 | The Miller's Tale |  |
Sweet Alison, my Honeycomb, my Dear,
My Bird, my Cinamon, your Lover hear:
Awake, and speak one Word before I part;
But one kind Word, the Balsam to my Heart.
Little you think, alas! the mighty Woe,
Which for the Love of thee I undergo:
For thee I swelter, and for thee I sweat,
And mourn as Lambkins for the Mother's Teat.
Nor false my Grief, nor does the Turtle Dove
Lament more truly, or more truly Love.
I cannot eat nor drink, and all for thee—
Get from my Window, you Jack Fool, said she;
I love another of a diff'rent Hue
From such a silly Dunder-head as you.
If you stand talking at that foolish Rate,
My Chamber-pot shall be about your Pate.
Be gone, you empty Sot, and let me sleep.
At this poor Absalon began to weep,
And his hard Fate with Sighs and Groans deplore,
Was ever faithful Love thus serv'd before?
Since, then, my Sweet, what I desire's in vain,
Let me but one small Boon, a Kiss obtain.
And will you then be gone, nor loiter here,
Quoth Alison? Ay certainly, my Dear.
Make ready then—Now, Nicholas, lye still;
'Tis such a Jest that you shall laugh your fill.
Ravish'd with Joy, Nab fell upon his Knees,
The happiest Man alive in all Degrees.
In silent Raptures he began to cry,
No Lord in Europe is so blest as I.
I may expect more Favours; for a Kiss
Is an Assurance of a farther Bliss.
The Window now unclasp'd, with slender Voice
Cries Alison, be quick, and make no Noise;
I would not for the World our Neighbours hear,
For they're made up of Jealousy and Fear.
My Bird, my Cinamon, your Lover hear:
Awake, and speak one Word before I part;
But one kind Word, the Balsam to my Heart.
Little you think, alas! the mighty Woe,
Which for the Love of thee I undergo:
For thee I swelter, and for thee I sweat,
And mourn as Lambkins for the Mother's Teat.
Nor false my Grief, nor does the Turtle Dove
Lament more truly, or more truly Love.
I cannot eat nor drink, and all for thee—
Get from my Window, you Jack Fool, said she;
I love another of a diff'rent Hue
From such a silly Dunder-head as you.
If you stand talking at that foolish Rate,
My Chamber-pot shall be about your Pate.
Be gone, you empty Sot, and let me sleep.
At this poor Absalon began to weep,
And his hard Fate with Sighs and Groans deplore,
Was ever faithful Love thus serv'd before?
Since, then, my Sweet, what I desire's in vain,
Let me but one small Boon, a Kiss obtain.
And will you then be gone, nor loiter here,
Quoth Alison? Ay certainly, my Dear.
Make ready then—Now, Nicholas, lye still;
'Tis such a Jest that you shall laugh your fill.
19
The happiest Man alive in all Degrees.
In silent Raptures he began to cry,
No Lord in Europe is so blest as I.
I may expect more Favours; for a Kiss
Is an Assurance of a farther Bliss.
The Window now unclasp'd, with slender Voice
Cries Alison, be quick, and make no Noise;
I would not for the World our Neighbours hear,
For they're made up of Jealousy and Fear.
Then silken Handkerchief from Pocket came,
To wipe his Mouth full clean to kiss the Dame.
Dark was the Night, as any Coal or Pitch,
When at the Window she clapp'd out her Breech.
The Parish-Clerk ne'er doubted what to do,
But ask'd no Questions, and in haste fell to:
On her blind Side full savour'ly he prest
A loving Kiss e'er he smelt out the Jest.
A back he starts, for he knew well enough
That Women's Lips are smooth, but these were rough:
What have I done? quoth he, and rav'd and star'd,
Ah me! I've kiss'd a Woman with a Beard.
He curs'd the Hour, and rail'd against the Stars,
That he was born to kiss my Lady's Arse.
Tehea she cry'd, and clapp'd the Window close,
While Absalon with Grief and Anger goes
To meditate Revenge; and to requite
The foul Affront, he would not sleep that Night.
