Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  May han to fruit so greet an appetyt,

  That she may dyen, but she of it have.”

  “Allas!” quod he, “that I ne had heer a knave

  That coude climbe; allas! alias!” quod he,

  “That I am blind.” “Ye, sir, no fors,” quod she:

  “But wolde ye vouche-sauf, for goddes sake,

  The pyrie inwith your armes for to take,

  (For wel I woot that ye mistruste me)

  Thanne sholde I climbe wel y-nogh,” quod she,

  “So I my foot mighte sette upon your bak.”

  “Certes,” quod he, “ther-on shal be no lak,

  Mighte I yow helpen with myn herte blood.”

  He stoupeth doun, and on his bak she stood,

  And caughte hir by a twiste, and up she gooth.

  Ladies, I prey yow that ye be nat wrooth;

  I can nat glose, I am a rude man.

  And sodeynly anon this Damian

  Gan pullen up the smok, and in he throng.

  And whan that Pluto saugh this grete wrong,

  To Januarie he gaf agayn his sighte,

  And made him see, as wel as ever he mighte.

  And whan that he hadde caught his sighte agayn,

  Ne was ther never man of thing so fayn.

  But on his wyf his thought was evermo;

  Up to the tree he caste his eyen two,

  And saugh that Damian his wyf had dressed

  In swich manere, it may nat ben expressed

  But if I wolde speke uncurteisly:

  And up he yaf a roring and a cry

  As doth the moder whan the child shal dye:

  “Out! help! allas! harrow!” he gan to crye,

  “O stronge lady store, what dostow?”

  And she answerde, “sir, what eyleth yow?

  Have pacience, and reson in your minde,

  I have yow holpe on bothe your eyen blinde.

  Up peril of my soule, I shal nat lyen,

  As me was taught, to hele with your yën,

  Was no-thing bet to make yow to see

  I tell you well, a woman in my condition

  May have for fruit so great an appetite

  That she may die unless she has it.”

  “Alas,” said he, “That I have not here a knave

  Who could climb! Alas, alas,” said he,

  “For I am blind!” “Yea, sir, no matter,” said she;

  “But would you vouchsafe, for God’s sake,

  The pear tree in your arms for to take,

  For well I know that you mistrust me,

  Then should I climb well enough,” said she,

  “So I my foot might set upon your back.”

  “Certainly,” said he, “thereon shall be no lack,

  Might I you help with my heart’s blood.”

  He stooped down, and on his back she stood,

  And caught herself a branch, and up she went—

  Ladies, I pray you not be wroth;

  I cannot gloss, I am a rude man—

  And suddenly anon this Damian

  Pulled up her smock, and in he thrust.

  And when that Pluto saw this great wrong,

  To January he gave his sight again,

  And made him see as well as ever he might.

  And when he had again caught his sight,

  There was never a man of anything so glad,

  But on his wife his thought was evermore.

  Up to the tree he cast his eyes two,

  And saw that Damian his wife had addressed

  In such manner it may not be expressed,

  Unless I would speak indecorously;

  And up he gave a roaring and a cry,

  As does a mother when the child shall die:

  “Help! Help! Alas! Help!” he began to cry,

  “Oh bold, crude hussy, what do you do?”

  And she answered, “Sir, what ails you?

  Have patience and reason in your mind.

  I have you helped with both your eyes blind.

  On peril of my soul, I shall not lie,

  As I was taught, to heal your eyes,

  Was nothing better to make you see,

  Than strugle with a man up-on a tree.

  God woot, I dide it in ful good entente.”

  “Strugle!” quod he, “ye, algate in it wente!

  God yeve yow bothe on shames deeth to dyen!

  He swyved thee, I saugh it with myne yen,

  And elles be I hanged by the hals!”

  “Thanne is,” quod she, “my medicyne al fals;

  For certeinly, if that ye mighte see,

  Ye wolde nat seyn thise wordes un-to me;

  Ye han som glimsing and no parfit sighte.”

  “I see,” quod he, “as wel as ever I mighte,

  Thonked be god! with bothe myne eyen two,

  And by my trouthe, me thoughte he dide thee so.”

  “Ye maze, maze, gode sire,” quod she,

  “This thank have I for I have maad yow see;

  Allas!” quod she, “that ever I was so kinde!”

  “Now, dame,” quod he, “lat al passe out of minde.

  Com doun, my lief, and if I have missayd,

  God help me so, as I am yvel apayd.

  But, by my fader soule, I wende has seyn,

  How that this Damian had by thee leyn,

  And that thy smok had leyn up-on his brest.”

  “Ye, sire,” quod she, “ye may wene as yow lest;

  But, sire, a man that waketh out of his sleep,

  He may nat sodeynly wel taken keep

  Up-on a thing, ne see it parfitly,

  Til that he be adawed verraily;

  Right so a man, that longe hath blind y-be,

  Ne may nat sodeynly so wel y-see,

  First whan his sighte is newe come ageyn,

  As he that hath a day or two y-seyn.

  Til that your sighte y-satled be a whyle,

  Ther may ful many a sighte yow bigyle.

  Beth war, I prey yow; for, by hevene king,

  Ful many a man weneth to seen a thing,

  And it is al another than it semeth.

  He that misconceyveth, he misdemeth.”

  And with that word she leep doun fro the tree.

  This Januarie, who is glad but he?

  Than struggle with a man upon a tree.

  God knows, I did it in full good intent.”

  “Struggle?” said he, “Yea, entirely in it went!

  God give you both a shameless death to die!

  He paired with you; I saw it with my eyes,

  Or else I be hanged by the neck!”

  “Then is,” said she, “my medicine false;

  For certainly, if that you might see,

  You would not say these words unto me.

  You have some glimpsing, and no perfect sight.”

  “I see,” said he, “as well as ever I might,

  Thanks be God. With both my eyes two,

  And by my troth, I thought he did you.”

  “You are bewildered, dazed, good sir,” said she;

  “These thanks I have for having made you see.

  Alas,” said she, “that ever I was so kind!”

  “Now Dame,” said he, “let that all pass out of mind.

  Come down, my beloved, and if I have misspoken,

  God help me so, as I am evil paid.

  But by my father’s soul, I supposed I saw

  How this Damian had by you lain,

  And that your smock lay upon his breast.”

  “Yea, sir,” said she, “you may suppose as you wish.

  But sir, a man who wakes out of his sleep,

  He may not suddenly well take heed

  Upon a thing, or see it perfectly,

  Till he be awakened fully.

  Right so a man who long has blind been,

  May not suddenly so well see,

  First when his sight is new come again,

  As he who has a day or two seen.r />
  Until your sight settled be awhile

  There may full many a sight you beguile.

  Beware, I pray you, for by heaven’s king,

  Full many a man supposes to see something,

  And it is other than what it seemed.

  He who misconceives, misjudges.”

  And with that word she leapt down from the tree.

  This January, who is glad but he?

  He kisseth hir, and clippeth hir ful ofte,

  And on hir wombe he stroketh hir ful softe,

  And to his palays hoom he hath hir lad.

  Now, gode men, I pray yow to be glad.

  Thus endeth heer my tale of Januarie;

  God blesse us and his moder Seinte Marie!

  The Epilogue

  “Ey! goddes mercy!” seyde our Hoste tho,

  “Now swich a wyf I pray god kepe me fro!

  Lo, whiche sleightes and subtilitees

  In wommen been! for ay as bisy as bees

  Ben they, us sely men for to deceyve,

  And from a sothe ever wol they weyve;

  By this Marchauntes Tale it preveth weel.

  But doutelees, as trewe as any steel

  I have a wyf, though that she povre be;

  But of hir tonge a labbing shrewe is she,

  And yet she hath an heep of vyces mo;

  Ther-of no fors, lat alle swiche thinges go.

  But, wite ye what? in conseil be it seyd,

  Me reweth sore I am un-to hir teyd.

  For, and I sholde rekenen every vyce

  Which that she hath, y-wis, I were to nyce,

  And cause why; it sholde reported be

  And told to hir of somme of this meynee;

  Of whom, it nedeth nat for to declare,

  Sin wommen connen outen swich chaffare;

  And eek my wit suffyseth nat ther-to

  To tellen al; wherfor my tale is do.”

  He kissed her and embraced her full often,

  And on her belly her stroked her full softly,

  And to his palace home he has her led.

  Now, good men, I pray you to be glad.

  Thus ends here my tale of January;

  God bless us, and his mother Saint Mary!

  The Epilogue

  “Hey! God’s mercy!” said our Host then,

  “Now such a wife I pray God keep me from!

  Lo, what tricks and deceits

  In women be! For ever as busy as bees

  Be they, us naive men to deceive,

  And from the truth ever will they weave;

  By this Merchant’s tale it proves well.

  But doubtless, as true as any steel

  I have a wife, though a poor one she be,

  But of her tongue, a blabbing shrew is she,

  And yet she has a heap of vices more;

  And so what! Let all such things go.

  But do you know? Confidentially let it be said,

  I repent sorely that I am to her tied.

  But if I recounted every vice

  That she has, I’d be a fool.

  And why? I would reported be

  And told on to her by some of this company—

  Of whom, it needs not to name,

  Some women can display such wares;

  And I know enough to not

  Tell all; therefore ended is my tale.”

  The Frankeleyns Tale

  The Introduction

  “IN FEITH, SQUIER, THOU hast thee wel y-quit,

  And gentilly I preise wel thy wit,”

  Quod the Frankeleyn, “considering thy youthe,

  So feelingly thou spekest, sir, I allow thee!

  As to my doom, there is non that is here

  Of eloquence that shal be thy pere,

  If that thou live; god yeve thee good chaunce,

  And in vertu sende thee continuaunce!

  For of thy speche I have greet deyntee.

  I have a sone, and, by the Trinitee,

  I hadde lever than twenty pound worth lond,

  Though it right now were fallen in myn hond,

  He were a man of swich discrecioun

  As that ye been! fy on possessioun

  But-if a man be vertuous with-al.

  I have my sone snibbed, and yet shal,

  For he to vertu listeth nat entende;

  But for to pleye at dees, and to despende,

  And lese al that he hath, is his usage.

  And he hath lever talken with a page

  Than to commune with any gentil wight

  Ther he mighte lerne gentillesse aright.”

  “Straw for your gentillesse,” quod our host;

  “What, frankeleyn? pardee, sir, wel thou wost

  That eche of yow mot tellen atte leste

  A tale or two, or breken his biheste.”

  “That knowe I wel, sir,” quod the frankeleyn;

  “I prey yow, haveth me nat in desdeyn

  Though to this man I speke a word or two.”

  “Telle on thy tale with-outen words mo.”

  “Gladly, sir host,” quod he, “I wol obeye

  Un-to your wil; now herkneth what I seye.

  I wol yow nat contrarien in no wyse

  As fer as that my wittes wol suffyse;

  The Franklin’s Tale

  The Introduction

  “IN FAITH, SQUIRE, YOU have yourself well acquitted

  And like a gentleman. I praise well your wit,”

  Said the Franklin. “Considering your youth,

  So feelingly you speak, sir, I commend you:

  In my judgement, there is none that is here

  Of eloquence who shall be your peer,

  If you live. God give you good fortune,

  And in virtue send you continuance,

  For of your speech I have great pleasure.

  I have a son, and by the Trinity,

  I would rather than land paying yearly twenty pounds

  Though it right now were fallen in my hand—

  That he were a man of such discretion

  As you be. Fie on property,

  Unless a man be virtuous withal!

  I have my son rebuked, and yet shall,

  For he of virtue cares not at all;

  But to play at dice, and to spend,

  And lose all he has, has become his custom.

  And he would rather talk with a servant

  Than with any gentlemanly person

  From whom he might learn gentility aright.”

  “Straw for your gentleness!” said our Host.

  “What, Franklin! By God, sir, well you know

  That each of you must tell at least

  A tale or two, or break his promise.”

  “That know I well, sir,” said the Franklin;

  “I pray you, hold me not in disdain

  Though to this man I speak a word or two.”

  “Tell your tale without words more.”

  “Gladly, sir Host,” said he, “I will obey

  Unto your will; now listen to what I say.

  I will not oppose you in any way

  As far as my wits will suffice.

  I prey to god that it may plesen yow,

  Than woot I wel that it is good y-now.”

  The Prologue

  Thise olde gentil Britons in hir dayes

  Of diverse aventures maden layes,

  Rymeyed in hir firste Briton tonge;

  Which layes with hir instruments they songe,

  Or elles redden hem for hir plesaunce;

  And oon of hem have I in remembraunce,

  Which I shal seyn with good wil as I can.

  But sires, by-cause I am a burel man,

  At my biginning first I yow biseche

  Have me excused of my rude speche;

  I lerned never rethoryk certeyn;

  Thing that I speke, it moot be bare and pleyn.

  I sleep never on the mount of Pernaso,

  Ne lerned Marcus Tullius Cithero,

&nbs
p; Colours ne knowe I none, with-outen drede,

  But swiche colours as growen in the mede,

  Or elles swiche as men dye or peynte.

  Colours of rethoryk ben me to queynte;

  My spirit feleth noght of swich matere.

  But if yow list, my tale shul ye here.

  The Tale

  In Armorik, that called is Britayne,

  Ther was a knight that loved and dide his payne

  To serve a lady in his beste wyse;

  And many a labour, many a greet empryse

  He for his lady wroghte, er she were wonne.

  For she was oon, the faireste under sonne,

  And eek therto come of so heigh kinrede,

  That wel unnethes dorste this knight, for drede,

  Telle hir his wo, his peyne, and his distresse.

  But atte laste, she, for his worthinesse,

  And namely for his meke obeysaunce,

  Hath swich a pitee caught of his penaunce,

  That prively she fil of his accord

  I pray to God that it may please you:

  Then would I know that it is good enough.”

  The Prologue

  Those old gentle Bretons1 in their days

  Of diverse adventures made lays,

  Rhymed in their old Breton tongue;

  Which verses with their instruments they sung,

  Or else read them for their pleasure;

  And one of them have I in remembrance,

  Which I shall say with as good will as I can.

  But, sirs, because I am an untutored man,

  At my beginning first I you beseech

  Excuse me for my rough speech.

  I learned never rhetoric, certainly:

  Things that I speak must be bare and plain.

  I slept never on the Mount of Parnassus,

  Nor learned Marcus Tullius Cicero.2

  Rhetorical flourishes know I none—no fear of that,

  But only such flowers as grow in the meadow,

  Or else such as men dye or paint.

  Colors of rhetoric be to me too rarified:

  My spirit has no feeling for such matter.

  But if you wish, my tale shall you hear.

  The Tale

  In Armorica, that is called Brittany,

  There was a knight who loved and took pains

  To serve a lady as best he knew;

  And many a labor, and many a great exploit

  He for his lady performed, before she was won.

  For she was one of the fairest under the sun,

  And also came of such high lineage,

  That scarcely dared this knight, for fear,

  To tell her his woe, his pain, and his distress.