Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  “Biwreye me nat, thou water, with thy soun,”

  Quod she, “to thee I telle it, and namo;

  Myn housbond hath longe asses eres two!

  Now is myn herte all hool, now is it oute;

  I mighte no lenger kepe it, out of doute.”

  Heer may ye se, thogh we a tyme abyde,

  Yet out it moot, we can no conseil hyde;

  The remenant of the tale if ye wol here,

  Redeth Ovyde, and ther ye may it lere.

  This knight, of which my tale is specially,

  Whan that he saugh he mighte nat come therby,

  This is to seye, what wommen loven moost,

  With-inne his brest ful sorweful was the goost;

  But hoom he gooth, he mighte nat sojourne.

  The day was come, that hoomward moste he tourne,

  And in his wey it happed him to ryde,

  In al this care, under a forest-syde,

  Wher-as he saugh up-on a daunce go

  Of ladies foure and twenty, and yet mo;

  Toward the whiche daunce he drow ful yerne,

  In hope that som wisdom sholde he lerne.

  But certeinly, er he came fully there,

  Vanisshed was this daunce, he niste where.

  No creature saugh he that bar lyf,

  Save on the grene he saugh sittinge a wyf;

  A fouler wight ther may no man devyse.

  Agayn the knight this olde wyf gan ryse.

  And seyde, “sir knight, heer-forth ne lyth no wey.

  Tel me, what that ye seken, by your fey?

  Paraventure it may the bettre be;

  But nevertheless, she thought that she should die

  If she should for long the secret hide.

  Her thought it swelled so sore about her heart

  That need be some word out of her must start,

  And since she dared tell no man,

  Down to a nearby marsh she ran.

  Till she came there her heart was on fire,

  And as a bittern’s call booms in the mire,

  She laid her mouth unto the water down:

  ”Betray me not, you water, with your sound,”

  Said she, ”to you I tell it, and else no one;

  My husband has long asses’ ears two!

  Now is my heart again all whole, now is it out.

  I might no longer keep it, with no doubt.”

  Here you may see, though we a while abide,

  Yet out it must, we can no secret hide.

  The ending of this tale if you will hear,

  Read Ovid, and there you may it learn.

  This knight of which my tale is specially,

  When he saw he might not get his answer,

  That is to say, what women love most,

  Within his breast full sorrowful was his soul,

  But home he went, he might not linger.

  The day was come that homeward must he turn,

  And on his way it happened him to ride

  In all this care by a forest side,

  Where he saw engaged in a dance

  Of ladies four and twenty and yet more;

  Toward which dance he drew with yearning,

  In hope that some wisdom he could learn.

  But certainly, before he came fully there,

  Vanished was this dance, he knew not where.

  No creature saw he that bore life,

  Save on the grass he saw sitting a woman—

  An uglier person may no man imagine.

  To meet the knight this old lady arose,

  And said, “Sir knight, through here there’s no way.

  Tell me what you seek, by your faith!

  Perhaps it may the better be:

  Thise olde folk can muchel thing,” quod she.

  “My leve mooder,” quod this knight certeyn,

  “I nam but deed, but-if that I can seyn

  What thing it is that wommen most desyre;

  Coude ye me wisse, I wolde wel quyte your hyre.”

  “Plight me thy trouthe, heer in myn hand,” quod she,

  “The nexte thing that I requere thee,

  Thou shalt it do, if it lye in thy might;

  And I wol telle it yow er it be night.”

  “Have heer my trouthe,” quod the knight, “I grante.”

  “Thanne,” quod she, “I dar me wel avante,

  Thy lyf is sauf, for I wol stonde therby,

  Up-on my lyf, the queen wol seye as I.

  Lat see which is the proudeste of hem alle,

  That wereth on a coverchief or a calle,

  That dar seye nay, of that I shal thee teche;

  Lat us go forth with-outen lenger speche.”

  Tho rouned she a pistel in his ere,

  And bad him to be glad, and have no fere.

  Whan they be comen to the court, this knight

  Seyde, “he had holde his day, as he hadde hight,

  And redy was his answere,” as he sayde.

  Ful many a noble wyf, and many a mayde,

  And many a widwe, for that they ben wyse,

  The quene hir-self sittinge as a justyse,

  Assembled been, his answere for to here;

  And afterward this knight was bode appere.

  To every wight comanded was silence,

  And that the knight sholde telle in audience,

  What thing that worldly wommen loven best.

  This knight ne stood nat stille as doth a best,

  But to his questioun anon answerde

  With manly voys, that al the court it herde:

  “My lige lady, generally,” quod he,

  “Wommen desyren to have sovereyntee

  As wel over hir housbond as hir love,

  And for to been in maistrie him above;

  This is your moste desyr, thogh ye me kille,

  Doth as yow list, I am heer at your wille.”

  We old folks know many things,” said she.

  “My dear mother,” said this knight, “for certain

  I am good as dead, unless I can say

  What thing it is that women most desire.

