 | Poems of Chaucer modernized |  |
289
THE FRANKLIN'S TALE; MODERNIZED By R. H. HORNE.
291
THE FRANKLIN'S PROLOGUE.
‘Squire, in good faith, thou hast thyself well quit,
And fair and well I praise thy gentle wit,’
The Franklin said; ‘considering thy youth,
So feelingly thou speak'st, Sir, in good sooth,
If I may say so, there is no one here
That shall with thee in eloquence compare
If that thou live; God give to thee good chance,
And to thy virtue send continuance.
Thy speaking pleaseth me in great degree.
I have a son, and by the sacred Three,
Rather than twenty pounds’ worth of fair land,
I would, though now 'twere fallen in my hand,
He were a man of such discretion high
As I find thee: fie on possessions, fie!
Unless a man be virtuous withal.
And fair and well I praise thy gentle wit,’
The Franklin said; ‘considering thy youth,
So feelingly thou speak'st, Sir, in good sooth,
If I may say so, there is no one here
That shall with thee in eloquence compare
If that thou live; God give to thee good chance,
And to thy virtue send continuance.
Thy speaking pleaseth me in great degree.
I have a son, and by the sacred Three,
Rather than twenty pounds’ worth of fair land,
I would, though now 'twere fallen in my hand,
He were a man of such discretion high
As I find thee: fie on possessions, fie!
Unless a man be virtuous withal.
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I have my son reprov'd, and often shall:
To virtuous counsel will he not attend,
But loves to play at dice, and to expend,
And to lose all he hath—a gambling rage;
And he would rather talk with groom or page
Than converse hold with any gentle wight
Of whom he gentilesse might learn aright.’
To virtuous counsel will he not attend,
But loves to play at dice, and to expend,
And to lose all he hath—a gambling rage;
And he would rather talk with groom or page
Than converse hold with any gentle wight
Of whom he gentilesse might learn aright.’
‘Straw for your gentilesse!’ exclaimed our Host:
What, Franklin! pardie, Sir, full well thou know'st
That each of you, as we have made accord,
Must tell a tale or two, or break his word.’
‘Sir,’ quoth the Franklin, ‘you say well and plain:
I pray you have me not in such disdain,
Though I to this man speak a word or two.’
‘Tell,’ quoth the Host, ‘thy tale: why this to-do?’
‘Gladly, Sir Host,’ quoth he, ‘I will obey
Your pleasant will: now hearken what I say;—
I shall your purpose hinder in no wise,
So far as my poor knowledge may suffice.
I pray to God that it may please you well,
Then will be good enough the tale I tell.’
What, Franklin! pardie, Sir, full well thou know'st
That each of you, as we have made accord,
Must tell a tale or two, or break his word.’
‘Sir,’ quoth the Franklin, ‘you say well and plain:
I pray you have me not in such disdain,
Though I to this man speak a word or two.’
‘Tell,’ quoth the Host, ‘thy tale: why this to-do?’
‘Gladly, Sir Host,’ quoth he, ‘I will obey
Your pleasant will: now hearken what I say;—
I shall your purpose hinder in no wise,
So far as my poor knowledge may suffice.
I pray to God that it may please you well,
Then will be good enough the tale I tell.’
‘These Britons old, and noble in their days,
Of strange adventures made them divers lays,
Rhymed in their earliest native British tongue;
Which lays unto their instruments they sung,
Or else they read them for their cordial glee:
And one of them have I in memory.
I'll tell it with good will, as best I can.’
Of strange adventures made them divers lays,
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Which lays unto their instruments they sung,
Or else they read them for their cordial glee:
And one of them have I in memory.
I'll tell it with good will, as best I can.’
‘But, Sirs, because I am a rough-spun man,
Ere my beginning I would you beseech
Have me excused for my unstudied speech.
Rhetoric I never learnt, and none will feign:
All that I speak it must be bare and plain.
Dreams on Parnassus Mount I ne'er did know,
Nor studied Marcus Tullius Cicero.
Figures and colours know I none, indeed,
But such as grow for ever in the mead;
Or else such hues as men dye with, or paint;—
Colours of rhetoric are to me all quaint:
My spirit feeleth nought of such dry cheer;
But if ye list my story ye shall hear.’
Ere my beginning I would you beseech
Have me excused for my unstudied speech.
Rhetoric I never learnt, and none will feign:
All that I speak it must be bare and plain.
Dreams on Parnassus Mount I ne'er did know,
Nor studied Marcus Tullius Cicero.
Figures and colours know I none, indeed,
But such as grow for ever in the mead;
Or else such hues as men dye with, or paint;—
Colours of rhetoric are to me all quaint:
My spirit feeleth nought of such dry cheer;
But if ye list my story ye shall hear.’
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THE FRANKLIN'S TALE.
In Armorique, once known as Basse Bretaigne,
There was a knight who sought with loving pain
A lady, and to serve her in best guise;
And many a labour, many a great emprise,
He for this lady wrought e'er she was won.
One of the fairest was she 'neath the sun,
And thereto in her lineage so high
That scarcely durst this lover tremblingly
Tell her his woe, his passion, and distress.
But, at the last, she, for his worthiness,
And chiefly for his meek obedience sweet,
Caught pity from his penance at her feet,
Till secretly she fell into accord,
To take him for her husband and her lord,—
(Such lordship as men have over their wives).
And in more bliss to lead their future lives,
Of his free will his knightly word he pass'd,
Never, by night or day, while life should last,
To claim or take upon him mastery
Over her will, nor vex with jealousy;
But her obey, and follow her will in all,
As any lover at his lady's call:
Save that the name or shadow of sovereignty,
Still would he keep for shame of his degree.
There was a knight who sought with loving pain
A lady, and to serve her in best guise;
And many a labour, many a great emprise,
He for this lady wrought e'er she was won.
One of the fairest was she 'neath the sun,
And thereto in her lineage so high
That scarcely durst this lover tremblingly
Tell her his woe, his passion, and distress.
But, at the last, she, for his worthiness,
And chiefly for his meek obedience sweet,
Caught pity from his penance at her feet,
Till secretly she fell into accord,
To take him for her husband and her lord,—
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And in more bliss to lead their future lives,
Of his free will his knightly word he pass'd,
Never, by night or day, while life should last,
To claim or take upon him mastery
Over her will, nor vex with jealousy;
But her obey, and follow her will in all,
As any lover at his lady's call:
Save that the name or shadow of sovereignty,
Still would he keep for shame of his degree.
She thankéd him, and with great humbleness
She answer'd, ‘Sir, since of your gentleness
Ye proffer me to have so large a reign,
I pray to God that ne'er between us twain,
Far less through guilt of mine, be war or strife.
Sir, I will be your humble and true wife.
Take here my heart, till that it leave my breast.’
Thus are they both in quiet and at rest.
She answer'd, ‘Sir, since of your gentleness
Ye proffer me to have so large a reign,
I pray to God that ne'er between us twain,
Far less through guilt of mine, be war or strife.
Sir, I will be your humble and true wife.
Take here my heart, till that it leave my breast.’
Thus are they both in quiet and at rest.
For one thing, Sirs, full safely dare I say,—
That loving friends each other must obey,
If they would long remain in company.
Love will not be constrain'd by mastery.
When mastery cometh, the God of Love anon
Beateth his wings—and, farewell! he is gone
.
Love is a thing as any spirit free:
Women, by nature, wish for liberty,
And not to be constrain'd as in a thrall;
And so do men, to speak truth,—one and all.
Note well the wight most patient in his love:
He standeth, in advantage, all above.
That patience is a virtue high, is plain,
Because it conquers, as the clerks explain,
Things that rude vigour never could attain.
Chide not for every trifle, nor complain;
Learn to endure, or, so betide my lot,
Learn it ye shall, whether ye will or not.
For in this world is no one, certain 'tis,
But that he sometimes doth, or saith, amiss.
Anger, ill health, or influence malign
Of planets—changes in the blood—woe, wine,
Oft cause in word or deed that we transgress.
For every wrong we should not seek redress.
After a time there must be temperance
In every man that knows self-governance.
And therefore hath this worthy and wise knight
(To live in ease) yielded his wife all right;
And she to him as wisely 'gan to swear
That never should there be default in her.
That loving friends each other must obey,
If they would long remain in company.
Love will not be constrain'd by mastery.
When mastery cometh, the God of Love anon
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Love is a thing as any spirit free:
Women, by nature, wish for liberty,
And not to be constrain'd as in a thrall;
And so do men, to speak truth,—one and all.
