Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  Without doubt it may stand so.

  The answer to this I leave to divines,

  But well I know, that in this world great pain is.

  Alas! I see a serpent or a thief,

  That to many a true man has done mischief,

  Go freely, wherever he wishes to turn.

  But I must be in prison through Saturn,

  And through Juno, jealous, angry and wild,6

  Who have destroyed nearly all the blood

  Of Thebes, with its wasted walls wide.

  And Venus slays me on the other side

  For jealousy, and fear of Arcita.”

  Now will I let go of Palamon a little

  And let him in his prison still dwell,

  And of Arcita more I will you tell.

  The summer passed, and the nights long

  Increased doubly the pains strong of

  Both the lover and the prisoner.

  I do not know who had the woefuller place.

  For, to make it brief, this Palamon

  Perpetually is condemned to prison,

  In chains and fetters until his death;

  And Arcita is exiled upon pain of beheading

  Forevermore out of that country,

  Nor evermore shall his lady see.

  Of you lovers I now ask this question:

  Who had the worse, Arcita or Palamon?

  That one may see his lady day by day

  But in prison he must dwell always.

  The other where he wishes may ride or go,

  But see his lady shall he nevermore.

  Now judge as you will, you who understand,

  For I will continue as I began.

  Part Two

  Whan that Arcite to Thebes comen was,

  Ful ofte a day he swelte and seyde “allas,”

  For seen his lady shal he never-mo.

  And shortly to concluden al his wo,

  So muche sorwe had never creature

  That is, or shal, whyl that the world may dure.

  His sleep, his mete, his drink is him biraft,

  That lene he wex, and drye as is a shaft.

  His eyen holwe, and grisly to biholde;

  His hewe falwe, and pale as asshen colde,

  And solitarie he was, and ever allone,

  And wailling al the night, making his mone.

  And if he herde song or instrument,

  Then wolde he wepe, he mighte nat be stent;

  So feble eek were his spirits, and so lowe,

  And chaunged so, that no man coude knowe

  His speche nor his vois, though men it herde.

  And in his gere, for al the world he ferde

  Nat oonly lyk the loveres maladye

  Of Hereos, but rather lyk manye

  Engendered of humour malencolyk,

  Biforen, in his celle fantastyk.

  And shortly, turned was al up-so doun

  Bothe habit and eek disposicioun

  Of him, this woful lovere daun Arcite.

  What sholde I al-day of his wo endyte?

  Whan he endured hadde a yeer or two

  This cruel torment, and this peyne and wo,

  At Thebes, in his contree, as I seyde,

  Up-on a night, in sleep as he him leyde,

  Him thoughte how that the winged god Mercurie

  Biforn him stood, and bad him to be murye.

  His slepy yerde in hond he bar uprighte;

  An hat he werede up-on his heres brighte.

  Arrayed was this god (as he took keep)

  As he was whan that Argus took his sleep;

  And seyde him thus: “T’ Athénës shaltou wende;

  Part Two

  When Arcita was come to Thebes,

  Full often a day he sighed and said “alas,”

  For his lady shall he see nevermore.

  And to sum up briefly all his woe,

  So much sorrow had never a creature

  That is or will be so long as the world endures.

  His sleep, his appetite, his thirst was him bereft,

  That lean he waxed and dry as is a shaft.

  His eyes hollow, and grim to behold

  His color faded and pale as ashes cold;

  And solitary he was and ever alone,

  And wailing all night, making his moan.

  And if he heard song or instrument,

  Then would he weep, he could not be stopped.

  So feeble were his spirits, and so low,

  And he changed so, that no man could know

  His speech nor his voice, though men it heard.

  And in his woe for all the world he had

  Not only the pain of

  Love sickness,

  But also the anguish

  Of a spirit by love torn.

  And shortly, was turned all upside down

  Both habit and disposition

  Of him, this woeful lover lord Arcita.

  Why should I all day of his woe write?

  When he had endured a year or two

  This cruel treatment and this pain and woe,

  At Thebes, in his country, as I said,

  Upon a night, in sleep as he lay

  He dreamed that the winged god Mercury

  Before him stood and bade him to be merry.

  His sleepwand in hand he bore upright;

  And helmet he wore upon his hair bright.

  Dressed was this god, as Arcita saw

  As when he had sent Argus to sleep;

  And told him thus, “To Athens you shall wend:

  Ther is thee shapen of thy wo an ende:”

  And with that word Arcite wook and sterte. “Now trewely, how sore that me smerte,”

  Quod he, ”t’ Athénës right now wol I fare;

  Ne for the drede of deeth shal I nat spare

  To see my lady, that I love and serve;

  In hir presence I recche nat to sterve.”

  And with that word he caughte a greet mirour,

  And saugh that chaunged was al his colour,

  And saugh his visage al in another kinde.

  And right annon it ran him in his minde,

  That, sith his face was so disfigured

  Of maladye, the which he hadde endured,

  He mighte wel, if that he bar him lowe,

  Live in Athénes ever-more unknowe,

  And seen his lady wel ny day by day.

