Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  And with his spear he smote his heart in two,

  And went his way without words more.

  He has a thousand slain during this plague.20

  And master, before you come in his presence,

  Methinks that it is necessary

  For to be aware of such an adversary:

  Be ready for to meet him at any hour.

  Thus taught me my mother, I say no more.”

  “By Saint Mary,” said this tavernkeeper,

  “The child says the truth, for he has slain this year,

  For a mile around, within a great village,

  Both man and woman, child, and servant, and laborer;

  I believe his habitation to be there.

  Be advised to be careful that he

  Er that he dide a man a dishonour.”

  “Ye, goddes armes,” quod this ryotour,

  “Is it swich peril with him for to mete?

  I shal him seke by wey and eek by strete,

  I make avow to goddes digne bones!

  Herkneth, felawes, we three been al ones;

  Lat ech of us holde up his hond til other,

  And ech of us bicomen otheres brother,

  And we wol sleen this false traytour Deeth;

  He shal be slayn, which that so many sleeth,

  By goddes dignitee, er it be night.”

  Togidres han thise three her trouthes plight,

  To live and dyen ech of hem for other,

  As though he were his owene y-boren brother.

  And up they sterte al dronken, in this rage,

  And forth they goon towardes that village,

  Of which the taverner had spoke biforn,

  And many a grisly ooth than han they sworn,

  And Cristes blessed body they to-rente—

  “Deeth shal be deed, if that they may him hente.”

  Whan they han goon nat fully half a myle,

  Right as they wolde han troden over a style,

  An old man and a povre with hem mette.

  This olde man ful mekely hem grette,

  And seyde thus, “now, lordes, god yow see!”

  The proudest of thise ryotoures three

  Answerde agayn, “what? carl, with sory grace,

  Why artow al forwrapped save thy face?

  Why livestow so longe in so greet age?”

  This olde man gan loke in his visage,

  And seyde thus, “for I ne can nat finde

  A man, though that I walked in-to Inde,

  Neither in citee nor in no village,

  That wolde chaunge his youthe for myn age;

  And therfore moot I han myn age stille,

  As longe time as it is goddes wille.

  Ne deeth, alias! ne wol nat han my lyf;

  Thus walke I, lyk a restelees caityf,

  And on the ground, which is my modres gate,

  Has to dishonor you no opportunity.”

  “God’s arms!” said this reveler,

  “Is it such peril with him to meet?

  I shall him seek by road and also by street,

  I make a vow of it by God’s worthy bones!

  Harken, fellows, let’s we three be agreed:

  Let each of us hold up his hand to the other,

  And each of us become the other’s brother,

  And we will slay this false traitor Death.

  He shall be slain, he who so many slays,

  By God’s worthiness, before it be night.”

  Together have these three their troths plighted

  To live and die each of them for the other,

  As though they were their own born brothers.

  And up they started, all drunk in this passion,

  And forth they went toward that village

  Of which the tavernkeeper had before spoken,

  And many a grisly oath then did they swear,

  And Christ’s blessed body they tore to pieces—

  Death would be dead, if they could him seize.

  When they had gone not fully half a mile,

  Just as they would have stepped over a stile,

  An old and poor man they did meet.

  This old man full meekly them greeted,

  And said thus, “Now lords, may God you protect!”

  The proudest of these revelers three

  Answered again, “What, fellow, confound you!

  Why are you all wrapped up except your face?

  Why do you live so long to such great age?”

  This old man looked him in the eye,

  And said thus, “Because I cannot find

  A man, though I walk to India,

  Neither in city or in village,

  Who would change his youth for my age;

  And therefore must I have my age still,

  As long time as it is God’s will.

  Nor will Death take my life.

  Thus walk I, like a restless captive,

  And on the ground, which is my mother’s gate,

  I knokke with my staf, bothe erly and late,

  And seye, ‘leve moder, leet me in!

  Lo, how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and skin!

  Allas! whan shul my bones been at reste?

  Moder, with yow wolde I chaunge my cheste,

  That in my chambre longe tyme hath be,

  Ye! for an heyre clout to wrappe me!’

  But yet to me she wol nat do that grace,

  For which ful pale and welked is my face.

  But, sirs, to yow it is no courteisye

  To speken to an old man vileinye,

  But he trespasse in worde, or elles in dede.

  In holy writ ye may your-self wel rede,

  ‘Agayns an old man, hoor upon his heed,

  Ye sholde aryse;’ wherfor I yeve yow reed,

  Ne dooth un-to an old man noon harm now,

  Na-more than ye wolde men dide to yow

  In age, if that ye so longe abyde;

  And god be with yow, wher ye go or ryde.

  I moot go thider as I have to go.”

  “Nay, olde cherl, by god, thou shalt nat so,”

  Seyde this other hasardour anon;

  “Thou partest nat so lightly, by seint John!

  Thou spak right now of thilke traitour Deeth,

  That in this contree alle our frendes sleeth.

