

Metellius, the foule churl, the swine,

That with a staff bereft his wife of life

For she drank wine, though I had been his wife,

Never should he have daunted me from drink:

And, after wine, of Venus most I think.

For all so sure as cold engenders hail,

A liquorish mouth must have a liquorish tail.

In woman vinolent is no defence,

This knowe lechours by experience.

But, lord Christ, when that it rememb'reth me

Upon my youth, and on my jollity,

It tickleth me about mine hearte-root;

Unto this day it doth mine hearte boot,

That I have had my world as in my time.

But age, alas! that all will envenime,

Hath me bereft my beauty and my pith:

Let go; farewell; the devil go therewith.

The flour is gon, there is no more to tell,

The bran, as I best may, now must I sell.

But yet to be right merry will I fand.

Now forth to tell you of my fourth husband,

I say, I in my heart had great despite,

That he of any other had delight;

But he was quit, by God and by Saint Joce:

I made for him of the same wood a cross;

Not of my body in no foul mannere,

But certainly I made folk such cheer,

That in his owen grease I made him fry

For anger, and for very jealousy.

By God, in earth I was his purgatory,

For which I hope his soul may be in glory.

For, God it wot, he sat full oft and sung,

When that his shoe full bitterly him wrung.

There was no wight, save God and he, that wist

In many wise how sore I did him twist.

He died when I came from Jerusalem,

And lies in grave under the roode beam:

Although his tomb is not so curious

As was the sepulchre of Darius,

Which that Apelles wrought so subtlely.

It is but waste to bury them preciously.

Let him fare well, God give his soule rest,

He is now in his grave and in his chest.

Now of my fifthe husband will I tell:

God let his soul never come into hell.

And yet was he to me the moste shrew;

That feel I on my ribbes all by rew,

And ever shall, until mine ending day.

But in our bed he was so fresh and gay,

And therewithal so well he could me glose,

When that he woulde have my belle chose,

Though he had beaten me on every bone,

Yet could he win again my love anon.

I trow, I lov'd him better, for that he

Was of his love so dangerous to me.

We women have, if that I shall not lie,

In this matter a quainte fantasy.

Whatever thing we may not lightly have,

Thereafter will we cry all day and crave.

Forbid us thing, and that desire we;

Press on us fast, and thenne will we flee.

With danger utter we all our chaffare;

Great press at market maketh deare ware,

And too great cheap is held at little price;

This knoweth every woman that is wise.

My fifthe husband, God his soule bless,

Which that I took for love and no richess,

He some time was a clerk of Oxenford,

And had left school, and went at home to board

With my gossip, dwelling in oure town:

God have her soul, her name was Alisoun.

She knew my heart, and all my privity,

Bet than our parish priest, so may I the.

To her betrayed I my counsel all;

For had my husband pissed on a wall,

Or done a thing that should have cost his life,

To her, and to another worthy wife,

And to my niece, which that I loved well,

I would have told his counsel every deal.

And so I did full often, God it wot,

That made his face full often red and hot

For very shame, and blam'd himself, for he

Had told to me so great a privity.

And so befell that ones in a Lent

(So oftentimes I to my gossip went,

For ever yet I loved to be gay,

And for to walk in March, April, and May

From house to house, to heare sundry tales),

That Jenkin clerk, and my gossip, Dame Ales,

And I myself, into the fieldes went.

Mine husband was at London all that Lent;

I had the better leisure for to play,

And for to see, and eke for to be sey

Of lusty folk; what wist I where my grace

Was shapen for to be, or in what place?

Therefore made I my visitations

To vigilies, and to processions,

To preachings eke, and to these pilgrimages,

To plays of miracles, and marriages,

And weared upon me gay scarlet gites.

These wormes, nor these mothes, nor these mites

On my apparel frett them never a deal

And know'st thou why? for they were used well.

Now will I telle forth what happen'd me:

I say, that in the fieldes walked we,

Till truely we had such dalliance,

This clerk and I, that of my purveyance

I spake to him, and told him how that he,

If I were widow, shoulde wedde me.

For certainly, I say for no bobance,

Yet was I never without purveyance

Of marriage, nor of other thinges eke:

I hold a mouse's wit not worth a leek,

That hath but one hole for to starte to,

And if that faile, then is all y-do.

[I bare him on hand he had enchanted me

(My dame taughte me that subtilty);

And eke I said, I mette of him all night,

He would have slain me, as I lay upright,

And all my bed was full of very blood;

But yet I hop'd that he should do me good;

For blood betoken'd gold, as me was taught.

And all was false, I dream'd of him right naught,

But as I follow'd aye my dame's lore,

As well of that as of other things more.]

But now, sir, let me see, what shall I sayn?

Aha! by God, I have my tale again.

When that my fourthe husband was on bier,

I wept algate and made a sorry cheer,

As wives must, for it is the usage;

And with my kerchief covered my visage;

But, for I was provided with a make,

I wept but little, that I undertake

To churche was mine husband borne a-morrow

With neighebours that for him made sorrow,

And Jenkin, oure clerk, was one of tho:

As help me God, when that I saw him go

After the bier, methought he had a pair

Of legges and of feet so clean and fair,

That all my heart I gave unto his hold.

He was, I trow, a twenty winter old,

And I was forty, if I shall say sooth,

But yet I had always a colte's tooth.

Gat-toothed I was, and that became me well,

I had the print of Sainte Venus' seal.

[As help me God, I was a lusty one,

And fair, and rich, and young, and well begone:

For certes I am all venerian

In feeling, and my heart is martian;

Venus me gave my lust and liquorishness,

And Mars gave me my sturdy hardiness

Mine ascendant was Taure, and Mars therein:

Alas, alas, that ever love was sin!

I follow'd aye mine inclination

By virtue of my constellation:

That made me that I coulde not withdraw

My chamber of Venus from a good fellaw.

[Yet have I Marte's mark upon my face,

And also in another privy place.

For God so wisly be my salvation,

I loved never by discretion,

But ever follow'd mine own appetite,

All were he short, or long, or black, or white,

I took no keep, so that he liked me,

How poor he was, neither of what degree.]

What should I say? but that at the month's end

This jolly clerk Jenkin, that was so hend,

Had wedded me with great solemnity,

And to him gave I all the land and fee

That ever was me given therebefore:

But afterward repented me full sore.

He woulde suffer nothing of my list.

By God, he smote me ones with his fist,

For that I rent out of his book a leaf,

That of the stroke mine eare wax'd all deaf.

Stubborn I was, as is a lioness,

And of my tongue a very jangleress,

And walk I would, as I had done beforn,

From house to house, although he had it sworn:

For which he oftentimes woulde preach

And me of olde Roman gestes teach

How that Sulpitius Gallus left his wife

And her forsook for term of all his lif

For nought but open-headed he her say

Looking out at his door upon a day.

Another Roman told he me by name,

That, for his wife was at a summer game

Without his knowing, he forsook her eke.

And then would he upon his Bible seek

That ilke proverb of Ecclesiast,

Where he commandeth, and forbiddeth fast,

Man shall not suffer his wife go roll about.

Then would he say right thus withoute doubt:

"Whoso that buildeth his house all of sallows,

And pricketh his blind horse over the fallows,

And suff'reth his wife to go seeke hallows,

Is worthy to be hanged on the gallows."

But all for nought; I sette not a haw

Of his proverbs, nor of his olde saw;

Nor would I not of him corrected be.

I hate them that my vices telle me,

And so do more of us (God wot) than I.

This made him wood with me all utterly;

I woulde not forbear him in no case.

Now will I say you sooth, by Saint Thomas,

Why that I rent out of his book a leaf,

For which he smote me, so that I was deaf.

He had a book, that gladly night and day

For his disport he would it read alway;

He call'd it Valerie, and Theophrast,

And with that book he laugh'd alway full fast.

And eke there was a clerk sometime at Rome,

A cardinal, that highte Saint Jerome,

That made a book against Jovinian,

Which book was there; and eke Tertullian,

Chrysippus, Trotula, and Heloise,

That was an abbess not far from Paris;

And eke the Parables of Solomon,

Ovide's Art, and bourdes many one;

And alle these were bound in one volume.

And every night and day was his custume

(When he had leisure and vacation

From other worldly occupation)

To readen in this book of wicked wives.

He knew of them more legends and more lives

Than be of goodde wives in the Bible.

For, trust me well, it is an impossible

That any clerk will speake good of wives,

(But if it be of holy saintes' lives)

Nor of none other woman never the mo'.

Who painted the lion, tell it me, who?

By God, if women haddde written stories,

As clerkes have within their oratories,

They would have writ of men more wickedness

Than all the mark of Adam may redress

The children of Mercury and of Venus,

Be in their working full contrarious.

Mercury loveth wisdom and science,

And Venus loveth riot and dispence.

And for their diverse disposition,

Each falls in other's exaltation.

As thus, God wot, Mercury is desolate

In Pisces, where Venus is exaltate,

And Venus falls where Mercury is raised.

Therefore no woman by no clerk is praised.

The clerk, when he is old, and may not do

Of Venus' works not worth his olde shoe,

Then sits he down, and writes in his dotage,

That women cannot keep their marriage.

But now to purpose, why I tolde thee

That I was beaten for a book, pardie.

Upon a night Jenkin, that was our sire,

Read on his book, as he sat by the fire,

Of Eva first, that for her wickedness

Was all mankind brought into wretchedness,

For which that Jesus Christ himself was slain,

That bought us with his hearte-blood again.

Lo here express of women may ye find

That woman was the loss of all mankind.

Then read he me how Samson lost his hairs

Sleeping, his leman cut them with her shears,

Through whiche treason lost he both his eyen.

Then read he me, if that I shall not lien,

Of Hercules, and of his Dejanire,

That caused him to set himself on fire.

Nothing forgot he of the care and woe

That Socrates had with his wives two;

How Xantippe cast piss upon his head.

This silly man sat still, as he were dead,

He wip'd his head, and no more durst he sayn,

But, "Ere the thunder stint there cometh rain."

Of Phasiphae, that was queen of Crete,

For shrewedness he thought the tale sweet.

Fy, speak no more, it is a grisly thing,

Of her horrible lust and her liking.

Of Clytemnestra, for her lechery

That falsely made her husband for to die,

He read it with full good devotion.

He told me eke, for what occasion

Amphiorax at Thebes lost his life:

My husband had a legend of his wife

Eryphile, that for an ouche of gold

Had privily unto the Greekes told,

Where that her husband hid him in a place,

For which he had at Thebes sorry grace.

Of Luna told he me, and of Lucie;

They bothe made their husbands for to die,

That one for love, that other was for hate.

Luna her husband on an ev'ning late

Empoison'd had, for that she was his foe:

Lucia liquorish lov'd her husband so,

That, for he should always upon her think,

She gave him such a manner love-drink,

That he was dead before it were the morrow:

And thus algates husbands hadde sorrow.

Then told he me how one Latumeus

Complained to his fellow Arius

That in his garden growed such a tree,

On which he said how that his wives three

Hanged themselves for heart dispiteous.

"O leve brother," quoth this Arius,

"Give me a plant of thilke blessed tree,

And in my garden planted shall it be."

Of later date of wives hath he read,

That some have slain their husbands in their bed,

And let their lechour dight them all the night,

While that the corpse lay on the floor upright:

And some have driven nails into their brain,

While that they slept, and thus they have them slain:

Some have them given poison in their drink:

He spake more harm than hearte may bethink.

And therewithal he knew of more proverbs,

Than in this world there groweth grass or herbs.

"Better (quoth he) thine habitation

Be with a lion, or a foul dragon,

Than with a woman using for to chide.

Better (quoth he) high in the roof abide,

Than with an angry woman in the house,

They be so wicked and contrarious:

They hate that their husbands loven aye."

He said, "A woman cast her shame away

When she cast off her smock;" and farthermo',

"A fair woman, but she be chaste also,

Is like a gold ring in a sowe's nose.

Who coulde ween, or who coulde suppose

The woe that in mine heart was, and the pine?

And when I saw that he would never fine

To readen on this cursed book all night,

All suddenly three leaves have I plight

Out of his book, right as he read, and eke

I with my fist so took him on the cheek,

That in our fire he backward fell adown.

And he up start, as doth a wood lion,

And with his fist he smote me on the head,

That on the floor I lay as I were dead.

And when he saw how still that there I lay,

He was aghast, and would have fled away,

Till at the last out of my swoon I braid,

"Oh, hast thou slain me, thou false thief?" I said

"And for my land thus hast thou murder'd me?

