Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

For swoot, and for to kepe his heed from hete.

  But it was joye for to seen him swete!

  His forheed dropped as a stillatorie,

  Were ful of plantain and of paritorie.

  And whan that he was come, he gan to crye,

  “God save,” quod he, “this joly companye!

  Faste have I priked,” quod he, “for your sake,

  By-cause that I wolde yow atake,

  To ryden in this mery companye.”

  His yeman eek was ful of curteisye,

  And seyde, “sires, now in the morwe-tyde

  The Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale

  The Prologue

  WHEN ENDED WAS THE life of Saint Cecilia,1

  Before we had ridden fully five miles,

  At Boughton under Blean we were overtaken

  By a man who clothed was in clothes black,

  And underneath he had a white surplice.

  His hackney, that was dappled gray,

  So sweated that it wondrous was to see;

  It seemed as if he had spurred miles three.

  The horse also that his yeoman rode upon

  So labored that it could hardly go on.

  About the collar stood the foam full high;

  He was of foam flecked as a magpie.

  A saddlebag on his crupper rested;

  It seemed that he not much carried.

  All light for summer rode this worthy man,

  And in my heart wondering I began

  Who he was till I understood

  How that his cloak was sewn to his hood,

  For which, when I had pondered me,

  Some kind of canon2 I deemed him to be.

  His hat hung at his back down by a lace,

  For he had ridden more than trot or pace;

  He had ever spurred as if he were mad.

  A burdock leaf he had under his hood

  For sweat and to keep his head from heat.

  But it was a joy to see him sweat!

  His forehead perspired like a distillery

  Full of plantain and pellitory.3

  And when he drew near, he began to cry,

  “God save,” said he, “this jolly company!

  Fast have I spurred,” said he, “for your sake,

  Because I would you overtake,

  To ride in this merry company.”

  His yeoman also was full of courtesy,

  And said, “Sirs, now in the morningtide

  Out of your hostelrye I saugh you ryde,

  And warned heer my lord and my soverayn,

  Which that to ryden with yow is ful fayn,

  For his desport; he loveth daliaunce.”

  “Freend, for thy warning god yeve thee good chaunce,”

  Than seyde our host, “for certes, it wolde seme

  Thy lord were wys, and so I may weldeme;

  He is ful jocund also, dar I leye.

  Can he oght telle a mery tale or tweye,

  With which he glade may this companye?”

  “Who, sire? my lord? ye, ye, withouten lye,

  He can of murthe, and eek of jolitee

  Nat but ynough; also sir, trusteth me,

  And ye him knewe as wel as do I,

  Ye wolde wondre how wel and craftily

  He coude werke, and that in sondry wyse.

  He hath take on him many a greet empryse,

  Which were ful hard for any that is here

  To bringe aboute, but they of him it lere.

  As homely as he rit amonges yow,

  If ye him knewe, it wolde be for your prow;

  Ye wolde nat forgoon his aqueyntaunce

  For mochel good, I dar leye in balaunce

  Al that I have in my possessioun.

  He is a man of heigh discrecioun,

  I warne you wel, he is a passing man.”

  “Wel,” quod our host, “I pray thee, tel me than.

  Is he a clerk, or noon? tel what he is.”

  “Nay, he is gretter than a clerk, y-wis,”

  Seyde this yeman, “and in wordes fewe,

  Host, of his craft som-what I wol yow shewe.

  I seye, my lord can swich subtilitee—

  (But al his craft ye may nat wite at me;

  And som-what helpe I yet to his working)—

  That al this ground on which we been ryding,

  Til that we come to Caunterbury toun,

  He coude al clene turne it up-so-doun,

  And pave it al of silver and of gold.”

  And whan this yeman hadde thus y-told

  Out of your hostelry I saw you ride,

  And warned here my lord and my master,

  Who to ride with you would be much obliged,

  For his pleasure; he loves stories and such.”

  “Friend, for your warning God give you good luck,”

  Then said our Host, “for certain it would seem

  Your Lord was wise, and so I may well deem.

  He is full jocund also, I dare wager!

  Can he at least tell a tale or two,

  With which he may make glad this company?”

  “Who, sire? My lord? Yea, yea, without lie,

  He knows of mirth and jollity

  More than enough; also sir, trust me,

  And if you knew him as well as do I,

  You would wonder how well and skillfully

  He could work, and that in sundry ways.

  He takes on himself many a great enterprise,

  Which would be full hard for any here

  To bring about, unless they learned it from him.

  Though simply he rides among you,

  If you him knew, it would be for your profit.

  You would not forgo his acquaintance

  For much good, I dare bet

  All that I have in my possession.

  He is a man of high discretion;

  I warn you well, he is an outstanding person.”

  “Well,” said our Host, “I pray you, tell me then,

  Is he a scholar, or no? Tell what he is.”

  “Nay, he is greater than a scholar, truly,”

  Said this Yeoman, “and in words few,

  Host, of his skill something I will you show.

