Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  Adown by old January she lay,

  Who slept until a cough has him awakened,

  Anon he asked that she strip herself all naked;

  He would of her, he said, have some play;

  He said her clothes got in the way,

  And she obeyed, be her willing or loathe.

  But lest that precious folk be with me wroth,

  How that he wrought, I dare not you tell,

  Or whether she thought it paradise or hell.

  But here I leave them work in their ways

  Till evensong rang and that they must arise.

  Were it destiny or by chance,

  Were it by nature or influence,

  Or constellation, that in such estate

  The heavens stood that time fortunate

  To present a petition for Venus’ work—

  For everything has its time, as say these scholars—

  For any woman to get her love,

  I cannot say; but great God above,

  Who knows that no act is causeless,

  May he judge all, for I will hold my peace.

  But the truth is this, how this fresh May

  Has had such a feeling that day

  Of pity for this sick Damian

  That from her heart drive she could not

  The thought of giving him some comfort.

  “Certainly,” thought she, “who this thing displeases

  I care not, for here I him pledge

  To love him best of any creature,

  Though he na-more hadde than his sherte.”

  Lo, pitee renneth sone in gentil herte.

  Heer may ye se how excellent franchyse

  In wommen is, whan they hem narwe avyse.

  Som tyrant is, as ther be many oon,

  That hath an herte as hard as any stoon,

  Which wolde han lete him sterven in the place

  Wel rather than han graunted him hir grace;

  And hem rejoysen in hir cruel pryde,

  And rekke nat to been an homicyde.

  This gentil May, fulfilled of pitee,

  Right of hir hande a lettre made she,

  In which she graunteth him hir verray grace;

  Ther lakketh noght but only day and place,

  Wher that she mighte un-to his lust suffyse:

  For it shal be right as he wol devyse.

  And whan she saugh hir time, up-on a day,

  To visite this Damian goth May,

  And sotilly this lettre doun she threste

  Under his pilwe, rede it if him leste.

  She taketh him by the hand, and harde him twiste

  So secrely, that no wight of it wiste,

  And bad him been al hool, and forth she wente

  To Januarie, whan that he for hir sente.

  Up ryseth Damian the nexte morwe,

  Al passed was his siknesse and his sorwe.

  He kembeth him, he proyneth him and pyketh,

  He dooth al that his lady lust and lyketh;

  And eek to Januarie he gooth as lowe

  As ever died a dogge for the bowe.

  He is so plesant un-to every man,

  (For craft is al, who-so that do it can)

  That every wight is fayn to speke him good;

  And fully in his lady grace he stood.

  Thus lete I Damian aboute his nede,

  And in my tale forth I wol procede.

  Somme clerkes holden that felicitee

  Stant in delyt, and therefor certeyn he,

  To love him best of any creature,

  Though he no more has than his shirt.”

  Look, how pity runs soon in a gentle heart!

  Here you may see how excellent generosity

  In women is, when they consider carefully.

  There are tyrants, as there many be,

  Who have a heart as hard as any stone,

  Who would have let him die in the place

  Rather than have granted him her grace,

  And they would rejoice in their cruel pride,

  And consider not their homicide.

  This gentle May, full of pity,

  Right of her hand a letter made she,

  In which she granted him her grace.

  There lacked only but day and place

  Where she might satisfy his desire,

  For it should be as he aspired.

  And when she saw her time, upon a day

  To visit this Damian went May,

  And discreetly this letter down she thrust

  Under his pillow; to read it if he wished.

  She took him by the hand and tightly it clasped

  So secretly that no person of it guessed,

  And bade him get well soon, and forth she went

  To January, when he for her sent.

  Up rose Damian the next morning,

  All passed was his sickness and his sorrow.

  He combed, he groomed and he washed,

  He did all that his lady might like and desire,

  And also to January did he go as low

  As ever did a dog for the hunter’s bow.

  He was so pleasant unto every man

  (For craft is all, as whoso has it knows)

  That every person was glad to speak of him good,

  And fully in his lady’s grace he stood.

  Thus leave I Damian about his needs,

  And in my tale forth I will proceed.

  Some scholars hold that felicity

  Consists in sensuality, and therefore certainly,

  This noble Januarie, with al his might,

  In honest wyse, as longeth to a knight,

  Shoop him to live ful deliciously.

  His housinge, his array, as honestly

  To his degree was maked as a kinges.

  Amonges othere of his honest thinges,

  He made a gardin, walled al with stoon;

  So fair a gardin woot I nowher noon.

  For out of doute, I verraily suppose,

  That he that wroot the Romance of the Rose

  Ne coude of it the beautee wel devyse;

  Ne Priapus ne mighte nat suffyse,

  Though he be god of gardins, for to telle

  The beautee of the gardin and the welle,

  That stood under a laurer alwey grene.

  Ful ofte tyme he, Pluto, and his quene,

  Prosperpina, and al hir fayërye

  Disporten hem and maken melodye

  Aboute that welle, and daunced, as men tolde.