And now with Dust, with Sand, with Straw, with Chips
He scrubs and rubs the Kisses from his Lips.
Oft would he say, Alas? O basest Evil!
Than meet with this Disgrace so damn'd uncivil,
I rather had went headlong to the Devil.
To kiss a Woman's Breech! Oh, it can't be born!
But by my Soul I'll be reveng'd by Morn.
To wipe his Mouth full clean to kiss the Dame.
Dark was the Night, as any Coal or Pitch,
When at the Window she clapp'd out her Breech.
The Parish-Clerk ne'er doubted what to do,
But ask'd no Questions, and in haste fell to:
On her blind Side full savour'ly he prest
A loving Kiss e'er he smelt out the Jest.
A back he starts, for he knew well enough
That Women's Lips are smooth, but these were rough:
What have I done? quoth he, and rav'd and star'd,
Ah me! I've kiss'd a Woman with a Beard.
He curs'd the Hour, and rail'd against the Stars,
That he was born to kiss my Lady's Arse.
Tehea she cry'd, and clapp'd the Window close,
While Absalon with Grief and Anger goes
To meditate Revenge; and to requite
The foul Affront, he would not sleep that Night.
And now with Dust, with Sand, with Straw, with Chips
He scrubs and rubs the Kisses from his Lips.
Oft would he say, Alas? O basest Evil!
Than meet with this Disgrace so damn'd uncivil,
I rather had went headlong to the Devil.
To kiss a Woman's Breech! Oh, it can't be born!
But by my Soul I'll be reveng'd by Morn.
20
Hot Love, the Proverb says, grows quickly cool,
And Absalon's no more an am'rous Fool,
For, since his Purpose was so fondly crost,
He gains his Quiet, tho' his Love is lost:
And, cur'd of his Distemper, can defy
All whining Coxcombs with a scornful Eye:
But for meer Anger, as he pass'd the Street,
He wept, as does a School-boy when he's beat.
In a soft doleful Pace, at last he came
To an old Vulcan, Jarvis was his Name,
Who late and early at the Forge turmoil'd,
In hammering Iron Bars and Plough-shares toil'd.
Hither repair'd, by one or two a-Clock
Poor Absalon, and gave an easy Knock.
Who's there, that knocks so late, Sir Jarvis cries?
'Tis I, the pensive Absalon replies,
Open the Door, What, Absalon, (quoth he)
The Parish-Clerk! Ah! Benedicite.
Where hast thou been? Some pretty Girl I wot
Has led you out so late upon the Trot.
Some merry Meeting on the wenching Score.
You know my Meaning—but I'll say no more.
And Absalon's no more an am'rous Fool,
For, since his Purpose was so fondly crost,
He gains his Quiet, tho' his Love is lost:
And, cur'd of his Distemper, can defy
All whining Coxcombs with a scornful Eye:
But for meer Anger, as he pass'd the Street,
He wept, as does a School-boy when he's beat.
In a soft doleful Pace, at last he came
To an old Vulcan, Jarvis was his Name,
Who late and early at the Forge turmoil'd,
In hammering Iron Bars and Plough-shares toil'd.
Hither repair'd, by one or two a-Clock
Poor Absalon, and gave an easy Knock.
Who's there, that knocks so late, Sir Jarvis cries?
'Tis I, the pensive Absalon replies,
Open the Door, What, Absalon, (quoth he)
The Parish-Clerk! Ah! Benedicite.
Where hast thou been? Some pretty Girl I wot
Has led you out so late upon the Trot.
Some merry Meeting on the wenching Score.
You know my Meaning—but I'll say no more.
This Absalon another Distaff drew,
And had more Tow to spin than Jarvis knew:
He minded not a Bean of all he said,
For other Things employ'd his careful Head.
At last he Silence breaks, dear Friend, he cries,
Lend's that hot Pur, which in the Chimney lies:
I have Occasion for't, no Questions ask,
To bring it back again shall be my Task.
And had more Tow to spin than Jarvis knew:
He minded not a Bean of all he said,
For other Things employ'd his careful Head.
