Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  But only for the love I had to thee.

  And thogh that I be old, and may nat see,

  Beth to me trewe, and I shal telle yow why.

  Three thinges, certes, shul ye winne ther-by;

  First, love of Crist, and to your-self honour,

  And al myn heritage, toun and tour;

  I yeve it yow, maketh chartres as yow leste;

  This shal be doon to-morwe er sonne reste.

  So wisly god my soule bringe in blisse,

  I prey yow first, in covenant ye me kisse.

  And thogh that I be jalous, wyte me noght.

  Ye been so depe enprented in my thoght,

  The winter is gone with all his rains wet.

  Come forth now, with your dovelike eyes!

  How fairer be your breasts than is wine!

  The garden is enclosed all about;

  Come forth, my lily-white spouse! Without doubt

  You have me wounded in my heart, Oh wife!

  No fault in you have I known in all my life.22

  Come forth, and let us take our disport;

  I choose you for my wife and my comfort.”

  Such old lewd words used he.

  To Damian a sign made she,

  That he should go before with his key.

  This Damian then opened the gate,

  And in he went, and that in such manner

  That no person might him see or hear,

  And still he sat under a bush anon.

  This January, as blind as is a stone,

  With May in his hand, and no person more,

  Into his fresh garden is a-gone,

  And shut the wicket suddenly.

  “Now wife,” said he, “here are but you and I,

  You are the creature that I best love.

  For by that Lord who sits in heaven above,

  I would rather die upon a knife

  Than you offend, true dear wife!

  For God’s sake, think how I you chose,

  Without doubt not for cupidity,

  But only for the love I had for you.

  And though I am old and cannot see,

  Be to me true, and I will tell you why.

  Three things, certainly, shall you gain thereby:

  First, love of Christ, and to yourself honor,

  And all my inheritance, town and tower;

  I give to you, make contracts as you wish;

  This shall be done tomorrow before the sun rests,

  So surely God my soul brings in bliss.

  I pray you first, in covenant you me kiss;

  And though I be jealous, blame me not.

  You be so deep imprinted in my thought

  That, whan that I considere your beautee,

  And ther-with-al the unlykly elde of me

  I may nat, certes, thogh I sholde dye,

  Forbere to been out of your companye

  For verray love; this is with-outen doute.

  Now kis me, wyf, and lat us rome aboute.”

  This fresshe May, whan she thise wordes herde,

  Benignely to Januarie answerde,

  But first and forward she bigan to wepe,

  “I have,” quod she, “a soule for to kepe

  As wel as ye, and also myn honour,

  And of my wyfhod thilke tendre flour,

  Which that I have assured in your hond,

  Whan that the preest to yow my body bond;

  Wherfore I wole answere in this manere

  By the leve of yow, my lord so dere:

  I prey to god, that never dawe the day

  That I ne sterve, as foule as womman may,

  If ever I do un-to my kin that shame,

  Or elles I empeyre so my name,

  That I be fals; and if I do that lakke,

  Do strepe me and put me in a sakke,

  And in the nexte river do me drenche.

  I am a gentil womman and no wenche.

  Why speke ye thus? but men ben ever untrewe,

  And wommen have repreve of yow ay newe.

  Ye han non other contenance, I leve,

  But speke to us of untrust and repreve.”

  And with that word she saugh wher Damian

  Sat in the bush, and coughen she bigan,

  And with hir finger signes made she,

  That Damian sholde climbe up-on a tree,

  That charged was with fruit, and up he wente;

  For verraily he knew al hir entente,

  And every signe that she coude make

  Wel bet that Januarie, hir owene make.

  For in a lettre she had told him al

  Of this matere, how he werchen shal.

  And thus I lete him sitte up-on the pyrie,

  That, when I consider your beauty

  And at the same time the unsuitability of my age,

  I may not, certainly, though I should die,

  Forebear to be out of your company

  For true love; this is without doubt.

  Now kiss me, wife, and let us roam about.”

  This fresh May, when she these words heard,

  Graciously to January answered,

  But first of all she began to weep.

  “I have,” said she, “a soul for to keep

  As well as you, and also my honor,

  And of my wifehood the tender flower,

  Which I have entrusted in your hand,

  When the priest to you my body bound;

  Therefore I will answer in this manner,

  By leave of you, my lord so dear:

  I pray to God that never dawns the day

  That I die, as foul women may,

  If I ever do unto my kin that shame,

  Or else I damage so my name,

  That I am false; and if I do that offense,

  Do strip me and put me in a sack,

  And in the next river do me drown.

  I am a gentle woman and no wench.

  Why speak you thus? But men are ever untrue,

  And women have reproof always of you.

  You have no other way, I believe,

  But to speak to us of faithlessness and reproof.”

  And with that word she saw where Damian

  Sat in the bush, and coughing she began,

  And with her finger signs made she

  That Damian should climb upon a tree

  That laden was with fruit, and up he went.

  For truly he knew all her intent,

  And every design that she could make,

  Well better than January, her own mate,

  For in a letter she had told him all

  Of this matter, how work he shall.

