Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  And after that they rose, and forth they went,

  And took away this martyr from his bier;

  And in a tomb of marble shining bright

  Enclosed they his little body sweet.

  There he is now, God grant that we may meet!

  Oh young Hugh of Lincoln,13 slain also

  By cursed Jews, as it is well known,

  For it was but a little while ago,

  Preye eek for us, we sinful folk unstable,

  That, of his mercy, god so merciable

  On us his grete mercy multiplye,

  For reverence of his moder Marye. Amen.

  Pray also for us, we sinful folk unstable,

  Who in his mercy may God so merciful

  Toward us his great mercy multiply,

  In reverence of his mother Mary. Amen.

  The Nonne Preestes Tale

  The Prologue

  “Ho!” QUOD THE KNIGHT, “good sir, na-more of this,

  That ye han seyd is right y-nough, y-wis,

  And mochel more; for litel hevinesse

  Is right y-nough to mochel folk, I gesse.

  I seye for me, it is a greet disese

  Wher-as men han ben in greet welthe and ese,

  To heren of hir sodeyn fal, alias!

  And the contrarie is joie and greet solas,

  As whan a man hath been in povre estaat,

  And clymbeth up, and wexeth fortunat,

  And ther abydeth in prosperitee,

  Swich thing is gladson, as it thinketh me,

  And of swich thing were goodly for to telle.”

  “Ye,” quod our hoste, “by seint Poules belle,

  Ye seye right sooth; this monk, he clappeth loude,

  He spak how ‘fortune covered with a cloude’

  I noot never what, and als of a ’Tragedie’

  Right now ye herde, and parde! no remedie

  It is for to biwaille ne compleyne

  That that is doon, and als it is a peyne,

  As ye han seyd, to here of hevinesse.

  Sir monk, na-more of this, so god yow blesse!

  Your tale anoyeth al this companye;

  Swich talking is nat worth a boterflye;

  For ther-in is ther no desport ne game.

  Wherfor, sir Monk, or dan Piers by your name,

  I preye yow hertely, telle us somwhat elles

  For sikerly, nere clinking of your belles,

  That on your brydel hange on every syde,

  By heven king, that for us alle dyde,

  I sholde er this han fallen doun for slepe,

  Although the slough had never been so depe;

  Than had your tale al be told in vayn.

  For certeinly, as that thise clerkes seyn,

  ‘Wher-as a man may have noon audience,

  The Nun’s Priest’s Tale

  The Prologue

  “STOP!” SAID THE KNIGHT, “good sir, no more of this:1

  What you have said is right enough, indeed,

  And much more than enough, for a little seriousness

  Is right enough for many folk, I guess.

  I say for me it is a great discomfort,

  There where men have been in great wealth and ease,

  To hear of their sudden fall, alas!

  And the contrary is joy and great solace,

  As when a man has been in poverty,

  And climbs up, and waxes lucky,

  And there abides in prosperity—

  Such a thing is gladsome, as it seems to me,

  And of such things it is goodly for to tell.”

  “Yes,” said our Host, “by Saint Paul’s bell,

  You say right truly: this Monk, he chatters loud.

  He spoke ‘How Fortune covered with a cloud‘—

  I know not what. And also of ‘tragedy’

  Right now you heard, and, by God! no remedy

  It is for to bewail or complain

  That which is done, and besides it is a pain,

  As you have said, to hear seriousness.

  Sir Monk, no more of this, so God you bless!

  Your tale annoys all this company.

  Such talking is not worth a butterfly,

  For therein there is no pleasure or game.

  Wherefore, sir Monk, or sir Piers by your name,

  I pray you heartily tell us something else,

  For certainly, were it not for the clinking of your bells

  That on your bridle hang on every side,

  By Heaven’s king who for us all died,

  I should before this have fallen down, asleep,

  Even if the mud had been ever so deep.

  Then would your tale have been told all in vain;

  For certainly, just as these scholars say,

  ‘There where a man may have no audience,

  Noght helpeth it to tellen his sentence.’

  And wel I woot the substance is in me,

  If any thing shal wel reported be.

  Sir, sey somwhat of hunting, I yow preye.”

  “Nay,” quod this monk, “I have no lust to pleye;

  Now let another telle, as I hav told.”

  Than spak our host, with rude speche and bold,

  And seyde un-to the Nonnes Preest anon,

  “Com neer, thou preest, com hider, thou sir John,

  Tel us swich thing as may our hertes glade,

  Be blythe, though thou ryde up-on a jade.

  What though thyn hors be bothe foule and lene,

  If he wol serve thee, rekke nat a bene;

  Look that thyn herte be mery evermo.”

  “Yis, sir,” quod he, “yis, host, so mote I go,

  But I be mery, y-wis, I wol be blamed:”—

  And right anon his tale he hath attamed,

  And thus he seyde un-to us everichon,

  This swete preest, this goodly man, sir John.

  The Tale

  A povre widwe, somdel stape in age,

  Was whylom dwelling in a narwe cotage,

  Bisyde a grove, stonding in a dale.