  Could you tell me, I will repay your hire:”

  “Pledge me your promise, here in my hand,” said she,

  “The next thing that I request of thee,

  You shall do it, if it lies in your power,

  And I will tell it you before it be night.”

  “Have here my promise,” said the knight. “I grant it.”

  “Then,” said she, “I dare well boast

  Your life is safe, for I will stand thereby.

  Upon my life, the queen will say as well as I.

  Let see which is the proudest of them all,

  Who wears a kerchief or a crown,

  Who dares to deny that which I teach.

  Let us go forth without longer speech.”

  Then whispered she a message in his ear,

  And bade him to be glad and have no fear.

  When they returned to the court, this knight

  Said he had kept to his day, as he had pledged,

  And ready was his answer, as he said.

  Full many a noble wife, and many a maid,

  And many a widow—because they be wise—

  The queen herself sitting as a judge,

  Assembled were, his answer for to hear;

  And then this knight was bidden to appear.

  To every person commanded was silence,

  And thus the knight should tell his audience

  What thing that worldly women love best.

  This knight stood not still as does a beast,

  But to his question anon answered

  With manly voice, so that all the court it heard:

  “My liege lady, generally,” said he,

  “Women desire to have sovereignty

  As well over their husband as their lovers,

  And for to be in mastery them above.

  This is your greatest desire, though you me kill.
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br />   Do as you wish—I am here at your will.”

  In al the court ne was ther wyf ne mayde,

  Ne widwe, that contraried that he sayde,

  But seyden, “he was worthy han his lyf.”

  And with that word up stirte the olde wyf,

  Which that the knight saugh sittinge in the grene:

  “Mercy,” quod she, “my sovereyn lady quene!

  Er that your court departe, do me right.

  I taughte this answere un-to the knight;

  For which he plighte me his trouthe there,

  The firste thing I wolde of him requere,

  He wolde it do, if it lay in his might.

  Bifore the court than preye I thee, sir knight,”

  Quod she, “that thou me take un-to thy wyf;

  For wel thou wost that I have kept thy lyf.

  If I sey fals, sey nay, up-on thy fey!”

  This knight answerde, “alias! and weylawey!

  I woot right wel that swich was my biheste.

  For goddes love, as chees a newe requeste;

  Tak al my good, and lat my body go.”

  “Nay than,” quod she, “I shrewe us bothe two!

  For thogh that I be foul, and old, and pore,

  I nolde for al the metal, ne for ore,

  That under erthe is grave, or lyth above,

  But-if thy wyf I were, and eek thy love.”

  “My love?” quod he; “nay, my dampnacioun!

  Alias! that any of my nacioun

  Sholde ever so foule disparaged be!”

  But al for noght, the ende is this, that he

  Constreyned was, he nedes moste hir wedde;

  And taketh his olde wyf, and gooth to bedde.

  Now wolden som men seye, paraventure,

  That, for my necligence, I do no cure

  To tellen yow the joye and al th‘array

  That at the feste was that ilke day.

  To whiche thing shortly answere I shal;

  I seye, ther nas no joye ne feste at al,

  Ther nas but hevinesse and muche sorwe;

  For prively he wedded hir on a morwe,

  And al day after hidde him as an oule;

  In all the court there was no wife, nor maid,

  Nor widow who contraried what he said,

  But said he was worthy to have his life.

  And with that upstarted the old lady,

  Who that the knight saw sitting in the grass:

  “Mercy!” said she, “my sovereign lady queen!

  Before your court departs, do me right.

  I taught this answer unto the knight;

  For which he gave me his promise there,

  The first thing I would of him require

  He would it do, if it lay in his might.

  Before the court then I pray thee, sir knight,”

  Said she, “that you me take unto your wife,

  For well you know that I have saved your life.

  If I say false, say no, upon your faith!”

  This knight answered, “Alas and wellaway!

  I know right well that such was my promise.

  For God’s love, choose a new request:

  Take all my goods, and let my body go.”

  “No then,” said she, “I curse us both two!

  For though I be ugly and old and poor,

  I would not for all the metal nor the ore

  That under the earth is buried or lies above

  Be anything but your wife, and your love.”

  “My love?” said he. “No, my damnation!

  Alas! that any of my lineage

  Should ever so foul degraded be!”

  But all for nought, the end is this, that he

  Constrained was: he must needs her wed,

  And take his old wife and go to bed.

  Now would some men say, perhaps,

  That out of my negligence I fail

  To tell you the joy and all the show

  That at the feast was that same day.

  To which thing briefly answer I shall:

  I say there was no joy nor feast at all;

  There was but heaviness and much sorrow,

  For privately he married her on the morrow,

  And all day afterward hid himself like an owl,

  So wo was him, his wyf looked so foule.

  Greet was the wo the knight hadde in his thoght,

  Whan he was with his wyf a-bedde y-broght;

  He walweth, and he turneth to and fro.

  His olde wyf lay smylinge evermo,

  And seyde, “o dere housbond, ben‘cite!

  Fareth every knight thus with his wyf as ye?

  Is this the lawe of king Arthures hous?

  Is every knight of his so dangerous?