  Have heer my trouthe, as thou art his aspye,

  Tel wher he is, or thou shalt it abye,

  By god, and by the holy sacrament!

  For soothly thou art oon of his assent,

  To sleen us yonge folk, thou false theef!”

  “Now, sirs,” quod he, “if that yow be so leef

  To finde Deeth, turne up this croked wey,

  For in that grove I lafte him, by my fey,

  Under a tree, and ther he wol abyde;

  Nat for your boost he wol him no-thing hyde.

  See ye that ook? right ther ye shul him finde.

  God save yow, that boghte agayn mankinde,

  And yow amende!”—thus seyde this olde man.

  And everich of thise ryotoures ran,

  I knock with my staff both early and late,

  And say, ‘Dear mother, let me in!

  Look, how I am wasting, flesh, and blood, and skin!

  Alas! When shall my bones be at rest?

  Mother, with you would I exchange my chest

  Of clothes that in my chamber long time has been,

  Yes, for a haircloth shroud to wrap me in!’

  But yet to me she will not do that grace,

  For which full pale and withered is my face.

  But sirs, it is not polite of you

  To speak to an old man in a manner so rude,

  Unless he has offended you in word or deed.

  In Holy Writ you may yourselves well read,21

  ‘Before an old man, hoarfrost upon his head,

  You should arise.’ I therefore give you this advice:

  Do no harm unto an old man now,

  No mor
e than you would have men do to you

  When old, if you shall so long abide.

  And God be with you, where you walk or ride;

  I must go thither where I have to go.”

  “No, old fellow, by God, you shall not so,”

  Said this other gambler anon;

  “You won’t get away so lightly, by Saint John!

  You speak right now of that same traitor Death

  Who in this country all our friends slays.

  Have here my pledge, since you are his spy,

  Tell where he is, or you shall for it pay,

  By God, and by the holy sacrament!

  For truly you are his agent

  To slay us young folk, you false thief!”

  “Now, sirs,” said he, “if you so much desire

  To find Death, turn up this crooked way,

  For in that grove I left him, by my faith,

  Under a tree, and there he will abide:

  Your boast will not make him hide.

  See that oak? Right there you shall him find.

  God save you, who redeemed mankind,

  And you improve!” Thus said this old man.

  And each of these revelers ran,

  Til he cam to that tree, and ther they founde

  Of florins fyne of golde y-coyned rounde

  Wel ny an eighte busshels, as hem thoughte.

  No lenger thanne after Deeth they soughte,

  But ech of hem so glad was of that sighte,

  For that the florins been so faire and brighte,

  That doun they sette hem by this precious hord.

  The worste of hem he spake the firste word.

  “Brethren,” quod he, “tak kepe what I seye;

  My wit is greet, though that I bourde and pleye.

  ”This tresor hath fortune un-to us yiven,

  In mirthe and jolitee our lyf to liven,

  And lightly as it comth, so wol we spende.

  Ey! goddes precious dignitee! who wende

  To-day, that we sholde han so fair a grace?

  But mighte this gold be caried fro this place

  Hoom to myn hous, or elles un-to youres—

  For wel ye woot that al this gold is cures—

  Than were we in heigh felicitee.

  But trewely, by daye it may nat be;

  Men wolde seyn that we were theves stronge,

  And for our owene tresor doon us honge.

  This tresor moste y-caried be by nighte

  As wysly and as slyly as it mighte.

  Wherfore I rede that cut among us alle

  Be drawe, and lat see wher the cut wol falle;

  And he that hath the cut with herte blythe

  Shal renne to the toune, and that ful swythe,

  And bringe us breed and wyn ful prively.

  And two of us shul kepen subtilly

  This tresor wel; and, if he wol nat tarie,

  Whan it is night, we wol this tresor carie

  By oon assent, wher-as us thinketh best.”

  That oon of hem the cut broughte in his fest,

  And bad hem drawe, and loke wher it wol falle;

  And it fill on the yongeste of hem alle;

  And forth toward the toun he wente anon.

  And al-so sone as that he was gon,

  That oon of hem spak thus un-to that other,

  Till he came to that tree, and there they found

  Of florins fine of gold coined round

  Well nigh eight bushels, or so it seemed.

  No longer then after Death they sought,

  Each of them so glad was of that sight—

  For the florins were so fair and bright—

  That down they set them by this precious hoard.

  The worst of them spoke the first word.

  “Brothers,” said he, “take heed of what I say:

  My understanding is great, though I jest and play.

  This treasure has Fortune unto us given

  Our lives in mirth and jollity to live,

  And lightly as it comes, so will we spend.

  Hey! God’s precious dignity! Who would have guessed

  Today that we should find so fair a grace?

  If only might this gold be carried from this place

  Home to my house—or else unto yours—

  For well we know that all this gold is ours—

  Then were we in high felicity.

  But truly, by day it may not be done:

  Men would say that we were thieves,

  And for our own treasure have us hung.

