Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)
Page 76
The lord, the lady, and each man, save the friar,
Said that Jankyn spoke, in this matter,
As well as did Euclid or Ptolomy.28
Touching the churl, they said, subtlety
And high wit made him speak as he spoke;
He was no fool, or demoniac.
And Jankyn has won a new gown—
My tale is done; we be almost to town.
The Tale of the Man of Lawe
The Introduction
OUR HOSTE SEY WEL that the brighte sonne
Th‘ark of his artificial day had ronne
The fourthe part, and half an houre, and more;
And though he were not depe expert in lore,
He wiste it was the eightetethe day
Of April, that is messager to May;
And sey wel that the shadwe of every tree
Was as in lengthe the same quantitee
That was the body erect that caused it.
And therfor by the shadwe he took his wit
That Phebus, which that shoon so clere and brighte,
Degrees was fyve and fourty clombe on highte;
And for that day, as in that latitude,
It was ten of the clokke, he gan conclude,
And sodeynly he plighte his hors aboute.
“Lordinges,” quod he, “I warne yow, al this route,
The fourthe party of this day is goon;
Now, for the love of god and of seint John,
Leseth no tyme, as ferforth as ye may;
Lordinges, the tyme wasteth night and day,
And steleth from us, what prively slepinge,
And what thurgh neeligence in our wakinge,
As dooth the streem, that turneth never agayn,
Descending fro the montaigne in-to playn.
Wel can Senek, and many a philosophre
Biwailen tyme, more than gold in cofre.
‘For los of catel may recovered be,
But los of tyme shendeth us,’ quod he.
It wol nat come agayn, with-outen drede,
Na more than wol Malkins maydenhede,
Whan she hath lost it in hir wantownesse;
Lat us nat moulen thus in ydelnesse.
Sir man of lawe,” quod he, so hae ye blis,
Tel us a tale anon, as forward is;
Ye been submitted thurgh your free assent
The Man of Law’s Tale
The Introduction
OUR HOST SAW WELL that the bright sun
His daylight arc had run
The first quarter, and half an hour and more,1
And though not learned deeply in such lore,
He knew it was the eighteenth day
Of April, that is messenger to May;
And saw well that the shadow of every tree
Was in length the same quantity
That was the body that caused it.
And therefore by the shadow made his judgement
That Phoebus, which shone so clear and bright,
Degrees was five and forty ascended on high,
And for that day, in that latitude,
It was ten o‘clock, he began to conclude,
And suddenly he pulled his horse about.
“Lordings,” said he, “I warn you, all this company,
The fourth part of the day is gone.
Now for the love of God and of Saint John,
Lose no time, insofar as you may.
Lordings, time is wasting night and day,
And steals from us, what with sleeping,
And through negligence in our waking,
As does the stream that never turns again,
Descending from the mountain into the plain.
Well can Seneca and many a philosopher
Bewail time more than gold in a coffer;
For ‘Loss of property may recovered be,
But loss of time ruins us,’2 said he.
It will not come again, without doubt,
No more than will Malkin’s maidenhead,
When she lost it in her wantonness.
Let us not grow moldy thus in idleness.
Sir Man of Law,” said he, “so have you bliss,
Tell us a tale anon, as we agreed.
You be submitted, through your free assent,
To stonde in this cas at my jugement.
Acquiteth yow, and holdeth your biheste,
Than have ye doon your devoir atte leste.”
“Hoste,” quod he, “depardieux ich assente,
To breke forward is not myn entente.
Biheste is dette, and I wol holde fayn
Al my biheste; I can no better seyn.
For swich lawe as man yeveth another wight,
He sholde him-selven usen it by right;
Thus wol our text; but natheles certeyn
I can right now no trifty tale seyn,
But Chaucer, though he can but lewedly
On metres and on ryming craftily,
Hath seyd hem in swich English as he can
Of olde tyme, as knoweth many a man.
And if he have not seyd hem, leve brother,
In o bok, he hath seyd hem in another.
For he hath told of loveres up and doun
Mo than Ovyde made of mencioun
In his Epistelles, that been ful olde.
What sholde I tellen hem, sin they ben tolde?
In youthe he made of Ceys and Alcion,
And sithen hath he spoke of everichon,
Thise noble wyves and thise loveres eke.
Who-so that wol his large volume seke
Cleped the Seintes Legende of Cupyde,
Ther may be seen the large woundes wyde
Of Lucresse, and of Babilan Tisbee;
The swerd of Dido for the false Enee;
The tree of Phillis for hir Demophon;
The pleinte of Dianire and Hermion,
Of Adriane and of Isiphilee;
The bareyne yle stonding in the see;
The dreynte Leander for his Erro;
The teres of Eleyne, and eek the wo
Of Brixseyde, and of thee, Ladomëa;
The crueltee of thee, queen Medëa,
Thy litel children hanging by the hals
For thy Jason, that was of love so fals!
