Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

Better than his lord he could his goods increase.

  Full rich he was with private stock;

  His lord could he please full subtly,

  To give and lend him of his own goods,

  And receive thanks, and a gift coat and hood.

  In youth he had learned a good trade:

  He was a fine craftsman, a carpenter.

  This reeve sat upon a full good farm horse

  That was all dappled gray and named Scot.

  A long coat of blue upon him he had,

  And by his side he wore a rusty blade.

  Of Norfolk was this reeve of whom I tell,

  Bisyde a toun men clepen Baldeswelle.

  Tukked he was, as is a frere, aboute,

  And ever he rood the hindreste of our route.

  A SOMNOUR was ther with us in that place,

  That hadde a fyr-reed cherubinnes face,

  For sawcefleem he was, with eyen narwe.

  As hoot he was, and lecherous, as a sparwe;

  With scalled browes blake, and piled berd;

  Of his visage children were aferd.

  Ther nas quik-silver, litarge, ne brimstoon,

  Boras, ceruce, ne oille of tartre noon,

  Ne oynement that wolde clense and byte,

  That him mighte helpen of his whelkes whyte,

  Nor of the knobbes sittinge on his chekes.

  Wel loved he garleek, oynons, and eek lekes,

  And for to drinken strong wyn, reed as blood.

  Than wolde he speke, and crye as he were wood.

  And whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn,

  Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn.

  A fewe termes hadde he, two or three,

  That he had lerned out of som decree;

  No wonder is, he herde it al the day;

  And eek ye knowen wel, how that a jay

  Can clepen “Watte,” as well as can the pope.

  But who-so coude in other thing him grope,

  Thanne hadde he spent al his philosophye;

  Ay “Questio quid iuris” wolde he crye.

  He was a gentil harlot and a kinde;

  A bettre felawe sholde men noght finde.

  He wolde suffre, for a quart of wyn,

  A good felawe to have his concubyn

  A twelf-month, and excuse him atte fulle:

  Ful prively a finch eek coude he pulle.

  And if he fond o-wher a good felawe,

  He wolde techen him to have non awe,

  In swich cas, of the erchedeknes curs,

  But-if a mannes soule were in his purs;

  For in his purs he sholde y-punisshed be.

  “Purs is the erchedeknes helle,” seyde he.

  From near a town men call Bawdeswell.

  Belted he was as is a friar;

  And he rode always the hindmost of our group.

  A SUMMONER WaS there with us in that place,

  Who had a fire-red cherubim’s face,

  For pimpled he was, with eyes narrow.

  As hotblooded he was and lecherous as a sparrow,

  With scabby black eyebrows, and scraggly beard;

  Of his face children were afraid.

  There was no quicksilver, lead oxide nor brimstone,

  Borax, white lead, nor oil of tartar lotion,

  Nor ointment that would cleanse and bite,

  That might help him of his pimples cure,

  Nor of the bumps sitting on his cheeks.

  Well loved he garlic, onions and also leeks,

  And for to drink strong wine, red as blood.

  Then would he speak, and shout as if he were deranged;

  And when he had drunk enough wine,

  Then would he speak no word but in Latin.

  A few phrases had he, two or three,

  That he had learned out of some decree—

  No wonder it is, he heard it all the day;

  And you know well, how a bird

  Can call Walter! as well as can the Pope.

  But if you would in other things him query,

  Then he’d used up all his philosophy;

  Ever Questio quid iuris38 would he cry.

  He was a worthy rascal and also kind;

  A better pal could no man find:

  He would allow, for a quart of wine,

  A buddy to have his concubine

  For a year, and excuse him in full;

  Full secretly a young thing could he seduce.

  And if he found somewhere a pal,

  He would teach him to have no fear

  With regard to the Archdeacon’s curse,39

  Unless a man’s soul were in his purse,

  For then in his purse should he punished be.

  “Purse is the Archdeacon’s hell,” said he.

  But wel I woot he lyed right in dede;

  Of cursing oghte ech gilty man him drede—

  For curs wol slee, right as assoilling saveth—

  And also war him of a significavit.

  In daunger hadde he at his owne gyse

  The yonge girles of the diocyse,

  And knew hir counseil, and was al hir reed.

  A gerland hadde he set up-on his heed,

  As greet as it were for an ale-stake;

  A bokeler hadde he maad him of a cake.

  With him ther rood a gentil PARDONER

  Of Rouncival, his freend and his compeer,

  That streight was comen fro the court of Rome.

  Ful loude he song, “Com hider, love, to me.”

  This somnour bar to him a stif burdoun,

  Was never trompe of half so greet a soun.

  This pardoner hadde heer as yelow as wex,

  But smothe it heng, as dooth a strike of flex;

  By ounces henge his lokkes that he hadde,

  And ther-with he his shuldres overspradde;

  But thinne it lay, by colpons oon and oon;

  But hood, for jolitee, ne wered he noon,

  For it was trussed up in his walet.

  Him thoughte, he rood al of the newe jet;

  Dischevele, save his cappe, he rood al bare.

