Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  Who would as soon lose her neck

  As give a penny of her savings.

  I will have twelve pence, no matter if she is mad,

  Or I will summon her unto our office;

  And yet, God knows, of her I know no vice.

  Since you cannot, in this territory,

  Make your expenses, take here example from me.”

  This summoner knocked at the widow’s gate.

  “Come out,” said he, “you wrinkled old hag!

  I believe you have some friar or priest with you.”

  “Who knocks?” said this wife, “benedicite!

  God save you sire, what is your sweet will?”

  “I have,” said he, “Of summons here a bill;

  Upon pain of excommunication, look that you be

  Tomorrow before the archdeacon’s knee

  To answer to the court about certain things.”

  “Now, Lord,” said she, “Christ Jesus, king of kings,

  So wisely help me, as I pray.

  I have been sick, and that full many a day.

  I may not go so far,” said she, “nor ride,

  But I be dead, so hurts it in my side.

  May I not ask for a written copy, sir summoner,

  And answer through my representer

  To whatever men bring against me?”

  “Yes,” said this summoner, “pay now—let me see—

  Twelve pence to me, and I will you acquit.

  I shall no profit have thereby but little;

  My master has the profit and not I.

  Hurry up, and let me ride hastily;

  Give me twelve pence, I may no longer tarry.”

  “Twelve pence!” said she, “Now, lady Saint Mary

  So wisely help me out of care and sin,

  This wide world though I should win,

  Ne have I nat twelf pens with-inne myn hold.

  Ye knowen wel that I am povre and old;

  Kythe your almesse on me povre wrecche.”

  “Nay than,” quod he, “the foule feend me fecche

  If I th‘excuse, though thou shul be spilt!”

  “Alas,” quod she, “god woot, I have no gilt.”

  “Pay me,” quod he, “or by the swete seinte Anne,

  As I wol bere awey thy newe panne

  For dette, which that thou owest me of old,

  Whan that thou madest thyn housbond cokewold,

  I payde at hoom for thy correccioun.”

  “Thou lixt,” quod she, “by my savacioun!

  Ne was I never er now, widwe ne wyf,

  Somoned un-to your court in al my lyf;

  Ne never I nas but of my body trewe!

  Un-to the devel blak and rough of hewe

  Yeve I thy body and my panne also!”

  And whan the devel herde hir cursen so

  Up-on hir knees, he seyde in this manere,

  “Now Mabely, myn owene moder dere,

  Is this your wil in ernest, that ye seye?”

  “The devel,” quod she, “so fecche him er he deye,

  And panne and al, but he wol him repente!”

  “Nay, olde stot, that is nat myn entente,”

  Quod this Somnour, “for to repente me,

  For any thing that I have had of thee;

  I wolde I hadde thy smok and every clooth!”

  “Now, brother,” quod the devel, “be nat wrooth;

  Thy body and this panne ben myne by right.

  Thou shalt with me to helle yet to-night,

  Where thou shalt knowen of our privetee

  More than a maister of divinitee:”

  And with that word this foule feend him hente;

  Body and soule, he with the devel wente

  Wher-as that somnours han hir heritage.

  And god, that maked after his image

  Mankinde, save and gyde us alle and some;

  And leve this Somnour good man to bicome!

  Lordinges, I coude han told yow, quod this Frere,

  I have not twelve pence within my hold.

  You know well that I am poor and old;

  Show charity to me, a poor wretch.”

  “Nay, then,” said he, “the foul fiend me fetch

  If I you excuse, though you should be put to death!”

  “Alas!” said she, “God knows, I have no guilt.”

  “Pay me,” said he, “or by the sweet Saint Anne,15

  I will bear away your new pan

  For debt which you owe me of old.

  When you made your husband cuckold,

  I paid at home for your correction.”

  “You lie!” said she, “by my salvation,

  Never was I before or now, widow or wife,

  Summoned into your court in all my life;

  Nor ever was I but of my body true!

  Unto the devil black and rough of hue

  Give I your body and my pan also!”

  And when the devil heard her curse so

  Upon her knees, he said in this manner,

  “Now, Mabel, my own mother dear,

  Is this your will in earnest that you say?”

  “The devil,” said she, “so fetch him or he die,

  And pan and all, unless he will him repent!”

  “Nay, old cow, that is not my intent,”

  Said this summoner, “for to repent

  For anything that I have had of you.

  I would strip from you of every rag and cloth!”

  “Now, brother,” said the devil, “be not wroth;

  Your body and this pan be mine by right.

  You shall go with me to hell yet tonight,

  Where you shall know of our secrets

  More than a master of divinity”16

  And with that word this fiend him seized;

  Body and soul he with the devil flew

  To where summoners have their roost.

  And God, who made after his image

  Mankind, save and guide us, all and some,

  And may these summoners good men become!

  Lordings, I could have told you, said this Friar,

  Hadde I had leyser for this Somnour here,

  After the text of Crist, Poul and John,

  And of our othere doctours many oon,

  Swiche peynes, that your hertes mighte agryse,

  Al-be-it so, no tonge may devyse,

  Thogh that I mighte a thousand winter telle,

  The peyne of thilke cursed hous of helle.

