Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  Ye purge yow; and for ye shul nat tarie,

  Though in this toun is noon apotecarie,

  I shal my-self to herbes techen yow,

  That shul ben for your hele, and for your prow;

  And in our yerd tho herbes shal I finde,

  The wiche han of hir propretee, by kinde,

  To purgen yow binethe, and eek above.

  Forget not this, for goddes owene love!

  Nor him who is afraid of every weapon,

  Nor a braggart. By that God above,

  How dare you say for shame unto your love

  That anything might make you afraid?

  Have you no man’s heart, and have a beard?

  Alas! and can you be afraid of dreams?

  Nothing, God knows, but foolishness in dreaming is.

  Dreams are born of surfeits,

  And often of vapors, and of complexion,

  When humors be too abundant in a person.

  Certainly this dream, which you have had tonight,

  Comes of the great superfluity

  Of your red humor, by God,

  Which causes folk to fear in their dreams

  Arrows, and fire with red flames,

  Red beasts, that will them bite,

  Of conflict, and of dogs great and little;

  Right as the humor of melancholy

  Causes full many a man in sleep to cry

  For fear of black bears, or bulls black,

  Or else that black devils will him take.

  Of other humors could I tell also

  That work many a man in sleep great woe;

  But I will pass as lightly as I can.

  Look at Cato,5 who was so wise a man,

  Said he not thus,‘Give dreams no attention’?

  Now sir,” said she, ”when we fly from the beams,

  For God’s love, take some laxative.

  On peril of my soul and of my life

  I counsel you the best, I will not lie,

  That both of choler and of melancholy

  You purge yourself; and so that you shall not tarry,

  Though in this town is no apothecary,

  I shall myself to herbs direct you,

  That shall be for your health and for your good;

  And in our yard those herbs shall I find

  Which have of their property by nature

  To purge you beneath and also above.

  Forget not this, for God’s own love!

  Ye been ful colerik of compleccioun.

  Ware the sonne in his ascencioun

  Ne fynde yow nat repleet of humours hote;

  And if it do, I dar wel leye a grote,

  That ye shul have a fevere terciane,

  Or an agu, that may be youre bane.

  A day or two ye shul have digestyves

  Of wormes, er ye take your laxatyves,

  Of lauriol, centaure, and fumetere,

  Or elles of ellebor, that groweth there,

  Of catapuce, or of gaytres beryis,

  Of erbe yve, growing in our yerd, that mery is;

  Pekke hem up right as they growe, and ete hem in.

  Be mery, housbond, for your fader kin!

  Dredeth no dreem; I can say yow na-more.”

  “Madame,” quod he, “graunt mercy of your lore.

  But nathelees, as touching daun Catoun,

  That hath of wisdom such a greet renoun,

  Though that he had no dremes for to drede,

  By god, men may in olde bokes rede

  Of many a man, more of auctoritee

  Than ever Catoun was, so mote I thee,

  That al the revers seyn of his sentence,

  And han wel founden by experience,

  That dremes ben significaciouns,

  As wel of joye as tribulaciouns

  That folk enduren in this lyf present.

  Ther nedeth make of this noon argument;

  The verray preve sheweth it in dede.

  Oon of the gretteste auctours that men rede

  Seith thus, that whylom two felawes wente

  On pilgrimage, in a ful good entente;

  And happed so, thay come into a toun,

  Wher-as ther was swich congregacioun

  Of peple, and eek so streit of herbergage

  That they ne founde as muche as o cotage

  In which they bothe mighte y-logged be.

  Wherfor thay mosten, of necessitee,

  As for that night, departen compaignye;

  You are choleric in your temperament.

  Beware the sun in his ascension.

  Nor fill yourself with humors hot;

  And if you do, I will bet a lot,

  That a fever will to you every third day return,

  Or an ague, that may be your end.

  A day or two you shall have digestives

  Of worms, before you take your laxatives,

  Of spurge-laurel, centaury, and fumitory,

  Or else of hellebore that grows there,

  Of caper-spurge, or of dogwood’s berries,

  Of herb ivy, growing in our yard, where it is pleasant.

  Peck them right up as they grow, and eat them in.

  Be merry, husband, for your father’s kin!

  Dread no dream: I can say you no more.”

  “Madame,” said he, “merci beaucoup6 for your lore.

  But nevertheless, as touching sir Cato,

  Who has of wisdom such a great renown,

  Though he bade us no dreams to dread,

  By God, men may in old books read

  Of many a man, more of authority

  Than ever Cato was, as I may prosper,

  That all the opposite of his opinion were,

  And well founded by experience,

  That dreams are signs

  As much of joy as tribulations

  That folk endure in this life present.

  There need be made of this no argument:

  The true proof is in the deed.

  One of the greatest authors7 who men read

  Says thus, that once two companions went

  On pilgrimage, in a full good intent;

  And it happened so that they came into a town

  Where there was such crowd

  Of people, and such a dearth of lodging,

  That they found not so much as a cottage

  In which they both might sheltered be.

