Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  Or else they were sunken underground.

  So at last he has his time found

  To make his tricks and his wretched business

  From such a superstitious cursedness.

  His tables Toledan8 forth he brought,

  Full well corrected, there lacked nought,

  Neither his collect nor his expanse years,

  Nor his statistics nor his other gear,

  As were his centers and his arguments,

  And his proportionals convenient

  For his equations in every thing.

  And by his eighth sphere in his working

  He knew full well how far Alnath was advanced

  From that head of that same fixed Aries above

  That in the ninth sphere considered is:

  Full subtly he calculated all this.

  When he had found his first mansion,

  He knew the remainder by proportion,

  And he knew the rising of his moon well,

  And in whos face, and terme, and every-deel;

  And knew ful weel the mones mansioun

  Accordaunt to his operacioun,

  And knew also his othere observaunces

  For swiche illusiouns and swiche meschaunces

  As hethen folk used in thilke dayes;

  For which no lenger maked he delayes,

  But thurgh his magik, for a wyke or tweye,

  It semed that alle the rokkes were aweye.

  Aurelius, which that yet despeired is

  Wher he shal han his love or fare amis,

  Awaiteth night and day on this miracle;

  And whan he knew that ther was noon obstacle,

  That voided were thise rokkes everichon,

  Doun to his maistres feet he fil anon,

  And seyde, “I woful wrecche, Aurelius,

  Thanke yow, lord, and lady myn Venus,

  That me han holpen fro my cares colde:”

  And to the temple his wey forth hath he holde,

  Wher-as he knew he sholde his lady see.

  And whan he saught his tyme, anon-right he,

  With dredful herte and with ful humble chere,

  Salewed hath his sovereyn lady dere:

  “My righte lady,” quod this woful man,

  “Whom I most drede and love as I best can,

  And lothest were of al this world displese,

  Nere it that I for yow have swich disese,

  That I moste dyen heer at your foot anon,

  Noght wolde I telle how me is wo bigon;

  But certes outher moste I dye or pleyne;

  Ye slee me giltelees for verray peyne.

  But of my deeth, thogh that ye have no routhe,

  Avyseth yow, er that ye breke your trouthe.

  Repenteth yow, for thilke god above,

  Er ye me sleen by-cause that I yow love.

  For, madame, wel ye woot what ye han hight;

  Nat that I chalange any thing of right

  Of yow my sovereyn lady, but your grace;

  But in a gardin yond, at swich a place,

  And in whose face, and the division, and everything;

  And he knew full well the moon’s mansion,

  According to his operation,

  And he knew also his other ceremonies

  For such illusions and mischiefs,

  As heathen folk used in those days.

  For which no longer made he delays,

  But through his magic, for a week or two,

  It seemed that all the rocks were away.

  Aurelius, who yet despairing was

  Whether he shall have his love or fare amiss,

  Awaited night and day on this miracle;

  And when he knew that there was no obstacle—

  That removed were these rocks every one—

  Down to his master’s feet he fell anon

  And said, “I woeful wretch, Aurelius,

  Thank you, lord, and my lady Venus,

  Who have helped me from my cares cold.”

  And to the temple forth his way did he hold,

  Where he knew he should his lady see.

  And when he saw his time, right away he,

  With fearful heart and with full humble manner,

  Greeted his sovereign lady dear:

  “My right lady,” said this woeful man,

  “Whom I most fear and love as best I can,

  And most loathe of all this world to displease,

  Were it not for you that I have such misery

  That I must die here at your foot anon,

  I would not tell how woebegone I am.

  But certainly must I die or complain;

  You slay me, guiltless, with real pain.

  But of my death, though of that you have no pity,

  Take heed, before you break your pledge.

  Repent, for the sake of God above,

  Before you slay me because I love you.

  For, madame, well you know what you have promised—

  Not that I claim anything by right

  Of you, my sovereign lady, but your grace

  But in a garden yonder, at such a place,

  Ye woot right wel what ye bihighten me;

  And in myn hand your trouthe plighten ye

  To love me best, god woot, ye seyde so,

  Al be that I unworthy be therto.

  Madame, I speke it for the honour of yow,

  More than to save myn hertes lyf right now;

  I have do so as ye comanded me;

  And if ye vouche-sauf, ye may go see.

  Doth as yow list, have your biheste in minde,

  For quik or deed, right ther ye shul me finde;

  In yow lyth al, to do me lyve or deye;—

  But wel I woot the rokkes been aweye!”

  He taketh his leve, and she astonied stood,

  In al hir face nas a drope of blood;

  She wende never han come in swich a trappe:

  “Allas!” quod she, “that ever this sholde happe

  For wende I never, by possibilitee,

  That swich a monstre or merveille mighte be!

  It is agayns the proces of nature:”

  And hoom she goeth a sorweful creature.

  For verray fere unnethe may she go,

  She wepeth, wailleth, al a day or two,

  And swowneth, that it routhe was to see;

  But why it was, to no wight tolde she;

  For out of toune was goon Arveragus.