  And thus I let him sit upon the pear tree,

  And Januarie and May rominge myrie.

  Bright was the day, and blew the firmament,

  Phebus of gold his stremes doun hath sent,

  To gladen every flour with his warmnesse.

  He was that tyme in Geminis, as I gesse,

  But litel fro his declinacioun

  Of Cancer, Jovis exaltacioun.

  And so bifel, that brighte morwe-tyde,

  That in that gardin, in the ferther syde,

  Pluto, that is the king of fayërye,

  And many a lady in his companye,

  Folwinge his wyf, the quene Proserpyne,

  Ech after other, right as any lyne—

  Whyl that she gadered floures in the mede,

  In Claudian ye may the story rede,

  How in his grisly carte he hir fette:—

  This king of fairye thanne adoun him sette

  Up-on a bench of turves, fresh and grene,

  And right anon thus seyde he to his quene.

  “My wyf,” quod he, “ther may no wight sey nay;

  Th‘experience so preveth every day

  The treson whiche that wommen doon to man.

  Ten hondred thousand [stories] telle I can

  Notable of your untrouthe and brotilnesse.

  O Salomon, wys, richest of
richesse,

  Fulfild of sapience and of worldly glorie,

  Ful worthy been thy wordes to memorie

  To every wight that wit and reson can.

  Thus preiseth he yet the bountee of man:

  ”Amonges a thousand men yet fond I oon,

  But of wommen alle fond I noon.”

  Thus seith the king that knoweth your wikkednesse;

  And Jesus filius Syrak, as I gesse,

  Ne speketh of yow but selde reverence.

  A wilde fyr and corrupt pestilence

  So falle up-on your bodies yet to-night!

  Ne see ye nat this honurable knight,

  By-cause, allas! that he is blind and old,

  His owene man shal make him cokewold;

  And January and May roaming merry.

  Bright was the day, and blue the firmament;

  Phoebus had of gold his streams down sent

  To gladden every flower with his warmness.

  He was that time in Gemini,23 as I guess,

  But little from his declination

  Of Cancer, Jupiter in exaltation.

  And so befell, that bright morningtide

  That in that garden, in the further side,

  Pluto, who is king of the Underworld,

  And many a lady in his company,

  Following his wife, the queen Proserpina,

  Whom he carried off from Aetna

  While she gathered flowers in the meadow—

  In Claudian you may the stories read,

  How in his horrid chariot he her fetched—

  This king of the Underworld down him set

  Upon a bench of turf, fresh and green,

  And right anon thus said he to his queen:

  ‘My wife,” said he, ”there may no one say nay;

  As experience proves every day

  Of the treasons that women do to men.

  Ten hundred thousand tales I can tell

  Notable for your untruth and fickleness.

  Oh Solomon,24 wise and richest of the rich,

  Full of knowledge and worldly glory,

  Full worthy are your words for remembrance

  By every person whose wit and reason can.

  Thus praised he yet the goodness of man:

  “Among a thousand men yet found I one,

  But of women all found I none.”

  Thus said the king who knows your wickedness.

  And Jesus, filius Syrak,25 as I guess,

  Speaks of you but seldom reverence.

  A burning rash and pestilence

  So fall upon your bodies yet tonight!

  See you not this honorable knight,

  Because, alas, that he is blind and old,

  His own man shall make him cuckold.

  Lo heer he sit, the lechour, in the tree.

  Now wol I graunten, of my magestee,

  Un-to this olde blinde worthy knight

  That he shal have ayeyn his eyen sight,

  Whan that his wyf wold doon him vileinye;

  Than shal he knowen al hir harlotrye

  Both in repreve of hir and othere mo.”

  “Ye shal,” quod Proserpyne, “wol ye so;

  Now, by my modres sires soule I swere,

  That I shal yeven hir suffisant answere,

  And alle wommen after, for hir sake;

  That, though they be in any gilt y-take,

  With face bold they shulle hem-self excuse,

  And bere hem doun that wolden hem accuse.

  For lakke of answer, noon of hem shal dyen.

  Al hadde man seyn a thing with bothe his yen,

  Yit shul we wommen visage it hardily,

  And wepe, and swere, and chyde subtilly,

  So that ye men shul been as lewed as gees.

  What rekketh me of your auctoritees?

  I woot wel that this Jew, this Salomon,

  Fond of us wommen foles many oon.

  But though that he ne fond no good womman,

  Yet hath ther founde many another man

  Wommen ful trewe, ful gode, and vertuous.

  Witnesse on hem that dwelle in Cristes hous,

  With martirdom they preved hir constance.

  The Romayn gestes maken remembrance

  Of many a verray trewe wyf also.

  But sire, ne be nat wrooth, al-be-it so,

  Though that he seyde he fond no good womman,

  I prey yow take the sentence of the man;

  He mente thus, that in sovereyn bontee

  Nis noon but god, that sit in Trinitee.

  Ey! for verray god, that nis but oon,

  What make ye so muche of Salomon?

