Desires that from him we claim our gentleness;’
For of our elders we can make no claim
But of temporal things, that can hurt and maim.
And every person knows this as well as I,
That if gentleness were planted naturally
Within a certain lineage through its generations,
Privately and publicly, they would never cease
To do the fair office of virtue—
They could do no violence or villainy.
Take fire, bear it into the darkest house
Between here and the Mount of Caucasus,
And let men shut the doors and go away,
Yet will the fire as fair lie and burn,
As when twenty thousand men might it behold:
Its nature will it retain,
Upon peril of my life, until it dies.
Here may you see well how that gentility
Is not attached to possession,
Since folk do their work
Always, as does the fire, according to their natures.
For, God knows, men may often find
A lord’s son doing shame and villainy;
And he who will have esteem for his gentility
Because he was born of a gentle house,
And had his elders noble and virtuous,
And will himself do no gentle deeds,
Nor follow his gentle ancestor who dead is,
He is not gentle, be he duke or earl;
For villainous sinful deeds make a churl.
For gentleness is nothing but the renown
Of thyne auncestres, for hir heigh bountee,
Which is a strange thing to thy persone.
Thy gentillesse cometh fro god allone;
Than comth our verray gentillesse of grace,
It was no-thing biquethe us with our place.
Thenketh how noble, as seith Valerius,
Was thilke Tullius Hostilius,
That out of povert roos to heigh noblesse.
Redeth Senek, and redeth eek Boëce,
Ther shul ye seen expres that it no drede is,
That he is gentil that doth gentil dedis;
And therfore, leve housbond, I thus conclude,
Al were it that myne auncestres were rude,
Yet may the hye god, and so hope I,
Grante me grace to liven vertuously.
Thanne am I gentil, whan that I biginne
To liven vertuously and weyve sinne.
And ther-as ye of povert me repreve,
The hye god, on whom that we bileve,
In wilful povert chees to live his lyf.
And certes every man, mayden, or wyf,
May understonde that Jesus, hevene king,
Ne wolde nat chese a vicious living.
Glad povert is an honest thing, certeyn;
This wol Senek and othere clerkes seyn.
Who-so that halt him payd of his poverte,
I holde him riche, al hadde he nat a sherte.
He that coveyteth is a povre wight,
For he wolde han that is nat in his might.
But he that noght hath, ne coveyteth have
Is riche, al-though ye holde him but a knave.
Verray povert, it singeth proprely;
Juvenal seith of povert merily:
‘The povre man, whan he goth by the weye,
Bifore the theves he may singe and pleye.’
Povert is hateful good, and, as I gesse,
A ful greet bringer out of bisinesse;
A greet amender eek of sapience
To him that taketh it in pacience.
Of your ancestors, for their great goodness,
Which is quite foreign to your person.
Your gentleness comes from God alone.
Thence comes our true gentleness of grace:
It was in no way bequeathed us with our status.
Think how noble, as said Valerius,
Was that Tullius Hostilius,
Who out of poverty rose to high nobility.
Read Seneca, and read also Boethius:
There shall you see clearly that no doubt is
That he is gentle who does gentle deeds.
And therefore, dear husband, I must conclude:
Albeit that my ancestors were humble,
Yet may the high God, and so hope I,
Grant me grace to live virtuously.
Then I am gentle, when I begin
To live virtuously and waive sin.
And there as you of poverty me reprove,
The high God, in whom we believe,
In willed poverty chose to live his life.
And certainly every man, maiden or wife,
May understand that Jesus, heaven’s king,
Would not choose a vicious way of living.
Glad poverty is an honest thing, certainly;
This will Seneca and other scholars say.
Whoso with poverty is content,
I hold him rich, though he have no shirt.
He who covets is the person poor,
For he would have what is not in his power.
But he who nothing has, and nothing covets,
Is rich, though you hold him but of low estate.
True poverty, it sings by its nature.
Juvenal said of poverty merrily:
‘The poor man, when he goes by the way,
Even among thieves he may sing and play.’
Poverty is a hated good, and as I guess,
A great spur for hard work’s dedication;
A great amender also of wisdom
To him who with patience it endures.
Povert is this, al-though it seme elenge:
Possessioun, that no wight wol chalenge.
Povert ful ofte, whan a man is lowe,
Maketh his god and eek him-self to knowe.
Povert a spectacle is, as thinketh me,
Thurgh which he may his verray frendes see.
And therfore, sire, sin that I noght yow greve,
Of my povert na-more ye me repreve.
Now, sire, of elde ye repreve me;
And certes, sire, thogh noon auctoritee
Were in no book, ye gentils of honour
Seyn that men sholde an old wight doon favour,
And clepe him fader, for your gentillesse;
And auctours shal I finden, as I gesse.
