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

Where Humber's Streams divide the fruitful Plain,
There liv'd a Fryar of the Begging Train;
Who, licenc'd, hypocritically bold,
Would give his Pray'rs, his Mass, his Heav'n for Gold.

As once, his Gown high-tuck'd, his Scrip new-hung,
Pois'd on his Staff, he pensive trudg'd along;
A Door stood ope, where oft the Beechen Bowl,
Smiling with Nut-brown Ale, had chear'd his Soul:
Gently he tap'd, then cry'd, “May here Content
“With Peace for ever dwell!” and in he went.
Sick lay the Host; the Fryar growl'd a Pray'r,
And with an Ave Mary told his Care.

133

Here down he laid his Staff, there hung his Hat,
Brush'd from the Wicker-Chair the Tabby Cat,
And with a solemn Leisure down he sat:
Then thus began: ‘To-day I preach'd in Town;
‘But kept not servile to the Text alone.
‘Ah! Thomas, had you heard my subtile Wit,
‘My Gloss, my Comments on the Holy Writ;
‘Tho' well, I know, 'gainst Fryars you incline,
‘You'd own that Fryars were of Right Divine.’

The Host reply'd, ‘In Comments I've no Skill;
‘By Comments Priests can prove just what they will.
‘Of Reas'ning deep, some Clerks to shew the Force,
‘From Head to Head drawl out the long Discourse;
‘On this side now, and now on that dispute;
‘Are now confuted, now again confute;
‘Make Saint with Saint, Father with Father vie,
‘Till Glosses prove the Scriptures all a Lie.

“Ah! Friend, the Fryar cry'd, youll' nought believe,
“But what your simple Reason can conceive:

134

“Laymen must credit, tho' the Doctrine's new;
“The Text may vary, but the Comment's true.

The Wife tripp'd in, and stopp'd th' haranguing Priest;
A Court'sy dropp'd, and welcom'd ev'ry Guest:
Slow from the Chair the smiling Fryar rose,
And made with aukward Air his solemn Bows:
Nor there he stopp'd; but to enlarge his Bliss,
Squeez'd her soft Hand, and smack'd a hearty Kiss.
“Ah! Friend (quoth he) how happy is thy Life!
“Not the whole Town can boast so fair a Wife:
“At Church I view'd her, as high Mass was said,
“Soft roll'd her Eye, and gently wav'd her Head,
“Each Dame was envying, sighing was each Swain,
“Whilst she shone fairest of the fairer Train.”

The sweetly-simp'ring Dame new Pleasure found,
With greedy Ear imbib'd the flatt'ring Sound:
Prink'd up her Tucker, ev'ry Charm she try'd,
And by her little Arts reveal'd her Pride:
Then thus address'd him: ‘Would you taste our Cheer?
‘The Fare is homely, but the Heart sincere!

135

‘What could you eat, Sir?’—“Nothing (cry'd the Priest)
“But a thin Slice of a fat Capon's Breast;
“A Brace of Woodcocks, of a Pig the Head,
“With a nice Pudding of the whitest Bread:
“My squeamish Stomach loaths a sumptuous Treat;
“Learn'd Clerks, who study much, but little eat.”

Swift tripp'd the Dame away, and seem'd to fly,
Brisk as a Colt, and jolly as a Pie.
As the Fry'r's Mind on Int'rest chiefly ran,
Absent the Wife, he thus accosts the Man:
“Is not our Order pious? Ours, which shares
“The Day in Fasting, and the Night in Pray'rs?
“Than those more pious, whom base Trifles win,
“Who hold Pluralities to be no Sin?
“For why should Country-Parish claim their Care?
“Curates perform the Drudgery of Pray'r.
“Tho' their whole Study is t'increase their Store,
“They talk fine Things in Praise of being Poor;
“With Mock-Humility of Fasting preach;
“Tho' their fat Sides deny they practise what they teach.

136

“All Priesthood should be meek; but when there's seen
“The rosy Prebend, and the pamper'd Dean,
“Stalk to th' expecting Choir with Front elate,
“In all the Grandeur of Cathedral State;
“There doze in Stalls, or o'er a Sermon nod,
“Can we suppose them meek, or thoughtful on their God?
“Thus They:—Ah! Thomas, Thomas, by St. Ive,
“'Tis from the Fryar's Zeal the Laymen thrive.
“Hence, by our Convent's Pray'r, you're blest with Wealth,
“Hence, by our Masses you'll regain your Health.”

The Churl in Bed reply'd, ‘I have been told,
‘The whole Pursuit of Priesthood is for Gold.
‘Thus some have said; this I myself aver,
‘I'm not a Jot the better for their Pray'r:
‘To Monk, to Fryar, and to Priest I've giv'n;
‘All were Divine Ambassadors from Heav'n.
‘But late, alas! I found this Truth confest,
‘The Man that gives the Least, succeeds the Best.’

“Well, well (reply'd the Priest) appease your Rage,
“War with my Patron never will I wage.

137

“Some Fools indeed, will ev'n with Kings contend,
“To lash their Vices, or their Morals mend.
“I, to reform a Prince, would never arm
“My Tongue with Thunder, or with Threats alarm;
“Harsh Precepts in a Court can never charm.
“There not one Vice I'd lash, nor tedious dwell
“On Stings of Conscience, or on Pains of Hell;
“But gentle Rules in gentle Words convey,
“Till ev'ry conscious Fear in Hope dissolv'd away.
“In short, I ne'er with Patrons disagree;
“If they're resolv'd for Hell, what's that to me?
“But that your Soul to Heav'n may be consign'd,
“Confess to me your Crimes, and calm your Mind.”