  And right anon he chaunged his array,

  And cladde him as a povre laborer,

  And al allone, save oonly a squyer,

  That knew his privetee and al his cas,

  Which was disgysed povrely, as he was,

  T’ Athénës is he goon the nexte way.

  And to the court he wente up-on a day,

  And at the gate he profreth his servyse,

  To drugge and drawe, what so men wol devyse.

  And shortly of this matere for to seyn,

  He fil in office with a chamberleyn,

  The which that dwelling was with Emelye;

  For he was wys, and coude soon aspye

  Of every servaunt, which that serveth here.

  Wel coude he hewen wode, and water bere,

  For he was yong and mighty for the nones,

  And ther-to he was strong and big of bones

  To doon that any wight can him devyse.

  A yeer or two he was in this servyse,

  Page of the chambre of Emelye the brighte;

  And “Philostrate” he seide that he highte.

  But half so wel biloved a man as he

  Ne was ther never in court, of his degree;

  There be destined your woe to end.”

  And with that word Arcita woke and gave a start.

  ”Now truly, however sore it may me hurt,”

  Said he, ”to Athens right now I will head;

  Even dread of death will not keep me from

  Seeing my lady, whom I love and serve.

  In her presence I care not if I end up dead.”

>   And with that word he seized a great mirror,

  And saw that changed was all his color,

  And saw his face looking like someone else.

  And right away it went through his mind

  That, since his face was so disfigured

  By the lovesickness that he’d endured,

  He might well, if he took a station low,

  Live in Athens evermore unknown,

  And see his lady well nigh every day.

  And right away he changed his clothes,

  And clad himself as a poor laborer,

  And all alone, save for a squire

  Who knew his private life and situation,

  Who was disguised as poor as he was,

  To Athens did he go the shortest way.

  And to the court he went upon a day,

  And at the gate he proffered his service

  To drudge and carry, whatever was needed.

  And shortly of this matter for to say,

  He got a place with a chamberlain,

  Who worked for Emily,

  For he was quick, and could soon learn

  From every servant, who served her there.

  Well could he hew wood and water bear,

  For he was young and worked with a will,

  And he was strong and bigboned

  To do whatever anyone wanted.

  A year or two he was in this service,

  Page of the chamber of Emily the bright;

  And Philostrate he said that he was called.

  But half so well beloved a man as he

  Never was there ever in court at his station;

  He was so gentil of condicioun,

  That thurghout al the court was his renoun.

  They seyden, that it were a charitee

  That Theseus wolde enhauncen his degree,

  And putten him in worshipful servyse,

  Ther as he mighte his vertu excercyse.

  And thus, with-inne a whyle, his name is spronge

  Bothe of his dedes, and his goode tonge,

  That Theseus hath taken him so neer

  That of his chambre he made him a squyer,

  And yaf him gold to mayntene his degree;

  And eek men broghte him out of his contree

  From yeer to yeer, ful prively, his rente;

  But honestly and slyly he it spente,

  That no man wondred how that he it hadde.

  And three yeer in this wyse his lyf he ladde,

  And bar him so in pees and eek in werre,

  Ther nas no man that Theseus hath derre.

  And in this blisse lete I now Arcite,

  And speke I wol of Palamon a lyte.

  In derknesse and horrible and strong prisoun

  This seven yeer hath seten Palamoun,

  Forpyned, what for wo and for distresse;

  Who feleth double soor and hevinesse

  But Palamon? that love destreyneth so,

  That wood out of his wit he gooth for wo;

  And eek therto he is a prisoner

  Perpetuelly, noght oonly for a yeer.

  Who coude ryme in English properly

  His martirdom? for sothe, it am nat I;

  Therefore I passe as lightly as I may.

  It fel that in the seventhe yeer, in May,

  The thridde night, (as olde bokes seyn,

  That al this storie tellen more pleyn,)

  Were it by aventure or destinee,

  (As, whan a thing is shapen, it shal be,)

  That, sone after the midnight, Palamoun,

  By helping of a freend, brak his prisoun,

  And fleeth the citee, faste as he may go;

  He was so gentle of disposition

  That throughout all the court was his renown.

  They said it would be a charity

  If Theseus would increase his rank

  And put him in honorable service,

  There as he might his virtue exercise.

  And thus within awhile his name became so well-known,

  Both for his deeds and his good tongue,

  That Theseus brought him so near

  That of his chamber he made him a squire,

  And gave him gold to maintain his position;

  And also men brought from his own country

  From year to year, full secretly, his income;

  But so fittingly and discreetly he spent,

  That no man wondered how he had it.

  And three years in this way his life he led,

  And bore himself so in peace and in war,

  There was no man whom Theseus held more dear.

  And in this bliss I leave now Arcita,

  And speak I will of Palamon a little.

