Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  This goddesse on an hert ful hye seet,

  With smale houndes al aboute hir feet;

  And undernethe hir feet she hadde a mone,

  Wexing it was, and sholde wanie sone.

  In gaude grene hir statue clothed was,

  With bowe in honde, and arwes in a cas.

  Hir eyen caste she ful lowe adoun,

  Ther Pluto hath his derke regioun.

  A womman travailinge was hir biforn,

  But, for hir child so longe was unborn,

  Ful pitously Lucyna gan she calle,

  And seyde, “help, for thou mayst best of alle.”

  Wel couthe he peynten lyfly that it wroghte,

  With many a florin he the hewes boghte.

  Now been thise listes maad, and Theseus,

  That at his grete cost arrayed thus

  The temples and the theatre every del,

  To tell you all the description.

  Depicted were the walls up and down

  Of hunting and of blameless chastity.

  There saw I how woeful Callisto,18

  When that Diana aggrieved was with her,

  Was turned from a woman into a bear,

  And after was she made the North Star;

  Thus it was painted, I can tell you no more;

  Her son is also a star, as men may see.

  There saw I Daphne,19 turned into a tree—

  I mean not the goddess Diana,

  But Peneus’ daughter, who was called Daphne.

  There I saw Actaeon20 into a hart made;

  For vengeance that he saw Diana all naked;

  I saw how that his hounds have him caught

  And upon him feasted, for they knew him not.

  Yet painted along a little further,

  How Atalanta hunted the wild boar,

  And Meleager, and many another more,

  For which Diana brought him care and woe.

  There saw I many another wonderful story,

  That I cannot now draw to memory.

  This goddess on a hart full high sat,

  With small hounds all about her feet;

  And underneath her feet she had a moon,

  Waxing it was, and should wane soon.

  In yellow-green her statue clothed was,

  With bow in hand, and arrows in a case.

  Her eyes cast she full low down,

  Where Pluto had his dark region.

  A woman in labor was her before,

  But because her child was so long unborn,

  Full piteously Lucina21 began she to call,

  And said, “Help, for you may help best of all.”

  Well could he who wrought it paint like life;

  With many a florin he the pigments bought.

  Now was the arena made, and Theseus,

  Who at his great cost adorned thus

  The temples and battleground in every detail,

  Whan it was doon, him lyked wonder wel.

  But stinte I wol of Theseus a lyte,

  And speke of Palamon and of Arcite.

  The day approcheth of hir retourninge,

  That everich sholde an hundred knightes bringe,

  The bataille to darreyne, as I yow tolde;

  And til Athénes, hir covenant for to holde,

  Hath everich of hem broght an hundred knightes

  Wel armed for the werre at alle rightes.

  And sikerly, ther trowed many a man

  That never, sithen that the world bigan,

  As for to speke of knighthod of hir hond,

  As fer as God hath maked see or lond,

  Nas, of so fewe, so noble a companye.

  For every wight that lovede chivalrye,

  And wolde, his thankes, han a passant name,

  Hath preyed that he mighte ben of that game;

  And wel was him, that ther-to chosen was.

  For if ther fille to-morwe swich a cas,

  Ye knowen wel, that every lusty knight,

  That loveth paramours, and hath his might,

  Were it in Engelond, or elles-where,

  They wolde, hir thankes, wilnen to be there.

  To fighte for a lady, ben‘cite!

  It were a lusty sighte for to see.

  And right so ferden they with Palamon.

  With him ther wenten knightes many oon;

  Som wol ben armed in an habergeoun,

  In a brest-plat and in a light gipoun;

  And somme woln have a peyre plates large;

  And somme woln have a Pruce sheld, or a targe;

  Somme woln ben armed on hir legges weel,

  And have an ax, and somme a mace of steel.

  Ther nis no newe gyse, that it nas old.

  Armed were they, as I have you told,

  Everich after his opinioun.

  Ther maistow seen coming with Palamoun

  Ligurge him-self, the grete king of Trace;

  Blak was his berd, and manly was his face.

  When done it pleased him wonderfully well.

  But for now I will cease to speak of Theseus,

  And speak of Palamon and Arcita.

  The day approached of their returning,

  When each should a hundred knights bring

  For the battle, as I you told;

  And to Athens, their covenant to hold,

  Had each of them brought a hundred knights

  Well armed for the war at every point.

  And surely, there believed many a man

  That never, since the world began,

  Among all knighthood’s epitome,

  As far as God had made land or sea,

  Was there among so few so much nobility.

  For every man who loved chivalry,

  And would gladly have a puissant name,

  Had prayed that he might be of that game;

  And well was him who thereto chosen was.

  For if there befell tomorrow such a case,

  You know well that every lusty knight

  Who loves passionately and has the power,

  Were he in England or elsewhere,

  He would, above all, wish to be there.

  To fight for a lady, benedicite!

  It would be a joyful sight to see.

  And right so fared they with Palamon.

  With him there went knights many a one;

  One would be armed with a coat of mail,

  And a breastplate and a light tunic;

  And one would have a suit of armor plates large;

  And some would have a light or Prussian shield;

  Some would be armed on his legs well,

  And have an axe, and some a mace of steel.

