 | Poems of Chaucer modernized |  |
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THE PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES; MODERNIZED By R. H. HORNE.
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PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES.
When that sweet April showers with downward shoot
The drought of March have pierc'd unto the root,
And bathéd every vein with liquid power,
Whose virtue rare engendereth the flower;
When Zephyrus also with his fragrant breath
Inspiréd hath in every grove and heath
The tender shoots of green, and the young sun
Hath in the Ram one half his journey run,
And small birds in the trees make melody,
That sleep and dream all night with open eye;
So nature stirs all energies and ages
That folks are bent to go on pilgrimages,
And palmers for to wander thro' strange strands,
To sing the holy mass in sundry lands:
And more especially, from each shire's end
Of England, they to Canterbury wend,
The holy blissful martyr for to seek,
Who hath upheld them when that they were weak.
The drought of March have pierc'd unto the root,
And bathéd every vein with liquid power,
Whose virtue rare engendereth the flower;
When Zephyrus also with his fragrant breath
Inspiréd hath in every grove and heath
The tender shoots of green, and the young sun
Hath in the Ram one half his journey run,
And small birds in the trees make melody,
That sleep and dream all night with open eye;
So nature stirs all energies and ages
That folks are bent to go on pilgrimages,
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To sing the holy mass in sundry lands:
And more especially, from each shire's end
Of England, they to Canterbury wend,
The holy blissful martyr for to seek,
Who hath upheld them when that they were weak.
It fell, within that season on a day
In Southwark, at the Tabard as I lay,
Ready to wend upon my pilgrim route
To Canterbury, with a heart devout,
At night was come into that hostelry
Well nine-and-twenty in a company,
Of sundry folk who thus had chanced to fall
In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all,
That now to Canterbury town would ride.
The chambers and the stables they were wide,
And all of us refresh'd, and of the best.
In Southwark, at the Tabard as I lay,
Ready to wend upon my pilgrim route
To Canterbury, with a heart devout,
At night was come into that hostelry
Well nine-and-twenty in a company,
Of sundry folk who thus had chanced to fall
In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all,
That now to Canterbury town would ride.
The chambers and the stables they were wide,
And all of us refresh'd, and of the best.
And shortly when the sun was gone to rest,
So had I spoken with them every one,
That I was of their fellowship anon,
And made them promise early for to rise
To take our way there, as I you apprise.
But ne'ertheless, while I have time and space,
Ere that I further in this story pace,
Methinks it were accordant with good sense
To tell you the condition and pretence
Of each of them, so as it seem'd to me;
And which they were—of what kind, and degree;
And eke in what array that they were in:
And at a knight, then, will I first begin.
So had I spoken with them every one,
That I was of their fellowship anon,
And made them promise early for to rise
To take our way there, as I you apprise.
But ne'ertheless, while I have time and space,
Ere that I further in this story pace,
Methinks it were accordant with good sense
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Of each of them, so as it seem'd to me;
And which they were—of what kind, and degree;
And eke in what array that they were in:
And at a knight, then, will I first begin.
A Knight there was, and that a worthy man,
Who from the hour on which he first began
To ride out, vowed himself to chivalry,
Honour and truth, freedom and courtesy.
In his lord's war right worthy had he shone,
And thereto ridden—none had further gone,
In Christian, and in Heathen land, no less;
And ever honour'd for his worthiness.
Who from the hour on which he first began
To ride out, vowed himself to chivalry,
Honour and truth, freedom and courtesy.
In his lord's war right worthy had he shone,
And thereto ridden—none had further gone,
In Christian, and in Heathen land, no less;
And ever honour'd for his worthiness.
At Alexandria was he when 'twas won.
Full oft the wassail board he had begun,
Above the bravest warriors out of Prusse;
In Lithuania had he serv'd, and Russe;
No Christian man so oft of his degree.
At Algeziras, in Granada, he
Had join'd the siege; and ridden in Belmarie:
At Layas was he, and at Satalie
When they were won; and, borne on the Great Sea,
At many a noble fight of ships was he.
In mortal battles had he been fifteen,
And fought for our true faith, at Tramissene,
In the lists thrice—and always slain his foe.
And this same worthy Knight had been also
In Anatolia sometime with a lord,
Fighting against the foes of God his word;
And evermore he won a sovereign prize.
Though thus at all times honour'd, he was wise,
And of his port as meek as is a maid.
He never yet a word discourteous said
In all his life to any mortal wight:
He was a very perfect gentle knight.
Full oft the wassail board he had begun,
Above the bravest warriors out of Prusse;
In Lithuania had he serv'd, and Russe;
No Christian man so oft of his degree.
At Algeziras, in Granada, he
Had join'd the siege; and ridden in Belmarie:
At Layas was he, and at Satalie
When they were won; and, borne on the Great Sea,
At many a noble fight of ships was he.
In mortal battles had he been fifteen,
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In the lists thrice—and always slain his foe.
And this same worthy Knight had been also
In Anatolia sometime with a lord,
Fighting against the foes of God his word;
And evermore he won a sovereign prize.
Though thus at all times honour'd, he was wise,
And of his port as meek as is a maid.
He never yet a word discourteous said
In all his life to any mortal wight:
He was a very perfect gentle knight.
But for to tell you of his staid array,—
His horse was good, albeit he was not gay.
He wore a fustian cassock, short and plain,
All smutch'd with rust from coat of mail, and rain.
For he was late return'd; and he was sage,
And cared for nought but his good pilgrimage.
His horse was good, albeit he was not gay.
He wore a fustian cassock, short and plain,
All smutch'd with rust from coat of mail, and rain.
For he was late return'd; and he was sage,
And cared for nought but his good pilgrimage.
His son, a young Squire, with him there I saw;
A lover and a lusty bachelor;
With locks crisp curl'd, as they'd been laid in press:
Of twenty years of age he was, I guess.
He was in stature of the common length,
With wondrous nimbleness, and great of strength:
And he had been in expeditions three,
In Flanders, Artois, and in Picardy;
And borne him well, tho' in so little space,
In hope to stand fair in his lady's grace.
A lover and a lusty bachelor;
With locks crisp curl'd, as they'd been laid in press:
Of twenty years of age he was, I guess.
He was in stature of the common length,
With wondrous nimbleness, and great of strength:
And he had been in expeditions three,
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And borne him well, tho' in so little space,
In hope to stand fair in his lady's grace.
Embroider'd was he, as it were a mead
All crowded with fresh flowers, white and red.
Singing he was, or fluting all the day:
He was as fresh as is the month of May.
Short was his gown, with sleeves right long and wide
Well could he sit his horse, and fairly ride.
He could make songs, and letters well endite,
Joust and eke dance, and portraits paint, and write.
His amorous ditties nightly fill'd the vale;
He slept no more than doth the nightingale.
All crowded with fresh flowers, white and red.
Singing he was, or fluting all the day:
He was as fresh as is the month of May.
Short was his gown, with sleeves right long and wide
Well could he sit his horse, and fairly ride.
He could make songs, and letters well endite,
Joust and eke dance, and portraits paint, and write.
His amorous ditties nightly fill'd the vale;
He slept no more than doth the nightingale.
Courteous he was, modest and serviceable,
And carv'd before his father at the table.
And carv'd before his father at the table.
A Yeoman had he; and no page beside:
It pleased him, on this journey, thus to ride;
And he was clad in coat and hood of green.
A sheaf of peacock arrows, bright and keen,
Under his belt he bare full thriftily:
Well could he dress his tackle yeomanly;
His arrows droopéd not with feathers low;
And in his hand he bare a mighty bow.
His head was like a nut, with visage brown.
Of wood-craft all the ways to him were known.
An arm-brace wore he that was rich and broad,
And by his side a buckler and a sword;
While on the other side a dagger rare
Well sheathed was hung, and on his breast he bare
A large St. Christopher of silver sheen.
A horn he had; the baldric was of green.
A forester was he truly, as I guess.
It pleased him, on this journey, thus to ride;
And he was clad in coat and hood of green.
A sheaf of peacock arrows, bright and keen,
Under his belt he bare full thriftily:
Well could he dress his tackle yeomanly;
His arrows droopéd not with feathers low;
And in his hand he bare a mighty bow.
His head was like a nut, with visage brown.
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An arm-brace wore he that was rich and broad,
And by his side a buckler and a sword;
While on the other side a dagger rare
Well sheathed was hung, and on his breast he bare
A large St. Christopher of silver sheen.
A horn he had; the baldric was of green.
A forester was he truly, as I guess.
There was, likewise, a Nun, a Prioress,
That of her smiling was full simple and coy.
Her greatest oath was but ‘by Saint Eloy;’
And she was naméd Madam Eglentine.
Right well she sang the services divine,
Entunéd in her nose with accent sweet;
And French she spake full properly and neat,
After the school of Stratford, at Bow town,
For French of Paris was to her unknown,
At table she was scrupulous withal;
No morsel from her lips did she let fall,
Nor in her sauce would dip her fingers deep.
Well could she carry a morsel, and well keep,
That not a drop e'er fell upon her breast.
In courtesy her pleasure much did rest.
Her dainty upper-lip she wiped so clean
That in her cup there was no farthing seen
Of grease, when she had drunk; and for her meat
Full seemly bent she forward on her seat.
And of a truth she was of great disport;
Pleasant to all and amiable of port.
It gave her pain to counterfeit the ways
Of court; its stately manner and displays;
And to be held in distant reverence.
That of her smiling was full simple and coy.
Her greatest oath was but ‘by Saint Eloy;’
And she was naméd Madam Eglentine.
Right well she sang the services divine,
Entunéd in her nose with accent sweet;
And French she spake full properly and neat,
After the school of Stratford, at Bow town,
For French of Paris was to her unknown,
At table she was scrupulous withal;
No morsel from her lips did she let fall,
Nor in her sauce would dip her fingers deep.
Well could she carry a morsel, and well keep,
That not a drop e'er fell upon her breast.
In courtesy her pleasure much did rest.
Her dainty upper-lip she wiped so clean
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Of grease, when she had drunk; and for her meat
Full seemly bent she forward on her seat.
And of a truth she was of great disport;
Pleasant to all and amiable of port.
It gave her pain to counterfeit the ways
Of court; its stately manner and displays;
And to be held in distant reverence.
But for to tell you of her consciénce,
She was so tender and so piteous,
She would shed tears if that she saw a mouse
Caught in a trap, if it were hurt or dead.
She had some small hounds, which she always fed
With roasted meat, and milk, and fine wheat bread;
But sore wept she if one of them were dead,
Or if men with a stick e'er struck it smart:
And all was consciénce and tender heart.
She was so tender and so piteous,
She would shed tears if that she saw a mouse
Caught in a trap, if it were hurt or dead.
She had some small hounds, which she always fed
With roasted meat, and milk, and fine wheat bread;
But sore wept she if one of them were dead,
Or if men with a stick e'er struck it smart:
And all was consciénce and tender heart.
Full seemly was her kerchief crimp'd across;
Her nose well cut and long; eyes grey as glass;
Her mouth was small, and thereto soft and red,
And certainly a forehead fair she had:
It was almost a span in breadth, I trow;
And truly she was not of stature low.
Her nose well cut and long; eyes grey as glass;
Her mouth was small, and thereto soft and red,
And certainly a forehead fair she had:
It was almost a span in breadth, I trow;
And truly she was not of stature low.
Most proper was her cloak, as I was ware.
Of coral small about her arm she bare
Two strings of beads, bedizen'd all with green,
And thereon hung a broach of gold full sheen,
On which was graven first a crownéd A,
And after “Amor vincit omnia.”
Of coral small about her arm she bare
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And thereon hung a broach of gold full sheen,
On which was graven first a crownéd A,
And after “Amor vincit omnia.”
Another Nun, also, with her had she—
Who served instead of chaplain—and Priests three.
Who served instead of chaplain—and Priests three.
A Monk there was, of skill and mastery proved;
A bold hand at a leap, who hunting loved:
A manly man, to be an abbot able.
Full many a dainty horse had he in stable,
And when he rode, men might his bridle hear,
Gingling in a whistling wind as clear
And eke as loud, as doth the chapel bell
Where reign'd he lord o'er many a holy cell.