To stand in this case at my judgement.
Acquit yourself now of your obligation;
Then you will have at least your duty done.”
“Host,” said he, “depardieux, I assent;
To break my promise is not my intent.
A promise is a duty, and I would keep
All my promises, I can no better say.
For such law as a man gives another,
He should himself obey it, by right;
Thus says our text. But nevertheless, certainly,
I can right now no fitting tale say
That Chaucer, though he knows but little
Of meters and skillful rhyming,
Has said them in such English as he can
Long ago, as knows many a man;
And if he has not said them, dear brother,
In one book, he has said them in another.
For he has told of lovers up and down
More than Ovid made of mention
In his Epistles 3 that be full old.
Why should I tell them, since they have been told?
In youth he wrote of Ceyx and Alcion,4
And since then he has spoken of everyone,
These noble wives and these lovers also.
Whoso will his large volume seek,
Called the Legend of Good Women,5
There may he see the large wounds wide
Of Lucretia, and of Thisbe of Babylon;
The sword of Dido for the false Aeneas;
The tree of Phyllis for her Demophon,
The plaint of Deianira and of Hermione,
Of Ariadne, and of Hypsipyle—
The barren isle standing in the sea—
> The drowned Leander for his Hero;
The tears of Helen, and also the woe
Of Briseyde, and of you, Laodomia;
The cruelty of the queen Medea,
Her little children hanging by the neck,
For your Jason, who was in love so false!
O Ypermistra, Penelopee, Alceste,
Your wyfhod he comendeth with the beste!
But certeinly no word ne wryteth he
Of thilke wikke ensample of Canacee,
That lovede hir owne brother sinfully;
Of swiche cursed stories I sey ‘fy’;
Or elles of Tyro Apollonius,
How that the cursed king Antiochus
Birafte his doghter of hir maydenhede,
That is so horrible a tale for to rede,
Whan he hir threw up-on the pavement.
And therfore he, of ful avysement,
Nolde never wryte in none of his sermouns
Of swiche unkinde abhominaciouns,
Ne I wol noon reherse, if that I may.
But of my tale how shal I doon this day?
Me were looth be lykned, doutelees,
To Muses that men clepe Pierides—
Metamorphoseos wot what I mene:—
But nathelees, I recche noght a bene
Though I come after him with hawe-bake;
I speke in prose, and lat him rymes make.”
And with that word he, with a sobre chere,
Bigan his tale, as ye shal after here.
The Prologue
O hateful harm! condicion of poverte!
With thurst, with cold, with hunger so confounded!
To asken help thee shameth in thyn herte;
If thou noon aske, with nede artow so wounded,
That verray nede unwrappeth al thy wounde hid!
Maugree thyn heed, thou most for indigence
Or stele, or begge, or borwe thy despence!
Thou blamest Crist, and seyst ful bitterly,
He misdeparteth richesse temporal;
Thy neighebour thou wytest sinfully,
And seyst thou hast to lyte, and he hath al.
Oh Hypermnestra, Penelope, Alcestis,
Your fidelity he commends with the best!
“But certainly no word writes he
Of that wicked example of Canacee, 6
Who loved her own brother sinfully—
Of such cursed stories I say fie!
Or else of Apollonius of Tyre,7
How that cursed king Antiochus
Bereft his daughter of her maidenhead,
That is so horrible a tale for to read,
When he her threw upon the pavement.
And therefore Chaucer, after careful thought,
Would never write in any of his sermons
Of such unnatural abominations,
Nor will I any rehearse, if I may.
“But of my tale how shall I do this day?
I am loath to be likened, doubtless,
To Muses whom men call Pierides8—
The Metamorphoses know what I mean;
But nevertheless, I do not care a bean
Though I come after him with poor fare.
I speak in prose, and let him rhymes make.”
And with that word he, with sober face,
Began his tale, as you shall after hear.
The Prologue
Oh hateful misfortune, condition of poverty!9
With thirst, with cold, with hunger so distressed!
To ask help you feel shame in your heart;
If you none ask, you are with need so wounded
That need lays bare all your hidden want!
Against your will, you must from indigence
Either steal, beg, or borrow your sustenance!
You blame Christ and say full bitterly
He wrongly divides riches temporal;
Your neighbor you accuse sinfully,
And say you have too little and he has all.
“Parfay,” seistow, “somtyme he rekne shal,
Whan that his tayl shal brennen in the glede,
For he noght helpeth needfulle in hir nede.”