Ere I be dead, yet will I kisse thee."

And near he came, and kneeled fair adown,

And saide", "Deare sister Alisoun,

As help me God, I shall thee never smite:

That I have done it is thyself to wite,

Forgive it me, and that I thee beseek."

And yet eftsoons I hit him on the cheek,

And saidde, "Thief, thus much am I awreak.

Now will I die, I may no longer speak."

But at the last, with muche care and woe

We fell accorded by ourselves two:

He gave me all the bridle in mine hand

To have the governance of house and land,

And of his tongue, and of his hand also.

I made him burn his book anon right tho.

And when that I had gotten unto me

By mast'ry all the sovereignety,

And that he said, "Mine owen true wife,

Do as thee list, the term of all thy life,

Keep thine honour, and eke keep mine estate;

After that day we never had debate.

God help me so, I was to him as kind

As any wife from Denmark unto Ind,

And also true, and so was he to me:

I pray to God that sits in majesty

So bless his soule, for his mercy dear.

Now will I say my tale, if ye will hear. -

The Friar laugh'd when he had heard all this:

"Now, Dame," quoth he, "so have I joy and bliss,

This is a long preamble of a tale."

And when the Sompnour heard the Friar gale,

"Lo," quoth this Sompnour, "Godde's armes two,

A friar will intermete him evermo':

Lo, goode men, a fly and eke a frere

Will fall in ev'ry dish and eke mattere.

What speak'st thou of perambulation?

What? amble or trot; or peace, or go sit down:

Thou lettest our disport in this mattere."

"Yea, wilt thou so, Sir Sompnour?" quoth the Frere;

"Now by my faith I shall, ere that I go,

Tell of a Sompnour such a tale or two,

That all the folk shall laughen in this place."

"Now do, else, Friar, I beshrew thy face,"

Quoth this Sompnour; "and I beshrewe me,

But if I telle tales two or three

Of friars, ere I come to Sittingbourne,

That I shall make thine hearte for to mourn:

For well I wot thy patience is gone."

Our Hoste cried, "Peace, and that anon;"

And saide, "Let the woman tell her tale.

Ye fare as folk that drunken be of ale.

Do, Dame, tell forth your tale, and that is best."

"All ready, sir," quoth she, "right as you lest,

If I have licence of this worthy Frere."

"Yes, Dame," quoth he, "tell forth, and I will hear."
THE TALE
In olde dayes of the king Arthour,

Of which that Britons speake great honour,

All was this land full fill'd of faerie;

The Elf-queen, with her jolly company,

Danced full oft in many a green mead

This was the old opinion, as I read;

I speak of many hundred years ago;

But now can no man see none elves mo',

For now the great charity and prayeres

Of limitours, and other holy freres,

That search every land and ev'ry stream

As thick as motes in the sunne-beam,

Blessing halls, chambers, kitchenes, and bowers,

Cities and burghes, castles high and towers,

Thorpes and barnes, shepens and dairies,

This makes that there be now no faeries:

For there as wont to walke was an elf,

There walketh now the limitour himself,

In undermeles and in morrowings,

And saith his matins and his holy things,

As he goes in his limitatioun.

Women may now go safely up and down,

In every bush, and under every tree;

There is none other incubus but he;

And he will do to them no dishonour.

And so befell it, that this king Arthour

Had in his house a lusty bacheler,

That on a day came riding from river:

And happen'd, that, alone as she was born

He saw a maiden walking him beforn,

Of which maiden anon, maugre her head,

By very force he reft her maidenhead:

For which oppression was such clamour,

And such pursuit unto the king Arthour,

That damned was this knight for to be dead

By course of law, and should have lost his head;

(Paraventure such was the statute tho),

But that the queen and other ladies mo'

So long they prayed the king of his grace,

Till he his life him granted in the place,

And gave him to the queen, all at her will

To choose whether she would him save or spill

The queen thanked the king with all her might;

And, after this, thus spake she to the knight,

When that she saw her time upon a day.

"Thou standest yet," quoth she, "in such array,

That of thy life yet hast thou no surety;

I grant thee life, if thou canst tell to me

What thing is it that women most desiren:

Beware, and keep thy neck-bone from the iron

And if thou canst not tell it me anon,

Yet will I give thee leave for to gon

A twelvemonth and a day, to seek and lear

An answer suffisant in this mattere.

And surety will I have, ere that thou pace,

Thy body for to yielden in this place."

Woe was the knight, and sorrowfully siked;

But what? he might not do all as him liked.

And at the last he chose him for to wend,

And come again, right at the yeare's end,

With such answer as God would him purvey:

And took his leave, and wended forth his way.

He sought in ev'ry house and ev'ry place,

Where as he hoped for to finde grace,

To learne what thing women love the most:

But he could not arrive in any coast,

Where as he mighte find in this mattere

Two creatures according in fere.

Some said that women loved best richess,

Some said honour, and some said jolliness,

Some rich array, and some said lust a-bed,

And oft time to be widow and be wed.

Some said, that we are in our heart most eased

When that we are y-flatter'd and y-praised.

He went full nigh the sooth, I will not lie;

A man shall win us best with flattery;

And with attendance, and with business

Be we y-limed, bothe more and less.

And some men said that we do love the best

For to be free, and do right as us lest,

And that no man reprove us of our vice,

But say that we are wise, and nothing nice,

For truly there is none among us all,

If any wight will claw us on the gall,

That will not kick, for that he saith us sooth:

Assay, and he shall find it, that so do'th.

For be we never so vicious within,

We will be held both wise and clean of sin.

And some men said, that great delight have we

For to be held stable and eke secre,

And in one purpose steadfastly to dwell,

And not bewray a thing that men us tell.

But that tale is not worth a rake-stele.

Pardie, we women canne nothing hele,

Witness on Midas; will ye hear the tale?

Ovid, amonges other thinges smale

Saith, Midas had, under his longe hairs,

Growing upon his head two ass's ears;

The whiche vice he hid, as best he might,

Full subtlely from every man's sight,

That, save his wife, there knew of it no mo';

He lov'd her most, and trusted her also;

He prayed her, that to no creature

She woulde tellen of his disfigure.

She swore him, nay, for all the world to win,

She would not do that villainy or sin,

To make her husband have so foul a name:

She would not tell it for her owen shame.

But natheless her thoughte that she died,

That she so longe should a counsel hide;

Her thought it swell'd so sore about her heart

That needes must some word from her astart

And, since she durst not tell it unto man

Down to a marish fast thereby she ran,

Till she came there, her heart was all afire:

And, as a bittern bumbles in the mire,

She laid her mouth unto the water down

"Bewray me not, thou water, with thy soun'"

Quoth she, "to thee I tell it, and no mo',

Mine husband hath long ass's eares two!

Now is mine heart all whole; now is it out;

I might no longer keep it, out of doubt."

Here may ye see, though we a time abide,

Yet out it must, we can no counsel hide.

The remnant of the tale, if ye will hear,

Read in Ovid, and there ye may it lear.

This knight, of whom my tale is specially,

When that he saw he might not come thereby,

That is to say, what women love the most,

Within his breast full sorrowful was his ghost.

But home he went, for he might not sojourn,

The day was come, that homeward he must turn.

And in his way it happen'd him to ride,

In all his care, under a forest side,

Where as he saw upon a dance go

Of ladies four-and-twenty, and yet mo',

Toward this ilke dance he drew full yern,

The hope that he some wisdom there should learn;

But certainly, ere he came fully there,

Y-vanish'd was this dance, he knew not where;

No creature saw he that bare life,

Save on the green he sitting saw a wife,

A fouler wight there may no man devise.

Against this knight this old wife gan to rise,

And said, "Sir Knight, hereforth lieth no way.

Tell me what ye are seeking, by your fay.

Paraventure it may the better be:

These olde folk know muche thing," quoth she.

My leve mother," quoth this knight, "certain,

I am but dead, but if that I can sayn

What thing it is that women most desire:

Could ye me wiss, I would well quite your hire."

"Plight me thy troth here in mine hand," quoth she,

"The nexte thing that I require of thee

Thou shalt it do, if it be in thy might,

And I will tell it thee ere it be night."

"Have here my trothe," quoth the knight; "I graunte."

"Thenne," quoth she, "I dare me well avaunt,

Thy life is safe, for I will stand thereby,

Upon my life the queen will say as I:

Let see, which is the proudest of them all,

That wears either a kerchief or a caul,

That dare say nay to that I shall you teach.

Let us go forth withoute longer speech

Then rowned she a pistel in his ear,

And bade him to be glad, and have no fear.

When they were come unto the court, this knight

Said, he had held his day, as he had hight,

And ready was his answer, as he said.

Full many a noble wife, and many a maid,

And many a widow, for that they be wise, -

The queen herself sitting as a justice, -

Assembled be, his answer for to hear,

And afterward this knight was bid appear.

To every wight commanded was silence,

And that the knight should tell in audience,

What thing that worldly women love the best.

This knight he stood not still, as doth a beast,

But to this question anon answer'd

With manly voice, that all the court it heard,

"My liege lady, generally," quoth he,

"Women desire to have the sovereignty

As well over their husband as their love

And for to be in mast'ry him above.

This is your most desire, though ye me kill,

Do as you list, I am here at your will."

In all the court there was no wife nor maid

Nor widow, that contraried what he said,

But said, he worthy was to have his life.

And with that word up start that olde wife

Which that the knight saw sitting on the green.

"Mercy," quoth she, "my sovereign lady queen,

Ere that your court departe, do me right.

I taughte this answer unto this knight,

For which he plighted me his trothe there,

The firste thing I would of him requere,

He would it do, if it lay in his might.

Before this court then pray I thee, Sir Knight,"

Quoth she, "that thou me take unto thy wife,

For well thou know'st that I have kept thy life.

If I say false, say nay, upon thy fay."

This knight answer'd, "Alas, and well-away!

I know right well that such was my behest.

For Godde's love choose a new request

Take all my good, and let my body go."

"Nay, then," quoth she, "I shrew us bothe two,

For though that I be old, and foul, and poor,

I n'ould for all the metal nor the ore,

That under earth is grave, or lies above

But if thy wife I were and eke thy love."

"My love?" quoth he, "nay, my damnation,

Alas! that any of my nation

Should ever so foul disparaged be.

But all for nought; the end is this, that he

Constrained was, that needs he muste wed,

And take this olde wife, and go to bed.

Now woulde some men say paraventure

That for my negligence I do no cure

To tell you all the joy and all th' array

That at the feast was made that ilke day.

To which thing shortly answeren I shall:

I say there was no joy nor feast at all,

There was but heaviness and muche sorrow:

For privily he wed her on the morrow;

And all day after hid him as an owl,

So woe was him, his wife look'd so foul

Great was the woe the knight had in his thought

When he was with his wife to bed y-brought;

He wallow'd, and he turned to and fro.

This olde wife lay smiling evermo',

And said, "Dear husband, benedicite,

Fares every knight thus with his wife as ye?

Is this the law of king Arthoures house?

Is every knight of his thus dangerous?

I am your owen love, and eke your wife

I am she, which that saved hath your life

And certes yet did I you ne'er unright.

Why fare ye thus with me this firste night?

Ye fare like a man had lost his wit.

What is my guilt? for God's love tell me it,

And it shall be amended, if I may."

"Amended!" quoth this knight; "alas, nay, nay,

It will not be amended, never mo';

Thou art so loathly, and so old also,

And thereto comest of so low a kind,

That little wonder though I wallow and wind;

So woulde God, mine hearte woulde brest!"

"Is this," quoth she, "the cause of your unrest?"

"Yea, certainly," quoth he; "no wonder is."

"Now, Sir," quoth she, "I could amend all this,

If that me list, ere it were dayes three,

So well ye mighte bear you unto me.

But, for ye speaken of such gentleness

As is descended out of old richess,

That therefore shalle ye be gentlemen;

Such arrogancy is not worth a hen.

Look who that is most virtuous alway,

Prive and apert, and most intendeth aye

To do the gentle deedes that he can;

And take him for the greatest gentleman.

Christ will, we claim of him our gentleness,

Not of our elders for their old richess.

For though they gave us all their heritage,

For which we claim to be of high parage,

Yet may they not bequeathe, for no thing,

To none of us, their virtuous living

That made them gentlemen called to be,

And bade us follow them in such degree.

Well can the wise poet of Florence,

That highte Dante, speak of this sentence:

Lo, in such manner rhyme is Dante's tale.

'Full seld' upriseth by his branches smale

Prowess of man, for God of his goodness

Wills that we claim of him our gentleness;'

For of our elders may we nothing claim

But temp'ral things that man may hurt and maim.