  This noble knight, this Januarie the olde,

  Swich deintee hath in it to walke and pleye,

  That he wol no wight suffren bere the keye

  Save he him-self; for of the smale wiket

  He bar alwey of silver a smal cliket,

  With which, whan that him leste, he it unshette.

  And whan he wolde paye his wyf hir dette

  In somer seson, thider wolde he go,

  And May his wyf, and no wight but they two;

  And thinges whiche that were nat doon a-bedde,

  He in the gardin parfourned hem and spedde.

  And in this wyse, many a mery day,

  Lived this Januarie and fresshe May.

  But worldly joye may nat alwey dure

  To Januarie, ne to no creature.

  O sodeyn hap, o thou fortune instable,

  Lyk to the scorpioun so deceivable,

  That flaterest with thyn heed when thou wolt stinge;

  Thy tayl is deeth, thurgh thyn enveniminge.

  O brotil joye! o swete venim queynte!

  This noble January, with all his might,

  In respectable ways, as befitted a knight,

  Tried to live full deliciously.

  His house, his finery were

  For his rank as respectable as a king’s.

  Among other of his respectable things,

  He made a garden, walled all with stone;

  So fair a garden know I nowhere one.

  For, without d
oubt, I truly suppose

  That he who wrote the Romance of the Rose17

  Could not of it the beauty well imagine;

  Nor that Priapus18 might suffice,

  Though he be god of gardens, to tell

  The beauty of the garden and the spring

  That stood under a laurel evergreen.

  Full oftentime Pluto and his queen,

  Proserpina, and all their fairy crew,19

  Disported them and made melody

  About that spring, and danced, as men told.

  This noble knight, this January the old,

  Such delight had in it to walk and play,

  That he would no person suffer to bear the key

  Save for himself; for of the small wicket gate

  He carried always of silver a latchkey,

  With which, when he wished, he it opened.

  And when he would pay his wife her debt

  In summer season, there would he go,

  And May his wife, and no person but they two;

  And things which that were not done abed,

  He in the garden performed them with success.

  And in this way, many a merry day,

  Lived this January and fresh May.

  But worldly joy may not always endure

  For January, nor for any creature.

  Oh sudden chance! Oh you Fortune unstable!

  Like to the scorpion so deceitful,

  That flatters with his head when his tail will sting;

  Your tail is death, through your poisoning.

  Oh unstable joy! Oh sweet sly venom!

  O monstre, that so subtilly canst peynte

  Thy yiftes, under hewe of stedfastnesse,

  That thou deceyvest bothe more and lesse!

  Why hastow Januarie thus deceyved,

  That haddest him for thy ful frend receyved?

  And now thou hast biraft him bothe hise yen,

  For sorwe of which desyreth he to dyen.

  Allas! this noble Januarie free,

  Amidde his lust and his prosperitee,

  Is woxen blind, and that al sodeynly.

  He wepeth and he wayleth pitously;

  And ther-with-al the fyr of jalousye,

  Lest that his wyf sholde falle in som folye,

  So brente his herte, that he wolde fayn

  That som man bothe him and hir had slayn.

  For neither after his deeth, nor in his lyf,

  Ne wolde he that she were love ne wyf,

  But ever live as widwe in clothes blake,

  Soul as the turtle that lost hath hir make.

  But atte laste, after a monthe or tweye,

  His sorwe gan aswage, sooth to seye;

  For whan he wiste it may noon other be,

  He paciently took his adversitee;

  Save, out of doute, he may nat forgoon

  That he nas jalous evermore in oon;

  Which jalousye it was so outrageous,

  That neither in halle, n‘in noon other hous,

  Ne in noon other place, never-the-mo,

  He nolde suffre hir for to ryde or go,

  But-if that he had hand on hir alway;

  For which ful ofte wepeth fresshe May,

  That loveth Damian so benignely,

  That she mot outher dyen sodeynly,

  Or elles she mot han him as hir leste;

  She wayteth whan hir herte wolde breste.

  Up-on that other syde Damian

  Bicomen is the sorwefulleste man

  That ever was; for neither night ne day

  Ne mighte he speke a word to fresshe May,

  Oh monster, that so subtly can paint

  Your gifts under guise of steadfastness,

  That deceive both more and less!

  Why have you January thus deceived,

  Whom you had as your friend received?

  And now you have bereft him both his eyes,

  For sorrow of which desires he to die.

  Alas, this January unconstrained,

  Amid his pleasure and prosperity,

  Was struck blind, and that all suddenly.

  He weeped and wailed piteously;

  And at once the fire of jealousy,

  Lest that his wife should fall in some folly,

  So burned his heart that he would rather

  That some man had slain both him and her.

  For neither after his death nor in his life

  Would he have her be another’s paramour or wife,

  But ever live as widow in clothes black,

  Solitary as the turtledove that has lost her mate.

  But at last, after a month or two,

  His sorrow began to assuage, truth to tell

  For when he knew it might not otherwise be,

  He patiently took his adversity,

  Save, doubtless, that he could not forgo

  His constant jealousy,

  Which jealousy was so outrageous

  That neither in hall, nor any other room,

  Nor in any other place, evermore,

  Would he suffer her to ride or go,

  Unless he had hand on her always;

  For which full often wept fresh May,

  Who loved Damian so benignly

  That she must either die suddenly

  Or she must have him as she wished.

  She thought that her heart would burst.

  Upon the other side Damian

  Became the sorrowfullest man

  Who ever was, for neither night nor day

  Might he speak a word to fresh May,

  As to his purpos, of no swich matere,

  But-if that Januarie moste it here,

  That hadde an hand up-on hir evermo.

  But nathelees, by wryting to and fro

  And privee signes, wiste he what she mente;

  And she knew eek the fyn of his entente.

  O Januarie, what mighte it thee availle,

  Thou mightest see as fer as shippes saille?

  For also good is blind deceyved be,

  As be deceyved whan a man may see.

  Lo, Argus, which that hadde an hondred yen,

  For al that ever he coude poure or pryen,

  Yet was he blent; and, god wot, so ben mo,

  That wenen wisly that it be nat so.

  Passe over is an ese, I sey na-more.

  This fresshe May, that I spak of so yore,

  In warme wex hath emprented the cliket,

  That Januarie bar of the smale wiket,

  By which in-to his gardin ofte he wente.

  And Damian, that knew al hir entente,

  The cliket countrefeted prively;

  Ther nis na-more to seye, but hastily

  Som wonder by this cliket shal bityde,

  Which ye shul heren, if ye wole abyde.

  O noble Ovyde, ful sooth seystou, god woot!

  What sleighte is it, thogh it be long and hoot,

  That he nil finde it out in som manere?

  By Piramus and Tesbee may men lere;

  Thogh they were kept ful longe streite overal,

  They been accorded, rouninge thurgh a wal,

  Ther no wight coude han founde out swich a sleighte.

  But now to purpos; er that dayes eighte

  Were passed, er the monthe of Juil, bifil

  That Januarie hath caught so greet a wil,

  Thurgh egging of his wyf, him for to pleye

  In his gardin, and no wight but they tweye,

  That in a morwe un-to this May seith he:

  “Rys up, my wyf, my love, my lady free;

  The turtles vois is herd, my douve swete;

  About his purpose, of no such matter,

  For fear that January might it hear,

  Who had his hand on hers evermore.

  But nevertheless, by writing to and fro

  By secret signs knew he what she meant,

  And she knew also the object of his intent.

  Oh January, what might it you avail,r />
  Though you might see as far as ships sail?

  For it is just as good to be deceived when blind

  As to be deceived when a man may see.

  Look, Argus,20 who had a hundred eyes,

  For all that ever he could pore or pry,

  Yet he was blind and, God knows, so be more

  Who are so sure that it be not so.

  What you don’t see won’t hurt you, I say no more.

  This fresh May, whom I spoke of before,

  In warm wax has imprinted the key

  That January bore of the small gate,

  By which into his garden he often went;

  And Damian, who knew all her intent,

  The key counterfeited secretly.

  There is no more to say, but hastily

  Some miracle will this key betide,

  Which you shall hear, if you will abide.

  Oh noble Ovid, full truth say you, God knows,

  What magic it is, through effort hot and long,

  By which Love will find a way somehow?

  By Pyramus and Thisbe may men learn; 21

  Though they were kept apart by measures strict,21

  They agreed, whispering through a wall,

  Where no one could imagine such a trick.

  But now to the point: before eight days

  Were passed in June, befell

  That January had caught a desire so great,

  Through the urging of his wife, him for to play

  In his garden, and no person but they two,

  That in a morning unto his May said he:

  “Rise up, my wife, my love, my lady free!

  The turtledove’s voice is heard, my dove sweet;

  The winter is goon, with alle his reynes wete;

  Com forth now, with thyn eyën columbyn!

  How fairer been thy brestes than is wyn!

  The gardin is enclosed al aboute;

  Com forth, my whyte spouse; out of doute,

  Thou hast me wounded in myn herte, o wyf!

  No spot of thee ne knew I al my lyf.

  Com forth, and lat us taken our disport;

  I chees thee for my wyf and my confort.”

  Swiche olde lewed wordes used he;

  On Damian a signe made she,

  That he sholde go biforen with his cliket:

  This Damian thanne hath opened the wiket,

  And in he stirte, and that in swich manere,

  That no wight mighte it see neither y-here;

  And stille he sit under a bush anoon.

  This januarie, as blind as is a stoon,

  With Maius in his hand, and no wight mo,

  In-to his fresshe gardin is ago,

  And clapte to the wiket sodeynly.

  “Now, wyf,” quod he, “heer nis but thou and I,

  That art the creature that I best love.

  For, by that lord that sit in heven above,

  Lever ich hadde dyen on a knyf,

  Than thee offende, trewe dere wyf!

  For goddes sake, thenk how I thee chees,

  Noght for no coveityse, doutelees,