Note well the wight most patient in his love:
He standeth, in advantage, all above.
That patience is a virtue high, is plain,
Because it conquers, as the clerks explain,
Things that rude vigour never could attain.
Chide not for every trifle, nor complain;
Learn to endure, or, so betide my lot,
Learn it ye shall, whether ye will or not.
For in this world is no one, certain 'tis,
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Anger, ill health, or influence malign
Of planets—changes in the blood—woe, wine,
Oft cause in word or deed that we transgress.
For every wrong we should not seek redress.
After a time there must be temperance
In every man that knows self-governance.
And therefore hath this worthy and wise knight
(To live in ease) yielded his wife all right;
And she to him as wisely 'gan to swear
That never should there be default in her.
Here may men see an humble wise accord.
Thus taketh she her servant and her lord:
Servant in love, in marriage lord to be.
Lordship and servitude at once hath he?
Servitude?—nay, in lordship all above,
Since that he hath his lady and his love:
His lady doubtless, but his wife besides,
In all that love by its own law decides.
And when he prosperous was in this degree,
Home with his wife he went to his countréy:
Not far from Penmark was his pleasant seat,
And there he liveth in bliss and solace sweet.
Thus taketh she her servant and her lord:
Servant in love, in marriage lord to be.
Lordship and servitude at once hath he?
Servitude?—nay, in lordship all above,
Since that he hath his lady and his love:
His lady doubtless, but his wife besides,
In all that love by its own law decides.
And when he prosperous was in this degree,
Home with his wife he went to his countréy:
Not far from Penmark was his pleasant seat,
And there he liveth in bliss and solace sweet.
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Who could declare, save those that wedded be,
The joy, the ease, and the prosperity,
That is between an husband and his wife?
A year and more lasteth this blissful life,
Till that this knight—by name Arviragus,
Of Cairrud, and whose tale I tell you thus—
Resolved to go and dwell a year or twain
In England, that was also call'd Britain;
Worship and honour to achieve in arms,
(For him such labour had the noblest charms)
And there he staid two years: the book saith thus.
The joy, the ease, and the prosperity,
That is between an husband and his wife?
A year and more lasteth this blissful life,
Till that this knight—by name Arviragus,
Of Cairrud, and whose tale I tell you thus—
Resolved to go and dwell a year or twain
In England, that was also call'd Britain;
Worship and honour to achieve in arms,
(For him such labour had the noblest charms)
And there he staid two years: the book saith thus.
Now will I leave this knight Arviragus,
And speak awhile of Dorigen his wife,
Who loveth her husband as her heart's best life.
Grief at his absence sighs and weeping prove,
As with these noble wives bereaved of love.
She mourneth, waketh, waileth, fasteth, plaineth;
The yearning for his presence so constraineth,
That all this widened world she set at nought.
Her dearest friends who knew her heavy thought,
Comfort her pain in all that ever they may:
They preach to her; they tell her night and day
That without cause her life she wastes, alas!
And every comfort possible in this case,
With busy care they give, and round her press,
In hopes to make her leave this heaviness.
And speak awhile of Dorigen his wife,
Who loveth her husband as her heart's best life.
Grief at his absence sighs and weeping prove,
As with these noble wives bereaved of love.
She mourneth, waketh, waileth, fasteth, plaineth;
The yearning for his presence so constraineth,
That all this widened world she set at nought.
Her dearest friends who knew her heavy thought,
Comfort her pain in all that ever they may:
They preach to her; they tell her night and day
That without cause her life she wastes, alas!
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With busy care they give, and round her press,
In hopes to make her leave this heaviness.
Progressively, as know ye every one,
Men may engrave so long upon a stone
That there some figure shall imprinted be;
So long her friends have wrought on her, that she,
By hope and reason hath resumed her station,
Receiving impress of their consolation,
Which somewhat doth her sorrow great assuage:
She could not live in its unceasing rage.
Arviragus also, with his utmost care,
Hath sent her letters home of his welfáre,
And that he shortly should come back again;
Or else with sorrow had her heart been slain.
Men may engrave so long upon a stone
That there some figure shall imprinted be;
So long her friends have wrought on her, that she,
By hope and reason hath resumed her station,
Receiving impress of their consolation,
Which somewhat doth her sorrow great assuage:
She could not live in its unceasing rage.
Arviragus also, with his utmost care,
Hath sent her letters home of his welfáre,
And that he shortly should come back again;
Or else with sorrow had her heart been slain.
Her friends perceived her sorrow 'gan to slake,
And prayed her on their knees, for Jesu's sake,
To come and journey in their company,
And thereby banish her dark phantasy:
And finally she granted that request,
For well she saw that it was for the best.
And prayed her on their knees, for Jesu's sake,
To come and journey in their company,
And thereby banish her dark phantasy:
And finally she granted that request,
For well she saw that it was for the best.
Now stood their castle fast by the wild sea,
And often with her friends forth walkéd she,
Pastime to take along the bank on high,
Where she could many a ship and barge espie,
Sailing their course, where'er they list to go.
But this became a part, then, of her woe,
For to herself full oft, ‘Alas!’ said she,
‘Is there not one, o’ the many ships I see,
Will bring me home my lord?—then were my heart
Heal'd and reliev'd of pain and bitter smart.’
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Pastime to take along the bank on high,
Where she could many a ship and barge espie,
Sailing their course, where'er they list to go.
But this became a part, then, of her woe,
For to herself full oft, ‘Alas!’ said she,
‘Is there not one, o’ the many ships I see,
Will bring me home my lord?—then were my heart
Heal'd and reliev'd of pain and bitter smart.’
At other times there would she sit and think;
And cast her sad eyes downward from the brink,
And when she saw the grisly rock-rifts black,
For very terror would her heart so shake
That she could not sustain herself, I ween.
Then would she sit adown upon the green,
And piteously the sea beneath behold,
And say right thus, with sighs care-full and cold:
And cast her sad eyes downward from the brink,
And when she saw the grisly rock-rifts black,
For very terror would her heart so shake
That she could not sustain herself, I ween.
Then would she sit adown upon the green,
And piteously the sea beneath behold,
And say right thus, with sighs care-full and cold:
‘Eternal God! that through thy Providence
Guidest this world by certain governance,—
In vain, as men say, dost thou nothing make:
But oh, Dread Lord, these grisly fiend-rocks black,
That rather seem of work a foul confusion,
Than any fair creation or conclusion
Of such a perfect God, all-wise and stable;—
Why hast thou wrought this work unreasonable?
For by this work,—north, south, nor east, nor west,
Is fed or foster'd man, or bird, or beast:
It doth no good, methinks, but all annoyeth.
See ye not, Lord, mankind how it destroyeth?
An hundred thousand bodies of mankind
Have rocks slain—though we bear it not in mind;
Yet man is of thy work so fair a part,
Thou madest him in thine image, as thou art.
Thus doth it seem ye had great charity
Towards mankind; but how then may it be
That ye a means have taken which destroyeth;
Which means effects no good, but ever annoyeth?
Guidest this world by certain governance,—
In vain, as men say, dost thou nothing make:
But oh, Dread Lord, these grisly fiend-rocks black,
That rather seem of work a foul confusion,
Than any fair creation or conclusion
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Why hast thou wrought this work unreasonable?
For by this work,—north, south, nor east, nor west,
Is fed or foster'd man, or bird, or beast:
It doth no good, methinks, but all annoyeth.
See ye not, Lord, mankind how it destroyeth?
An hundred thousand bodies of mankind
Have rocks slain—though we bear it not in mind;
Yet man is of thy work so fair a part,
Thou madest him in thine image, as thou art.
Thus doth it seem ye had great charity
Towards mankind; but how then may it be
That ye a means have taken which destroyeth;
Which means effects no good, but ever annoyeth?
‘I wot well, clerks will say e'en as they list,
By arguments, that all is for the best,
Though I can of the causes nought yknow:
But thou, Great God, that made the wind to blow,
Keep safe my lord!—such my conclusion is:
To clerks leave I all vain disputes like this
But would to heaven that all these fiend-rocks black
Were sunk down into hell, for his dear sake!
These rocks they tear my heart with constant fear.’—
Thus would she speak with many a piteous tear.
By arguments, that all is for the best,
Though I can of the causes nought yknow:
But thou, Great God, that made the wind to blow,
Keep safe my lord!—such my conclusion is:
To clerks leave I all vain disputes like this
But would to heaven that all these fiend-rocks black
Were sunk down into hell, for his dear sake!