Eke every wight knows this as well as I,

If gentleness were planted naturally

Unto a certain lineage down the line,

Prive and apert, then would they never fine

To do of gentleness the fair office

Then might they do no villainy nor vice.

Take fire, and bear it to the darkest house

Betwixt this and the mount of Caucasus,

And let men shut the doores, and go thenne,

Yet will the fire as fair and lighte brenne

As twenty thousand men might it behold;

Its office natural aye will it hold,

On peril of my life, till that it die. natural duty

Here may ye see well how that gentery

Is not annexed to possession,

Since folk do not their operation

Alway, as doth the fire, lo, in its kind

For, God it wot, men may full often find

A lorde's son do shame and villainy.

And he that will have price of his gent'ry,

For he was boren of a gentle house,

And had his elders noble and virtuous,

And will himselfe do no gentle deedes,

Nor follow his gentle ancestry, that dead is,

He is not gentle, be he duke or earl;

For villain sinful deedes make a churl.

For gentleness is but the renomee

Of thine ancestors, for their high bounte,

Which is a strange thing to thy person:

Thy gentleness cometh from God alone.

Then comes our very gentleness of grace;

It was no thing bequeath'd us with our place.

Think how noble, as saith Valerius,

Was thilke Tullius Hostilius,

That out of povert' rose to high

Read in Senec, and read eke in Boece,

There shall ye see express, that it no drede is,

That he is gentle that doth gentle deedes.

And therefore, leve husband, I conclude,

Albeit that mine ancestors were rude,

Yet may the highe God, - and so hope I, -

Grant me His grace to live virtuously:

Then am I gentle when that I begin

To live virtuously, and waive sin.

"And whereas ye of povert' me repreve,

The highe God, on whom that we believe,

In wilful povert' chose to lead his life:

And certes, every man, maiden, or wife

May understand that Jesus, heaven's king,

Ne would not choose a virtuous living.

Glad povert' is an honest thing, certain;

This will Senec and other clerkes sayn

Whoso that holds him paid of his povert',

I hold him rich though he hath not a shirt.

He that coveteth is a poore wight

For he would have what is not in his might

But he that nought hath, nor coveteth to have,

Is rich, although ye hold him but a knave.

Very povert' is sinne, properly.

Juvenal saith of povert' merrily:

The poore man, when he goes by the way

Before the thieves he may sing and play

Povert' is hateful good, and, as I guess,

A full great bringer out of business;

A great amender eke of sapience

To him that taketh it in patience.

Povert' is this, although it seem elenge

Possession that no wight will challenge

Povert' full often, when a man is low,

Makes him his God and eke himself to know

Povert' a spectacle is, as thinketh me

Through which he may his very friendes see.

And, therefore, Sir, since that I you not grieve,

Of my povert' no more me repreve.

"Now, Sir, of elde ye repreve me:

And certes, Sir, though none authority

Were in no book, ye gentles of honour

Say, that men should an olde wight honour,

And call him father, for your gentleness;

And authors shall I finden, as I guess.

Now there ye say that I am foul and old,

Then dread ye not to be a cokewold.

For filth, and elde, all so may I the,

Be greate wardens upon chastity.

But natheless, since I know your delight,

I shall fulfil your wordly appetite.

Choose now," quoth she, "one of these thinges tway,

To have me foul and old till that I dey,

And be to you a true humble wife,

And never you displease in all my life:

Or elles will ye have me young and fair,

And take your aventure of the repair

That shall be to your house because of me, -

Or in some other place, it may well be?

Now choose yourselfe whether that you liketh.

This knight adviseth him and sore he siketh,

But at the last he said in this mannere;

"My lady and my love, and wife so dear,

I put me in your wise governance,

Choose for yourself which may be most pleasance

And most honour to you and me also;

I do no force the whether of the two:

For as you liketh, it sufficeth me."

"Then have I got the mastery," quoth she,

"Since I may choose and govern as me lest."

"Yea, certes wife," quoth he, "I hold it best."

"Kiss me," quoth she, "we are no longer wroth,

For by my troth I will be to you both;

This is to say, yea, bothe fair and good.

I pray to God that I may sterve wood,

But I to you be all so good and true,

As ever was wife since the world was new;

And but I be to-morrow as fair to seen,

As any lady, emperess or queen,

That is betwixt the East and eke the West

Do with my life and death right as you lest.

Cast up the curtain, and look how it is."

And when the knight saw verily all this,

That she so fair was, and so young thereto,

For joy he hent her in his armes two:

His hearte bathed in a bath of bliss,

A thousand times on row he gan her kiss:

And she obeyed him in every thing

That mighte do him pleasance or liking.

And thus they live unto their lives' end

In perfect joy; and Jesus Christ us send

Husbandes meek and young, and fresh in bed,

And grace to overlive them that we wed.

And eke I pray Jesus to short their lives,

That will not be governed by their wives.

And old and angry niggards of dispence,

God send them soon a very pestilence! The Franklin's Tale
THE PROLOGUE
"IN faith, Squier, thou hast thee well acquit,

And gentilly; I praise well thy wit,"

Quoth the Franklin; "considering thy youthe

So feelingly thou speak'st, Sir, I aloue thee,

As to my doom, there is none that is here

Of eloquence that shall be thy peer,

If that thou live; God give thee goode chance,

And in virtue send thee continuance,

For of thy speaking I have great dainty.

I have a son, and, by the Trinity;

It were me lever than twenty pound worth land,

Though it right now were fallen in my hand,

He were a man of such discretion

As that ye be: fy on possession,

But if a man be virtuous withal.

I have my sone snibbed and yet shall,

For he to virtue listeth not t'intend,

But for to play at dice, and to dispend,

And lose all that he hath, is his usage;

And he had lever talke with a page,

Than to commune with any gentle wight,

There he might learen gentilless aright."

Straw for your gentillesse!" quoth our Host.

"What? Frankelin, pardie, Sir, well thou wost

That each of you must tellen at the least

A tale or two, or breake his behest."

"That know I well, Sir," quoth the Frankelin;

"I pray you have me not in disdain,

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

"Tell on thy tale, withoute wordes mo'."

"Gladly, Sir Host," quoth he, "I will obey

Unto your will; now hearken what I say;

I will you not contrary in no wise,

As far as that my wittes may suffice.

I pray to God that it may please you,

Then wot I well that it is good enow.

"These olde gentle Bretons, in their days,

Of divers aventures made lays,

Rhymeden in their firste Breton tongue;

Which layes with their instruments they sung,

Or elles reade them for their pleasance;

And one of them have I in remembrance,

Which I shall say with good will as I can.

But, Sirs, because I am a borel man,

At my beginning first I you beseech

Have me excused of my rude speech.

I learned never rhetoric, certain;

Thing that I speak, it must be bare and plain.

I slept never on the mount of Parnasso,

Nor learned Marcus Tullius Cicero.

Coloures know I none, withoute dread,

But such colours as growen in the mead,

Or elles such as men dye with or paint;

Colours of rhetoric be to me quaint;

My spirit feeleth not of such mattere.

But, if you list, my tale shall ye hear."
THE TALE
In Armoric', that called is Bretagne,

There was a knight, that lov'd and did his pain,

To serve a lady in his beste wise;

And many a labour, many a great emprise,

He for his lady wrought, ere she were won:

For she was one the fairest under sun,

And eke thereto come of so high kindred,

That well unnethes durst this knight for dread,

Tell her his woe, his pain, and his distress

But, at the last, she for his worthiness,

And namely for his meek obeisance,

Hath such a pity caught of his penance,

That privily she fell of his accord

To take him for her husband and her lord

(Of such lordship as men have o'er their wives);

And, for to lead the more in bliss their lives,

Of his free will he swore her as a knight,

That never in all his life he day nor night

Should take upon himself no mastery

Against her will, nor kithe her jealousy,

But her obey, and follow her will in all,

As any lover to his lady shall;

Save that the name of sovereignety

That would he have, for shame of his degree.

She thanked him, and with full great humbless

She saide; "Sir, since of your gentleness

Ye proffer me to have so large a reign,

Ne woulde God never betwixt us twain,

As in my guilt, were either war or strife:

Sir, I will be your humble true wife,

Have here my troth, till that my hearte brest."

Thus be they both in quiet and in rest.

For one thing, Sires, safely dare I say,

That friends ever each other must obey,

If they will longe hold in company.

Love will not be constrain'd by mastery.

When mast'ry comes, the god of love anon

Beateth his wings, and, farewell, he is gone.

Love is a thing as any spirit free.

Women of kind desire liberty,

And not to be constrained as a thrall,

And so do men, if soothly I say shall.

Look who that is most patient in love,

He is at his advantage all above.

Patience is a high virtue certain,

For it vanquisheth, as these clerkes sayn,

Thinges that rigour never should attain.

For every word men may not chide or plain.

Learne to suffer, or, so may I go,

Ye shall it learn whether ye will or no.

For in this world certain no wight there is,

That he not doth or saith sometimes amiss.

Ire, or sickness, or constellation,

Wine, woe, or changing of complexion,

Causeth full oft to do amiss or speaken:

On every wrong a man may not be wreaken.

After the time must be temperance

To every wight that can of governance.

And therefore hath this worthy wise knight

(To live in ease) sufferance her behight;

And she to him full wisly gan to swear

That never should there be default in her.

Here may men see a humble wife accord;

Thus hath she ta'en her servant and her lord,

Servant in love, and lord in marriage.

Then was he both in lordship and servage?

Servage? nay, but in lordship all above,

Since he had both his lady and his love:

His lady certes, and his wife also,

The which that law of love accordeth to.

And when he was in this prosperrity,

Home with his wife he went to his country,

Not far from Penmark, where his dwelling was,

And there he liv'd in bliss and in solace.

Who coulde tell, but he had wedded be,

The joy, the ease, and the prosperity,

That is betwixt a husband and his wife?

A year and more lasted this blissful life,

Till that this knight, of whom I spake thus,

That of Cairrud was call'd Arviragus,

Shope him to go and dwell a year or twain

In Engleland, that call'd was eke Britain,

To seek in armes worship and honour

(For all his lust he set in such labour);

And dwelled there two years; the book saith thus.

Now will I stint of this Arviragus,

And speak I will of Dorigen his wife,

That lov'd her husband as her hearte's life.

For his absence weepeth she and siketh,

As do these noble wives when them liketh;

She mourneth, waketh, waileth, fasteth, plaineth;

Desire of his presence her so distraineth,

That all this wide world she set at nought.

Her friendes, which that knew her heavy thought,

Comforte her in all that ever they may;

They preache her, they tell her night and day,

That causeless she slays herself, alas!

And every comfort possible in this case

They do to her, with all their business,

And all to make her leave her heaviness.

By process, as ye knowen every one,

Men may so longe graven in a stone,

Till some figure therein imprinted be:

So long have they comforted her, till she

Received hath, by hope and by reason,

Th' imprinting of their consolation,

Through which her greate sorrow gan assuage;

She may not always duren in such rage.

And eke Arviragus, in all this care,

Hath sent his letters home of his welfare,

And that he will come hastily again,

Or elles had this sorrow her hearty-slain.

Her friendes saw her sorrow gin to slake,

And prayed her on knees for Godde's sake

To come and roamen in their company,

Away to drive her darke fantasy;

And finally she granted that request,

For well she saw that it was for the best.

Now stood her castle faste by the sea,

And often with her friendes walked she,

Her to disport upon the bank on high,

There as many a ship and barge sigh,

Sailing their courses, where them list to go.

But then was that a parcel of her woe,

For to herself full oft, "Alas!" said she,

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

Will bringe home my lord? then were my heart

All warish'd of this bitter paine's smart."

Another time would she sit and think,

And cast her eyen downward from the brink;

But when she saw the grisly rockes blake,

For very fear so would her hearte quake,

That on her feet she might her not sustene

Then would she sit adown upon the green,

And piteously into the sea behold,

And say right thus, with careful sikes cold:

"Eternal God! that through thy purveyance

Leadest this world by certain governance,

In idle, as men say, ye nothing make;

But, Lord, these grisly fiendly rockes blake,

That seem rather a foul confusion

Of work, than any fair creation

Of such a perfect wise God and stable,

Why have ye wrought this work unreasonable?

For by this work, north, south, or west, or east,

There is not foster'd man, nor bird, nor beast:

It doth no good, to my wit, but annoyeth.

See ye not, Lord, how mankind it destroyeth?

