Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  His mordre in his avisioun he say.

  His norice him expouned every del

  His sweven, and bad him for to kepe him wel

  For traisoun; but he nas but seven yeer old,

  And therfore litel tale hath he told

  Of any dreem, so holy was his herte.

  By god, I hadde lever than my sherte

  That ye had rad his legende, as have I.

  Dam Pertelote, I sey yow trewely,

  Macrobeus, that writ th‘avisioun

  In Affrike of the worthy Cipioun,

  Affermeth dremes, and seith that they been

  Warning of thinges that men after seen.

  And forther-more, I pray yow loketh wel

  In th‘olde testament, of Daniel,

  If he held dremes any vanitee.

  Reed eek of Joseph, and ther shul ye see

  Wher dremes ben somtyme (I sey nat alle)

  Warning of thinges that shul after falle.

  Loke of Egipt the king, daun Pharao,

  His bakere and his boteler also,

  Wher they ne felte noon effect in dremes.

  Who-so wol seken actes of sondry remes,

  May rede of dremes many a wonder thing.

  Lo Cresus, which that was of Lyde king,

  Mette he nat that he sat upon a tree,

  Which signified he sholde anhanged be?

  Lo heer Andromacha, Ectores wyf,

  That day that Ector sholde lese his lyf,

  She dremed on the same night biforn,

  How that the lyf of Ector sholde be lorn,

  If thilke day he wente in-to bataille;

  She warned him, but it mighte nat availle;

  He wente for to fighte nathelees,

  But he was slayn anoon of Achilles.

  But thilke tale is al to long to telle,

  Who was King Cenwulf ’s son, the noble king

  Of Mercia, how Kenelm dreamed a thing

  A little before he was murdered on a day

  His murder in his vision he saw.

  His nurse expounded every part

  Of his dream, and bade him to guard himself

  Against treason; but he was only seven years old,

  And therefore little did he take note

  Of any dream, so holy was his heart.

  By God, I’d give you my shirt

  If you had read his legend as I did.

  Dame Pertelote, I say to you truly,

  Macrobius,10 who wrote the treatise

  In Africa of the worthy Scipio,

  Affirms dreams, and says that they be

  Warnings of things that men afterward see.

  And furthermore, I pray you look well

  In the Old Testament, of Daniel,

  If he held dreams but vanity.

  Read also of Joseph, 11 and there you shall see

  Where dreams be sometime (I say not all)

  Warnings of things that shall after befall.

  Look at the Egyptian king, sir Pharaoh,

  His baker and his butler also,

  See whether they believed in dreams or no.

  Whoso would seek histories of sundry realms

  May read of dreams many a wondrous thing.

  Look at Croesus, who was of Lydia king,

  Did he not dream that he sat upon a tree,

  Which signified that he should hanged be?

  Look here at Andromacha, Hector’s wife,

  That day that Hector would lose his life,

  She dreamed on the same night before,

  How the life of Hector should be lost

  If that day he went into battle;

  She warned him, but to no avail;

  He went to fight nevertheless,

  But he was slain anon by Achilles.

  But this tale is all too long to tell,

  And eek it is ny day, I may nat dwelle.

  Shortly I seye, as for conclusioun,

  That I shal han of this avisioun

  Adversitee; and I seye forther-more,

  That I ne telle of laxatyves no store,

  For they ben venimous, I woot it wel;

  I hem defye, I love hem never a del.

  Now let us speke of mirthe, and stinte al this;

  Madame Pertelote, so have I blis,

  Of o thing god hath sent me large grace;

  For whan I see the beautee of your face,

  Ye ben so scarlet-reed about your yen,

  It maketh al my drede for to dyen;

  For, also siker as In principio,

  Mulier est hominis confusio;

  Madame, the sentence of this Latin is—

  Womman is mannes joye and al his blis.

  For whan I fele a-night your softe syde,

  Al-be-it that I may nat on you ryde,

  For that our perche is maad, so narwe, alas!

  I am so ful of joye and of solas

  That I defye bothe sweven and dreem.”

  And with that word he fley doun fro the beem,

  For it was day, and eek his hennes alle;

  And with a chuk he gan hem for to calle,

  For he had founde a corn, lay in the yerd.

  Royal he was, he was namore aferd;

  He fethered Pertelote twenty tyme,

  And trad as ofte, er that it was pryme.

  He loketh as it were a grim leoun;

  And on his toos he rometh up and doun,

  Him deyned not to sette his foot to grounde.

  He chukketh, whan he hath a corn y-founde,

  And to him rennen thanne his wyves alle.

  Thus royal, as a prince is in his halle,

  Leve I this Chauntecleer in his pasture;

  And after wol I telle his aventure.

  Whan that the month in which the world bigan,

  That highte March, whan god first maked man,

  And also it is near daybreak, I may not dwell.

  Briefly I say, in conclusion,

  That I shall have from this vision

  Adversity; and I say furthermore,

  That I set in laxatives no store,

  For they be poisonous, I know it well;

  I them defy, I love them not at all.