  This treasure must be carried by night,

  As wisely and as slyly as we might.

  Therefore I suggest that lots among us all

  Be drawn, and let’s see to whose lot it shall fall;

  And he who has the lot with heart blithe

  Shall run to the town, in quick time,

  And secretly bring us bread and wine.

  And two of us shall guard with care

  This treasure well; and if he will not tarry,

  When it is night we will this treasure carry,

  By one assent, where we think best.”

  The fellow brought the cut in his fist,

  And he bade them draw, and look where it would fall;

  And it fell on the youngest of them all,

  And forth toward the town he went anon.

  But as soon as he was gone,

  One of the other two spoke thus to the other:

  “Thou knowest wel thou art my sworne brother,

  Thy profit wol I telle thee anon.

  Thou woost wel that our felawe is agon;

  And heer is gold, and that ful greet plentee,

  That shal departed been among us three.

  But natheles, if I can shape it so

  That it departed were among us two,

  Hadde I nat doon a freendes torn to thee?”

  That other answerde, “I noot how that may be;

  He woot how that the gold is with us tweye,

  What shal we doon, what shal we to him seye?”

  “Shal it be conseil?” seyde the firste shrewe,

  “And I shal tellen thee, in wordes fewe,

  What we shal doon, and bringe it wel aboute.”

  “I graunte,” quod that other, “out of doute,

  That, by my trouthe, I wol thee nat biwreye.”

  “Now,” quod the firste, “thou woost wel we be tweye,

  And two of us shul strenger be than oon.

  Look when that he is set, and right anoon

  Arys, as though thou woldest with him pleye;

  And I shal ryve him thurgh the sydes tweye

  Whyl that thou strogelest with him as in game,

  And with thy dagger look thou do the same;

  And than shal al this gold departed be,

  My dere freend, bitwixen me and thee;

  Than may we bothe our lustes al fulfille,

  And pleye at dees right at our owene wille.”

  And thus acorded been thise shrewes tweye

  To sleen the thridde, as ye han herd me seye.

  This yongest, which that wente un-to the toun,

  Ful ofte in herte he rolleth up and doun

  The beautee of thise florins newe and brighte.

  “O lord!” quod he, “if so were that I mighte

  Have al this tresor to my-self allone,

  Ther is no man that liveth under the trone

  Of god, that sholde live so mery as I!”

  And atte laste the feend, our enemy,

  Putte in his thought that he shold poyson beye,

  With which he mighte sleen his felawes tweye;

  “You well know that you are my sworn brother;

  So something to your advantage will I tell you anon.

  You know well that our companion is gone,

  And here is gold, and plenty of it,

  That shall be divided between us three.

  But nevertheless, if I can arrange it so

/>   That it divided were between us two,

  Would I not have done a friend’s turn to you?”

  The other answered, “I know not how that may be:

  He knows how the gold is with us two.

  What shall we do? What shall we say?”

  “Can you keep a secret?” said the first wretch;

  “And I shall tell in words few

  What we shall do, to bring it about.”

  “I grant it,” said that other, “you can be sure,

  That, by my word of honor, I will not betray you.”

  “Now,” said the first, “you know well we be two,

  And two of us are stronger than one.

  As soon as he has sat down, then right away

  Arise as though you would with him play;

  And I shall stab him through both sides

  While you struggle with him as if in play,

  And with your dagger you do the same;

  And then shall all this gold divided be,

  My dear friend, between you and me.

  Then may we both our desires fulfill,

  And play at dice whenever we will.”

  And thus these cursed fellows two agreed

  To slay the third, as you have heard me say.

  This youngest, who went into the town,

  Full often in his mind’s eye rolled up and down

  The beauty of those florins new and bright.

  “Oh Lord,” said he, “if it were that I might

  Have all this treasure to myself alone,

  There is no man who lives under the throne

  Of God who should live so merry as I!”

  And at the last the devil, our enemy,

  Put in his thought that he should poison buy,

  With which he might slay his fellows two—

  For-why the feend fond him in swich lyvinge,

  That he had leve him to sorwe bringe,

  For this was outrely his fulle entente

  To sleen hem bothe, and never to repente.

  And forth he gooth, no lenger wolde he tarie,

  Into the toun, un-to a pothecarie,

  And preyed him, that he him wolde selle

  Som poyson, that he mighte his rattes quelle;

  And eek ther was a polcat in his hawe,

  That, as he seyde, his capouns hadde y-slawe,

  And fayn he wolde wreke him, if he mighte,

  On vermin, that destroyed him by nighte.

  The pothecarie answerde, “and thou shalt have

  A thing that, al-so god my soule save,

  In al this world ther nis no creature,

  That ete or dronke hath of this confiture

  Noght but the mountance of a corn of whete,

  That he ne shal his lyf anon forlete;

  Ye, sterve he shal, and that in lasse whyle

  Than thou wolt goon a paas nat but a myle;

  This poyson is so strong and violent.”

  This cursed man hath in his hond y-hent