A hundred thousand bodies of mankind

Have rockes slain, all be they not in mind;

Which mankind is so fair part of thy work,

Thou madest it like to thine owen mark.

Then seemed it ye had a great cherte

Toward mankind; but how then may it be

That ye such meanes make it to destroy?

Which meanes do no good, but ever annoy.

I wot well, clerkes will say as them lest,

By arguments, that all is for the best,

Although I can the causes not y-know;

But thilke God that made the wind to blow,

As keep my lord, this is my conclusion:

To clerks leave I all disputation:

But would to God that all these rockes blake

Were sunken into helle for his sake

These rockes slay mine hearte for the fear."

Thus would she say, with many a piteous tear.

Her friendes saw that it was no disport

To roame by the sea, but discomfort,

And shope them for to playe somewhere else.

They leade her by rivers and by wells,

And eke in other places delectables;

They dancen, and they play at chess and tables.

So on a day, right in the morning-tide,

Unto a garden that was there beside,

In which that they had made their ordinance

Of victual, and of other purveyance,

They go and play them all the longe day:

And this was on the sixth morrow of May,

Which May had painted with his softe showers

This garden full of leaves and of flowers:

And craft of manne's hand so curiously

Arrayed had this garden truely,

That never was there garden of such price,

But if it were the very Paradise.

Th'odour of flowers, and the freshe sight,

Would have maked any hearte light

That e'er was born, but if too great sickness

Or too great sorrow held it in distress;

So full it was of beauty and pleasance.

And after dinner they began to dance

And sing also, save Dorigen alone

Who made alway her complaint and her moan,

For she saw not him on the dance go

That was her husband, and her love also;

But natheless she must a time abide

And with good hope let her sorrow slide.

Upon this dance, amonge other men,

Danced a squier before Dorigen

That fresher was, and jollier of array

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

He sang and danced, passing any man,

That is or was since that the world began;

Therewith he was, if men should him descrive,

One of the beste faring men alive,

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

And well beloved, and holden in great price.

And, shortly if the sooth I telle shall,

Unweeting of this Dorigen at all,

This lusty squier, servant to Venus,

Which that y-called was Aurelius,

Had lov'd her best of any creature

Two year and more, as was his aventure;

But never durst he tell her his grievance;

Withoute cup he drank all his penance.

He was despaired, nothing durst he say,

Save in his songes somewhat would he wray

His woe, as in a general complaining;

He said, he lov'd, and was belov'd nothing.

Of suche matter made he many lays,

Songes, complaintes, roundels, virelays

How that he durste not his sorrow tell,

But languished, as doth a Fury in hell;

And die he must, he said, as did Echo For

Narcissus, that durst not tell her woe.

In other manner than ye hear me say,

He durste not to her his woe bewray,

Save that paraventure sometimes at dances,

Where younge folke keep their observances,

It may well be he looked on her face

In such a wise, as man that asketh grace,

But nothing wiste she of his intent.

Nath'less it happen'd, ere they thennes went,

Because that he was her neighebour,

And was a man of worship and honour,

And she had knowen him of time yore,

They fell in speech, and forth aye more and more

Unto his purpose drew Aurelius;

And when he saw his time, he saide thus:

Madam," quoth he, "by God that this world made,

So that I wist it might your hearte glade,

I would, that day that your Arviragus

Went over sea, that I, Aurelius,

Had gone where I should never come again;

For well I wot my service is in vain.

My guerdon is but bursting of mine heart.

Madame, rue upon my paine's smart,

For with a word ye may me slay or save.

Here at your feet God would that I were grave.

I have now no leisure more to say:

Have mercy, sweet, or you will do me dey."

She gan to look upon Aurelius;

"Is this your will," quoth she, "and say ye thus?

Ne'er erst," quoth she, "I wiste what ye meant:

But now, Aurelius, I know your intent.

By thilke God that gave me soul and life,

Never shall I be an untrue wife

In word nor work, as far as I have wit;

I will be his to whom that I am knit;

Take this for final answer as of me."

But after that in play thus saide she.

"Aurelius," quoth she, "by high God above,

Yet will I grante you to be your love

(Since I you see so piteously complain);

Looke, what day that endelong Bretagne

Ye remove all the rockes, stone by stone,

That they not lette ship nor boat to gon,

I say, when ye have made this coast so clean

Of rockes, that there is no stone seen,

Then will I love you best of any man;

Have here my troth, in all that ever I can;

For well I wot that it shall ne'er betide.

Let such folly out of your hearte glide.

What dainty should a man have in his life

For to go love another manne's wife,

That hath her body when that ever him liketh?"

Aurelius full often sore siketh; sigheth

Is there none other grace in you?" quoth he,

"No, by that Lord," quoth she, "that maked me.

Woe was Aurelius when that he this heard,

And with a sorrowful heart he thus answer'd.

"Madame, quoth he, "this were an impossible.

Then must I die of sudden death horrible."

And with that word he turned him anon.

Then came her other friends many a one,

And in the alleys roamed up and down,

And nothing wist of this conclusion,

But suddenly began to revel new,

Till that the brighte sun had lost his hue,

For th' horizon had reft the sun his light

(This is as much to say as it was night);

And home they go in mirth and in solace;

Save only wretch'd Aurelius, alas

He to his house is gone with sorrowful heart.

He said, he may not from his death astart.

Him seemed, that he felt his hearte cold.

Up to the heav'n his handes gan he hold,

And on his knees bare he set him down.

And in his raving said his orisoun.

For very woe out of his wit he braid;

He wist not what he spake, but thus he said;

With piteous heart his plaint hath he begun

Unto the gods, and first unto the Sun.

He said; "Apollo God and governour

Of every plante, herbe, tree, and flower,

That giv'st, after thy declination,

To each of them his time and his season,

As thine herberow changeth low and high;

Lord Phoebus: cast thy merciable eye

On wretched Aurelius, which that am but lorn.

Lo, lord, my lady hath my death y-sworn,

Withoute guilt, but thy benignity

Upon my deadly heart have some pity.

For well I wot, Lord Phoebus, if you lest,

Ye may me helpe, save my lady, best.

Now vouchsafe, that I may you devise

How that I may be holp, and in what wise.

Your blissful sister, Lucina the sheen,

That of the sea is chief goddess and queen, -

Though Neptunus have deity in the sea,

Yet emperess above him is she; -

Ye know well, lord, that, right as her desire

Is to be quick'd and lighted of your fire,

For which she followeth you full busily,

Right so the sea desireth naturally

To follow her, as she that is goddess

Both in the sea and rivers more and less.

Wherefore, Lord Phoebus, this is my request,

Do this miracle, or do mine hearte brest;

That flow, next at this opposition,

Which in the sign shall be of the Lion,

As praye her so great a flood to bring,

That five fathom at least it overspring

The highest rock in Armoric Bretagne,

And let this flood endure yeares twain:

Then certes to my lady may I say,

"Holde your hest," the rockes be away.

Lord Phoebus, this miracle do for me,

Pray her she go no faster course than ye;

I say this, pray your sister that she go

No faster course than ye these yeares two:

Then shall she be even at full alway,

And spring-flood laste bothe night and day.

And but she vouchesafe in such mannere

To grante me my sov'reign lady dear,

Pray her to sink every rock adown

Into her owen darke regioun

Under the ground, where Pluto dwelleth in

Or nevermore shall I my lady win.

Thy temple in Delphos will I barefoot seek.

Lord Phoebus! see the teares on my cheek

And on my pain have some compassioun."

And with that word in sorrow he fell down,

And longe time he lay forth in a trance.

His brother, which that knew of his penance,

Up caught him, and to bed he hath him brought,

Despaired in this torment and this thought

Let I this woeful creature lie;

Choose he for me whe'er he will live or die.

Arviragus with health and great honour

(As he that was of chivalry the flow'r)

Is come home, and other worthy men.

Oh, blissful art thou now, thou Dorigen!

Thou hast thy lusty husband in thine arms,

The freshe knight, the worthy man of arms,

That loveth thee as his own hearte's life:

Nothing list him to be imaginatif

If any wight had spoke, while he was out,

To her of love; he had of that no doubt;

He not intended to no such mattere,

But danced, jousted, and made merry cheer.

And thus in joy and bliss I let them dwell,

And of the sick Aurelius will I tell

In languor and in torment furious

Two year and more lay wretch'd Aurelius,

Ere any foot on earth he mighte gon;

Nor comfort in this time had he none,

Save of his brother, which that was a clerk.

He knew of all this woe and all this work;

For to none other creature certain

Of this matter he durst no worde sayn;

Under his breast he bare it more secree

Than e'er did Pamphilus for Galatee.

His breast was whole withoute for to seen,

But in his heart aye was the arrow keen,

And well ye know that of a sursanure

In surgery is perilous the cure,

But men might touch the arrow or come thereby.

His brother wept and wailed privily,

Till at the last him fell in remembrance,

That while he was at Orleans in France, -

As younge clerkes, that be likerous -

To readen artes that be curious,

Seeken in every halk and every hern

Particular sciences for to learn,-

He him remember'd, that upon a day

At Orleans in study a book he say saw

Of magic natural, which his fellaw,

That was that time a bachelor of law

All were he there to learn another craft,

Had privily upon his desk y-laft;

Which book spake much of operations

Touching the eight and-twenty mansions

That longe to the Moon, and such folly

As in our dayes is not worth a fly;

For holy church's faith, in our believe,

Us suff'reth none illusion to grieve.

And when this book was in his remembrance

Anon for joy his heart began to dance,

And to himself he saide privily;

"My brother shall be warish'd hastily

For I am sicker that there be sciences,

By which men make divers apparences,

Such as these subtle tregetoures play.

For oft at feaste's have I well heard say,

That tregetours, within a halle large,

Have made come in a water and a barge,

And in the halle rowen up and down.

Sometimes hath seemed come a grim lioun,

And sometimes flowers spring as in a mead;

Sometimes a vine, and grapes white and red;

Sometimes a castle all of lime and stone;

And, when them liked, voided it anon:

Thus seemed it to every manne's sight.

Now then conclude I thus; if that I might

At Orleans some olde fellow find,

That hath these Moone's mansions in mind,

Or other magic natural above.

He should well make my brother have his love.

For with an appearance a clerk may make,

To manne's sight, that all the rockes blake

Of Bretagne were voided every one,

And shippes by the brinke come and gon,

And in such form endure a day or two;

Then were my brother warish'd of his woe,

Then must she needes holde her behest,

Or elles he shall shame her at the least."

Why should I make a longer tale of this?

Unto his brother's bed he comen is,

And such comfort he gave him, for to gon

To Orleans, that he upstart anon,

And on his way forth-ward then is he fare,

In hope for to be lissed of his care.

When they were come almost to that city,

But if it were a two furlong or three,

A young clerk roaming by himself they met,

Which that in Latin thriftily them gret.

And after that he said a wondrous thing;

I know," quoth he, "the cause of your coming;"

Aud ere they farther any foote went,

He told them all that was in their intent.

The Breton clerk him asked of fellaws

The which he hadde known in olde daws,

And he answer'd him that they deade were,

For which he wept full often many a tear.

Down off his horse Aurelius light anon,

And forth with this magician is be gone

Home to his house, and made him well at ease;

Them lacked no vitail that might them please.

So well-array'd a house as there was one,

Aurelius in his life saw never none.

He shewed him, ere they went to suppere,

Forestes, parkes, full of wilde deer.

There saw he hartes with their hornes high,

The greatest that were ever seen with eye.

He saw of them an hundred slain with hounds,

And some with arrows bleed of bitter wounds.

He saw, when voided were the wilde deer,

These falconers upon a fair rivere,

That with their hawkes have the heron slain.

Then saw he knightes jousting in a plain.

And after this he did him such pleasance,

That he him shew'd his lady on a dance,

In which himselfe danced, as him thought.

And when this master, that this magic wrought,

Saw it was time, he clapp'd his handes two,

And farewell, all the revel is y-go.

And yet remov'd they never out of the house,

While they saw all the sightes marvellous;

But in his study, where his bookes be,

They satte still, and no wight but they three.

To him this master called his squier,

And said him thus, "May we go to supper?

Almost an hour it is, I undertake,

Since I you bade our supper for to make,

When that these worthy men wente with me

Into my study, where my bookes be."

"Sir," quoth this squier, "when it liketh you.

It is all ready, though ye will right now."

"Go we then sup," quoth he, "as for the best;

These amorous folk some time must have rest."

At after supper fell they in treaty

What summe should this master's guerdon be,

To remove all the rockes of Bretagne,

And eke from Gironde to the mouth of Seine.