  I am your owene love and eek your wyf,

  I am she, which that saved hath your lyf;

  And certes, yet dide I yow never unright;

  Why fare ye thus with me this firste night?

  Ye faren lyk a man had lost his wit;

  What is my gilt? for godd’s love, tel me it,

  And it shal been amended, if I may.”

  “Amended?” quod this knight, “allas! nay, nay!

  It wol nat been amended never mo!

  Thou art so loothly, and so old also,

  And ther-to comen of so lowe a kinde,

  That litel wonder is, thogh I walwe and winde.

  So wolde god myn herte wolde breste!”

  “Is this,” quod she, “the cause of your unreste?”

  “Ye, certainly,” quod he, “no wonder is.”

  “Now, sire,” quod she, “I coude amende al this,

  If that me liste, er it were dayes three,

  So wel ye mighte bere yow un-to me.

  But for ye speken of swich gentillesse

  As is descended out of old richesse,

  That therfore sholden ye be gentil men,

  Swich arrogance is nat worth an hen.

  Loke who that is most vertuous alway,

  Privee and apert, and most entendeth ay

  To do the gentil dedes that he can,

  And tak him for the grettest gentil man.

  Crist wol, we clayme of him our gentillesse,

  Nat of our eldres for hir old richesse.

  For thogh they yeve us al hir heritage,

  For which we clayme to been of heigh parage,

  For woe was with him, his wife looked so foul.

  Great was the woe the knight had in his thought,

  When he was with his wife to bed brought;

  He wallowed, and he turned to and fro.

  His old wife lay smiling ever so,

  And said, “Oh dear husband, benedicite!

  Behaves every knight this way to his wife as you?

  Is this the law of King Arthur’s household?

  Is every knight of his so cold?

  I am your own love and also your wife;

  I am she who has saved your life;

  And certainly did I never you unright.

  Why do you thus with me this first night?

  You act like a man who has lost his wit!

  What is my guilt? For God’s love, tell me it,

  And it shall be amended, if I may.”

  “Amended?” said this knight, “alas! nay, nay!

  It will not be amended ever more!

  You are so ugly, and so old also,

  And come from such lowly birth,

  That little wonder is it that I toss and turn.

  So would God my heart burst!”

  “Is this,” said she, “the cause of your unrest?”

  “Yes, certainly,” said he, “no wonder is.”

  “Now sir,” said she, “I could amend all this,

  If that I wish, before it were days three,

  So long as you behave well toward me.

  Though you speak of such gentleness

  As is descended out of old riches—

  Therefore you should be a gentle man—r />
  Such arrogance is not worth a hen.

  See who is most virtuous always,

  In private and public, and who ever intends

  To do the gentle deeds that he can,

  And take him for the greatest gentleman.

  Christ wills that we draw from him our gentleness,

  Not of our ancestors from their old riches.

  For though they give us all their heritage—

  For which we claim to be of high parentage—

  Yet may they nat biquethe, for no-thing,

  To noon of us hir vertuous living,

  That made hem gentil men y-called be;

  And bad us folwen hem in swich degree.

  Wel can the wyse poete of Florence,

  That highte Dant, speken in this sentence;

  Lo in swich maner rym is Dantes tale:

  ‘Ful selde up ryseth by his branches smale

  Prowesse of man; for god, of his goodnesse,

  Wol that of him we clayme our gentillesse;’

  For of our eldres may we no-thing clayme

  But temporel thing, that man may hurte and mayme.

  Eek every wight wot this as wel as I,

  If gentillesse were planted naturelly

  Un-to a certeyn linage, doun the lyne,

  Privee ne apert, than wolde they never fyne

  To doon of gentillesse the faire offyce;

  They mighte do no vileinye or vyce.

  Tak fyr, and ber it in the derkeste hous

  Bitwix this and the mount of Caucasus,

  And lat men shette the dores and go thenne;

  Yet wol the fyr as faire lye and brenne,

  As twenty thousand men mighte it biholde;

  His office naturel ay wol it holde,

  Up peril of my lyf, til that it dye.

  Heer may ye see wel, how that genterye

  Is nat annexed to possessioun,

  Sith folk ne doon hir operacioun

  Alwey, as dooth the fyr, lo! in his kinde.

  For, god it woot, men may wel often finde

  A lordes sone do shame and vileinye:

  And he that wol han prys of his gentrye

  For he was boren of a gentil hous,

  And hadde hise eldres noble and vertuous,

  And nil him-selven do no gentil dedis,

  Ne folwe his gentil auncestre that deed is,

  He nis nat gentil, be he duk or erl;

  For vileyns sinful dedes make a cherl.

  For gentillesse nis but renomee

  Yet may they not bequeath, in any way,

  To any of us their virtuous living

  That made them be called gentlemen,

  Though they bade us follow them to such condition.

  We know the wise poet of Florence,

  Called Dante,29 speaks on this topic;

  Behold, in such manner is Dante’s tale:

  ‘Seldom grows as shoots from his family tree

  The excellence of man, for God in his goodness