A bold hand at a leap, who hunting loved:
A manly man, to be an abbot able.
Full many a dainty horse had he in stable,
And when he rode, men might his bridle hear,
Gingling in a whistling wind as clear
And eke as loud, as doth the chapel bell
Where reign'd he lord o'er many a holy cell.
The rules of Saint Maure and Saint Benedict,
Because that they were old and something strict,
This sturdy monk let old things backward pace,
And of the new world follow'd close the trace.
He rated not the text at a pluck'd hen,
Which saith that hunting 'fits not holy men,
Or that a monk beyond his bricks and mortar
Is like a fish without a drop of water—
That is to say, a monk out of his cloister:—
Now this same text he held not worth an oyster!
And I say his opinion was not bad.
Why should he study and make himself half mad
Upon a book in cloister ever to pore,
Or labour with his hands, and dig and bore
As Austin bids? How shall the world be served?
Let the world's work for Austin be reserved.
Therefore our monk spurr'd on, a jolly wight.
Greyhounds he kept, as swift as bird of flight:
In riding hard and hunting for the hare,
Was all his joy; for no cost would he spare.
Because that they were old and something strict,
This sturdy monk let old things backward pace,
And of the new world follow'd close the trace.
He rated not the text at a pluck'd hen,
Which saith that hunting 'fits not holy men,
Or that a monk beyond his bricks and mortar
Is like a fish without a drop of water—
That is to say, a monk out of his cloister:—
Now this same text he held not worth an oyster!
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Why should he study and make himself half mad
Upon a book in cloister ever to pore,
Or labour with his hands, and dig and bore
As Austin bids? How shall the world be served?
Let the world's work for Austin be reserved.
Therefore our monk spurr'd on, a jolly wight.
Greyhounds he kept, as swift as bird of flight:
In riding hard and hunting for the hare,
Was all his joy; for no cost would he spare.
I saw his large sleeves trimm'd above the hand
With fur, and that the finest of the land;
And for to keep his hood beneath his chin,
He had of beaten gold a curious pin:
A love-knot at the greater end there was.
His head was bald, and shone like any glass;
And eke his face, as it had been anoint.
He was a lord full fat, and in good point.
His eyes were deep and rolling in his head,
Which steam'd as doth a furnace melting lead.
His boots were supple, his horse right proud to see;
Now certainly a prelate fair was he:
He was not pale as a poor pining ghost.
A fat swan loved he best of any roast.
His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.
With fur, and that the finest of the land;
And for to keep his hood beneath his chin,
He had of beaten gold a curious pin:
A love-knot at the greater end there was.
His head was bald, and shone like any glass;
And eke his face, as it had been anoint.
He was a lord full fat, and in good point.
His eyes were deep and rolling in his head,
Which steam'd as doth a furnace melting lead.
His boots were supple, his horse right proud to see;
Now certainly a prelate fair was he:
He was not pale as a poor pining ghost.
A fat swan loved he best of any roast.
His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.
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A Friar there was, a wanton and a merry;
Licensed to beg, a wondrous solemn man.
In all the orders four there's none that can
So much of dalliance wrap in language fair.
Full many a marriage had he brought to bear
For women young, and paid the cost with sport.
Unto his order he was rare support.
Right well beloved, in fellowship was he
With jolly franklins all, and yeomanry;
And eke with women, of each town the flower,
For in confession he possess'd a power
More than a curate, as himself could state,
Being of his order a licentiate.
Full sweetly would he hear confession made;
Pleasantly was his absolution said.
He was an easy man in penance naming,
And knew that alms fell heavy from light blaming;
Since to an order poor when much is given,
It proves the culprit has been rightly shriven;
For if a sinner pay dear for his bent,
He knew the man must certainly repent;
And many a man so hard is of his heart,
He will not weep, although his soul should smart;
Therefore, instead of prayers and groans and tears,
Men must give money to the poor fryéres.
Licensed to beg, a wondrous solemn man.
In all the orders four there's none that can
So much of dalliance wrap in language fair.
Full many a marriage had he brought to bear
For women young, and paid the cost with sport.
Unto his order he was rare support.
Right well beloved, in fellowship was he
With jolly franklins all, and yeomanry;
And eke with women, of each town the flower,
For in confession he possess'd a power
More than a curate, as himself could state,
Being of his order a licentiate.
Full sweetly would he hear confession made;
Pleasantly was his absolution said.
He was an easy man in penance naming,
And knew that alms fell heavy from light blaming;
Since to an order poor when much is given,
It proves the culprit has been rightly shriven;
For if a sinner pay dear for his bent,
He knew the man must certainly repent;
And many a man so hard is of his heart,
He will not weep, although his soul should smart;
Therefore, instead of prayers and groans and tears,
Men must give money to the poor fryéres.
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His tippet always was stuff'd full of knives,
And pins, as presents meant for handsome wives.
And certainly his note was blithe and gay;
Well could he sing, and on the psaltery play.
In songs and tales the prize o'er all bore he.
His neck was white as is the fleur de lis.
Strong was he also, as a champion,
And knew the taverns well in every town,
And every ostler there, and tapster gay,
Much more than he knew beggars by the way.
For unto such a worthy man as he,
Nothing is gain'd from his good faculty
By giving to such lazars countenance:
It is not right—no interest can advance—
To deal with knaves and scrubs who have so little;
But all with rich, and those who sell good victual.
And pins, as presents meant for handsome wives.
And certainly his note was blithe and gay;
Well could he sing, and on the psaltery play.
In songs and tales the prize o'er all bore he.
His neck was white as is the fleur de lis.
Strong was he also, as a champion,
And knew the taverns well in every town,
And every ostler there, and tapster gay,
Much more than he knew beggars by the way.
For unto such a worthy man as he,
Nothing is gain'd from his good faculty
By giving to such lazars countenance:
It is not right—no interest can advance—
To deal with knaves and scrubs who have so little;
But all with rich, and those who sell good victual.
Therefore 'bove all where profit might arise,
Courteous he was, and full of service wise.
There was no man one half so virtuous:
He was the cleverest beggar in all his house;
And farm'd a certain district, as in grant.
None of his brethren came within his haunt.
And though a widow scarcely had a shoe,
So pleasant was his “In principio,”
He still would have a farthing ere he went.
His harvest was far better than his rent.
And rage he could, as it had been a whelp,
In love-days ; yet he often gave great help:
For there was he, not like a cloisterer frore,
With threadbare cape, as suits a scholar poor,
But he was like a bishop or a pope.
Of double worsted was his semi-cope,
Round as a new bell from the moulder's press.
Somewhat he lispéd for his wantonness,
To make his English sweet upon his tongue.
And in his harping, when that he had sung,
His eyes they twinkled in his head aright,
As do the stars upon a frosty night.
And Hubert was this worthy friar's name.
Courteous he was, and full of service wise.
There was no man one half so virtuous:
He was the cleverest beggar in all his house;
And farm'd a certain district, as in grant.
None of his brethren came within his haunt.
And though a widow scarcely had a shoe,
So pleasant was his “In principio,”
He still would have a farthing ere he went.
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And rage he could, as it had been a whelp,
In love-days ; yet he often gave great help:
For there was he, not like a cloisterer frore,
With threadbare cape, as suits a scholar poor,
But he was like a bishop or a pope.
Of double worsted was his semi-cope,
Round as a new bell from the moulder's press.
Somewhat he lispéd for his wantonness,
To make his English sweet upon his tongue.
And in his harping, when that he had sung,
His eyes they twinkled in his head aright,
As do the stars upon a frosty night.
And Hubert was this worthy friar's name.
Days which were appointed for the settlement of disputes in the most loving manner.—Bracton, l. v. fol. 369.
In motley dress, and high on horse he sat.
He wore a stately Flanders' beaver hat.
His boots, that fitted close, were of neat make;
His reasons very solemnly he spake,
Sounding the increase of his gains alwáy.
He wish'd the channel had no dues pay,
Running 'twixt Middleburgh and Overwell.
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All chances he with his shrewd wits beset,
And no one knew that he was much in debt:
So steadily he govern'd all his moves,
With bargains, and with bills that work'd in grooves.
In truth he was a worthy man withal,
But sooth to say, his name I can't recall.
A Clerk there was, from Oxford, in the press,
Who in pure logic placed his happiness.
His horse was lean as any garden rake;
And he was not right fat, I undertake;
But hollow look'd, and sober, and ill fed.
His uppermost short cloak was a bare thread,
For he had got no benefice as yet,
Nor for a worldly office was he fit.
For he had rather have at his bed's head
Some twenty volumes, clothed in black or red,
Of Aristotle and his philosophy,
Than richest robes, fiddle, or psaltery.
But though a true philosopher was he,
Yet had he little gold beneath his key;
But every farthing that his friends e'er lent,
In books and learning was it always spent;
And busily he pray'd for the sweet souls
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He bent on study his chief care and heed.
Not a word spake he more than there was need,
And this was said with form and gravest stress,
And short and quick, full of sententiousness.
Sounding in moral virtue was his speech,
And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach.
A Serjeant of the Law, wise, wary, arch,
Who oft had gossip'd long in the church porch,
Was also there, full rich of excellence.
Discreet he was and of great reverence;
For such he seem'd, his words were all so wise.
Justice he was full often in assize;
By patent and commission from the crown,
For his keen science and his high renown.
Of fees and robes he many had I ween:
So great a purchaser was nowhere seen.
All was fee simple to him, in effect;
His rightful gainings no one could suspect.
So busy a man as he no circuit has;
And yet he seeméd busier than he was.
He had at tip of tongue all cases plain,
With all the judgments, since King William's reign.
He likewise could indite such perfect law,
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And every statute he knew well by rote.
He rode but homely in a medley coat,
With band of twill'd silk round the loins made fast:
On his array no more time shall I waste.
A Franklin
in this company appear'd:
White as a daisy was this Franklin's beard.
With sanguine hues did his complexion shine.
Well loved he in the morn a sop in wine.
His days he gave to pleasure, every one;
For he was Epicurus's own son,
Who held the opinion that a life of bliss
Was verily man's perfect happiness.
White as a daisy was this Franklin's beard.
With sanguine hues did his complexion shine.
Well loved he in the morn a sop in wine.
His days he gave to pleasure, every one;
For he was Epicurus's own son,
Who held the opinion that a life of bliss
Was verily man's perfect happiness.
An householder of great extent was he;
He was St. Julian in his own countréy.
With bread and ale his board was always crown'd;
A better cellar no where could be found.
His pantry never was without baked meat,
And fish and flesh, so plenteous and complete,
It snow'd within his house of meat and drink.
Of all the dainties that a man could think,
After the sundry seasons of the year,
His meats thus changed he, and his supper cheer.
Full many a partridge fat had he in mew,
And many a bream and many a jack in stew.
Woe to his cook, unless his sauces were
Made piquant rich, and ready all his gear.
His table with repletion heavy lay
Amidst his hall, throughout the feast-long day.
He was St. Julian in his own countréy.
With bread and ale his board was always crown'd;
A better cellar no where could be found.
His pantry never was without baked meat,
And fish and flesh, so plenteous and complete,
It snow'd within his house of meat and drink.
Of all the dainties that a man could think,
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His meats thus changed he, and his supper cheer.
Full many a partridge fat had he in mew,
And many a bream and many a jack in stew.
Woe to his cook, unless his sauces were
Made piquant rich, and ready all his gear.
His table with repletion heavy lay
Amidst his hall, throughout the feast-long day.
At sessions there was he both lord and sire.
Full often time he had been Knight o' the Shire.
A dagger, and a purse of netted silk,
Hung at his girdle, white as morning milk.
Sheriff—comptroller—magistrate he'd been;
A worthier franklin there was nowhere seen.
Full often time he had been Knight o' the Shire.
A dagger, and a purse of netted silk,
Hung at his girdle, white as morning milk.
Sheriff—comptroller—magistrate he'd been;
A worthier franklin there was nowhere seen.
“St. Julian was eminent for providing his votaries with good lodgings and accommodations of all sorts.”—Tyrwhitt.