Herkne what is the sentence of the wyse:—
“Bet is to dyën than have indigence;”
“Thy selve neighebour wol thee despyse;”
If thou be povre, farwel thy reverence!
Yet of the wyse man tak this sentence:—
“Alle the dayes of povre men ben wikke;”
Be war therfor, er thou come in that prikke!
“If thou be povre, thy brother hateth thee,
And alle thy freendes fleen fro thee, alas!”
O riche marchaunts, ful of wele ben ye,
O noble, o prudent folk, as in this cas!
Your bagges been nat filled with ambes as,
But with sis cink, that renneth for your chaunce;
At Cristemasse merie may ye daunce!
Ye seken lond and see for your winninges,
As wyse folk ye knowen al th‘estaat
Of regnes; ye ben fadres of tydinges
And tales, bothe of pees and of debat.
I were right now of tales desolat,
Nere that a marchaunt, goon is many a yere,
Me taughte a tale, which that ye shal here.
The Tale
PART ONE
In Surrie whylom dwelte a companye
Of chapmen riche, and therto sadde and trewe,
That wyde-wher senten her spycerye,
Clothes of gold, and satins riche of hewe;
Her chaffar was so thrifty and so newe,
That every wight hath deyntee to chaffare
With hem, and eek to sellen hem hir ware.
“By my faith,” you say, “sometime he shall take account,
When his tail shall burn in live coals,
For he helps not the needy in their need.”
Harken to what is the judgement of the wise:
“Better is to die than to live in need,
Such that your very neighbor will you despise.”
If you be poor, farewell your respect!
Yet of the wise men take this opinion:
“All the days of poor men be miserable.”
Beware, therefore, that you come to that condition!
If you are poor, your brother hates you,
And all your friends flee from you, alas!
Oh rich merchants, full of prosperity be you,
Oh noble, oh prudent folk, as in this case!
Your cups be not filled with snake eyes,
But with six and five, a winning throw of the dice,
At Christmas merry may you dance!
You seek over land and sea for your profit;
As wise folk you know all the estate
Of reigns; you be fathers of tidings
And tales, both of peace and conflict.
I would be right now of tales desolate,
Were it not for one that a merchant, gone many a year,
Taught me, which you shall hear.
The Tale
PART ONE
In Syria once dwelt a company
Of merchants rich, and therefore trustworthy and true,
Who far and wide sent their silk and spice,
Cloth of gold, and satins rich of hue.
Their merchandise was so good and so new
That every person wanted to trade
With them, and also to sell them their wares.
Now fel it, that the maistres of that sort
Han shapen hem to Rome for to wende;
Were it for chapmanhode or for disport,
Non other message wolde they thider sende,
But comen hem-self to Rome, this is the ende;
And in swich place, as thoughte hem avantage
For her entente, they take her herbergage.
Sojourned han thise marchants in that toun
A certein tyme, as fel to hir plesance.
And so bife
l, that th‘excellent renoun
Of th’emperoures doghter, dame Custance,
Reported was, with every circumstance,
Un-to thise Surrien marchants in swich wyse,
Fro day to day, as I shal yow devyse.
This was the commune vois of every man—
“Our Emperour of Rome, god him see,
A doghter hath that, sin the world bigan,
To rekne as wel hir goodnesse as beautee,
Nas never swich another as is she;
I prey to god in honour hir sustene,
And wolde she were of al Europe the quene.
In hir is heigh beautee, with-oute pryde,
Yowthe, with-oute grenehede or folye;
To alle hir werkes vertu is hir gyde,
Humblesse hath slayn in hir al tirannye.
She is mirour of alle curteisye;
Hir herte is verray chambre of holinesse,
Hir hand, ministre of fredom for almesse.”
And al this vois was soth, as god is trewe,
But now to purpos lat us turne agayn;
Thise marchants han doon fraught hir shippes newe,
And, whan they han this blisful mayden seyn,
Hoom to Surryë been they went ful fayn,
And doon her nedes as they han don yore,
And liven in wele; I can sey yow no more.
Now it befell that the masters of that sort
Had arranged themselves to Rome to wend;
Whether for business or pleasure,
No other messenger would they thither send,
But go themselves to Rome; that was their end.
And in such place as they thought advantageous
For their purposes, they took their lodging.
Sojourned have these merchants in that town
A certain time, as they wished.
And so it befell that the excellent renown
Of the Emperor’s daughter, dame Constance,
Reported was, with every detail,
Unto these Syrian merchants in such a way,
From day to day, as I shall for you describe.
This was the common opinion of every man:
“Our Emperor of Rome—God him protect!—
A daughter has who, since the world began,
To reckon as well her goodness as beauty,