Now ther ye seye, that I am foul and old,
Than drede you noght to been a cokewold;
For filthe an elde, al-so mote I thee,
Been grete wardeyns up-on chastitee.
But nathelees, sin I knowe your delyt,
I shal fulfille your worldly appetyt.
“Chees now,” quod she, “oon of thise thinges tweye,
To han me foul and old til that I deye,
And be to yow a trewe humble wyf,
And never yow displese in al my lyf,
Or elles ye wol han me yong and fair,
And take your aventure of the repair
That shal be to your hous, by-cause of me,
Or in som other place, may wel be.
Now chees your-selven, whether that yow lyketh.”
This knight avyseth him and sore syketh,
But atte laste he seyde in this manere,
“My lady and my love, and wyf so dere,
I put me in your wyse governance;
Cheseth your-self, which may be most plesance,
And most honour to yow and me also.
I do no fors the whether of the two;
For as yow lyketh, it suffiseth me.”
“Thanne have I gete of yow maistrye,” quod she,
“Sin I may chese, and governe as me lest?”
Poverty is this, although it seems misery,
A possession that no person will covet.
Poverty full often, when a man is low,
Makes him his God and himself know;
Poverty a pair of spectacles may be,
And therefore, sir, since with it I do not you trouble,
For my poverty no more should you me reprove.
Now sir, of old age you may blame me:
And certainly, sir, even if no authority
Were in any book, you who claim honor
Say that men should to an old person do favor
And call him father, out of your gentleness;
And authorities shall I find, as I guess.
Now when you say that I am ugly and old,
Then you need not to be a cuckold,
For filth and age, as I may prosper,
Be great protectors of chastity.
But nevertheless, since I know your delight,
I shall fulfill your worldly appetite.
“Choose now,” said she, “one of these things two:
To have me foul and old till that I die
And be to you a true and humble wife,
And never you displease in all my life,
Or else you will have me young and fair,
And take your chances with the crowd
Who shall come to your house, because of me,
Or in some other place, as may well be.
Now choose whichever pleases you.”
This knight thought hard and sorely sighed,
But at last he said in this manner:
“My lady and my love and my wife so dear,
I put me in your wise governance:
Choose yourself which may give the most pleasure
And most honor to you and me too.
I do not care which of the two you choose,
For as you like, so it suffices me.”
“Then have I gotten over you mastery,” said she,
“Since I may choose and govern as I please?”
“Ye certes, wyf,” quod he, “I holde it best.”
“Kis me,” quod she, “we be no lenger wrothe;
For, by my trouthe, I wol be to yow bothe,
This is to seyn, ye, bothe fair and good.
I prey to god that I most sterven wood,
But I to yow be al-so good and trewe
As ever was wyf, sin that the world was newe.
And, but I be to-morn as fair to sene
As any lady, emperyce, or quene,
That is bitwixe the est and eke the west,
Doth with my lyf and deeth right as yow lest.
Cast up the curtin, loke how that it is.”
And whan the knight saugh verraily al this,
That she so fair was, and so yong ther-to,
For joye he hente hir in his armes two,
His herte bathed in a bath of blisse;
A thousand tyme a-rewe he gan hir kisse.
And she obeyed him in every thing
That mighte doon him plesance or lyking.
And thus they live, un-to hir lyves ende,
In parfit joye; and Jesu Crist us sende
Housbondes meke, yonge, and fresshe a-beede,
And grace t‘overbyde hem that we wedde.
And eek I preye Jesu shorte hir lyves
That wol nat be governed by hir wyves;
And olde and angry nigardes of dispence,
God sende hem sone verray pestilence.
“Yes, certainly, wife,” said he, “I hold it best.”
“Kiss me,” said she, “we be no longer angry,
For by my troth, I will to you both be,
This is to say, yes, both fair and good.
I pray to God that I die dimwitted,
Unless I am to you both good and true
As ever was wife, since the world was new.
And unless I be tomorrow as fair to see
As any lady, empress, or queen,
Between east and west,
Do with my life and death just as you wish.
Cast up the curtain: look at me.”
And when the knight did he saw in truth,
That she was fair and young also,
For joy he clasped her in his arms two;
His heart bathed in a bath of bliss.
A thousand times he began to her kiss,
And she obeyed him in every thing
That might give him pleasure or delight.
And thus they lived until their lives’ end
In perfect joy. And Jesus Christ us send
Husbands meek, young, and fresh in bed,
And grace to outlive those that we wed.
And I pray Jesus to shorten their lives
Who not will be governed by their wives;
And old and angry niggards with their pence,
God send them soon true pestilence.
The Clerkes Tale
The Prologue
“SIR CLERK OF OXENFORD,” our hoste sayde,
“Ye ryde as coy and stille as dooth a mayde,
Were newe spoused, sitting at the bord;
This day ne herde I of your tonge a word.
I trowe ye studie aboute som sophyme,
But Salomon seith, ‘every thing hath tyme.’
Fod goddes sake, as beth of bettre chere,
It is no tyme for to studien here.
Telle us some mery tale, by your fey;
For what man that is entred in a pley,
He nedes moot unto the pley assente.
But precheth nat, as freres doon in Lente,
To make us for our olde sinnes wepe,
Ne that thy tale make us nat to slepe.
Telle us som mery thing of aventures;—
Your termes, your colours, and your figures,
Kepe hem in stoor til so be ye endyte
Heigh style, as whan that men to kinges wryte,
Speketh so pleyn at this tyme, I yow preye,
That we may understonde what ye seye.”
This worthy clerk benignely answerde,
“Hoste,” quod he, “I am under your yerde;
Ye han of us as now the governaunce,
And therfor wol I do yow obeisaunce,
As fer as reson axeth, hardily.
I wol yow telle a tale which that I
Lerned at Padowe of a worthy clerk,
As preved by his wordes and his werk.
He is now deed and nayled in his cheste,
I prey to god so yeve his soule reste!
Fraunceys Petrark, the laureat poete,
Highte this clerk, whos rethoryke sweete
Enlumined al Itaille of poetrye,
As Linian dide of philosophye
Or lawe, or other art particuler;
The Clerk’s Tale
The Prologue
“SIR SCHOLAR OF OXFORD,” our Host said,
“You ride as shy and still as does a maid,
Who is just married, sitting at the wedding table.
This day I have not heard a word from your tongue.
I believe you’re thinking of some sophistry,
But Solomon says, ‘Everything has its time.’
For God’s sake, be of better cheer.
It is no time to study here.
Tell us some merry tale, by your faith!
For whosoever has entered in a game,
He needs must by the rules play.
But preach not, as friars do in Lent,
To make us of our old sins weep,
Nor should your tale lead us to sleep.
Tell us some merry thing of adventures.
Your rhetorical devices, your figures of speech,
Keep them in store until you’re called to indite
In high style, as when men to kings write.
Speak so plainly at this time, we you pray,
That we may understand what you say.”
This worthy Scholar graciously replied:
“Host,” said he, “I am under your rule;
You have of us now the governance,
And therefore will I do you obedience
As far as reason requires, certainly.
I will tell you a tale that I
Learned at Padua of a worthy scholar,
As proven by his words and his work.
He is now dead and nailed in his coffin chest,
I pray to God give his soul rest!
Francis Petrarch,1 the laureate poet,
This scholar was called whose rhetoric sweet
Illuminated all Italy with poetry,
As Legnano2 did of philosophy
Or law, or other art particular;
But deeth, that wol nat suffre us dwellen heer
But as it were a twinkling of an ye,
Hem bothe hath slayn, and alle shul we dye.
But forth to tellen of this worthy man,
That taughte me this tale, as I bigan,
I seye that first with heigh style he endyteth,
Er he the body of his tale wryteth,
A proheme, in the which discryveth he
Pemond, and of Saluces the contree,
And speketh of Apennyn, the hilles hye,
That been the boundes of West Lumbardye,
And of Mount Vesulus in special,
Where as the Poo, out of a welle smal,
Taketh his firste springing and his sours,
That estward ay encresseth in his cours
To Emelward, to Ferrare, and Venyse:
The which a long thing were to devyse.
And trewely, as to my jugement,
Me thinketh it a thing impertinent,
Save that he wol conveyen his matere:
But this his tale, which that ye may here.”
The Tale
PART ONE
Ther is, at the west syde of Itaille,
Doun at the rote of Vesulus the colde,
A lusty playne, habundant of vitaille,
Wher many a tour and toun thou mayst biholde,
That founded were in tyme of fadres olde,
And many another delitable sighte,
And Saluces this noble contree highte.
A markis whylom lord was of that londe,
As were his worthy eldres him bifore;
And obeisant and redy to his honde
But death, that will not allow us here to dwell
But as it were the blink of an eye,
Them both has slain, as we all shall die.
But to tell more of this worthy man
Who taught me this tale, as I began,
I say that first with high style he composed,
Before the body of his main tale he wrote,
A prologue, in which he described the
Piedmont and Saluzzo country,
And spoke of the Apennines, the hills high,
That be the bounds of West Lombardy,
And of Mount Viso especially,
Where the River Po, out of a spring small,
Takes its origin and its source,
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