Tak in thyn hand, and put thy-self ther-inne
Of this quik-silver an ounce, and heer biginne,
In the name of Crist, to wexe a philosofre.
Ther been ful fewe, whiche that I wolde profre
To shewen hem thus muche of my science.
For ye shul seen heer, by experience,
As far as my understanding will stretch.
This canon was my lord, do you suppose?
Sir Host, in faith, and by heaven’s queen,
It was another canon, and not he,
Who knew a hundredfold more subtlety.
He has betrayed folk many times;
Of his falseness it depresses me to rhyme.
Whenever I speak of his falsehood,
For shame of him my cheeks wax red.
At least they begin to glow,
For redness have I none, right well I know,
In my visage; for fumes diverse
Of metals, which you have heard me rehearse,
Consumed and wasted have my redness.
Now take heed of this canon’s cursedness!
“Sire,” said he to the priest, “let your man go
For quicksilver, that we have it anon;
And let him bring ounces two or three;
And when he comes, as fast as you shall see
A wondrous thing, which you never saw before this.”
“Sire,” said the priest, “it shall be done, truly.”
He bade his servant fetch him this thing,
And he already was at his bidding,
And went him forth, and came anon again
With this quicksilver, shortly to say,
And took these ounces three to the canon;
And he them laid fair and well down,
And bade the servant coals to bring,
That he anon might go to his working.
The coals right anon were fetched,
And this canon took out his crucible
From his bosom, and showed it to the priest.
“This instrument,” said he, “which you see,
Take in your hand, and put yourself therein
Of this quicksilver an ounce, and here begin,
In name of Christ, to become an alchemist.
There be full few to whom I would offer
To show them this much of my science.
For you shall see here, by experience,
That this quik-silver wol I mortifye
Right in your sighte anon, withouten lye,
And make it as good silver and as fyn
As ther is any in your purs or myn,
Or elleswher, and make it malliable;
And elles, holdeth me fals and unable
Amonges folk for ever to appere!
I have a poudre heer, that coste me dere,
Shal make al good, for it is cause of al
My conning, which that I yow shewen shal.
Voydeth your man, and lat him be ther-oute,
And shet the dore, whyls we been aboute
Our privetee, that no man us espye
Whyls that we werke in this philosophye.”
Al as he bad, fulfilled was in dede,
This ilke servant anon-right out yede,
And his maister shette the dore anon,
And to hir labour speedily they gon.
This preest, at this cursed chanouns bidding,
Up-on the fyr anon sette this thing,
And blew the fyr, and bisied him ful faste;
And this chanoun in-to the croslet caste
A poudre, noot I wher-of that it was
Y-maad, other of chalk, other of glas,
Or som-what elles, was nat worth a flye
To blynde with the preest; and bad him hye
The coles for to couchen al above
The croslet; “for, in tokening I thee love,”
Quod this chanoun, “thyn owene hondes two
Shul werche al thing which that shal heer be do.”
“Graunt mercy,” quod the preest, and was ful glad,
And couched coles as the chanoun bad.
And whyle he bisy was, this feendly wrecche,
This fals chanoun, the foule feend him fecche!
Out of his bosom took a bechen cole,
In which ful subtilly was maad an hole,
And ther-in put was of silver lymaille
An ounce, and stopped was, with-outen fayle,
The hole with wex, to kepe the lymail in.
That this quicksilver I will solidify
Right in your sight anon, without lie,
And make it as good as silver and as fine
As there is any in your purse or mine,
Or elsewhere, and make it malleable;
Or if not hold me false and worthless
Among folk forever to appear.
I have a powder here, that cost me dear,
Shall make it all good, for it is cause of all
My cunning, which I shall show you.
Send away your man, and let him be gone out,
And shut the door, while we be about
Our secrecy, that no man us espy,
Whilst that we work in this philosophy.”
All as he bade was fulfilled in deed.
This same servant anon right went out,
And his master anon shut the door,
And speedily went they to their labor.
This priest, at this cursed canon’s bidding,
Upon the fire anon set this thing,
And blew the fire, and busied him full fast.
And this canon into the crucible cast
A powder, I know not of what it was
Made, maybe of chalk, maybe of glass,
Or something else, which was not worth a fly,
To blind with this priest; and bade him hie
The coals for to arrange all above
The crucible. “For as a sign that I you love,”
Said this canon, “your own hands two
Shall work all things which we shall here do.”
“Grant mercy,” said the priest, and was full glad,
And set the coals as the canon bade.
And while he busy was, this fiendish wretch,
This false canon—the foul fiend him fetch!—
Out of his bosom took a beechwood charcoal,
In which full subtly was made a hole,
And therein were put an ounce of silver filings,
And was stopped, without fail,
This hole with wax, to keep the filings in.
