For ever this bird will do his business
To escape out of his cage, if he may.
His liberty this bird desires always.
Or take a cat, and foster him well with milk
And tender flesh, and make his couch of silk,
And let him see a mouse go by the wall,
Anon he waives milk and meat and all,
And every dainty that is in that house,
Such appetite has he to eat a mouse.
Look, here has lust his domination,
And appetite overcomes discretion.
A she-wolf is also of an evil kind.
The lewdest wolf that she may find
Of least reputation, will she take,
In times when she lusts to have a mate.
All these examples I mention of men
Who have been untrue, and nothing of women,
For men have ever a lecherous appetite
On lower thing to parfourne hir delyt
Than on hir wyves, be they never so faire,
Ne never so trewe, ne so debonaire.
Flesh is so newefangel, with meschaunce,
That we ne conne in no-thing han plesaunce
That souneth in-to vertu any whyle.
This Phebus, which that thoghte upon no gyle,
Deceyved was, for al his jolitee;
For under him another hadde she,
A man of litel reputacioun,
Noght worth Phebus in comparisoun.
The more harm is; it happeth ofte so,
Of which ther cometh muchel harm and wo.
And so bifel, whan Phebus was absent,
His wyf anon hath for hir lemman sent;
Hir lemman? certes, this is a knavish speche!
Foryeveth it me, and that I yow biseche.
The wyse Plato seith, as ye may rede,
The word mot nede accorde with the dede.
If men shal telle proprely a thing,
The word mot cosin be to the werking.
I am a boistous man, right thus seye I,
Ther nis no difference, trewely,
Bitwixe a wyf that is of heigh degree,
If of hir body dishonest she be,
And a povre wenche, other than this—
If it so be, they werke bothe amis—
But that the gentile, in estaat above,
She shal be cleped his lady, as in love;
And for that other is a povre womman,
She shal be cleped his wenche, or his lemman.
And, god it woot, myn owene dere brother,
Men leyn that oon as lowe as lyth that other.
Right so, bitwixe a titlelees tiraunt
And an outlawe, or a theef erraunt,
The same I seye, ther is no difference.
To Alisaundre told was this sentence;
That, for the tyrant is of gretter might,
By force of meynee for to sleen doun-right,
For lower things to perform their delight
Than on their wives, be they ever so fair,
Or ever so true, or ever so debonair.
Flesh is so fond of novelty, worse luck for us,
That we can in no way have enjoyment
With anything that makes us virtuous.
This Phoebus, who thought not of guile,
Deceived was, for all his handsomeness.
For under him another had she,
A man of little reputation,
Not worthy of Phoebus in comparison.
And more’s the harm it happens often so,
And from which comes much misery and woe.
And so it happened, when Phoebus was absent,
His wife anon has for her stallion sent.
Her stallion? Certainly, this is knavish speech!
Forgive me it, I you beseech.
The wise Plato says, as you may read,
The word must needs accord with the deed.
If men shall tell properly a thing,
The word must cousin be to the working.
I am a plain man, right thus say I:
There is no difference, truly,
Between a wife who is of high degree,
If of her body she dishonest be,
And a poor wench, other than this—
If it so be they both work amiss—
Except that the gentlewoman, estate above,
She shall be called his lady, as in love;
And if the other is a woman poor,
She shall be called his trollop or his whore.
And, God knows, my own dear brother,
Men lay as low with one as with the other.
Right so between a titleless tyrant
And an outlaw or thief arrant,
The same I say: there is no difference.
To Alexander was told this sentence,9
That, though the tyrant is of greater might
In his army’s strength for to slay downright,
And brennen hous and hoom, and make al plain,
Lo! therfor is he cleped a capitain;
And, for the outlawe hath but smal meynee,
And may nat doon so greet an harm as he,
Ne bringe a contree to so greet mescheef,
Men clepen him an outlawe or a theef.
But, for I am a man noght textuel,
I wol noghte telle of textes never a del;
I wol go to my tale, as I bigan.
Whan Phebus wyf had sent for hir lemman,
Anon they wroghten al hir lust volage.
The whyte crowe, that heng ay in the cage,
Biheld hir werk, and seyde never a word.
And whan that hoom was come Phebus, the lord,
This crowe sang “cokkow! cokkow! cokkow!”
“What, brid?” quod Phebus, “what song singestow?
Ne were thow wont so merily to singe
That to myn herte it was a rejoisinge
To here thy vois? alias! what song is this?”
“By god,” quod he, “I singe nat amis;
Phebus,” quod he, “for al thy worthinesse,
For al thy beautee and thy gentilesse,
For al thy song and al thy minstralcye,
For al thy waiting, blered is thyn ye
With oon of litel reputacioun,
Noght worth to thee, as in comparisoun,
The mountance of a gnat; so mote I thryve!
For on thy bed thy wyf I saugh him swyve.”
What wol ye more? the crowe anon him tolde,
By sadde tokenes and by wordes bolde,
How that his wyf had doon hir lecherye,
Him to gret shame and to gret vileinye;
And tolde him ofte, he saugh it with his yën.
This Phebus gan aweyward for to wryen,
Him thoughte his sorweful herte brast a-two;
His bowe he bente, and sette ther-inne a flo,
And in his ire his wyf thanne hath he slayn.
This is th‘effect, ther is na-more to sayn;
For sorwe of which he brak his minstralcye,
And burn houses and homes, and lay to waste,
Look, therefore he is called a captain;
And though the outlaw has not but a few men,
And may not do so great a harm as he,
Nor bring a country to so great mischief,
Men call him an outlaw or a thief.
But I am not learned from books,
In no way will I cite their texts;
I will tell my tale, as I began.
When Phoebus’ wife had sent for her stud,
Anon they wrought all their foolish lust.
The white crow, that ever in the cage perched,
Beheld their work, and said never a word.
And when home was come Phoebus, the lord,
This crow sang, “Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”10
“What, bird?” said Phoebus. “What song sing you?
Were you not wont so merrily to sing
That to my heart
it was a rejoicing
To hear your voice? Alas, what song is this?”
“By God,” said he, “I sing not amiss.
Phoebus,” said he, “for all your worthiness,
For all your beauty and your gentleness,
For all your song and all your minstrelsy,
For all your waiting, bleared is your eye
By one of little reputation,
Not worthy of you in comparison.
The value of a gnat, so may I thrive!
For on your bed I saw him enjoy your wife!”
What would you more? The crow anon him told,
By strong proofs and words bold,
How his wife had done her lechery,
Him to great shame and to great villainy,
And told him he saw it often with his own eyes.
This Phoebus began away to turn,
And thought his sorrowful heart would burst in two.
His bow he bent, and sent thereby an arrow,
And in his ire his wife then has he slain.
This is the effect, there is no more to say;
For sorrow of which he broke his instruments,
Bothe harpe, and lute, and giterne, and sautrye;
And eek he brak his arwes and his bowe.
And after that, thus spak he to the crowe:
“Traitour,” quod he, “with tonge of scorpioun,
Thou hast me broght to my confusioun!
Alias! that I was wroght! why nere I deed?
O dere wyf, O gemme of lustiheed,
That were to me so sad and eek so trewe,
Now lystow deed, with face pale of hewe,
Ful giltelees, that dorste I swere, y-wis!
O rakel hand, to doon so foule amis!
O trouble wit, O ire recchelees,
That unavysed smytest giltelees!
O wantrust, ful of fals suspecioun,
Where was thy wit and thy discrecioun?
O every man, be-war of rakelnesse,
Ne trowe no-thing with-outen strong witnesse;
Smyt nat to sone, er that ye witen why,
And beeth avysed wel and sobrely
Er ye doon any execucioun,
Up-on your ire, for suspecioun.
Alias! a thousand folk hath rakel ire
Fully fordoon, and broght hem in the mire.
Allas! for sorwe I wol my-selven slee!”
And to the crowe, “O false theef!” seyde he,
“I wol thee quyte anon thy false tale!
Thou songe whylom lyk a nightingale;
Now shaltow, false theef, thy song forgon,
And eek thy whyte fetheres everichon,
Ne never in al thy lyf ne shaltou speke.
Thus shal men on a traitour been awreke;
Thou and thyn of-spring ever shul be blake,
Ne never swete noise shul ye make,
But ever crye agayn tempest and rayn,
In tokeninge that thurgh thee my wyf is slayn.”
And to the crowe he stirte, and that anon,
And pulled his whyte fetheres everichon,
And made him blak, and refte him al his song,
And eek his speche, and out at dore him slong
Both harp, and lute, and zither and psaltery;
And also he broke his arrows and his bow,
And after that spoke he to the crow:
“Traitor,” said he, “with tongue of scorpion,
You have me brought to my ruin;
Alas, that I was made! Why am I not dead?
O dear wife! O gem of delight!
You who were to me so steady and so true,
Now lie you dead, with face pale of hue,
Full guiltless, that dare I swear, truly!
Oh rash hand, to do so foul a wrong!
Oh troubled mind, oh ire reckless,
That thoughtlessly slew the guiltless!
Oh distrust, full of false suspicion,
Where was your wit and your discretion?
Oh every man, beware of rashness!
Believe nothing without strong evidence.
Smite not too soon, before you know why,
And be advised well and soberly
Before you do any execution
In your ire out of suspicion.
Alas, a thousand folk in rash ire
Fully be undone, and bring themselves into the mire.
Alas! For sorrow I will myself slay!”
And to the crow, “Oh false thief!” said he,
“I will you requite anon for your false tale.
You sang once like a nightingale;
Now shall you, false thief, your song forego,
And also your white feathers every one,
Nor ever in your life shall you speak.