A Weaver, Dyer, Tapster, eke were here;
All in the self-same livery attired,
And with a grave fraternity inspired.
Right fresh and new their spruce appearance was:
Their knives were not trickt out with common brass,
But all with silver neatly overwrought;
Their girdles and their pouches eke, methought.
Each seem'd a worthy burgess fit and fair
To sit in the guild hall on high-floor'd chair;
19
Was well cut out to be an alderman.
Enough for this they had of kine and rent,
And very gladly would their wives assent,
Or else they were to blame, I swear by Adam:
'Tis a fine thing to be entitled ‘Madam’
And foremost walk to fêtes, at eve or morn,
And have a mantle royally up-borne.
A Cook was carried with this pilgrim coil,
The chickens and the marrow-bones to boil,
And powder tarts, and frost the sweatmeats rare.
To London ale, with one draught, he could swear.
And he could roast, and seethe, and broil, and fry,
Make pounded game soups, and well bake a pie.
But great harm was it—as it seem'd to me—
That on his shin an angry sore had he.
But for blanc-mange, he made that with the best.
A Skipper was there, come from out the West,
He was at Dartmouth born, for aught I know.
He rode upon a hack-nag, anyhow,
All in a coarse frock reaching to his knee.
A dagger, hanging by a lace, had he
About his neck, under his arm adown.
20
And certainly he was a fellow good.
Wine had he drawn right often from the wood
In Bourdeaux docks, while that the dealers snored:
For a nice conscience he cared not a cord.
If that he fought, and had the higher hand,
By water he sent them home to every land
But of his craft to reckon well each tide,
His inland streams, and unknown strands beside,
His harbour, compass, moon, and gallant trim,
'Twixt Hull and Carthage there was none like him.
Hardy he was, and very wise I reckon:
With many a tempest had his beard been shaken.
He knew well all the havens, as they were,
From Gothland, to the Cape de Finistere,
And every creek in Britain and in Spain:
His jolly bark was call'd the ‘Magdelain.’
Verbatim from Chaucer, but the meaning is not very clear. Is it to be inferred that he drowned his piratical prisoners,—“every land” meaning the bottom of the sea?
A Doctor of Physic rode with us along;
There was none like him in this wide world's throng,
To speak of physic and of surgery;
For he was grounded in astronomy.
He very much prolong'd his patients' hours
By natural magic; and the ascendant powers
Of figures that he cast, his art could make
Benign of aspect, for his patient's sake.
He knew the cause of every malady,
Were it of cold, or hot, or moist, or dry,
And how engender'd—what the humours were—
He was a very perfect practiser.
The cause once known, and root of the disease,
Anon he placed the sick man at his ease.
Full ready had he his apothecaries
To send him drugs and his electuaries,
And each one made the other sure to win:
Their friendship was no new thing to begin.
Well the old Æsculapius he knew,
And Dioscorides, and Rufus too;
Hali, and old Hippocrates, and Galen,
Serapion, Rasis, and wise Avicen;
Averroes, Damascene, and Constantin,
Deep-seeing Bernard, Gatesden, Gilbertin.
His diet by its nutriment weigh'd he,
For to be charged with superfluity
In meat and drink, had been to him a libel.
His study was but little in the Bible.
There was none like him in this wide world's throng,
To speak of physic and of surgery;
For he was grounded in astronomy.
He very much prolong'd his patients' hours
21
Of figures that he cast, his art could make
Benign of aspect, for his patient's sake.
He knew the cause of every malady,
Were it of cold, or hot, or moist, or dry,
And how engender'd—what the humours were—
He was a very perfect practiser.
The cause once known, and root of the disease,
Anon he placed the sick man at his ease.
Full ready had he his apothecaries
To send him drugs and his electuaries,
And each one made the other sure to win:
Their friendship was no new thing to begin.
Well the old Æsculapius he knew,
And Dioscorides, and Rufus too;
Hali, and old Hippocrates, and Galen,
Serapion, Rasis, and wise Avicen;
Averroes, Damascene, and Constantin,
Deep-seeing Bernard, Gatesden, Gilbertin.
His diet by its nutriment weigh'd he,
For to be charged with superfluity
In meat and drink, had been to him a libel.
His study was but little in the Bible.
He was all clad in crimson and sky-grey,
With thin silk lined, and lustrous taffeta.
And yet he was but moderate in expence.
He hoarded what he gain'd i' the pestilence;
For gold in physic is a cordial old—
Therefore the Doctor specially loved gold.
With thin silk lined, and lustrous taffeta.
22
He hoarded what he gain'd i' the pestilence;
For gold in physic is a cordial old—
Therefore the Doctor specially loved gold.
There was from Bath a good Wife and a witty;
But she was somewhat deaf, and that was pity.
In the cloth trade such crowds unto her went,
She beat the looms of Ypres and of Ghent.
In all the parish good wife none was there
That to mass-offering step before her dare;
And if they did, certain so wrath was she
That she at once forgot all charity.
Her folded head-cloths were of finest ground;
I durst swear almost that they weigh'd a pound,
Which on the Sunday were upon her head.
Her stockings fine were of a scarlet red,
Full straightly tied, and shoes right fair and new.
Bold was her face, and fair and red of hue.
She was a worthy woman to the core:
Five husbands had she brought from the church door;
Not reckoning other company in youth:
But there's no need to tell this now, in sooth.
But she was somewhat deaf, and that was pity.
In the cloth trade such crowds unto her went,
She beat the looms of Ypres and of Ghent.
In all the parish good wife none was there
That to mass-offering step before her dare;
And if they did, certain so wrath was she
That she at once forgot all charity.
Her folded head-cloths were of finest ground;
I durst swear almost that they weigh'd a pound,
Which on the Sunday were upon her head.
Her stockings fine were of a scarlet red,
Full straightly tied, and shoes right fair and new.
Bold was her face, and fair and red of hue.
She was a worthy woman to the core:
Five husbands had she brought from the church door;
Not reckoning other company in youth:
But there's no need to tell this now, in sooth.
And thrice had she been at Jerusalem;
She had pass'd over many a strange stream.
Cologne she knew; Bologna, Rome, had seen;
And in Galicia, at the shrine, had been.
She had known much of journeying by the way.
Her teeth had gaps between them, sooth to say.
Upon an ambler easily she sat,
With wimple large, and on her head an hat,
As broad as is a buckler or a targe.
A riding-skirt about her round hips large
Was tied, and sharp spurs were on both her feet.
In fellowship well could she laugh, and treat
Of remedies of love she learnt by chance,
For of that art she well knew the old dance.
She had pass'd over many a strange stream.
23
And in Galicia, at the shrine, had been.
She had known much of journeying by the way.
Her teeth had gaps between them, sooth to say.
Upon an ambler easily she sat,
With wimple large, and on her head an hat,
As broad as is a buckler or a targe.
A riding-skirt about her round hips large
Was tied, and sharp spurs were on both her feet.
In fellowship well could she laugh, and treat
Of remedies of love she learnt by chance,
For of that art she well knew the old dance.
A good man of religion did I see,
And a poor Parson of a town was he:
But rich he was of holy thought and work.
He also was a learned man, a clerk,
And truly would Christ's holy gospel preach,
And his parishioners devoutly teach.
Benign he was and wondrous diligent,
And patient when adversity was sent;
Such had he often proved, and loath was he
To curse for tythes and ransack poverty;
But rather would he give, there is no doubt,
Unto his poor parishioners about,
Of his own substance, and his offerings too.
His wants were humble, and his needs but few.
And a poor Parson of a town was he:
But rich he was of holy thought and work.
He also was a learned man, a clerk,
And truly would Christ's holy gospel preach,
And his parishioners devoutly teach.
Benign he was and wondrous diligent,
And patient when adversity was sent;
Such had he often proved, and loath was he
To curse for tythes and ransack poverty;
But rather would he give, there is no doubt,
Unto his poor parishioners about,
24
His wants were humble, and his needs but few.
Wide was his parish—houses far asunder—
But he neglected nought for rain or thunder,
In sickness and in grief to visit all
The farthest in his parish, great and small;
Always on foot, and in his hand a stave.
This noble example to his flock he gave;
That first he wrought, and afterwards he taught.
Out of the Gospel he that lesson caught,
And this new figure added he thereto,—
That if gold rust, then what should iron do?
And if a priest be foul, on whom we trust,
No wonder if an ignorant man should rust:
And shame it is, if that a priest take keep,
To see an obscene shepherd and clean sheep.
Well ought a priest to all example give,
By his pure conduct, how his sheep should live.
But he neglected nought for rain or thunder,
In sickness and in grief to visit all
The farthest in his parish, great and small;
Always on foot, and in his hand a stave.
This noble example to his flock he gave;
That first he wrought, and afterwards he taught.
Out of the Gospel he that lesson caught,
And this new figure added he thereto,—
That if gold rust, then what should iron do?
And if a priest be foul, on whom we trust,
No wonder if an ignorant man should rust:
And shame it is, if that a priest take keep,
To see an obscene shepherd and clean sheep.
Well ought a priest to all example give,
By his pure conduct, how his sheep should live.
He let not out his benefice for hire,
Leaving his flock encumber'd in the mire,
While he ran up to London, to St. Paul's,
To seek a well-paid chantery for souls,
Or with a loving friend his pastime hold;
But dwelt at home and tended well his fold,
So that to foil the wolf he was right wary:
He was a shepherd, and no mercenáry.
And though he holy was and virtuous,
He was to sinful men full piteous;
His words were strong, but not with anger fraught;
A lore benignant he discreetly taught.
To draw mankind to heaven by gentleness
And good example, was his business.
But if that any one were obstinate,
Whether he were of high or low estate,
Him would he sharply check with altered mien:
A better parson there was no where seen.
He paid no court to pomps and reverence,
Nor spiced his conscience at his soul's expence
But Jesus' lore, which owns no pride or pelf,
He taught—but first he follow'd it himself.
Leaving his flock encumber'd in the mire,
While he ran up to London, to St. Paul's,
To seek a well-paid chantery for souls,
Or with a loving friend his pastime hold;
But dwelt at home and tended well his fold,
So that to foil the wolf he was right wary:
25
And though he holy was and virtuous,
He was to sinful men full piteous;
His words were strong, but not with anger fraught;
A lore benignant he discreetly taught.
To draw mankind to heaven by gentleness
And good example, was his business.
But if that any one were obstinate,
Whether he were of high or low estate,
Him would he sharply check with altered mien:
A better parson there was no where seen.
He paid no court to pomps and reverence,
Nor spiced his conscience at his soul's expence
But Jesus' lore, which owns no pride or pelf,
He taught—but first he follow'd it himself.
A Ploughman
hale, his brother, with him rode,
Who of manure had spread full many a load.
A right good, constant, labouring man was he,
Living in peace and perfect charity.
O'er all the world to God he gave his heart
At all times, whether for his gain or smart;
And next his neighbour as himself he held.
He thresh'd, made dykes, he planted, or he fell'd,
For Jesus' sake, in aid of each poor wight,
And without hire, when it lay in his might.
His tythes he also paid without a word,
Both of his proper labour and his herd.
In a short frock he rode upon a mare.
Who of manure had spread full many a load.
A right good, constant, labouring man was he,
Living in peace and perfect charity.
O'er all the world to God he gave his heart
At all times, whether for his gain or smart;
26
He thresh'd, made dykes, he planted, or he fell'd,
For Jesus' sake, in aid of each poor wight,
And without hire, when it lay in his might.
His tythes he also paid without a word,
Both of his proper labour and his herd.
In a short frock he rode upon a mare.
A Miller and a Reve were also there;
A Sompnour and a Pardoner—making four—
A Manciple and myself: there were no more
A Sompnour and a Pardoner—making four—
A Manciple and myself: there were no more
Reve, a steward; Sompnour, a summoner, the officer (now called an apparitor) who summoned delinquents to appear in ecclesiastical courts; Pardoner, one who sells pardons, or indulgences, from the Roman See; Manciple, the caterer or Steward of an Inn of Court.
Right large he was of brawn, and eke of bones,
Which he proved well, for over all that came
In wrestling he would bear away the ram.
