Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  But at last she, for his worthiness,

  And especially for his meek obedience,

  Had such pity felt for his suffering

  That secretly she consented

  To take him for hir housbonde and hir lord,

  Of swich lordshipe as men han over hir wyves;

  And for to lede the more in blisse hir lyves,

  Of his free wil be swoor hir as a knight,

  That never in al his lyf he, day ne night,

  Ne sholde up-on him take no maistrye

  Agayn hir wil, ne kythe hir jalousye,

  But hir obeye, and folwe hir wil in al

  As any lovere to his lady shal;

  Save that the name of soveraynetee,

  That wolde he have for shame of his degree.

  She thanked him, and with ful greet humblesse

  She seyde, “sire, sith of your gentillesse

  Ye profre me to have so large a reyne,

  Ne wolde never god bitwixe us tweyne,

  As in my gilt, were outher werre or stryf.

  Sir, I wol be your humble trewe wyf,

  Have heer my trouthe, til that myn herte breste.”

  Thus been they bothe in quiete and in reste.

  For o thing, sires, saufly dar I seye,

  That frendes everich other moot obeye,

  If they wol longe holden companye.

  Love wol nat been constreyned by maistrye;

  Whan maistrie comth, the god of love anon

  Beteth hise winges, and farewel! he is gon!

  Love is a thing as any spirit free;

  Wommen of kinde desiren libertee,

  And nat to ben constreyned as a thral;

  And so don men, if I soth seyen shal.

  Loke who that is most pacient in love,

  He is at his avantage al above.

  Pacience is an heigh vertu certeyn;

  For it venquisseth, as thise clerkes seyn,

  Thinges that rigour sholde never atteyne.

  For every word men may nat chyde or pleyne.

  Lerneth to suffre, or elles, so moot I goon,

  Ye shul it lerne, wher-so ye wole or noon.

  For in this world, certein, ther no wight is,

  That he ne dooth or seith som-tyme amis.

  To take him for her husband and her lord,

  Of such lordship as men have over their wives.

  And for to lead the more in bliss their lives,

  Of his free will he swore to her as a knight

  That never in all his life he, day or night,

  Would upon himself take any domination

  Against her will, nor display to her jealousy,

  But obey her and follow her will in all

  As any lover to his lady must—

  Save in the appearance of sovereignty,

  That he would retain, lest it reflect on his rank.

  She thanked him, and with full great humbleness

  She said, “Sir, since of your gentleness

  You offer me to have so free a reign,

  God forbid there should be between us,

  Through fault of mine, any war or strife.

  Sir, I will be your humble true wife:

  Have here my loyal pledge until my heart bursts.”

  Thus were they both in quiet and at rest.

  For one thing, sirs, safely I dare say,

  That friends each other must obey,

  If they will long hold company.

  Love will not be constrained by mastery.

  When mastery comes, the God of Love at once

  Beats his wings, and farewell, he is gone!

  Love is a thing like any spirit free.

  Women by nature desire liberty,

  And not to be constrained as a slave;

  And so do men, if the truth I shall say.

  Consider the man who is most patient in love:

  He has the advantage above all others.

  Patience is a high virtue, certainly,

  For it vanquishes, as these scholars say,

  Things that harshness will never attain.

  About every word men may not chide or complain:

  Learn to suffer, or else, as I may live,

  You shall it learn, whether you wish to or not.

  For in this world, certainly, there no person is

  Who never says or does something amiss.

  Ire, siknesse, or constellacioun,

  Wyn, wo, or chaunginge of complexioun

  Causeth ful ofte to doon amis or speken.

  On every wrong a man may nat be wreken;

  After the tyme, moste be temperaunce

  To every wight that can on governaunce.

  And therfore hath this wyse worthy knight,

  To live in ese, suffrance hir bihight,

  And she to him ful wisly gan to swere

  That never sholde ther be defaute in here.

  Heer may men seen an humble wys accord;

  Thus hath she take hir servant and hir lord,

  Servant in love, and lord in mariage;

  Than was he bothe in lordship and servage;

  Servage? nay, but in lordshipe above,

  Sith he hath bothe his lady and his love;

  His lady, certes, and his wyf also,

  The which that lawe of love acordeth to.

  And whan he was in this prosperitee,

  Hoom with his wyf he gooth to his contree,

  Nat fer fro Penmark, ther his dwelling was,

  Wher-as he liveth in blisse and in solas.

  Who coude telle, but he had wedded be,

  The joye, the ese, and the prosperitee

  That is bitwixe an housbonde and his wyf?

  A yeer and more lasted this blisful lyf,

  Til that the knight of which I speke of thus,

  That of Kayrrud was cleped Arveragus,

  Shoop him to goon, and dwelle a yeer or tweyne

  In Engelond, that cleped was eek Briteyne,

  To seke in armes worship and honour;

  For al his lust he sette in swich labour;

  And dwelled ther two yeer, the book seith thus.

  Now wol I stinte of this Arveragus,

  And speken I wole of Dorigene his wyf,

  That loveth hir housbonde as hir hertes lyf.