  But, for to kepe us fro that cursed place,

  Waketh, and preyeth Jesu for his grace

  So kepe us fro the temptour Sathanas.

  Herketh this word, beth war as in this cas;

  The leoun sit in his await alway

  To slee the innocent, if that he may.

  Disposeth ay your hertes to withstonde

  The feend, that yow wolde make thral and bonde.

  He may nat tempten yow over your might;

  For Crist wol be your champion and knight.

  And prayeth that thise Somnours hem repente

  Of hir misdedes, er that the feend hem hente.

  Had I leisure for this summoner here,

  After the text of Christ, Paul and John,

  And of our other authorities many a one,

  Such pains that your hearts might cause to shudder,

  Albeit that no tongue may it so utter,

  Though that I might a thousand winters tell

  The pains of this same cursed house of hell.

  But to keep us from that cursed place,

  Wake and pray Jesus for his grace

  That he may keep us from the tempter Satan.

  Harken this word! Beware, as in this case:

  “The lion sits in a bush always

  To slay the innocent, if he may.” 17

  Dispose all your hearts to withstand

  This fiend, that you would make servant and slave.

  He may not tempt you beyond your power,

 
For Christ will be your champion and knight protector.

  And pray that these summoners repent

  Of their misdeeds, or that the fiend them seize!

  The Somnours Tale

  The Prologue

  THIS SOMNOUR IN HIS stiropes hye stood;

  Up-on this Frere his herte was so wood,

  That lyk an aspen leef he quook for yre.

  “Lordinges,” quod he, “but o thing I desyre;

  I yow biseke that, of your curteisye,

  Sin ye han herd this false Frere lye,

  As suffereth me I may my tale telle!

  This Frere bosteth that he knoweth helle,

  And god it woot, that it is litel wonder;

  Freres and feendes been but lyte a-sonder.

  For pardee, ye han ofte tyme herd telle,

  How that a frere ravisshed was to helle

  In spirit ones by a visioun;

  And as an angel ladde him up and doun,

  To shewen him the peynes that ther were,

  In al the place saugh he nat a frere;

  Of other folk he saugh y-nowe in wo.

  Un-to this angel spak the frere tho:

  ‘Now, sir,’ quod he, ‘han freres swich a grace

  That noon of hem shal come to this place?’

  ‘Yis,’ quod this angel, ‘many a millioun!’

  And un-to Sathanas he ladde him doun.

  ‘And now hath Sathanas,’ seith he, ‘a tayl

  Brodder than of a carrik is the sayl.

  Hold up thy tayl, thou Sathanas!’ quod he,

  ‘Shewe forth thyn ers, and lat the frere see

  Wher is the nest of freres in this place!’

  And, er that half a furlong-wey of space,

  Right so as bees out swarmen from an hyve,

  Out of the develes ers ther gonne dryve

  Twenty thousand freres in a route,

  And thurgh-out helle swarmeden aboute

  And comen agayn, as faste as they may gon,

  And in his ers they crepten everichon.

  He clapte his tayl agayn, and lay ful stille.

  The Summoner’s Tale

  The Prologue

  THIS SUMMONER IN His stirrups he stood;

  Toward this Friar his heart was so wired

  That like an aspen leaf he shook for ire.

  “Lordings,” said he, “but one thing I desire;

  I you beseech that, of your courtesy,

  Since you have heard this false Friar lie,

  To suffer me that I may my tale tell.

  This Friar boasts that he knows hell,

  And God knows, it is little wonder;

  Friars and fiends be but little asunder.

  For, by God, you have oftentime heard tell

  How that a friar abducted was to hell1

  In spirit once by a vision;

  And as an angel led him up and down,

  To show him the pains that there were,

  In all the place saw he not a friar;

  Of other folk saw he enough in woe.

  Unto this angel spoke the friar then:

  ‘Now sir,’ said he, ‘have friars such a grace

  That none of them shall come to this place?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the angel, ‘many a million!’

  And unto Satan he led him down.

  ‘And now has Satan,’ said he, ‘a tail

  Broader than of a carrack is the sail.

  Hold up your tail, you Satan!’ said he;

  ‘Show forth your arse, and let the friar see

  Where is the nest of friars in this place!’

  And in but a minute’s space,

  Right so as bees swarm from a hive,

  Out of the devil’s arse were expelled

  Twenty thousand friars in a crowd,

  And throughout hell swarmed all about,

  And returned again as fast as they were gone,

  And in his arse they crept every one.

  He clapped his tail again and lay full still.

  This frere, whan he loked hadde his fille

  Upon the torments of this sory place,

  His spirit god restored of his grace

  Un-to his body agayn, and he awook;

  But natheles, for fere yet he quook,

  So was the develes ers ay in his minde,

  That is his heritage of verray kinde.

  God save yow alle, save this cursed Frere;

  My prologe wol I ende in this manere.”