  Now let us speak of mirth and stop all this;

  Madame Pertelote, so I have bliss,

  Of one thing God has sent me bounteous grace:

  For when I see the beauty of your face—

  You be so scarlet red about your eyes—

  It makes me fear the more to die.

  —Just as surely as in principio,

  Mulier est hominis confusio.12

  Madame, the meaning of this Latin is

  ‘Woman is man’s joy and all his bliss.’

  For when I feel at night your soft side,

  Albeit that I may not on you ride,

  Because our perch is made so narrow, alas!

  I am so full of joy and comfort

  That I defy both dream and vision.”

  And with that word he flew down from the beam,

  For it was day, and so did his hens all,

  And with a cluck he began them to call,

  For he had found grain spread in the yard.

  Regal he was, he was no more afraid;

  He covered Pertelote with his wings twenty times,

  And trod her just as often, before the bell rang prime.

  He looked as if he were a proud lion,

  And on his toes he roamed up and down—

  He deigned not to set his foot to ground.

  He clucked when he had a bit of grain found,

  And to him ran then his wives all.

  Thus royal, as a prince in his hall,

  Leave I this Chanticleer at his dinner

  And after will I tell of his adventure.

  When the month in which the world began,

  That is called March, when God first made man,

  Was complet, and passed were also,

  Sin March bigan, thritty dayes and two,

&n
bsp; Bifel that Chauntecleer, in al his pryde,

  His seven wyves walking by his syde,

  Caste up his eyen to the brighte sonne,

  That in the signe of Taurus hadde y-roone

  Twenty degrees and oon, and somwhat more;

  And knew by kynde, and by noon other lore,

  That it was pryme, and crew with blisful stevene.

  “The sonne,” he sayde, “is clomben up on hevene

  Fourty degrees and oon, and more, y-wis.

  Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis,

  Herkneth thise blisful briddes how they singe,

  And see the fresshe floures how they springe;

  Ful is myn herte of revel and solas.”

  But sodeinly him fil a sorweful cas;

  For ever the latter ende of joye is wo.

  God woot that worldly joye is sone ago;

  And if a rethor coude faire endyte,

  He in a cronique saufly mighte it wryte,

  As for a sovereyn notabilitee.

  Now every wys man, lat him herkne me;

  This storie is al-so trewe, I undertake,

  As is the book of Launcelot de Lake,

  That wommen holde in ful gret reverence.

  Now wol I torne agayn to my sentence.

  A col-fox, ful of sly iniquitee,

  That in the grove hadde woned yeres three,

  By heigh imaginacioun forn-cast,

  The same night thurgh-out the hegges brast

  Into the yerd, ther Chauntecleer the faire

  Was wont, and eek his wyves, to repaire;

  And in a bed of wortes stille he lay,

  Til it was passed undern of the day,

  Wayting his tyme on Chauntecleer to falle,

  As gladly doon thise homicydes alle,

  That in awayt liggen to mordre men.

  O false mordrer, lurking in thy den!

  O newe Scariot, newe Genilon!

  Was complete, and passed were,

  Since March began, thirty days and two,

  It came to pass that Chanticleer, in all his pride,

  His seven wives walking by his side,

  Cast up his eyes to the bright sun,

  That in the sign of Taurus had then run

  Twenty degrees and one, and somewhat more;

  And knew by nature, and no other lore,

  That it was prime, and crowed with blissful voice.

  “The sun,” he said, “has climbed up in heaven

  Forty degrees and one, and more, I know.

  Madame Pertelote, my world’s bliss,

  Listen to these blissful birds, how they sing,

  And see the fresh flowers, how they spring;

  Full is my heart of joy and comfort.”

  But suddenly befell him a sorrowful event,

  For ever the latter end of joy is woe.

  God knows that worldly joy is soon gone;

  And if a rhetorician could it well indite,

  He in a chronicle safely might write

  That as a sovereign actuality.

  Now every wise man, let him hear me:

  This story is just as true, I declare,

  As is the book of Lancelot de Lake,13

  That women hold in full great reverence.

  Now will I turn again to my main point.

  A black-marked fox, full of sly iniquity,

  That in the grove had dwelt years three,

  And as foreseen in Chanticleer’s dream,

  The same night through the hedges burst

  Into the yard, where Chanticleer the fair

  Was wont, and his wives, to rest;

  And in a bed of herbs still he lay,

  Till past midmorning of the day

  Watching for his time on Chanticleer to fall,

  As usually do these murderers all,

  Who lie await to murder men.

  Oh false murderer, lurking in your den!

  Oh new Iscariot, new Ganelon!

  False dissimilour, O Greek Sinon,

  That broghtest Troye al outrely to sorwe!

  O Chauntecleer, acursed be that morwe,

  That thou into that yerd flough fro the bemes:

  Thou were ful wel y-warned by thy dremes,

  That thilke day was perilous to thee.

  But what that god forwoot mot nedes be,

  After the opinioun of certeyn clerkis.

  Witnesse on him, that any perfit clerk is,

  That in scole is gret altercacioun

  In this matere, and greet disputisoun,

  And hath ben of an hundred thousand men.