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

Less than a thousand pound he would not have,

Nor gladly for that sum he would not gon.

Aurelius with blissful heart anon

Answered thus; "Fie on a thousand pound!

This wide world, which that men say is round,

I would it give, if I were lord of it.

This bargain is full-driv'n, for we be knit;

Ye shall be payed truly by my troth.

But looke, for no negligence or sloth,

Ye tarry us here no longer than to-morrow."

"Nay," quoth the clerk, "have here my faith to borrow."

To bed is gone Aurelius when him lest,

And well-nigh all that night he had his rest,

What for his labour, and his hope of bliss,

His woeful heart of penance had a liss.

Upon the morrow, when that it was day,

Unto Bretagne they took the righte way,

Aurelius and this magician beside,

And be descended where they would abide:

And this was, as the bookes me remember,

The colde frosty season of December.

Phoebus wax'd old, and hued like latoun,

That in his hote declinatioun

Shone as the burned gold, with streames bright;

But now in Capricorn adown he light,

Where as he shone full pale, I dare well sayn.

The bitter frostes, with the sleet and rain,

Destroyed have the green in every yard.

Janus sits by the fire with double beard,

And drinketh of his bugle horn the wine:

Before him stands the brawn of tusked swine

And "nowel" crieth every lusty man

Aurelius, in all that ev'r he can,

Did to his master cheer and reverence,

And prayed him to do his diligence

To bringe him out of his paines smart,

Or with a sword that he would slit his heart.

This subtle clerk such ruth had on this man,

That night and day he sped him, that he can,

To wait a time of his conclusion;

This is to say, to make illusion,

By such an appearance of jugglery

(I know no termes of astrology),

That she and every wight should ween and say,

That of Bretagne the rockes were away,

Or else they were sunken under ground.

So at the last he hath a time found

To make his japes and his wretchedness

Of such a superstitious cursedness.

His tables Toletanes forth he brought,

Full well corrected, that there lacked nought,

Neither his collect, nor his expanse years,

Neither his rootes, nor his other gears,

As be his centres, and his arguments,

And his proportional convenients

For his equations in everything.

And by his eighte spheres in his working,

He knew full well how far Alnath was shove

From the head of that fix'd Aries above,

That in the ninthe sphere consider'd is.

Full subtilly he calcul'd all this.

When he had found his firste mansion,

He knew the remnant by proportion;

And knew the rising of his moone well,

And in whose face, and term, and every deal;

And knew full well the moone's mansion

Accordant to his operation;

And knew also his other observances,

For such illusions and such meschances,

As heathen folk used in thilke days.

For which no longer made he delays;

But through his magic, for a day or tway,

It seemed all the rockes were away.

Aurelius, which yet despaired is

Whe'er he shall have his love, or fare amiss,

Awaited night and day on this miracle:

And when he knew that there was none obstacle,

That voided were these rockes every one,

Down at his master's feet he fell anon,

And said; "I, woeful wretch'd Aurelius,

Thank you, my Lord, and lady mine Venus,

That me have holpen from my cares cold."

And to the temple his way forth hath he hold,

Where as he knew he should his lady see.

And when he saw his time, anon right he

With dreadful heart and with full humble cheer

Saluteth hath his sovereign lady dear.

"My rightful Lady," quoth this woeful man,

"Whom I most dread, and love as I best can,

And lothest were of all this world displease,

Were't not that I for you have such disease,

That I must die here at your foot anon,

Nought would I tell how me is woebegone.

But certes either must I die or plain;

Ye slay me guilteless for very pain.

But of my death though that ye have no ruth,

Advise you, ere that ye break your truth:

Repente you, for thilke God above,

Ere ye me slay because that I you love.

For, Madame, well ye wot what ye have hight;

Not that I challenge anything of right

Of you, my sovereign lady, but of grace:

But in a garden yond', in such a place,

Ye wot right well what ye behighte me,

And in mine hand your trothe plighted ye,

To love me best; God wot ye saide so,

Albeit that I unworthy am thereto;

Madame, I speak it for th' honour of you,

More than to save my hearte's life right now;

I have done so as ye commanded me,

And if ye vouchesafe, ye may go see.

Do as you list, have your behest in mind,

For, quick or dead, right there ye shall me find;

In you hes all to do me live or dey;

But well I wot the rockes be away."

He took his leave, and she astonish'd stood;

In all her face was not one drop of blood:

She never ween'd t'have come in such a trap.

"Alas!" quoth she, "that ever this should hap!

For ween'd I ne'er, by possibility,

That such a monster or marvail might be;

It is against the process of nature."

And home she went a sorrowful creature;

For very fear unnethes may she go.

She weeped, wailed, all a day or two,

And swooned, that it ruthe was to see:

But why it was, to no wight tolde she,

For out of town was gone Arviragus.

But to herself she spake, and saide thus,

With face pale, and full sorrowful cheer,

In her complaint, as ye shall after hear.

"Alas!" quoth she, "on thee, Fortune, I plain,

That unware hast me wrapped in thy chain,

From which to scape, wot I no succour,

Save only death, or elles dishonour;

One of these two behoveth me to choose.

But natheless, yet had I lever lose

My life, than of my body have shame,

Or know myselfe false, or lose my name;

And with my death I may be quit y-wis.

Hath there not many a noble wife, ere this,

And many a maiden, slain herself, alas!

Rather than with her body do trespass?

Yes, certes; lo, these stories bear witness.

When thirty tyrants full of cursedness

Had slain Phidon in Athens at the feast,

They commanded his daughters to arrest,

And bringe them before them, in despite,

All naked, to fulfil their foul delight;

And in their father's blood they made them dance

Upon the pavement, - God give them mischance.

For which these woeful maidens, full of dread,

Rather than they would lose their maidenhead,

They privily be start into a well,

And drowned themselves, as the bookes tell.

They of Messene let inquire and seek

Of Lacedaemon fifty maidens eke,

On which they woulde do their lechery:

But there was none of all that company

That was not slain, and with a glad intent

Chose rather for to die, than to assent

To be oppressed of her maidenhead.

Why should I then to dien be in dread?

Lo, eke the tyrant Aristoclides,

That lov'd a maiden hight Stimphalides,

When that her father slain was on a night,

Unto Diana's temple went she right,

And hent the image in her handes two,

From which image she woulde never go;

No wight her handes might off it arace,

Till she was slain right in the selfe place.

Now since that maidens hadde such despite

To be defouled with man's foul delight,

Well ought a wife rather herself to sle,

Than be defouled, as it thinketh me.

What shall I say of Hasdrubale's wife,

That at Carthage bereft herself of life?

For, when she saw the Romans win the town,

She took her children all, and skipt adown

Into the fire, and rather chose to die,

Than any Roman did her villainy.

Hath not Lucretia slain herself, alas!

At Rome, when that she oppressed was

Of Tarquin? for her thought it was a shame

To live, when she hadde lost her name.

The seven maidens of Milesie also

Have slain themselves for very dread and woe,

Rather than folk of Gaul them should oppress.

More than a thousand stories, as I guess,

Could I now tell as touching this mattere.

When Abradate was slain, his wife so dear

Herselfe slew, and let her blood to glide

In Abradate's woundes, deep and wide,

And said, 'My body at the leaste way

There shall no wight defoul, if that I may.'

Why should I more examples hereof sayn?

Since that so many have themselves slain,

Well rather than they would defouled be,

I will conclude that it is bet for me

To slay myself, than be defouled thus.

I will be true unto Arviragus,

Or elles slay myself in some mannere,

As did Demotione's daughter dear,

Because she woulde not defouled be.

O Sedasus, it is full great pity

To reade how thy daughters died, alas!

That slew themselves for suche manner cas.

As great a pity was it, or well more,

The Theban maiden, that for Nicanor

Herselfe slew, right for such manner woe.

Another Theban maiden did right so;

For one of Macedon had her oppress'd,

She with her death her maidenhead redress'd.

What shall I say of Niceratus' wife,

That for such case bereft herself her life?

How true was eke to Alcibiades

His love, that for to dien rather chese,

Than for to suffer his body unburied be?

Lo, what a wife was Alceste?" quoth she.

"What saith Homer of good Penelope?

All Greece knoweth of her chastity.

Pardie, of Laedamia is written thus,

That when at Troy was slain Protesilaus,

No longer would she live after his day.

The same of noble Porcia tell I may;

Withoute Brutus coulde she not live,

To whom she did all whole her hearte give.

The perfect wifehood of Artemisie

Honoured is throughout all Barbarie.

O Teuta queen, thy wifely chastity

To alle wives may a mirror be."

Thus plained Dorigen a day or tway,

Purposing ever that she woulde dey; die

But natheless upon the thirde night

Home came Arviragus, the worthy knight,

And asked her why that she wept so sore.

And she gan weepen ever longer more.

"Alas," quoth she, "that ever I was born!

Thus have I said," quoth she; "thus have I sworn."

And told him all, as ye have heard before:

It needeth not rehearse it you no more.

This husband with glad cheer, in friendly wise,

Answer'd and said, as I shall you devise.

"Is there aught elles, Dorigen, but this?"

"Nay, nay," quoth she, "God help me so as wis,

This is too much, an it were Godde's will."

"Yea, wife," quoth he, "let sleepe what is still,

It may be well par'venture yet to-day.

Ye shall your trothe holde, by my fay.

For, God so wisly have mercy on me,

I had well lever sticked for to be,

For very love which I to you have,

But if ye should your trothe keep and save.

Truth is the highest thing that man may keep."

But with that word he burst anon to weep,

And said; "I you forbid, on pain of death,

That never, while you lasteth life or breath,

To no wight tell ye this misaventure;

As I may best, I will my woe endure,

Nor make no countenance of heaviness,

That folk of you may deeme harm, or guess."

And forth he call'd a squier and a maid.

"Go forth anon with Dorigen," he said,

"And bringe her to such a place anon."

They take their leave, and on their way they gon:

But they not wiste why she thither went;

He would to no wight telle his intent.

This squier, which that hight Aurelius,

On Dorigen that was so amorous,

Of aventure happen'd her to meet

Amid the town, right in the quickest street,

As she was bound to go the way forthright

Toward the garden, there as she had hight.

And he was to the garden-ward also;

For well he spied when she woulde go

Out of her house, to any manner place;

But thus they met, of aventure or grace,

And he saluted her with glad intent,

And asked of her whitherward she went.

And she answered, half as she were mad,

"Unto the garden, as my husband bade,

My trothe for to hold, alas! alas!"

Aurelius gan to wonder on this case,

And in his heart had great compassion

Of her, and of her lamentation,

And of Arviragus, the worthy knight,

That bade her hold all that she hadde hight;

So loth him was his wife should break her truth

And in his heart he caught of it great ruth,

Considering the best on every side,

That from his lust yet were him lever abide,

Than do so high a churlish wretchedness

Against franchise, and alle gentleness;

For which in fewe words he saide thus;

"Madame, say to your lord Arviragus,

That since I see the greate gentleness

Of him, and eke I see well your distress,

That him were lever have shame (and that were ruth)

Than ye to me should breake thus your truth,

I had well lever aye to suffer woe,

Than to depart the love betwixt you two.

I you release, Madame, into your hond,

Quit ev'ry surement and ev'ry bond,

That ye have made to me as herebeforn,

Since thilke time that ye were born.

Have here my truth, I shall you ne'er repreve

Of no behest; and here I take my leave,

As of the truest and the beste wife

That ever yet I knew in all my life.

But every wife beware of her behest;

On Dorigen remember at the least.

Thus can a squier do a gentle deed,

As well as can a knight, withoute drede."

She thanked him upon her knees bare,

And home unto her husband is she fare,

And told him all, as ye have hearde said;

And, truste me, he was so well apaid,

That it were impossible me to write.

Why should I longer of this case indite?

Arviragus and Dorigen his wife

In sov'reign blisse ledde forth their life;

Ne'er after was there anger them between;

He cherish'd her as though she were a queen,

And she was to him true for evermore;

Of these two folk ye get of me no more.

Aurelius, that his cost had all forlorn,

Cursed the time that ever he was born.

"Alas!" quoth he, "alas that I behight

Of pured gold a thousand pound of weight

To this philosopher! how shall I do?

I see no more, but that I am fordo.

Mine heritage must I needes sell,

And be a beggar; here I will not dwell,

And shamen all my kindred in this place,

But I of him may gette better grace.

But natheless I will of him assay

At certain dayes year by year to pay,

And thank him of his greate courtesy.