  Wherefore they had to of necessity,

  For that night, part company;

  And ech of hem goth to his hostelrye,

  And took his logging as it wolde falle.

  That oon of hem was logged in a stalle,

  Fer in a yerd, with oxen of the plough;

  That other man was logged wel y-nough,

  As was his aventure, or his fortune,

  That us governeth alle as in commune.

  And so bifel, that, longe er it were day,

  This man mette in his bed, ther-as he lay,

  How that his felawe gan up-on him calle,

  And seyde, ‘allas! for in an oxes stalle

  This night I shal be mordred ther I lye.

  Now help me, dere brother, ere I dye;

  In alle haste com to me,‘he sayde.

  This man out of his sleep for fere abrayde;

  But whan that he was wakned of his sleep,

  He turned him, and took of this no keep;

  Him thoughte his dreem nas but a vanitee.

  Thus twyës in his sleping dremed he.

  And atte thridde tyme yet his felawe

  Cam, as him thoughte, and seide,‘I am now slawe;

  Bihold my blody woundes, depe and wyde!

  Arys up erly in the morwe-tyde,

  And at the west gate of the toun,’ quod he,

  ‘A carte ful of dong ther shaltow see,

  In which my body is hid ful prively;

  Do thilke carte aresten boldely.

  My gold caused my mordre, sooth to sayn;’

  And tolde him every poynt
how he was slayn,

  With a ful pitous face, pale of hewe.

  And truste wel, his dreem he fond ful trewe;

  For on the morwe, as sone as it was day,

  To his felawes in he took the way;

  And whan that he cam to this oxes stalle,

  After his felawe he bigan to calle.

  The hostiler answered him anon,

  And seyde,‘sire, your felawe is agon,

  As sone as day he wente out of the toun:

  This man gan fallen in suspecioun,

  And each of them went to his hostelry,

  And took his lodging as his lot fell.

  And one of them was lodged in a stall,

  Far off in a yard, with oxen of the plough;

  That other man was lodged well enough,

  As was his chance or his fortune,

  That governs us all in common.

  And so it befell that, long before it was day,

  This man dreamed in his bed, there as he lay,

  How that first fellow began to him call,

  And said,‘Alas! for in an ox’s stall

  This night I shall be murdered where I lie.

  Now help me, dear brother, or I die;

  In all haste come back to me,’ he said.

  This man out of his fear upstarted,

  But when that he was wakened from his sleep,

  He turned over, and took of this no heed:

  He thought his dream was but in vain.

  Thus twice in his sleep dreamed he;

  And at the third time yet his friend

  Came, as he thought, and said, ‘I am now slain.

  Behold my bloody wounds, deep and wide!

  Arise up early in the morningtide,

  And at the west gate of the town,’ said he,

  ‘A cartful of dung there shall you see,

  In which my body is hid full secretly:

  Have this cart stopped boldly.

  My gold caused my murder, truth to tell;’

  And told him every point how he was slain,

  With a full piteous face, pale of hue.

  And trust well, his dream he found full true,

  For on the morrow, as soon as it was day,

  To his fellow’s inn he took his way;

  And when that he came to this ox’s stall,

  After his fellow he began to call.

  The innkeeper answered him anon,

  And said, ‘Sir, your fellow is a-gone:

  As soon as day he went out of the town.’

  This man became suspicious,

  Remembring on his dremes that he mette,

  And forth he goth, no lenger wolde he lette,

  Unto the west gate of the toun, and fond

  A dong-carte, as it were to donge lond,

  That was arrayed in the same wyse

  As ye han herd the dede man devyse;

  And with an hardy herte he gan to crye

  Vengeaunce and justice of this felonye:—

  ‘My felawe mordred is this same night,

  And in this carte he lyth gapinge upright.

  I crye out on the ministres,’ quod he,

  ‘That sholden kepe and reulen this citee;

  Harrow! alias! her lyth my felawe slayn!’

  What sholde I more un-to this tale sayn?

  The peple out-sterte, and caste the cart to grounde,

  And in the middel of the dong they founde

  The dede man, that mordred was al newe.

  O blisful god, that art so just and trewe!

  Lo, how that thou biwreyest mordre alway!

  Mordre wol out, that see we day by day.

  Mordre is so wlatsom and abhominable

  To god, that is so just and resonable,

  That he ne wol nat suffre it heled be;

  Though it abyde a yeer, or two, or three,

  Mordre wol out, this my conclusioun.

  And right anoon, ministres of that toun

  Han hent the carter, and so sore him pyned,

  And eek the hostiler so sore engyned,

  That they biknewe hir wikkednesse anoon,

  And were an-hanged by the nekke-boon.

  Here may men seen that dremes been to drede

  And certes, in the same book I rede,

  Right in the nexte chapitre after this,

  (I gabbe nat, so have I joye or blis,)

  Two men that wolde han passed over see,

  For certeyn cause, in-to a fer contree,

  If that the wind ne hadde been contrarie,

  That made hem in a citee for to tarie,

  That stood ful mery upon an haven-syde.

  Remembering in his dreams whom he saw,

  And forth he went, no longer would he delay,

  Unto the west gate of the town, and found

  A dung-cart, heading out as if to fertilize,

  That was arranged in the same way

  As you have heard the dead man describe.

  And with a bold heart he began to cry,

  ‘Vengeance and justice of this felony!

  My fellow murdered is this same night,

  And in this cart he lies, eyes with no sight.

  I cry out to the officers,’ said he,

  ‘Who should care for and rule this city,

  Help! Alas! here lies my fellow slain!’

  What should I more unto this tale say?

  The people came out, and cast the cart to ground,

  And in the middle of the dung they found

  The dead man, murdered newly.

  Oh blissful God, who is so just and true!

  Behold, how you reveal murder always!

  Murder will out, that see we day by day.

  Murder is so loathsome, and abominable

  To God, who is so just and reasonable,

  That he would not suffer it to be concealed.

  Though it remains hidden a year, or two, or three,

  Murder will out, this is my conclusion.

  And right away, ministers of that town

  Seized the carter and so sore him tortured,

  And also the innkeeper so sore racked,

  That they owned up to their wickedness soon,

  And were hanged by the neck-bone.

  Here may men see that dreams are to be feared.

  And certainly, in the same book I read,

  Right in the next chapter after this—

  I lie not, so may I have joy or bliss—

  Two men who wished to travel over sea,

  For a certain purpose, to a far country,

  If the wind had not been contrary:

  That made them in a city for to tarry

  That stood full merry upon a harbor side.

  But on a day, agayn the even-tyde,

  The wind gan chaunge, and blew right as hem leste.

  Jolif and glad they wente un-to hir reste,

  And casten hem ful erly for to saille;

  But to that oo man fil a greet mervaille.

  That oon of hem, in sleping as he lay,

  Him mette a wonder dreem, agayn the day;

  Him thoughte a man stood by his beddes syde,

  And him comaunded, that he sholde abyde,

  And seyde him thus, ‘if thou to-morwe wende,

  Thou shalt be dreynt; my tale is at an ende.’

  He wook, and tolde his felawe what he mette,

  And preyde him his viage for to lette;

  As for that day, he preyde him to abyde.

  His felawe, that lay by his beddes syde,

  Gan for to laughe, and scorned him ful faste.

  ‘No dreem,’ quod he, ‘may so myn herte agaste,

  That I wol lette for to do my thinges.

  I sette not a straw by thy dreminges,

  For swevenes been but vanitees and japes.

  Men dreme al-day of owles or of apes,

  And eke of many a mase therwithal;

  Men dreme of thing that never was ne shal.

  But sith I see that
thou wolt heer abyde,

  And thus for-sleuthen wilfully thy tyde,

  God wot it reweth me; and have good day.’

  And thus he took his leve, and wente his way.

  But er that he hadde halfe his cours y-seyled,

  Noot I nat why, ne what mischaunce it eyled,

  But casuelly the shippes botme rente,

  And ship and man under the water wente

  In sighte of othere shippes it byside,

  That with hem seyled at the same tyde.

  And therfor, faire Pertelote so dere,

  By swiche ensamples olde maistow lere,

  That no man sholde been to recchelees

  Of dremes, for I sey thee, doutelees,

  That many a dreem ful sore is for to drede.

  Lo, in the lyf of seint Kenelm, I rede,

  But on a day, toward eveningtide,

  The wind began to shift, and blew as they wished.

  Jolly and glad they went unto their rest,

  And they planned full early to sail;

  But harken! To one man befell a great marvel.

  That one of them, in sleeping as he lay,

  He dreamed a wonderful dream, toward the day:

  He dreamed a man stood by his bedside,

  And him commanded that he should abide,

  And said to him thus, ‘If you tomorrow wend,

  You will be drowned: my tale is at an end.’

  He woke, and told his fellow what he dreamed,

  And prayed him his voyage to delay;

  Just for that day, he prayed him to stay.

  His fellow, who lay in the next bed,

  Began to laugh, and him scorned.

  ‘No dream,’ said he, ‘may so my heart scare

  That I will fail to keep my plans.

  I set not a straw by dreams,

  For dreams be but illusions and japes.8

  Men dream all day of owls or apes,

  And also of many other things weird;

  Men dream of things that never shall be or were.

  But since I see that you will here abide,

  And thus so slothily waste your time,

  God knows I’m sorry, and good day’

  And thus he took his leave, and went his way.

  But before he had half his course sailed,

  Know not I why, nor what mischance it ailed,

  But by chance the ship’s bottom was open rent,

  And ship and man under water went

  In sight of other ships nearby,

  That with them sailed on the same tide.

  And therefore, fair Pertelote so dear,

  By such old examples may you learn

  That no man should be too heedless

  Of dreams, for I say to you doubtless,

  That many a dream is greatly to be feared.

  Look, in the life of Saint Kenelm9 I read,

  That was Kenulphus sone, the noble king

  Of mercenrike, how Kenelm mette a thing;

  A lyte er he was mordred, on a day,