  The Tale

  Lordinges, ther is in Yorkshire, as I gesse,

  A mersshy contree called Holdernesse,

  In which ther wente a limitour aboute,

  To preche, and eek to begge, it is no doute.

  And so bifel, that on a day this frere

  Had preched at a chirche in his manere,

  And specially, aboven every thing,

  Excited he the peple in his preching

  To trentals, and to yeve, for goddes sake,

  Wher-with men mighten holy houses make,

  Ther as divyne service is honoured,

  Nat ther as it is wasted and devoured,

  Ne ther it nedeth nat for to be yive,

  As to possessioners, that mowen live,

  Thanked be god, in wele and habundaunce.

  “Trentals,” seyde he, “deliveren fro penaunce

  Hir freendes soules, as wel olde as yonge,

  Ye, whan that they been hastily y-songe;

  Nat for to holde a preest joly and gay,

  He singeth nat but o masse in a day;

  Delivereth out,” quod he, “anon the soules;

  Ful hard it is with fleshhook or with oules

  To been y-clawed, or to brenne or bake;

  Now spede yow hastily, for Cristes sake.”

  And whan this frere had seyd al his entente,

  With qui cum patre forth his wey he wente.

  Whan folk in chirche had yeve him what hem leste,

  He wente his wey, no lenger wolde he reste,

  This friar, when he had looked his fill

  Upon the torment of this sorry place,

  His spirit God restored, of his grace,

  Unto his body again, and he awakened.

  But nevertheless, for fear yet he quaked,

  So was the devil’s arse ever in his mind,

  That is his lineage in its true kind.

  God save you all, save this cursed Friar!

  My prologue will I end in this manner.”

  The Tale

  Lordings, there is in Yorkshire, as I guess,

  A marshy country called Holderness,

  In which there went a limitour about

  To preach, and also to beg, it is no doubt.

  And so it befell that on a day this friar

  Had preached at a church in his manner,

  And specially, above everything,

  Excited he the people in his preaching

  For prayers chanted for the dead, and to give, for God’s sake,

  The means by which men might holy houses2 make,

  There where divine service is honored,

  Not where it is wasted and devoured,

  Nor where it needs not to be given,

  To secular and monastic clergy, so that they may live,

  Thanked be God, in prosperity and abundance.

  “Such chanted prayers,” said he, “deliver from Purgatory

  Your friend’s souls, as well old as young—

  Even when they be hastily sung,

  Not to call a priest jolly and gay—

  Though he sings but one mass a day.

  Deliver out,” said he, “anon the souls!

  Full hard it is with meathooks or with awls

  To be clawed, or to burn or bake.

  Now speed you hastily, for Christ’s sake!”

  And when this friar had said all his intent,

  With but a qui cum patre3 on his way he went.

  When folk in church had given him what they
wished,

  He left; no longer would he stay.

  With scrippe and tipped staf, y-tukked hye;

  In every hous he gan to poure and prye,

  And beggeth mele, and chese, or elles corn.

  His felawe hadde a staf tipped with horn,

  A peyre of tables al of yvory,

  And a poyntel polisshed fetisly,

  And wroot the names alwey, as he stood,

  Of alle folk that yaf him any good,

  Ascaunces that he wolde for hem preye.

  “Yeve us a busshel whete, malt, or reye,

  A goddes kechil, or a trip of chese,

  Or elles what yow list we may nat chese;

  A goddes halfpeny or a masse-peny,

  Or yeve us of your brawn, if ye have eny;

  A dagon of your blanket, leve dame,

  Our suster dere, lo! here I write your name;

  Bacon or beef, or swich thing as ye finde.”

  A sturdy harlot wente ay hem bihinde,

  That was hir hostes man, and bar a sak,

  And what men yaf hem, leyde it on his bak.

  And whan that he was out at dore anon,

  He planed awey the names everichon

  That he biforn had writen in his tables;

  He served hem with nyfles and with fables.

  “Nay, ther thou lixt, thou Somnour,” quod the Frere.

  “Pees,” quod our Host, “for Cristes moder dere;

  Tel forth thy tale and spare it nat at al.”

  So thryve I, quod this Somnour, so I shal.—

  So longe he wente hous by hous, til he

  Cam til an hous ther he was wont to be

  Refresshed more than in an hundred placis.

  Sik lay the gode man, whos that the place is;

  Bedrede up-on a couche lowe he lay.

  “Deus hic,” quod he, “O Thomas, freend, good-day,”

  Seyde this frere curteisly and softe.

  “Thomas,” quod he, “god yelde yow! ful ofte

  Have I up-on this bench faren ful weel.

  Here have I eten many a mery meel;”

  And fro the bench he droof awey the cat,

  With satchel and metal-tipped staff, and coattails tucked,

  In every house he began to pore and peer,

  And begged grain and cheese, or else corn.

  His partner had a staff tipped with horn,

  And folding ivory writing tablets,

  And a well-polished stylus,4

  And wrote the names always, as there he stood,

  Of all folk who gave him any good,

  As if he would for them pray.

  “Give us a bushel of wheat, malt, or rye,

  A little almscake, or a bit of cheese;

  Or what you wish, we may not choose;