  For his absence wepeth she and syketh,

  As doon thise noble wyves whan hem lyketh,

  She moorneth, waketh, wayleth, fasteth, pleyneth;

  Anger, illness, or his stars,

  Wine, woe, or temperament

  Cause us full often to do or speak amiss.

  For every wrong a man may not be avenged:

  Suited for the circumstances must be moderation

  As every man who self-governance understands.

  And therefore did this wise, worthy knight,

  To live in ease, promise her his forebearance,

  And she to him full truly did swear

  That it never should be lacking in her.

  Here men may see a humble, wise accord:

  Thus did she take her servant and her lord,

  Servant in love, and lord in marriage;

  Then he was both in lordship and servitude.

  Servitude? Nay, but in lordship above,

  Since he had both his lady and his love;

  His lady, certainly, and his wife also,

  To which that law of love accords.

  And when he was in this prosperity,

  Home with his wife he went to his country,

  Not far from Penmarch, where his dwelling was,

  Where he lived in bliss and joy.

  Who could tell, unless he wedded be,

  The joy, the ease, the prosperity

  That is between a husband and his wife?

  A year and more lasted this blissful life,

  Until the knight of whom I speak of thus,

  Who from Kerru was called Averagus,

  Prepared himself to go and dwell a year or two

  In Engl
and, that was also called Britain,

  To seek in arms worship and honor—

  For all his pleasure he took in such labor—

  And dwelled there two years, the book said thus.

  Now will I cease concerning this Averagus,

  And speak I will of Dorigen his wife,

  Who loved her husband as her heart’s life.

  For his absence wept she and sighed,

  As do these noble wives when them it pleases.

  She mourned, kept vigil, wailed, fasted, lamented;

  Desyr of his presence hir so distreyneth,

  That al this wyde world she sette at noght.

  His frendes, whiche that knewe hir hevy thoght,

  Conforten hir in al that ever they may;

  They prechen hir, they telle hir night and day,

  That causelees she sleeth hir-self, alias!

  And every confort possible in this cas

  They doon to hir with al hir bisinesse,

  Al for to make hir leve hir hevinesse.

  By proces, as ye knowen everichoon,

  Men may so longe graven in a stoon,

  Til som figure ther-inne emprented be.

  So longe han they conforted hir, til she

  Receyved hath, by hope and by resoun,

  Th‘emprenting of hir consolacioun,

  Thurgh which hir grete sorwe gan aswage;

  She may nat alwey duren in swich rage.

  And eek Arveragus, in al this care,

  Hath sent hir lettres hoom of his welfare,

  And that he wol come hastily agayn;

  Or elles hadde this sorwe hir herte slayn.

  Hir freendes sawe hir sorwe gan to slake,

  And preyde hir on knees, for goddes sake,

  To come and romen hir in companye,

  Awey to dryve hir derke fantasye.

  And finally, she graunted that requeste;

  For wel she saugh that it was for the beste.

  Now stood hir castel faste by the see,

  And often with hir freendes walketh she

  Hir to disporte up-on the bank an heigh,

  Wher-as she many a ship and barge seigh

  Seilinge hir cours, wher-as hem liste go;

  But than was that a parcel of hir wo.

  For to hir-self ful ofte “allas!” seith she,

  “Is ther no ship, of so manye as I see,

  Wol bringen hom my lord? than were myn herte

  Al warisshed of his bittre peynes smerte.”

  Another tyme ther wolde she sitte and thinke,

  And caste hir eyen dounward fro the brinke.

  Desire of his presence so her distressed

  That all this wide world she held to be nought.

  Her friends, those who knew her heavy thought,

  Comforted her in all that ever they might:

  They preached to her, they told her day and night,

  That causelessly she was killing herself, alas!

  And every comfort possible in this case

  They did to her with all their diligence,

  All for to make her leave her heaviness.

  Over the course of time, as you all know,

  Men may so long engrave a stone

  Until some figure therein imprinted be.

  So long did they comfort her until she

  Received had, by hope and by reason,

  The imprint of their consolation,

  Through which her great sorrow was assuaged:

  She might not always continue in such passion.

  And also Averagus, in all this care,

  Had sent her letters home of his welfare,

  And that he would come hastily again;

  Or else had this sorrow her heart slain.

  Her friends saw her sorrow began to abate,

  And prayed to her on their knees, for God’s sake,

  To come and walk in their company,

  To drive away her dark imaginings.

  And finally, she granted that request,

  For well she saw that it was for the best.

  Now her castle stood close by the sea,

  And often with her friends walked she,

  Herself to amuse upon the bank on high,

  Where she many a ship and barge saw

  Sailing their courses, where they wished to go.

  But then was that a portion of her woe,

  For to herself full oft “Alas!” said she,

  “Is there no ship, of so many as I see,

  Will bring home my lord? Then were my heart

  All cured of its bitter pains sharp.”

  Another time she would sit there and think,

  And cast her eyes downward from the brink.

  But whan she saugh the grisly rokkes blake,

  For verray fere so wolde hir herte quake,

  That on hir feet she mighte hir noght sustene.

