And fair, and rich, and young;
And truly, as my husbands told me,
I had the best pudendum13 that might be.
For certainly, I am all Venerian
In feeling, and my heart is Martian:
Venus gave me my lust, my lecherousness,
And Mars gave me my sturdy boldness;
My ascendant was Taurus, and Mars therein.14
Alas! Alas! that ever love was sin!
I followed always my inclination
By virtue of my constellation;
So that I could not withhold
My chamber of Venus from a good fellow.
Yet have I Martes mark up-on my face,
And also in another privee place.
For, god so wis be my savacioun,
I ne loved never by no discrecioun,
But ever folwede myn appetyt,
Al were he short or long, or blak or whyt:
I took no kepe, so that he lyked me,
How pore he was, ne eek of what degree.
What sholde I seye, but, at the monthes ende,
This joly clerk Jankin, that was so hende,
Hath wedded me with greet solempnitee,
And to him yaf I al the lond and fee
That ever was me yeven ther-bifore;
But afterward repented me ful sore.
He nolde suffre nothing of my list.
By god, he smoot me ones on the list,
For that I rente out of his book a leef,
That of the strook myn ere wex al deef.
Stiborn I was as is a leonesse,
And of my tonge a verray jangleresse,
And walke I wolde, as I had doon biforn,
From hous to hous, al-though he had it sworn.
For which he often tymes wolde preche,
And me of olde Romayn gestes teche,
How he, Simplicius Gallus, lefte his wyf,
And hir forsook for terme of al his lyf,
Noght but for open-heeded he hir say
Lokinge out at his dore upon a day.
Another Romayn tolde he me by name,
That, for his wyf was at a someres game
With-oute his witing, he forsook hir eke.
And than wolde he up-on his Bible seke
That ilke proverbe of Ecclesiaste,
Wher he comandeth and forbedeth faste,
Man shal nat suffre his wyf go roule aboute;
Than wolde he seye right thus, withouten doute,
‘Who-so that buildeth his hous al of salwes,
And priketh his blinde hors over the falwes,
And suffreth his wyf to go seken halwes,
Yet I have Mars’ mark upon my face,
And also in another private place.
For, God so wise be my salvation,
I never loved with any wisdom,
But ever followed my appetite:
Whether he were short or long or black or white,
I didn’t care, so long as he pleased me,
How poor he was, nor of what level in society.
What should I say but, at the month’s end,
This jolly scholar Jankin, who was so nice,
Had wedded me with great solemnity,
And to him gave I all the land and property
That ever was given me therebefore.
But afterward I regretted it full sore;
He wouldn’t give me anything I pleased.
By God, he hit me once on the ear
Because I tore from his book a leaf,
And from that stroke my ear went deaf.
Stubborn I was as is a lioness,
And with my tongue a true wasp,
And walked I would, as I had before done,
From house to house, although he had it forbidden.
For which he oftentimes would preach,
And me of old Roman stories teach,
How Simplicius Gallus15 left his wife,
And her forsook the rest of his life,
Only because he her bareheaded saw
Looking out their door upon a day.
Another Roman told he me by name,
Who, because his wife was at a summer’s revel
Without his knowing, he too her forsook.
And then would he in his Bible seek
That same proverb of Ecclesiasticus
Where he commands and sternly forbids
Man should not allow his wife to roam about:
Then would he say right thus, without doubt:
‘Whoso builds his house of willow twigs,
And spurs his blind horse over ploughed furrows,
And his wife to go seek shrines allows,
Is worthy to been hanged on the galwes!’
But al for noght, I sette noght an hawe
Of his proverbes n’of his olde sawe,
Ne I wolde nat of him corrected be.
I hate him that my vices telleth me,
And so do mo, god woot! of us than I.
This made him with me wood al outrely;
I nolde noght forbere him in no cas.
Now wol I seye yow sooth, by seint Thomas,
Why that I rente out of his book a leef,
For which he smoot me so that I was deef.
He hadde a book that gladly, night and day,
For his desport he wolde rede alway.
He cleped it Valerie and Theofraste,
At whiche book he lough alwey ful faste.
And eek ther was som-tyme a clerk at Rome,
A cardinal, that highte Seint Jerome,
That made a book agayn Jovinian;
In whiche book eek ther was Tertulan,
Crisippus, Trotula, and Helowys,
That was abbesse nat fer fron Parys;
And eek the Parables of Salomon,
Ovydes Art, and bokes many on,
And alle thise wer bounden in o volume.
And every night and day was his custume,
Whan he had leyser and vacacioun
From other worldly occupacioun,
To reden on this book of wikked wyves.
He knew of hem mo legendes and lyves
Than been of gode wyves in the Bible.
For trusteth wel, it is an impossible
That any clerk wol speke good of wyves,
But-if it be of holy seintes lyves,
Ne of noon other womman never the mo.
Who peyntede the leoun, tel me who?
