To lese hir good as he him-self hath do.
For unto shrewes joye it is and ese
To have hir felawes in peyne and disese;
Thus was I ones lerned of a clerk.
Of that no charge, I wol speke of our werk.
Whan we been ther as we shul exercyse
Our elvish craft, we semen wonder wyse,
Our termes been so clergial and so queynte.
I blowe the fyr til that myn herte feynte.
What sholde I tellen ech proporcioun
Of thinges whiche that we werche upon,
As on fyve or sixe ounces, may wel be,
Of silver or som other quantitee,
And bisie me to telle yow the names
Of orpiment, brent bones, yren squames,
That into poudre grounden been ful smal?
And in an erthen potte how put is al,
And salt y-put in, and also papeer,
Biforn thise poudres that I speke of heer,
And wel y-covered with a lampe of glass,
And mochel other thing which that ther was?
And of the pot and glasses enluting,
That of the eyre mighte passe out no-thing?
And of the esy fyr and smart also,
Which that was maad, and of the care and wo
That we hadde in our matires sublyming,
And in amalgaming and calcening
Of quik-silver, y-clept Mercurie crude?
For alle our sleightes we can nat conclude.
Our orpiment and sublymed Mercurie,
Our grounden litarge eek on the porphurie,
Of ech of thise of ounces a certeyn
Nought helpeth us, our labour is in veyn.
Ne eek our spirites ascencioun,
For so help me God, thereby shall he not win,
But empty his purse and make his wits thin.
And when he through his madness and folly
Has lost his own goods through jeopardy,
Then he excites other folk thereto,
To lessen their goods as he himself has done.
For unto wretches joy it is and ease
To have their fellows in pain and disease.
Thus taught was I once by a cleric.
Of that no matter; I speak now of our work.
When we had set ourselves up to exercise
Our elvish craft, we seemed wondrous wise,
Our terms were scholarly and so abstruse.
I blew the fire till my heart burst.
Why should I tell each measure of
Things that we worked upon—
As to five or six ounces, may well be,
Of silver, or some other quantity—
And busy myself to tell you the names
Of arsenic, burnt bones, iron flakes,
That into powder ground were full small;
And in an earthen pot how put is all,
And salt put in, and also paper,
Before these powders that I spoke of here;
And well-covered with a lamp of glass;
And of much other things that there were;
And of the pot and glasses sealing
That of the vapor might pass out nothing;
And of the easy fire, and brisk also,
Which was made, and of the care and woe
That we had in our ingredients purifying,
And in our amalgamation and reduction
Of quicksilver, called raw mercury?
For all our trickery we cannot succeed.
Our arsenic and purified mercury,
Our ground lead oxide on the porphyry,5
Of each of these of ounces a certain measure—
Nought helped us; in vain was our labor.
Nor either our vaporized spirits,
Ne our materes that lyen al fixe adoun,
Mowe in our werking no-thing us avayle.
For lost is al our labour and travayle,
And al the cost, a twenty devel weye,
Is lost also, which we upon it leye.
Ther is also ful many another thing
That is unto our craft apertening;
Though I by ordre hem nat reherce can,
By-cause that I am a lewed man,
Yet wol I telle hem as they come to minde,
Though I ne can nat sette hem in hir kinde;
As bole armoniak, verdegrees, boras,
And sondry vessels maad of erthe and glas,
Our urinales and our descensories,
Violes, croslets, and sublymatories,
Cucurbites, and alembykes eek,
And othere swiche, dere y-nough a leek.
Nat nedeth it for to reherce hem alle,
Watres rubifying and boles galle,
Arsenik, sal armoniak, and brimstoon;
And herbes coude I telle eek many oon,
As egremoine, valerian, and lunarie,
And othere swiche, if that me liste tarie.
Our lampes brenning bothe night and day,
To bringe aboute our craft, if that we may.
Our fourneys eek of calcinacioun,
And of watres albificacioun,
Unslekked lym, chalk, and gleyre of an ey,
Poudres diverse, asshes, dong, pisse, and cley,
Cered pokets, sal peter, vitriole;
And divers fyres maad of wode and cole;
Sal tartre, alkaly, and sal preparat,
And combust materes and coagulat,
Cley maad with hors or mannes heer, and oile
Of tartre, alum, glas, berm, wort, and argoile
Resalgar, and our materes enbibing;
And eek of our materes encorporing,
And of our silver citrinacioun,
Nor our residue sediment stable,
For success in our working nothing us availed,
For lost is all our labor and our travail;
And all the cost, in the devil’s name,
Is lost also, that we had outlaid.
There is also full many another thing
That is unto our craft appertaining.
