Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  And yeven him my trewe herte, as free

  As he swoor he his herte yaf to me;

  Anon this tygre, ful of doublenesse,

  Fil on his knees with so devout humblesse,

  With so heigh reverence, and, as by his chere,

  So lyk a gentil lovere of manere,

  So ravisshed, as it semed, for the joye,

  That never Jason, ne Parys of Troye,

  Jason? certes, ne non other man,

  Sin Lameth was, that alderfirst bigan

  To loven two, as writen folk biforn,

  Ne never, sin the firste man was born,

  Ne coude man, by twenty thousand part,

  Countrefete the sophimes of his art;

  Ne were worthy unbokele his galoche,

  Ther doublenesse or feyning sholde approche,

  Ne so coude thanke a wight as he did me!

  His maner was an heven for to see

  Til any womman, were she never so wys;

  So peynted he and kembde at point-devys

  As wel his wordes as his contenaunce.

  And I so lovede him for his obeisaunce,

  And for the trouthe I demed in his herte,

  That, if so were that any thing him smerte,

  Al were it never so lyte, and I it wiste,

  Me thoughte, I felte deeth myn herte twiste.

  And shortly, so ferforth this thing is went,

  That my wil was his willes instrument;

  This is to seyn, my wil obeyed his wil

  In alle thing, as fer as reson fil,

  Keping the boundes of my worship ever.

  Ne never hadde I thing so leef, ne lever,

  As him, god woot! ne never shal na-mo.

  And took his heart in exchange for my own forever.

  But truth to tell, for many a day,

  ‘A true person and a thief think not the same way.’

  And when he saw the thing so far gone

  That I had granted him fully my love

  In such a guise as I have said above,

  And given him my true heart as freely

  As he swore he had given his heart to me,

  Anon this tiger, full of doubleness,

  Fell on his knees with such devout humbleness,

  With such high reverence, and, as by his face,

  So like a gentle lover in manner,

  So carried away by joy

  That neither Jason nor Paris of Troy13—

  Jason? Certainly, no other man

  Since Lamech14 was, who first of all began

  To love two, as wrote folk before—

  No never, since the first man was born,

  Could any man, by twenty thousand parts,

  Counterfeit the sophisms of his art,

  Nor would be worthy to unbuckle his sandals,

  Compared to his doubleness and feigning,

  Nor could so thank a person as he did me!

  His manner was a heaven for to see

  To any woman, were she ever so wise,

  He so concealed his true intent

  As well in his words as his countenance.

  And I so loved him for his obeisance,

  And for the truth I deemed in his heart,

  That if anything him smarted,

  Albeit ever so little, and I it knew,

  I thought I felt death my heart twist.

  And shortly, so far this thing went

  That my will was his will’s instrument;

  That is to say, my will obeyed his will

  In all things, as far as reason went,

  Keeping the bounds of my honor ever.

  Never had I loved anything so much,

  As him, God knows, nor shall evermore.

  This lasteth lenger than a yeer or two,

  That I supposed of him noght but good.

  But fynally, thus atte laste it stood,

  That fortune wolde that he moste twinne

  Out of that place which that I was inne.

  Wher me was wo, that is no questioun;

  I can nat make of it discripcioun;

  For o thing dar I tellen boldely,

  I knowe what is the peyne of deth ther-by;

  Swich harm I felte for he ne mighte bileve.

  So on a day of me he took his leve,

  So sorwefully eek, that I wende verraily

  That he had felt as muche harm as I,

  Whan that I herde him speke, and saugh his hewe.

  But nathelees, I thoughte he was so trewe,

  And eek that he repaire sholde ageyn

  With-inne a litel whyle, sooth to seyn;

  And reson wolde eek that he moste go

  For his honour, as ofte it happeth so,

  That I made vertu of necessitee,

  And took it wel, sin that it moste be.

  As I best mighte, I hidde fro him my sorwe,

  And took him by the hond, seint John to borwe,

  And seyde him thus: ‘lo, I am youres al;

  Beth swich as I to yow have been, and shal.’

  What he answerde, it nedeth noght reherce,

  Who can sey bet than he, who can do werse?

  Whan he hath al wel seyd, thanne hath he doon.

  ‘Therfor bihoveth him a ful long spoon

  That shal ete with a feend,’ thus herde I seye.

  So atte laste he moste forth his weye,

  And forth he fleeth, til he cam ther him leste.

  Whan it cam him to purpos for to reste,

  I trowe he hadde thilke text in minde,

  That ‘alle thing, repeiring to his kinde,

  Gladeth him-self’; thus seyn men, as I gesse;

  Men loven of propre kinde newfangelnesse,

  As briddes doon that men in cages fede.

  For though thou night and day take of hem hede,

  “This lasted longer than a year or two,

  That I supposed of him nought but good.

  But finally, thus at last it stood,

  That Fortune willed he must depart

  Out of the place where I was in.

  I was in woe, that is no question;

  I cannot make of it description.