Thus men shall on a traitor vengeance wreak;
You and your offspring ever shall be black
Nor ever sweet noise shall you make,
But ever cry against tempest and rain,
As a sign that through you my wife is slain.”
And to the crow he started, and that anon,
And pulled his white feathers every one,
And made him black, and bereft him of his song,
And also of his speech, and out the door him slung
Un-to the devel, which I him bitake;
And for this caas ben alle crowes blake.—
Lordings, by this ensample I yow preye,
Beth war, and taketh kepe what I seye:
Ne telleth never no man in your lyf
How that another man hath dight his wyf;
He wol yow haten mortally, certeyn.
Daun Salomon, as wyse clerkes seyn,
Techeth a man to kepe his tonge wel;
But as I seyde, I am noght textuel.
But nathelees, thus taughte me my dame:
“My sone, thenk on the crowe, a goddes name;
My sone, keep wel thy tonge and keep thy freend.
A wikked tonge is worse than a feend.
My sone, from a feend men may hem blesse;
My sone, god of his endelees goodnesse
Walled a tonge with teeth and lippes eke,
For man sholde him avyse what he speke.
My sone, ful ofte, for to muche speche,
Hath many a man ben spilt, as clerkes teche;
But for a litel speche avysely
Is no men shent, to speke generally.
My sone, thy tonge sholdestow restreyne
At alle tyme, but whan thou doost thy peyne
To speke of god, in honour and preyere.
The firste vertu, sone, if thou wolt lere,
Is to restreyne and kepe wel thy tonge.—
Thus lerne children whan that they ben yonge.—
My sone, of muchel speking yvel-avysed,
Ther lasse speking hadde y-nough suffysed,
Comth muchel harm, thus was me told and taught.
In muchel speche sinne wanteth naught.
Wostow wher-of a rakel tonge serveth?
Right as a swerd forcutteth and forkerveth
An arm a-two, my dere sone, right so
A tonge cutteth frendship al a-two.
A jangler is to god abhominable;
Reed Salomon, so wys and honurable;
Reed David in his psalmes, reed Senekke.
Unto the devil, to whom I him commit;
And for this case be all crows black.
Lordings, by this example I you pray,
Beware, and take heed what I say:
Never tell any man in your life
How another man had his wife;
He will hate you mortally, for certain.
Lord Solomon, as wise scholars say,
Teaches a man to keep his tongue well.11
But, as I say, I am not learned in books.
Nevertheless, thus taught me my mother:
“My son, think on a crow, in God’s name!
My son, hold well your tongue, and keep your friends.
/> A wicked tongue is worse than a fiend;
My son, from a fiend men may them bless.
My son, God of his endless goodness
Walled a tongue with teeth and lips also,
For man should consider before he speaks.
My son, full often, for too much speech
Has many a man died, as scholars teach,
But for speech little and discreet
Is no man ruined, to speak generally.
My son, your tongue you should restrain
At all times, except when you devote yourself
To speak of God, in honor and prayer.
The first virtue, son, if you will learn,
Is to restrain and keep well your tongue;
Thus learn children when they be young.
My son, of much talking ill-advised,
When less speaking would have sufficed,
Comes much harm; thus I was told and taught.
In much chatter sin lacks not.
Know you what a rash tongue can do?
Right as a sword cuts
An arm in two, my dear son, right so
A tongue cuts a friendship apart.
A tongue-wagger is to God abominable.
Read Solomon, so wise and honorable;
Read David in his psalms, read Seneca.
My sone, spek nat, but with thyn heed thou bekke
Dissimule as thou were deef, if that thou here
A jangler speke of perilous matere.
The Fleming seith, and lerne it, if thee leste,
That litel jangling causeth muchel reste.
My sone, if thou no wikked word hast seyd,
Thee thar nat drede for to be biwreyd;
But he that hath misseyd, I dar wel sayn,
He may by no wey clepe his word agayn.
Thing that is seyd, is seyd; and forth it gooth,
Though him repente, or be him leef or looth.
He is his thral to whom that he hath sayd
A tale, of which he is now yvel apayd.
My sone, be war, and be non auctour newe
Of tydinges, whether they ben false or trewe.
Wher-so thou come, amonges hye or lowe,
Kepe wel thy tonge, and thenk up-on the crowe.”
My son, speak not, but with your head you nod.
Dissimulate as if you were deaf, if you hear
A chatterbox speak of perilous matter.
The Fleming says, and learn if you wish,
That to talk less will give you more rest.
My son, if you no wicked word have said,
You then need not dread to be betrayed;
But if you have missaid, I dare well say,
You may by no way recall your word again.
Something that is said is said, and forth it goes,
Though you repent, or be ever so loath.
He is in thrall to whom he has told
A tale for which he is now evilly repaid.
My son, beware, and be no author new
Of tidings, whether they be false or true.
Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 84