My trothe will I keep, I will not he."

With hearte sore he went unto his coffer,

And broughte gold unto this philosopher,

The value of five hundred pound, I guess,

And him beseeched, of his gentleness,

To grant him dayes of the remenant;

And said; "Master, I dare well make avaunt,

I failed never of my truth as yet.

For sickerly my debte shall be quit

Towardes you how so that e'er I fare

To go a-begging in my kirtle bare:

But would ye vouchesafe, upon surety,

Two year, or three, for to respite me,

Then were I well, for elles must I sell

Mine heritage; there is no more to tell."

This philosopher soberly answer'd,

And saide thus, when he these wordes heard;

"Have I not holden covenant to thee?"

"Yes, certes, well and truely," quoth he.

"Hast thou not had thy lady as thee liked?"

"No, no," quoth he, and sorrowfully siked.

"What was the cause? tell me if thou can."

Aurelius his tale anon began,

And told him all as ye have heard before,

It needeth not to you rehearse it more.

He said, "Arviragus of gentleness

Had lever die in sorrow and distress,

Than that his wife were of her trothe false."

The sorrow of Dorigen he told him als',

How loth her was to be a wicked wife,

And that she lever had lost that day her life;

And that her troth she swore through innocence;

She ne'er erst had heard speak of apparence

That made me have of her so great pity,

And right as freely as he sent her to me,

As freely sent I her to him again:

This is all and some, there is no more to sayn."

The philosopher answer'd; "Leve brother,

Evereach of you did gently to the other;

Thou art a squier, and he is a knight,

But God forbidde, for his blissful might,

But if a clerk could do a gentle deed

As well as any of you, it is no drede

Sir, I release thee thy thousand pound,

As thou right now were crept out of the ground,

Nor ever ere now haddest knowen me.

For, Sir, I will not take a penny of thee

For all my craft, nor naught for my travail;

Thou hast y-payed well for my vitaille;

It is enough; and farewell, have good day."

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

Lordings, this question would I aske now,

Which was the moste free, as thinketh you?

Now telle me, ere that ye farther wend.

I can no more, my tale is at an end.

The Pardoner's Tale
THE PROLOGUE
OUR Hoste gan to swear as he were wood;

"Harow!" quoth he, "by nailes and by blood,

This was a cursed thief, a false justice.

As shameful death as hearte can devise

Come to these judges and their advoca's.

Algate this sely maid is slain, alas!

Alas! too deare bought she her beauty.

Wherefore I say, that all day man may see

That giftes of fortune and of nature

Be cause of death to many a creature.

Her beauty was her death, I dare well sayn;

Alas! so piteously as she was slain.

Of bothe giftes, that I speak of now

Men have full often more harm than prow,

But truely, mine owen master dear,

This was a piteous tale for to hear;

But natheless, pass over; 'tis no force.

I pray to God to save thy gentle corse,

And eke thine urinals, and thy jordans,

Thine Hippocras, and eke thy Galliens,

And every boist full of thy lectuary,

God bless them, and our lady Sainte Mary.

So may I the', thou art a proper man,

And like a prelate, by Saint Ronian;

Said I not well? Can I not speak in term?

But well I wot thou dost mine heart to erme,

That I have almost caught a cardiacle:

By corpus Domini , but I have triacle,

Or else a draught of moist and corny ale,

Or but I hear anon a merry tale,

Mine heart is brost for pity of this maid.

Thou bel ami, thou Pardoner," he said,

"Tell us some mirth of japes right anon."

"It shall be done," quoth he, "by Saint Ronion.

But first," quoth he, "here at this ale-stake

I will both drink, and biten on a cake."

But right anon the gentles gan to cry,

"Nay, let him tell us of no ribaldry.

Tell us some moral thing, that we may lear

Some wit, and thenne will we gladly hear."

"I grant y-wis," quoth he; "but I must think

Upon some honest thing while that I drink."
THE TALE
Lordings (quoth he), in churche when I preach,

I paine me to have an hautein speech,

And ring it out, as round as doth a bell,

For I know all by rote that I tell.

My theme is always one, and ever was;

Radix malorum est cupiditas.

First I pronounce whence that I come,

And then my bulles shew I all and some;

Our liege lorde's seal on my patent,

That shew I first, my body to warrent,

That no man be so hardy, priest nor clerk,

Me to disturb of Christe's holy werk.

And after that then tell I forth my tales.

Bulles of popes, and of cardinales,

Of patriarchs, and of bishops I shew,

And in Latin I speak a wordes few,

To savour with my predication,

And for to stir men to devotion

Then show I forth my longe crystal stones,

Y-crammed fall of cloutes and of bones;

Relics they be, as weene they each one.

Then have I in latoun a shoulder-bone

Which that was of a holy Jewe's sheep.

"Good men," say I, "take of my wordes keep;

If that this bone be wash'd in any well,

If cow, or calf, or sheep, or oxe swell,

That any worm hath eat, or worm y-stung,

Take water of that well, and wash his tongue,

And it is whole anon; and farthermore

Of pockes, and of scab, and every sore

Shall every sheep be whole, that of this well

Drinketh a draught; take keep of that I tell.

"If that the goodman, that the beastes oweth,

Will every week, ere that the cock him croweth,

Fasting, y-drinken of this well a draught,

As thilke holy Jew our elders taught,

His beastes and his store shall multiply.

And, Sirs, also it healeth jealousy;

For though a man be fall'n in jealous rage,

Let make with this water his pottage,

And never shall he more his wife mistrist,

Though he the sooth of her defaulte wist;

All had she taken priestes two or three.

Here is a mittain eke, that ye may see;

He that his hand will put in this mittain,

He shall have multiplying of his grain,

When he hath sowen, be it wheat or oats,

So that he offer pence, or elles groats.

And, men and women, one thing warn I you;

If any wight be in this churche now

That hath done sin horrible, so that he

Dare not for shame of it y-shriven be;

Or any woman, be she young or old,

That hath y-made her husband cokewold,

Such folk shall have no power nor no grace

To offer to my relics in this place.

And whoso findeth him out of such blame,

He will come up and offer in God's name;

And I assoil him by the authority

Which that by bull y-granted was to me."

By this gaud have I wonne year by year

A hundred marks, since I was pardonere.

I stande like a clerk in my pulpit,

And when the lewed people down is set,

I preache so as ye have heard before,

And telle them a hundred japes more.

Then pain I me to stretche forth my neck,

And east and west upon the people I beck,

As doth a dove, sitting on a bern;

My handes and my tongue go so yern,

That it is joy to see my business.

Of avarice and of such cursedness

Is all my preaching, for to make them free

To give their pence, and namely unto me.

For mine intent is not but for to win,

And nothing for correction of sin.

I recke never, when that they be buried,

Though that their soules go a blackburied.

For certes many a predication

Cometh oft-time of evil intention;

Some for pleasance of folk, and flattery,

To be advanced by hypocrisy;

And some for vainglory, and some for hate.

For, when I dare not otherwise debate,

Then will I sting him with my tongue smart

In preaching, so that he shall not astart

To be defamed falsely, if that he

Hath trespass'd to my brethren or to me.

For, though I telle not his proper name,

Men shall well knowe that it is the same

By signes, and by other circumstances.

Thus quite I folk that do us displeasances:

Thus spit I out my venom, under hue

Of holiness, to seem holy and true.

But, shortly mine intent I will devise,

I preach of nothing but of covetise.

Therefore my theme is yet, and ever was, -

Radix malorum est cupiditas.

Thus can I preach against the same vice

Which that I use, and that is avarice.

But though myself be guilty in that sin,

Yet can I maken other folk to twin

From avarice, and sore them repent.

But that is not my principal intent;

I preache nothing but for covetise.

Of this mattere it ought enough suffice.

Then tell I them examples many a one,

Of olde stories longe time gone;

For lewed people love tales old;

Such thinges can they well report and hold.

What? trowe ye, that whiles I may preach

And winne gold and silver for I teach,

That I will live in povert' wilfully?

Nay, nay, I thought it never truely.

For I will preach and beg in sundry lands;

I will not do no labour with mine hands,

Nor make baskets for to live thereby,

Because I will not beggen idlely.

I will none of the apostles counterfeit;

I will have money, wool, and cheese, and wheat,

All were it given of the poorest page,

Or of the pooreste widow in a village:

All should her children sterve for famine.

Nay, I will drink the liquor of the vine,

And have a jolly wench in every town.

But hearken, lordings, in conclusioun;

Your liking is, that I shall tell a tale

Now I have drunk a draught of corny ale,

By God, I hope I shall you tell a thing

That shall by reason be to your liking;

For though myself be a full vicious man,

A moral tale yet I you telle can,

Which I am wont to preache, for to win.

Now hold your peace, my tale I will begin.

In Flanders whilom was a company

Of younge folkes, that haunted folly,

As riot, hazard, stewes, and taverns;

Where as with lutes, harpes, and giterns,

They dance and play at dice both day and night,

And eat also, and drink over their might;

Through which they do the devil sacrifice

Within the devil's temple, in cursed wise,

By superfluity abominable.

Their oathes be so great and so damnable,

That it is grisly for to hear them swear.

Our blissful Lorde's body they to-tear;

Them thought the Jewes rent him not enough,

And each of them at other's sinne lough.

And right anon in come tombesteres

Fetis and small, and younge fruitesteres.

Singers with harpes, baudes, waferers,

Which be the very devil's officers,

To kindle and blow the fire of lechery,

That is annexed unto gluttony.

The Holy Writ take I to my witness,

That luxury is in wine and drunkenness.

Lo, how that drunken Lot unkindely

Lay by his daughters two unwittingly,

So drunk he was he knew not what he wrought.

Herodes, who so well the stories sought,

When he of wine replete was at his feast,

Right at his owen table gave his hest

To slay the Baptist John full guilteless.

Seneca saith a good word, doubteless:

He saith he can no difference find

Betwixt a man that is out of his mind,

And a man whiche that is drunkelew:

But that woodness, y-fallen in a shrew,

Persevereth longer than drunkenness.

O gluttony, full of all cursedness;

O cause first of our confusion,

Original of our damnation,

Till Christ had bought us with his blood again!

Looke, how deare, shortly for to sayn,

Abought was first this cursed villainy:

Corrupt was all this world for gluttony.

Adam our father, and his wife also,

From Paradise, to labour and to woe,

Were driven for that vice, it is no dread.

For while that Adam fasted, as I read,

He was in Paradise; and when that he

Ate of the fruit defended of the tree,

Anon he was cast out to woe and pain.

O gluttony! well ought us on thee plain.

Oh! wist a man how many maladies

Follow of excess and of gluttonies,

He woulde be the more measurable

Of his diete, sitting at his table.

Alas! the shorte throat, the tender mouth,

Maketh that east and west, and north and south,

In earth, in air, in water, men do swink

To get a glutton dainty meat and drink.

Of this mattere, O Paul! well canst thou treat

Meat unto womb, and womb eke unto meat,

Shall God destroye both, as Paulus saith.

Alas! a foul thing is it, by my faith,

To say this word, and fouler is the deed,

When man so drinketh of the white and red,

That of his throat he maketh his privy

Through thilke cursed superfluity

The apostle saith, weeping full piteously,

There walk many, of which you told have I, -

I say it now weeping with piteous voice, -

That they be enemies of Christe's crois;

Of which the end is death; womb is their God.

O womb, O belly, stinking is thy cod,

Full fill'd of dung and of corruptioun;

At either end of thee foul is the soun.

How great labour and cost is thee to find!

These cookes how they stamp, and strain, and grind,

And turne substance into accident,

To fulfill all thy likerous talent!

Out of the harde bones knocke they

The marrow, for they caste naught away

That may go through the gullet soft and swoot

Of spicery and leaves, of bark and root,

Shall be his sauce y-maked by delight,

To make him have a newer appetite.

But, certes, he that haunteth such delices

Is dead while that he liveth in those vices.

A lecherous thing is wine, and drunkenness

Is full of striving and of wretchedness.

O drunken man! disfgur'd is thy face,

Sour is thy breath, foul art thou to embrace:

And through thy drunken nose sowneth the soun',

As though thous saidest aye, Samsoun! Samsoun!

And yet, God wot, Samson drank never wine.

Thou fallest as it were a sticked swine;

Thy tongue is lost, and all thine honest cure;

For drunkenness is very sepulture

Of manne's wit and his discretion.

In whom that drink hath domination,

He can no counsel keep, it is no dread.

Now keep you from the white and from the red,

And namely from the white wine of Lepe,

That is to sell in Fish Street and in Cheap.

