And that he wolde been our governour,
And of our tales juge and reportour,
As I said before, and have some fun.
And if it pleases you all, with one voice,
Now to abide by my judgement,
And to proceed as I will now say,
Tomorrow, when you set out on your way—
Now by my father’s soul who is dead—
Unless you be merry, I will give you my head.
Hold up your hands, without more speech.”
We needed not long to agree;
We thought it not worth too long a ponder,
And granted his terms without thinking longer,
And bade him say his verdict as he pleased.
“Lords,” said he, “now listen well,
But take it not, I pray you, wrong.
This is the point, to speak short and plain:
That each of you, to shorten our journey,
In this journey shall tell tales two,
Toward Canterbury, that is,
And homeward each another two shall tell
Of adventures that once upon a time you befell.
And whichever of you does best of all,
That is to say, who tells to this end
Tales of best wisdom, instruction and delight,
Shall have a supper on the rest of us
Here in this place, this same site,
When we come again from Canterbury.
And for to make you the more merry,
I will myself gladly with you ride,
Right at my own cost, and be your guide.
And whoso will my judgement naysay
Shall pay all we spend along the way.
And if you grant that it be so,
Tell me anon, without words more,
And I will myself quickly prepare.”
This thing was agreed, and our oaths sworn
With full glad heart, and we begged him also
That he would be willing to do so,
And that he would be our governor
And of our tales judge and referee,
And sette a soper at a certeyn prys;
And we wold reuled been at his devys,
In heigh and lowe; and thus, by oon assent,
We been acorded to his jugement.
And ther-up-on the wyn was fet anon;
We dronken, and to reste wente echon,
With-outen any lenger taryinge.
A-morwe, whan that day bigan to springe,
Up roos our host, and was our aller cok,
And gadrede us togidre, alle in a flok,
And forth we riden, a litel more than pas,
Un-to the watering of seint Thomas.
And there our host bigan his hors areste,
And seyde; “Lordinges, herkneth, if yow leste.
Ye woot your forward, and I it yow recorde.
If even-song and morwe-song acorde,
Lat see now who shal telle the firste tale.
As ever mote I drinke wyn or ale,
Who-so be rebel to my jugement
Shal paye for al that by the weye is spent.
Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer twinne;
He which that hath the shortest shal biginne.
Sire knight,” quod he, “my maister and my lord
Now draweth cut, for that is myn acord.
Cometh neer,” quod he, “my lady prioresse;
And ye, sir clerk, lat be your shamfastnesse,
Ne studieth noght; ley hond to, every man.”
Anon to drawen every wight bigan,
And shortly for to tellen, as it was,
Were it by aventure, or sort, or cas,
The sothe is this, the cut fil to the knight,
Of which ful blythe and glad was every wight;
And telle he moste his tale, as was resoun,
By forward and by composicioun,
As ye han herd; what nedeth wordes mo?
And whan this gode man saugh it was so,
As he that wys was and obedient
To kepe his forward by his free assent,
He seyde: “Sin I shal beginne the game,
And set a supper at a certain price;
And we would be governed by his word
In every way; and thus, by one assent,
We agreed to his judgement.
And thereupon the wine was fetched anon;
We drank, and to bed went each one,
Without any longer tarrying.
In the morning, when day began to spring,
Up rose our host, and was for all our rooster,
And gathered us together, all in a flock;
And forth we rode, at a trot,
To Saint Thomas a Watering,44
And there our host stopped his horse,
And said, “Lords, harken, if you please.
You know our agreement, and so
If evensong and morningsong agree,
Let’s see now who shall tell the first tale.
And surely as I may ever drink wine or ale,
Whoso rebels against my judgement
Shall pay for all that on the road we spend.
Now draw lots, before we further go;
He that has the shortest shall begin.
Sir Knight,” said he, “my master and my lord
Now draw your straw, for that is my word.
Come nearer,” said he, “my lady Prioress;
And you, sir Scholar, forget your shyness,
And study not. Lay hand to, every man!”
At once to draw every person began,
And shortly to tell it as it was,
Were it by chance, or fortune or fate,
The truth is, the lot fell to the Knight,
Of which full blithe and glad was every person;
And tell he must his tale, as was right,
By agreement and arrangement,
As you have heard. Who needs more words?
And when this good man saw it was so,
As he was wise and willing
To keep his word
He said, “Since I shall begin the game,
What, welcome be the cut, a Goddes name!
Now lat us ryde, and herkneth what I seye.”
And with that word we riden forth our weye;
And he bigan with right a mery chere
His tale anon, and seyde in this manere.
Why, welcome be my lot, in God’s name!