With shoulders broad and short—a knob or gnarr—
There was no door but he 'd heave up the bar,
Or break, by running at it with his head.
His beard as any sow or fox was red,
And thereto broad, as though it were a spade.
27
A wart, and thereon stood a tuft of hairs,
Red as the bristles of a wild sow's ears:
His open nostrils they were black and wide.
A sword and buckler bare he by his side.
His mouth gaped like a furnace, red and great.
He was a huge wag and enjoy'd his prate,
Which mainly turn'd on sin and haunts of vice.
He oft stole corn, and charged, for grinding, thrice.
And yet he had a golden thumb, pardie!
A white coat with a hood of blue had he.
A bagpipe well he play'd with squeal and croon,
And therewithal he brought us out of town.
There was a courteous Manciple of a temple,
And caterers all from him might take example,
How to be wise in furnishing the board;
For whether that he paid, or had it scored,
He for his bargain would his time so bide
That he was always on the safest side.
Now is not that a sign of heaven's good grace,
When one of such unlearn'd wit should out-pace
The wisdom of a heap of learned men?
And caterers all from him might take example,
How to be wise in furnishing the board;
For whether that he paid, or had it scored,
He for his bargain would his time so bide
That he was always on the safest side.
Now is not that a sign of heaven's good grace,
When one of such unlearn'd wit should out-pace
The wisdom of a heap of learned men?
Of gownsmen had he more than three times ten,
Who were in law expert and curious;
Of which there were a dozen in that house,
Fit to be stewards of the rents and land
Of any lord that dwelleth in Englánd;—
And make him live well by his own estate
In debtless honour—were his squanderings great,
Or let him live as sparely as he would;
And all his shire be able to do good
In any ills that fall to mortal lot:—
And yet this Manciple made them fools, I wot.
Who were in law expert and curious;
28
Fit to be stewards of the rents and land
Of any lord that dwelleth in Englánd;—
And make him live well by his own estate
In debtless honour—were his squanderings great,
Or let him live as sparely as he would;
And all his shire be able to do good
In any ills that fall to mortal lot:—
And yet this Manciple made them fools, I wot.
The Reve he was a slender choleric man.
His beard he shaves as close as ever he can.
His formal hair was shorn stiff round his ears;
His crown was dock'd as a priest's front appears.
Full long were both his spindle legs, and lean;
Just like a walking-stick—no calf was seen.
Well could he keep a garner and a bin;
There was no auditor could on him win.
He knew well by the drought and by the rain,
The yielding of the seed and of the grain.
His lordship's flocks, his dairy, and his herd,
His swine, his horses, stores, and poultry-yard,
Were wholly in this Reve's good governing,
And 'twas his duty to give reckoning.
Since that his lord was twenty years of age
No one could find arrears upon his page.
There was no bailiff, herdsman, groom, or hind,
But he knew all his sleights, and how to find:
They dreaded him as though he had been death.
His beard he shaves as close as ever he can.
His formal hair was shorn stiff round his ears;
His crown was dock'd as a priest's front appears.
Full long were both his spindle legs, and lean;
Just like a walking-stick—no calf was seen.
Well could he keep a garner and a bin;
There was no auditor could on him win.
He knew well by the drought and by the rain,
The yielding of the seed and of the grain.
His lordship's flocks, his dairy, and his herd,
His swine, his horses, stores, and poultry-yard,
Were wholly in this Reve's good governing,
And 'twas his duty to give reckoning.
Since that his lord was twenty years of age
29
There was no bailiff, herdsman, groom, or hind,
But he knew all his sleights, and how to find:
They dreaded him as though he had been death.
His dwelling-house stood fair upon a heath;
With green trees all the place was in soft shade.
A bargain better than his lord he made.
Much riches had he privately in store.
He subtilly pleas'd his lordship evermore,
Who gave and lent him of his substance good:
The Reve got thanks—besides a coat and hood.
In youth a good trade practis'd well had he,
And was a clever hand at carpentry.
With green trees all the place was in soft shade.
A bargain better than his lord he made.
Much riches had he privately in store.
He subtilly pleas'd his lordship evermore,
Who gave and lent him of his substance good:
The Reve got thanks—besides a coat and hood.
In youth a good trade practis'd well had he,
And was a clever hand at carpentry.
This Reve upon a stallion sat, I wot;
Of apple-spotted grey, and christen'd Scot.
His sky-blue surcoat lengthily was made,
And by his side he bare a rusty blade.
Of Norfolk was this wight of whom I tell,
Near to a town that was call'd Balderswell.
Like to a friar his clothes were tuck'd about;
And ever he rode the hindmost of the route.
Of apple-spotted grey, and christen'd Scot.
His sky-blue surcoat lengthily was made,
And by his side he bare a rusty blade.
Of Norfolk was this wight of whom I tell,
Near to a town that was call'd Balderswell.
Like to a friar his clothes were tuck'd about;
And ever he rode the hindmost of the route.
A Sompnour was there with us in that place,
Who had a fire-red cherubin's large face;
Pimpled and crusted rough, with close eyes narrow:
As hot he was and gamesome as a sparrow.
With scruffy eye-brows black, and blotch-bald beard,
Of his grim visage children were sore afeard.
There was no quicksilver, sugar of lead, nor brimstone,
Borax, litharge, nor oil of tartar—none—
Nor ointment, made to melt away or bite,
That could relieve him of his tumours white,
Or of the hot nobs sitting on his cheeks.
Garlic he much loved, onions too, and leeks,
And for to drink strong wine as red as blood.
Then would he jest, and shout as he were mad;
And when that he large draughts adown had pour'd,
Then, save in Latin, he'd not speak a word.
In sooth he knew a few terms—two or three,
Which he had gather'd out of some decree:
No wonder, for he heard it all the day.
And certes, as ye know right well, a jay
Can call out wat! as well as can the pope.
But if you tried him further, by one trope,
Then had he spent all his philosophy—
And, “Quæstio quid juris?” would he cry.
Who had a fire-red cherubin's large face;
Pimpled and crusted rough, with close eyes narrow:
30
With scruffy eye-brows black, and blotch-bald beard,
Of his grim visage children were sore afeard.
There was no quicksilver, sugar of lead, nor brimstone,
Borax, litharge, nor oil of tartar—none—
Nor ointment, made to melt away or bite,
That could relieve him of his tumours white,
Or of the hot nobs sitting on his cheeks.
Garlic he much loved, onions too, and leeks,
And for to drink strong wine as red as blood.
Then would he jest, and shout as he were mad;
And when that he large draughts adown had pour'd,
Then, save in Latin, he'd not speak a word.
In sooth he knew a few terms—two or three,
Which he had gather'd out of some decree:
No wonder, for he heard it all the day.
And certes, as ye know right well, a jay
Can call out wat! as well as can the pope.
But if you tried him further, by one trope,
Then had he spent all his philosophy—
And, “Quæstio quid juris?” would he cry.
He was a liberal varlet, and a kind;
A better fellow could a man not find.
And he would suffer for a quart of wine,
An honest carl to have his concubine
A twelvemonth, and excuse him at the full.
Right craftily a pigeon could he pull;
But a good fellow if he took in hand,
He would soon teach him in no awe to stand,
In any case, of the Archdeacon's curse.
But if that a man's soul were in his purse,
Then in his purse well punish'd should he be:
For ‘Purse is the Archdeacon's hell,’ said he.
But well I wot he lied in act and deed.
Of cursing ought each guilty man take heed.
Curse kills the soul, as absolutions save it;
Let him shun, also, a significavit.
A better fellow could a man not find.
And he would suffer for a quart of wine,
An honest carl to have his concubine
31
Right craftily a pigeon could he pull;
But a good fellow if he took in hand,
He would soon teach him in no awe to stand,
In any case, of the Archdeacon's curse.
But if that a man's soul were in his purse,
Then in his purse well punish'd should he be:
For ‘Purse is the Archdeacon's hell,’ said he.
But well I wot he lied in act and deed.
Of cursing ought each guilty man take heed.
Curse kills the soul, as absolutions save it;
Let him shun, also, a significavit.
He ruled and managed, after his own guise,
The boys, and girls too, of the diocese,
And knew their ways, and counsels, to a thread.
He had a garland set upon his head,
Large as an ale-house sign hung on a stake.
A buckler had he made him of a cake.
The boys, and girls too, of the diocese,
And knew their ways, and counsels, to a thread.
He had a garland set upon his head,
Large as an ale-house sign hung on a stake.
A buckler had he made him of a cake.
With him there rode a courteous Pardoner
Of Rounceval, his friend and his compeer;
Who had arrived straight from the Roman See.
Full loud he sung ‘Come hither, love, to me!’
Our Sompnour's voice bore a stiff burden round;
No trombone ever had so great a sound.
This Pardoner had hair as yellow as wax,
But smooth it hung as doth a strike of flax:
By ounces hung the long locks that he had,
And he therewith his shoulders overspread.
Full thin it lay, in single shreds adown,
But hood, for jollity, he would wear none;
For it was truss'd up in his wallet close.
He thought he rode all in new-fashion'd gloss:
Dishevell'd, save his cap, he rode all bare.
Such glaring eyes he had, as hath an hare.
A picture of our Lord was sew'd on 's cap.
His wallet lay before him in his lap,
Brim full of pardons, come from Rome all hot.
A voice he had as small as hath a goat.
No beard had he, and none could ever have;
As smooth it was as from the finest shave:
He fitly rode a gelding or a mare.
Of Rounceval, his friend and his compeer;
Who had arrived straight from the Roman See.
Full loud he sung ‘Come hither, love, to me!’
Our Sompnour's voice bore a stiff burden round;
No trombone ever had so great a sound.
32
But smooth it hung as doth a strike of flax:
By ounces hung the long locks that he had,
And he therewith his shoulders overspread.
Full thin it lay, in single shreds adown,
But hood, for jollity, he would wear none;
For it was truss'd up in his wallet close.
He thought he rode all in new-fashion'd gloss:
Dishevell'd, save his cap, he rode all bare.
Such glaring eyes he had, as hath an hare.
A picture of our Lord was sew'd on 's cap.
His wallet lay before him in his lap,
Brim full of pardons, come from Rome all hot.
A voice he had as small as hath a goat.
No beard had he, and none could ever have;
As smooth it was as from the finest shave:
He fitly rode a gelding or a mare.
But of his craft, from Berwick unto Ware,
You could not such another Pardoner trace;
For in his pack he had a pillow-case,
Which, as he said, was once our Lady's veil.
He said he had a fragment of the sail
Saint Peter held, when, as his heart misgave him
Upon the sea, he pray'd our Lord to save him.
He had a cross of mixt ore, set with stones,
And in a glass-case treasured up pigs' bones.
But with these relics rare, when that he found
A parson poor, dwelling on rustic ground,
He in a single day more money got
Than the poor parson in two months, I wot.
And thus with flattery, feints, and knavish japes,
He made the parson and the people, his apes.
You could not such another Pardoner trace;
For in his pack he had a pillow-case,
Which, as he said, was once our Lady's veil.
He said he had a fragment of the sail
Saint Peter held, when, as his heart misgave him
Upon the sea, he pray'd our Lord to save him.
He had a cross of mixt ore, set with stones,
33
But with these relics rare, when that he found
A parson poor, dwelling on rustic ground,
He in a single day more money got
Than the poor parson in two months, I wot.
And thus with flattery, feints, and knavish japes,
He made the parson and the people, his apes.
But truly for to tell you all at last,
He was in church a noble ecclesiast.
Well could he read a lesson or a story,
Yet best of all he sang an offertory,
For well he knew when he that song had sung,
That he must preach and polish up his tongue,
To win the silver, as he right well could;
Therefore he sang the merrier and loud.
Now have I told you shortly in a clause,
He was in church a noble ecclesiast.
Well could he read a lesson or a story,
Yet best of all he sang an offertory,
For well he knew when he that song had sung,
That he must preach and polish up his tongue,
To win the silver, as he right well could;
Therefore he sang the merrier and loud.
The estate, the array, the number, and eke the cause
Why that assembled was this company
In Southwark, at this goodly hostelry,
Which was the Tabard call'd, hard by the Bell.
| Poems of Chaucer modernized | |