Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  God shield us all from your acquaintance!

  Oh January, drunk in delight

  Of mariage, see how thy Damian,

  Thyn owene squyer and thy borne man,

  Entendeth for to do thee vileinye.

  God graunte thee thyn hoomly fo t‘espye.

  For in this world nis worse pestilence

  Than hoomly foo al day in thy presence.

  Parfourned hath the sonne his ark diurne,

  No lenger may the body of him sojourne

  On th‘orisonte, as in that latitude.

  Night with his mantel, that is derk and rude,

  Gan oversprede the hemisperie aboute;

  For which departed is this lusty route

  Fro Januarie, with thank on eevry syde.

  Horn to hir houses lustily they ryde,

  Wher-as they doon hir thinges as hem leste,

  And whan they sye hir tyme, goon to reste.

  Sone after that, this hastif Januarie

  Wolde go to bedde, he wolde no lenger tarie.

  He drinketh ipocras, clarree, and vernage

  Of spyces hote, t’encresen his corage;

  And many a letuarie hadde he ful fyn,

  Swiche as the cursed monk dan Constantyn

  Hath writen in his book de Coitu;

  To eten hem alle, he nas no-thing eschu.

  And to his privee freendes thus seyde he:

  “For goddes love, as sone as it may be,

  Lat voyden al this hous in curteys wyse.”

  And they han doon right as he wol devyse.

  Men drinken, and the travers drawe anon;

  The bryde was broght a-bedde as stille as stoon;

  And whan the bed was with the preest y-blessed,

  Out of the chambre hath every wight him dressed.

  And Januarie hath faste in armes take

  His fresshe May, his paradys, his make.

  He lulleth hir, he kisseth hir ful ofte

  With thikke bristles of his berd unsofte,

  Lyk to the skin of houndfish, sharp as brere,

  For he was shave al newe in his manere.

  He rubbeth hir aboute hir tendre face,

  In marriage, see how your Damian,

  Your own squire and your man born,

  Intends for to do you villainy.

  God grant that you your servant foe espy!

  For in this world there is no worse pestilence

  Than a household foe all day in your presence.

  Performed has the sun his arc diurnal;

  No longer may his body sojourn

  On the horizon, as in that latitude

  Night with his mantle, that is dark and rude,

  Began overspreading the hemisphere about;

  For which departed was this lively crowd

  From January, with thank you on every side.

  Home to their houses lively they rode,

  Where they did their things as they wished,

  And when they saw it time, went to rest.

  Soon after that, this urgent January

  Would go to bed; he would no longer tarry.

  He drank cordials, clarets and liqueurs

  Spiced hot to increase his ardor;

  And many an elixir had he full fine,

  Such as the cursed monk, Sir Constantine,15

  Had written in his book De Coitu;

  To eat them all he has nothing eschewed.

  And to his close friends thus said he:

  “For God’s love, as soon as it may be,

  Please leave this house in a courteous way.”

  And they did right as he contrived.

  They drank a toast and drew the curtains soon.

  The bride was brought to bed still as a stone;

  And when the bed was by the priest blessed,

  Out of the chamber has every person himself expressed,

  And January has hard in his arms taken

  His fresh May, his paradise, his mate.

  He lulled her, he kissed her full often;

  With thick bristles of his beard unsoft,

  Like to the skin of a dogfish, sharp as briars—

  For he was shaven all new in his manner—

  He fondled her about her tender face,

  And seyde thus, “allas! I moot trespace

  To yow, my spouse, and yow gretly offende,

  Er tyme come that I wil doun descende.

  But nathelees, considereth this,” quod he,

  “Ther nis no werkman, what-so-ever he be,

  That may bothe werke wel and hastily;

  This wol be doon at leyser parfitly.

  It is no fors how longe that we pleye;

  In trewe wedlok wedded be we tweye;

  And blessed be the yok that we been inne,

  For in our actes we mowe do no sinne.

  A man may do no sinne with his wyf,

  Ne hurte him-selven with his owene knyf;

  For we han leve to pleye us by the lawe.”

  Thus laboureth he til that the day gan dawe;

  And than he taketh a sop in fyn clarree,

  And upright in his bed than sitteth he,

  And after that he sang ful loude and clere,

  And kiste his wyf, and made wantoun chere.

  He was al coltish, ful of ragerye,

  And ful of jargon as a flekked pye.

  The slakke skin aboute his nekke shaketh,

  Whyl that he sang; so chaunteth he and craketh.

  But god wot what that May thoughte in hir herte,

  Whan she him saugh up sittinge in his sherte,

  In his night-cappe, and with his nekke lene;

  She preyseth nat his pleying worth a bene.

  Than seide he thus, “my reste wol I take;

  Now day is come, I may no lenger wake.”

  And doun he leyde his head, and sleep til pryme.

  And afterward, whan that he saugh his tyme,

  Up ryseth Januarie; but fresshe May

  Holdeth hir chambre un-to the fourthe day,

  As usage is of wyves for the beste.

  For every labour som-tyme moot han reste,

  Or elles longe may he nat endure;

  This is to seyn, no lyves creature,

  Be it of fish, or brid, or beest, or man.

  Now wol I speke of woful Damian,

  And said thus, “Alas! I must injure

  You, my spouse, and you greatly offend

  Before I will down descend.

  But nevertheless, consider this,” said he,

  “There is no workman, whatsoever he be,

  Who may work both well and hastily;

  This will be done at leisure perfectly.

  It matters not how long we play;

  In true wedlock coupled be we two,

  And blessed be the yoke that we be in,

  For in our acts we may do no sin.

  A man may do no sin with his wife,

  Nor hurt himself with his own knife,

  For we have leave to play together by the law.”

  Thus labored he until day began to dawn;

  And then he took a sip of fine claret,

  And upright in his bed then he sat,

  And after that he sang full loud and clear,

  And kissed his wife, his look all lechery.

  He was all coltish, full of wantonness,

  And full of chatter as a spotted magpie.

  The slack skin about his neck shook

  While that he sang, so crooned he and croaked.

  But God knows what May thought in her heart,

  When she saw him sitting up in his shirt,

  In his night-cap, and with his neck lean;

  She praised not his performance worth a bean.

  Then said he thus, “My rest will I take;

  Now day is come, I may no longer wake.”

  And down he laid his head and slept till prime.

  And afterward, when he saw his time,

  Up rose January; bu
t fresh May

  Held her chamber unto the fourth day.

  As custom is of wives for the best.

  For every laborer sometime must have rest,

  Or else long may he not endure—

  This is to say, every creature needs respite,

  Be it fish, or bird, or bird, or beast, or man.

  Now will I speak of woeful Damian,

  That languissheth for love, as ye shul here;

  Therfore I speke to him in this manere:

  I seye, “O sely Damian, alias!

  Answere to my demaunde, as in this cas,

  How shaltow to thy lady fresshe May

  Telle thy wo? She wole alwey seye ”nay”;

  Eek if thou speke, she wol thy wo biwreye;

  God be thyn help, I can no bettre seye.”

  This syke Damian in Venus fyr

  So brenneth, that he dyeth for desyr;

  For which he putte his lyf in aventure,

  No lenger mighte he in this wyse endure;

  But prively a penner gan he borwe,

  And in a lettre wroot he al his sorwe,

  In manere of a compleynt or a lay,

  Un-to his faire fresshe lady May.

  And in a purs of silk, heng on his sherte,

  He hath it put, and leyde it at his herte.

  The mone that, at noon, was, thilke day

  That Januarie hath wedded fresshe May,

  In two of Taur, was in-to Cancre gliden;

  So longe hath Maius in hir chambre biden,

  As custume is un-to thise nobles alle.

  A bryde shal nat eten in the halle,

  Til dayes foure or three dayes atte leste

  Y-passed been; than lat hir go to feste.

  The fourthe day compleet fro noon to noon,

  Whan that the heighe masse was y-doon,

  In halle sit this Januarie, and May

  As fresh as is the brighte someres day.

  And so bifel, how that this gode man

  Remembred him upon this Damian,

  And seyde, “Seinte Marie! how may this be,

  That Damian entendeth nat to me?

  Is he ay syk, or how may this bityde?”

  His squyeres, whiche that stoden ther bisyde,

  Excused him by-cause of his siknesse,

  Which letted him to doon his bisinesse;

  Noon other cause mighte make him tarie.

  Who languishes for love, as you shall hear;

  Therefore I speak to him in this manner:

  I say, “Oh, wretched Damian, alas!

  Answer to my demand, as in this case.

  How shall you to your lady, fresh May,

  Tell your woe? She will always say nay.

  And if you speak, she will you betray.

  God be your help! I can no better say.”

  This sick Damian in Venus’ fire

  So burned that he died for desire,

  For which he put his life in danger.

  No longer might he in this way endure,

  But secretly a pen he borrowed,

  And in a letter wrote he all his sorrow,

  In manner of a lament or lay,

  Unto his fresh, fair lady May;

  And in a purse of silk hung in his shirt

  He had put it, and laid it at his heart.

  The moon, that at noon was that day

  That January had wedded fresh May

  In the second degree of Taurus, was into Cancer gliding;16

  So long had May in her chamber abided,

  As custom was unto these nobles all.

  A bride shall not eat in the hall

  Till days four, or three days at least,

  Passed have been; then let her go to the feast.

  The fourth day complete from noon to noon,

  When the high mass was done,

  In hall sits this January and May,

  As fresh as is the bright summer’s day.

  And so it befell that this good man

  Remembered him upon this Damian,

  And said, “Saint Mary! How may this be,

  That Damian attends not on me?

  Is he still sick, or how may this betide?”

  His squires, who stood there beside,

  Excused him by cause of his sickness,

  Which prevented him from doing his business;

  No other cause might make him tarry,

  “That me forthinketh,” quod this Januarie,

  “He is a gentil squyer, by my trouthe!

  If that he deyde, it were harm and routhe;

  He is as wys, discreet, and as secree

  As any man I woot of his degree;

  And ther-to manly and eek servisable,

  And for to been a thrifty man right able.

  But after mete, as sone as ever I may,

  I wol my-self visyte him and eek May,

  To doon him al the confort that I can.”

  And for that word him blessed every man,

  That, of his bountee and his gentillesse,

  He wolde so conforten in siknesse

  His squyer, for it was a gentil dede.

  “Dame,” quod this Januarie, “tak good hede,

  At-after mete ye, with your wommen alle,

  Whan ye han been in chambre out of this halle,

  That alle ye go see this Damian;

  Doth him disport, he is a gentil man;

  And telleth him that I wol him visyte,

  Have I no-thing but rested me a lyte;

  And spede yow faste, for I wole abyde

  Til that ye slepe faste by my syde.”

  And with that word he gan to him to calle

  A squyer, that was marchal of his halle,

  And tolde him certeyn thinges, what he wolde.

  This fresshe May hath streight hir wey y-holde,

  With alle hir wommen, un-to Damian.

  Doun by his beddes syde sit she than,

  Confortinge him as goodly as she may.

  This Damian, whan that his tyme he say,

  In secree wise his purs, and eek his bille,

  In which that he y-writen hadde his wille,

  Hath put in-to hir hand, with-outen more,

  Save that he syketh wonder depe and sore,

  And softely to hir right thus seyde he:

  “Mercy! and that ye nat discovere me;

  For I am deed, if that this thing be kid.”

  This purs hath she inwith hir bosom hid,

  “That grieves me,” said this January,

  “He is a gentle squire, by my troth!

  If he died, it were harm and pity.

  He is as wise, discreet and trustworthy

  As any man I know of his degree,

  And also manly and willing,

  And to be a success right able.

  But after dinner, as soon as ever I may,

  I will myself visit him, and also May,

  To do him all the comfort that I can.”

  And for that word blessed him every man,

  Who of his bounty and his gentleness

  He would so comfort in sickness

  His squire, for it was a gentle deed.

  “Dame,” said this January, “take good heed,

  After dinner you with your women all,

  When you have departed hall,

  That all you go see this Damian.

  Give him comfort—he is a gentle man;

  And tell him that I will him visit,

  As soon as I have rested me a little;

  And speed you fast, for I will abide

  Till you sleep fast by my side.”

  And with that word he began to call

  A squire, who was marshall of his hall,

  And told him certain things, that he wished.

  Thus fresh May has straight her way made

  With all her women unto Damian.

  Down by his bedside she sat then,

  Comforting him as well as she could.

  This Damian, when his time
he saw,

  In secret his purse and also his billet-doux,

  In which he had written his desire,

  Has put into her hand, without more,

  Save that he sighed wondrous deep and sore,

  And softly to her right thus said he:

  “Mercy! And that you not reveal me

  For I am dead if this thing be known.”

  This purse has she in her bosom hid

  And wente hir wey; ye gete namore of me.

  But un-to Januarie y-comen is she,

  That on his beddes syde sit ful softe.

  He taketh hir, and kisseth hir ful ofte,

  And leyde him doun to slepe, and that anon.

  She feyned hir as that she moste gon

  Ther-as ye woot that every wight mot nede.

  And whan she of this bille hath taken hede,

  She rente it al to cloutes atte laste,

  And in the privee softely it caste.

  Who studieth now but faire fresshe May?

  Adoun by olde Januarie she lay,

  That sleep, til that the coughe hath him awaked;

  Anon he preyde hir strepen hir al naked;

  He wolde of hir, he seyde, han som plesaunce,

  And seyde, hir clothes dide him encombraunce,

  And she obeyeth, be hir lief or looth.

  But lest that precious folk be with me wrooth,

  How that he wroghte, I dare nat to yow telle;

  Or whether hir thoughte it paradys or helle;

  But here I lete hem werken in hir wyse

  Til evensong rong, and that they moste aryse.

  Were it by destinee or aventure,

  Were it by influence or by nature,

  Or constellacion, that in swich estat

  The hevene stood, that tyme fortunat

  Was for to putte a bille of Venus werkes

  (For alle thing hath tyme, as seyn thise clerkes)

  To any womman, for to gete hir love,

  I can nat seye; but grete god above,

  That knoweth that non act is causelees,

  He deme of al, for I wol holde my pees.

  But sooth is this, how that this fresshe May

  Hath take swich impression that day,

  For pitee of this syke Damian,

  That from hir herte she ne dryve can

  The remembraunce for to doon him ese.

  “Certeyn,” thoghte she, “whom that this thing displese,

  I rekke noght, for here I him assure,

  And went her way; you get no more of me.

  But unto January she is come,

  Who on his bedside sits full quietly,

  He took her, and kissed her full often,

  And laid himself down to sleep, and that anon.

  She pretended that she had to go

  There where every person must needs visit;

  And when of this billet-doux she had read,

  She tore it all into pieces little

  And into the privy them quietly cast.

  Who ponders now but fair fresh May?