To have an hoor heed and a grene tayl,
As hath a leek; for thogh our might be goon,
Our wil desireth folie ever in oon.
For whan we may nat doon, than wol we speke;
Yet in our asshen olde is fyr y-reke.
Foure gledes han we, whiche I shal devyse,
Avaunting, lying, anger, coveityse;
Thise foure sparkles longen un-to elde.
Our olde lemes mowe wel ben unwelde,
But wil ne shal nat faillen, that is sooth.
And yet ik have alwey a coltes tooth,
As many a yeer as it is passed henne
The Reeve’s Tale
The Prologue
WHEN FOLK HAD LAUGHED at this foolish case
Of Absolon and nice Nicholas,
Diverse folk diverse things they said,
But, for the most part, they laughed and jested;
Nor at this tale I saw any man peeved,
Except for only Oswald the Reeve.
Because he was of carpenter’s trade,
A little anger in his heart remained:
He began to grouch and blamed it a little.
“So,” said he, “full well could I you requite
By sticking it in a proud miller’s eye,
If I wanted to speak of ribaldry.
But I am old; I won’t because of age;
Grass-time is done, my fodder is now forage;
This white top writes of my old years.
My heart is also moldy as my hairs,
Unless I fare as a medlar fruit;1
Which ripens only as it rots,
Till it be rotten in mud or straw.
We old men, I fear, so fare we:
Till we be rotten, we cannot be ripe;
We dance as long as the world plays the pipe.
For in our desire there always sticks a nail,
To have a hoary head and a green tail,
As has a leek, for though our strength be gone,
Our will desires folly all the same.
For when we may not act, then we will speak;
Yet within our ashes old is fire banked.
Four burning coals have we, which I shall list:
Boasting, lying, anger, avarice.
These four sparks belong to old age.
Our old limbs may be weak,
But will does not fail, that is the truth.
Yet still I have always a colt’s tooth,
As many a year has gone
Sin that my tappe of lyf bigan to renne.
For sikerly, whan I was bore, anon
Deeth drogh the tappe of lyf and leet it gon;
And ever sith hath so the tappe y-ronne,
Til that almost al empty is the tonne.
The streem of lyf now droppeth on the chimbe;
The sely tonge may wel ringe and chimbe
Of wrecchednesse that passed is ful yore;
With olde folk, save dotage, is namore.”
Whan that our host hadde herd this sermoning,
He gan to speke as lordly as a king;
He seide, “what amounteth al this wit?
What shul we speke alday of holy writ?
The devel made a reve for to preche,
And of a souter a shipman or a leche.
Sey forth thy tale, and tarie nat the tyme,
Lo, Depeford! and it is half-way pryme.
Lo, Grenewich, ther many a shrewe is inne;
It wer al tyme thy tale to biginne.”
“Now, sires,” quod this Osewold the Reve,
“I pray yow alle that ye nat yow greve,
Thogh I answere and somdel sette his howve;
For leveful is with force of-showve.
This dronke millere hath y-told us heer,
How that bigyled was a carpenteer,
Peraventure in scorn, for I am oon.
And, by your leve, I shal him quyte anoon;
Right in his cherles termes wol I speke.
I pray to god his nekke mote breke;
He can wel in myn ye seen a stalke,
But in his owne he can nat seen a balke.”
Since my tap of life began to run.
For truly, when I was born, anon
Death drew the tap of life and let it flow;
And ever since so has run the tap,
Till almost empty is the cask.
The stream of life now drops on the rim.
The foolish tongue may well chime and ring
Of wretchedness that passed long ago;
With old folk, dotage excepted, there is no more.”
When that our Host had heard this preaching,
He began to speak as lordly as a king.
He said, “What amounts to all this wit?
Why must we speak all day of Holy Writ?
The devil made a reeve into a preacher,
Or into a cobbler, sailor, or a doctor.
Tell forth your tale, and lose not the time,
Lo, Deptford, and it is half-way prime!
Lo, Greenwich, where many a rascal is in!
It’s high time now your tale to begin.”
“Now, sires,” said this Oswald the Reeve,
“I pray you all that you don’t take it amiss,
Though I answer and somewhat his cap twist;
For lawful is it to answer force with force.
This drunk miller has told us here
How that beguiled was a carpenter,
Perhaps in scorn, for I am one.
And by your leave, I shall requite him anon;
Right in his churl’s words I will speak.
I pray to God his neck may break—
He can well in my eye see a straw,
But in his own he can’t see a log.”
The Tale
At Trumpington, nat fer fro Cantebrigge,
Ther goth a brook and over that a brigge,
Up-on the whiche brook ther stant a melle;
And this is verray soth that I yow telle.
A Miller was ther dwelling many a day;
As eny pecok he was proud and gay.