At last he Silence breaks, dear Friend, he cries,
Lend's that hot Pur, which in the Chimney lies:
I have Occasion for't, no Questions ask,
To bring it back again shall be my Task.
With all my Heart, quoth Jarvis, were it Gold,
Or splendid Nobles in a Purse untold:
With all my Heart, as I'm an honest Smith,
I'll lend it thee; but what wilt do therewith?
For that, quoth Absalon, nor Care, nor Sorrow,
I'll give a good Account of it To-morrow.
Then up the Cutler in his Hand he caught,
Tripp'd out with silent Pace and wicked Thought.
Red-hot it was, as any burning Coal,
With which to John the Carpenter's he stole.
There first he cough'd, and as his usual Wont,
Up to the Window came, and tapp'd upon't.
Who's there, quoth Alison? Some Midnight Rook,
Some Thief, I warrant, with a hanging Look.
Ah! God forbid, quoth this dissembling Elf,
'Tis Absalon, my Life, my better Self!
A rich Gold Ring I've to my Darling brought,
By a known Graver exquisitely wrought:
Beside a Posie, most divinely writ
By a fam'd Poet and notorious Wit.
My Mother gave it me, ('tis Wond'rous fine)
She clapp'd it on my Finger, I on thine,
If thou wilt deign the Favour of a Kiss—
Now Nicholas by chance rose up to piss:
Thinking to better and improve the Jest,
He should salute his Breech before the rest.
With eager Haste and secret Joy he went,
And his Posteriors out at Window sent.
Here Absalon the Wag, with subtile Tone,
Whispers, my Love! my Soul! my Alison!
Speak, my sweet Bird, I know not where thou art—
At this the Scholar let a rouzing Fart;
So loud the Noise, as frightful was the Stroke
As Thunder, when it splits the sturdy Oak.
The Clerk was ready, and with hearty Gust,
The red-hot Iron in his Buttocks thrust.
Strait off the Skin, like shrivel'd Parchment flew,
His Breech as raw as Saint Bartholomew:
The Cutler had so fing'd his Hinder-part,
He thought he should have dy'd for very Smart.
In a mad Fit about the Room he ran,
Help, Water, Water, for a dying Man.
Or splendid Nobles in a Purse untold:
With all my Heart, as I'm an honest Smith,
I'll lend it thee; but what wilt do therewith?
For that, quoth Absalon, nor Care, nor Sorrow,
I'll give a good Account of it To-morrow.
21
Tripp'd out with silent Pace and wicked Thought.
Red-hot it was, as any burning Coal,
With which to John the Carpenter's he stole.
There first he cough'd, and as his usual Wont,
Up to the Window came, and tapp'd upon't.
Who's there, quoth Alison? Some Midnight Rook,
Some Thief, I warrant, with a hanging Look.
Ah! God forbid, quoth this dissembling Elf,
'Tis Absalon, my Life, my better Self!
A rich Gold Ring I've to my Darling brought,
By a known Graver exquisitely wrought:
Beside a Posie, most divinely writ
By a fam'd Poet and notorious Wit.
My Mother gave it me, ('tis Wond'rous fine)
She clapp'd it on my Finger, I on thine,
If thou wilt deign the Favour of a Kiss—
Now Nicholas by chance rose up to piss:
Thinking to better and improve the Jest,
He should salute his Breech before the rest.
With eager Haste and secret Joy he went,
And his Posteriors out at Window sent.
Here Absalon the Wag, with subtile Tone,
Whispers, my Love! my Soul! my Alison!
Speak, my sweet Bird, I know not where thou art—
At this the Scholar let a rouzing Fart;
So loud the Noise, as frightful was the Stroke
As Thunder, when it splits the sturdy Oak.
The Clerk was ready, and with hearty Gust,
The red-hot Iron in his Buttocks thrust.
Strait off the Skin, like shrivel'd Parchment flew,
His Breech as raw as Saint Bartholomew:
The Cutler had so fing'd his Hinder-part,
He thought he should have dy'd for very Smart.
In a mad Fit about the Room he ran,
Help, Water, Water, for a dying Man.