This wine of Spaine creepeth subtilly -

In other wines growing faste by,

Of which there riseth such fumosity,

That when a man hath drunken draughtes three,

And weeneth that he be at home in Cheap,

He is in Spain, right at the town of Lepe,

Not at the Rochelle, nor at Bourdeaux town;

And thenne will he say, Samsoun! Samsoun!

But hearken, lordings, one word, I you pray,

That all the sovreign actes, dare I say,

Of victories in the Old Testament,

Through very God that is omnipotent,

Were done in abstinence and in prayere:

Look in the Bible, and there ye may it lear.

Look, Attila, the greate conqueror,

Died in his sleep, with shame and dishonour,

Bleeding aye at his nose in drunkenness:

A captain should aye live in soberness

And o'er all this, advise you right well

What was commanded unto Lemuel;

Not Samuel, but Lemuel, say I.

Reade the Bible, and find it expressly

Of wine giving to them that have justice.

No more of this, for it may well suffice.

And, now that I have spoke of gluttony,

Now will I you defende hazardry.

Hazard is very mother of leasings,

And of deceit, and cursed forswearings:

Blasphem' of Christ, manslaughter, and waste also

Of chattel and of time; and furthermo'

It is repreve, and contrar' of honour,

For to be held a common hazardour.

And ever the higher he is of estate,

The more he is holden desolate.

If that a prince use hazardry,

In alle governance and policy

He is, as by common opinion,

Y-hold the less in reputation.

Chilon, that was a wise ambassador,

Was sent to Corinth with full great honor

From Lacedemon, to make alliance;

And when he came, it happen'd him, by chance,

That all the greatest that were of that land,

Y-playing atte hazard he them fand.

For which, as soon as that it mighte be,

He stole him home again to his country

And saide there, "I will not lose my name,

Nor will I take on me so great diffame,

You to ally unto no hazardors.

Sende some other wise ambassadors,

For, by my troth, me were lever die,

Than I should you to hazardors ally.

For ye, that be so glorious in honours,

Shall not ally you to no hazardours,

As by my will, nor as by my treaty."

This wise philosopher thus said he.

Look eke how to the King Demetrius

The King of Parthes, as the book saith us,

Sent him a pair of dice of gold in scorn,

For he had used hazard therebeforn:

For which he held his glory and renown

At no value or reputatioun.

Lordes may finden other manner play

Honest enough to drive the day away.

Now will I speak of oathes false and great

A word or two, as olde bookes treat.

Great swearing is a thing abominable,

And false swearing is more reprovable.

The highe God forbade swearing at all;

Witness on Matthew: but in special

Of swearing saith the holy Jeremie,

Thou thalt swear sooth thine oathes, and not lie:

And swear in doom and eke in righteousness;

But idle swearing is a cursedness.

Behold and see, there in the firste table

Of highe Godde's hestes honourable,

How that the second best of him is this,

Take not my name in idle or amiss.

Lo, rather he forbiddeth such swearing,

Than homicide, or many a cursed thing;

I say that as by order thus it standeth;

This knoweth he that his hests understandeth,

How that the second hest of God is that.

And farthermore, I will thee tell all plat,

That vengeance shall not parte from his house,

That of his oathes is outrageous.

"By Godde's precious heart, and by his nails,

And by the blood of Christ, that is in Hailes,

Seven is my chance, and thine is cinque and trey:

By Godde's armes, if thou falsely play,

This dagger shall throughout thine hearte go."

This fruit comes of the bicched bones two,

Forswearing, ire, falseness, and homicide.

Now, for the love of Christ that for us died,

Leave your oathes, bothe great and smale.

But, Sirs, now will I ell you forth my tale.

These riotoures three, of which I tell,

Long erst than prime rang of any bell,

Were set them in a tavern for to drink;

And as they sat, they heard a belle clink

Before a corpse, was carried to the grave.

That one of them gan calle to his knave,

"Go bet," quoth he, "and aske readily

What corpse is this, that passeth here forth by;

And look that thou report his name well."

"Sir," quoth the boy, "it needeth never a deal;

It was me told ere ye came here two hours;

He was, pardie, an old fellow of yours,

And suddenly he was y-slain to-night;

Fordrunk as he sat on his bench upright,

There came a privy thief, men clepe Death,

That in this country all the people slay'th,

And with his spear he smote his heart in two,

And went his way withoute wordes mo'.

He hath a thousand slain this pestilence;

And, master, ere you come in his presence,

Me thinketh that it were full necessary

For to beware of such an adversary;

Be ready for to meet him evermore.

Thus taughte me my dame; I say no more."

"By Sainte Mary," said the tavernere,

"The child saith sooth, for he hath slain this year,

Hence ov'r a mile, within a great village,

Both man and woman, child, and hind, and page;

I trow his habitation be there;

To be advised great wisdom it were,

Ere that he did a man a dishonour."

"Yea, Godde's armes," quoth this riotour,

"Is it such peril with him for to meet?

I shall him seek, by stile and eke by street.

I make a vow, by Godde's digne bones."

Hearken, fellows, we three be alle ones:

Let each of us hold up his hand to other,

And each of us become the other's brother,

And we will slay this false traitor Death;

He shall be slain, he that so many slay'th,

By Godde's dignity, ere it be night."

Together have these three their trothe plight

To live and die each one of them for other

As though he were his owen sworen brother.

And up they start, all drunken, in this rage,

And forth they go towardes that village

Of which the taverner had spoke beforn,

And many a grisly oathe have they sworn,

And Christe's blessed body they to-rent;

"Death shall be dead, if that we may him hent."

When they had gone not fully half a mile,

Right as they would have trodden o'er a stile,

An old man and a poore with them met.

This olde man full meekely them gret,

And saide thus; "Now, lordes, God you see!"

The proudest of these riotoures three

Answer'd again; "What? churl, with sorry grace,

Why art thou all forwrapped save thy face?

Why livest thou so long in so great age?"

This olde man gan look on his visage,

And saide thus; "For that I cannot find

A man, though that I walked unto Ind,

Neither in city, nor in no village,

That woulde change his youthe for mine age;

And therefore must I have mine age still

As longe time as it is Godde's will.

And Death, alas! he will not have my life.

Thus walk I like a resteless caitife,

And on the ground, which is my mother's gate,

I knocke with my staff, early and late,

And say to her, 'Leve mother, let me in.

Lo, how I wane, flesh, and blood, and skin;

Alas! when shall my bones be at rest?

Mother, with you I woulde change my chest,

That in my chamber longe time hath be,

Yea, for an hairy clout to wrap in me.'

But yet to me she will not do that grace,

For which fall pale and welked is my face.

But, Sirs, to you it is no courtesy

To speak unto an old man villainy,

But he trespass in word or else in deed.

In Holy Writ ye may yourselves read;

'Against an old man, hoar upon his head,

Ye should arise:' therefore I you rede,

Ne do unto an old man no harm now,

No more than ye would a man did you

In age, if that ye may so long abide.

And God be with you, whether ye go or ride

I must go thither as I have to go."

"Nay, olde churl, by God thou shalt not so,"

Saide this other hazardor anon;

"Thou partest not so lightly, by Saint John.

Thou spakest right now of that traitor Death,

That in this country all our friendes slay'th;

Have here my troth, as thou art his espy;

Tell where he is, or thou shalt it abie,

By God and by the holy sacrament;

For soothly thou art one of his assent

To slay us younge folk, thou false thief."

"Now, Sirs," quoth he, "if it be you so lief

To finde Death, turn up this crooked way,

For in that grove I left him, by my fay,

Under a tree, and there he will abide;

Nor for your boast he will him nothing hide.

See ye that oak? right there ye shall him find.

God save you, that bought again mankind,

And you amend!" Thus said this olde man;

And evereach of these riotoures ran,

Till they came to the tree, and there they found

Of florins fine, of gold y-coined round,

Well nigh a seven bushels, as them thought.

No longer as then after Death they sought;

But each of them so glad was of the sight,

For that the florins were so fair and bright,

That down they sat them by the precious hoard.

The youngest of them spake the firste word:

"Brethren," quoth he, "take keep what I shall say;

My wit is great, though that I bourde and play

This treasure hath Fortune unto us given

In mirth and jollity our life to liven;

And lightly as it comes, so will we spend.

Hey! Godde's precious dignity! who wend

Today that we should have so fair a grace?

But might this gold he carried from this place

Home to my house, or elles unto yours

(For well I wot that all this gold is ours),

Then were we in high felicity.

But truely by day it may not be;

Men woulde say that we were thieves strong,

And for our owen treasure do us hong.

This treasure muste carried be by night,

As wisely and as slily as it might.

Wherefore I rede, that cut among us all

We draw, and let see where the cut will fall:

And he that hath the cut, with hearte blithe

Shall run unto the town, and that full swithe,

And bring us bread and wine full privily:

And two of us shall keepe subtilly

This treasure well: and if he will not tarry,

When it is night, we will this treasure carry,

By one assent, where as us thinketh best."

Then one of them the cut brought in his fist,

And bade them draw, and look where it would fall;

And it fell on the youngest of them all;

And forth toward the town he went anon.

And all so soon as that he was y-gone,

The one of them spake thus unto the other;

"Thou knowest well that thou art my sworn brother,

Thy profit will I tell thee right anon.

Thou knowest well that our fellow is gone,

And here is gold, and that full great plenty,

That shall departed he among us three.

But natheless, if I could shape it so

That it departed were among us two,

Had I not done a friende's turn to thee?"

Th' other answer'd, "I n'ot how that may be;

He knows well that the gold is with us tway.

What shall we do? what shall we to him say?"

"Shall it be counsel?" said the firste shrew;

"And I shall tell to thee in wordes few

What we shall do, and bring it well about."

"I grante," quoth the other, "out of doubt,

That by my truth I will thee not bewray."

"Now," quoth the first, "thou know'st well we be tway,

And two of us shall stronger be than one.

Look; when that he is set, thou right anon

Arise, as though thou wouldest with him play;

And I shall rive him through the sides tway,

While that thou strugglest with him as in game;

And with thy dagger look thou do the same.

And then shall all this gold departed be,

My deare friend, betwixte thee and me:

Then may we both our lustes all fulfil,

And play at dice right at our owen will."

And thus accorded be these shrewes tway

To slay the third, as ye have heard me say.

The youngest, which that wente to the town,

Full oft in heart he rolled up and down

The beauty of these florins new and bright.

"O Lord!" quoth he, "if so were that I might

Have all this treasure to myself alone,

There is no man that lives under the throne

Of God, that shoulde have so merry as I."

And at the last the fiend our enemy

Put in his thought, that he should poison buy,

With which he mighte slay his fellows twy.

For why, the fiend found him in such living,

That he had leave to sorrow him to bring.

For this was utterly his full intent

To slay them both, and never to repent.

And forth he went, no longer would he tarry,

Into the town to an apothecary,

And prayed him that he him woulde sell

Some poison, that he might his rattes quell,

And eke there was a polecat in his haw,

That, as he said, his eapons had y-slaw:

And fain he would him wreak, if that he might,

Of vermin that destroyed him by night.

Th'apothecary answer'd, "Thou shalt have

A thing, as wisly God my soule save,

In all this world there is no creature

That eat or drank hath of this confecture,

Not but the mountance of a corn of wheat,

That he shall not his life anon forlete;

Yea, sterve he shall, and that in lesse while

Than thou wilt go apace nought but a mile:

This poison is so strong and violent."

This cursed man hath in his hand y-hent

This poison in a box, and swift he ran

Into the nexte street, unto a man,

And borrow'd of him large bottles three;

And in the two the poison poured he;

The third he kepte clean for his own drink,

For all the night he shope him for to swink

In carrying off the gold out of that place.

And when this riotour, with sorry grace,

Had fill'd with wine his greate bottles three,

To his fellows again repaired he.

What needeth it thereof to sermon more?

For, right as they had cast his death before,

Right so they have him slain, and that anon.

And when that this was done, thus spake the one;

"Now let us sit and drink, and make us merry,

And afterward we will his body bury."

And with that word it happen'd him par cas

To take the bottle where the poison was,

And drank, and gave his fellow drink also,

For which anon they sterved both the two.

But certes I suppose that Avicen

Wrote never in no canon, nor no fen,

More wondrous signes of empoisoning,

Than had these wretches two ere their ending.

Thus ended be these homicides two,

And eke the false empoisoner also.

O cursed sin, full of all cursedness!

O trait'rous homicide! O wickedness!

O glutt'ny, luxury, and hazardry!

