And in the croslet hastily it fel.
Now gode sirs, what wol ye bet than wel?
Whan that this preest thus was bigyled ageyn,
Supposing noght but trouthe, soth to seyn,
He was so glad, that I can nat expresse
In no manere his mirthe and his gladnesse;
And to the chanoun he profred eftsone
Body and good; “ye,” quod the chanoun sone,
“Though povre I be, crafty thou shalt me finde;
I warne thee, yet is ther more bihinde.
Is ther any coper her-inne?” seyde he.
“Ye,” quod the preest, “sir, I trowe wel ther be.”
“Elles go bye us som, and that as swythe,
Now, gode sir, go forth thy wey and hy the.”
He wente his wey, and with the coper cam,
And this chanoun it in his handes nam,
And of that coper weyed out but an ounce.
Al to simple is my tonge to pronounce,
As ministre of my wit, the doublenesse
Of this chanoun, rote of al cursednesse.
He seemed freendly to hem that knewe him noght,
But he was freendly bothe in herte and thoght.
It werieth me to telle of his falsnesse,
And nathelees yet wol I it expresse,
To th‘entente that men may be war therby,
And for noon other cause, trewely.
He putte his ounce of coper in the croslet,
And on the fyr as swythe he hath it set,
And caste in poudre, and made the preest to blowe,
And in his werking for to stoupe lowe,
As he dide er, and al nas but a jape;
Right as him liste, the preest he made his ape;
And afterward in th‘ingot he it caste,
And in the panne putte it at the laste
Of water, and in he putte his owene hond.
And in his sieve (as ye biforn-hond
Herde me telle) he hadde a silver teyne.
He slyly took it out, this cursed heyne—
Unwiting this preest of his false craft—
And into the crucible hastily it fell.
Now, good sirs, what can be better than well?
When this priest thus was beguiled again,
Supposing nought but truth to witness,
He was so glad that I cannot express
In any manner his mirth and his gladness;
And to the canon he offered again
Body and soul. “Yea,” said the canon soon,
“Though I poor be, skillful shall you find me.
I warn you, there is yet more to see.
Is there any copper here?” said he.
“Yes,” said the priest, “I think—or maybe not.”
“Then go buy us some, and right quick;
Now sir, go forth your way and hurry.”
He went his way, and with the copper came,
And this canon took it in his hands,
And of that copper weighed out but an ounce.
All too simple is my tongue to pronounce,
As minister of my wit, the duplicity
Of this canon, root of all cursedness!
He seemed friendly to those who knew him not,
But he was fiendish both in work and thought.
It wearies me to tell of his falseness,
And nevertheless yet will I express it,
With the intent that men may be warned thereby,
And for no other cause, truly.
He put this ounce of copper in the crucible,
And on the fire immediately he has it set,
And cast in the powder, and made the priest to blow,
And in his working for to stoop low,
As he did before—and all was but a jape;
Right as he wished, the priest he made his ape!
And afterward in the mold he it cast,
And in the pan put it at the last
Of water, and in he put his own hand,
And in his sleeve (as you beforehand
Heard me tell) he had a silver ingot.
He slyly took it out, this cursed wretch,
Ignorant this priest of his false craft,
And in the pannes botme he hath it laft;
And in the water rombled to and fro,
And wonder prively took up also
The coper teyne, noght knowing this preest,
And hidde it, and him hente by the breest,
And to him spak, and thus seyde in his game,
“Stoupeth adoun, by god, ye be to blame,
Helpeth me now, as I dide yow whyl-er,
Putte in your hand, and loketh what is ther.”
This preest took up this silver teyne anon,
And thanne seyde the chanoun, “lat us gon
With thise three teynes, which that we han wroght,
To son goldsmith, and wite if they been oght.
For, by my feith, I nolde, for myn hood,
But-if that they were silver, fyn and good,
And that as swythe preved shal it be.”
Un-to the goldsmith with thise teynes three
They wente, and putte thise teynes in assay
To fyr and hamer; mighte no man sey nay,
But that they weren as hem oghte be.
This sotted preest, who was gladder than he?
Was never brid gladder agayn the day,
Ne nightingale, in the sesoun of May,
Nas never noon that luste bet to singe;
Ne lady lustier in carolinge
Or for to speke of love and wommanhede,
Ne knight in armes to doon an hardy dede
To stonde in grace of his lady dere,
Than had this preest this sory craft to lere;
And to the chanoun thus he spak and seyde,
“For love of god, that for us alle deyde,
And as I may deserve it un-to yow,
What shal this receit coste? telleth now!”
“By our lady,” quod this chanoun, “it is dere,
I warne yow wel; for, save I and a frere,
In Engelond ther can no man it make.”
“No fors,” quod he, “now, sir, for goddes sake,
What shal I paye? telleth me, I preye.”