These rocks they tear my heart with constant fear.’—
Thus would she speak with many a piteous tear.
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Her friends now saw it was no pleasantness
To ramble by the sea, but wretchedness;
And sought amusement elsewhere. Through fair dells
They lead her by the rivers, lakes, and wells,
And other places full of lovelyness:
They dance, and play at games of drafts and chess.
To ramble by the sea, but wretchedness;
And sought amusement elsewhere. Through fair dells
They lead her by the rivers, lakes, and wells,
And other places full of lovelyness:
They dance, and play at games of drafts and chess.
So on a day, right in the morning tide,
Unto a garden that was close beside,
In which they pleasantly had ranged about
Their tents and seats, and all the feast set out;
There went they forth to sport them all the day.
This the sixth morning was of fragrant May;
Which May all painted had with his soft showers
This garden full of leaves and eke of flowers,
And curiously the hand of man with art
Had deck'd this garden truly in each part,
That never was there garden of such price,
Except it were the very Paradise.
The odour of flowers and freshness of the sight
Would any heart have filled and made it light,
That e'er was born—sickness too great, unless,
Or too great sorrow, held it in distress—
So full it was of beauty and pleasánce.
Unto a garden that was close beside,
In which they pleasantly had ranged about
Their tents and seats, and all the feast set out;
There went they forth to sport them all the day.
This the sixth morning was of fragrant May;
Which May all painted had with his soft showers
This garden full of leaves and eke of flowers,
And curiously the hand of man with art
Had deck'd this garden truly in each part,
That never was there garden of such price,
Except it were the very Paradise.
The odour of flowers and freshness of the sight
Would any heart have filled and made it light,
That e'er was born—sickness too great, unless,
Or too great sorrow, held it in distress—
So full it was of beauty and pleasánce.
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And after dinner went they forth to dance,
And sing also, save Dorigen alone,
Who her complaint made always, and her moan,
For him she saw not through the dances go,
Who was her husband and her lover too.
But ne'ertheless she must a time abide,
And through good hopes let her pale sorrow glide.
And sing also, save Dorigen alone,
Who her complaint made always, and her moan,
For him she saw not through the dances go,
Who was her husband and her lover too.
But ne'ertheless she must a time abide,
And through good hopes let her pale sorrow glide.
Amid this dance, above all other men,
Dancéd a squire before this Dorigen,
That fresher was and brighter of array,
As to my mind, than is the month of May.
He singeth, danceth, passing any man,
That is or was since that the world began.
Therewith he was, should I to paint him strive,
One of the best conditioned men alive:
Young, strong, and virtuous, and rich, and wise,
And well beloved, and holden in great prize;
And, briefly, if the truth I must recall,
While Dorigen unconscious was of all,
This lusty squire—votary of Beauty's Queen,
And named Aurelius—since he had her seen,
Of any creature her had loved the best,
Two years and more; such was his fate's behest.
But of his grievance durst he never tell:
Unmeasurably drank he from his well.
He was despairing; nothing would he say;
Save in his songs he somewhat would betray
His grief, in general bitterness of thought:
He said he loved, and was belovéd nought.
Of such sad matter made he many lays;
Songs, and complaints, roundels, and virelays:
How that he durst not of his sorrow tell,
But languisheth, as doth a fury in hell;
And die he must, as Echo did, said he,
For sweet Narcissus—loving silently.
Dancéd a squire before this Dorigen,
That fresher was and brighter of array,
As to my mind, than is the month of May.
He singeth, danceth, passing any man,
That is or was since that the world began.
Therewith he was, should I to paint him strive,
One of the best conditioned men alive:
Young, strong, and virtuous, and rich, and wise,
And well beloved, and holden in great prize;
And, briefly, if the truth I must recall,
While Dorigen unconscious was of all,
This lusty squire—votary of Beauty's Queen,
And named Aurelius—since he had her seen,
Of any creature her had loved the best,
Two years and more; such was his fate's behest.
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Unmeasurably drank he from his well.
He was despairing; nothing would he say;
Save in his songs he somewhat would betray
His grief, in general bitterness of thought:
He said he loved, and was belovéd nought.
Of such sad matter made he many lays;
Songs, and complaints, roundels, and virelays:
How that he durst not of his sorrow tell,
But languisheth, as doth a fury in hell;
And die he must, as Echo did, said he,
For sweet Narcissus—loving silently.
In other manner than ye hear me say,
To Dorigen he dare not aught betray,
Save that perhaps at dances, here and there,
When that young folk are free and debonaire,
It may well be he looked upon her face
In such a guise as man that asketh grace:
But nothing wist she of his fond intent.
But ne'ertheless it happ'd as thence they went—
Because he was her neighbour, dwelling near;
A man of worship and of honour fair;
And Dorigen had known him well of yore—
They fell in converse; and aye more and more
Unto his purpose drew Aurelius:
And when he saw his time, he said right thus.
To Dorigen he dare not aught betray,
Save that perhaps at dances, here and there,
When that young folk are free and debonaire,
It may well be he looked upon her face
In such a guise as man that asketh grace:
But nothing wist she of his fond intent.
But ne'ertheless it happ'd as thence they went—
Because he was her neighbour, dwelling near;
A man of worship and of honour fair;
And Dorigen had known him well of yore—
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Unto his purpose drew Aurelius:
And when he saw his time, he said right thus.
‘Madam,’ quoth he, ‘by Him who this world made,
So that I wist it might your gladness aid,
I would, that day when your Arviragus
Went over sea, that I, Aurelius,
Had gone, whence I should never come again.
For well I wot my service is in vain:—
My guerdon is but breaking of my heart.
Madam! have ruth upon me ere we part;
For with a word ye may me kill or save.
Here, at your feet, would God I had my grave!
Enough time now I have not more to say:
Have mercy, sweet, or else ye will me slay.’
So that I wist it might your gladness aid,
I would, that day when your Arviragus
Went over sea, that I, Aurelius,
Had gone, whence I should never come again.
For well I wot my service is in vain:—
My guerdon is but breaking of my heart.
Madam! have ruth upon me ere we part;
For with a word ye may me kill or save.
Here, at your feet, would God I had my grave!
Enough time now I have not more to say:
Have mercy, sweet, or else ye will me slay.’
She 'gan to look upon Aurelius now:
‘Is this your will,’ quoth she, ‘and say ye so?
Never, ere this, I dreamt of what ye meant;
But now I know, Aurelius, your intent,
By yonder Power that gave me soul and life,
Never will I be found an untrue wife
In word nor work, as far as I have wit:
I will be his to whom that I am knit.
Take this for final answer now from me.’—
But smiling, after that, continued she:
‘Is this your will,’ quoth she, ‘and say ye so?
Never, ere this, I dreamt of what ye meant;
But now I know, Aurelius, your intent,
By yonder Power that gave me soul and life,
Never will I be found an untrue wife
In word nor work, as far as I have wit:
I will be his to whom that I am knit.
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But smiling, after that, continued she:
‘Aurelius,’ said she, ‘by high God above,
Yet will I grant that you shall have your love
(Thus hearing you so piteously complain;)
Lo! on the day that lengthways through Bretaigne
Ye all the rocks remove, stone after stone,
That boat or ship strike not again thereon:
I say, when ye have made the coast so clean
Of rocks, that not a single stone is seen,
Then will I love you best of any man!
Take here my troth for all that ever I can.
Full well I wot that it shall never betide:
Let all such folly out of your heart glide.
Why should a man's life waste in fancies weak,
That he another's wife should love and seek,
Who giveth her husband all things evermore?’
Yet will I grant that you shall have your love
(Thus hearing you so piteously complain;)
Lo! on the day that lengthways through Bretaigne
Ye all the rocks remove, stone after stone,
That boat or ship strike not again thereon:
I say, when ye have made the coast so clean
Of rocks, that not a single stone is seen,
Then will I love you best of any man!
Take here my troth for all that ever I can.
Full well I wot that it shall never betide:
Let all such folly out of your heart glide.
Why should a man's life waste in fancies weak,
That he another's wife should love and seek,
Who giveth her husband all things evermore?’
Now, and full oft, Aurelius sigheth sore.
‘Is there no other grace in you?’ quoth he:
‘No, by that Lord,’ she said, ‘that makéd me.’
Woe was Aurelius when these words she spoke,
And with a sorrowful heart he silence broke:
‘Madam, this is impossible!’ said he:
‘A sudden, horrid death, mine end must be.’