  There is no new fashion that is not old.

  Armed were they, as I have you told,

  Each after his opinion.

  There may you have seen, coming with Palamon,

  Lycurgus himself, the great king of Thrace.

  Black was his beard, and manly was his face.

  The cercles of his eyen in his heed,

  They gloweden bitwixe yelow and reed:

  And lyk a griffon loked he aboute,

  With kempe heres on his browes stoute;

  His limes grete, his braunes harde and stronge,

  His shuldres brode, his armes rounde and longe.

  And as the gyse was in his contree,

  Ful hye up-on a char of gold stood he,

  With foure whyte boles in the trays.

  In-stede of cote-armure over his harnays,

  With nayles yelwe and brighte as any gold,

  He hadde a beres skin, col-blak, for-old.

  His longe heer was kembd bihinde his bak,

  As any ravenes fether it shoon for-blak:

  A wrethe of gold arm-greet, of huge wighte,

  Upon his heed, set ful of stones brighte,

  Of fyne rubies and of dyamaunts.

  Aboute his char ther wenten whyte alaunts,

  Twenty and mo, as grete as any steer,

  To
hunten at the leoun or the deer,

  And folwed him, with mosel faste y-bounde,

  Colers of gold, and torets fyled rounde.

  An hundred lordes hadde he in his route

  Armed ful wel, with hertes sterne and stoute.

  With Arcita, in stories as men finde,

  The grete Emetreus, the king of Inde,

  Up-on a stede bay, trapped in steel,

  Covered in cloth of gold diapred weel,

  Cam ryding lyk the god of armes, Mars.

  His cote-armure was of cloth of Tars,

  Couched with perles whyte and rounde and grete

  His sadel was of brend gold newe y-bete;

  A mantelet upon his shuldre hanginge

  Bret-ful of rubies rede, as fyr sparklinge.

  His crispe heer lyk ringes was y-ronne,

  And that was yelow, and glitered as the sonne.

  His nose was heigh, his eyen bright citryn,

  His lippes rounde, his colour was sangwyn,

  A fewe fraknes in his face y-spreynd,

  The irises of his eyes in his head,

  They glowed between yellow and red;

  And like a griffin looked he about,

  With shaggy hairs on his brows stout;

  His limbs great, his muscles hard and strong,

  His shoulders broad, his arms round and long;

  And as the fashion was in his country,

  Full high upon a chariot of gold stood he,

  With four white bulls in the traces.

  Instead of a coat of arms over his armor,

  With nails yellow and bright as any gold

  He had a bearskin, coal black and old.

  His long hair was combed behind his back—

  As any raven’s feather it shone very black;

  A wreath of gold, arm-thick and of huge weight,

  Upon his head, set full of stones bright,

  Of fine rubies and of diamonds.

  About his chariot there went white wolfhounds,

  Twenty and more, as great as any steer,

  To hunt the lion or the deer,

  And followed him with muzzles fastbound,

  Collars of gold, and leash-rings filed round.

  A hundred lords had he in his retinue,

  Armed full well, with hearts stern and stout.

  With Arcita, in stories as men find,

  The great Emetreus, the king of India,

  Upon a baycolored steed with trappings of steel,

  Covered in cloth of gold that was patterned well,

  Came riding like the god of arms, Mars.

  His coat of armor was of Tarsia cloth,

  Set with pearls white and round and great,

  His saddle was of burnished gold newly wrought;

  A short cloak upon his shoulder hanging

  Brimful of rubies red as fire sparkling.

  His curly hair like rings hung down,

  And that was yellow, and glittered as the sun.

  His nose was high, his eyes bright citron,

  His lips round, his complexion red;

  A few freckles on his face scattered,

  Betwixen yelow and somdel blak y-meynd,

  And as a leoun he his loking caste.

  Of fyve and twenty yeer his age I caste.

  His berd was wel bigonne for to springe;

  His voys was as a trompe thunderinge.

  Up-on his heed he wered of laurer grene

  A gerland fresh and lusty for to sene.

  Up-on his hand he bar, for his deduyt,

  An egle tame, as eny lilie whyt.

  An hundred lordes hadde he with him there,

  Al armed, sauf hir heddes, in al hir gere,

  Ful richely in alle maner thinges.

  For trusteth wel, that dukes, erles, kinges,

  Were gadered in this noble companye,

  For love and for encrees of chivalrye.

  Aboute this king ther ran on every part

  Ful many a tame leoun and lepart.

  And in this wyse thise lordes, alle and some,

  Ben on the Sonday to the citee come

  Aboute pryme, and in the toun alight.

  This Theseus, this duk, this worthy knight,

  Whan he had broght hem in-to his citee,

  And inned hem, everich in his degree,

  He festeth hem, and dooth so greet labour

  To esen hem, and doon hem al honour,

  That yet men weneth that no mannes wit

  Of noon estat ne coude amenden it.

  The minstralcye, the service at the feste,

  The grete yiftes to the moste and leste,

  The riche array of Theseus paleys,

  Ne who sat first ne last up-on the deys,

  What ladies fairest been or best daunsinge,

  Or which of hem can dauncen best and singe,

  Ne who most felingly speketh of love:

  What haukes sitten on the perche above,

  What houndes liggen on the floor adoun:

  Of al this make I now no mencioun;

  But al th‘effect, that thinketh me

  the beste;

  Between yellow and almost black mingled;

  And as a lion his glance he cast.

  Of five and twenty years his age I guess:

  His beard was well begun to fill.

  His voice was as a trumpet thundering.

  Upon his head he wore of laurel green

  A garland fresh and lusty for to see.

  Upon his hand he bore for his delight

  An eagle tame, as any lily white.

  A hundred lords had he with him there,

  All armed, except their heads, in all their gear,

  Full richly in all manner of things.

  For trust well that dukes, earls, kings

  Were gathered in this noble company

  For love and for the increase of chivalry.

  About this king there ran on every side

  Full many a tame lion and leopard.

  And in this way these lords, all and one,

  Were on the Sunday to the city come

  About prime, and in this town alighted.

  This Theseus, this duke, this worthy knight,

  When he had brought them into his city,

  And housed them, each according to his rank,

  He feasted them, and did so great labor

  To make them comfortable and do them all honor,

  That yet men think that no man’s wit

  Of any rank could improve on it.

  The minstrelsy, the service of the feast,

  The great gifts to the guests highest and least,

  The rich decor of Theseus’ palace,

  Who sat first and last upon the dais,

  What ladies were fairest or best at dancing,

  Or which of them could both dance best and sing,

  Who most movingly spoke of love;

  What hawks sat on the perch above,

  What hounds lay on the floor below—

  Of all this I make no mention now;

  But only the heart of the matter—that seems to me

  the best.

  Now comth the poynt, and herkneth if yow leste.

  The Sonday night, er day bigan to springe,

  When Palamon the larke herde singe,

  Although it nere nat day by houres two,

  Yet song the larke, and Palamon also.

  With holy herte, and with an heigh corage

  He roos, to wenden on his pilgrimage

  Un-to the blisful Citherea benigne,

  I mene Venus, honurable and digne.

  And in hir houre he walketh forth a pas

  Un-to the listes, ther hir temple was,

  And doun he kneleth, and with humble chere

  And herte soor, he seyde as ye shul here.

  “Faireste of faire, o lady myn, Venus,

  Doughter to Jove and spouse of Vulcanus,

  Thou glader of the mount of Citheroun,

&nb
sp; For thilke love thou haddest to Adoun,

  Have pitee of my bittre teres smerte,

  And tak myn humble preyer at thyn herte.

  Alias! I ne have no langage to telle

  Th‘effectes ne the torments of myn helle;

  Myn herte may myne harmes nat biwreye;

  I am so confus, that I can noght seye.

  But mercy, lady bright, that knowest weel

  My thought, and seest what harmes that I feel,

  Considere al this, and rewe up-on my sore,

  As wisly as I shal for evermore,

  Emforth my might, thy trewe servant be,

  And holden werre alwey with chastitee;

  That make I myn avow, so ye me helpe.

  I kepe noght of armes for to yelpe,

  Ne I ne axe nat to-morwe to have victorie,

  Ne renoun in this cas, ne veyne glorie

  Of pris of armes blowen up and doun,

  But I wolde have fully possessioun

  Of Emelye, and dye in thy servyse;

  Find thou the maner how, and in what wyse.

  I recche nat, but it may bettre be,

  To have victorie of hem, or they of me,

  Now comes the point, and listen if you please.

  The Sunday night, before day began to spring,

  When Palamon the lark heard sing

  (Although it was not day by hours two,

  Yet sang the lark) and Palamon,

  With holy heart and with a high courage,

  He arose to wend on his pilgrimage

  Unto the blissful Cytherea benign—

  I mean Venus, honorable and divine.

  And in her hour22 he walked slowly forth

  Unto the arena where her temple was,

  And down he knelt, and with humble spirit

  And heart lovesore, he said as you shall hear:

  “Fairest of fair, O lady mine, Venus,

  Daughter to Jove and spouse of Vulcanus,

  You gladdener of the mount of Cythaeron,

  For the love you had for Adonis,

  Have pity on my bitter, stinging tears,

  And take my humble prayer to your heart.

  Alas! I have no language to tell

  The effects nor the torments of my hell;

  My heart may my hurts not reveal;

  I am so confused that I cannot say.

  But mercy, lady bright, who knows well

  My thought, and sees what hurt I feel,

  Consider this, and have pity on my pain,

  As surely as I shall for evermore,

  With all my might, your true servant be,

  And make war always with chastity.

  That I make my vow, so you me help.

  I dare not of arms for to boast,

  Nor do I ask tomorrow to have victory,

  Nor renown in this event, nor vain glory

  Of reputation of arms sounded up and down,

  But I would have full possession

  Of Emily, and die in your service.

  Find you the manner how, and in what way: