Collected Works of Giovanni Boccaccio

by Giovanni Boccaccio

  And this being said she took with her delicate hand the laurel crown from her head, and in the place where she sat she laid it down, saying: “I leave here the crown of my honour and yours until that we shall return hither to the like reasoning.”

  And having thus said she took Philocopo by the hand, that now with the rest was risen, and so returned with them all to their feast.

  Thence was heard of all sides the pleasant instruments and the air resounding of amorous sounds; no part of the garden was without banqueting, wherein they all abode merrily all that day even to the last hour. But night being come upon them and the stars shewing forth their light, it seemed good to the lady and to them all to depart and to return to the city, wherein being entered, Philocopo taking his leave, thus said unto her:

  “Most noble Fiammetta, if the gods should ever grant me that I were mine own, as I am another’s, without doubt I should be presently yours. But because mine own I am not, I cannot give myself to another. Howbeit forsomuch as the miserable heart could receive strange fire, so much the more it feels through your inestimable worthiness to be kindled, and shall feel always and incessantly with more effect shall desire never to be forgetful of your worthiness.”

  She thanked Philocopo greatly of his courtesy at his departure, adding that it would please the gods quickly to bring a gracious peace to his desire.

  THE FRANKLIN’S TALE by Geoffrey Chaucer

  Modernised text version

  THE PROLOGUE.

  “IN faith, Squier, thou hast thee well acquit,

  And gentilly; I praise well thy wit,”

  Quoth the Franklin; “considering thy youthe

  So feelingly thou speak’st, Sir, I aloue1 thee, 1allow, approve

  1As to my doom,1 there is none that is here 1so far as my judgment

  Of eloquence that shall be thy peer, goes1

  If that thou live; God give thee goode chance,

  And in virtue send thee continuance,

  For of thy speaking I have great dainty.1 1value, esteem

  I have a son, and, by the Trinity;

  1It were me lever1 than twenty pound worth land, 1I would rather1

  Though it right now were fallen in my hand,

  He were a man of such discretion

  As that ye be: fy on possession,

  1But if1 a man be virtuous withal. 1unless

  I have my sone snibbed1 and yet shall, 1rebuked; “snubbed.”

  For he to virtue 1listeth not t’intend,1 1does not wish to

  But for to play at dice, and to dispend, apply himself1

  And lose all that he hath, is his usage;

  And he had lever talke with a page,

  Than to commune with any gentle wight,

  There he might learen gentilless aright.”

  Straw for your gentillesse!” quoth our Host.

  “What? Frankelin, pardie, Sir, well thou wost1 1knowest

  That each of you must tellen at the least

  A tale or two, or breake his behest.”1 1promise

  “That know I well, Sir,” quoth the Frankelin;

  “I pray you have me not in disdain,

  Though I to this man speak a word or two.”

  “Tell on thy tale, withoute wordes mo’.”

  “Gladly, Sir Host,” quoth he, “I will obey

  Unto your will; now hearken what I say;

  I will you not contrary1 in no wise, 1disobey

  As far as that my wittes may suffice.

  I pray to God that it may please you,

  Then wot I well that it is good enow.

  “These olde gentle Bretons, in their days,

  Of divers aventures made lays,

  Rhymeden in their firste Breton tongue;

  Which layes with their instruments they sung,

  Or elles reade them for their pleasance;

  And one of them have I in remembrance,

  Which I shall say with good will as I can.

  But, Sirs, because I am a borel1 man, 1rude, unlearned

  At my beginning first I you beseech

  Have me excused of my rude speech.

  I learned never rhetoric, certain;

  Thing that I speak, it must be bare and plain.

  I slept never on the mount of Parnasso,

  Nor learned Marcus Tullius Cicero.

  Coloures know I none, withoute dread,1 1doubt

  But such colours as growen in the mead,

  Or elles such as men dye with or paint;

  Colours of rhetoric be to me quaint;1 1strange

  My spirit feeleth not of such mattere.

  But, if you list, my tale shall ye hear.”

  THE TALE.

  In Armoric’, that called is Bretagne,

  There was a knight, that lov’d and 1did his pain1 1devoted himself,

  To serve a lady in his beste wise; strove1

  And many a labour, many a great emprise,1 1enterprise

  He for his lady wrought, ere she were won:

  For she was one the fairest under sun,

  And eke thereto come of so high kindred,

  That 1well unnethes durst this knight for dread,1 1see note 1

  Tell her his woe, his pain, and his distress

  But, at the last, she for his worthiness,

  And namely1 for his meek obeisance, 1especially

  Hath such a pity caught of his penance,1 1suffering, distress

  That privily she fell of his accord

  To take him for her husband and her lord

  (Of such lordship as men have o’er their wives);

  And, for to lead the more in bliss their lives,

  Of his free will he swore her as a knight,

  That never in all his life he day nor night

  Should take upon himself no mastery

  Against her will, nor kithe1 her jealousy, 1show

  But her obey, and follow her will in all,

  As any lover to his lady shall;

  Save that the name of sovereignety

  That would he have, for shame of his degree.