  “I say, my lord knows such subtlety—

  But all his skill you may not learn from me,

  And somewhat yet I help his workings—

  That all this ground on which we be riding,

  Till that we come to Canterbury town,

  He could all clean turn upside-down,

  And pave it all of silver and of gold.”

  And when this Yeoman had this tale told

  Unto our host, he seyde, “ben‘cite!

  This thing is wonder merveillous to me,

  Sin that thy lord is of so heigh prudence,

  By-cause of which men sholde him reverence,

  That of his worship rekketh he so lyte;

  His oversloppe nis nat worth a myte,

  As in effect, to him, so mote I go!

  It is al baudy and to-tore also.

  Why is thy lord so sluttish, I thee preye,

  And is of power better cloth to beye,

  If that his dede accorde with thy speche?

  Telle me that, and that I thee biseche.”

  “Why?” quod this yeman, “wherto axe ye me?

  God help me so, for he shal never thee!

  (But I wol nat avowe that I seye,

  And therfor kepe it secree, I yow preye).

  He is to wys, in feith, as I bileve;

  That that is overdoon, it wol nat preve

  Aright, as clerkes seyn, it is a vyce.

  Wherfor in that I holde him lewed and nyce.

  For whan a man hath over-greet a wit,

  Ful oft him happeth to misusen it;

  So dooth my lord, and that me greveth sore.

  God it amende, I can sey yow na-more.”

  “Ther-of no fors, good yeman,” quod our host;

  “Sin of the conning of t
hy lord thou wost,

  Tel how he dooth, I pray thee hertely,

  Sin that he is so crafty and so sly.

  Wher dwellen ye, if it to telle be?”

  “In the suburbes of a toun,” quod he,

  “Lurkinge in hernes and in lanes blinde,

  Wher-as thise robbours and thise theves by kinde

  Holden hir privee fereful residence,

  As they that dar nat shewen hir presence;

  So faren we, if I shal seye the sothe.”

  “Now,” quod our host, “yit lat me talke to the;

  Why artow so discoloured of thy face?”

  “Peter!” quod he, “god yeve it harde grace,

  I am so used in the fyr to blowe,

  Unto our Host, he said, ”Benedicite!

  This thing is wondrous marvelous to me,

  Since that your lord has such knowledge,

  Because of which men should him reverence,

  Who of his distinction makes he so light.

  His overcoat is not worth a mite,

  Really, to him, so must I say,

  It is all dirty and tattered also.

  Why is your lord so sloppy, I you pray,

  And is able better cloth to buy,

  If his works match your speech?

  Tell me that, and that I you beseech.”

  “Why?” said this Yeoman, “why ask me?

  God help me so, for he shall succeed never!

  (But I will not reveal it in what I say,

  And therefore keep it secret, I you pray.)

  He is too knowing, in faith, as I believe.

  What is made too much of, it will not

  Succeed, as scholars say, it is a vice.

  Therefore in that I hold him both simple and wise.

  For when a man has too much wit,

  Full often he happens to misuse it.

  So does my lord, and that grieves me sore;

  God it amend! I can tell you no more.”

  “Thereof no matter, good Yeoman,” said our Host;

  “Since the cunning of your lord you know,

  Tell how he works, I pray you with all my heart,

  Since he is so skillful and so expert.

  Where do you live, if you don’t mind saying?”

  “In the suburbs of a town,” said he,

  “Lurking in hiding places and in blind alleys,

  Where these robbers and thieving kinds,

  Keep their secret, fear-ridden roosts,

  As they who dare not show their faces;

  So fare we, if I shall say the truth.”

  “Now,” said our Host, “yet let me talk to you.

  Why are you so discolored in your face?”

  “Peter!” said he, “God give it misfortune,

  I am so used in the fire to blow

  That it hath chaunged my colour, I trowe.

  I am nat wont in no mirour to prye,

  But swinke sore and lerne multiplye,

  We blondren ever and pouren in the fyr.

  And for al that we fayle of our desyr.

  For ever we lakken our conclusioun.

  To mochel folk we doon illusioun,

  And borwe gold, be it a pound or two,

  Or ten, or twelve, or many sommes mo,

  And make hem wenen, at the leeste weye,

  That of a pound we coude make tweye!

  Yet is it fals, but ay we han good hope

  It for to doon, and after it we grope.

  But that science is so fer us biforn,

  We mowen nat, al-though we hadde it sworn,

  It overtake, it slit awey so faste;

  It wol us maken beggars atte laste.”

  Whyl this yeman was thus in his talking,

  This chanoun drough him ncer, and herde al thing

  Which this yeman spak, for suspecioun

  Of mennes speche ever hadde this chanoun.

  For Catoun seith, that he that gilty is

  Demeth al thing be spoke of him, y-wis.

  That was the cause he gan so ny him drawe

  To his yeman, to herknen al his sawe.

  And thus he seyde un-to his yeman tho,

  “Hold thou thy pees, and spek no wordes mo,

  For if thou do, thou shalt it dere abye;

  Thou sclaundrest me heer in this companye,

  And eek discoverest that thou sholdest hyde.”