  Than wolde she sitte adoun upon the grene,

  And pitously in-to the see biholde,

  And seyn right thus, with sorweful sykes colde:

  “Eterne god, that thurgh thy purveyaunce

  Ledest the world by certein governaunce,

  In ydel, as men seyn, ye no-thing make;

  But, lord, thise grisly feendly rokkes blake,

  That semen rather a foul confusioun

  Of werk than any fair creacioun

  Of swich a parfit wys god and a stable,

  Why han ye wroght this werk unresonable?

  For by this werk, south, north, ne west, ne eest,

  Ther nis y-fostred man, ne brid, ne beest;

  It dooth no good, to my wit, but anoyeth.

  See ye nat, lord, how mankinde it destroyeth?

  An hundred thousand bodies of mankinde

  Han rokkes slayn, al be they nat in minde,

  Which mankinde is so fair part of thy werk

  That thou it madest lyk to thyn owene merk.

  Than seemed it ye hadde a greet chiertee

  Toward mankinde; but how than may it be

  That ye swiche menes make it to destroyen,

  Whiche menes do no good, but ever anoyen?

  I woot wel clerkes wol seyn, as hem leste,

  By arguments, that al is for the beste,

  Though I ne can the causes nat y-knowe.

  But thilke god, that made wind to blowe,

  As kepe my lord! this my conclusioun;

  To clerkes lete I al disputisoun.

  But wolde god that alle thise rokkes blake

  Were sonken in-to helle for his sake!

  Thise rokkes sleen myn herte for the fere.”

  Thus wolde she seyn, with many a pitous tere.

  Hir freendes sawe that it was no disport

  To romen by the see, but disconfort;

  And shopen for to pleyen somwher elles.

  But when she saw the grisly rocks black,

  For real fear so would her heart quake

  That to stand on her feet she could not sustain.

  Then would she sit down upon the green,

  And piteously into the sea behold,

  And say right thus, with sorrowful sighs cold:

  “Eternal God, who through your providence

  Guides the world by certain governance,

  In vain, as men say, you nothing make.

  But Lord, these grisly, fiendish rocks black,

  That appear to be rather a foul confusion

  Of work, than any fair creation

  Of such a perfect, wise and steadfast God,

  Why have you wrought this work confounding reason?

  For by this work, neither south, north, west, nor east,

  There is served any man, nor bird, nor beast.

  It does no good, that I can see, but only injury.

  See you not, Lord, how mankind it destroys?

  A hundred thousand bodies of mankind

  Have rocks slain, albeit unnamed:

  Which mankind is so fair a part of your work

  That you made it l
ike to your own image.

  Then seemed it you had great affection

  Toward men; but how then may it be

  That you make such means that could destroy it,

  Such means that do no good, but ever injure?

  I know well scholars will say as they please,

  By arguments, that all is for the best,

  Though I cannot their logic follow.

  But that same God that made wind to blow,

  May He protect my lord! This is my conclusion.

  To scholars leave I all disputation,

  But would God that all these black rocks

  Were sunk into hell for his sake!

  These rocks slay my heart with fear.”

  This would she say, with many a piteous tear.

  Her friends saw that for her it was no pleasure

  To roam by the sea, but discomfort,

  And arranged to play somewhere else.

  They leden hir by riveres and by welles,

  And eek in othere places delitables;

  They dauncen, and they pleyen at ches and tables.

  So on a day, right in the morwe-tyde,

  Un-to a gardin that was ther bisyde,

  In which that they had maad hir ordinaunce

  Of vitaille and of other purveyaunce,

  They goon and pleye hem al the longe day.

  And this was on the sixte morwe of May,

  Which May had peynted with his softe shoures

  This gardin ful of leves and of floures;

  And craft of mannes hand so curiously

  Arrayed hadde this gardin, trewely,

  That never was ther gardin of swich prys,

  But-if it were the verray paradys.

  Th’ odour of floures and the fresshe sighte

  Wolde han maad any herte for to lighte

  That ever was born, but-if to gret siknesse,

  Or to gret sorwe helde it in distresse;

  So ful it was of beautee with plesaunce.

  At-after diner gonne they to daunce,

  And singe also, save Dorigen allone,

  Which made alwey hir compleint and hir mone;

  For she ne saugh him on the daunce go,

  That was hir housbonde and hir love also.

  But nathelees she moste a tyme abyde,

  And with good hope lete hir sorwe slyde.

  Up-on this daunce, amonges othere men,

  Daunced a squyer biforen Dorigen,

  That fressher was and jolyer of array,

  As to my doom, than is the monthe of May.

  He singeth, daunceth, passinge any man

  That is, or was, sith that the world bigan.

  Ther-with he was, if men sholde him discryve,

  Oon of the beste faringe man on-lyve;

  Yong, strong, right vertuous, and riche and wys,

  And wel biloved, and holden in gret prys.

  And shortly, if the sothe I tellen shal,

  Unwiting of this Dorigen at al,

  They led her by rivers and by springs,