  She thanked him, and with full great humbless

  She saide; “Sir, since of your gentleness

  Ye proffer me to have so large a reign,

  1Ne woulde God never betwixt us twain,

  As in my guilt, were either war or strife:1 1see note 1

  Sir, I will be your humble true wife,

  Have here my troth, till that my hearte brest.”1 1burst

  Thus be they both in quiet and in rest.

  For one thing, Sires, safely dare I say,

  That friends ever each other must obey,

  If they will longe hold in company.

  Love will not be constrain’d by mastery.

  When mast’ry comes, the god of love anon

  Beateth his wings, and, farewell, he is gone.

  Love is a thing as any spirit free.

  Women 1of kind1 desire liberty, 1by nature1

  And not to be constrained as a thrall,1 1slave

  And so do men, if soothly I say shall.

  Look who that is most patient in love,

  He 1is at his advantage all above.1 1enjoys the highest

  Patience is a high virtue certain, advantages of all1

  For it vanquisheth, as these clerkes sayn,

  Thinges that rigour never should attain.

  For every word men may not chide or plain.

  Learne to suffer, or, so may I go,1 1prosper

  Ye shall it learn whether ye will or no.

  For in this world certain no wight there is,

  That he not doth or saith sometimes amiss.

  Ire, or sickness, or constellation,1 1the influence of

  Wine, woe, or changing of complexion, the planets1

  Causeth full oft to do amiss or speaken:

  On every wrong a man may not be wreaken.1 1revenged

  After1 the time must be temperance 1according to

  To every wight that 1can of1 governance. 1is capable of1

  A
nd therefore hath this worthy wise knight

  (To live in ease) sufferance her behight;1 1promised

  And she to him full wisly1 gan to swear 1surely

  That never should there be default in her.

  Here may men see a humble wife accord;

  Thus hath she ta’en her servant and her lord,

  Servant in love, and lord in marriage.

  Then was he both in lordship and servage?

  Servage? nay, but in lordship all above,

  Since he had both his lady and his love:

  His lady certes, and his wife also,

  The which that law of love accordeth to.

  And when he was in this prosperrity,

  Home with his wife he went to his country,

  Not far from Penmark, where his dwelling was,

  And there he liv’d in bliss and in solace.1 1delight

  Who coulde tell, but1 he had wedded be, 1unless

  The joy, the ease, and the prosperity,

  That is betwixt a husband and his wife?

  A year and more lasted this blissful life,

  Till that this knight, of whom I spake thus,

  That of Cairrud was call’d Arviragus,

  Shope1 him to go and dwell a year or twain 1prepared, arranged

  In Engleland, that call’d was eke Britain,

  To seek in armes worship and honour

  (For all his lust1 he set in such labour); 1pleasure

  And dwelled there two years; the book saith thus.

  Now will I stint1 of this Arviragus, 1cease speaking

  And speak I will of Dorigen his wife,

  That lov’d her husband as her hearte’s life.

  For his absence weepeth she and siketh,1 1sigheth

  As do these noble wives when them liketh;

  She mourneth, waketh, waileth, fasteth, plaineth;

  Desire of his presence her so distraineth,

  That all this wide world she set at nought.

  Her friendes, which that knew her heavy thought,

  Comforte her in all that ever they may;

  They preache her, they tell her night and day,

  That causeless she slays herself, alas!

  And every comfort possible in this case

  They do to her, with all their business,1 1assiduity

  And all to make her leave her heaviness.

  By process, as ye knowen every one,

  Men may so longe graven in a stone,

  Till some figure therein imprinted be:

  So long have they comforted her, till she

  Received hath, by hope and by reason,

  Th’ imprinting of their consolation,

  Through which her greate sorrow gan assuage;

  She may not always duren in such rage.

  And eke Arviragus, in all this care,

  Hath sent his letters home of his welfare,

  And that he will come hastily again,

  Or elles had this sorrow her hearty-slain.

  Her friendes saw her sorrow gin to slake,1 1slacken, diminish

  And prayed her on knees for Godde’s sake

  To come and roamen in their company,

  Away to drive her darke fantasy;

  And finally she granted that request,

  For well she saw that it was for the best.

  Now stood her castle faste by the sea,

  And often with her friendes walked she,

  Her to disport upon the bank on high,

  There as many a ship and barge sigh,1 1saw

  Sailing their courses, where them list to go.

