And took her in his arms and began her to kiss.
And she for wonder took of it no heed;
She heard not what thing he to her said;
She acted as if she had started out of a sleep,
Until she out of her bewilderment awoke.
“Griselda,” said he, “by God who for us died,
You are my wife, no other do I have,
Nor ever had, as God my soul save!
This is your daughter whom you have supposed
To be my wife; that other faithfully
Shall be my heir, as I have ever intended;
You bore him in your body truly.
At Bologna I have kept him secretly;
Take him again, for now may you not say
That you have lost either of your children two.
And folk who otherwise have said of me,
I advise them that I have done this deed
For no malice nor for cruelty,
But to test you in your womanhood,
And not to slay my children, God forbid!
But to keep them secretly and in silence,
Until I your purpose knew and all your will.”
When she this heard, fainting down she fell
For piteous joy, and after her swooning
She both her young children to her called,
And in her arms, piteously weeping,
Embraced them, and tenderly kissing,
Full like a mother, with her salt tears
She bathed both their faces and their hair.
O, which a pitous thing it was to see
Hir swowning, and hir humble voys to here!
“Grauntmercy, lord, that thanke I yow,” quod she,
“That ye han saved me my children dere!
Now rekke I never to ben deed right here;
Sith I stonde in your love and in your grace,
No fors of deeth, ne whan my spirit pace!
O tendre, o dere, o yonge children myne,
Your woful mooder wende stedfastly
That cruel houndes or som foul vermyne
Hadde eten yow; but god, of his mercy,
And your benigne fader tendrely
Hath doon yow kept;” and in that same stounde
Al sodeynly she swapte adoun to grounde.
And in her swough so sadly holdeth she
Hir children two, whan she gan hem t‘embrace,
That with greet sleighte and greet difficultee
The children from hir arm they gonne arace.
O many a teer on many a pitous face
Doun ran of hem that stoden hir bisyde;
Unnethe abouten hir mighte they abyde.
Walter hir gladeth, and hir sorwe slaketh;
She ryseth up, abaysed, from hir traunce.
And every wight hir joye and feste maketh,
Til she hath caught agayn hir contenaunce.
Walter hir dooth so feithfully plesaunce,
That it was deyntee for to seen the chere
Bitwixe hem two, now they ben met y-fere.
Thise ladyes, whan that they hir tyme say,
Han taken hir, and in-to chambre goon,
And strepen hir out of hir rude array,
And in a cloth of gold that brighte shoon,
With a coroune of many a riche stoon
Up-on hir heed, they in-to halle hir broghte,
And ther she was honoured as hir oghte.
Oh what a piteous thing it was to see
Her swooning, and her piteous voice to hear!
“Great thanks, lord, God reward you,” said she,
“That you have saved me my children dear!
Now I do not care if I should die right here;
Since I stand in your love and your grace
Death has no force, nor do I care when!
Oh tender, oh dear, oh young children mine,
Your woeful mother thought steadfastly
That cruel hounds or some foul beast
Had eaten you; but God of his mercy,
And your gracious father, tenderly
Had you cared for;” and then
All suddenly fell she to the ground.
And in her swoon so firmly held she
Her children two, when she them embraced,
That with great skill and great difficulty
The children from her arms away they tore.
Oh many a tear on many a piteous face
Down ran of them who stood there beside;
Scarcely about her might they abide.
Walter comforted her and her sorrow eased;
She rose up, embarrassed, from her trance,
And every person for her made gladness
Until she composed again her countenance.
Walter so faithfully did her kindness
That it was a delight to see the happiness
Between the two, now that they were together.
These ladies, when they their time saw,
Had taken her and into chamber went,
And removed her rude apparel,
And in a cloth of gold that bright shone,
With a crown of many a rich stone
Upon her head, they into hall her brought,
And there she was honored as they ought.
Thus hath this pitous day a blisful ende,
For every man and womman dooth his might
This day in murthe and revel to dispende
Til on the welkne shoon the sterres light.
For more solempne in every mannes sight
This feste was, and gretter of costage,
Than was the revel of hir mariage.
Ful many a yeer in heigh prosperitee
Liven thise two in concord and in reste,
And richely his doghter maried he
Un-to a lord, oon of the worthieste
Of al Itaille; and than in pees and reste
His wyves fader in his court he kepeth,
Til that the soule out of his body crepeth.
His sone succedeth in his heritage
In reste and pees, after his fader day;
And fortunat was eek in mariage,
Al putte he nat his wyf in greet assay.