  But one thing I dare tell boldly;

  I know what is the pain of death thereby;

  Such hurt I felt for him that he would not stay.

  So on a day he took his leave of me,

  So sorrowfully also that I truly believed

  That he felt as much pain as I,

  When I heard him speak and change his hue.

  But nevertheless, I thought he was so true,

  And also that he return should again

  Within a little while, truth to tell;

  And reason said that he must go

  For his honor, as often it happens so,

  That I made virtue of necessity,

  And took it well, since that it must be.

  As I best might, I hid from him my sorrow,

  And took him by the hand, and by Saint John

  Said him thus: ‘Lo, I am yours all;

  Both as I have been to you and shall.’

  What he answered, I need not rehearse;

  Who can say better than he, who can do worse?

  When he has all well said, then he has done.

  ‘If you dine with the devil

  Use a full long spoon,’ thus have I heard said.

  So at last he must go his way,

  And forth he flew until he went where he wished.

  When it came time for him to rest,

  I believe he had in mind this text,

  That ‘all things, according to their nature,

  Seek their pleasure;’ thus say men, I guess.

  Men by their nature love newfangledness,

  As birds do that men in cages feed.15

  For though they night and day take of them heed,

  And strawe hir cage faire and softe as silk,

  And yeve hem sugre, hony, breed and milk,

  Yet right anon, as
that his dore is uppe,

  He with his feet wol spurne adoun his cuppe,

  And to the wode he wol and wormes ete;

  So newefangel been they of hir mete,

  And loven novelryes of propre kinde;

  No gentillesse of blood [ne] may hem binde.

  So ferde this tercelet, alias the day!

  Though he were gentil born, and fresh and gay,

  And goodly for to seen, and humble and free,

  He saugh up-on a tyme a kyte flee,

  And sodeynly he loved this kyte so,

  That al his love is clene fro me ago,

  And hath his trouthe falsed in this wyse;

  Thus hath the kyte my love in hir servyse,

  And I am lorn with-outen remedye!”

  And with that word this faucon gan to crye,

  And swowned eft in Canaceës barme.

  Greet was the sorwe, for the haukes harme,

  That Canacee and alle hir wommen made;

  They niste how they mighte the faucon glade.

  But Canacee hom bereth hir in hir lappe,

  And softely in plastres gan hir wrappe,

  Ther as she with hir beek had hurt hir-selve.

  Now can nat Canacee but herbes delve

  Out of the grounde, and make salves newe

  Of herbes precious, and fyne of hewe,

  To helen with this hauk; fro day to night

  She dooth hir bisinesse and al hir might.

  And by hir beddes heed she made a mewe,

  And covered it with veluëttes blewe,

  In signe of trouthe that is in wommen sene.

  And al with-oute, the mewe is peynted grene,

  In which were peynted alle thise false foules,

  As beth thise tidifs, tercelets, and oules,

  Right for despyt were peynted hem bisyde,

  And pyes, on hem for to crye and chyde.

  Thus lete I Canacee hir hauk keping;

  And straw their cage fair and soft as silk,

  And give them sugar, honey, bread and milk,

  Yet as soon as his door is up

  He with his feet will kick adown his cup,

  And to the wood he will go and on worms sup;

  So newfangled would they have their food,

  And love of novelties in their blood,

  No gentleness of nature may them bind.

  “So fared this tercelet, alas the day!

  Though he was gentle born, and fresh and gay,

  And goodly for to see, and humble and free,

  He saw upon a time a kite fly,

  And suddenly he loved this kite so

  That all his love is clean from me gone,

  And has his pledge betrayed in this way.

  Thus has the kite my love in her service,

  And I am lorn without remedy!”

  And with that word this falcon began to cry

  And swooned at once into Canacee’s lap.

  Great was the sorrow for this hawk’s pain

  That Canacee and all her women made;

  They knew not how they might this falcon comfort.

  But Canacee home bore her in her lap,

  And softly in bandages began her to wrap,

  There where she had with her beak hurt herself.

  Now Canacee cannot but delve herbs

  Out of the ground, and make new salves

  Of herbs precious and fine of hue

  To heal this hawk. From day to night

  She did her business with all her might,

  And by her bed’s head she made a mews

  And covered it with cloth of velvet blue,

  In sign of devotion that is in women seen.

  And all without the mews was painted green,

  On which were painted all these false fowls,

  As be these small birds, tercelets and owls;

  Right for spite were painted them beside,

  Magpies, on them to cry and chide.

  Thus leave I Canacee her hawk keeping;

  I wol na-more as now speke of hir ring,

  Til it come eft to purpos for to seyn

  How that this faucon gat hir love ageyn

  Repentant, as the storie telleth us,

  By mediacioun of Cambalus,

  The kinges sone, of whiche I yow tolde.

  But hennes-forth I wol my proces holde

  To speke of aventures and of batailles,

  That never yet was herd so grete mervailles.