“Y-wis,” quod he, “it is ful dere, I seye;
And in the pan’s bottom he has it left;
And in the water groped to and fro,
And wondrous secretly took up also
The copper piece, the priest still deceived,
And hid it, and him grasped by the breast,
And him spoke, and thus said in his game:
”Stoop down, by God, be you to blame!
Help me now, as I did you before;
And put in your hand, and look what is there.”
This priest took up this silver ingot anon,
And then said the canon, ”Let us go
With these three ingots, that we have wrought,
To some goldsmith and learn if they be what they ought,
For, by my faith, I would not want, by my hood,
That they were anything but silver fine and good,
And that soon shall it tested be.”
Unto the goldsmith with these ingots three
They went and put their ingots in assay
To fire and hammer; might no man say nay,
But that they were as they ought to be.
This besotted priest, who was gladder than he?
Was never a bird gladder at daybreak,
No nightingale, in the season of May,
Was ever any that lusted better to sing;
Nor lady lustier in caroling,
Or for to speak of love and womanhood,
Nor knight in arms to do a brave deed,
To stand in grace of his lady dear,
Than was this priest this sorry craft to learn.
And to the canon thus he spoke and said:
“For love
of God, who for us all died,
And as I may you repay,
What shall this recipe cost? Tell now!”
“By our lady,” said the canon, “it is dear,
I warn you well; for save I and a confrere,
In England there can no man it make.”
“No matter,” said he, “no, sire, for God’s sake,
What shall I pay? Tell me, I pray.”
“Truly,” said he, “it is full dear, I say.
Sir, at o word, if that thee list it have,
Ye shul paye fourty pound, so god me save!
And, nere the freendship that ye did er this
To me, ye sholde paye more, y-wis.”
This preest the somme of fourty pound anon
Of nobles fette, and took hem everichon
To this chanoun, for this ilke receit;
Al his werking nas but fraude and deceit.
“Sir preest,” he seyde, “I kepe han no loos
Of my craft, for I wolde it kept were cloos;
And as ye love me, kepeth it secree;
For, and men knewe al my subtilitee,
By god, they wolden han so greet envye
To me, by-cause of my philosophye,
I sholde be deed, ther were non other weye.”
“God it forbede!” quod the preest, “what sey ye?”
Yet hadde I lever spenden al the good
Which that I have (and elles wexe I wood!)
Than that ye sholden falle in swich mescheef.”
“For your good wil, sir, have ye right good preef.”
Quod the chanoun, “and far-wel, grant mercy!”
He wente his wey and never the preest him sy
After that day; and whan that this preest sholde
Maken assay, at swich tyme as he wolde,
Of this receit, far-wel! it wolde nat be!
Lo, thus bijaped and bigyled was he!
Thus maketh he his introduccioun
To bringe folk to hir destruccioun.—
Considereth, sirs, how that, in ech estaat,
Bitwixe men and gold ther is debaat
So ferforth, that unnethes is ther noon
This multiplying blent so many oon,
That in good feith I trowe that it be
The cause grettest of swich scarsetee.
Philosophres speken so mistily
In this craft, that men can nat come therby,
For any wit that men han now a-dayes.
They mowe wel chiteren, as doon thise jayes,
And in her termes sette hir lust and peyne,
Sir, in a word, if that you wish it to have,
You shall pay forty pounds, so God me save!
And if were not for your kindness before this
To me, you would pay more, I guess.”
This priest the sum of forty pounds anon
Of nobles fetched, and took them every one
To this canon for this recipe.
All his working was nought but fraud and deceit.
“Sir priest,” he said, “I care not for renown
In my craft, for I would it were kept discreet;
And, as you love me, keep it secret.
For, if men knew all my subtlety,
By God, they would have so great envy
Of me by cause of my alchemy
I should be dead; there is no other way.”
“God it forbid,” said the priest, “what say you?
I would spend everything
That I have, or go crazy,
Rather than you should fall in such mischief.”
“For your good will, sir, have you right good proof,”
Said the canon, “and farewell, grant mercy!”
He went his way, and never the priest him saw
After that day; and when that the priest should
Make assay, at such time as he would,
Of this recipe, farewell! It would not be.
Look, thus tricked and beguiled was he!
Thus made he his introduction,
To bring folk to their destruction.
Consider, sires, how that, in each estate,
Between men and gold there is strife
So fierce that of gold there is to be had almost none.
This alchemistry deceives so many
That in good faith I believe it be
The cause greatest of such scarcity.
Alchemists speak so hazily
Of this craft that men cannot learn it thereby,
At least not with the wits that men have nowadays.
They more often chatter as do jays,
And in their terms set their lust and pain,
But to hir purpos shul they never atteyne.
A man may lightly lerne, if he have aught,
To multiplye, and bringe his good to naught!