Now let us ride, and hear what I say.Æ
And with that we rode forth on our way:
And he began with right merry cheer
His tale anon, and said as you may hear.
The Knightes Tale
Iamque domos patrias, Scithice post aspera gentis Prelia, laurigero, &c.
[Statius, THEB. xii. 519.]
Part One
WHYLOM, AS OLDE STORIES tellen us,
Ther was a duk that highte Theseus;
Of Athenes he was lord and governour,
And in his tyme swich a conquerour,
That gretter was ther noon under the sonne.
Ful many a riche contree hadde he wonne;
What with his wisdom and his chivalrye,
He conquered al the regne of Femenye,
That whylom was y-cleped Scithia;
And weddede the quene Ipolita,
And broghte hir hoom with him in his contree
With muchel glorie and greet solempnitee,
And eek hir yonge suster Emelye.
And thus with victorie and with melodye
Lete I this noble duk to Athenes ryde,
And al his hoost, in armes, him bisyde.
And certes, if it nere to long to here,
I wolde han told yow fully the manere,
How wonnen was the regne of Femenye
By Theseus, and by his chivalrye;
And of the grete bataille for the nones
Bitwixen Athenës and Amazones;
And how asseged was Ipolita,
<
br /> The faire hardy quene of Scithia;
And of the feste that was at hir weddinge,
And of the tempest at hir hoom-cominge;
But al that thing I moot as now forbere.
I have, God woot, a large feeld to ere,
And wayke been the oxen in my plough.
The Knight’s Tale
And now Theseus, drawing near to his native land in laurel-bedecked chariot after fierce battle with the Scythian folk, etc.
[Statius, THEBAID, 12.519]
Part One
ONCE UPON A TIME, as old stories tell us,
There was a duke named Theseus;
Of Athens he was a lord and governor,
And in his time such a conqueror,
That greater was there none under the sun.
Full many a rich country had he won;
What with his wisdom and his ability,
He had conquered all the Amazons’ realm,
That once was called Scythia,
And wedded the queen Hyppolyta,
And brought her home with him to his country
With much glory and great ceremony,
And also her young sister Emily.
And thus with victory and with melody
Let I this noble duke to Athens ride,
And all his host, in arms, him beside.
And certainly, if it were not too long to hear,
I would have told you fully the manner
How won was the Amazons’ realm
By Theseus, and by his fellow knights
And of the decisive, great battle
Between Athens and the Amazons;
And how besieged was Hyppolyta,
The fair, brave queen of Scythia;
And of the feast at their wedding,
And of the tempest at their homecoming;
But all that I must for now forebear.
I have, God knows, a large field to harrow,
And weak be the oxen in my plough.
The remenant of the tale is long y-nough.
I wol nat letten eek noon of this route;
Lat every felawe telle his tale aboute,
And lat see now who shal the soper winne;
And ther I lefte, I wol ageyn biginne.
This duk, of whom I make mencioun,
When he was come almost unto the toun,
In al his wele and in his moste pryde,
He was war, as he caste his eye asyde,
Wher that ther kneeled in the hye weye
A companye of ladies, tweye and tweye,
Ech after other, clad in clothes blake;
But swich a cry and swich a wo they make,
That in this world nis creature livinge,
That herde swich another weymentinge;
And of this cry they nolde never stenten,
Til they the reynes of his brydel henten.
“What folk ben ye, that at myn hoom-cominge
Perturben so my feste with cryinge?”
Quod Theseus, “have ye so greet envye
Of myn honour, that thus compleyne and crye?
Or who hath yow misboden, or offended?
And telleth me if it may been amended;
And why that ye ben clothed thus in blak?”
The eldest lady of hem alle spak,
When she hadde swowned with a deedly chere,
That it was routhe for to seen and here,
And seyde: “Lord, to whom Fortune had yiven
Victorie, and as a conquerour to liven,
Noght greveth us your glorie and your honour;
But we biseken mercy and socour.
Have mercy on our wo and our distresse.
Som drope of pitee, thurgh thy gentilesse,
Up-on us wrecched wommen lat thou falle.
For certes, lord, ther nis noon of us alle,
That she nath been a duchesse or a quene;
Now be we caitifs, as it is wel sene:
Thanked be Fortune, and hir false wheel,
The rest of the tale is long enough.
I will not hinder any of this company;
Let every fellow tell his tale in turn,
And let us see who shall the supper win;
And where I left off, I shall again begin.
This duke, of whom I made mention,
When he was come almost to the town,
In all his happy success and in his pride,
He was aware, as he cast his glance aside,
That there knelt in the highway
A group of ladies, two by two,
Each after the other, clad in clothes black;
But such a cry and such a woe they made
That in this world there is no creature living
Who has heard such lamenting;
And of this crying they would not cease,
Till the reins of his bridle they had seized.
“What folk be you, that at my homecoming
You disturb so my parade with crying?”
Said Theseus. “Have you so great envy
Of my honor, that you thus complain and cry?
Or who has you harmed, insulted or offended?
And tell me if it may be amended,
And why you thus be clothed in black.”
The eldest lady of them all spoke,
After almost fainting—she so looked like death
That it was a pity to see and hear.
She said, “Lord, to whom Fortune has given
Victory, and as a conqueror to live,
We don’t begrudge your glory and your honor,
But we beseech mercy and succor.
Have mercy on our woe and our distress.
Let fall some drop of pity, through your nobility,
Upon us wretched women.
For surely, lord, there is none of us all,
Who has not been a duchess or a queen;
Now we be wretches, as is well seen,
Thanked be Fortune and her false wheel1
That noon estat assureth to be weel.
And certes, lord, t‘abyden your presence,
Here in the temple of the goddesse Clemence
We han been waytinge al this fourtenight;
Now help us, lord, sith it is in thy might.
I wrecche, which that wepe and waille thus,
Was whylom wyf to king Capaneus,
That starf at Thebes, cursed be that day!
And alle we, that been in this array,
And maken al this lamentacioun,
We losten alle our housbondes at that toun,
Whyl that the sege ther-aboute lay.
And yet now th’ olde Creon, weylaway!
The lord is now of Thebes the citee,
Fulfild of ire and of iniquitee,
He, for despyt, and for his tirannye,
To do the dede bodyes vileinye,
Of alle our lordes, whiche that ben slawe,
Hath alle the bodyes on an heep y-drawe,
And wol nat suffren hem, by noon assent,
Neither to been y-buried nor y-brent,
But maketh houndes ete hem in despyt.“
And with that word, with-outen more respyt,
They fillen gruf, and cryden pitously.
”Have on us wrecched wommen som mercy,
And lat our sorwe sinken in thyn herte.”
This gentil duk doun from his courser sterte
With herte pitous, whan he herde hem speke.
Him thoughte that his herte wolde breke,
Whan he saugh hem so pitous and so mat,
That whylom weren of so greet estat.
And in his armes he hem alle up hente,
And hem conforteth in ful good entente;
And swoor his ooth, as he was trewe knight,
He wolde doon so ferforthly his might
Up-on the tyraunt Creon hem to wreke,
That al the peple of Grece, sholde speke
How Creon was of Theseus y-served,
As he that
hadde his deeth ful wel deserved.
Who makes sure that no life will always be secure.
And indeed, lord, for your return,
Here in this temple of the goddess Mercy
We have been waiting all this fortnight;
Now help us, lord, since it is in your might.
I, wretch, who weep and wail thus,
Was once wife to king Capaneus,2
Who died at Thebes—cursed be that day!
And all we who be in this state
And make all this lamentation,
We lost all our husbands at that town
While under siege it lay
And yet now old Creon, wellaway,
Who lord is now of Thebes the city,
Brimful of malice and spite,
He, for spite and tyranny,
To dishonor the dead bodies
Of all our lords who were slain,
Has piled up all the bodies in a heap,
And would not allow them, by his leave,
To be buried or be burned,
But maliciously set the dogs on them to eat.“
And with those words, and without more said,
They fell forward face down and cried piteously,
”Have on us wretched women some mercy,
And let our sore sink in your heart.“
This gentle duke down from his horse leapt
With heart merciful, pitying, when he heard them speak.
He thought that his heart would break,
When he saw them so pitiful and so bleak,
Who once were of so great estate.
And in his arms he them each took,
And comforted them as best he could;
And swore his oath, as he was a true knight,
He would use all his might
Upon the tyrant Creon him to wreak,
That all the people of Greece should speak
How Creon was by Theseus well-served
And he his death full well deserved.
And right anoon, with-outen more abood,
His baner he desplayeth, and foorth rood
To Thebes-ward, and al his host bisyde;
No neer Athenes wolde he go ne ryde,
Ne take his ese fully half a day,
But onward on his wey that night he lay;
And sente anoon Ipolita the quene,
And Emelye hir yonge suster shene,
Un-to the toun of Athenës to dwelle;
And forth he rit; ther nis namore to telle.
The rede statue of Mars, with spere and targe,
So shyneth in his whyte baner large,
That alle the feeldes gliteren up and doun;
And by his baner born is his penoun
Of gold ful riche, in which ther was y-bete
The Minotaur, which that he slough in Crete.
Thus rit this duk, thus rit this conquerour,
And in his host of chivalrye the flour,
Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 10