Though I cannot rehearse them in order,
Because I am an unlearned man,
Yet will I tell them as they come to mind,
Though I cannot set them in their order by kind:
As Armenian bole, copper, borax,
And sundry vessels made of earth and glass,
Our flasks and our retorts,
Vials, crucibles, and sublimatories,6
Distillation vessels and alembics also,
And other such, expensive but not worth a leek—
No need for me to rehearse them all—
Fluids reddening, and bull’s gall,
Arsenic, sal ammoniac, and brimstone;
And herbs could I tell many a one,
As agrimony, valerian, and moonwart,
And other such, if I wished to tarry;
Our lamps burning both night and day,
To bring about our purpose, if we may;
Our furnace also of calcination,
And of waters albification;
Unslaked lime, chalk, and white of egg,
Powders diverse, ashes, dung, piss and clay,
Waxed small bags, saltpeter, copper sulphate,
And diverse fires made of wood and coal;
Potassium carbonate, alkali, purified salt,
And burned materials and coagulates;
Clay made with horse or man’s hair, and oil
Of tarter, potash alum, brewer’s yeast, unfermented beer,
potassium bitartrate,
Arsenic disulphide, and our ingredients absorbant,
And also of our ingredients compounding,
And of our silver lemon-yellow turning,
Our cementing and fermentacioun,
Our ingottes, testes, and many mo.
I wol yow telle, as was me taught also,
The foure spirites and the bodies sevene,
By ordre, as ofte I herde m
y lord hem nevene.
The firste spirit quik-silver called is,
The second orpiment, the thridde, y-wis,
Sal armoniak, and the ferthe brimstoon.
The bodies sevene eek, lo! hem heer anoon:
Sol gold is, and Luna silver we threpe,
Mars yren, Mercurie quik-silver we clepe,
Saturnus leed, and Jupiter is tin,
And Venus coper, by my fader kin!
This cursed craft who-so wol exercyse,
He shal no good han that him may suffyse
For al the good he spendeth ther-aboute,
He lese shal, ther-of have I no doute.
Who-so that listeth outen his folye,
Lat him come forth, and lerne multiplye;
And every man that oght hath in his cofre,
Lat him appere, and wexe a philosofre.
Ascaunce that craft is so light to lere?
Nay, nay, god woot, al be he monk or frere,
Preest or chanoun, or any other wight,
Though he sitte at his book bothe day and night,
In lernying of this elvish nyce lore,
Al is in veyn, and parde, mochel more!
To lerne a lewed man this subtiltee,
Fy! spek nat ther-of, for it wol nat be;
Al conne he letterure, or conne he noon,
As in effect, he shal finde it al oon.
For bothe two, by my savacioun,
Concluden, in multiplicacioun,
Y-lyke wel, whan they han al y-do;
This is to seyn, they faylen bothe two.
Yet forgat I to maken rehersaille
Of watres corosif and of limaille,
And of bodyes mollificacioun,
And also of hir induracioun,
Our heat fusion and effervescence,
Our ingot molds, crucibles, and many more.
I will you tell, as was taught me also,
The volatile spirits four and the metals seven,
In order, as often I heard my lord name them.
The first spirit is called quicksilver,
The second arsenic, the third, truly,
Sal ammoniac, and the fourth sulphur.
The bodies seven also, now here they are:
Sun is gold, and Luna silver we affirm,
Mars iron, Mercury quicksilver,
Saturn lead, and Jupiter is tin,
And Venus copper, by my father’s kin!
This cursed craft whose whole exercise,
Shall do no good for whom it engages,
For all the money he on it spends
He shall lose it; thereof have I no doubt.
Whoso wishes to display his folly,
Let him come forth and learn alchemy;
And every man who has anything in his coffer,
Let him present himself and become a philosopher.
You think the craft is so easy to learn?
Nay, nay, God knows, be he monk or friar,
Priest or canon, or any other,
Though he sits at his book both day and night
In learning of this elvish, foolish lore,
He is in vain and, God knows, much more.
To teach an unschooled man this subtlety—
Fie! Speak not thereof, for it will not be.
And know he books or know he none,
In the end, he shall find it all the one.
For the both, by my salvation,
Conclude in transmutation
Much the same, when they are done;
That is to say, they both fail in the end.
Yet I forget to make rehearsal
Of liquids acidic, and filings of metal,
And of substances softening,
And also of their hardening;
Oiles, ablucions, and metal fusible,
To tellen al wolde passen any bible
That o-wher is; wherfor, as for the beste,
Of alle thise names now wol I me reste.
For, as I trowe, I have yow told y-nowe
To reyse a feend, al loke he never so rowe.
A! nay! lat be; the philosophres stoon,
Elixir clept, we sechen faste echoon;
For hadde we him, than were we siker y-now.
But, unto god of heven I make avow,
For al our craft, whan we han al y-do,
And al our sleighte, he wol nat come us to.
He hath y-maad us spenden mochel good,
For sorwe of which almost we wexen wood,
But that good hope crepeth in our herte,
Supposing ever, though we sore smerte,
To be releved by him afterward;
Swich supposing and hope is sharp and hard;
I warne you wel, it is to seken ever;
That futur temps hath maad men to dissever,
In trust ther-of, from al that ever they hadde.
Yet of that art they can nat wexen sadde,
For unto hem it is a bitter swete;
So semeth it; for nadde they but a shete
Which that they mighte wrappe hem inne a-night,
And a bak to walken inne by day-light,
They wolde hem selle and spenden on this craft;
They can nat stinte til no-thing be laft.
And evermore, wher that ever they goon,
Men may hem knowe by smel of brimstoon;
For al the world, they stinken as a goot;
Her savour is so rammish and so hoot,
That, though a man from hem a myle be,
The savour wol infecte him, trusteth me;
Lo, thus by smelling and threedbare array,
If that men liste, this folk they knowe may.
And if a man wol aske hem prively,
Why they been clothed so unthriftily,
They right anon wol rownen in his ere,
Oils, ablutions, and metals fusible—
To tell all would pass any bible
That ever was; therefore, as for the best,
All these names now will I let rest,
For, as I believe, I have told you enough,
To raise a fiend, though he looks ever so rough.
Ah! Nay! Let be; the philosopher’s stone,
Elixir called, we all seek eagerly;
For if we had it, then now certain would we be.
But unto God of heaven I make a vow,
For all our craft, when we were all done,
And all our cunning, he would not to us come.
He made us spend much of our money,
For sorrow of which we almost went crazy,
But that good hope crept in our hearts,
Supposing ever though we smarted,
To be relieved by him afterwards.
Such supposing and hope is sharp and hard;
I warn you well, it is to seek forever.
That future tense has made men part,
In hope thereof, from all that ever they had.
Yet of that art they cannot find peace,
For unto them it is a bitter sweet—
So seems it—for had they not but a sheet
Which they might wrap themselves in at night,
And a rough cloak to walk in by daylight,
They would spend and sell themselves on this craft.
They cannot stint until they have nothing left.
And evermore, wherever they go,
Men may them know by the smell of brimstone.
For all the world they stink as a goat;
Their odor is so rammish and gross
That though a man from them a mile be,
Their odor will infect him, trust to me.
Look, thus by smelling and threadbare raiment,
If men wish, this folk they may know.
And if a man will ask him privately
Why they be clothed so unhandsomely,
They right anon will whisper in his ear,
And seyn, that if that they espyed were,
Men wolde hem slee, by-cause of hir scie
nce;
Lo, thus this folk bitrayen innocence!
Passe over this; I go my tale un-to.
Er than the pot be on the fyr y-do,
Of metals with a certein quantitee,
My lord hem tempreth, and no man but he—
Now he is goon, I dar seyn boldely—
For, as men seyn, he can don craftily;
Algate I woot wel he hath swich a name,
And yet ful ofte he renneth in a blame;
And wite ye how? ful ofte it happeth so,
The pot to-breketh, and farwell! al is go!
Thise metals been of so greet violence,
Our walles mowe nat make hem resistence,
But if they weren wroght of lym and stoon;
They percen so, and thurgh the wal they goon,
And somme of hem sinken in-to the ground—
Thus han we lost by tymes many a pound—
And somme are scatered al the floor aboute,
Somme lepe in-to the roof; with-outen doute,
Though that the feend noght in our sighte him shewe,
I trowe he with us be, that ilke shrewe!
In helle wher that he is lord and sire,
Nis ther more wo, ne more rancour ne ire.
Whan that our pot is broke, as I have sayd,
Every man chit, and halt him yvel apayd.
Som seyde, it was long on the fyr-making,
Som seyde, nay! it was on the blowing;
(Than was I fered, for that was myn office);
“Straw!” quod the thridde, “ye been lewed and nyce,
It was nat tempred as it oghte be.”
“Nay!” quod the ferthe, “stint, and herkne me;
By-cause our fyr ne was nat maad of beech,
That is the cause, and other noon, so theech!”
I can nat telle wher-on it was long,
But wel I wot greet stryf is us among.
“What!” quod my lord, “there is na-more to done,
Of thise perils I wol be war eft-sone;
And say that if they were discovered,
Men would slay them because of their science.
Look, how these folk deceive the innocents!
Pass over this; I go unto my tale.
Before the pot be on the fire set,
Of metals with a certain quantity,
My lord them blended, and no man but he—
Now he is gone, I dare boldly say—
For as men say, he could do so well.
Although I know well he had made a name;
Yet full often he was to blame.
And you know why? Full often it happened so
The pot exploded, and farewell, all is gone!
These metals be of such great violence
Pot walls may not make them resistance,
But if they were wrought of lime or stone;
They pierce them, and through the wall they go.
And some of them sink into the ground—
Thus have we lost betimes many a pound—
And some are scattered all the floor about;
Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 66
