Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  Be with a lion or a foul dragon,

  Than with a woman accustomed for to chide.

  Better it is,’ said he, ‘high on the roof abide

  Than with an angry wife down in the house;

  They be so wicked and contrarious

  They hate what their husbands love ever.’

  He said, ‘A woman casts her shame away,

  When she casts off her underclothes;’ and furthermore,

  ‘A fair woman, unless she be chaste also,

  Is like a gold ring in a sow’s nose.’

  Who would guess, or who would suppose

  The woe that in my heart was, and pain?

  And when I saw that he would never finish

  To read in this cursed book all night,

  All suddenly three pages have I ripped

  Out of his book, right as he read, and also

  I with my fist so hit him on the cheek

  That in our fire he fell backward down.

  And he got up as does an angry lion,

  And with his fist he struck me on the head

  That on the floor I lay as if I were dead.

  And when he saw how still that I lay,

  He was aghast, and would have fled away,

  Till at last out of my swoon I breathed:

  ‘Oh! have you slain me, you thief?’ I said,

  ‘And for my land have you murdered me?

  Before I be dead, yet will I kiss you.’

  And near he came, and kneeled fair down,

  And said, ‘Dear sister Alison,

  So help me God, I shall never you strike;

  But for what I’ve done, you have yourself to blame.

  Forgive it me, and that I you beseech—’

  And yet again I hit him on the cheek

  And said, ‘Thief! thus much I am avenged.

  Now will I die: I may no longer speak.’

  But at last, with much care and woe,

  We came to an agreement between us two.

  He gave me the bridle completely in my hand,

  To han the governance of hous and lond,

  And of his tonge and of his hond also,

  And made him brenne his book anon right tho.

  And whan that I hadde geten un-to me,

  By maistrie, al the soveraynetee,

  And that he seyde, ‘myn owene trewe wyf,

  Do as thee lust the terme of al thy lyf,

  Keep thyn honour, and keep eek myn estaat’—

  After that day we hadden never debaat.

  God help me so, I was to him as kinde

  As any wyf from Denmark un-to Inde,

  And also trewe, and so was he to me.

  I prey to god that sit in magestee,

  So blesse his soule, for his mercy dere!

  Now wol I seye my tale, if ye wol here.”

  Biholde the wordes bitween the Somonour and the Frere

  The Frere lough, whan he hadde hend al this,

  “Now, dame,” quod he, “so have I joye or blis,

  This is a long preamble of a tale!”

  And whan the Somnour herde the Frere gale,

  “Lo!” quod the Somnour, “goddes armes two!

  A frere wol entremette him ever-mo.

  Lo, gode men, a flye and eek a frere

  Wol falle in every dish and eek matere.

  What spekestow of preambulacioun?

  What! amble, or trotte, or pees, or go sit doun;

  Thou lettest our disport in this manere.”

  “Ye, woltow so, sir Somnour?” quod the Frere,

  “Now, by my feith, I shal, er that I go,

  Telle of a Somnour swich a tale or two,

  That alle the folk shal laughen in this place.”

  “Now elles, Frere, I bishrewe thy face,”

  Quod this Somnour, “and I bishrewe thy face,”

  But-if I telle tales two or three

  Of freres er I come to Sidingborne,

  That I shal make thyn herte for to morne;

  For wel I woot thy pacience is goon.”

  To have the governance of house and land,

  And of his tongue and his hand also;

  And made him burn his book anon right then.

  And when that I had gotten for myself,

  By mastery, all the sovereignty,

  And that he said, ‘My own true wife,

  Do as you please for the rest of your life;

  Preserve your honor, and keep my reputation—’

  After that day we had never debate.

  God help me so, I was to him as kind

  As any wife from Denmark unto India,

  And just as true, and so was he to me.

  I pray to God who sits in majesty,

  So bless his soul by his mercy dear!

  Now will I say my tale, if you will hear.”

  Behold the words between the Summoner and the Friar

  The Friar laughed when he had heard all this.

  “Now dame,” said he, “as I may have joy or bliss,

  This is a long preamble for a tale!”

  And when the Summoner heard the Friar say that aloud,

  “Behold,” said the Summoner, “God’s two arms,

  A friar will insinuate himself evermore!

  Behold, good men, a fly and also a friar

  Will fall in every dish and every topic.

  Why do you speak of perambulation?

  Behold! Amble, or trot, or walk, or go sit down!

  You interrupt our fun in this manner.”

  “So you’d say, sir Summoner?” said the Friar;

  “Now by my faith, I shall, before I go,

  Tell of a summoner such a tale or two

  That all the folk shall laugh in this place.”

  “Now otherwise, Friar, I will curse your face,”

  Said this Summoner, “and I curse me

  Unless I tell tales two or three 25

  Of friars, before I come to Sittingbourne,25

  So that I shall make your heart for to mourn—

  For well I know your patience is gone.”

  Our hoste cryde “pees! and that anoon!”