And with that word he turned him pale away.
‘Is there no other grace in you?’ quoth he:
‘No, by that Lord,’ she said, ‘that makéd me.’
Woe was Aurelius when these words she spoke,
And with a sorrowful heart he silence broke:
‘Madam, this is impossible!’ said he:
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And with that word he turned him pale away.
Then came her other friends, in pleasant way,
And in the alleys roam'd they up and down,
Nor of this matter aught to them was known,
But suddenly their revels they renew,
Till that the bright faced sun had lost his hue;
Because the horizon 'reft him of his light
(This is to say, in other words, 'twas night)
And home all wend in ease, and full of glee,
Save wretched Aurelius—none was sad but he.
He to his house is gone with sorrowful heart.
He saith he cannot 'scape of death the dart:
It seemed to him he felt his heart a-cold.
Up to the heavens his hands he 'gan to hold
And on his bare knees forthwith sank he down,
And in his raving said his orison.
For very woe out of his wits he strayed:
He knew not what he spake, but thus he said:
With piteous heart his plaint hath he begun
Unto the gods; and first unto the sun.
And in the alleys roam'd they up and down,
Nor of this matter aught to them was known,
But suddenly their revels they renew,
Till that the bright faced sun had lost his hue;
Because the horizon 'reft him of his light
(This is to say, in other words, 'twas night)
And home all wend in ease, and full of glee,
Save wretched Aurelius—none was sad but he.
He to his house is gone with sorrowful heart.
He saith he cannot 'scape of death the dart:
It seemed to him he felt his heart a-cold.
Up to the heavens his hands he 'gan to hold
And on his bare knees forthwith sank he down,
And in his raving said his orison.
For very woe out of his wits he strayed:
He knew not what he spake, but thus he said:
With piteous heart his plaint hath he begun
Unto the gods; and first unto the sun.
He said, ‘Apollo! God, and ruling power
Of every plant, and herb, and tree, and flower;
That giv'st, according to thy declination,
To each his time, his season, and his station,
E'en as thy bright house changeth low and high;
Lord Phœbus, cast thine ever-pitying eye
On wretched Aurelius—now a man forlorn!
Behold, my lady hath my death-blow sworn,
Though guiltless I:—but thou, Benignity,
Some pity for my deadly heart give me!
For well I wot, Lord Phœbus, if ye list,
Ye may me help—except my lady—best.
Now vouchsafe, God, that I may you apprise
How that I may be helped, and in what wise.
Of every plant, and herb, and tree, and flower;
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To each his time, his season, and his station,
E'en as thy bright house changeth low and high;
Lord Phœbus, cast thine ever-pitying eye
On wretched Aurelius—now a man forlorn!
Behold, my lady hath my death-blow sworn,
Though guiltless I:—but thou, Benignity,
Some pity for my deadly heart give me!
For well I wot, Lord Phœbus, if ye list,
Ye may me help—except my lady—best.
Now vouchsafe, God, that I may you apprise
How that I may be helped, and in what wise.
‘Your blissful sister Luna, silvery sheen,
That of the sea chief goddess is and queen—
Though Neptune have his god-ship in the sea,
Yet clouded empress over him is she—
Ye well know, Lord, that even as her desire
Is to be quicken'd—lighted by your fire,
For which she followeth like an humble creature;
Right so, the sea desireth by its nature
To follow her, as she is goddess high
Both of the sea and rivers far and nigh.
Wherefore, Lord Phœbus, pity on me take!
Work thou this miracle, or mine heart break;—
That when in opposition next shall be
Her orb, which in the Lion we shall see,
Beseech her then so great a flood to bring,
That fathoms five, at least, it overspring
The highest rock in Armorique Bretaigne!
And let this swollen flood endure years twain.
Then, certes, to my lady may I say
Hold your behest—the rocks are all away!
Lord Phœbus, do this miracle for me;—
Pray her to go no faster course than ye.
I say this—pray your sister that she go
No faster course than ye, during years two.
Then shall her visage be at full alwáy,
And thus the spring-flood last both night and day.
But if that my complaint she will not hear,
And grant to me my sovran lady dear,
Then pray her every rock to sink adown
Into the region dark, which is her own,
Under the ground, where Pluto dwells in night;
Or never shall I win my lady bright.
That of the sea chief goddess is and queen—
Though Neptune have his god-ship in the sea,
Yet clouded empress over him is she—
Ye well know, Lord, that even as her desire
Is to be quicken'd—lighted by your fire,
For which she followeth like an humble creature;
Right so, the sea desireth by its nature
To follow her, as she is goddess high
Both of the sea and rivers far and nigh.
Wherefore, Lord Phœbus, pity on me take!
Work thou this miracle, or mine heart break;—
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Her orb, which in the Lion we shall see,
Beseech her then so great a flood to bring,
That fathoms five, at least, it overspring
The highest rock in Armorique Bretaigne!
And let this swollen flood endure years twain.
Then, certes, to my lady may I say
Hold your behest—the rocks are all away!
Lord Phœbus, do this miracle for me;—
Pray her to go no faster course than ye.
I say this—pray your sister that she go
No faster course than ye, during years two.
Then shall her visage be at full alwáy,
And thus the spring-flood last both night and day.
But if that my complaint she will not hear,
And grant to me my sovran lady dear,
Then pray her every rock to sink adown
Into the region dark, which is her own,
Under the ground, where Pluto dwells in night;
Or never shall I win my lady bright.
‘Thy temple in Delphos will I barefoot seek.
Lord Phœbus, see the tears upon my cheek;
And some compassion have upon my moan!’
And with that word in sorrow he fell adown.
Lord Phœbus, see the tears upon my cheek;
And some compassion have upon my moan!’
And with that word in sorrow he fell adown.
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Outstretch'd, and cold, in trance he lay full long.
His brother, knowing of his passion strong,
Upraised him, and to bed he hath him brought.
Despairing in this torment and this thought,
Leave I this woful creature thus to lie:
I know not whether he will live or die.
His brother, knowing of his passion strong,
Upraised him, and to bed he hath him brought.
Despairing in this torment and this thought,
Leave I this woful creature thus to lie:
I know not whether he will live or die.
Arviragus with health and honour's dower,
As one that was of chivalry the flower,
At home arrives with other worthy men.
Oh, blissful art thou now, thou Dorigen!
Thou hast thy noble husband in thine arms;
The fresh knight, safe from wars, and rocks, and storms,
Who loveth thee, e'en as his own heart's life.
Nothing suspicious was he of his wife,
That any wight had access to her sought,
And spoke of love: he had of that no thought;
Nor listened he to any such affair.
He danceth, jousteth, maketh merry cheer.
And thus in joy and bliss I let them dwell,
And of the sick Aurelius will I tell.
As one that was of chivalry the flower,
At home arrives with other worthy men.
Oh, blissful art thou now, thou Dorigen!
Thou hast thy noble husband in thine arms;
The fresh knight, safe from wars, and rocks, and storms,
Who loveth thee, e'en as his own heart's life.
Nothing suspicious was he of his wife,
That any wight had access to her sought,
And spoke of love: he had of that no thought;
Nor listened he to any such affair.
He danceth, jousteth, maketh merry cheer.
And thus in joy and bliss I let them dwell,
And of the sick Aurelius will I tell.
In languor and in torment furious,
Two years and more lay worn Aurelius,
Ere that one foot of earth his step hath gone;
And comfort all this season had he none,
Save from his brother, who was a wise clerk,
And knew of all this woe and all this work.
For to no other creature, certain 'tis,
He durst confide a single word of this.
More close in heart he hid the fond idea,
Than Pamphilus did, when loving Galatea.
His breast was whole without, and nought was seen,
But in his heart aye was the arrow keen;
And well ye know a wound with skin healed o'er,
In surgery is perilous evermore,
Unless the arrow touched or drawn may be.
Two years and more lay worn Aurelius,
Ere that one foot of earth his step hath gone;
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Save from his brother, who was a wise clerk,
And knew of all this woe and all this work.
For to no other creature, certain 'tis,
He durst confide a single word of this.
More close in heart he hid the fond idea,
Than Pamphilus did, when loving Galatea.
His breast was whole without, and nought was seen,
But in his heart aye was the arrow keen;
And well ye know a wound with skin healed o'er,
In surgery is perilous evermore,
Unless the arrow touched or drawn may be.
His brother weepeth and waileth privately,
Till he bethought him at the last, by chance,
That while he was at Orleans, in France,—
(Among young clerks that have a hankering
To study arts, and each forbidden thing,
Prying in every nook at every turn,
Particular sciences to seek and learn,)—
If memory truly served, upon a day
A curious book, which in the study lay,
Of natural magic, on the desk he saw,
Left by his friend; a bachelor of law
At that time—all unwitting on his part,
For he was there to learn a different art.
This book of mansions spake, and operations
Touching the eight and twenty mystic stations
That to the moon belong—such folly high
As in our own days is not worth a fly:
For holy church's faith, as we believe,
Never illusion suffereth us to grieve.
When he bethought him of this book in France,
Anon his heart for joy began to dance,
And to himself he said right secretly—
‘My brother soon recovered now shall be;
For I am sure that sciences there are
By which men divers visions make appear;
Such tricks as subtle jugglers ever play.
Full oft, at feasting times, have I heard say
That jugglers, standing in a knight's hall large,
Have made come in a river and a barge,
And through the hall go rowing up and down.
Sometimes a lion grim himself hath shewn;
And sometimes flowers sprung up as in a mead;
Sometimes a vine, with ripe grapes white and red;
Sometimes a castle, all of lime and stone;—
And when they wished—'twas voided, and all gone!
Thus seemeth it, at least, to all men's sight.
Till he bethought him at the last, by chance,
That while he was at Orleans, in France,—
(Among young clerks that have a hankering
To study arts, and each forbidden thing,
Prying in every nook at every turn,
Particular sciences to seek and learn,)—
If memory truly served, upon a day
A curious book, which in the study lay,
Of natural magic, on the desk he saw,
Left by his friend; a bachelor of law
At that time—all unwitting on his part,
For he was there to learn a different art.
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Touching the eight and twenty mystic stations
That to the moon belong—such folly high
As in our own days is not worth a fly:
For holy church's faith, as we believe,
Never illusion suffereth us to grieve.
When he bethought him of this book in France,
Anon his heart for joy began to dance,
And to himself he said right secretly—
‘My brother soon recovered now shall be;
For I am sure that sciences there are
By which men divers visions make appear;
Such tricks as subtle jugglers ever play.
Full oft, at feasting times, have I heard say
That jugglers, standing in a knight's hall large,
Have made come in a river and a barge,
And through the hall go rowing up and down.
Sometimes a lion grim himself hath shewn;
And sometimes flowers sprung up as in a mead;
Sometimes a vine, with ripe grapes white and red;
Sometimes a castle, all of lime and stone;—
And when they wished—'twas voided, and all gone!
Thus seemeth it, at least, to all men's sight.
‘Now then conclude I thus,—if that I might
Some old magician still at Orleans find,
Who hath the moon's quaint mansions in his mind,
Or other magic sleights with stars above,
Through him my brother may obtain his love;
For by illusion can these old clerks make
Unto man's sight that all the buge rocks black
Of Bretaigne, were evanished every one,
While ships come close to land, and then float on:
And thus continue for a day or two.
Then were my brother cured of all his woe.
For then must Dorigen her promise hold,
Or else, at least, her shameful jest be told.’
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Who hath the moon's quaint mansions in his mind,
Or other magic sleights with stars above,
Through him my brother may obtain his love;
For by illusion can these old clerks make
Unto man's sight that all the buge rocks black
Of Bretaigne, were evanished every one,
While ships come close to land, and then float on:
And thus continue for a day or two.
Then were my brother cured of all his woe.
For then must Dorigen her promise hold,
Or else, at least, her shameful jest be told.’
Why should I make a longer tale of this?
Unto his brother's bed he came, I wis,
And gave him such good reason to begone
For Orleans, that he started up anon,
And on his way forth-forward doth he fare,
In hopes to be reliev'd of all his care.
Unto his brother's bed he came, I wis,
And gave him such good reason to begone
For Orleans, that he started up anon,
And on his way forth-forward doth he fare,
In hopes to be reliev'd of all his care.
When that the city they can well nigh see,
Not distant more than furlongs two or three,
A young clerk roaming by himself they meet,
Who cautiously in Latin doth them greet;
And after that he said a wondrous thing:—
‘I know,’ quoth he, ‘the object that doth bring
You here!’ and scarce a foot they further went
Before he told them what was their intent.
Not distant more than furlongs two or three,
A young clerk roaming by himself they meet,
Who cautiously in Latin doth them greet;
And after that he said a wondrous thing:—
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You here!’ and scarce a foot they further went
Before he told them what was their intent.
Aurelius' brother asked him anxiously
Of jugglers, known to him in days gone by;
And he replied, that dead these old clerks were,
For which he wept full often many a tear.
Of jugglers, known to him in days gone by;
And he replied, that dead these old clerks were,
For which he wept full often many a tear.
Down from his horse Aurelius 'lights anon,
And with this young magician is he gone
Home to his house. He made them well at ease:
There lack'd no viands to recruit and please.
A house so well conducted as this one,
Aurelius in his life saw never, none.
And with this young magician is he gone
Home to his house. He made them well at ease:
There lack'd no viands to recruit and please.
A house so well conducted as this one,
Aurelius in his life saw never, none.
He show'd them, ere they went to supper here,
Forests, and green parks full of the wild deer:
There saw Aurelius harts with antlers high;
The greatest that were ever seen with eye.
He saw, of them, an hundred slain by hounds,
And some from arrows bled with bitter wounds.
He saw, when swept away the herds of deer,
The falconers rowing on a river clear,
Who with their falcons have the heron slain.
Forests, and green parks full of the wild deer:
There saw Aurelius harts with antlers high;
The greatest that were ever seen with eye.
He saw, of them, an hundred slain by hounds,
And some from arrows bled with bitter wounds.
He saw, when swept away the herds of deer,
The falconers rowing on a river clear,
Who with their falcons have the heron slain.
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Then saw he gay knights tilting in a plain;
And after this, his fond heart to entrance,
He show'd to him his lady in a dance,
In which himself danced also,—as he thought;—
And when the Master, who this magic wrought,
Saw fit, he clapp'd his hands at this false clothing,—
And farewell all the revel! There is nothing!
And yet removed they never out o' the house
While all these sights they saw, so marvellous,
But in his study, where his books all be,
There sat they still—and no wight but these three!
And after this, his fond heart to entrance,
He show'd to him his lady in a dance,
In which himself danced also,—as he thought;—
And when the Master, who this magic wrought,
Saw fit, he clapp'd his hands at this false clothing,—
And farewell all the revel! There is nothing!
And yet removed they never out o' the house
While all these sights they saw, so marvellous,
But in his study, where his books all be,
There sat they still—and no wight but these three!
To him this Master call'd his servant now,
And said right thus, ‘To supper may we go?
Almost an hour it is, I undertake,
Since that I bade you should our supper make,
When these my worthy friends both went with me
Into my study, where my books all be.’
‘Sir,’ quoth the servant, ‘when it liketh you:
It is all ready, if ye choose, right now.’
‘Come, then, we'll sup,’ said he, ‘for, with the best,
These amorous folk must sometimes take their rest.’
And said right thus, ‘To supper may we go?
Almost an hour it is, I undertake,
Since that I bade you should our supper make,
When these my worthy friends both went with me
Into my study, where my books all be.’
‘Sir,’ quoth the servant, ‘when it liketh you:
It is all ready, if ye choose, right now.’
‘Come, then, we'll sup,’ said he, ‘for, with the best,
These amorous folk must sometimes take their rest.’
After their supper, treaty make these three
What good sum should this Master's guerdon be,
If he removed the black rocks of Bretaigne,
And eke from Gironde to the mouth of Seine.
What good sum should this Master's guerdon be,
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And eke from Gironde to the mouth of Seine.
He made it a great favour—‘God him save,
Less than a thousand pound he would not have;
Nor, e'en for that sum, cared he to be gone!’
Less than a thousand pound he would not have;
Nor, e'en for that sum, cared he to be gone!’
Aurelius with a blissful heart, anon
Answer'd right thus—‘Fie on a thousand pound!
This world below, which scholars say is round,
All would I give, if I were lord of it.
This bargain is concluded—we are knit:
Ye shall be paid all truly, by my troth.
But, look ye, for no negligence or sloth
Delay us longer than to-morrow here.’
‘Nay,’ quoth the clerk, ‘good faith to you I swear.’
Answer'd right thus—‘Fie on a thousand pound!
This world below, which scholars say is round,
All would I give, if I were lord of it.
This bargain is concluded—we are knit:
Ye shall be paid all truly, by my troth.
But, look ye, for no negligence or sloth
Delay us longer than to-morrow here.’
‘Nay,’ quoth the clerk, ‘good faith to you I swear.’
To bed is gone Aurelius, as he list,
And well nigh all that night he had his rest:
Faint with his labours, fed with hope of bliss,
His woeful heart found some reprieve, I wis.
And well nigh all that night he had his rest:
Faint with his labours, fed with hope of bliss,
His woeful heart found some reprieve, I wis.
Upon the morrow, when that it was day,
To Bretaigne forthright sped they on their way;—
Aurelius—the magician at his side;—
And are alighted where they will abide.
Now this was, as my tables me remember,
The cold and frosty season of December.
To Bretaigne forthright sped they on their way;—
Aurelius—the magician at his side;—
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Now this was, as my tables me remember,
The cold and frosty season of December.
Phœbus wax'd old; like tarnish'd brass in hue;
That, his hot declination passing through,
Shone like to burnéd gold, with broad rays bright;
But now in Capricorn he down doth 'light,
Wherein he shone full pale—I dare well say.
The bitter frosts, with sleet and rain, affray
The garden's green, till all hath disappeared.
Janus sits by the fire with double beard,
And drinketh from his buffalo-horn the wine!
Before him stands brawn of the tuskéd swine,
And “Christmas!” crieth every lusty man.
That, his hot declination passing through,
Shone like to burnéd gold, with broad rays bright;
But now in Capricorn he down doth 'light,
Wherein he shone full pale—I dare well say.
The bitter frosts, with sleet and rain, affray
The garden's green, till all hath disappeared.
Janus sits by the fire with double beard,
And drinketh from his buffalo-horn the wine!
Before him stands brawn of the tuskéd swine,
And “Christmas!” crieth every lusty man.
Aurelius now, in all that ever he can,
Giveth his Master cheer and reverence,
And prayeth him to work with diligence,
And bring him out of anguish by his art,
Or with a sword to thrust him through the heart.
Giveth his Master cheer and reverence,
And prayeth him to work with diligence,
And bring him out of anguish by his art,
Or with a sword to thrust him through the heart.
The subtle clerk such ruth hath on this man,
That night and day he speedeth all he can,
Watching the time that favour'd his conclusion;
That is to say, the time for his illusion,
So to make things appear by jugglery,
(I know no terms of their astrology,)
That Dorigen and every wight should say
The solid rocks of Bretaigne were away,
Or else they all were sunken under ground!
So, at the last, he hath his fit time found
To make the dark sleights and the wretchedness
Of such a soul-deluding cursedness.
That night and day he speedeth all he can,
Watching the time that favour'd his conclusion;
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So to make things appear by jugglery,
(I know no terms of their astrology,)
That Dorigen and every wight should say
The solid rocks of Bretaigne were away,
Or else they all were sunken under ground!
So, at the last, he hath his fit time found
To make the dark sleights and the wretchedness
Of such a soul-deluding cursedness.
His Tolitanian Tables forth he brought
Full well corrected, and they lackéd nought;—
Neither his years, in compound sums, nor single,
That in the heavenly computations mingle,
Accordant with their motions and their phases;
Neither his roots, wherefrom with care he raises
His branching calculations; nor the intents
Of all his centres and his arguments,
(Their arcs described, proportional to find,
Another are drawn somewhere in his mind)
For his equations; right in every thing.
And by his eight spheres, doth his working bring
The proof how far the house of Alnath lay
From the fix'd Aries' head i'the higher way;
Which, hence, in the ninth sphere consider'd is.
Full subtly calculated he all this.
And when that his first mansion he obtain'd,
He, by proportion, knew all that remain'd;
And knew the rising of the moon right well—
In whose face—in what term—all could he tell;
And likewise the moon's mansion knew, her station
Accordant with his varying operation:
And other observations he enhances
For such illusions, and against mischances,
As heathen folk would use in those old days.
And now no longer maketh he delays—
But through his magic, wrought in the night air,
It seem'd the rocks were gone—or never there!
Full well corrected, and they lackéd nought;—
Neither his years, in compound sums, nor single,
That in the heavenly computations mingle,
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Neither his roots, wherefrom with care he raises
His branching calculations; nor the intents
Of all his centres and his arguments,
(Their arcs described, proportional to find,
Another are drawn somewhere in his mind)
For his equations; right in every thing.
And by his eight spheres, doth his working bring
The proof how far the house of Alnath lay
From the fix'd Aries' head i'the higher way;
Which, hence, in the ninth sphere consider'd is.
Full subtly calculated he all this.
And when that his first mansion he obtain'd,
He, by proportion, knew all that remain'd;
And knew the rising of the moon right well—
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And likewise the moon's mansion knew, her station
Accordant with his varying operation:
And other observations he enhances
For such illusions, and against mischances,
As heathen folk would use in those old days.
And now no longer maketh he delays—
But through his magic, wrought in the night air,
It seem'd the rocks were gone—or never there!
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Aurelius, both in hope and in despair,
Unknowing how his chance of love may fare,
Awaiteth for the prodigy night and day:
And when he heard the rocks were all away—
For a time vanish'd—all his barriers gone—
Down at his Master's feet he fell anon,
And said, ‘I woeful wretch, Aurelius,
Thank you, my Lord, and Venus fair, who thus
Have helpéd me out of my anguish cold.’
Unknowing how his chance of love may fare,
Awaiteth for the prodigy night and day:
And when he heard the rocks were all away—
For a time vanish'd—all his barriers gone—
Down at his Master's feet he fell anon,
And said, ‘I woeful wretch, Aurelius,
Thank you, my Lord, and Venus fair, who thus
Have helpéd me out of my anguish cold.’
And to the temple he his way doth hold,
Wherein he knew his lady he should see.
And when he saw his time, he tremblingly
With heart in dread, and with full humble cheer,
Saluted hath his sovran lady dear.
Wherein he knew his lady he should see.
And when he saw his time, he tremblingly
With heart in dread, and with full humble cheer,
Saluted hath his sovran lady dear.
‘My truth-full lady,’ said this woeful man,
‘Whom I most dread, and love, as best I can,
And last of all this world would I displease;
Were't not that I for you upon my knees
Must die here at your foot, and that anon,
Nought would I tell how I am woe-begone.
But, certes, either must I die or 'plaine:
Ye slay me, guiltless, for my very pain.
But for my death, though that ye have no ruth,
Advise you well, ere that you break your troth:
Pause, and repent unto the God above,
Ere you destroy my life because I love.
For, madam, call to mind what ye did plight—
Not that I challenge anything of right,
From you, my sovran lady, but of grace;
Howbeit, in a garden near yon place,
Ye wot right well all that ye promised me;
And in my hand your truth pledged willingly,
To love me best—God wot, but ye said so—
Although that I unworthy am thereto.
Madam, I speak it for your honour, more
Than my heart's life to save, now wounded sore:
All have I done that ye commanded me;
And, if ye vouchsafe, ye may go and see.
Do as ye list—but bear your word in mind,
For quick or dead, you shall me surely find;
With you it lieth to give me life, or slay—
But well I wot the rocks are all away!’
‘Whom I most dread, and love, as best I can,
And last of all this world would I displease;
Were't not that I for you upon my knees
Must die here at your foot, and that anon,
Nought would I tell how I am woe-begone.
But, certes, either must I die or 'plaine:
Ye slay me, guiltless, for my very pain.
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Advise you well, ere that you break your troth:
Pause, and repent unto the God above,
Ere you destroy my life because I love.
For, madam, call to mind what ye did plight—
Not that I challenge anything of right,
From you, my sovran lady, but of grace;
Howbeit, in a garden near yon place,
Ye wot right well all that ye promised me;
And in my hand your truth pledged willingly,
To love me best—God wot, but ye said so—
Although that I unworthy am thereto.
Madam, I speak it for your honour, more
Than my heart's life to save, now wounded sore:
All have I done that ye commanded me;
And, if ye vouchsafe, ye may go and see.
Do as ye list—but bear your word in mind,
For quick or dead, you shall me surely find;
With you it lieth to give me life, or slay—
But well I wot the rocks are all away!’
He taketh his leave—and she astounded stood!
In all her face was not one drop of blood!
She thought not to be caught in such a trap.
In all her face was not one drop of blood!
She thought not to be caught in such a trap.
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‘Alas,’ cried she, ‘that ever this should hap!
For dreamt I never by possibility
That such a prodigy could ever be.
It is against the order'd course of nature.’
And home she slowly went, a sorrowful creature.
For very fear all trembling doth she go.
For dreamt I never by possibility
That such a prodigy could ever be.
It is against the order'd course of nature.’
And home she slowly went, a sorrowful creature.
For very fear all trembling doth she go.
She weepeth, waileth constantly, days two,
And swooneth often, pity 'twas to see;
But what the occasion, to no wight told she,
For, from the town Arviragus was gone.
But to herself she spake thus, all forlorn,
With a pale face, and with full sorry cheer
In her complaint, as ye shall pitying hear.
And swooneth often, pity 'twas to see;
But what the occasion, to no wight told she,
For, from the town Arviragus was gone.
But to herself she spake thus, all forlorn,
With a pale face, and with full sorry cheer
In her complaint, as ye shall pitying hear.
‘Alas,’ cried she, ‘Fortune, on thee I 'plaine,
Who, unaware, hast wrapped me in thy chain,
From which to 'scape no succour can I see,
Save but to die, or else dishonour'd be.
One of these two behoveth me to choose;
But ne'ertheless far rather would I lose
My life, than give my nature up to shame,
Or know myself all false, or blot my name:
So shall my death absolve me from my vow.
Hath there not many a noble wife, ere now
And many a maiden, slain herself, alas!
Rather than let dishonour o'er her pass.
Yes, truly: lo! their stories witness bear.
Why then of death should I have any fear?’
Who, unaware, hast wrapped me in thy chain,
From which to 'scape no succour can I see,
Save but to die, or else dishonour'd be.
One of these two behoveth me to choose;
But ne'ertheless far rather would I lose
My life, than give my nature up to shame,
Or know myself all false, or blot my name:
So shall my death absolve me from my vow.
Hath there not many a noble wife, ere now
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Rather than let dishonour o'er her pass.
Yes, truly: lo! their stories witness bear.
Why then of death should I have any fear?’
Thus Dorigen complained unceasingly,
Purposing evermore that she would die,
But lingering on, till the third night was come:
Arviragus, the worthy knight, came home,
And questioned her why thus she wept so sore?
And she again fell weeping ever the more.
Purposing evermore that she would die,
But lingering on, till the third night was come:
Arviragus, the worthy knight, came home,
And questioned her why thus she wept so sore?
And she again fell weeping ever the more.
‘Alas!’ said she, ‘that ever I was born!
Thus have I said,’ (quoth she,) ‘thus have I sworn:’
And told him all, as ye have heard before;
There needeth not I should rehearse it more.
Thus have I said,’ (quoth she,) ‘thus have I sworn:’
And told him all, as ye have heard before;
There needeth not I should rehearse it more.
The husband, with glad cheer in friendly wise,
Answer'd and said, as I shall you apprise.
‘Is there aught else, then, Dorigen, but this?’
‘Nay, nay,’ cried she, ‘so heaven me help, I wis
'Tis far too much, though it were God his will.’
Answer'd and said, as I shall you apprise.
‘Is there aught else, then, Dorigen, but this?’
‘Nay, nay,’ cried she, ‘so heaven me help, I wis
'Tis far too much, though it were God his will.’
‘Sweet wife,’ said he, ‘let sleep what now is still:
All may be well, perhaps, to-day,’ he saith.
‘But ye shall hold your truth, by my good faith;
For God so wisely mercy have on me,
I had far rather stabbed and ended be,
For very love that I unto you have,
Than you your truth should fail to keep and save.
Truth is the highest thing that man may keep.’
And with that word he suddenly 'gan weep;
And said, ‘I you forbid, on pain of death,
Ever, while with you lasteth life or breath,
To tell of this mishap to any man.
My woe I will endure as best I can;
And show no face of doubt or heaviness,
That folk of you may deem amiss, or guess.’
And now he call'd a squire, and eke a maid:
‘Go forth anon, with Dorigen,’ he said.
All may be well, perhaps, to-day,’ he saith.
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For God so wisely mercy have on me,
I had far rather stabbed and ended be,
For very love that I unto you have,
Than you your truth should fail to keep and save.
Truth is the highest thing that man may keep.’
And with that word he suddenly 'gan weep;
And said, ‘I you forbid, on pain of death,
Ever, while with you lasteth life or breath,
To tell of this mishap to any man.
My woe I will endure as best I can;
And show no face of doubt or heaviness,
That folk of you may deem amiss, or guess.’
And now he call'd a squire, and eke a maid:
‘Go forth anon, with Dorigen,’ he said.
They bring her presently unto the place,
And take their leave; and then their way retrace;
But nothing knew they why she thither went:
She would to no wight tell of her intent.
And take their leave; and then their way retrace;
But nothing knew they why she thither went:
She would to no wight tell of her intent.
And now Aurelius, ever, as I ween,
With amorous sorrow dreaming of Dorigene,
Happen'd by chance his lady soon to meet
Amid the town, and in the nearest street
That led unto the way her steps were bent,
And also tow'rds the garden, where she went.
Aurelius tow'rds the garden sped him now,
For well he knew whenever she might go
Out of her house, to any other place.
But thus they met by accident, or grace,
And he saluteth her with glad intent,
And asketh of her whitherward she went?
With amorous sorrow dreaming of Dorigene,
Happen'd by chance his lady soon to meet
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That led unto the way her steps were bent,
And also tow'rds the garden, where she went.
Aurelius tow'rds the garden sped him now,
For well he knew whenever she might go
Out of her house, to any other place.
But thus they met by accident, or grace,
And he saluteth her with glad intent,
And asketh of her whitherward she went?
And she replied, as though she were half mad,
‘Unto the garden, as my husband bade,
My truth to save and hold, alas! alas!’
‘Unto the garden, as my husband bade,
My truth to save and hold, alas! alas!’
Aurelius 'gan to ponder o'er this case;—
And in his heart he had compassion great
For her, her lamentation, and her state,
And for Arviragus, the noble knight,
Who bade her hold her promise as of right,
So loath was he his wife should break her truth.
And in his heart he caught of this great ruth;
Considering 'twas the best on every side
His passion rather he should quell or hide,
Than like a base churl cause such high distress
To generous honour and to gentilesse.
Wherefore, in few words, to her said he thus.
And in his heart he had compassion great
For her, her lamentation, and her state,
And for Arviragus, the noble knight,
Who bade her hold her promise as of right,
So loath was he his wife should break her truth.
And in his heart he caught of this great ruth;
Considering 'twas the best on every side
His passion rather he should quell or hide,
Than like a base churl cause such high distress
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Wherefore, in few words, to her said he thus.
‘Madam, say to your lord, Arviragus,
That since I see the knightly nobleness
Of him, and seeing also your distress;—
That he would rather have shame (and this were ruth)
Than ye to me should break your word and truth;
I had far sooner suffer constant woe
Than injure aught of love between you two.
That since I see the knightly nobleness
Of him, and seeing also your distress;—
That he would rather have shame (and this were ruth)
Than ye to me should break your word and truth;
I had far sooner suffer constant woe
Than injure aught of love between you two.
‘I do release you, madam; in your hand
Place each security and every bond
That ye have giv'n to me, up to this day,
Since ye were born,—as fully as I may.
Take here my troth—I never will you grieve
For promis'd love; and here I take my leave,
As of the truest and the worthiest wife
That ever yet I knew in all my life.
But every wife beware of promised love;
Like Dorigen they may not always prove.
Thus can a squire perform a gentle deed,
As well as can a knight, though his heart bleed.’
Place each security and every bond
That ye have giv'n to me, up to this day,
Since ye were born,—as fully as I may.
Take here my troth—I never will you grieve
For promis'd love; and here I take my leave,
As of the truest and the worthiest wife
That ever yet I knew in all my life.
But every wife beware of promised love;
Like Dorigen they may not always prove.
Thus can a squire perform a gentle deed,
As well as can a knight, though his heart bleed.’
She thanks Aurelius low on her knees bare,
And home unto her husband doth she fare,
And told him all, as ye have now heard said:
And trust me this, he was so well repay'd
That 'twere impossible for me to write.
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And told him all, as ye have now heard said:
And trust me this, he was so well repay'd
That 'twere impossible for me to write.
What should I further of this case indite?
Arviragus, and Dorigen his wife,
In sovran bliss henceforward lead their life.
Never came grief or anger them between:
He cherish'd her as though she were a queen;
And she was true to him as heretofore.
Now of these two ye get from me no more.
Arviragus, and Dorigen his wife,
In sovran bliss henceforward lead their life.