  But to hir-self she spak, and seyde thus,

  With face pale and with ful sorweful chere,

  In hir compleynt, as ye shul after here:

  “Allas,” quod she, “on thee, Fortune,

  I pleyne,

  That unwar wrapped hast me in thy cheyne;

  For which, t‘escape, woot I no socour

  Save only deeth or elles dishonour;

  Oon of thise two bihoveth me to chese.

  But nathelees, yet have I lever lese

  My lyf than of my body have a shame,

  Or knowe my-selven fals, or lese my name,

  And with my deth I may be quit, y-wis.

  Hath ther nat many a noble wyf, er this,

  You know right well that you promised me;

  And in my hand your troth you pledged

  To love me best. God knows, you said so,

  Albeit that I unworthy be thereto.

  Madame, I speak it for the honor of you

  More than to save my heart’s life right now.

  I have done as you commanded me;

  And if you are willing, you may go see.

  Do as you wish, have your promise in mind,

  For, quick or dead, you shall there me find.

  In you lies all to make me live or die:

  But well I know the rocks be away!”

  He took his leave, and she astonished stood;

  In all her face was not a drop of blood.

  She thought never to have come in such a trap.

  “Al
as!” said she, “that this should ever happen!

  For thought I never, by possibility,

  That such a strange thing or marvel might be!

  It is against the course of nature.”

  And home she went a sorrowful creature.

  For deep fear hardly could she walk.

  She wept, she wailed, a whole day or two,

  And swooned, that it pitiful was to see;

  But why it was, to no person told she,

  For out of town was gone Averagus.

  But to herself she spoke, and said thus,

  With pale face and with sorrowful mien,

  In her lament, and you shall after hear:

  “Alas,” said she, “To you, Fortune, I make my

  complaint,

  Who unaware has wrapped me in your chain,

  From which to escape I know no succor

  Save only death or else dishonor;

  One of these two must I choose.

  But nevertheless would I rather lose

  My life, than of my body to have a shame,

  Or know myself false, or lose my good name;

  And with my death I may be quit, I know.

  Has there not many a noble wife before now,

  And many a mayde y-slayn hir-self, alias!

  Rather than with hir body doon trespas?

  Yis, certes, lo, thise stories beren witnesse;

  Whan thretty tyraunts, ful of cursednesse,

  Had slayn Phidoun in Athenes, atte feste,

  They comanded his doghtres for t‘areste,

  And bringen hem biforn hem in despyt

  Al naked, to fulfille hir foul delyt,

  And in hir fadres blood they made hem daunce

  Upon the pavement, god yeve hem mischaunce!

  For which thise woful maydens, ful of drede,

  Rather than they wolde lese hir maydenhede,

  They prively ben stirt in-to a welle,

  And dreynte hem-selven, as the bokes telle.

  They of Messene lete enquere and seke

  Of Lacedomie fifty maydens eke,

  On whiche they wolden doon hir lecherye;

  But was ther noon of al that companye

  That she nas slayn, and with a good entente

  Chees rather for to dye than assente

  To been oppressed of hir maydenhede.

  Why sholde I thanne to dye been in drede?

  Lo, eek the tiraunt Aristoclides

  That loved a mayden, heet Stimphalides,

  Whan that hir fader slayn was on a night,

  Un-to Dianes temple goth she right,

  And hente the image in hir handes two,

  Fro which image wolde she never go.

  No wight ne mighte hir handes of it arace,

  Til she was slayn right in the selve place.

  Now sith that maydens hadden swich despyt

  To been defouled with mannes foul delyt,

  Wel oghte a wyf rather hir-selven slee

  Than be defouled, as it thinketh me.

  What shal I seyn of Hasdrubales wyf,

  That at Cartage birafte hir-self hir lyf?

  For whan she saugh that Romayns wan the toun,

  She took hir children alle, and skipte adoun

  In-to the fyr, and chees rather to dye

  And many a maid, slain herself, alas!

  Rather than with her body do trespass?

  Yes, certainly, these stories bear witness;9

  When thirty tyrants, full of cursedness,

  Had slain Phidon in Athens at the feast,

  They commanded his daughters for to be seized,

  And brought them before them to scorn

  All naked, to fulfill their foul delight,

  And in their father’s blood they made them dance

  Upon the pavement, God give them mischance!

  For which these woeful maidens, full of dread,

  Rather than they would lose their maidenhood,

  They secretly leapt into a well,

  And drowned themselves, as the books tell.

  The men of Messena had inquiries made and sought

  From Sparta fifty maidens also,

  On whom they would perform their lechery;

  But there was none of all that company who

  Was not slain, and with good will

  Chose to die rather than assent

  To be ravished of her maidenhood.

  Why should I then to die be in dread?

  Look also at the tyrant Aristoclides

  Who loved a maiden, named Stimphalades,

  When that her father slain was on a night,

  Unto Diana’s temple went she right,

  And clasped the holy image in her hands two,

  From which image would she never go.

  No person might her hands of it tear away,

  Until she was slain right in the place.

  Now since that maidens had such scorn

  To be defiled with man’s foul delight,

  Well ought a wife rather herself slay

  Than be defiled, as it seems to me.