Thou blasphemer of Christ with villany,

And oathes great, of usage and of pride!

Alas! mankinde, how may it betide,

That to thy Creator, which that thee wrought,

And with his precious hearte-blood thee bought,

Thou art so false and so unkind, alas!

Now, good men, God forgive you your trespass,

And ware you from the sin of avarice.

Mine holy pardon may you all warice,

So that ye offer nobles or sterlings,

Or elles silver brooches, spoons, or rings.

Bowe your head under this holy bull.

Come up, ye wives, and offer of your will;

Your names I enter in my roll anon;

Into the bliss of heaven shall ye gon;

I you assoil by mine high powere,

You that will offer, as clean and eke as clear

As ye were born. Lo, Sires, thus I preach;

And Jesus Christ, that is our soules' leech,

So grante you his pardon to receive;

For that is best, I will not deceive.

But, Sirs, one word forgot I in my tale;

I have relics and pardon in my mail,

As fair as any man in Engleland,

Which were me given by the Pope's hand.

If any of you will of devotion

Offer, and have mine absolution,

Come forth anon, and kneele here adown

And meekely receive my pardoun.

Or elles take pardon, as ye wend,

All new and fresh at every towne's end,

So that ye offer, always new and new,

Nobles or pence which that be good and true.

'Tis an honour to evereach that is here,

That ye have a suffisant pardonere

T'assoile you in country as ye ride,

For aventures which that may betide.

Paraventure there may fall one or two

Down of his horse, and break his neck in two.

Look, what a surety is it to you all,

That I am in your fellowship y-fall,

That may assoil you bothe more and lass,

When that the soul shall from the body pass.

I rede that our Hoste shall begin,

For he is most enveloped in sin.

Come forth, Sir Host, and offer first anon,

And thou shalt kiss; the relics every one,

Yea, for a groat; unbuckle anon thy purse.

"Nay, nay," quoth he, "then have I Christe's curse!

Let be," quoth he, "it shall not be, so the'ch.

Thou wouldest make me kiss thine olde breech,

And swear it were a relic of a saint,

Though it were with thy fundament depaint'.

But, by the cross which that Saint Helen fand,

I would I had thy coilons in mine hand,

Instead of relics, or of sanctuary.

Let cut them off, I will thee help them carry;

They shall be shrined in a hogge's turd."

The Pardoner answered not one word;

So wroth he was, no worde would he say.

"Now," quoth our Host, "I will no longer play

With thee, nor with none other angry man."

But right anon the worthy Knight began

(When that he saw that all the people lough),

"No more of this, for it is right enough.

Sir Pardoner, be merry and glad of cheer;

And ye, Sir Host, that be to me so dear,

I pray you that ye kiss the Pardoner;

And, Pardoner, I pray thee draw thee ner,

And as we didde, let us laugh and play."

Anon they kiss'd, and rode forth their way.
Prayer of Chaucer
Now pray I to you all that hear this little treatise or read it, that if there be anything in it that likes them, that thereof they thank our Lord Jesus Christ, of whom proceedeth all wit and all goodness; and if there be anything that displeaseth them, I pray them also that they arette [impute] it to the default of mine unconning [unskilfulness], and not to my will, that would fain have said better if I had had conning; for the book saith, all that is written for our doctrine is written. Wherefore I beseech you meekly for the mercy of God that ye pray for me, that God have mercy on me and forgive me my guilts, and namely [specially] my translations and of inditing in worldly vanities, which I revoke in my Retractions, as is the Book of Troilus, the Book also of Fame, the Book of Twenty-five Ladies, the Book of the Duchess, the Book of Saint Valentine's Day and of the Parliament of Birds, the Tales of Canterbury, all those that sounen unto sin [are sinful, tend towards sin], the Book of the Lion, and many other books, if they were in my mind or remembrance, and many a song and many a lecherous lay, of the which Christ for his great mercy forgive me the sins. But of the translation of Boece de Consolatione, and other books of consolation and of legend of lives of saints, and homilies, and moralities, and devotion, that thank I our Lord Jesus Christ, and his mother, and all the saints in heaven, beseeching them that they from henceforth unto my life's end send me grace to bewail my guilts, and to study to the salvation of my soul, and grant me grace and space of very repentance, penitence, confession, and satisfaction, to do in this present life, through the benign grace of Him that is King of kings and Priest of all priests, that bought us with his precious blood of his heart, so that I may be one of them at the day of doom that shall be saved: Qui cum Patre et Spiritu Sancto vivis et regnas Deus per omnia secula. Amen.
1.13.4 Reading and Review Questions
1. In Parlement of Fowles, how does Chaucer address courtly love? What do you think about the resolution of the story (in particular, Nature's judgment)?

2. In both Parlement of Fowles and the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, how does Chaucer present the various social classes? What kind of commentary does he appear to be offering about social class?

3. In the Canterbury Tales, how does the frame (the General Prologue, the pilgrims' self-descriptions and commentary between tales) affect the way that we read the individual tales?

4. In the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, the narrator withholds direct judgment of the other pilgrims, but gives the reader enough evidence to make their own judgments. How would you rank the pilgrims on a scale from Good to Evil? Be sure to use categories that allow for a range of answers (such as Ok, Neutral, or even Iffy-be inventive).

5. Chaucer uses humor very deliberately: not just to entertain, but also as a form of commentary. What are some examples of humor being used to comment on an issue, a behavior, or a character?

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Geoffrey Chaucer's influence on later British literature is difficult to overstate. The most important English writer before Shakespeare (who re-wrote Chaucer's version of the Troilus and Criseyde story), Chaucer introduced new words into English (such as "cosmos"), and his stories draw on a wealth of previous authors, especially Ovid and Boccaccio.

# data[].attributes.body
One of the first published poets

# data[].attributes.body
Author: Lindsay Tigar

This article dives deep into the history of women's literature, common risks for female authors, and how they overcame these struggles to pave the way for all writers.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Though romantic comedies may paint a different picture, there is a major gender divide within media. In honor of Women's History Month, we'll be celebrating the past, present and future of female wordsmiths.

According to the Women's Media Center, the statistics definitely aren't sugar-and-spice-and-everything-nice: It took The New York Times 160 years to hire a female editor-in-chief. At USA Today, 70 percent of writers are male, along with The Wall Street Journal at 66 percent. In fact, 62 percent of published content - from digital media and print to TV and wires - are under male bylines. Though CNN online and The Huffington Post are more balanced, most sites haven't achieved gender parity.
[Editor's note: ClearVoice's blog, with hundreds of articles, has slightly more than 50% female bylines.]
Considering the route to become a bonafide journalist is tough enough, when you add "female" to the mix, the battle to build a robust freelancing career is even more demanding. At the helm of plenty of lifestyle publications are women - but acknowledging their achievements in a professional landscape (i.e., journalism awards), and giving them a spot at the board table to make decisions that impact the future of media is still lacking.

Bottom line, like with any industry, there is a long way to go with giving women the same journalistic opportunities as men.

Though recent films - including 'Mary Shelley', 'Colette' and ' The Wife' - have brought to light the injustices infamous women wordsmiths have faced, there's much to say about the continuous road to gender fairness in media. In honor of Women's History Month in March, we'll be highlighting the past, present and future of female-led journalism and writing.

From giving a briefing on the strides we've already taken to providing strategies from successful female journalists themselves on how to build an empire, let this series empower you beyond girl power - and evoke your boss lady.

Here, fascinating, historical feats from female writers.

First published works are unknown.

So who was the very first female author? Sadly, it's a bit impossible to know, considering the initial works of art are widely unknown. Either because they were published "anonymously'" or with a male name, it's tricky to fully understand when the first women wrote a story or a novel. Though our best bet is pretty obvious: the same time men started scribbling.

It wasn't until the introduction of women's literary history into the academic sphere that curious scholars first dug into the archives themselves and found some answers. It took decades - er, centuries - to shift the conversation and make way for legendary authors to contribute their works of art, one that was sparked by Mary Wollstonecraft's ' A Vindication on the Rights of Women in 1792 '.

As you might expect, women were at the forefront of discovery, eventually finding ' The Revelations of Divine Love' by Julian of Norwich, published in the late 1300s. Most sources credit her as the first woman to complete a book in English, but more so, hers is the only one that, somehow, survived.

Other changemakers? According to the academic databases: Ann Franklin, the first newspaper editor. And Anne Bradstreet, the first poet in America. Also Hannah Adams, touted as the first American woman to become a professional writer.

We didn't know their names for a reason.

It's no secret many writers use pseudonyms, all for various reasons. Some may not want their name associated with certain topics, while others desire a separation from their professional and personal life.

But in the 19th century (and before), it is often believed women picked common male names or initials in an effort to be taken seriously. Publishing houses wouldn't entertain female writers, and when they did, it was only for certain genres of literature or journalism, mostly what's considered fluff pieces today. Famously, Louisa May Alcott wrote under A.M. Barnard when she published 'Little Women', and Mary Ann Evans followed the same strategy, publishing under George Eliot to write 'Silly Novels by Lady Novelist', a critique of the way women were portrayed in the 1800s.

Though it might seem as if bylines that bleed blue or pink aren't quite as important these days, a non-gender byline has remained a preferred method for many female journalists and writers, including the world's first billion-dollar author, J.K. Rowling, who weaved together the enticing Harry Potter series. 'The Wife', starring Glenn Close, portrays a modern-day story of a husband-and-wife writing duo, where the man takes the fame, and the woman takes the backseat. Nominated for an Oscar, the film is evidence the topic continues to boil blood.

Journalism has long been skewed.

Female journalists who report on topics across the board have been working to earn their seat on the masthead for hundreds of years - and the climb continues. There are many strong pioneers who laid their stake in the ground, including Anne Newport Royall, who is sometimes called "the first newspaper woman," who didn't begin her career until she was 51. But she made up for lost time, eventually reporting on federal government, and interviewing U.S. president John Quincy Adams.

Another iconic late-bloomer was Sarah Josepha Hale, a mother of five who became the first female magazine editor of Godey's Lady Book in 1837. Margaret Fuller was the first female staff member of the New York Herald Tribune, and then grew as a foreign correspondent in 1846 for the Tribune.

As for the first woman to take home a Pulitzer? It wasn't until 1951, when Marguerite Higgins earned (much deserved) attention for her incredible war reporting for The New York Herald Tribune. Famously, General Walton H. Walker told her "[t]his is not the type of war where women ought to be running around the front lines" during the Korean war. She protested - and made her way to the front lines.

Soon after in 1960, Miriam Ottenberg was also recognized with a Pulitzer for her work in The Washington Star, after publishing a lengthy piece that uncovered used car dealers who were in cahoots with finance companies. Eventually, her work changed legislation and laws.

Most recently, the former first female editor of The New York Times, Jill Abramson, spoke out about her experience of leading not only as a woman, but in the world of fake news. Her new book, 'Merchants of Truth', will illustrate her journey, along with providing a lean-in like perspective for aspiring female writers, though, unfortunately, not without controversy.

Looking forward.

Plenty of women's magazine editors are, in fact, female. But newspapers? Not so much. And digital reporting or advertising agencies? Not rosy either. In fact, it's been only a little over 30 years since women were officially regarded as 'Ms' - and not just 'Mrs' - in The New York Times.

Though tides continue to shift, thanks to the work of diligent trendsetters who refuse to give up, there is always a long way to go. In fact, this is only a small fraction of the historical achievements made by female writers - much like women who are only getting started in their masterful work within the media landscape. In an age where news is written, digested and distributed quickly, many female writers have taken the opportunity to chase after the work they deserve, as well as fair pay for their craft.
In our series, we'll explore how women can supercharge their careers - and reap the success they've worked just as hard (if not harder) than men to achieve.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
In honor of Women's History Month, we'll be celebrating the past, present and future of female wordsmiths. Know their fascinating feats hidden by history?

# data[].attributes.headline
To His Coy Mistress: Pressure against Free-Will

# data[].attributes.subject
To His Coy Mistress: Pressure against Free-Will

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Had we but world enough and time,

This coyness, lady, were no crime.

We would sit down, and think which way

To walk, and pass our long love's day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges' side

Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide

Of Humber would complain. I would

Love you ten years before the flood,

And you should, if you please, refuse

Till the conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires and more slow;

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart.

For, lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear

Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found;

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song; then worms shall try

That long-preserved virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust,

And into ashes all my lust;

The grave's a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may,

And now, like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour

Than languish in his slow-chapped power.

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Through the iron gates of life:

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell | Poetry Foundation