Lo! swich a lucre is in this lusty game,
A mannes mirthe it wol torne un-to grame,
And empten also grete and hevy purses,
And maken folk for to purchasen curses
Of hem, that han hir good therto y-lent.
O! fy! for shame! they that han been brent,
Alias! can they nat flee the fyres hete?
Ye that it use, I rede ye it lete,
Lest ye lese al; for bet than never is late.
Never to thryve were to long a date.
Though ye prolle ay, ye shul it never finde;
Ye been as bolde as is Bayard the blinde,
That blundreth forth, and peril casteth noon;
He is as bold to renne agayn a stoon
As for to goon besydes in the weye.
So faren ye that multiplye, I seye.
If that your yën can nat seen aright,
Loke that your minde lakke noght his sight.
For, though ye loke never so brode, and stare,
Ye shul nat winne a myte on that chaffare,
But wasten al that ye may rape and renne.
Withdrawe the fyr, lest it to faste brenne;
Medleth na-more with that art, I mene,
For, if ye doon, your thrift is goon ful clene.
And right as swythe I wol yow tellen here,
What philosophres seyn in this matere.
Lo, thus seith Arnold of the Newe Toun,
As his Rosarie maketh mencioun;
He seith right thus, with-outen any lye,
“Ther may no man Mercurie mortifye,
But it be with his brother knowleching.
How that he, which that first seyde this thing,
Of philosophres fader was, Hermes;
He seith, how that the dragoun, doutelees,
Ne deyeth nat, but-if that he be slayn
With his brother; and that is for to sayn,
But to their purpose shall they never attain.
A man may easily learn, if he has anything,
To alchemize, and bring himself to nought!
Look! Such gain is in this fine game,
That a man’s mirth it will turn unto shame,
And empty also great and heavy purses,
And make folk for to purchase curses
On those to whom they their goods leant.
Oh, fie, for shame! They who have been burnt,
Alas, can they not flee the fire’s heat?
You who it use, I advise you leave it,
Lest you lose all; for better than never is late.
Never to thrive is too long a wait.
Though you prowl forever, you shall never find it.
You be as bold as is Bayard the blind,10
Who blunders forth and peril thinks not upon.
He is as likely to run against a stone
As for to go along the road.
So fare you who alchemize, I say.
If your eyes cannot see aright,
Look that your mind lacks not its sight.
For though you look never so hard and stare,
You shall nothing profit in those wares,
&nb
sp; But rather lose all that you may acquire.
Dampen the fire, lest it too fast burn;
Meddle no more with that art, I say,
For if you do, your good is gone full clean.
And right as rain I will tell you here
What alchemists say in this matter.
Look, thus says Arnaldus of Villanova,11
As he in his Rosarie made mention;
He says right thus, without any lie:
“There may no man mercury solidify
But it be with his brother sulphur;
How be that he who first said this thing
Of alchemists’ father was, Hermes Trismegistus;12
He said how the dragon, doubtless,
Dies not unless he be slain
With his brother; or put another way
By the dragoun, Mercurie and noon other
He understood; and brimstoon by his brother,
That out of sol and luna were y-drawe.
And therfor,” seyde he, “tak heed to my sawe,
Let no man bisy him this art for to seche,
But-if that he th‘entencioun and speche
Of philosophres understonde can;
And if he do, he is a lewed man.
For this science and this conning,” quod he,
“Is of the secree of secrees, parde.”
Also ther was a disciple of Plato,
That on a tyme seyde his maister to,
As his book Senior wol bere witnesse,
And this was his demande in soothfastnesse:
“Tel me the name of the privy stoon?”
And Plato answerde unto him anoon,
“Tak the stoon that Titanos men name.”
“Which is that?” quod he, “Magnesia is the same,”
Seyde Plato. “Ye, sir, and is it thus?
This is ignotum per ignotius.
What is Magnesia, good sir, I yow preye?”
“It is a water that is maad, I seye,
Of elementes foure,” quod Plato.
“Tel me the rote, good sir,” quod he tho,
“Of that water, if that it be your wille?”
“Nay, nay,” quod Plato, “certein, that I nille.
The philosophres sworn were everichoon,
That they sholden discovere it un-to noon,
Ne in no book it wryte in no manere;
For un-to Crist it is so leef and dere
That he wol nat that it discovered be,
But wher it lyketh to his deitee
Man for t‘enspyre, and eek for to defende
Whom that him lyketh; lo, this is the ende.”
Thanne conclude I thus; sith god of hevene
Ne wol nat that the philosophres nevene
How that a man shal come un-to this stoon,
I rede, as for the beste, lete it goon.
For who-so maketh god his adversarie,
By the dragon we mean Mercury, and no other.
And Sulphur, known as brimstone, is his brother,
Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 69