  This widwe, of which I telle yow my tale,

  Sin thilke day that she was last a wyf,

  In pacience ladde a ful simple lyf,

  For litel was hir catel and hir rente;

  By housbondrye, of such as God hir sente,

  She fond hir-self, and eek hir doghtren two.

  Three large sowes hadde she, and namo,

  Three kyn, and eek a sheep that highte Malle,

  Ful sooty was hir bour, and eek hir halle,

  In which she eet ful many a sclendre meel.

  Of poynaunt sauce hir neded never a deel.

  No deyntee morsel passed thurgh hir throte;

  Hir dyete was accordant to hir cote.

  Repleccioun ne made hir never syk;

  Attempree dyete was al hir phisyk,

  Nought helps to tell of his message.’

  And well I know I understand the meaning,

  If anything well reported be.

  Sir, say somewhat of hunting, I you pray.”

  “Nay,” said the monk, ”I have no desire to play;

  Now let another tell, as I have my tale told.”

  Then spoke our Host, with rude speech and bold,

  And said unto the Nun’s Priest anon,

  ”Come nearer, you priest, come hither, you sir John,

  Tell us such thing as may our hearts gladden.

  Be blithe, though you ride upon a nag!

  What though your horse be both foul and lean?

  If he will serve you, care not a bean.

  Look that your heart be merry evermore.”

  “Yes, sir,” said he. ”Yes, Host, as I may thrive,

  Unless I be merry, truly, I will be blamed.”

  And right anon his tale he began,

  And thus he said unto us every one,

  This sweet priest, this goodly man sir John.

  The Tale

  A poor widow, somewhat advanced in years,
<
br />   Was once dwelling in a small cottage,

  Beside a grove, standing in a dale.

  This widow of whom I tell you my tale,

  Since that same day that she was last a wife,

  In patience led a full simple life,

  For she had little goods or chattel.

  By careful making do with what God her sent

  She provided for herself and also her daughters two.

  Three large sows had she and no more,

  Three cows, and a sheep that was called Malle.

  Full sooty was her bedchamber, and dining hall,

  In which she ate full many a slender meal.

  Of pungent sauce she needed never a portion:

  No dainty morsel passed through her throat.

  Her diet was frugal as her coat—

  Surfeit never made her ill.

  A temperate diet was her only pill,

  And exercyse, and hertes suffisaunce.

  The goute lette hir no-thing for to daunce,

  N‘apoplexye shente nat hir heed;

  No wyn ne drank she, neither whyt ne reed;

  Hir bord was served most with whyt and blak,

  Milk and broun breed, in which she fond no lak,

  Seynd bacoun, and somtyme an ey or tweye,

  For she was as it were a maner deye.

  A yerd she hadde, enclosed al aboute

  With stikkes, and a drye dich with oute,

  In which she hadde a cok, hight Chauntecleer,

  In al the land of crowing nas his peer.

  His vois was merier than the mery orgon

  On messe-dayes that in the chirche gon;

  Wel sikerer was his crowing in his logge,

  Than is a clokke, or an abbey orlogge.

  By nature knew he ech ascencioun

  Of equinoxial in thilke toun;

  For whan degrees fiftene were ascended,

  Thanne crew he, that it mighte nat ben amended.

  His comb was redder than the fyn coral,

  And batailed, as it were a castel-wal.

  His bile was blak, and as the jeet it shoon;

  Lyk asur were his legges, and his toon;

  His nayles whytter than the lilie flour,

  And lyk the burned gold was his colour.

  This gentil cok hadde in his governaunce

  Sevene hennes, for to doon al his plesaunce,

  Whiche were his sustres and his paramours,

  And wonder lyk to him, as of colours.

  Of whiche the faireste hewed on hir throte

  Was cleped faire damoysele Pertelote.

  Curteys she was, discreet, and debonaire,

  And compaignable, and bar hir-self so faire,

  Sin thilke day that she was seven night old,

  That trewely she hath the herte in hold

  Of Chauntecleer loken in every lith;

  He loved hir so, that wel was him therwith.

  But such a joye was it to here hem singe,

  And exercise, and heart’s content.

  No gout kept her from dancing,

  Nor did apoplexy injure her head.

  No wine drank she, neither white nor red;

  Her table was served most with white and black—

  Milk and brown bread, in which she found no fault,

  Bacon fried, and sometimes an egg or two,

  For she was a kind of dairy woman.

  A yard she had, fenced all about

  With sticks, and a dry ditch without,

  In which she had a cock called Chanticleer:2

  In all the land at crowing there was not his peer.

  His voice was merrier than the merry organ

  On feast days that in the church they play;

  More certain was his crowing in his lodge

  Than is a clock or the abbey’s horloge.3

  By nature knew he each ascension

  Of the equinox in that same town.

  For when degrees fifteen were ascended,

  Then crowed he, so well it might not be amended.

  His comb was redder than the fine coral,

  And notched as if it were a castle wall.

  His bill was black, and jet black it shone;

  Like azure were his legs and his toes;

  His nails whiter than the lily flower,

  And like burnished gold was his color.

  This gentle cock had in his governance

  Seven hens, for to do all his pleasure,

  Which were his sisters and his paramours,

  And wonderfully like to him, in color,

  Of which the fairest-colored on her throat

  Was called Mademoiselle Pertelote.