  And seyde, “lat the womman telle hir tale.

  Ye fare as folk that dronken been of ale.

  Do, dame, tel forth your tale, and that is best.”

  “Al redy, sir,” quod she, “right as yow lest,

  If I have licence of this worthy Frere.”

  “Yis, dame,” quod he, “tel forth, and I wol here.”

  The Tale

  In th‘old dayes of the king Arthour,

  Of which that Britons speken greet honour,

  Al was this land fulfiled of fayerye.

  The elf-queen, with hir joly companye,

  Daunced ful ofte in many a grene mede;

  This was the olde opinion, as I rede.

  I speke of manye hundred yeres ago;

  But now can no man see none elves mo.

  For now the grete charitee and prayeres

  Of limitours and othere holy freres,

  That serchen every lond and every streem,

  As thikke as motes in the sonne-beem,

  Blessinge halles, chambres, kichenes, boures,

  Citees, burghes, castels, hye toures,

  Thropes, bernes, shipnes, dayeryes,

  This maketh that ther been no fayeryes.

  For ther as wont to walken was an elf,

  Ther walketh now the limitour himself

  In undermeles and in morweninges,

  And seyth his matins and his holy thinges

  As he goth in his limitacioun.

  Wommen may go saufly up and doun,

  In every bush, or under every tree;

  Ther is noon other incubu but he,

  And he ne wol doon hem but dishonour.

  And so bifel it, that this king Arthour

  Hadde in his hous a lusty bacheler,

  That on a day cam rydinge fro river;

  And happed that, allone as she was
born,

  He saugh a mayde walkinge him biforn,

  Our Host cried “Peace! and that anon!”

  And said, “Let the woman tell her tale.

  You act as folk do who have had too much ale.

  Do, dame, tell forth your tale, and that is best.”

  “All ready, sire,” said she, “right as you wish,

  If I have the permission of this worthy Friar.”

  “Yes, dame,” said he, “tell forth, and I will hear.”

  The Tale

  In the old days of King Arthur,

  Of whom Britons speak great honor,

  All was this land filled with fairies.

  The elf-queen with her jolly company

  Danced full often in many a green meadow.

  This was the old opinion, as I read—

  I speak of many hundred years ago—

  But now can man see elves no more.

  For now the great charity and prayers

  Of beggars and other holy friars,26

  Who visit every land and every stream,

  As thick as dustmotes in the sunbeam,

  Blessing halls, chambers, kitchens, bedrooms,

  Cities, towns, castles, high towers,

  Villages, barns, sheds, dairies—

  This causes there to be no fairies.

  For there where was wont to walk an elf,

  There walks now the limitour27 himself

  In afternoons and in mornings,

  And says his Matins and his holy things

  As he goes in his territory.

  Women may now go safely up and down:

  In every bush or under every tree

  There is no other incubus but he,

  And he will only do them dishonor.

  And so it happened that this King Arthur

  Had in his house a lusty young knight,

  Who on a day came riding from the river;

  And it happened that, alone as he was born,

  He saw a maid walking him before,

  Of whiche mayde anon, maugree hir heed,

  By verray force he rafte hir maydenheed;

  For which oppressioun was swich clamour

  And swich pursute un-to the king Arthour,

  That dampned was this knight for to be deed

  By cours of lawe, and sholde han lost his heed

  Paraventure, swich was the statut tho;

  But that the quene and othere ladies mo

  So longe preyeden the king of grace,

  Til he his lyf him graunted in the place,

  And yaf him to the quene al at hir wille,

  To chese, whether she wolde him save or spille.

  The quene thanketh the king with al hir might,

  And after this thus spak she to the knight,

  Whan that she saugh hir tyme, up-on a day:

  “Thou standest yet,” quod she, “in swich array,

  That of thy lyf yet hastow no suretee.

  I grante thee lyf, if thou canst tellen me

  What thing is it that wommen most desyren?

  Be war, and keep thy nekke-boon from yren.

  And if thou canst nat tellen it anoon,

  Yet wol I yeve thee leve for to gon

  A twelf-month and a day, to seche and lere

  An answere suffisant in this matere.

  And suretee wol I han, er that thou pace,

  Thy body for to yelden in this place.”

  Wo was this knight and sorwefully he syketh;

  But what! he may nat do al as him lyketh.

  And at the laste, he chees him for to wende,

  And come agayn, right at the yeres ende,

  With swich answere as god wolde him purveye;

  And taketh his leve, and wendeth forth his weye.

  He seketh every hous and every place,

  Wher-as he hopeth for to finde grace,

  To lerne, what thing wommen loven most;

  But he ne coude arryven in no cost,

  Wher-as he mighte finde in this matere

  Two creatures accordingee in-fere.

  Somme seyde, wommen loven best richesse,

  Of which maid anon, no matter what she did,

  By force itself he took her maidenhead.