And understondeth, that this false gin
Was nat maad ther, but it was maad bifore;
And othere thinges I shal telle more
Herafterward, which that he with him broghte;
Er he cam ther, him to bigyle he thoghte,
And so he dide, er that they wente a-twinne;
Til he had terved him, coude he not blinne.
It dulleth me whan that I of him speke,
On his falshede fayn wolde I me wreke,
If I wiste how; but he is heer and ther:
He is so variaunt, he abit no-wher.
But taketh heed now, sirs, for goddes love!
He took his cole of which I spak above,
And in his hond he baar it prively.
And whyls the preest couched busily
The coles, as I tolde yow er this,
This chanoun seyde, “freend, ye doon amis;
This is nat couched as it oghte be;
But sone I shal amenden it,” quod he.
“Now lat me medle therwith but a whyle,
For of yow have I pitee, by seint Gyle!
Ye been right hoot, I see wel how ye swete,
Have heer a cloth, and wype away the wete.”
And whyles that the preest wyped his face,
This chanoun took his cole with harde grace,
And leyde it above, up-on the middeward
Of the croslet, and blew wel afterward,
Til that the coles gonne faste brenne.
“Now yeve us drinke,” quod the chanoun thenne,
“As swythe al shal be wel, I undertake;
Sitte we doun, and lat us mery make.”
And whan that this chanounes bechen cole
Was brent, al the lymaille, out of the hole,
Into the croslet fil anon adoun;
And so it moste nedes, by resoun,
Sin it so even aboven couched was;
But ther-of wiste the preest no-thing, alas!
He demed alle the coles y-liche good,
For of the sleighte he no-thing understood.
And understand that this trick thing
Was not made there, but it was made before;
And other things I shall tell more
Hereafterward, which he with him brought.
Before he came there, him to beguile he thought,
And so he did, before they went apart;
Till he had skinned him, he could not cease.
It depresses me when I of him speak.
On his falsehood gladly would I vengeance wreak,
If I knew how, but he is here and there;
He is so changeable, he abides nowhere.9
But take heed now, sires, for God’s love!
He took his charcoal of which I spoke above,
And in his hand he bore it secretly.
And while the priest arranged busily
The coals, as I told you before this,
This canon said, “Friend, you do amiss.
This is not arranged as it ought be;
But soon I shall amend it,” said he.
“Now let me meddle with it a little while,
For of you I have pity, by Saint Gile!
You be right eager, I see how you sweat.
Have here a cloth, and wipe away the wet.”
And while the priest wiped his face,
This canon took his charcoal—to him no grace!—
And laid it above the middle
Of the crucible, and blew well afterward
Till that the coals began to fast burn.
“Now give us drink,” said the canon then;
“And quickly all shall be well, I undertake.
Sit we down, and let us merry make.”
And when that this canon’s beechwood coal
Was burnt, all of the filings out of the hole
Into the crucible fell soon adown;
And so it must needs, by reason
Since it was so precisely arranged above.
But alas! the priest nothing knew thereof.
He deemed all the coals alike good,
For of that trick he nothing understood.
And whan this alkamistre saugh his tyme,
“Rys up,” quod he, “sir preest, and stondeth by me;
And for I woot wel ingot have ye noon,
Goth, walketh forth, and bring us a chalk-stoon;
For I wol make oon of the same shap
That is an ingot, if I may han hap.
And bringeth eek with yow a bolle or a panne,
Ful of water, and ye shul see wel thanne
How that our bisinesse shal thryve and preve.
And yet, for ye shul han no misbileve
Ne wrong conceit of me in your absence,
I ne wol nat been out of your presence
But go with yow, and come with yow ageyn.”
The chambre-dore, shortly for to seyn,
They opened and shette, and wente hir weye.
And forth with hem they carieden the keye,
And come agayn with-outen any delay.
What sholde I tarien al the longe day?
He took the chalk, and shoop it in the wyse
Of an ingot, as I shal yow devyse.
I seye, he took out of his owene sieve
A teyne of silver (yvele mote he cheve!)
Which that ne was nat but an ounce of weighte;
And taketh heed now of his cursed sleighte!
He shoop his ingot, in lengthe and eek in brede,
Of this teyne, with-outen any drede,
So slyly, that the preest it nat espyde;
And in his sieve agayn he gan it hyde;
And fro the fyr he took up his matere,
And in th‘ingot putte it with mery chere,
And in the water-vessel he it caste
Whan that him luste, and bad the preest as faste,
“Look what ther is, put in thyn hand and grope,
Thow finde shalt ther silver, as I hope;
What, devel of helle! sholde it elles be?