  Courteous she was, discreet and gracious,

  And sociable, and bore herself so fair,

  Since that day she was seven nights old,

  That truly she had the heart in hold

  Of Chanticleer, locked in every limb;

  He loved her so, that therewith well was him.

  But such a joy was it to hear them sing,

  Whan that the brighte sonne gan to springe,

  In swete accord, “my lief is faren in londe.”

  For thilke tyme, as I have understonde,

  Bestes and briddes coude speke and singe.

  And so bifel, that in a daweninge,

  As Chauntecleer among his wyves alle

  Sat on his perche, that was in the halle,

  And next him sat this faire Pertelote,

  This Chauntecleer gan gronen in his throte,

  As man that in his dreem is drecched sore.

  And whan that Pertelote thus herde him rore,

  She was agast, and seyde, “O herte dere,

  What eyleth yow, to grone in this manere?

  Ye been a verray sleper, fy for shame!”

  And he answerde and seyde thus, “madame,

  I pray yow, that ye take it nat a-grief

  By god, me mette I was in swich meschief

  Right now, that yet myn herte is sore afright.

  Now god,” quod he, “my swevene recche

  aright,

  And keep my body out of foul prisoun!

  Me mette, how that I romed up and doun

  Withinne our yerde, wher-as I saugh a beste,

  Was lyk an hound, and wolde han maad areste

  Upon my body, and wolde han had me deed.

  His colour was bitwixe yelwe and reed;

  And tipped was his tail, and bothe his eres,

  With blak, unlyk the remenant of his heres;

  His snowte smal, with glowinge eyen tweye.

  Yet of his look for fere almost I deye;

  This caused me my groning, doutelees.”

  “Avoy!” quod she, “fy on yow, hertelees!

  Allas!” quod she, “for, by that god above,

  Now han ye lost myn herte and al my love;

  I can nat love a coward, by my feith.

  For certes, what so any womman seith,

  We alle desyren, if it mighte be,

  To han housbondes hardy, wyse, and free,

  And secree, and no nigard, ne no fool,

  When that the bright sun began to rise,

  In sweet harmony, ”my love has gone far away.“4

  For in those days, as I have understood,

  Beasts and birds could speak and sing.

  And so it happened, one morning at dawning,

  As Chanticleer among his wives all

  Sat on his perch that was in the hall,

  And next to him sat this fair Pertelote,

  This Chanticleer began groaning in his throat

  As a man who in his dream is troubled sore.

  And when that Pertelote thus heard him roar,

  She was afraid, and said, “Heart dear,

  What ails you to groan in this manner?

  You’re a fine sleeper, fie for shame!”

  And he answered and said thus, “Madame,

  I pray you, that you take it not amiss:

 
By God, I dreamed I was in such trouble

  Right now, that yet my heart is sore afright.

  Now God,” said he, “my dream help me understand

  aright,

  And keep my body out of foul prison!

  I dreamed that I roamed up and down

  Within our yard, where I saw a beast,

  That was like a hound and would have laid hold

  Upon my body, and would have had me dead.

  His color was between yellow and red,

  And tipped was his tail and both his ears

  With black, unlike the rest of his hairs;

  His snout small, with glowing eyes two.

  Still of his look for fear I almost die:

  This caused me my groaning, doubtless.”

  “Go on!” said she, “fie on you, gutless!

  Alas!” said she, “for, by that God above,

  Now have you lost my heart and my love.

  I cannot love a coward, by my faith!

  For certainly, what so any woman says,

  We all desire, if it might be,

  To have husbands bold, wise and generous,

  And discreet, and no niggard, nor a fool,

  Ne him that is agast of every tool,

  Ne noon avauntour, by that god above!

  How dorste ye seyn for shame unto your love,

  That any thing mighte make yow aferd?

  Have ye no mannes herte, and han a berd?

  Alias! and conne ye been agast of swevenis?

  No-thing, god wot, but vanitee, in sweven is.

  Swevenes engendren of replecciouns,

  And ofte of fume, and of complecciouns,

  Whan humours been to habundant in a wight.

  Certes this dreem, which ye han met to-night,

  Cometh of the grete superfluitee

  Of youre rede colera, pardee,

  Which causeth folk to dreden in here dremes

  Of arwes, and of fyr with rede lemes,

  Of grete bestes, that they wol hem byte,

  Of contek, and of whelpes grete and lyte;

  Right as the humour of malencolye

  Causeth ful many a man, in sleep, to crye,

  For fere of blake beres, or boles blake,

  Or elles, blake develes wole hem take.

  Of othere humours coude I telle also,

  That werken many a man in sleep ful wo;

  But I wol passe as lightly as I can.

  Lo Catoun, which that was so wys a man,

  Seyde he nat thus, ne do no fors of dremes?

  Now, sire,” quod she, ”whan we flee fro the bemes,

  For Goddes love, as tak som laxatyf;

  Up peril of my soule, and of my lyf,

  I counseille yow the beste, I wol nat lye,

  That bothe of colere and of malencolye