And han a swete spyced conscience,
Sith ye so preche of Jobes pacience.
Suffreth alwey, sin ye so wel can preche;
And but ye do, certein we shal yow teche
That it is fair to have a wyf in pees.
Oon of us two moste bowen, doutelees;
And sith a man is more resonable
Than womman is, ye moste been suffrable.
What eyleth yow to grucche thus and grone?
Is it for ye wolde have my queynte allone?
Why taak it al, lo, have it every-deel;
Peter! I shrewe yow but ye love it weel!
For if I wolde selle my bele chose,
I coude walke as fresh as is a rose;
But I wol kepe it for your owene tooth.
Ye be to blame, by god, I sey yow sooth:
Swiche maner wordes hadde we on honde.
Now wol I speken of my fourthe housbonde.
My fourthe housbonde was a revelour,
This is to seyn, he hadde a paramour;
And I was yong and ful of ragerye,
Stiborn and strong, and joly as a pye.
Wel coude I daunce to an harpe smale,
And singe, y-wis, as any nightingale,
Whan I hade dronke a draughte of swete wyn.
Metellius, the foule cherl, the swyn,
That with a staf birafte his wyf hir lyf,
For she drank wyn, thogh I hadde been his wyf,
Though I right now should make my will and testament,
I left no word unreturned.
I brought it so about, by my cleverness,
That they must give it up, as for the best,
Or else had we never been in rest.
For though he looked like a lion maddened,
Yet should he fail in the end.
Then would I say, ‘Sweetheart, take heed
How meekly looks Wilkin our sheep!
Come near, my spouse, let me kiss your cheek!
You should be all patient and meek,
And have a disposition seasoned sweetly,
Since you so speak of Job’s patience.
Endure always, since you so well can preach;
And unless you do, for certain we shall you teach
That it is nice to have a wife in peace.
One of us two must give in, doubtless,
And since a man is more reasonable
Than woman is, you must be patient.
What ails you to grouch and groan?
Is it that you would have my quack alone?
Why take it all! Lo, have it every bit!
By Saint Peter! I curse you but you love it well!
For if I would sell my belle chose,
I could walk as fresh as is a rose;
But I will keep it for your own appetite.
You be to blame, by God, I tell you the truth.’
Like that back and forth we bandied.
Now will I speak of my fourth husband.
My fourth husband was a reveler—
That is to say, he had a paramour—
And I was young and full of appetite,
Stubborn and strong, and jolly as a magpie.
Well could I dance to a harp small,
And sing, truly, as any nightingale,
When I had drunk a draught of sweet wine.
Metellius, the foul churl, the swine,
Who with a staff bereft his wife of her life
For she drank wine, though if I had been his wife,
He sholde nat han daunted me fro drinke;
And, after wyn, on Venus moste I thinke:
For al so siker as cold engendreth hayl,
A likerous mouth moste han a likerous tayl.
In womman vinolent is no defence,
This knowen lechours by experience.
But, lord Crist! whan that it remembreth me
Up-on my yowthe, and on my jolitee,
It tikleth me aboute myn herte rote.
Unto this day it dooth myn herte bote
That I have had my world as in my tyme.
But age, alias! that al wol envenyme,
Hath me biraft my beautee and my pith;
Lat go, fare-wel, the devel go therwith!
The flour is goon, ther is na-more to telle,
The bren, as I best can, now moste I selle;
But yet to be right mery wol I fonde.
Now wol I tellen of my fourthe housbonde.
I seye, I hadde in herte greet despyt
That he of any other had delyt.
But he was quit, by god and by seint Joce!
I made him of the same wode a croce;
Nat of my body in no foul manere,
But certeinly, I made folk swich chere,
That in his owene grece I made him frye
For angre, and for verray jalousye.
By god, in erthe I was his purgatorie,
For which I hope his soule be in glorie
For god it woot, he sat ful ofte and song
Whan that his shoo ful bitterly him wrong.
Ther was no wight, save god and he, that wiste,
In many wyse, how sore I him twiste.
He deyde whan I cam fro Jerusalem,
And lyth y-grave under the rode-beem,
Al is his tombe noght so curious
As was the sepulcre of him, Darius,
Which that Appelles wroghte subtilly;
It nis but wast to burie him preciously.
Lat him fare-wel, god yeve his soule reste,
He should not have frightened me from drink!
And after wine on Venus must I think,
For all so surely as cold engenders hail,
A thirsty mouth must have a thirsty tail.
In women full of wine there’s no defence—
This know lechers by experience.
But, Lord Christ! When I think
Upon my youth, and on my gaiety,
It tickles me about my heart’s root.
Unto this day it does my heart good
That in my time I have had my world.