‘Faith (cry'd the churlish Host), by good St. John,
‘I've once before To-day been shriv'd by one;
‘And once a Day's enough,—“Enough indeed:
(The sneering Priest reply'd, more sure to speed;)
“Yet to our Convent something you may spare,
“And bounteously reward a Fryar's Pray'r:

138

“For should you fail, ah! what I dread to tell,
“Saints we must pawn, and Fathers we must sell.
“The Layman's lost, if lost that learned Store;
“Then Sermons, Comments, Lectures are no more:
“In vain you'll wish, you had a Fry'r to preach;
“For who, dear Sir, can like a Fryar teach?”

He ends: But ah! th' Harangue no Convert gains;
Thomas the same gruff churlish Wight remains:
So daring impious, that he thought the Fryar
A canting Hypocrite, a fawning Liar.

Then thus. ‘D'ye think, Sir, that I sure shall speed?’
“Host, I as much believe it as my Creed;
“Nay, I am positive, the Fryar cry'd.”
Thomas seem'd pleas'd, and with a Smile reply'd,
‘Persuasive are thy Words; while yet I live,
‘In thy own Hand, Sir Fry'r, a Boon I'll give;
‘On this Condition, and on this alone,
‘That the whole Convent equal shares the Boon.
‘This thou shalt swear.’ Eager he plights his Troth,
His Mass-Book kiss'd more firm to bind the Oath.

139

Then Thomas: ‘Here, thrust down thy Hand behind;
‘Worthy your Convent, there a Gift you'll find.’
Adown he thrust his Hand into the Clift,
And gropes around to find the wish'd-for Gift.
Delusive Hope! something too closely pent,
Hoarse-rumbling from within demands a Vent:
It burst; then dissipated here and there,
And fill'd th' expecting Hand with empty Air.
Amaz'd, the Fryar started with Surprize,
Red glow'd his Cheeks, and ardent flash'd his Eyes:
“Is thus, he cry'd, thy Penitence confess'd?
“Is this, false Churl, thy Duty to a Priest?”
Nor there he'd ended; but, to stop the Fray,
Men, Maids, and Wife ran in, and chas'd the Fry'r away.

The Priest enrag'd, now meditating Ire,
With hasty Pace trudg'd to the neighb'ring Squire,
A Quorum Justice of a sober Life,
The Parish-Umpire, to compose their Strife.

‘Ah! Benedicite, the Justice cry'd,
‘What Evil could to Fryar John betide?’

140

John raving, stamp'd, before he Silence broke;
At last, with raving Passion thus he spoke:
“Divines agree, and Sages have confess'd,
“The Church herself is wounded in her Priest.”
Again he roar'd. ‘Pray, Sir, your Patience hold,
‘The Justice cry'd, till all your Tale is told.’
The Fry'r the Fact relates, as told before,
And as the Story heighten'd, rag'd the more;
And ever and anon abruptly mix'd
Revenge, Pray'rs, Priests, and Holy Church betwixt.
“Sancta Maria! cry'd the Squire's fair Dame;
“Is this, Sir Fryar, all the Crime you blame?
“In my Opinion, as I hope to speed,
“A Churl has only done a churlish Deed.”

Not so, the Squire, with sager Wisdom fraught,
But gravely paus'd, and seem'd quite lost in Thought;
In Mind revolv'd the Statutes o'er and o'er,
If ever such a Case occurr'd before:
Then thus reply'd: ‘Good Fry'r, that Sound and Air
‘Should be divided in an equal Share

141

‘Among Thirteen,—No—not the utmost Skill
‘In Euclid's Problems could perform this Will:
‘The Fact, as to a Priest, I own uncivil,
‘The Inspiration of some freakish Devil.
‘Ne'er let the madding Churl perplex thy Soul;
‘Sit down, and drown thy Sorrow in a Bowl.

Jenkin, the Clerk, who heard the whole Disaster,
And thought he had more Wisdom than his Master,
Pertly address'd the Squire—‘Sir, I believe,
‘Would you, and your good Confessor give Leave,
‘I'd shew a Way by which the pious Tribe
‘This comic Gift should equally divide:
‘And tho' I ne'er Euclid's deep Problems knew,
‘You'l all allow, 'tis as an Axiom true.
‘Here, in the Parlour, from the Air close pent,
‘I'd have a Cart-Wheel with twelve Spokes be sent,
‘Which is, save one, the Number of the Tribe,
‘'Mongst whom I equally this Gift divide:
‘Then to each Spoke each lays his rev'rend Beard,
‘Like some wise Seers of Yore, of whom I've heard;

142

‘Your noble Confessor, whom Heaven save,
‘Shall hold his Nose upright into the Nave;
‘The Churl be brought; and could it hap'ly speed,
‘That he could there repeat his churlish Deed:
‘'Tis Demonstration, that each Spoke around
‘Would equally convey the Air and Sound.
‘Indeed, the Fryar here would first be serv'd;’
‘But sure, this holy Man has best deserv'd.

The Fryar's Frown betray'd his troubled Mind;
But Squire and Lady thus in Judgment join'd,
With a new Coat that Jenkin should be clad,
And that the Churl was neither Fool nor Mad.

END of the Sumner's TALE.