22
The Carpenter, as one beside his Wits,
Starts at the dreadful Sound, and up he gets:
The Name of Water rouz'd him from his Sleep;
He rubb'd his Eye-lids, and began to peep.
Alas! thought he, now comes the fatal Hour,
And from the Clouds does Noah's Deluge pour.
Up then he sits, and without more ado,
He takes his Ax, and smites the Cord in two.
Down goes the Bread, and Ale, and Cheese, and all,
And John himself had a confounded Fall:
Dropt from the Roof upon the Floor astound,
He lies as dead, and swims upon the Ground.
Starts at the dreadful Sound, and up he gets:
The Name of Water rouz'd him from his Sleep;
He rubb'd his Eye-lids, and began to peep.
Alas! thought he, now comes the fatal Hour,
And from the Clouds does Noah's Deluge pour.
Up then he sits, and without more ado,
He takes his Ax, and smites the Cord in two.
Down goes the Bread, and Ale, and Cheese, and all,
And John himself had a confounded Fall:
Dropt from the Roof upon the Floor astound,
He lies as dead, and swims upon the Ground.
Then Nicholas, to play the Counterfeit,
With Alison, cries Murder in the Street.
With Alison, cries Murder in the Street.
In came the Neighbours pouring like the Tide,
To know the Reason why was Murder cry'd.
There they beheld poor John, a gasping Man;
Shut were his Eyes, his Face was pale and wan:
Batter'd his Sides, and broken was his Arm;
But stand it out he must, to his own Harm:
For when he aim'd to speak in his Defence,
They bore him down, and baffled all his Sense.
They told the People that the Man was Wood,
And dream'd of nothing else but Noah's Flood.
His heated Fancy of this Deluge rung,
That to the Roof three Kneading-Troughs he hung,
With which in Danger he design'd to swim,
And we, forsooth, must carry on the Whim;
He begg'd and pray'd, and so we humour'd him.
To know the Reason why was Murder cry'd.
There they beheld poor John, a gasping Man;
Shut were his Eyes, his Face was pale and wan:
Batter'd his Sides, and broken was his Arm;
But stand it out he must, to his own Harm:
For when he aim'd to speak in his Defence,
They bore him down, and baffled all his Sense.
They told the People that the Man was Wood,
And dream'd of nothing else but Noah's Flood.
His heated Fancy of this Deluge rung,
That to the Roof three Kneading-Troughs he hung,
With which in Danger he design'd to swim,
And we, forsooth, must carry on the Whim;
He begg'd and pray'd, and so we humour'd him.
At hearing this, the sneering Neighbours gave,
An universal Shout and hideous Laugh.
Now on the Roof, and now on John they gape,
And all his Earnest turn'd into a Jape.
He swore against the Scholar and his Wife,
And never look'd so foolish in his Life.
Whate'er he speaks the People never mind;
His Oaths are nothing, and his Words are Wind.
Thus all consent to scoff each serious Word,
And John remain'd a Cuckold on Record.
An universal Shout and hideous Laugh.
Now on the Roof, and now on John they gape,
And all his Earnest turn'd into a Jape.
He swore against the Scholar and his Wife,
And never look'd so foolish in his Life.
Whate'er he speaks the People never mind;
His Oaths are nothing, and his Words are Wind.
Thus all consent to scoff each serious Word,
And John remain'd a Cuckold on Record.
23
Thus Doors of Brass, and Bars of Steel, are vain,
And watchful Jealousy, and carking Pain,
Is fruitless all, when a good-natur'd Spouse
Designs Preferment for her Husband's Brows.
Thus Alison her Cuckold does defy,
And Absalon has kiss'd her nether Eye,
While Nicholas is scalded in the Breech.
My Tale is done: God save us all, and each.
And watchful Jealousy, and carking Pain,
Is fruitless all, when a good-natur'd Spouse
Designs Preferment for her Husband's Brows.
Thus Alison her Cuckold does defy,
And Absalon has kiss'd her nether Eye,
While Nicholas is scalded in the Breech.
My Tale is done: God save us all, and each.
| The Miller's Tale | |