Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  With her consent. But listen how I said:

  ‘Sir old dotard, is this your idea of raiment?

  Why is my neighbor’s wife dressed so gaily?

  She is honored wherever she goes:

  I sit at home, I have no good clothes.

  What do you at my neighbor’s house?

  Is she so fair? Are you so amorous?

  What whisper you with our maid? benedicite!

  Sir old lecher, let your pranks be!

  And if I have a male confidant or a friend,

  Not a paramour, you scold like a fiend,

  If that I walk or play unto his house!

  You come home drunk as a mouse,

  And preach from your bench, bad luck to you!

  You say to me, it is a great mischief

  To wed a poor woman, due to expense.

  And if that she be rich, of high parentage,

  Then you say that it is a torment

  To suffer her pride and temperament.

  And if that she be fair, you, true knave,

  You say that every lecher will her have:

  She may no while in chastity abide

  Who is assailed on every side.

  You say some folk desire us for our money,

  Some for our shape, and some for our beauty,

  And some because she can either sing or dance,

  And some for good breeding and coquetry,

  Some for her hands and her arms slender;

  Thus go all to the devil, by your account.

  You say men may not defend a castle wall,

  If it may be everywhere assailed.

  And if that she be ugly, you say that she

  Covets every man that she may see;

  For as a spaniel she would on him leap,

  Till that she find some man with her to sleep.

  There swims no goose so gray in the lake

  As, seistow, that wol been with-oute make.

  And seyst, it is an hard thing for to welde

  A thing that no man wol, his thankes, helde.

  Thus seistow, lorel, whan thow goost to bedde;

  And that no wys man nedeth for to wedde,

  Ne no man that entendeth un-to hevene.

  With wilde thonder-dint and firy levene

  Mote thy welked nekke be to-broke!

  Thow seyst that dropping houses, and eek smoke,

  And chyding wyves, maken men to flee

  Out of hir owene hous; a! ben‘cite!

  What eyleth swich an old man for to chyde?

  Thow seyst, we wyves wol our vyces hyde

  Til we be fast, and than we wol hem shewn;

  Wel may that be a proverbe of a shrewe!

  Thou seist, that oxen, asses, hors, and houndes,

  They been assayed at diverse stoundes;

  Bacins, lavours, er that men hem bye,

  Spones and stoles, and al swich housbondrye,

  And so been pottes, clothes, and array;

  But folk of wyves maken noon assay

  Til they be wedded; olde dotard shrewe!

  And than, seistow, we wol oure vices shewe.

  Thou seist also, that it displeseth me

  But-if that thou wolt preyse my beautee,

  And but thou poure alwey up-on my face,

  And clepe me “faire dame” in every place;

  And but thou make a feste on thilke day

  That I was born, and make me fresh and gay,

  And but thou do to my norice honour,

  And to my chamberere with-inne my bour,

  And to my fadres folk and his allyes;—

  Thus seistow, olde barel ful of lyes!

  And yet of our apprentice Janekyn,

  For his crisp heer, shyninge as gold so fyn,

  And for he squiereth me bothe up and doun,

  Yet hastow caught a fals suspecioun;

  I wol hym noght, thogh thou were deed to-morwe.

  As, you say, that would be without a mate.

  And you say, it is a hard thing to control

  A thing that no man willingly will hold.

  Thus say you, wretch, when you go to bed,

  And that no wise man needs for to wed,

  Nor any man who intends heaven to enter.

  With wild thunderclap and fiery lightning

  May your withered neck be broken!

  You say that leaking houses and smoke

  And chiding wives make men flee

  Out of their own house; ah, benedicite!

  What ails such an old man for to chide?

  You say we wives will our vices hide

  Till we be married, and then we will them reveal—

  Well may that be a proverb fit for a villain!

  You say that oxen, asses, horses, and hounds,

  They be tested at various times;

  Basins, washbowls, before men them buy,

  Spoons and stools, and all such household goods,

  And so be pots, clothes and the rest;

  But folk of wives make no test

  Till they be wedded. Old nasty wretch!

  And then, you say, we will our vices show.

  You say also that it displeases me

  Unless you will praise my beauty,

  And look with longing upon my face,

  And call me “fair dame” in every place;

  And unless you make a feast on that same day

  That I was born, and make me fresh and gay,

  And unless you do to my nurse honor,

  And to my chambermaid within my bedchamber,

  And to my father’s folk and his cousins—

  Thus say you, old barrel full of lies!

  And yet of our apprentice Jankin,

  For his curly hair, shining as gold so fine,

  And because he squires me both up and down,

  Yet you have caught a false suspicion.

  I want him not, though you were dead tomorrow.

  But tel me this, why hydestow,

  with sorwe,

  The keyes of thy cheste awey fro me?

  It is my good as wel as thyn, pardee.

  What wenestow make an idiot of our dame?

  Now by that lord, that called is seint Jame,

  Thou shalt nat bothe, thogh that thou were wood,

  Be maister of my body and of my good;

  That oon thou shalt forgo, maugree thyne yen;

  What nedeth thee of me to enquere or spyën?

  I trowe, thou woldest loke me in thy cheste!

  Thou sholdest seye, “wyf, go wher thee leste,

  Tak your disport, I wol nat leve no talis;

  I knowe yow for a trewe wyf, dame Alis.”

  We love no man that taketh kepe or charge

  Wher that we goon, we wol ben at our large.

  Of alle men y-blessed moot he be,

  The wyse astrologien Dan Ptholome,

  That seith this proverbe in his Almageste,

  “Of alle men his wisdom is the hyeste,

  That rekketh never who hath the world in honde.”

  By this proverbe thou shalt understonde,

  Have thou y-nogh, what thar thee recche or care

  How merily that othere folkes fare?

  For certeyn, olde dotard, by your leve,

  Ye shul have queynte right y-nough at eve.

  He is to greet a nigard that wol werne

  A man to lighte his candle at his lanterne;

  He shal have never the lasse light, pardee;

  Have thou y-nough, thee thar nat pleyne thee.

  Thou seyst also, that if we make us gay

  With clothing and with precious array,

  That it is peril of our chastitee;

  And yet, with sorwe, thou most enforce thee,

  And seye thise wordes in the apostles name,

  “In habit, maad with chastitee and same,

  Ye wommen shul apparaille yow,” quod he,

  “And noght in tressed heer and gay perree,

  As perles, ne
with gold, ne clothes riche;”

  But tell me this, why do you hide—and you’ll be

  sorry—

  The keys of your treasure chest away from me?

  It is my property as well as yours, by God.

  Why, what do you mean making an idiot of our dame?

  Now by that lord who is called Saint James,

  You shall not both, though you were mad with rage,

  Be master of all my goods and my body;

  One of them shall you forfeit, no matter what you try.

  What does it help you on me to inquire or spy?

  I believe, you would lock me in your chest!

  You should say, “Wife, go where you please;

  Have your fun, I will not any tales believe.

  I know you for a true wife, Dame Alice.”

  We love no man who keeps track or cares

  Where that we go, when we tend to our affairs.

  Of all men blessed may he be,

  The wise astrologer Lord Ptolemy,

  Who says this proverb in his Almagest:

  “Of all men his wisdom is the highest,

  Who never cares who has this world in his hand.”

  By this proverb you shall understand,

  If you have enough, why should you count or care

  How merrily that other folks fare?

  For certain, old dotard, by your leave,

  You shall have quite enough at eve.

  He is too great a niggard who would refuse

  A man to light a candle at his lantern;

  He shall not miss the light, by God.

  If you have enough, you should not complain.

  You say also that if we make us gay

  With clothing and jewelry,

  That is risky for our chastity;

  And further—may you regret it—you insist,

  And say these words in the Apostle’s name:8

  “In clothing made with chastity and shame,

  You women should yourselves attire,” said he,

  “And not in braided hair and jewelry,

  Nor pearls, nor gold, nor garments fancy.”

  After thy text, ne after thy rubriche

  I wol nat wirche as muchel as a gnat.

  Thou seydest this, that I was lyk a cat;

  For who-so wolde senge a cattes skin,

  Thanne wolde the cat wel dwellen in his in;

  And if the cattes skin be slyk and gay,

  She wol nat dwelle in house half a day,

  But forth she wole, er any day be dawed,

  To shewe hir skin, and goon a-caterwawed;

  This is to seye, if I be gay, sir shrewe,

  I wol renne out, my borel for to shewe.

  Sire olde fool, what eyleth thee to spyën?

  Thogh thou preye Argus, with his hundred yen,

  To be my warde-cors, as he can best,

  In feith, he shal nat kepe me but me lest;

  Yet coude I make his berd, so moot I thee.

  Thou seydest eek, that ther ben thinges three,

  The whiche thinges troublen al this erthe,

  And that no wight ne may endure the ferthe;

  O leve sir shrewe, Jesu shorte thy lyf!

  Yet prechestow, and seyst, an hateful wyf

  Y-rekened is for oon of thise meschances.

  Been ther none othere maner resemblances

  That ye may lykne your parables to,

  But-if a sely wyf be oon of tho?

  Thou lykenest wommanes love to helle,

  To bareyne lond, ther water may not dwelle.

  Thou lyknest it also to wilde fyr;

  The more it brenneth, the more it hath desyr

  To consume every thing that brent wol be.

  Thou seyst, that right as wormes shende a tree,

  Right so a wyf destroyeth hir housbonde;

  This knowe they that been to wyves bonde.’

  Lordinges, right thus, as ye have understonde,

  Bar I stifly myne olde housbondes on honde,

  That thus they seyden in hir dronkenesse;

  And al was fals, but that I took witnesse

  On Janekin and on my nece also.

  O lord, the peyne I dide hem and the wo,

  Neither by your text, nor your reading of it,

  Will I live as much as would a gnat.

  You said this, that I was like a cat:

  For whoso would singe a cat’s fur,

  Then would the cat well dwell in his home;

  And if the cat’s fur be sleek and gay,

  She will not dwell at home half a day,

  But go forth she will, before day has dawned,

  To show her fur and go caterwauling.

  This is to say, if I be pretty, sir welladay,

  I will go out, my wardrobe for to display.

  Sir old fool, how does it help you to spy?

  Though you beg Argus,9 with his hundred eyes,

  To be my minder, as best he knows,

  In faith, he shall follow only as I allow;

  I could give him the slip, so may I thrive.

  You say also that there be things three,

  Which trouble all this earth,

  And that no person may endure the fourth.

  Oh dear sir welladay, may Jesus shorten your life!

  You’re still preaching that a hateful wife

  Is the cause of one of these mischances.

  Be there no other resemblances

  That you may liken to your parables,

  Unless an innocent wife be one of those?

  You liken also woman’s love to hell,

  To barren land, where water may not dwell;

  You liken it also to wild fire:

  The more it burns, the more it has desire

  To consume every thing that burned can be.

  You say that just as worms damage a tree,

  Right so a wife destroys her husband;

  This know they who to wives be bound:

  Lordings, right thus, as you have understood,

  I led my old husbands so firmly by their snoots

  That thus they said in their drunkenness;

  And all was false, and yet I took witness

  From Jankin and my niece also.

  Oh Lord, the suffering I caused them and the woe,

  Ful giltelees, by goddes swete pyne!

  For as an hors I coude byte and whyne.

  I coude pleyne, thogh I were in the gilt,

  Or elles often tyme hadde I ben spilt.

  Who-so that first to mille comth, first grint;

  I pleyned first, so was our werre y-stint.

  They were ful glad t‘excusen hem ful blyve

  Of thing of which they never agilte hir lyve.

  Of wenches wolde I beren him on honde,

  Whan that for syk unnethes mighte he stonde.

  Yet tikled it his herte, for that he

  Wende that I hadde of him so greet chiertee.

  I swoor that al my walkinge out by nighte

  Was for t‘espye wenches that he dighte;

  Under that colour hadde I many a mirthe.

  For al swich wit is yeven us in our birthe;

  Deceite, weping, spinning god hath yive

  To wommen kindely, whyl they may live.

  And thus of o thing I avaunte me,

  Atte ende I hadde the bettre in ech degree,

  By sleighte, or force, or by som maner thing,

  As by continuel murmur or grucching;

  Namely a-bedde hadden they meschaunce,

  Ther wolde I chyde and do hem no plesaunce;

  I wolde no lenger in the bed abyde,

  If that I felte his arm over my syde,

  Til he had maad his raunson un-to me;

  Than wolde I suffre him do his nycetee.

  And ther-fore every man this tale I telle,

  Winne who-so may, for al is for to selle.

  With empty hand men may none haukes lure;

  For winning wolde I al hi
s lust endure,

  And make me a feyned appetyt;

  And yet in bacon hadde I never delyt;

  That made me that ever I wolde hem chyde.

  For thogh the pope had seten hem bisyde,

  I wolde nat spare hem at hir owene bord.

  For by my trouthe, I quitte hem word for word.

  As help me verray god omnipotent,

  Full guiltless, by God’s sweet suffering!

  For like a horse could I bite and whinny.

  I would complain, though I was guilty,

  Otherwise oftentimes would I have been ruined.

  Whoso to the mill first comes, first grinds.

  I complained first, so was our strife concluded.

  They were full glad to excuse full quickly themselves

  Of things which they were never guilty of.

  Of wenches would I accuse them on every hand,

  When that for illness they could scarcely stand.

  Yet warmed I his heart, for all he

  Thought I had for him this great charity.

  I swore that all my walking out by night

  Was to espy wenches that he might lay by.

  Under that pretense had I many a mirth,

  For all such cleverness is given us in our birth.

  Deceit, weeping, spinning God has given

  To women by nature while they may live.

  And thus of one thing I boast:

  In the end I got the better of them in every way,

  By trickery, or force, or some other thing,

  As by continual murmur or grouching.

  Especially in bed had they misfortune:

  There would I scold and give them no pleasure;

  I would no longer in the bed abide,

  If that I felt his arm over my side,

  Till he had paid his ransom unto me;

  Then would I suffer him to do his little folly.

  And therefore to every man this tale I tell,

  Profit whoso may, for all is for sale.

  With empty hand men may no hawks lure.

  For gain would I all his lust endure,

  And make me a feigned appetite

  And yet in old meat never had I delight.

  That is why that ever I would them chide.

  For though the Pope had them sat beside,

  I would not spare them at their own table.

  For by my troth, I requited them word for word.

  So help me true God omnipotent,

  Thogh I right now sholde make my testament,

  I ne owe hem nat a word that it nis quit.

  I broghte it so aboute by my wit,

  That they moste yeve it up, as for the beste;

  Or elles we never been in reste.

  For thogh he loked as a wood leoun,

  Yet sholde he faille of his conclusioun.

  Thanne wolde I seye, ‘gode lief, tak keep

  How mekely loketh Wilkin oure sheep;

  Com neer, my spouse, let me ba thy cheke!

  Ye sholde been al pacient and meke,