  Swiche glaringe eyen hadde he as an hare.

  A vernicle hadde he sowed on his cappe.

  His walet lay biforn him in his lappe,

  Bret-ful of pardoun come from Rome al hoot.

  A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot.

  No berd hadde he, ne never sholde have,

  As smothe it was as it were late y-shave;

  I trowe he were a gelding or a mare.

  But of his craft, fro Berwik into Ware,

  Ne was ther swich another pardoner.

  For in his male he hadde a pilwe-beer,

  Which that, he seyde, was our lady veyl:

  He seyde, he hadde a gobet of the seyl

  That sëynt Peter hadde, whan that he wente

  But well I know he lied indeed:

  Excommunication each man should dread—

  For curse will slay, as absolution saves—

  And also avoid a warrant for arrest.

  In his power in his own way had he

  The young wenches of the diocese,

  And knew their secrets, and gave them advice.

  A garland had he set upon his head,

  As big as if it were for a tavern sign;

  A buckler had he made with a loaf of bread.

  With him there rode a gentle PARDONER

  Of Rouncival,40 his friend and his companion,

  Who straight was come from the court of Rome.

  Full loud he sang, “Come hither, love, to me.”

  The summoner joined in with a strong bass voice,

  No trumpet made half so much noise.

  This pardoner had hair as yellow as wax,

  But in truth it hung, as does a spray of flax;

  In thin strands hung the locks that he had,

  And therewith his shoulders overspread;

  But thin it lay in small locks one by one;

  But hood
, for fashion’s sake, wore he none,

  For it was packed up in his bag.

  He thought he rode in the newest style;

  With hair loose, save his cap, he rode with head bare.

  Such staring eyes had he as a hare.

  A veronica41 had he sewn on his cap.

  His bag lay before him in his lap,

  Brimful of pardons, fresh and hot from Rome.

  A voice he had as small as a goat.

  No beard had he, nor ever should have,

  His face was smooth as if it were just shaved:

  I believe he was a gelding or a mare.

  But of his profession, from Berwick to Ware,

  Never was there such another pardoner.

  For in his bag he had a pillowcase,

  That he said was Our Lady’s veil.

  He said he had a piece of the sail

  That Saint Peter had, when he strode

  Up-on the see, til Jesu Crist him hente.

  He hadde a croys of latoun, ful of stones,

  And in a glas he hadde pigges bones.

  But with thise relikes, whan that he fond

  A povre person dwelling up-on lond,

  Up-on a day he gat him more moneye

  Than that the person gat in monthes tweye.

  And thus, with feyned flaterye and japes,

  He made the person and the peple his apes.

  But trewely to tellen, atte laste,

  He was in chirche a noble ecclesiaste.

  Wel coude he rede a lessoun or a storie,

  But alderbest he song an offertorie;

  For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe

  He moste preche, and wel affyle his tonge,

  To winne silver, as he ful wel coude;

  Therfore he song so meriely and loude.

  Now have I told you shortly, in a clause,

  Th‘estat, th’array, the nombre, and eek the cause

  Why that assembled was this companye

  In Southwerk, at this gentil hostelrye,

  That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle.

  But now is tyme to yow for to telle

  How that we baren us that ilke night,

  Whan we were in that hostelrye alight.

  And after wol I telle of our viage,

  And al the remenaunt of our pilgrimage.

  But first I pray yow, of your curteisye,

  That ye n‘arette it nat my vileinye,

  Thogh that I pleynly speke in this matere,

  To telle yow hir wordes and his chere;

  Ne thogh I speke hir wordes properly.

  For this ye knowen al-so wel as I,

  Who-so shal telle a tale after a man,

  He moot reherce, as ny as ever he can,

  Everich a word, if it be in his charge,

  Al speke he never so rudeliche and large;

  Or elles he moot telle his tale untrewe,

  Or feyne thing, or finde wordes newe.

  Upon the sea, till Jesus Christ of him took hold.

  He had a cross of metal, full of gems,

  And in a glass jar he had pig’s bones.

  But with these relics, when he found

  A poor parson dwelling in the country

  In one day he made himself more money

  Than that parson got in two months.

  And thus, with feigned flattery and tricks

  He made the parson and the people his fools.

  But truth to tell, at last,

  He was in church a noble preacher.

  Well could he read a devotional lesson or story,

  But best of all he sang an offertory;

  For well he knew, when that song was sung,

  He must preach, and file smooth his tongue

  To win silver, as he full well could—

  Therefore he sang both merrily and loud.

  Now have I told you truly, in brief,

  The calling, the appearance, the number and the reason

  Why assembled was this company

  In Southwark, at this good hostelry,

  By name of the Tabard, nearby the Bell.42

  But now is the time for me to tell

  How we conducted ourselves that same night,

  When we were in that hostelry settled;

  And after will I tell of our journey,

  And all the remainder of our pilgrimage.

  But first I pray you, of your courtesy,

  That you not take it as my bad manners

  Even though I speak plainly in this matter,

  To tell you their words and their behavior

  Even though I speak their words verbatim.

  For this you all know as well as I:

  Whoso shall tell a tale heard from another man

  He must repeat closely as he can

  Every word, if it be in his charge,

  However rough or rude,

  Or else he must tell his tale untrue,

  Or make it up, or find words new.

  He may nat spare, al-thogh he were his brother;

  He moot as wel seye o word as another.

  Crist spake him-self ful brode in holy writ,

  And wel ye woot, no vileinye is it.

  Eek Plato seith, who-so that can him rede,

  The wordes mote be cosin to the dede.

  Also I prey yow to foryeve it me,

  Al have I nat set folk in hir degree

  Here in this tale, as that they sholde stonde;

  My wit is short, ye may wel understonde.

  Greet chere made our hoste us everichon,

  And to the soper sette us anon;

  And served us with vitaille at the beste.

  Strong was the wyn, and wel to drinke us leste.

  A semely man our hoste was with-alle

  For to han been a marshal in an halle;

  A large man he was with eyen stepe,

  A fairer burgeys is ther noon in Chepe:

  Bold of his speche, and wys, and wel y-taught,

  And of manhod him lakkede right naught.

  Eek therto he was right a mery man,

  And after soper pleyen he bigan,

  And spak of mirthe amonges othere thinges,

  Whan that we hadde maad our rekeninges;

  And seyde thus: “Now, lordinges, trewely,

  Ye been to me right welcome hertely:

  For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye,

  I ne saugh this yeer so mery a companye

  At ones in this herberwe as is now.

  Fayn wolde I doon yow mirthe, wiste I how.

  And of a mirthe I am right now bithoght,

  To doon yow ese, and it shal coste noght.

  Ye goon to Caunterbury; God yow spede,

  The blisful martir quyte yow your mede.

  And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye,

  Ye shapen yow to talen and to pleye;

  For trewely, confort ne mirthe is noon

  To ryde by the weye doumb as a stoon;

  And therfore wol I maken yow disport,

  He may not hold back, even to spare his brother,

  He must say as well one word as another.

  Christ himself spoke down-to-earth in Holy Writ,

  And well you know, no vulgarity is in it.

  And Plato says, who can him read,

  The words must be cousin to the deed.43

  Also I pray you to forgive me,

  That I have not described the folk

  Here in this tale, in order of their rank;

  My wit is short, you may well understand.

  Very welcome our Host made us everyone,

  And to the supper he set us anon;

  He served us the best of food.

  Strong was the wine, and it pleased us to drink.

  Perfect for his work was our host withal

  For he’d presided over a noble’s great hall;

  A large man he was with protruding eyes—

  No better burgher was there in all Cheapside.

&n
bsp; Bold of his speech, and wise, and well-taught,

  And of manhood he lacked right nought.

  And also he was truly a merry man,

  And after supper to jest he began,

  And spoke of mirth among many other things—

  After we had paid our bills—

  And said thus, “Now lords, truly,

  You are to me right welcome, heartily.

  For by my troth, I shall not lie,

  I’ve not seen this year so merry a company

  At one time in this inn as is now.

  Happily would I offer some merriment, knew I how,

  And of such I have just now thought

  To give you pleasure, and it shall cost nought.

  You go to Canterbury—God you speed;

  And may the blissful martyr reward your deed.

  And well I know, as you go your way,

  That you make plans to share some tales;

  For truly, pleasure or merriment is there none

  To ride along as dumb as stone;

  And therefore will I make you a game,

  As I seyde erst, and doon you som confort.

  And if yow lyketh alle, by oon assent,

  Now for to stonden at my judgment,

  And for to werken as I shal yow seye,

  To-morwe, whan ye ryden by the weye,

  Now, by my fader soule, that is deed,

  But ye be merye, I wol yeve yow myn heed.

  Hold up your hond, withouten more speche.“

  Our counseil was nat longe for to seche;

  Us thoughte it was noght worth to make it wys,

  And graunted him withouten more avys,

  And bad him seye his verdit, as him leste.

  “Lordinges,” quod he, “now herkneth for the beste;

  But tak it not, I prey yow, in desdeyn;

  This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn,

  That ech of yow, to shorte with your weye,

  In this viage, shal telle tales tweye,

  To Caunterbury-ward, I mene it so,

  And hom-ward he shal tellen othere two,

  Of aventures that whylom han bifalle.

  And which of yow that bereth him best of alle,

  That is to seyn, that telleth in this cas

  Tales of best sentence and most solas,

  Shal have a soper at our aller cost

  Here in this place, sitting by this post,

  Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbury.

  And for to make yow the more mery,

  I wol my-selven gladly with yow ryde,

  Right at myn owne cost, and be your gyde.

  And who-so wol my jugement withseye

  Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye.

  And if ye vouche-sauf that it be so,

  Tel me anon, with-outen wordes mo,

  And I wol erly shape me therfore.”

  This thing was graunted, and our othes swore

  With ful glad herte, and preyden him also

  That he wold vouche-sauf for to do so,