  First wol I telle yow of Cambinskan,

  That in his tyme many a citee wan;

  And after wol I speke of Algarsyf,

  How that he wan Theodora to his wyf,

  For whom ful ofte in greet peril he was,

  Ne hadde he ben holpen by the stede of bras;

  And after wol I speke of Cambalo,

  That faught in listes with the bretheren two

  For Canacee, er that he mighte hir winne.

  And ther I lefte I wol ageyn biginne.

  I will no more now speak of her ring

  Till it comes time to say

  How this falcon got her love again

  Repentant, as the story tells us,

  By mediation of Cambalus,

  The king’s son, of whom I told.

  But henceforth I will my story hold

  To speak of adventures and battles

  Of which never yet were heard so great marvels.

  First will I tell you of Genghis Khan,

  Who in his time many a city won;

  And after will I speak of Algarsyf,

  How he won Theodora to become his wife,

  For whom full often in great peril he was,

  Nor had he help by a steed of brass;

  And after I will speak of Cambalo,

  Who fought in lists with brethren two

  For Canacee, to prove their mettle to win her.

  And where I left I will again begin.

  The Phisiciens Tale

  THER WAS, AS TELLETH Titus Livius,

  A knight that called was Virginius,

  Fulfild of honour and of worthinesse,

  And strong of freendes and of greet richesse.

  This knight a doghter hadde by his wyf,

  No children hadde he mo in al his lyf.

  Fair was this mayde in excellent beautee

  Aboven every wight that man may see;

  For nature hath with sovereyn diligence

  Y-formed hir in so greet excellence,

  As though she wolde seyn, “lo! I, Nature,

  Thus can I forme and peynte a creature,

  Whan that me list; who can me countrefete?

  Pigmalion noght, though he ay forge and bete,

  Or grave, or peynte; for I dar wel seyn,

  Apelles, Zanzis, sholde werche in veyn,

  Outher to grave or peynte or forge or bete,

  If they presumed me to countrefete.

  For he that is the former principal

  Hath maked me his vicaire general,

  To forme and peynten erthely creaturis

  Right as me list, and ech thing in my cure is

  Under the mone, that may wane and waxe,

  And for my werk right no-thing wol I axe;

  My lord and I ben ful of oon accord;

  I made hir to the worship of my lord.

  So do I alle myne othere creatures,

  What colour that they han, or what figures.”—

  Thus semeth me that Nature wolde seye.

  This mayde of age twelf yeer was and tweye,

  In which that Nature hadde swich delyt.

  For right as she can peynte a lilie whyt

  And reed a rose, right with swich peynture

  She peynted hath this noble creature

  Er she were born, up-on hir limes free,

  Wher-as by right swiche colours sholde be;

  And Phebus dyed hath hir tresses grete

  The Physician’s Tale

  THERE WAS, AS LIVY tells,1

  A k
night who was called Virginius,

  Fulfilled of honor and of worthiness,

  And strong of friends, and of great richness.

  This knight a daughter had he by his wife;

  No children had he more in all his life.

  Fair was this maid in excellent beauty

  Above every person that man may see;

  For Nature had with sovereign diligence

  Formed her in so great excellence,

  As though she would say, “Lo! I, Nature,

  Thus can I form and paint a creature,

  When I wish; who can me counterfeit?

  Pygmalion2 nought, though he forge and beat,

  Or carve or paint; I dare well say

  Apelles, Zeuxis,3 should work in vain

  Either to carve, or paint, or forge, or beat,

  If they presumed me to counterfeit,

  For he who is the principal maker

  Has made me his vicar general,

  To form and paint earthly creatures

  Right as I wish, and each thing is in my power

  Under the moon, that may wane and wax,

  And for my work nothing will I ask;

  My lord and I be fully of one accord.

  I made her to the worship of my lord;

  So do I all my other creatures,

  What color they have or what figures.”

  Thus it seems to me that Nature would say.

  This maid of age twelve years was and two,

  In which Nature had such delight.

  For right as she can paint a lily white,

  And red a rose, right with such colors

  She had painted this noble creature,

  Before she was born, upon her limbs freely,

  Where by right such colors should be;

  And Phoebus4 had dyed her tresses long

  Lyk to the stremes of his burned hete.

  And if that excellent was hir beautee,

  A thousand-fold more vertuous was she.

  In hir ne lakked no condicioun,

  That is to preyse, as by discrecioun.

  As wel in goost as body chast was she;

  For which she floured in virginitee

  With alle humilitee and abstinence,

  With alle attemperaunce and pacience,

  With mesure eek of bering and array.

  Discreet she was in answering alway;

  Though she were wys as Pallas, dar I seyn,

  Hir facound eek ful wommanly and pleyn,

  No countrefeted termes hadde she

  To seme wys; but after hir degree

  She spak, and alle hir wordes more and lesse

  Souninge in vertu and in gentillesse.

  Shamfast she was in maydens shamfastnesse,

  Constant in herte, and ever in bisinesse

  To dyrve hir out of ydel slogardye.

  Bacus hadde of hir mouth right no maistrye;

  For wyn and youthe doon Venus encrece,

  As men in fyr wol casten oile or grece.