The Canterbury Tales of Chaucer :: :: University of Virginia Library

A merry Wife of Bath comes next in Place,
But somewhat deaf, with an autumnal Face;
By Trade a Weaver, one who scorn'd to grant
Her Work out-done at Ypres, or at Gaunt.
No Matron could with greater Zeal incline
To pay her Off'ring at the Martyr's Shrine.
She neither patient, nor devout could be,
If any rival'd her in Charity.

In her own Parish She would take the Wall,
Before the proudest Matron of 'em all.
Upon a Sunday ever trimly drest,
She flaunted forth, the Envy of the Rest;
Large were her Kerchiffs, yet more gorgeous made
With her own Work, and full three Pound they weigh'd.
Scarlet her Hose, her glossy Shoes were new;
Bold was her Face, and ruddy was its Hue;
Not one of her five Husbands could be found,
She lay'd 'em safe long since in holy Ground.
With these she made a Shift to pass her Youth;
Such was this good Wife's Constancy and Truth!
She travell'd far, pass'd many a rapid Stream;
Thrice saw the Reliques of Jerusalem.
Rome and the Catacombs she knew full well;
Strange Things of Cologne and its Kings could tell:
Spain she had travell'd o'er from End to End,
And good St. James was very much her Friend.
Of various Haps and Perils by the Way;
Much had she known, and yet much more wou'd say.

Upon an ambling Pad at Ease she sat,
Jingling the Bit, and slack'd her Pace to chat.
A Steeple Hat she wore upon her Head,
Whose ample Brims were like a Buckler spread;
O'er her large Hips, a Mantle fairly wrought
Before; her Kerchiff to a Point was brought;
Like a rank Rider, pointed Spurs she wore;
Of Jests she had an unexhausted Store;
Her Talk did notably Love's Art advance;
For she had practis'd long that old, new Dance.