Shaving of silver silver is, pardee!”
He putte his hond in, and took up a teyne
Of silver fyn, and glad in every veyne
Was this preest, whan he saugh that it was so.
And when this alchemist saw his time,
“Rise up,” said he, “sir priest, and stand by me;
And for well I know ingot mold have you none,
Go, walk forth, and bring a chalk stone;
For I will make of it the same shape
That is an ingot, if I may have good luck.
And bring also with you a bowl or a pan
Full of water, and you shall see well then
How our business shall thrive and succeed.
And yet, that you shall have no disbelief
Or wrong idea of me in your absence,
I will not be out of your presence,
But go with you and come with you again.”
The chamber door, shortly for to say,
They opened and shut, and went their way.
And forth with them they carried the key,
And returned again without delay.
Why should I tarry all the long day?
He took the chalk and made it into the shape
Of an ingot, as I shall you describe.
I say, he took out of his own sleeve
A small silver ingot—so does he evil!—
That was not but an ounce of weight.
And take heed now of his cursed sleight!
He shaped his mold in length and breadth
Of this ingot, without any doubt,
So slyly that the priest not it espied,
And in his sleeve again he began it to hide,
And from the fire he took up his material,
And into the mold put it with merry face,
And in the water-vessel he it cast,
When that he desired, and bade the priest at last,
“Look what there is; put it in your hand and test.
You shall find there silver, as I hope.”
What, devil of hell, shall it else be?
Shavings of silver, silver is, by God!
He put his hand in and took up an ingot
Of silver fine, and glad in every vein
Was this priest, when he saw it was so.
“Goddes blessing, and his modres also,
And alle halwes have ye, sir chanoun,”
Seyde this preest, “and I hir malisoun,
But, and ye vouche-sauf to techen me
This noble craft and this subtilitee,
I wol be youre, in al that ever I may!”
Quod the chanoun, “yet wol I make assay
The second tyme, that ye may taken hede
And been expert of this, and in your nede
Another day assaye in myn absence
This disciplyne and this crafty science.
Lat take another ounce,” quod he tho,
“Of quik-silver, with-outen wordes mo,
And do ther-with as ye han doon er this
With that other, which that now silver is.”
This preest him bisieth in al that he can
To doon as this chanoun, this cursed man,
Comanded him, and faste he blew the fyr,
For to come to th‘effect of his desyr.
And this chanoun, right in the mene whyle,
Al redy
was, the preest eft to bigyle,
And, for a countenance, in his hande he bar
And holwe stikke (tak keep and be war!)
In the ende of which an ounce, and na-more,
Of silver lymail put was, as bifore
Was in his cole, and stopped with wex weel
For to kepe in his lymail every deel.
And whyl this preest was in his bisinesse,
This chanoun with his stikke gan him dresse
To him anon, and his pouder caste in
As he did er; (the devel out of his skin
Him terve, I pray to god, for his falshede;
For he was ever fals in thoght and dede);
And with this stikke, above the croslet,
That was ordeyned with that false get,
He stired the coles, til relente gan
The wex agayn the fyr, as every man,
But it a fool be, woot wel it mot nede,
And al that in the stikke was out yede,
“God’s blessing, and his mother’s also,
And all saints, have you, sir canon,”
Said the priest, “and I here me curse,
Unless you vouchsafe to teach me
This noble craft and this subtlety,
I will be yours in all that ever I may.”
Said the canon, “Yet will I make assay
The second time, that you may take heed
And be an expert of this, and as you need
Another day, assay in my absence
This discipline and this crafty science.
Let take another ounce,” said he then,
“Of quicksilver, without words more,
And do therewith as you have done before this
With that other, which now silver is.”
This priest busied himself in all that he could
To do as this canon, this cursed man,
Commanded him, and fast blew the fire,
For to come to the effect of his desire.
And this canon, right in the meanwhile,
Already was this priest again to beguile,
And for the sake of show in his hand he bore
A hollow stick—take care and beware!—
In the end of which an ounce, and no more,
Of silver filings put was, as before
Was in his charcoal, and stopped with wax well
For to keep in his filings every bit.
And while this priest was about his business,
This canon with his wand began to touch
The fire anon, and his powder cast in
As he did before—the devil out his skin
Him flay, I pray to God, for his falsehood!
For he was ever false in thought and deed—
And with this wand above the crucible,
That was prepared with that hollow end,
He stirred the coals until melting began
The wax against the fire, as every man,
But who a fool be, knows well it must needs do,
And all that was in the stick went out,
Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 68