This world is nat so strong, it is no nay,
As it hath been in olde tymes yore,
And herkneth what this auctour seith therfore.
This storie is seyd, nat for that wyves sholde
Folwen Grisilde as in humilitee,
For it were importable, though they wolde;
But for that every wight, in his degree,
Sholde be constant in adversitee
As was Grisilde; therfor Petrark wryteth
This storie, which with heigh style he endyteth.
For, sith a womman was so pacient
Un-to a mortal man, wel more us oghte
Receyven al in gree that god us sent;
For greet skile is, he preve that he wroghte.
But he ne tempteth no man that he boghte,
As seith seint Jame, if ye his pistel rede;
He preveth folk al day, it is no drede,
Thus had this piteous day a blissful end,
For every man and woman did his best
This day in mirth and revel to spend
Until in the sky shone the stars’ light.
For more splendid in every man’s sight
This feast was, and greater of cost,
Than was the revel of her marriage.
Full many a year in high prosperity
Lived these two in concord and in rest,
And richly his daughter married he
Unto a lord, one of the worthiest
Of all Italy, and then in peace and rest
His wife’s father in his court he kept,
Until the soul out of his body crept.
His son succeeded in his heritage,
In rest and peace, after his father’s day,
And fortunate was also in marriage,
Although put he not his
wife in great trial.
This world is not so strong, it cannot be denied,
As it was in times of yore.
And listen to what this Petrarch said therefore:
This story is told, not that wives should
Follow Griselda in humility,
For it would be unbearable if they did;
But so that every person in his degree
Should be constant in adversity
As was Griselda. Therefore Petrarch wrote
This story, which with high style he composed.
For since a woman was so patient
Unto a mortal man, well more we ought
Receive in good will what God us sends.
There is reason for him to test what he created,
But he tempts no man whom he has saved—
As said Saint James, if you his epistle read.
He tests folk all day, doubtless,
And suffreth us, as for our exercyse,
With sharpe scourges of adversitee
Ful ofte to be bete in sondry wyse;
Nat for to knowe our wil, for certes he,
Er we were born, knew al our freletee;
And for our beste, is al his governaunce;
Lat us than live in vertuous suffraunce.
But o word, lordinges, herkneth er I go:—
It were ful hard to finde now a dayes
In al a toun Grisildes three or two;
For, if that they were put to swiche assayes,
The gold of hem hath now so badde alayes
With bras, that thogh the coyne be fair at yö,
It wolde rather breste a-two than plye.
For which heer, for the wyves love of Bathe,
Whos lyf and al hir secte god mayntene
In heigh maistrye, and elles were it scathe,
I wol with lusty herte fresshe and grene
Seyn yow a song to glade yow, I wene,
And lat us stinte of ernestful matere:—
Herkneth my song, that seith in this manere.
The Envoy
Grisilde is deed, and eek hir pacience,
And bothe atones buried in Itaille;
For which I crye in open audience,
No wedded man so hardy be t‘assaille
His wyves pacience, in hope to finde
Grisildes, for in certein he shall faille!
O noble wyves, ful of heigh prudence,
Lat noon humilitee your tonge naille,
Ne lat no clerk have cause or diligence
To wryte of yow a storie of swich mervaille
As of Grisildis pacient and kinde;
Lest Chichevache yow swelwe in hir entraille!
And allows us, for our discipline,
With sharp scourges of adversity
Full often to be beaten in sundry ways,
Not to know our will, for certain he,
Before we were born, knew all our frailty.
And for our best is all his governance:
Let us then live in virtuous patience.
But one word, lordings, listen before I go:
It is full hard to find nowadays
In an entire town Griseldas three or two;
For if they were put to such tests,
The gold of them has now such bad alloy
With brass, that though the coin be fair to see,
It would rather break in two than bend.
For which right now, for love of the Wife of Bath—
Whose life and all her sect God maintains
In high mastery, and otherwise would be a pity—
I will with glad heart fresh and green
Sing you a song to gladden you, I think,
And let us stop talking now of serious matter.
Listen to my song, that says in this manner:
The Envoy4
Griselda is dead, and also her patience,
And both together buried in Italy.
For which I cry in open hearing:
No wedded man so bold be to try
His wife’s patience, in hope to find
Griselda, for in certain he shall fail!
Oh noble wives, full of high prudence,
Let no humility your tongue nail down,
Nor let any scholar have cause or diligence
To write of you a story of such a marvel
As Griselda, patient and kind in her travail,
Lest Chichevache5 swallow you into her entrails!
Folweth Ekko, that holdeth no silence,
But evere answereth at the countretaille;
Beth nat bidaffed for your innocence,
But sharply tak on yow the governaille.
Emprinteth wel this lesson in your minde
For commune profit, sith it may availle.
Ye archewyves, stondeth at defence,
Sin ye be stronge as is a greet camaille;
Ne suffreth nat that men yow doon offence.
And sclendre wyves, feble as in bataille,
Beth egre as is a tygre yond in Inde;
Ay clappeth as a mille, I yow consaille.
Ne dreed hem nat, do hem no reverence;
For though thyn housbonde armed he in maille,
The arwes of thy crabbed eloquence
Shal perce his brest, and eek his aventaille;
In jalousye I rede eek thou him binde,
And thou shalt make him couche as dooth a quaille.
If thou be fair, ther folk ben in presence
Shew thou thy visage and thyn apparaille;
If thou be foul, be free of thy dispence,
To gete thee freendes ay do thy travaille;
Be ay of chere as light as leef on linde,
And lat him care, and wepe, and wringe, and waille!
Follow Echo, who holds no silence,
But ever answers in counterreply;
Be not made a fool through your innocence,
But sharply take control.
Imprint well this lesson in your mind
For common profit, since it may avail.
You archwives, stand up in self-defense—
Since you be strong as is a camel—
Suffer not that men do you offense.
And slender wives, feeble in battle,
Be fierce as is an Indian tiger;
And chatter as loudly as a mill.
Fear them not, do them no honor;
For though your husband be armed in mail,
The arrows of your crabbed eloquence
Shall pierce his breast, and his visor as well.
In jealousy I advise you also him bind,
And you shall make him cower as does a quail.
If you be fair, where folk be present
Show your face and your apparel;
If you be ugly, be free spending
To get your friends ever to take your side.
Be cheerful and light as a leaf of the linden tree,
And let him worry, and weep, and wring, and wail!
The Marchantes Tale
The Prologue
“WEPING AND WAYLING, CARE, and other sorwe
I know y-nogh, on even and a-morwe,”
Quod the Marchaunt, “and so don othere mo
That wedded been, I trowe that it be so.
For, wel I woot, it fareth so with me.
I have a wyf, the worste that may be;
For thogh the feend to hir y-coupled were,
She wolde him overmacche, I dar wel swere.
What sholde I yow reherce in special
Hir hye malice? she is a shrewe at al.
Ther is a long and large difference
Bitwix Grisildis grete pacience
And of my wyf the passing crueltee.
Were I unbounden, al-so moot I thee!
I wolde never eft comen in the snare.
We wedded men live in sorwe and care;
Assaye who-so wol, and he shal finde
I seye sooth, by seint Thomas of Inde,
As for
the more part, I sey nat alle.
God shilde that it sholde so bifalle!
A! good sir hoost! I have y-wedded be
Thise monthes two, and more nat, pardee;
And yet, I trowe, he that al his lyve
Wyflees hath been, though that men wolde him ryve
Un-to the herte, ne coude in no manere
Tellen so muchel sorwe, as I now here
Coude tellen of my wyves cursednesse!”
“Now,” quod our hoost, “Marchaunt, so god yow blesse,
Sin ye so muchel knowen of that art,
Ful hertely I pray yow telle us part.”
“Gladly,” quod he, “but of myn owene sore,
For sory herte, I telle may na-more.”
The Merchant’s Tale
The Prologue
“WEEPING AND WAILING, CARE and other sorrow
I know enough, evening and morning,”
Said the Merchant, “and so do others more
Who have wedded been. I believe that it be so,
For well I know it fares so with me.
I have a wife, the worst that may be;
For though the fiend to her coupled were,
She would him overmatch, I dare well swear.
Why should I rehearse in special
Her high malice? She is a shrew in every way.
There is a long and large difference
Between Griselda’s great patience
And of my wife the surpassing cruelty.
Were I unbound, and may I flourish,
I would never again myself snare.
We wedded men live in sorrow and care.
Try whoso will, and he shall find
That I say truth, by Saint Thomas of India,1
As for the greater part—I say not all.
God shield that it should so befall!
Ah, good sir Host, I have wedded been
These months two, and not more, by God,
And yet I believe, he that all his life
Wifeless has been, though that men would him stab
Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 43