  What shall I say of Hasdrubal’s wife,

  Who at Carthage took from herself her life?

  From when she saw that Romans won the town,

  She took her children all, and jumped down

  Into the fire, and chose rather to die

  Than any Romayn dide hir vileinye.

  Hath nat Lucresse y-slayn hir-self, alias !

  At Rome, whanne she oppressed was

  Of Tarquin, for hir thoughte it was a shame

  To liven whan she hadde lost hir name?

  The sevene maydens of Milesie also

  Han slayn hem-self, for verray drede and wo,

  Rather than folk of Gaule hem sholde oppresse.

  Mo than a thousand stories, as I gesse,

  Coude I now telle as touchinge this matere.

  Whan Habradate was slayn, his wyf so dere

  Hirselves slow, and leet hir blood to glyde

  In Habradates woundes depe and wyde,

  And seyde, ‘my body, at the leeste way,

  Ther shal no wight defoulen, if I may.’

  What sholde I mo ensamples heer-of sayn,

  Sith that so manye han hem-selven slayn

  Wel rather than they wolde defouled be?

  I wol conclude, that it is bet for me

  To sleen my-self, than been defouled thus.

  I wol be trewe un-to Arveragus,

  Or rather sleen my-self in som manere,

  As dide Demociones doghter dere,

  By-cause that she wolde nat defouled be.

  O-Cedasus! it is ful greet pitee,

  To reden how thy doghtren deyde, alias!

  That slowe hem-selven for swich maner cas.

  As greet a pitee was it, or wel more,

  The Theban mayden, that for Nichanore

  Hir-selven slow, right for swich maner wo.

  Another Theban mayden dide right so;

  For oon of Macedoine hadde hir oppressed,

  She with hir deeth hir maydenhede redressed.

  What shal I seye of Nicerates wyf,

  That for swich cas birafte hir-self hir lyf?

  How trewe eek was to Alcebiades

  His love, that rather for to dyen chees

  Than for to suffre his body unburied be!

  Lo which a wyf was Alcestè;” quod she.

  Than any Roman should do her villainy.

  Did not Lucretia slay herself, alas!

  At Rome, when she violated was

  By Tarquin, for to her seemed it was a shame

  To live when she had lost her name?

  The seven maidens of Miletus also

  Slew themselves, for great dread and woe,

  Rather than folk of Gaul should them oppress.

  More than a thousand stories, as I guess,

  Could I now tell as touching this matter.

  When Abradates was slain, his wife so dear

  Herself
slew, and let her blood glide

  In Abradates’ wounds deep and wide,

  And said, ‘My body, at least

  There shall no person defile, if I may it prevent.’

  Why should I more examples here recite,

  Since so many have themselves slain

  Rather than be defiled?

  I will conclude that it is better for me

  To slay myself than be defiled thus.

  I will be true unto Averagus,

  Or rather slay myself in some manner—

  As did Demotion’s daughter dear,

  By cause that she would not defiled be.

  Oh Scedasus! It is full great pity

  To read how your daughter died, alas!

  Who slew herself for such a kind of case.

  As great a pity was it, or well more,

  The Theban maiden who for Nicanor

  Herself slew for such kind of woe.

  Another Theban maiden did right so:

  Because one of Macedonia had her oppressed,

  She with her death her maidenhood redressed.

  What shall I say of Niceratus’ wife

  Who for such case bereft herself her life?

  How true also was to Alcibiades

  His love, who chose to die rather

  Than for to suffer his body unburied be!

  Look, what a wife was Alcestis,” said she.

  ”What seith Omer of gode Penalopee?

  Al Grece knoweth of hir chastitee.

  Pardee, of Laodomya is writen thus,

  That whan at Troye was slayn Protheselaus,

  No lenger wolde she live after his day.

  The same of noble Porcia telle I may;

  With-oute Brutus coude she nat live,

  To whom she hadde al hool hir herte yive.

  The parfit wyfhod of Arthemesye

  Honoured is thurgh al the Barbarye.

  O Teuta, queen! thy wyfly chastitee

  To alle wyves may a mirour be.

  The same thing I seye of Bilia,

  Of Rodogone, and eek Valeria.”

  Thus pleyned Dorigene a day or tweye,

  Purposing ever that she wolde deye.

  But nathelees, upon the thridde night,

  Horn came Arveragus, this worthy knight,

  And asked hir, why that she weep so sore?

  And she gan wepen ever lenger the more.

  “Alias!” quod she, “that ever was I born!

  Thus have I seyd,” quod she, “thus have I sworn‘—

  And told him al as ye han herd bifore;

  It nedeth nat reherce it yow na-more.

  This housbond with glad chere, in freendly wyse,

  Answerde and seyde as I shal yow devyse:

  “Is ther oght elles, Dorigen, but this?”

  “Nay, nay,” quod she, “god help me so, as wis;

  This is to muche, and it were goddes wille.”

  “Ye, wyf,” quod he, “lat slepen that is stille;

  It may be wel, paraventure, yet to-day.