By god, if wommen hadde writen stories,
As clerkes han with-inne hir oratories,
They wolde han writen of men more wikkednesse
Than al the mark of Adam may redresse.
Is worthy to be hanged on the gallows!’
But all for nought, I give not a hawthorne berry
For his proverbs nor for his old saw,
Nor would I by him corrected be.
I hate him who my vices describes to me,
And so do more of us, God knows, than I.
This made him with me angry completely:
I would not go along with him in any case.
Now will I tell you the truth, by Saint Thomas,
Why I tore out of his book a leaf,
For which he smacked me so that I was deaf.
He had a book that gladly, night and day,
For his disport he would read always.
He called it Valerie and Theofraste,16
At which book he would laugh and laugh.
And also there was once a scholar at Rome,
A cardinal, who was called Saint Jerome,
Who made a book against Jovinian;
In which book there was Tertullian,
Chrysippus, Trotula,17 and Heloise,
Who was the abbess not far from Paris;
And also the Proverbs of Solomon,
Ovid’s Art of Love, and books many a one,
And all these were bound in one volume.
And every night and day was his custom,
When he had leisure and free
time
From other worldly occupation,
To read in this book of wicked wives.
He knew of them more legends and lives
Than there are of good wives in the Bible.
For trust well, it is an impossibility
That any scholar will speak good of wives,
But unless it be of holy saints’ lives,
Nothing of any other woman ever.
Who painted the lion,18 tell me, who?
By God, if women had written stories,
As scholars have within their oratories,
They would have written of men more wickedness
Than all the sex of Adam may redress.
The children of Mercurie and of Venus
Been in hir wirking ful contrarious;
Mercurie loveth wisdom and science,
And Venus loveth ryot and dispence.
And, for hir diverse disposicioun,
Ech falleth in otheres exaltacioun;
And thus, god woot! Mercurie is desolat
In Pisces, wher Venus is exaltat;
And Venus falleth ther Mercurie is reysed;
Therfore no womman of no clerk is preysed.
The clerk, whan he is old, and may noght do
Of Venus werkes worth his olde sho,
Than sit he doun, and writ in his dotage
That wommen can nat kepe hir mariage!
But now to purpos, why I tolde thee
That I was beten for a book, pardee.
Up-on a night Jankin, that was our syre,
Redde on his book, as he sat by the fyre,
Of Eva first, that, for hir wikkednesse,
Was al mankinde broght to wrecchednesse,
For which that Jesu Crist him-self was slayn,’
That boghte us with his herte-blood agayn.
Lo, here expres of womman may ye finde,
That womman was the los of al mankinde.
Tho redde he me how Sampson loste his heres,
Slepinge, his lemman kitte hem with hir sheres;
Thurgh whiche tresoun loste he bothe his yën.
Tho redde he me, if that I shal nat lyen,
Of Hercules and of his Dianyre,
That caused him to sette himself a-fyre.
No-thing forgat he the penaunce and wo
That Socrates had with hise wyves two;
How Xantippa caste pisse up-on his heed;
This sely man sat stille, as he were deed;
He wyped his heed, namore dorste he seyn
But ‘er that thonder stinte, comth a reyn.’
Of Phasipha, that was the quene of Crete,
For shrewednesse, him thoughte the tale swete;
Fy! spek na-more—it is a grisly thing—
The children of Mercury and of Venus19
Be in their behavior full contrarious:
Mercury loves science and wisdom,
And Venus loves revelry and to spend;
And, because of their diverse dispositions,
Each falls in the moment of the other’s highest ascent,
And thus, God knows, Mercury is powerless
In Pisces where Venus is at her greatest,
And Venus falls there where Mercury has risen;
Therefore no woman by a scholar is prized.
The scholar, when he is old, and may not do
Of Venus’ works worth his old shoe—
Then sits he down and writes in his dotage
That women cannot be faithful in marriage!
But now to the purpose why I told you
That I was beaten for a book, by God.
Upon a night Jankin, who was my lord,
Read in his book as he sat by the fire
Of Eve first, who for her wickedness
Was all mankind brought to wretchedness,
For which that Jesus Christ himself was slain,
Who bought us with his heartblood again.
Lo, here specifically of woman may you find
Who caused the loss to all mankind.
Then read he me how Samson lost his hair:
Sleeping, she cut it with her shears,
Through which treason lost he both his eyes.
Then read he me, if that I shall not lie,
Of Hercules and his Deianira,20
Who caused him to set himself afire.
Nothing forgot he the sorrow and the woe
That Socrates had with his wives two—
How Xantippe cast piss upon his head:
This poor man sat still, as if he were dead;
He wiped his head; no more dared he say
But ‘Before thunder ceases, there comes a rain.’
Of Pasiphae21 who was the Queen of Crete
Out of meanness him thought the tale sweet—
Fie! Speak no more, it is a grisly thing,
Of hir horrible lust and hir lyking.
