by Paul Keegan
A fair feld ful of folk fond I ther bytwene
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Of alle manere men, the mene and the pore,
Worchyng and wandryng as this world asketh.
Somme putte hem to the plogh, playde ful selde,
In settynge and in sowynge swonken ful harde
And wonne that this wastors with glotony destrueth.
And summe putte hem to pruyde and parayled hem ther-aftir
In continance of clothyng in many kyne gyse.
In preiers and penaunces putten hem mony,
Al for love of oure lord lyveden swythe harde
In hope to have a good ende and hevenriche blisse,
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As ankeres and eremites that holdeth hem in here selles,
Coveyten noght in contreys to cayren aboute
For no likerous liflode here lycame to plese.
And summe chesen chaffare – thei cheveth the bettre,
As it semeth to oure sighte that suche men ythruveth;
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And summe murthes to make as mynstrels conneth,
Wolleth neyther swynke ne swete, bote sweren grete othes,
Fyndeth out foule fantasyes and foles hem maketh
And hath wytt at wille to worche yf thei wolde.
That Poule prechede of hem preve hit I myhte:
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Qui turpiloquium loquitur is Luciferes knave.
Bidders and beggers fast aboute yede
Til here bagge and here bely was bretful ycrammed,
Fayteden for here fode and foughten at the ale.
In glotonye tho gomes goth thei to bedde
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And ryseth with rybaudrye tho Robardes knaves;
Slep and also slewthe sueth suche ever.
Pilgrymes and palmers plighten hem togyderes
To seke seynt Jame and seyntes of Rome,
Wenten forth on here way with many wyse tales
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And hadde leve to lye aftir, al here lyf-tyme.
Eremites on an hep with hokede staves
Wenten to Walsyngham, and here wenches aftir;
Grete lobies and longe that loth were to swynke
Clothed hem in copis to be knowe fram othere
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And made hemself heremites, here ese to have.
I fonde ther of freris alle the foure ordres,
Prechyng the peple for profyt of the wombe,
And glosede the gospel as hem good likede;
For coveytise of copis contraryed somme doctours.
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Mony of thise maistres of mendenant freres
Here moneye and marchandise marchen togyderes.
Ac sith charite hath be chapman and chief to shryve lordes
Mony ferlyes han falle in a fewe yeres,
And but holi chirche and charite choppe adoun suche shryvars
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The moste meschief on molde mounteth up faste.
[Gluttony in the Ale-house]
Now bygynneth Glotoun for to go to shryfte
And kayres hym to kyrke-ward, his conpte to shewe.
Fastyng on a Friday forth gan he wende
By Betene hous the brewestere, that bad hym good morwen,
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And whodeward he wolde the breuh-wyf hym askede.
‘To holy churche,’ quod he, ‘for to here masse,
And sennes sitte and be shryve and synege no more.’
‘I have good ale, gossip Glotoun, woltow assaye?’
‘Hastow,’ quod he, ‘eny hote spyces?’
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‘I have pepur and pyonie and a pound of garlek,
A ferthyng-worth fenkelsedes, for fastyng-dayes I bouhte hit.’
Thenne goth Glotoun in and Grete Othes aftur.
Sesse the souteres sat on the benche,
Watte the wernare and his wyf dronke,
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Tymme the tynekare and tweyne of his knaves,
Hicke the hackenayman and Hewe the nedlare,
Claryce of Cockes-lane and the clerc of the churche,
Syre Peres of Prydie and Purnele of Flaundres,
An hayward, an heremyte, the hangeman of Tybourne,
Dawe the dikere, with a doseyne harlotes
Of portours and of pikeporses and of pilede toth-draweres,
A rybibour and a ratoner, a rakeare and his knave,
A ropere and a redyng-kynge and Rose the disshere,
Godefray the garlek-monger and Gryffyth the Walshe,
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And of uphalderes an heep, herly by the morwe
Geven Glotoun with glad chere good ale to hansull.
Clement the coblere cast of his cloke
And to the newe fayre nempnede hit forth to sull.
Hicke the hackenayman hit his hod aftur
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And bade Bitte the bochere ben on his syde.
There were chapmen ychose this chaffare to preyse,
That ho-so hadde the hood sholde nat have the cloke,
And that the bettere thyng, be arbitreres, bote sholde the worse.
Tho rysen up rapliche and rouned togyderes
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And preisede this peniworths apart by hemsulve,
And there were othes an heep, for on sholde have the worse.
They couthe nat by here conscience acorden for treuthe
Til Robyn the ropere aryse they bisouhte
And nempned hym for a noumper, that no debat were.
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Hicke the hostiler hadde the cloke,
In covenaunt that Clement sholde the coppe fulle,
And have Hickes hood the hostiler and holde hym yserved;
And ho-so repentede hym rathest sholde aryse aftur
And grete syre Glotoun with a galon of ale.
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There was leyhing and louryng and ‘lat go the coppe!’
Bargaynes and bevereges bygan tho to awake,
And seten so til evensong, and songen umbywhile,
Til Glotoun hadde yglobbed a galoun and a gylle.
His gottes gan to gothly as two grydy sowes;
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He pissede a potel in a pater-noster whyle,
He blew his rownd ruet at his rygebones ende,
That alle that herde the horne helde here nose aftur
And wesched hit hadde be wasche with a weps of breres.
He myhte nother steppe ne stande til he a staf hadde,
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And thenne gan he go lyke a glemans byche,
Sum tyme asyde and sum tyme arere,
As ho-so layth lynes for to lacche foules.