  What though he made a temple, goddes hous?

  What though he were riche and glorious?

  So made he eek a temple of false goddis,

  Look, where he sits, the lecher, in a tree!

  Now will I grant, of my majesty,

  Unto this old, blind, worthy knight

  That he shall have ever his eyesight,

  When his wife should do him villainy.

  Then shall he know all her harlotry,

  Both in reproof of her and others more.”

  “You shall?” said Proserpina, “Will say so?

  Now by my mother’s sire’s soul I swear

  That I shall give her sufficient answer,

  And all women after, for her sake,

  That, even if they are in the act taken,

  With faces bold they shall themselves excuse,

  And bear down on those who would them accuse.

  For lack of answer none of them shall die.

  Albeit had a man seen a thing with both his eyes,

  Yet shall women keep a brave face,

  And weep, and promise, and chide subtly,

  So that men shall be dumb as geese.

  What care I of your authorities?

  “I know well that this Jew, this Solomon,

  Found among us women fools many a one.

  But though he found no good woman,

  Yet have there found many another man

  Women full true, full good, and virtuous.

  Witness those who dwell in Christ’s house;

  With martyrdom they prove their constancy.

  The Roman histories also make remembrance

  Of many a true wife also.

  But sire, be not wroth, albeit so,

  Though that he found no good woman,

  I pray you take the gist of the man;

  He meant thus, that in perfect goodness

  Is none but God, and neither he nor she.

  “Eh! by the true God and no other,

  Why make you so much of Solomon?

  What though he made a temple, God’s house?

  What though he was rich and glorious?

  So made he also a temple of false gods.

  How mighte he do a thing that more forbode is?

  Pardee, as faire as ye his name emplastre.

  He was a lechour and an ydolastre;

  And in his elde he verray god forsook.

  And if that god ne hadde, as seith the book,

  Y-spared him for his fadres sake, he sholde

  Have lost his regne rather than he wolde.

  I sette noght of al the vileinye,

  That ye of wommen wryte, a boterflye.

  I am a womman, nedes moot I speke,

  Or elles swelle til myn herte breke.

  For sithen he seyde that we ben jangleresses,

  As ever hool I mote brouke my tresses,

  I shal nat spare, for no curteisye,

  To speke him harm that wolde us vileinye.”

  “Dame,” quod this Pluto, “be no lenger wrooth;

  I yeve it up; but sith I swoor myn ooth

  That I wolde graunten him his sighte ageyn,

  My word shal stonde, I warne yow, certeyn.

  I am a king, it sit me noght to lye.”

  “And I,” quod she, “a queene of fayerye.

  Hir answer
e shal she have, I undertake;

  Lat us na-more wordes heer-of make.

  For sothe, I wol no lenger yow contrarie.”

  Now lat us turne agayn to Januarie,

  That in the gardin with his faire May

  Singeth, ful merier than the papejay,

  “Yow love I best, and shal, and other noon.”

  So longe aboute the aleyes is he goon,

  Til he was come agaynes thilke pyrie,

  Wher-as this Damian sitteth ful myrie

  An heigh, among the fresshe leves grene.

  This fresshe May, that is so bright and shene,

  Gan for to syke, and seyde, “allas, my syde!

  Now sir;” quod she, ”for aught that may bityde,

  I moste han of the peres that I see,

  Or I mot dye, so sore longeth me

  To eten of the smale peres grene.

  Help, for hir love that is of hevene quene!

  How could he have done a thing that more forbidden was?

  By God, as fair as you wash his name white with plaster,

  He was an idolator and a lecher,

  And in his age he the true God forsook;

  And if God had not, as says the book,

  Spared him for his father’s sake, he would

  Have lost his reign sooner than he wanted.

  I care not, for all the villainy

  That you of women write, a butterfly!

  I am a woman, needs must I speak,

  Or else swell till my heart breaks.

  For since he said that we be chatterboxes,

  As long as I will braid my tresses,

  I shall not spare, for any courtesy,

  To speak harm of him who depicts us shamefully.”

  “Dame,” said this Pluto, “be no longer wroth;

  I give it up! But since I swore my oath

  That I would grant him his sight again,

  My word shall stand, I warn you certain.

  I am a king; it suits me not to lie.”

  “And I,” said she, “a queen of the Underworld!

  Her answer shall she have, I undertake.

  Let us no more words hereof make;

  For truth, I will no longer you contrary.”

  Now let us turn again to January,

  Who in the garden with his fair May

  Singing full merrier than a popinjay,

  “You love I best, and shall, and other none.”

  So long about the paths did he go,

  Till he was come again to that pear tree

  Where this Damian sat full merry

  On high among the fresh leaves green.

  This fresh May, who is so bright and shining,

  Began for to sigh, and said, “Alas, my side!

  Now sir,” said she, “no matter what,

  I must have of the pears that I see,

  If I must die, so sore do I yearn

  To eat of the small pears green.

  Help, for her love that is of Heaven’s queen!

  I telle yow wel, a womman in my plyt