Pypen he coude and fisshe, and nettes bete,
And turne coppes, and wel wrastle and shete;
And by his belt he baar a long panade,
And of a swerd ful trenchant was the blade.
A joly popper baar he in his pouche;
Ther was no man for peril dorste him touche
A Sheffeld thwitel baar he is his hose;
Round was his face, and camuse was his nose.
As piled as an ape was his skulle.
He was a market-beter atte fulle.
Ther dorste no wight hand up-on him legge,
That he ne swoor he sholde anon abegge.
A theef he was for sothe of corn and mele,
And that a sly, and usaunt for to stele.
His name was hoten dëynous Simkin.
A wyf he hadde, y-comen of noble kin;
The person of the toun hir fader was.
With hir he yaf ful many a panne of bras,
For that Simkin sholde in his blood allye.
She was y-fostred in a nonnerye;
For Simkin wolde no wyf, as he sayde,
But she were wel y-norissed and a mayde,
To saven his estaat of yomanrye.
And she was proud, and pert as is a pye.
A ful fair sighte was it on hem two;
On haly-dayes biforn hir wolde he go
With his tipet bounden about his heed,
And she cam after in a gyte of reed;
And Simkin hadde hosen of the same.
Ther dorste no wight clepen hir but “dame.”
Was noon so hardy that wente by the weye
The Tale
At Trumpington, not far from Cambridge,
There goes a brook and over that a bridge,
Upon which brook there stands a mill;
And this is a true story that I you tell.
A miller
was there dwelling many a day;
As any peacock he was proud and gay.
Play bagpipes he could and fish, and mend nets,
And make wooden cups, and wrestle well, and shoot;
And by his belt he bore a long sword,
And full sharp was the blade.
A jolly dagger bore he in his pouch—
Every man for fear dared not him touch—
A Sheffield knife he bore in his hose.
Round was his face, and pug was his nose;
As bald as an ape was his skull.
He swaggered in the market towns.
No man dared to a hand upon him lay,
For he would swear him to repay.
A thief he was in truth of wheat and meal,
And that a sly one, and wont to steal.
His name was called scornful Simkin.
A wife he had, come from noble kin:
The priest of the town her father was.
For dowry he gave full many a pan of brass,
That Simkin should with his blood ally.
She was raised in a nunnery
For Simkin wanted no wife, as he said,
Unless she were well brought up and a maid,
To preserve his rank as a yeoman free.
And she was proud, and pert as a magpie.
A full fair sight was it to look upon the two;
On holidays before her he would go
With his scarf wound round his head,
And she came after in a gown of red;
And Simkin had stockings of the same.
There dared no one call her but “Madame.”
And there was none so bold who went by the way
That with hir dorste rage or ones pleye,
But-if he wolde be slayn of Simkin
With panade, or with knyf, or boydekin.
For jalous folk ben perilous evermo,
Algate they wolde hir wyves wenden so.
And eek, for she was somdel smoterlich,
She was as digne as water in a dich;
And ful of hoker and of bisemare.
Hir thoughte that a lady sholde hir spare,
What for hir kinrede and hir nortelrye
That she had lerned in the nonnerye.
A doghter hadde they bitwixe hem two
Of twenty yeer, with-outen any mo,
Savinge a child that was of half-yeer age;
In cradel it lay and was a propre page.
This wenche thikke and wel y-growen was,
With camuse nose and yen greye as glas;
With buttokes brode and brestes rounde and hye,
But right fair was hir heer, I wol nat lye.
The person of the toun, for she was feir,
In purpos was to maken hir his heir
Bothe of his catel and his messuage.
And straunge he made it of hir mariage.
His purpos was for to bistowe hir hye
In-to som worthy blood of auncetrye;
For holy chirches good moot been despended
On holy chirches blood, that is descended.
Therfore he wolde his holy blood honoure,
Though that he holy chirche sholde devoure.
Gret soken hath this miller, out of doute,
With whete and malt of al the land aboute;
And nameliche ther was a greet collegge,
Men clepen the Soler-halle at Cantebregge,
Ther was hir whete and eek hir malt y-grounde.
And on a day it happed, in a stounde,
Sik lay the maunciple on a maladye;
Men wenden wisly that he sholde dye.
For which this miller stal bothe mele and corn
An hundred tyme more than biforn;
Who with her dared dally or play,
Unless he wanted to by Simkin be slain
With cutlass, or with knife, or dagger,
For jealous folk be dangerous evermore—
At least, they want their wives to believe so.
And also, for she was somewhat besmirched,
She was worthy as water in a ditch,
And full of hauteur and disdain.
He thought that a lady should remain aloof,
Thanks to her kindred and the refinement
That she had learned in the convent.
A daughter they had between the two
Of twenty years, without any more,
Except a child who was six months old;
In cradle it lay and was a fine boy.
This wench stout and well grown was,
With pug nose and eyes gray as glass,
With buttocks broad and breasts round and high;
But right fair was her hair, I will not lie.
The priest of the town, because she was fair,
Proposed to make her his heir
Both of his property and his house,
And particular he was about her espousal.
His purpose was to marry her high
Into some worthy old blood line;
For holy churchmen’s goods must be spent
On holy churchmen’s blood, that is descended.
Therefore he would his holy blood honor,
Though that he the holy church should devour.
Great monopoly had this miller, without doubt,
In wheat and malt of ale the land about;
And namely there was a great college
Men called Solar Hall at Cambridge;2
There was their wheat and also their malt ground.
And on a day it happened, at one time,
Sick lay the manciple with a malady:
Men thought for certain that he would die,
From whom this miller stole both meal and wheat
A hundred times more than before;
For ther-biforn he stal but curteisly,
But now he was a theef outrageously,
For which the wardeyn chidde and made fare.
But ther-of sette the miller nat a tare;
He craketh boost, and swoor it was nat so.
Than were ther yonge povre clerks two,
That dwelten in this halle, of which I seye.
Testif they were, and lusty for to pleye,
And, only for hir mirthe and revelrye,
Up-on the wardeyn bisily they crye,
To yeve hem leve but a litel stounde
To goon to mille and seen hir corn y-grounde;
And hardily, they dorste leye hir nekke,
The miller shold nat stele hem half a pekke
Of corn by sleighte, ne by force hem reve;
And at the laste the wardeyn yaf hem leve.
John hight that oon, and Aleyn hight that other;
Of o toun were they born, that highte Strother,
Fer in the north, I can nat telle where.
This Aleyn maketh redy al his gere,
And on an hors the sak he caste anon.
Forth goth Aleyn the clerk, and also John,
With good swerd and with bokeler by hir syde.
John knew the wey, hem nedede no gyde,
And at the mille the sak adoun he layth.
Aleyn spak first, “al hayl, Symond, y-fayth;
How fares thy faire doghter and thy wyf?”
“Aleyn! welcome,” quod Simkin, “by my lyf,
And John also, how now, what do ye heer?”
“Symond,” quod John, “by god, nede has na peer;
Him boës serve him-selve that has na swayn,
Or elles he is a fool, as clerkes sayn.
Our manciple, I hope he wil be deed,
Swa werkes ay the wanges in his heed.
And forthy is I come, and eek Alayn,
To grinde our corn and carie it ham agayn;
I pray yow spede us hethen that ye may.”
“It shal be doon,” quod Simkin, “by my fay;
What wol ye doon whyl that it is in hande?”
For heretofore he stole but in a polite way,
But now he was
a thief outrageously.
For which the warden chided him as he dared,
But thereof cared the miller not a tare;
He talked loud, and swore it was not so.
Then were there young poor scholars two
Who dwelt in this hall of which I speak.
Headstrong they were, and in high spirits,
And, only for their mirth and revelry,
They pestered the warden
To give them leave but a little while
To go to the mill and see wheat ground;
And boldly, they dare risk their necks,
The miller should not steal from them half a peck
Of wheat by sleight, nor by force them rob;
And at last the warden gave them leave.
John was named one, and Allen named the other;
Of one town were they born, that was called Strother,
Far in the north, I cannot tell where.
This Allen made ready all his gear,
And on a horse the sack of grain he cast anon.
Forth went Allen the scholar, and also John,
With good swords and shields by their sides.
John knew the way, they needed no guide,
And at the mill the sack adown he laid it.
Allen spoke first, “All hail, Simon, in faith!
How fares your daughter and your wife?”
“Allen, welcome,” said Simkin, “by my life!
And John also, how now, what do you here?”
“Simon,” said John, “by God, who has no peer,
He who has no servant should serve himself,
Or else he is a fool, as scholars say.
Our manciple, I expect, he will be dead,
So ache the molars in his head.
And therefore am I come, and also Allen,
To grind our wheat and carry it home again;
I pray you take care of us soon as you may.”
“It shall be done,” said Simkin, “by my faith.
What will you do while it is in hand?”
“By god, right by the hoper wil I stande,”
Quod John, “and se how that the corn gas in;
Yet saugh I never, by my fader kin,
How that the hoper wagges til and fra.”
Aleyn answerde, “John, and wiltow swa,
Than wil I be bynethe, by my croun,
And se how that the mele falles doun
In-to the trough; that sal be my disport.
For John, in faith, I may been of your sort;
I is as ille a miller as are ye.”
This miller smyled of hir nycetee,
And thoghte, “al this nis doon but for a wyle;
They wene that no man may hem bigyle;
But, by my thrift, yet shal I blere hir ye
For al the sleighte in hir philosophye.
The more queynte crekes that they make,
Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 27