And when he drow to the dore, thenne dymmede his yes,
And thromblede at the thresfold and threw to the erthe,
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And Clement the coblere cauhte hym by the myddel
And for to lyfte hym aloft leyde hym on his knees.
Ac Gloton was a greet cherl and greved in the luftynge
And cowed up a caudel in Clementis lappe;
Ys none so hungry hound in Hertfordshyre
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Durste lape of that lyvynge, so unlovely hit smauhte.
With alle the wo of this world his wyf and his wenche
Baren hym to his bed and brouhten hym ther-ynne,
And aftur al this exces he hadde an accidie aftur;
He sleep Saturday and Sonenday til the sonne yede to reste.
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Then gan he wake wel wanne and wolde have ydronke;
The furste word that he spake was ‘Who halt the bolle?’
His wif and his inwit edwitede hym of his synne;
He wax ashamed, that shrewe, and shrofe hym as swythe
To Repentaunce ryht thus: ‘Have reuthe on me,’ he saide,
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‘Thow lord that aloft art and alle lyves shope!
‘To the, God, I, Glotoun, gulty I me yelde
Of that I have trespased with tonge, I can nat telle how ofte,
Sworn “Godes soule and his sides!”
and “So helpe me, God almyhty!”
There no nede ne was, many sythe falsly;
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And over-sopped at my soper and som tyme at nones
More then my kynde myhte deffye,
And as an hound that eet gras so gan I to brake
And spilde that I aspele myhte – I kan nat speke for shame
The vilony of my foule mouthe and of my foule mawe –
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And fastyng-dayes bifore none fedde me with ale
Out of resoun, among rybaudes, here rybaudrye to here.
‘Herof, gode God, graunte me foryevenesse
Of all my luyther lyf in al my lyf-tyme
For I vowe to verray God, for eny hungur or furste,
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Shal nevere fysch in the Fryday defyen in my wombe
Til Abstinence myn aunte have yeve me leve –
And yut have I hated here al my lyf-tyme.’
(1550)
GEOFFREY CHAUCER from The Canterbury Tales
from The General Prologue
Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
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Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his half cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
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That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(So priketh hem nature in hir corages),
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
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And specially from every shires ende
Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.
from The General Prologue [The Prioress]
Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse,
That of hir smylyng was ful symple and coy;
Hire gretteste ooth was but by Seinte Loy;
And she was cleped madame Eglentyne.
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Ful weel she soong the service dyvyne,
Entuned in hir nose ful semely;
And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly,
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,
For Frenssh of Parys was to hire unknowe.
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At mete wel ytaught was she with alle;
She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle,
Ne wette hir fyngres in hir sauce depe;
Wel koude she carie a morsel and wel kepe
That no drope ne fille upon hire brest.
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In curteisie was set ful muchel hir lest.
Hir over-lippe wyped she so clene
That in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng sene
Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte.
Ful semely after hir mete she raughte.
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And sikerly she was of greet desport,
And ful plesaunt, and amyable of port,
And peyned hire to countrefete cheere
Of court, and to been estatlich of manere,
And to ben holden digne of reverence.
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But for to speken of hire conscience,
She was so charitable and so pitous
She wolde wepe, if that she saugh a mous
Kaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde.
Of smale houndes hadde she that she fedde
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With rosted flessh, or milk and wastel-breed.
But soore wepte she if oon of hem were deed,
Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte;
And al was conscience and tendre herte.
Ful semyly hir wympul pynched was,
Hir nose tretys, hir eyen greye as glas,
Hir mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reed.
But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed;
It was almoost a spanne brood, I trowe;
For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe.
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Ful fetys was hir cloke, as I was war.
Of smal coral aboute hire arm she bar
A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene,
And theron heng a brooch of gold ful sheene,
On which ther was first write a crowned A,
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And after Amor vincit omnia.
Another Nonne with hire hadde she,
That was hir chapeleyne, and preestes thre.
from The Knight’s Tale [The Temple of Mars]
Why sholde I noght as wel eek telle yow al
The portreiture that was upon the wal
Withinne the temple of myghty Mars the rede?
Al peynted was the wal, in lengthe and brede,
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Lyk to the estres of the grisly place
That highte the grete temple of Mars in Trace,
In thilke colde, frosty regioun
Ther as Mars hath his sovereyn mansioun.
First on the wal was peynted a forest,
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In which ther dwelleth neither man ne best,
With knotty, knarry, bareyne trees olde,
Of stubbes sharpe and hidouse to biholde,
In which ther ran a rumbel in a swough,
As though a storm sholde bresten every bough.
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And dounward from an hille, under a bente,
Ther stood the temple of Mars armypotente,
Wroght al of burned steel, of which the entree
Was long and streit, and gastly for to see.
And therout came a rage and swich a veze
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That it made al the gate for to rese.
The northren lyght in at the dores shoon,
For wyndowe on the wal ne was ther noon,
Thurgh which men myghten any light discerne.
The dore was al of adamant eterne,
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Yclenched overthwart and endelong
With iren tough; and for to make it strong,
Every pyler, the temple to sustene,
Was tonne-greet, of iren bright and shene.
Ther saugh I first the derke ymaginyng
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Of Felonye, and al the compassyng;
The crueel Ire, reed as any gleede;
The pykepurs, and eek the pale Drede;
The smylere with the knyf under the cloke;
The shepne brennynge with the blake smoke;
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The tresoun of the mordrynge in the bedde;
The open werre, with woundes al bibledde;
Contek, with blody knyf and sharp manace.
Al ful of chirkyng was that sory place.
The sleere of hymself yet saugh I ther –
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His herte-blood hath bathed al his heer –
The nayl ydryven in the shode anyght;
The colde deeth, with mouth gapyng upright.
