Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

Then eastward flows increasing in its course

  To Emilia, to Ferrara and Venice:

  Which would take a long time to relate,

  And truly, in my judgement,

  Methinks it a thing irrelevant,

  Except to introduce his story.

  But this is his tale, which you may now hear.”

  The Tale

  PART ONE

  There is, in the west of Italy,

  Down at the foot of Mount Viso the cold,

  A pleasant plain, abundant of food,

  Where many a tower and town you may behold

  That founded were in times of forefathers old,

  And many another delightful sight,

  And Saluzzo was this noble country called.

  A marquis once upon a time was of that land

  As were his worthy elders him before;

  And obedient, ever ready to his hand

  Were alle his liges, bothe lasse and more.

  Thus in delyt he liveth, and hath don yore,

  Biloved and drad, thurgh favour of fortune,

  Bothe of his lordes and of his commune.

  Therwith he was, to speke as of linage,

  The gentilleste y-born of Lumbardye,

  A fair persone, and strong, and yong of age,

  And ful of honour and of curteisye;

  Discreet y-nogh his contree for to gye,

  Save in somme thinges that he was to blame,

  And Walter was this yonge lordes name.

  I blame him thus, that he considereth noght

  In tyme cominge what mighte him bityde,

  But on his lust present was al his thoght,

  As for to hauke and hunte one every syde;

  Wel ny alle othere cures leet he slyde,

  And eek he nolde, and that was worst of alle,

  Wedde no wyf, for noght that may bifalle.

  Only that point his peple bar so sore,

  That flokmele on a day they to him wente,

  And oon of hem, that wysest was of lore,

  Or elles that the lord best wolde assente

  That he sholde telle him what his peple mente,

  Or elles coude he shewe wel swich matere,

  He to the markis seyde as ye shul here.

  “O noble markis, your humanitee

  Assureth us and yeveth us hardinesse,

  As ofte as tyme is of necessitee

  That we to yow mowe telle our hevinesse;

  Accepteth, lord, now for your gentillesse,

  That we with pitous herte un-to yow pleyne,

  And lete your eres nat my voys disdeyne.

  Al have I noght to done in this matere

  More than another man hath in this place,

  Were all his vassals, both less and more.

  Thus in delight he lived, and had done of yore,

  Beloved and feared, through Fortune’s favor,

  Both by his commoners and his lords.

  Also he was, to speak of lineage,

  The highest born of Lombardy,

  A handsome person, and strong, and young of age,

  And full of honor and of courtesy;

  Wise enough to govern his country—

  Save in some things wherein he was to blame—

  And Walter was this young lord’s name.

  I blame him thus, that he considered not

  In the future what might him betide,

  But on his immediate pleasure was all his thought,

  And to hunt and hawk on every side;

  Well nigh all other cares let he slide,

  And would not—and that was worst of all—

  Wed a wife, no matter what may befall.

  Only that point his people took so hard

  That in crowds on a day they to him went,

  And one of them, who was most learned,

  Or because the lord would best assent

  That he should tell him what his people meant,

  Or because he best knew how to put it,

  He to the marquis said as you shall hear.

  “Oh noble marquis, your humanity

  Assures us and gives us the boldness

  As often as it is necessary,

  That we may tell you our heaviness.

  Accept, lord, of your gentleness,

  That we with sorrowful heart to you complain,

  And let your ears my voice not disdain.

  Although I have no more to do in this matter

  Than any other man in this place,

  Yet for as muche as ye, my lord so dere,

  Han alwey shewed me favour and grace,

  I dar the better aske of yow a space

  Of audience, to shewen our requeste,

  And ye, my lord, to doon right as yow leste.

  For certes, lord, so wel us lyketh yow

  And al your werk and ever han doon, that we

  Ne coude nat us self devysen how

  We mighte liven in more felicitee,

  Save o thing, lord, if it your wille be,

  That for to been a wedded man yow leste,

  Than were your peple in sovereyn hertes reste.

  Boweth your nekke under that blisful yok

  Of soveraynetee, noght of servyse,

  Which that men clepeth spousaille or wedlok;

  And thenketh, lord, among your thoghtes wyse,

  How that our dayes passe in sondry wyse;

  For though we slepe or wake, or rome, or ryde,

  Ay fleeth the tyme, it nil no man abyde.

  And though your grene youthe floure as yit,

  In crepeth age alwey, as stille as stoon,

  And deeth manaceth every age, and smit

  In ech estaat, for ther escapeth noon:

  And al so certein as we knowe echoon

  That we shul deye, as uncerteyn we alle

  Been of that day whan deeth shal on us falle.

  Accepteth than of us the trewe entente,

  That never yet refuseden your heste,

  And we wol, lord, if that ye wol assente,

  Chese yow a wyf in short tyme, atte leste,

  Born of the gentilleste and of the meste

  Of al this lond, so that it oghte seme

  Honour to god and yow, as we can deme.

  Yet inasmuch as you, my lord so dear,

  Have always showed me favor and grace,

  I dare the better ask of you a chance

  For audience, to put forward our request,

  And you, my lord, may do just as you wish.

  For certainly, lord, so well do you us please

  And all your work, and have always done, that we

  Could not ourselves imagine how

  We might live in more felicity,

  Save one thing, lord, if it be your will,

  And would please you to be a wedded man,

  Then would your people rest in supreme happiness.

  Bow your neck under that blissful yoke

  Of sovereignty, not of service,

  Which men call wedlock or marriage;

  And think, lord, among your thoughts wise,

  How our days pass in sundry ways;

  For though we sleep or wake, or roam, or ride,

  Still flees the time, for no man will it wait.

  And though your green youth flowers as yet,

  In creeps age always, silent as stone,

  And death menaces every age, and smites

  In every rank, for there escapes no one:

  And even though certain as we each know

  That we shall die, as uncertain we all

  Be of that day when death shall on us fall.

  Accept then of us this loyal good faith,

  That never yet refused your wish,

  And we will, lord, if you will assent,

  Choose you a wife in short time, and at the least,

  Born of the gentlest and of the best

  Of this land, so that it will be an

  Honor to God and you, as we can deem.
/>   Deliver us out of al this bisy drede,

  And take a wyf, for hye goddes sake;

  For if it so bifelle, as god forbede,

  That thurgh your deeth your linage sholde slake,

  And that a straunge successour sholde take

  Your heritage, o! wo were us alyve!

  Wherfor we pray you hastily to wyve.”

  Hir meke preyere and hir pitous chere

  Made the markis herte han pitee.

  “Ye wol,” quod he, “myn owene peple dere,

  To that I never erst thoghte streyne me.

  I me rejoysed of my libertee,

  That selde tyme is founde in mariage;

  Ther I was free, I moot been in servage.

  But nathelees I see your trewe entente,

  And truste upon your wit, and have don ay;

  Wherfor of my free wil I wol assente

  To wedde me, as sone as ever I may.

  But ther-as ye han profred me to-day

  To chese me a wyf, I yow relesse

  That choys, and prey yow of that profre cesse.

  For god it woot, that children ofte been

  Unlyk her worthy eldres hem bifore;

  Bountee comth al of god, nat of the streen

  Of which they been engendred and y-bore;

  I truste in goddes bountee, and therfore

  My mariage and myn estaat and reste

  I him bitake; he may don as him leste.

  Lat me alone in chesinge of my wyf,

  That charge up-on my bak I wol endure;

  But I yow preye, and charge up-on your lyf,

  That what wyf that I take, ye me assure

  To worshipe hir, whyl that hir lyf may dure,

  In word and werk, bothe here and everywhere,

  As she an emperoures doghter were.

  Deliver us out of this anxious dread

  And take a wife, for high God’s sake,

  For if it so befell, may God forbid,

  That through your death your line should end,

  And that an unknown successor should take

  Your heritage, Oh, woe were us alive!

  Wherefore we pray you hastily take a wife.”

  Their meek prayer and their piteous looks

  Made the marquis’ heart have pity.

  “You wish,” said he, “mine own people dear,

  What I never thought of doing before.

  I rejoiced in a liberty

  That seldom is found in marriage;

  Where I was once free, I would be in service.

  But nevertheless I see your true intent,

  And trust your judgement, and have done ever,

  Wherefore of my free will I will assent

  To wed, as soon as ever I may.

  But where you have offered me today

  To choose me a wife, I release you from

  That choice, and pray you withdraw that offer.

  For, God knows, that children oft be

  Unlike their worthy elders them before;

  Goodness comes from God, not of the blood

  Of which they be engendered and born.

  I trust in God’s goodness, and therefore

  My marriage and my nobility and peace

  I to Him entrust, to do as he pleases.

  Let me alone in the choosing of my wife—

  That burden upon my back I will endure;

  But I you pray, and charge upon your life,

  That whatever wife I take, you me assure

  To revere her while her life may endure,

  In word and work, both here and everywhere,

  As if she an emperor’s daughter were.

  And forthermore, this shal ye swere, that ye

  Agayn my choys shul neither grucche ne stryve;

  For sith I shal forgoon my libertee

  At your requeste, as ever moot I thryve,

  Ther as myn herte is set, ther wol I wyve;

  And but ye wole assente in swich manere,

  I prey yow, speketh na-more of this matere.”