Never came grief or anger them between:
He cherish'd her as though she were a queen;
And she was true to him as heretofore.
Now of these two ye get from me no more.
Aurelius, thinking of his substance gone,
Curseth the time that ever he was born.
‘Alas!’ cried he, ‘I promised, in my strait,
Of gold all pure a thousand pound of weight,
To the philosopher! How shall I do?
Nothing I see but ruin in the view.
Mine heritage forthwith I needs must sell,
And be a beggar. Here I will not dwell,
Disgracing all my kindred in the place,
Unless of him I get some better grace.
But ne'ertheless I will of him essay
At certain days, and year by year, to pay,
And thank him much for his great courtesy.
My promise will I keep—I will not lie.’
Curseth the time that ever he was born.
‘Alas!’ cried he, ‘I promised, in my strait,
Of gold all pure a thousand pound of weight,
To the philosopher! How shall I do?
Nothing I see but ruin in the view.
Mine heritage forthwith I needs must sell,
And be a beggar. Here I will not dwell,
Disgracing all my kindred in the place,
Unless of him I get some better grace.
But ne'ertheless I will of him essay
At certain days, and year by year, to pay,
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My promise will I keep—I will not lie.’
With heart full sore, his chest-bags in his hold,
To this philosopher he brought his gold,
The value of five hundred pounds, I guess;
And him beseecheth of his courteousness,
To grant, for what remained, a longer term;
And saying, ‘Master, I dare well affirm
I failéd never of my truth, as yet;
And certainly I will acquit my debt
To you, however poorly I may fare
To go a-begging in my kirtle bare.
But would ye vouchsafe, on security,
To grant me respite for two years or three,
Then were I well; for else I needs must sell
Mine heritage: there is no more to tell.’
To this philosopher he brought his gold,
The value of five hundred pounds, I guess;
And him beseecheth of his courteousness,
To grant, for what remained, a longer term;
And saying, ‘Master, I dare well affirm
I failéd never of my truth, as yet;
And certainly I will acquit my debt
To you, however poorly I may fare
To go a-begging in my kirtle bare.
But would ye vouchsafe, on security,
To grant me respite for two years or three,
Then were I well; for else I needs must sell
Mine heritage: there is no more to tell.’
Then the philosopher answer'd soberly,
And said thus, when this last request heard he,—
‘Have I not kept my covenant to thee?’
And said thus, when this last request heard he,—
‘Have I not kept my covenant to thee?’
‘Yes, certes; well and truly,’ answer'd he.
‘Hast thou not won thy love?’ the other crieth.
‘No—no,’ Aurelius said; and sore he sigheth.
‘What was the cause?—now tell me if you can.’
‘Hast thou not won thy love?’ the other crieth.
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‘What was the cause?—now tell me if you can.’
His tale Aurelius woefully began,
And told him all, as ye have heard before:
It needeth not rehearsal any more.
He said, ‘Arviragus, from nobleness,
Would rather die of sorrow and distress
Than, false to truth, his noble wife behold.’
The sorrow of Dorigen he also told;
How loath she was to be a wicked wife,
Wishing, instead, to lose that day her life;
And that her word she gave through innocence:
She never thought of magic, but fair sense.
‘This gave me such great pity her to see,
That freely as her husband sent to me,
As freely sent I her to him again.
This is the sum of all—more words are vain.’
And told him all, as ye have heard before:
It needeth not rehearsal any more.
He said, ‘Arviragus, from nobleness,
Would rather die of sorrow and distress
Than, false to truth, his noble wife behold.’
The sorrow of Dorigen he also told;
How loath she was to be a wicked wife,
Wishing, instead, to lose that day her life;
And that her word she gave through innocence:
She never thought of magic, but fair sense.
‘This gave me such great pity her to see,
That freely as her husband sent to me,
As freely sent I her to him again.
This is the sum of all—more words are vain.’
Then answer'd the philosopher:—‘Good brother,
Each of ye acted nobly by the other:
Thou art a squire; he is a worthy knight;
And God forbid, in all his blissful might,
But that a clerk a gentle deed should do,
As well—ne'er doubt it—as this knight or you.
Each of ye acted nobly by the other:
Thou art a squire; he is a worthy knight;
And God forbid, in all his blissful might,
But that a clerk a gentle deed should do,
As well—ne'er doubt it—as this knight or you.
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‘Sir, I release thee of thy thousand pound,
As if but now thoud'st crept out of the ground,
And never till this moment had'st known me.
For, Sir, I will not take a penny of thee,
For all my craft, and all my labour given.
The good cheer of thy house hath made us even.
It is enough. Farewell! give you good day.’
He took his horse, and forth he went his way.
As if but now thoud'st crept out of the ground,
And never till this moment had'st known me.
For, Sir, I will not take a penny of thee,
For all my craft, and all my labour given.
The good cheer of thy house hath made us even.
It is enough. Farewell! give you good day.’
He took his horse, and forth he went his way.
Butler has made a very excellent paraphrase of this passage in his Hudibras, part iii. c. l. lines 553 to 560. Pope has made use of Chaucer more literally.
“Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.”
Eloise to Abelard.
Warburton, in a note on these lines, alludes to this “imitation” of Chaucer, and quotes the following as being the original:—
When maisterie comes, the Lord of Love anonFlutters his wings, and forthwith is he gone.
The words in italics are Warburton's. Neither of these versions possess any of the vigour and sincerity of the Father of English Poetry. The light perfumed wings, admirably adapted to the idealities of the boudoir, with all their fluttering levity, have none of the moral justification of an honest passion.
This astrological incantation stands thus in the original:—
His tables Toletanes forth he broughtFul well corrected, that ther lacked nought,
Nother his collect, ne his expans yeres,
Nother his notes, ne his other geres,
As ben his centres, and his argumentes,
And his proportionel convenientes
For his equations in every thing.
And by his eighte speres in his werking,
He knew ful wel how fer Alnath was shove
Fro the hed of thilke fix Aries above
That in the ninthe spere considered is, &c.
While the poet was writing this, nearly five hundred years ago, there was evidently a tendency to denounce the abuse of astrology. For the benefit of the curious, and to display the alleged advances of Science over Imagination, (to the destruction of the latter, as some affirm,) we have consulted a wellknown living astrologer on the above passage, who has obliged us with the following.
“In the time of Chaucer, the knowledge of the particular degrees, of each sign, occupying the cusp, or entrance, of the twelve horoscopal Houses, was extremely incorrect. The old tables have been abandoned by modern astrologers, (among whom there are several secret students in the universities of Oxford and Cambridge,) and are of course replaced by perfect tables. The extent of the error may be seen by the computations of Lilly, the celebrated astrologer of king Charles the First's time, (who received a grant of a hundred pounds a year from the Parliament,) and yet these Lilly tables are now published without correction, though corrected copies may be purchased cheaply. The errors ascribed to the science are in truth the errors of calculation. As for the mode of working adopted by the ‘clerk’ in this poem, we know that the moon rules in Cancer—there she has her mansion and her dignities—and Cancer represents the ocean in the world's horoscope. If the poet has a latent and secondary meaning, then Cancer, in the Mysteries, is also the populace, and Neptune is public opinion. So far we may follow the ‘clerk,’ but he subsequently shows himself to be a juggler, and not a worker by regular natural science. He meddles with fixed substances, instead of keeping to calculations and abstract ordinances. For nonentities (in the modern advances of science) have as much power as real things. What is the meridian but a nonentity? Yet the meridian changes the signification of all planetary bodies. Of the Tolitanian Tables, constructed by order of Alphonso, king of Naples, it does not appear that Chaucer knew much, nor are they valuable for correctness. But when the learned commentator on Chaucer, Mr. Tyrwhitt, undertakes to prove that the poet, in the opening of his great Prologue, was wrong in saying, ‘the yonge sonne hath in the Ram his half cours yronne;’ and that he ought to have said the Bull,— the poet turns out to be the best astronomer. For the poet reckoned by the new style, and not the old. The new style was not adopted at that time in England, but Chaucer took it in advance of his time from foreign tables. It was called a ‘new style’ only when adopted in England—but it was not new to Chaucer. He means the first week of April.”
Chaucer was evidently fond of astronomy, and wrote a treatise on the Astrolabe. A manuscript copy of this, together with a work on Geomancy, by another author, is now in the possession of the Duke of Northumberland; and a manuscript copy of the latter is also possessed by Mr. Varley, by whom we have been obliged with the foregoing unique comments.
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