Of Clitemistra, for hir lecherye,
That falsly made hir housbond for to dye,
He redde it with ful good devocioun.
He tolde me eek for what occasioun
Amphiorax at Thebes loste his lyf;
Myn housbond hadde a legende of his wyf,
Eriphilem, that for an ouche of gold
Hath prively un-to the Grekes told
Wher that hir housbonde hidde him in a place,
For which he hadde at Thebes sory grace.
Of Lyvia tolde he me, and of Lucye,
They bothe made hir housbondes for to dye;
That oon for love, that other was for hate;
Lyvia hir housbond, on an even late,
Empoysoned hath, for that she was his fo.
Lucya, likerous, loved hir housbond so,
That, for he sholde alwey up-on hir thinke,
She yaf him swich a maner love-drinke,
That he was deed, er it were by the morwe;
And thus algates housbondes han sorwe.
Than tolde he me, how oon Latumius
Compleyned to his felawe Arrius,
That in his gardin growed swich a tree,
On which, he seyde, how that his wyves three
Hanged hem-self for herte despitous.
‘0 leve brother,’ quod this Arrius,
‘Yif me a plante of thilke blissed tree,
And in my gardin planted shal it be!’
Of latter date, of wyves hath he red,
That somme han slayn hir housbondes in hir bed,
And lete hir lechour dighte hir al the night
Whyl that the corps lay in the floor up-right.
And somme han drive nayles in hir brayn
Whyl that they slepte, and thus they han hem slayn.
Somme han hem yeve poysoun in hir drinke.
He spak more harm than herte may bithinke.
And ther-with-al, he knew of mo proverbes
Than in this world ther growen gras or herbes.
Of her horrible lust and her liking.
Of Clytemnestra,22 for her lechery,
Who falsely made her husband for to die,
He read it with full good devotion.
He told me also for what occasion
Amphiaraus23 at Thebes lost his life.
My husband had a legend of his wife,
Eriphilem, who for a brooch of gold
Had secretly unto the Greeks told
Where her husband hid in a place,
For which he had at Thebes misfortune.
Of Livia told he me, and of Lucilia.
They both made their husbands for to die,
That one for love, the other was for hate.
Livia her husband, on an evening late,
Poisoned him, for she was his foe.
Lucilia, lecherous, loved her husband so,
That, so he should always upon her think,
She gave him such a kind of love-drink,
That he was dead before it was the morrow;
And thus always husbands have sorrow.
Then he
told me how one Latumius
Complained unto his companion Arrius,24
Who in his garden grew a certain tree
On which he said how his wives three
Hanged themselves for spite.
‘Oh dear brother,’ said this Arrius,
‘Give me a cutting of that blessed tree,
And in my garden planted shall it be!’
Of later date, of wives had he read
Who some had slain their husbands in their beds,
And let their lovers lie with them all night
While the corpse lay on the floor with open eyes.
And some had driven nails in their brains
While they slept, and thus they had them slain.
Some had in their drink them given poison.
He spoke more harm than heart may imagine.
And in addition he knew of more proverbs
Than in this world there grow grass or herbs.
‘Bet is,’ quod he, ‘thyn habitacioun
Be with a leoun or a foul dragoun,
Than with a womman usinge for to chyde.
Bet is,’ quod he, ‘hye in the roof abyde
Than with an angry wyf doun in the hous;
They been so wikked and contrarious;
They haten that hir housbondes loveth ay.’
He seyde, ‘a womman cast hir shame away,
Whan she cast of hir smok;’ and forthermo,
‘A fair womman, but she be chaast also,
Is lyk a gold ring in a sowes nose.’
Who wolde wenen, or who wolde suppose
The wo that in myn herte was, and pyne?
And whan I saugh he wolde never fyne
To reden on this cursed book al night,
Al sodeynly three leves have I plight
Out of his book, right as he radde, and eke,
I wit my fist so took him on the cheke,
That in our fyr he fil bakward adoun.
And he up-stirte as dooth a wood leoun,
And with his fist he smoot me on the heed,
That in the floor I lay as I were deed.
And when he saugh how stille that I lay,
He was agast, and wolde han fled his way,
Til atte laste out of my swogh I breyde:
‘0! hastow slayn me, false theef?’ I seyde,
‘And for my land thus hastow mordred me?
Er I be deed, yet wol I kisse thee.’
And neer he cam, and kneled faire adoun,
And seyde, ‘dere suster Alisoun,
As help me god, I shal thee never smyte;
That I have doon, it is thy-self to wyte.
Foryeve it me, and that I thee biseke’—
And yet eft-sones I hitte him on the cheke,
And seyde, ‘theef, thus muchel am I wreke;
Now wol I dye, I may no lenger speke.’
But atte laste, with muchel care and wo,
We fille acorded, by us selven two.
He yaf al the brydel in myn hond
‘Better it is,’ said he, ‘your habitation
Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 33