  With hertly wil they sworen, and assenten

  To al this thing, ther seyde no wight nay;

  Bisekinge him of grace, er that they wenten,

  That he wolde graunten hem a certein day

  Of his spousaille, as sone as ever he may;

  For yet alwey the peple som-what dredde

  Lest that this markis no wyf wolde wedde.

  He graunted hem a day, swich as him leste,

  On which he wolde be wedded sikerly,

  And seyde, he dide al this at hir requeste;

  And they, with humble entente, buxonly,

  Knelinge up-on her knees ful reverently

  Him thanken alle, and thus they han an ende

  Of hir entente, and hoom agayn they wende.

  And heer-up-on he to his officeres

  Comaundeth for the feste to purveye,

  And to his privee knightes and squyeres

  Swich charge yaf, as him liste on hem leye;

  And they to his comandement obeye,

  And ech of hem doth al his diligence

  To doon un-to the feste reverence.

  And furthermore this shall you swear, that you

  Against my choice shall neither grouch nor strive;

  For since I shall forego my liberty

  At your request, as I may thrive,

  Where my heart is set, there will I take a wife.

  And unless you will assent in such manner,

  I pray you, speak no more of this matter.”

  With sincere hearts they swore and assented

  To all this thing—there said no person nay—

  Beseeching of him his grace, before they went,

  That he would grant them a certain day

  For his wedding, as soon as ever he may;

  For yet still the people somewhat dreaded

  Lest that this marquis no wife would wed.

  He granted them a day, such as it him pleased,

  On which he would be wedded surely,

  And said he did all this at their request.

  And they, with humble intent, submissively,

  Kneeling upon their knees full reverently,

  All thanked him; and thus they had an end

  Of their purpose, and home again they went.

  And hereupon he to his household

  Commanded for the feast to provide,

  And to his personal knights and squires

  Such charge gave as upon them he chose to lay;

  And they to the commandment obeyed,

  And each of them did all his best

  To do honor unto the feast.

  PART TWO

  Noght fer fro thilke paleys honurable

  Ther-as this markis shoop his mariage,

  Ther stood a throp, of site delitable,

  In which that povre folk of that village

  Hadden hir bestes and hir herbergage,

  And of hir labour took hir sustenance

  After that th‘erthe yaf hem habundance.

  Amonges thise povre folk ther dwelte a man

  Which that was holden povrest of hem alle;

  But hye god som tyme senden can

  His grace in-to a litel oxes stalle:

  Janicula men of that throp him calle.

  A doghter hadde he, fair y-nogh to sighte,

  And Grisildis this yonge mayden highte.

  But for to speke of vertuous beautee,

  Than was she oon the faireste under sonne;

  For povreliche y-fostred up was she,

  No likerous lust was thurgh hir herte y-ronne:

  Wel ofter of the welle than of the tonne

  She drank, and for she wolde vertu plese,

  She knew wel labour, but non ydel ese.

  But thogh this mayde tendre were of age,

  Yet in the brest of hir virginitee

  Ther was enclosed rype and sad corage;

  And in greet reverence and charitee

  H
ir olde povre fader fostred she;

  A fewe sheep spinning on feeld she kepte,

  She wolde noght been ydel til she slepte.

  And whan she hoomward cam, she wolde bringe

  Wortes or othere herbes tymes ofte,

  The whiche she shredde and seeth for hir livinge,

  And made hir bed ful harde and no-thing softe;

  And ay she kept hir fadres lyf on-lofte

  With everich obeisaunce and diligence

  That child may doon to fadres reverence.

  PART TWO

  Not far from this worthy place

  Where the marquis prepared for marriage,

  There stood a village, of site delightful,

  In which poor folk of that village

  Had their beasts and their habitations,

  And by their labor took their sustenance

  Such as provided their land’s abundance.

  Among these poor folk there dwelt a man

  Who was held to be poorest of them all;

  But high God sometimes can send

  His grace into a little ox’s stall.

  Janicula men of that town him called;

  A daughter had he, fair enough to the eye,

  And Griselda was this young maiden’s name.

  But to speak of virtuous beauty,

  Then was she one of the fairest under the sun;

  Because she was raised in poverty,

  No greed through her heart ran.

  Water from the spring, not wine from the cask

  She drank; and because she would virtue please,

  She knew well labor, but not idle ease.

  But though this maid tender was of age,

  Yet in the breast of her virginity

  There was enclosed a firm and mature heart;

  And in great reverence and charity

  Her old poor father cared for she.

  A few sheep, while spinning, on watch she kept;

  She would not be idle till she slept.