  For which wrong was such clamor

  And such pleading unto King Arthur,

  That condemned was this knight for to be dead

  By course of law, and should have lost his head—

  As it happened such was the law then—

  Except that the queen and other ladies more

  So long begged the king for grace

  Till he his life granted in the place,

  And gave him to the queen entirely at her will,

  To choose whether she would him save or kill.

  The queen thanked the king with all her might,

  And after this thus spoke she to the knight

  When she saw her time, upon a day:

  “You stand yet,” said she, “in such danger

  That of your life you have yet no guarantee.

  I grant you life, if you can tell me

  What thing it is that women most desire.

  Be careful, and keep your neck from the blade of iron.

  And if you cannot tell it now,

  Yet will I give you leave to go

  For twelve months and a day, to seek and learn

  An answer sufficient in this matter.

  And a surety bond will have, before you leave,

  To guarantee your return to this place.”

  Woeful was this knight and sorrowfully he sighed.

  But what! He may not do all as he liked,

  And at last he chose to his way wend,

  And come again, right at the year’s end,

  With such answer as God would him provide;

  And he took his leave and wended forth his way.

  He sought every house and every place

  Where he hoped to have the good grace,

  To learn what thing women love most;

  But he could arrive at no country or coast

  Where he might find in this matter

  Two creatures agreeing with each other.

  Some said women love best riches,

  Somme seyde, honour, somme seyde, jolynesse;

  Somme, riche array, somme seyden, lust abedde,

  And ofte tyme to be widwe and wedde.

  Somme seyde, that our hertes been most esed,

  Whan that we been y-flatered and y-plesed.

  He gooth ful ny the sothe, I wol nat lye;

  A man shal winne us best with flaterye;

  And with attendance, and with bisinesse,

  Been we y-lymed, bothe more and lesse.

  And somme seyn, how that we loven best

  For to be free, and do right as us lest,

  And that no man repreve us of our vyce,

  But seye that we be wyse, and no-thing nyce.

  For trewely, ther is noon of us alle,

  If any wight wol clawe us on the galle,

  That we nil kike, for he seith us sooth;

  Assay, and he shal finde it that so dooth.

  For be we never so vicious with-inne,

  We wol been holden wyse, and clene of sinne.

  And somme seyn, that greet delyt han we

  For to ben holden stable and eek secree,

  And in o purpos stedefastly to dwelle,

  And nat biwreye thing that men us telle.

  But that tale is nat worth a rake-stele;

  Pardee, we wommen conne no-thing hele;

  Witnesse on Myda; wol ye here the tale?

  Ovyde, amonges othere thinges smale,

  Seyde, Myda hadde, under his longe heres,

  Growinge up-on his heed two asses eres,

  The whiche vyce he hidde, as he best mighte,

  Ful subtilly from every mannes sighte,

  That, save his wyf, ther wiste of it na-mo.

  He loved hir most, and trusted hir also;

 
He preyde hir, that to no creature

  She sholde tellen of his disfigure.

  She swoor him “nay, for al this world to winne,

  She nolde do that vileinye or sinne,

  To make hir housbond han so foul a name;

  She nolde nat telle it for hir owene shame.”

  Some said honor, some said jollyness;

  Some rich adornment, some said lust abed,

  And oftentime to be widowed and again then wed.

  Some said that our hearts have been most eased

  When that we be flattered and pleased.

  He got very near the truth, I will not lie:

  A man shall win us best with flattery;

  And with attention and with diligence

  Be we snared, both more and less.

  And some said how that we love best

  For to be free and do right as we wish,

  And that no man reproach us for our vice,

  But say that we be not foolish, but all wise.

  For truly, there is none of us all,

  If any person would scratch our sore wounds,

  Who will not kick back if he tells the truth:

  Try, and he who does shall find it so.

  For be we ever so vicious within,

  We want to be thought wise, and clean of sin.

  And some say that great delight have we

  For to be thought steadfast and discreet,

  And in one purpose steadfastly to dwell,

  And not reveal things that men us tell—

  But that tale is not worth a rake handle.

  By God, we women know not how anything to conceal:

  Witness on Midas—will you hear this tale?

  Ovid, among other things brief,

  Said Midas28 had under his long hairs,

  Growing upon his head two asses’ ears,

  The which flaw he hid as best he might

  Full cleverly from every man’s sight.

  So that, save his wife, there knew of it no one.

  He loved her most, and trusted her also;

  He begged her that to no creature

  She should tell of his disfigure.

  She swore him that no, for all the world to win,

  She would not do that bad deed or sin,

  To make her husband have so foul a name.

  She would not tell it to spare her own shame.

  But nathelees, hir thoughte that she dyde,

  That she so longe sholde a conseil hyde;

  Hir thoughte it swal so sore aboute hir herte,

  That nedely som word hir moste asterte;

  And sith she dorste telle it to no man,

  Doun to a mareys faste by she ran;

  Til she came there, hir herte was a-fyre,

  And, as a bitore bombleth in the myre,

  She leyde hir mouth un-to the water doun: