This poyson in a box, and sith he ran
In-to the nexte strete, un-to a man,
And borwed [of] him large botels three;
And in the two his poyson poured he;
The thridde he kepte clene for his drinke.
For al the night he shoop him for to swinke
In caryinge of the gold out of that place.
And whan this ryotour, with sory grace,
Had filled with wyn his grete botels three,
To his felawes agayn repaireth he.
What nedeth it to sermone of it more?
For right as they had cast his deeth bifore,
Right so they han him slayn, and that anon.
And whan that this was doon, thus spak that oon,
“Now lat us sitte and drinke, and make us merie,
And afterward we wol his body berie.”
And with that word it happed him, par cas,
Because the fiend found him living in such a way
That he had God’s permission to bring him sorrow:
For this was his full intent,
To slay them both, and never to repent.
And forth he went—no longer would he tarry—
Into the town, unto an apothecary,
And prayed him to sell
Some poison, that he might his rats quell,
And also there was a weasel in his yard,
That, as he said, upon his chickens gnawed,
And gladly would he avenge himself, if he might,
On vermin, that were ruining him by night.
The apothecary answered, “And you shall have
Something that, so God my soul save,
In all this world there is no creature,
That having eaten or drunk of this mixture
No more than amounts to a grain of wheat,
Then shall he anon his life forfeit.
Yes, die he shall, and that in less time
Than at walking pace you should go a mile,
This poison is so strong and vile.”
This cursed man in his hand grasped
This poison in a box, and then he ran
Into the next street unto a man
And borrowed from him large bottles three,
And in the two his poison poured he—
The third he kept clean for his own drink—
For all the night he himself readied
For carrying the gold out of that place.
And when this reveler, by evil blessed,
Had filled with wine his great bottles three,
To his fellows again returned he.
Why need we speak of it more?
For right as they had planned his death before,
Right so they did him slay, and that anon.
And when this was done, thus spoke that one:
“Now let us sit and drink, and make us merry,
And afterward we will his body bury.”
And with that word it befell him, by chance,
To take the botel ther the poyson was,
And drank, and yaf his felawe drinke also,
For which anon they storven bothe two.
But, certes, I suppose that Avicen
Wroot never in no canon, ne in no fen,
Mo wonder signes of empoisoning
Than hadde thise wrecches two, er hir ending.
Thus ended been thise homicydes two,
And eek the false empoysoner also.
O cursed sinne, ful of cursednesse!
O traytours homicyde, o wikkednesse!
O glotonye, luxurie, and hasardrye!
Thou blasphemour of Crist with vileinye
And othes grete, of usage and of pryde!
Alias! mankinde, how may it bityde,
That to thy creatour which that thee wroghte,
And with his precious herte-blood thee boghte,
Thou art so fals and so unkinde, alias!
Now, goode men, god forgeve yow your trespas,
And ware yow fro the sinne of avryce.
Myn holy pardoun may yow alle waryce,
So that ye offre nobles or sterlinges,
Or elles silver broches, spones, ringes.
Boweth your heed under this holy bulle!
Cometh up, ye wyves, offreth of your wolle!
Your name I entre heer in my rolle anon;
In-to the blisse of hevene shul ye gon;
I yow assoile, by myn heigh power,
Yow that wol offre, as clene and eek as cleer
As ye were born; and, lo, sirs thus I preche.
And Jesu Crist, that is our soules leche,
So graunte yow his pardon to receyve;
For that is best; I wol yow nat deceyve.
The Epilogue
But sirs, o word forgat I in my tale;
I have relikes and pardon in my male,
As faire as any man in Engelond,
To take the bottle where the poison was,
And drank, and gave his fellow drink also,
For which anon they died both two.
But certainly, I suppose that Avicenna22
Described never, in any chapter or treatise,
More awful symptoms of poisoning
Than had these wretches two, before their ending.
Thus ended these murderers two,
And also the false poisoner as well.
Oh cursed sin of all cursedness!
Oh traitorous murderers, oh wickedness!
Oh gluttony, lechery and gambling!
You blasphemer of Christ with vile words
And oaths great, out of pride and habit!
Alas! mankind, how may it happen
That to your Creator who you wrought,
And with his precious heart blood you redeemed,
You are so false and so unnatural, alas!
Now, good men, may God forgive you your trespasses,
And protect you from the sin of avarice.
My holy pardon may all you cure—
So long as you offer coin of gold or sterling,
Or else silver brooches, spoons or rings.
Bow your head under this holy bull!
Come up, you wives, offer of your wool!
Your names I enter here in my list anon:
Into the bliss of heaven you shall go.
I you absolve, by my high power—
You who will make an offering—as clean and pure
As you were born. And look, sirs, thus I preach.
And Jesus Christ, who is our souls’ healer,
May He grant you His pardon to receive,
For that is best; I will you not deceive.
The Epilogue
But sirs, one word forgot I in my tale:
I have relics and pardons in my pouch
As fair as any man in England,
Whiche were me yeven by the popes hond.
If any of yow wol, of devocioun,
Offren, and han myn absolucioun,
Cometh forth anon, and kneleth heer adoun,
And mekely receyveth my pardoun:
Or elles, taketh pardon as ye wende,
Al newe and fresh, at every tounes ende,
So that ye offren alwey newe and newe
Nobles and pens, which that be gode and trewe.
It is an honour to everich that is heer,
That ye mowe have a suffisant pardoneer
T‘assoille yow, in contree as ye ryde,
For aventures which that may bityde.
Peraventure ther may falle oon or two
Doun of his hors, and breke his nekke atwo.
Look which a seuretee is it to yow alle
That I am in your felaweship y-falle,
That may assoille yow, bothe more and lasse,
Whan that the soule shal fro the body passe.
I rede that our hoste heer shal biginne,
For he is most envoluped in sinne.
Com forth, sir hoste, and offre first anon.
And thou shalt kisse the rel
iks everichon,
Ye, for a grote! unbokel anon thy purs.
“Nay, nay,” quod he, “than have I Cristes curs!
Lat be,” quod he, “it shal nat be, so thee‘ch!
Thou woldest make me kisse thyn old breech,
And swere it were a relik of a seint,
Thogh it were with thy fundement depeint!
But by the croys which that seint Eleyne fond,
I wolde I hadde thy coillons in myn hond
In stede of relikes or of seintuarie;
Lat cutte hem of, I wol thee helpe hem carie;
They shul be shryned in an hogges tord.”
This pardoner answerde nat a word;
So wrooth he was, no word ne wolde he seye.
“Now,” quod our host, “I wol no lenger pleye
With thee, ne with noon other angry man.”
But right anon the worthy Knight bigan,
Which were given to me by the Pope’s hand.
If any of you will out of devotion
Offer and have my absolution,
Come forth now, and kneel here down,
And meekly receive my pardon;
Or else, take pardon as you travel,
All new and fresh, at every mile’s end—
So long as you make an offering anew each time
Of gold coins or pence, which be good and true.
It is an honor to everyone who is here
To have such an able pardoner
To absolve you, as you ride the countryside,
For anything that may you betide.
Perhaps there may fall one or two
Down off his horse, and break his neck in two.
Look what a security it is to you all
That I am in your fellowship befallen,
Who may absolve you, both great and small,
When the soul shall from the body pass.
I advise our Host here to begin,
For he is the most wrapped up in sin.
Come forth, sir Host, and offer first now,
And you shall kiss the relics every one,
Yes, for a groat: unbuckle now your purse.
“No, no,” said he, “then have I Christ’s curse!
Let be,” said he, “it shall not be so as I hope to prosper!
You would make me kiss your old breeches
And swear they are the relic of a saint,
Though by your fundament they be stained!
But by the true cross that Saint Helena found,
I would I had your balls in my hand
Instead of relics or things holy.
Let them be cut off! I will help you them carry.
They shall be enshrined in a hog’s turd!”
This Pardoner answered not a word;
So angry he was, no word would he say.
“Now,” said our Host, “I will no longer play
With you, nor with any other angry man.”
But right anon the worthy Knight began,
Whan that he saugh that al the peple lough,
“Na-more of this, for it is right y-nough;
Sir Pardoner, be glad and mery of chere;
And ye, sir host, that been to me so dere,
I prey yow that ye kisse the Pardoner.
And Pardoner, I prey thee, drawe thee neer.
And, as we diden, lat us laughe and pleye.”
Anon they kiste, and riden forth hir weye.
When he saw all the people laugh,
“No more of this, for it is quite enough!
Sir Pardoner, be glad and merry of cheer;
And you, sir Host, who is to me so dear,
I pray that you kiss the Pardoner.
And Pardoner, I pray you, draw yourself near,
And, as we did, let us laugh and play.”
Anon they kissed, and rode forth on their way.
The Prioresses Tale
The Prologue
DOMINE, DOMINUS NOSTER
O Lord our Lord, thy name how merveillous
Is in this large worlde y-sprad—quod she:—
For noght only thy laude precious
Parfourned is by men of dignitee,
But by the mouth of children thy bountee
Parfourned is, for on the brest soukinge
Some tyme shewen they thyn heryinge.
Wherfor in laude, as I best can or may,
Of thee, and of the whyte lily flour
Which that thee bar, and is a mayde alway,
To telle a storie I wol do my labour;
Not that I may encresen hir honour;
For she hir-self is honour, and the rote
Of bountee, next hir sone, and soules bote.—
O moder mayde! o mayde moder free!
O bush unbrent, brenninge in Moyses sighte,
That ravisedest doun fro the deitee,
Thurgh thyn humblesse, the goost that in
th‘alighte,
Of whos vertu, whan he thyn herte lighte,
Conceived was the fadres sapience,
Help me to telle it in thy reverence!
Lady! thy bountee, thy magnificence,
Thy vertu, and thy grete humilitee
Ther may no tonge expresse in no science;
For som-tyme, lady, er men praye to thee,
Thou goost biforn of thy benignitee,
And getest us the light, thurgh thy preyere,
To gyden us un-to thy sone so dere.
The Prioress’s Tale
The Prologue
DOMINE, DOMINUS NOSTER
Oh Lord, our Lord, your name so marvelous
Is in this world spread—said she—
For not only your praise precious
Celebrated is by men of dignity,
But by the mouths of children your bounty
Celebrated is, for suckling at the breast
Do they celebrate your praise.1
Therefore in praise, as I best can or may,
Of you and of the white lily flower
Who bore you, and is a maid always,2
To tell a story will I do my labor;
Not that I may increase her honor,
For she herself is honor and the root
Of bounty, next to her son, and soul’s healer.
Oh mother Maid, Oh maid Mother of grace!
Oh bush unburned, burning in Moses’ sight,3
Who ravished down from the Deity,
Through your humility, the Holy Spirit who within
you alighted,
Of whose virtue, when he your heart made light,
Conceived was the Father’s knowledge,4
Help me tell it in your reverence!
Lady, your bounty, your magnificence,
Your virtue and your great humility
There may no tongue know how to say,
For sometimes, Lady, before men pray to you,
You go before them in your graciousness,
And bring us the light, through your prayer,
To guide us unto your Son so dear.
My conning is so wayk, o blisful quene,
For to declare thy grete worthinesse,
That I ne may the weighte nat sustene,
But as a child of twelf monthe old, or lesse,
That can unnethes any word expresse,
Right so fare I, and therfor I yow preye,
Gydeth my song that I shal of yow seye.
The Tale
Ther was in Asie, in a greet citee,
Amonges Cristen folk, a Jewerye,
Sustened by a lord of that contree
For foule usure and lucre of vilanye,
Hateful to Crist and to his companye;
And thurgh the strete men mighte ryde or wende,
For it was free, and open at either ende.
A litel scole of Cristen folk ther stood
Doun at the ferther ende, in which ther were
Children an heep, y-comen of Cristen blood,
That lerned in that scole yeer by
yere
Swich maner doctrine as men used there,
This is to seyn, to singen and to rede,
As smale children doon in hir childhede.
Among thise children was a widwes sone,
A litel clergeon, seven yeer of age,
That day by day to scole was his wone,
And eek also, wher-as he saugh th‘image
Of Cristes moder, hadde he in usage,
As him was taught, to knele adoun and seye
His Ave Marie, as he goth by the weye.
Thus hath this widwe hir litel sone y-taught
Our blisful lady, Cristes moder dere,
To worshipe ay, and he forgat it naught,
For sely child wol alday sone lere;
But ay, whan I remembre on this matere,
Seint Nicholas stant ever in my presence,
For he so yong to Crist did reverence.
My power is weak, Oh blissful Queen,
To declare your great worthiness
I may not the weight sustain;
But as a child of twelve months old, or less,
Who cannot any word express,
Right so fare I, and therefore I pray you,
Guide my song that I shall of you say.
The Tale
There was in Asia, in a great city,
Among Christian folk a Jewish ghetto,
Sustained by a lord of that country
For foul usury and profits shameful,
Hateful to Christ and all his company;
And through the street men might ride or wend,
For it was free and open at either end.
A little school of Christian folk there stood
Down at the further end, in which there were
Children many, of Christian blood,
Who learned in that school year by year
Such lessons as men taught there,
That is to say, to sing and read,
As small children do in their childhood.
Among these children was a widow’s son,
A little schoolboy, seven years of age,
Who day by day to school he went,
And also, where he saw the image
Of Christ’s mother, observed the custom,
As he was taught, to kneel down and say
His Ave Maria,5 as he went along his way.
Thus had this widow her little son taught
Our blissful Lady, Christ’s mother dear,
To worship ever, and he forgot it not,
Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 59