  In darkness and horrible and strong prison

  Those seven years had lived Palamon,

  Wasted, what for woe and for distress.

  Who but Palamon felt double sorrow and heaviness,

  And who but Palamon whom love sickened so

  That out of his head he went for woe?

  And besides that he was a prisoner

  Perpetually, not only for a year.

  Who could rhyme in English properly

  His martyrdom? Forsooth, it is not I;

  Therefore I pass over it briefly as I may.

  It befell that in the seventh year, of May

  The third night, as old books say,

  That all this story tell more fully,

  Were it by chance or destiny—

  As, when a thing is fated, it shall be—

  That soon after midnight Palamon,

  By helping of a friend, escaped his prison

  And fled the city fast as he could go;

  For he had yive his gayler drinke so

  Of a clarree, maad of a certeyn wyn,

  With nercotikes and opie of Thebes fyn,

  That al that night, thogh that men wolde him shake,

  The gayler sleep, he mighte nat awake;

  And thus he fleeth as faste as ever he may.

  The night was short, and faste by the day,

  That nedes-cost he moste him-selven hyde,

  And til a grove, faste ther besyde,

  With dredful foot than stalketh Palamoun.

  For shortly, this was his opinioun,

  That in that grove he wolde him hyde al day,

  And in the night than wolde he take his way

  To Thebes-ward, his freendes for to preye

  On Theseus to helpe him to werreye;

  And shortly, outher he wolde lese his lyf,

  Or winnen Emelye un-to his wyf;

  This is th’ effect and his entente pleyn.

  Now wol I torne un-to Arcite ageyn,

  That litel wiste how ny that was his care,

  Til that fortune had broght him in the snare.

  The bisy larke, messager of day,

  Saluëth in hir song the morwe gray;

  And fyry Phebus ryseth up so brighte,

  That al the orient laugheth of the lighte,

  And with his stremes dryeth in the greves

  The silver dropes, hanging on the leves.

  And Arcite, that is in the court royal

  With Theseus, his squyer principal,

  Is risen, and loketh on the myrie day.

  And, for to doon his observaunce to May,

  Remembring on the poynt of his desyr,

  He on a courser, sterting as the fyr,

  Is riden in-to the feeldes, him to pleye,

  Out of the court, were it a myle or tweye;

  And to the grove, of which that I yow tolde

  By aventure, his wey he gan to holde,

  To maken him a gerland of the greves,

  Were it of wodebinde or hawethorn-leves,

  For he had given his jailer a draught

  Of claret made of a certain wine,

  With narcotics and opium of Thebes fine,

  That all that night, though you would him shake,

  The jailer slept, he would
not awaken;

  And thus he fled as fast as ever he might.

  The night was short and just before break of day,

  He needs must hide,

  And into a grove nearby,

  With fearful foot then slipped Palamon.

  For, to make it short, this was his opinion:

  That in that grove he would him hide all day,

  And in the night then would he take his way

  Thebesward, his friends to beg

  To help him make war on Theseus;

  And shortly, either he would lose his life

  Or win Emily unto his wife.

  This was the essence and his sole intent.

  Now will I turn to Arcita again,

  Who little knew that trouble was so near,

  Till Fortune had brought him in the snare.

  The busy lark, messenger of day,

  Saluted in her song the morning gray;

  And fiery Phoebus rose up so bright

  That all the eastern sky laughed in the light,

  And with his beams dried in the brush

  The silver drops hanging on the leaves.

  And Arcita, who in the court royal

  Of Theseus is squire principal,

  Has risen and looked on the merry day.

  And to do his observance of May,

  Keeping in mind the object of his desire,

  He on a courser, leaping as the fire,

  Has ridden into the fields to play,

  Out of the court, were it a mile or two;

  And to the grove of which that I you told,

  As it happened his course he began to hold,

  To make himself a garland from the grove,

  Were it of woodbine or hawthorne leaves,

  And loude he song ageyn the sonne shene:

  “May, with alle thy floures and thy grene,

  Wel-come be thou, faire fresshe May,

  I hope that I som grerre gete may.”

  And from his courser, with a lusty herte,

  In-to the grove ful hastily he sterte,

  And in a path he rometh up and doun,

  Ther-as, by aventure, this Palamoun

  Was in a bush, that no man mighte him see,

  For sore afered of his deeth was he.

  No-thing ne knew he that it was Arcite:

  God wot he wolde have trowed it ful lyte.

  But sooth is seyd, gon sithen many yeres,

  That “feeld hath eyen, and the wode hath eres.”

  It is ful fair a man to bere him evene,

  For al-day meteth men at unset stevene.

  Ful litel woot Arcite of his felawe,

  That was so ny to herknen al his sawe,

  For in the bush he sitteth now ful stille.

  Whan that Arcite had romed al his fille,

  And songen al the roundel lustily,

  In-to a studie he fil sodeynly,

  As doon thise loveres in hir queynte geres,

  Now in the croppe, now doun in the breres,