  But then was that a parcel1 of her woe, 1part

  For to herself full oft, “Alas!” said she,

  Is there no ship, of so many as I see,

  Will bringe home my lord? then were my heart

  All warish’d1 of this bitter paine’s smart.” 1cured

  Another time would she sit and think,

  And cast her eyen downward from the brink;

  But when she saw the grisly rockes blake,1 1black

  For very fear so would her hearte quake,

  That on her feet she might her not sustene1 1sustain

  Then would she sit adown upon the green,

  And piteously 1into the sea behold,1 1look out on the sea1

  And say right thus, with 1careful sikes1 cold: 1painful sighs1

  “Eternal God! that through thy purveyance

  Leadest this world by certain governance,

  1In idle,1 as men say, ye nothing make; 1idly, in vain1

  But, Lord, these grisly fiendly rockes blake,

  That seem rather a foul confusion

  Of work, than any fair creation

  Of such a perfect wise God and stable,

  Why have ye wrought this work unreasonable?

  For by this work, north, south, or west, or east,

  There is not foster’d man, nor bird, nor beast:

  It doth no good, to my wit, but 1annoyeth.1 1works mischief1

  See ye not, Lord, how mankind it destroyeth?

  A hundred thousand bodies of mankind

  Have rockes slain, 1all be they not in mind;1 1though they are

  Which mankind is so fair part of thy work, forgotten1

  Thou madest it like to thine owen mark.1 1image

  Then seemed it ye had a great cherte1 1love, affection

  Toward mankind; but how then may it be

  That ye such meanes make it to destroy?

  Which meanes do no good, but ever annoy.

  I wot well, clerkes will say as them lest,1 1please

  By arguments, that all is for the best,

  Although I can the causes not y-know;

  But thilke1 God that made the wind to blow, 1that

  As keep my lord, this is my conclusion:

  To clerks leave I all disputation:

  But would to God that all these rockes blake

  Were sunken into helle for his sake

  These rockes slay mine hearte for the fear.”

  Thus would she say, with many a piteous tear.

  Her friendes saw that it was no disport

  To roame by the sea, but discomfort,

  And shope1 them for to playe somewhere else. 1arranged

  They leade her by rivers and by wells,

  And eke in other places delectables;

  They dancen, and they play at chess and tables.1 1backgammon

  So on a day, right in the morning-tide,

  Unto a garden that was there beside,

  In which that they had made their ordinance1 1provision, arrangement

  Of victual, and of other purveyance,

  They go and play them all the longe day:

  And this was on the sixth morrow of May,

  Which May had painted with his softe showers

  This garden full of leaves and of flowers:

  And craft of manne’s hand so curiously

  Arrayed had this garden truely,

  That never was there garden of such price,1 1value, praise

  1But if1 it were the very Paradise. 1unless1

  Th’odour of flowers, and the freshe sight,

  Would have maked any hearte light

  That e’er was born, 1but if1 too great sickness 1unless1

  Or too great sorrow held it in distress;

  So full it was of beauty and pleasance.

  And after dinner they began to dance

  And sing also, save Dorigen alone

  Who made alway her complaint and her moan,

  For she saw not him on the dance go

  That was her husband, and her love also;

  But natheless she must a time abide

  And with good hope let her sorrow slide.

  Upon this dance, amonge other men,

  Danced a squier before Dorigen

  That fresher was, and jollier of array

  1As to my doom,1 than is the month of May. 1in my judgment1

  He sang and danced, passing any man,

  That is or w
as since that the world began;

  Therewith he was, if men should him descrive,

  One of the 1beste faring1 men alive, 1most accomplished1

  Young, strong, and virtuous, and rich, and wise,

  And well beloved, and holden in great price.1 1esteem, value

  And, shortly if the sooth I telle shall,

  1Unweeting of1 this Dorigen at all, 1unknown to1

  This lusty squier, servant to Venus,

  Which that y-called was Aurelius,

  Had lov’d her best of any creature

  Two year and more, as was his aventure;1 1fortune

  But never durst he tell her his grievance;

  Withoute cup he drank all his penance.

  He was despaired, nothing durst he say,

  Save in his songes somewhat would he wray1 1betray

  His woe, as in a general complaining;

  He said, he lov’d, and was belov’d nothing.

  Of suche matter made he many lays,

  Songes, complaintes, roundels, virelays

  How that he durste not his sorrow tell,

  But languished, as doth a Fury in hell;

  And die he must, he said, as did Echo

  For Narcissus, that durst not tell her woe.

  In other manner than ye hear me say,

  He durste not to her his woe bewray,

  Save that paraventure sometimes at dances,

  Where younge folke keep their observances,

  It may well be he looked on her face

  In such a wise, as man that asketh grace,

  But nothing wiste she of his intent.

  Nath’less it happen’d, ere they thennes1 went, 1thence (from the

  Because that he was her neighebour, garden)1

  And was a man of worship and honour,

  And she had knowen him 1of time yore,1 1for a long time1

  They fell in speech, and forth aye more and more

  Unto his purpose drew Aurelius;

  And when he saw his time, he saide thus:

  Madam,” quoth he, “by God that this world made,

  So that I wist it might your hearte glade,1 1gladden