  But I ne can not bulte it to the bren,

  As can the holy doctour Augustyn,

  Or Boece, or the bishop Bradwardyn,

  Whether that goddes worthy forwiting

  Streyneth me nedely for to doon a thing,

  (Nedely clepe I simple necessitee);

  Or elles, if free choys be graunted me

  To do that same thing, or do it noght,

  Though god forwoot it, er that it was wroght;

  Or if his witing streyneth nevere a del

  But by necessitee condicionel.

  I wol not han to do of swich matere;

  My tale is of a cok, as ye may here,

  That took his counseil of his wyf, with sorwe,

  To walken in the yerd upon that morwe

  That he had met the dreem, that I yow tolde.

  Wommennes counseils been ful ofte colde;

  Wommannes counseil broghte us first to wo,

  And made Adam fro paradys to go,

  Ther-as he was ful mery, and wel at ese.—

  But for I noot, to whom it mighte displese,

  If I counseil of wommen wolde blame,

  Passe over, for I seyde it in my game.

  Rede auctours, wher they trete of swich matere,

  And what thay seyn of wommen ye may here.

  Thise been the cokkes wordes, and nat myne;

  I can noon harm of no womman divyne.—

  False dissembler, Oh Greek Sinon,14

  Who brought Troy quite utterly to sorrow!

  Oh Chanticleer, cursed be that morrow,

  That you into that yard flew from the beams!

  You were full well warned by your dreams

  That that day was perilous to you.

  But that which God foreknows must occur,

  After the opinion of certain scholars.

  Let him be witness, who any perfect scholar is,

  That in the schools is great altercation

  In this matter, and great disputation,

  Carried on by a hundred thousand men.

  But I cannot get into the points fine,

  As can the holy doctor Augustine,

  Or Boethius, or the bishop Bradwardine,15

  Whether that God’s excellent foreknowledge

  Constrains me necessarily to do a thing

  (“Necessarily” call I simple necessity);

  Or else, if free choice be granted me

  To do that same thing or do it not,

  Though God foreknew it before I was wrought;

  Or if his knowing constrains not at all

  But by necessity conditional.

  I will not have to do with such matters;

  My tale is of a cock, as you may hear,

  That took advice from his wife, with sorrow,

  To walk in the yard upon that morning

  That he had dreamt that dream that I told you.

  Woman’s counsel can be full often fatal;

  Woman’s counsel brought us first to woe,

  And made Adam from Paradise to go,

  There where he was full merry and well at ease.

  But since I know not whom it might displease,

  If women’s counsel I were to blame,

  Pass over, for I said it in my game.

  Read authorities, where they treat in such matters,

  And what they say of women you may hear.

  These be the cock�
��s words, and not mine;

  I can find no harm in any woman.

  Faire in the sond, to bathe hir merily,

  Lyth Pertelote, and alle hir sustres by,

  Agayn the sonne; and Chauntecleer so free

  Song merier than the mermayde in the see;

  For Phisiologus seith sikerly,

  How that they singen wel and merily

  And so bifel that, as he caste his ye,

  Among the wortes, on a boterflye,

  He was war of this fox that lay ful lowe.

  No-thing ne liste him thanne for to crowe,

  But cryde anon, “cok, cok,” and up he sterte,

  As man that was affrayed in his herte.

  For naturelly a beest desyreth flee

  Fro his contrarie, if he may it see,

  Though he never erst had seyn it with his yë.

  This Chauntecleer, when he gan him espye,

  He wolde han fled, but that the fox anon

  Seyde, “Gentil sire, alias! wher wol ye gon?

  Be ye affrayed of me that am your freend?

  Now certes, I were worse than a feend,

  If I to yow wolde harm or vileinye.

  I am nat come your counseil for t‘espye;

  But trewely, the cause of my cominge

  Was only for to herkne how that ye singe.

  For trewely ye have as mery a stevene

  As eny aungel hath, that is in hevene;

  Therwith ye han in musik more felinge

  Than hadde Boëce, or any that can singe.

  My lord your fader (god his soule blesse!)

  And eek your moder, of hir gentilesse,

  Han in myn hous y-been, to my gret ese;

  And certes, sire, ful fayn wolde I yow plese.

  But for men speke of singing, I wol saye,

  So mote I brouke wel myn eyen tweye,

  Save yow, I herde never man so singe

  As dide your fader in the morweninge;

  Certes, it was of herte, al that he song.

  And for to make his voys the more strong,

  He wolde so peyne him, that with bothe his yën

  Fair in the sand, to bathe herself merrily,

  Lay Pertelote, and all her sisters by,

  In the sun, and Chanticleer so free

  Sang merrier than the mermaid in the sea—

  For Physiologus16 says truly

  That they sing well and merrily—

  And so it befell that, as he cast his eye

  Among the herbs, on a butterfly,

  He became aware of this fox that lay full low.

  Not at all then did he wish to crow.

  But cried anon, “Cock, cock!” and up he leapt

  Like someone who was frightened in his heart.

  For naturally a beast desires to flee

  From his opposite, if he may it see,

  Though he never before had seen it with his eye.

  This Chanticleer, when he caught him in his sight,

  He would have fled, but that the fox anon

  Said, “Gentle sir, alas! where will you go?