  “Ye,” quod our host, “telle on, what so bityde;

  Of al his threting rekke nat a myte!”

  “In feith,” quod he, “namore I do but lyte.”

  And whan this chanon saugh it wolde nat be,

  But his yeman wolde telle his privetee,

  He fledde awey for verray sorwe and shame.

  “A!” quod the yeman, “heer shal aryse game,

  Al that I can anon now wol I telle.

  Sin he is goon, the foule feend him quelle!

  That it has changed my color, I know.

  I am not wont in a mirror to peer,

  But work hard and learn alchemy.

  We blunder ever and stare into the fire,

  And for all that we fail of our desire,

  For ever we lack successful conclusion.

  To most folk we do illusion,

  And borrow gold, be it a pound or two,

  Or ten, or twelve, or many sums more,

  And make them believe, at least,

  That of a pound we could make two.

  Yet is it false, but ever we have good hope

  It for to do, and after it we grope.

  But that science is so far us before,

  We accomplish it not, although we had it sworn,

  To achieve, it slides away so fast.

  It will make us beggars at the last.”

  While this Yeoman was thus in his talking,

  This Canon drew him near and heard everything

  That this Yeoman said, for suspicion

  Of men’s speech ever had this Canon.

  For Cato says that he who guilty is

  Deems everything spoken to be of him.4

  That was the reason he began to draw

  Near his Yeoman, to hear his chatter.

  And thus he said unto his Yeoman then:

  “Hold you your peace and speak no words more,

  For if you do, you shall for it dearly pay.

  You slander me here to this company,

  And also reveal what you should hide.”

  “Yea,” said our Host, “tell on, what so betides.

  Of all his threatening reckon not a mite!”

  “In faith,” said he, “I do but little more.”

  And when this Canon saw it would not be,

  But his Yeoman would reveal his secrecy,

  He fled away for true sorrow and shame.

  “Ah,” said the Yeoman, “here shall arise the game;

  All that I know soon now will I say.

  Since he is gone, the foul fiend him slay!

  For never her-after wol I with him mete

  For peny ne for pound, I yow bihete!

  He that me broghte first unto that game,

  Er that he dye, sorwe have he and shame!

  For it is ernest to me, by my feith;

  That fele I wel, what so any man seith.

  And yet, for al my smerte and al my grief,

  For al my sorwe, labour, and meschief,

  I coude never leve it in no wyse.

  Now wolde god my wit mighte suffyse

  To tellen al that longeth to that art!

  But natheles yow wol I tellen part;

  Sin that my lord is gon, I wol nat spare;

  Swich thing as that I knowe, I wol declare.”—

  The Tale

  PART ONE

  With this chanoun I dwelt have seven yeer,

  And of his science am I never the neer.

  Al that I hadde, I have y-lost ther-by;

  And god wot, so hath many mo than I.

  Ther I was wont to be right fresh and
gay

  Of clothing and of other good array,

  Now may I were an hose upon myn heed;

  And wher my colour was bothe fresh and reed,

  Now is it wan and of a leden hewe;

  Who-so it useth, sore shal he rewe.

  And of my swink yet blered is myn ye,

  Lo! which avantage is to multiplye!

  That slyding science hath me maad so bare,

  That I have no good, wher that ever I fare;

  And yet I am endetted so ther-by

  Of gold that I have borwed, trewely,

  That whyl I live, I shal it quyte never.

  Lat every man be war by me for ever!

  What maner man that casteth him ther-to,

  If he continue, I holde his thrift y-do.

  For never hereafter will I with him meet

  For penny nor for pound, I promise you.

  He who brought me first unto that game,

  Before he dies, sorrow have he and shame!

  For it is so serious to me, by my faith;

  That I feel strongly, whatever any man says.

  And yet, for all my pain and my sorrow,

  For all my labor, grief and trouble,

  I could never leave it though I tried.

  Now would to God that my wit sufficed

  To tell all that belongs to that art!

  But nevertheless I will tell you part.

  Since my lord is gone, I will not spare;

  Such things that I know, I will declare.—

  The Tale

  PART ONE

  With this Canon have I dwelt seven years,

  And of his science I am never the nearer.

  All that I had I have lost thereby,

  And, God knows, so have many more than I.

  Where I was wont to be right fresh and gay

  Of clothing and of other good raiment,

  Now may I wear a sock upon my head;

  And where my color was both fresh and red,

  Now it is all wan and of a leaden hue—

  Whoso it uses, sore shall he rue!—

  And from my work yet is bleared my eye.

  Look, what profit be there in alchemy!

  That slippery science has me made so bare

  That I have no good, whatever I fare;

  And yet I am indebted so

  For the gold that I have borrowed, truly,

  That while I live I shall repay it never.

  Let every man be warned by me forever.

  Whoever in that way risks his luck,

  If he continues, he will end up broke.

  So helpe me god, ther-by shal he nat winne,

  But empte his purs, and make his wittes thinne.

  And whan he, thurgh his madnes and folye,

  Hath lost his owene good thurgh jupartye,

  Thanne he excyteth other folk ther-to,