But age, alas! that all will poison,
Has me bereft my beauty and my vigor.
Let it go, farewell! The devil with it go!
The flower is gone, there is no more to tell:
The husk, as best I can, now must I sell;
But yet to be right merry will I try.
Now will I tell of my fourth husband.
I say, I had in heart great spite
That he of any other had delight.
But he was repaid, by God and Saint Joce!
I made him of the same wood a cross—
Not of my body in an unclean manner,
But certainly, to other men I was so nice
That in his own grease I made him fry
For anger and for pure jealousy.
By God, on earth I was his purgatory,
For which I hope his soul be in glory.
For God it knows, he sat full often and sang
When that his shoe full bitterly fitted him wrong.
There was no person, save God and he, who knew
How many ways I sorely him tormented.
He died when I returned from Jerusalem,
And lies buried inside a chapel,
Although his tomb was not so ornamented
As was the sepulchre of old Darius,10
Which that Appelles skillfully wrought;
It would have been a waste to bury him at high cost.
May he fare well, God rest his soul!
He is now in the grave and in his cheste.
Now of my fifthe housbond wol I telle.
God lete his soule never come in helle!
And yet was he to me the moste shrewe;
That fele I on my ribbes al by rewe,
And ever shal, un-to myn ending-day
But in our bed he was so fresh and gay,
And ther-with-al so wel coude he me glose,
Whan t
hat he wolde han my bele chose,
That thogh he hadde me bet on every boon,
He coude winne agayn my love anoon.
I trowe I loved him beste, for that he
Was of his love daungerous to me.
We wommen han, if that I shal nat lye,
In this matere a queynte fantasye;
Wayte what thing we may nat lightly have,
Ther-after wol we crye al-day and crave.
Forbede us thing, and that desyren we;
Prees on us faste, and thanne wol we flee.
With daunger oute we al our chaffare;
Greet prees at market maketh dere ware,
And to greet cheep is holde at litel prys;
This knoweth every womman that is wys.
My fifthe housbonde, god his soule blesse!
Which that I took for love and no richesse,
He som-tyme was a clerk of Oxenford,
And had left scole, and wente at hoom to bord
With my gossib, dwellinge in oure toun,
God have hir soule! hir name was Alisoun.
She knew myn herte and eek my privetee
Bet than our parisshe-preest, so moot I thee!
To hir biwreyed I my conseil al.
For had myn housbonde pissed on a wal,
Or doon a thing that sholde han cost his lyf,
To hir, and to another worthy wyf,
And to my nece, which that I loved weel,
I wolde han told his conseil every-deel.
And so I dide ful often, god it woot,
That made his face ful often reed and hoot
He is now in the grave and in his box.
Now of my fifth husband will I tell—
God let his soul never come in hell!
And yet he was to me the worst rascal.
Soreness on my ribs I still feel from a scuffle,
And ever shall unto my dying day.
But in our bed he was so fresh and gay,
And therewithal so well could he me persuade
When he would have my belle chose,
That though he would have beaten me on every bone,
He could win again my love anon.
I believe I loved him best for that he
Was of his love grudging to me.
We women have, if that I shall not lie,
In this matter an odd fantasy:
Whatever thing we may not lightly have,
Thereafter we will cry all day and crave.
Forbid us something, and that desire we;
Pursue us hard, and then we will flee.
For the haughty we set out all our wares:
Great crowd at market makes things dear,
And for too good a bargain we little care.
This knows every woman who is wise.
My fifth husband, God his soul bless!
Who that I took for love and no riches,
He was once a scholar at Oxford,
And had left school, and went home to board
With my close friend, dwelling in our town—
God save her soul, her name was Alison.
She knew my heart and also my secrets
Better than our parish priest,11 so may I flourish!
To her revealed I my feelings 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, whom I loved well,
I would tell his secrets in detail.
And so I did often, God well knows,
That made his face full often red and hot
For verray shame, and blamed him-self for he
Had told to me so greet a privetee.
And so bifel that ones, in a Lente,
(So often tymes I to my gossib wente,
For ever yet I lovede to be gay,
And for to walke, in March, Averille, and May,
Fro hous to hous, to here sondry talis),
That Jankin clerk, and my gossib dame Alis,
And I my-self, in-to the feldes wente.
Myn housbond was at London al that Lente;
I hadde the bettre leyser for to pleye,
And for to see, and eek for to be seye
Of lusty folk; what wiste I wher my grace
Was shapen for to be, or in what place?
Therefore I made my visitaciouns,
To vigilies and to processiouns,
To preching eek and to thise pilgrimages,
To pleyes of miracles and mariages,
And wered upon my gaye scarlet gytes.
Thise wormes, ne thise motthes, ne thise mytes,
Upon my peril, frete hem never a deel;
And wostow why? for they were used weel.
Now wol I tellen forth what happed me.
I seye, that in the feeldes walked we,
Til trewely we hadde swich daliance,
This clerk and I, that of my purveyance
I spak to him, and seyde him, how that he,
If I were widwe, sholde wedde me.
For certeinly, I sey for no bobance,
Yet was I never with-outen purveyance
Of mariage, n‘of othere thinges eek.
I holde a mouses herte nat worth a leek,
That hath but oon hole for to sterte to,
And if that faille, thanne is al y-do.
I bar him on honde, he hadde enchanted me;
My dame taughte me that soutiltee.
And eek I seyde, I mette of him al night;
He wolde han slayn me as I lay up-right,
And al my bed was ful of verray blood,
For pure shame, and blamed himself because he
Had told me so great a secrecy.
And so it befell that once during Lent—
So oftentimes that to my friend I went,
For ever yet I loved to be gay,
And for to walk in March, April and May,
From house to house, to hear sundry tales—
That Jankin the scholar and my friend Alis
And I myself into the fields went.
My husband was at London all that Lent:
I had the better chance to play,
And for to see, and also to be seen
By lusty folk. What knew I where grace
Was meant for me, or in what place?
Therefore I made my visitations,
To feast day services and processions,
To preaching and to these pilgrimages,
To plays of miracles, and marriages,
And wore my gay scarlet gowns.
Those worms, nor moths, nor mites,
Upon my soul’s peril, ate them not at all;
And you know why? For they were used well.
Now will I tell forth what happened to me.
I say that in the fields walked we,
Till truly we were getting on so well,
This scholar and I, that in my foresight
I spoke to him and how that he,
If I were widowed, should wed me.
For certainly, I say for no boast,
Yet I was never without future provision
Of marriage, not to mention other things.
I hold a mouse’s heart not worth a leek
That has but one hole for to run,
And if that fails, all is done.
I had him believe he had enchanted me—
My mother taught me that subtlety—
And also I said I dreamed of him all night:
That he would me slay as on my back I lay,
And all my bed was full of wet blood;
But yet I hope that he shal do me good;
For blood bitokeneth gold, as me was taught.
And al was fals, I dremed of it right naught,
But as I folwed ay my dames lore,
As wel of this as of other thinges more.
But now sir, lat me see, what I shal seyn?
A! ha! by g
od, I have my tale ageyn.
Whan that my fourthe housbond was on bere,
I weep algate, and made sory chere,
As wyves moten, for it is usage,
And with my coverchief covered my visage;
But for that I was purveyed of a make,
I weep but smal, and that I undertake.
To chirche was myn housbond born a-morwe
With neighebores, that for him maden sorwe;
And Jankin oure clerk was oon of tho.
As help me god, whan that I saugh him go
After the bere, me thoughte he hadde a paire
Of legges and of feet so clene and faire,
That al myn herte I yaf un-to his hold.
He was, I trowe, a twenty winter old,
And I was fourty, if I shal seye sooth;
But yet I hadde alwey a coltes tooth.
Gat-tothed I was, and that bicam me weel;
I hadde the prente of sëynt Venus seel.
As help me god, I was a lusty oon,
And faire and riche, and yong, and wel bigoon;
And trewely, as myne housbondes tolde me,
I had the beste quoniam mighte be.
For certes, I am al Venerien
In felinge, and myn herte is Marcien.
Venus me yaf my lust, my likerousnesse,
And Mars yaf me my sturdy hardinesse
Myn ascendent was Taur, and Mars ther-inne.
Allas! alias! that ever love was sinne!
I folwed ay myn inclinacioun
By vertu of my constellacioun;
That made me I coude noght withdrawe
My chambre of Venus from a good felawe.
But yet I hoped that he should do me good,
For blood betokens gold, as I was taught.
And all was false—I dreamed of it right not,
But as I followed always my dame’s lore
As well with this as other things more.
But now, sire, let me see, what was I saying?
Aha! By God, I have my tale again.
When that my fourth husband was on his bier,
I wept of course, and wore a sorry expression
As wives must, for it is the custom,
And with my kerchief covered my face;
But because I was provided with a mate,
I wept but little, and that I declare.
To church was my husband borne in the morning
With neighbors, who for him made sorrow;
And Jankin our scholar was one of those.
So help me God! When I saw him walk
After the bier, me thought he had a pair
Of legs and of feet so neat and fair,
That all my heart I gave to his hold.
He was, I believe, twenty winters old,
And I was forty, if I shall say right;
But yet I had always a colt’s appetite.
Gap-toothed I was, and that became me well;
I had the birthmark of Saint Venus’ seal.12
So help me God, I was a lusty one,
Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 32
