Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)
Page 74
To Crist, that he thee sende hele and might,
Thy body for to welden hastily.”
“God woot,” quod he, “no-thing ther-of fele I;
As help me Crist, as I, in fewe yeres,
Han spended, up-on dyvers maner freres,
Ful many a pound; yet fare I never the bet.
Certeyn, my good have I almost biset.
Farwel, my gold! for it is al ago!”
The frere answerde, “O Thomas, dostow so?
What nedeth yow diverse freres seche?
What nedeth him that hath a parfit leche
To sechen othere leches in the toun?
Your inconstance is your confusioun.
Holde ye than me, or elles our covent,
To praye for yow ben insufficient?
Thomas, that jape nis nat worth a myte;
Your malayde is for we han to lyte.
‘A! yif that covent half a quarter otes!’
‘A! yif that covent four and twenty grotes!’
‘A! yif that frere a peny, and lat him go!’
Nay, nay, Thomas! it may no-thing be so.
What is a ferthing worth parted in twelve?
Lo, ech thing that is oned in him-selve
Is more strong than whan it is to-scatered.
Thomas, of me thou shalt nat been y-flatered;
Their prayer is of full great reverence,
When they for souls say the psalm of David:
Look, ‘hie!’ they say, ‘cor meum eructavit!’18
Are not we who follow in Christ’s footsteps,
Though that we humble be, and chaste, and poor,
Workers of God’s word, not auditors?
Therefore, right as a hawk soars
Upward into the air, right so prayers
By charitable and chaste busy friars
Soar upward to God’s two ears.
Thomas, Thomas! So may my prayers fly,
By that lord who is called Saint Ives,19
For you our lay brother, that you may thrive.
In our chapel we pray day and night
To Christ, that he send you health and might
Your body to move with ease.”
“God knows,” said he, “nothing thereof do I feel!
So help me Christ, have I in the past few years
Spent on diverse kinds of friars
Full many a pound; yet fare I none the better.
Certainly, my assets have I almost spent.
Farewell my gold, for it is all gone!”
The friar answered, “Oh Thomas, did you so?
Why needed you such diverse friars?
Why needs he who has the perfect healer
To seek other healers in the town?
Your inconstancy has brought you down,
Believe you that I, or my brothers,
To pray for you be not enough?
Thomas, that trick is not worth a mite.
For your malady we have had too little.
‘Ah! Give that monastery half a quarter oats!’
‘Ah! Give that convent four and twenty groats!’
‘Ah! Give that friar a penny, and let him go!’
Nay, nay, Thomas, it may no way be so!
What is a farthing worth split twelve ways?
Look, each thing that is united in itself
Is stronger than when it is scattered.
Thomas, by me you shall not be flattered;
Thou woldest han our labour al for noght.
The hye god, that al this world hath wroght,
Seith that the werkman worthy is his hyre.
Thomas! noght of your tresor I desyre
As for my-self, but that al our covent
To preye for yow is ay so diligent,
And for to builden Cristes owene chirche.
Thomas! if ye wol lernen for to wirche,
Of buildinge up of chirches may ye finde
If it be good, in Thomas lyf of Inde.
Ye lye heer, ful of anger and of yre,
With which the devel set your herte a-fyre,
And chyden heer this sely innocent,
Your wyf, that is so meke and pacient.
And therfor, Thomas, trowe me if thee leste,
Ne stryve nat with thy wyf, as for thy beste;
And ber this word awey now, by thy feith,
Touchinge this thing, lo, what the wyse seith:
‘With-in thyn hous ne be thou no leoun;
To thy subgits do noon oppressioun;
Ne make thyne aqueyntances nat to flee.’
And Thomas, yet eft-sones I charge thee,
Be war from hir that in thy bosom slepeth;
War fro the serpent that so slyly crepeth
Under the gras, and stingeth subtilly.
Be war, my sone, and herkne paciently,
That twenty thousand men han lost hir lyves,
For stryving with hir lemmans and hir wyves.
Now sith ye han so holy and meke a wyf,
What nedeth yow, Thomas, to maken stryf?
Ther nis, y-wis, no serpent so cruel,
Whan man tret on his tayl, ne half so fel,
As womman is, whan she hath caught an ire;
Vengeance is thanne al that they desyre.
Ire is a sinne, oon of the grete of sevene,
Abhominable un-to the god of hevene;
And to him-self it is destruccion.
This every lewed viker or person
Can seye, how Ire engendreth homicyde.
You would have our labor all for nought.
The high God, who all this world has wrought,
Says that the workman is worthy of his hire.
Thomas, nought of your treasure I desire
As for myself, but that all our convent
To pray for you be ever so diligent,
And for to build Christ’s own church.
Thomas, if you would learn to do good works,
Of the building up of churches may you find it
Well in the life of Saint Thomas of India.
You lie here full of anger and of ire,
With which the devil set your heart afire,
And you chide here the naive innocent,
Your wife, who is so meek and patient.
And therefore, Thomas, believe me if you wish,
Let go strife with your wife, as for your best,
And bear this word away now, by your faith;
Touching such things, look, what the wise say:
‘Within your house be not a lion;
To your subjects do no oppression,
Nor make your acquaintances want to flee.’20
And, Thomas, again I command you,
Beware of ire that in your bosom sleeps;
Beware of the serpent that so slyly creeps
Under the grass and stings full subtly.
Beware, my son, and harken patiently
That twenty thousand men have lost their lives
For fighting with their sweethearts and their wives.
Now since you have so wholly meek a wife,
What need you, Thomas, to make strife?
There is, truth to tell, no serpent so cruel,
As when men tread on its tail, nor half so dangerous
As woman is, when she has been made angry;
Vengeance is then all that they desire.
Anger is a sin, one of the great of seven,
Abominable unto the God of heaven;
And to himself it is destruction.
This every unlearned vicar or parson
Can say, how ire engenders homicide.
Ire is, in sooth, executour of pryde.
I coude of Ire seye so muche sorwe,
My tale sholde laste til to-morwe.
And therfor preye I god bothe day and night,
An irous man, god sende him litel might!
It is greet harm and, certes, gret pitee,
To sette an irous man in heigh degree.
/> Whilom ther was an irous potestat,
As seith Senek, that, duringe his estaat,
Up-on a day out riden knightes two,
And as fortune wolde that it were so,
That oon of hem cam hoom, that other noght.
Anon the knight bifore the juge is broght,
That seyde thus, ‘thou hast thy felawe slayn,
For which I deme thee to the deeth, certayn.’
And to another knight comanded he,
‘Go lede him to the deeth, I charge thee.’
And happed, as they wente by the weye
Toward the place ther he sholde deye,
The knight cam, which men wenden had be deed.
Thanne thoughte they, it was the beste reed,
To lede hem bothe to the juge agayn.
They seiden, ‘lord, the knight ne hath nat slayn
His felawe; here he standeth hool alyve.’
‘Ye shul be deed,’ quod he, ‘so moot I thryve!
That is to seyn, bothe oon, and two, and three!’
And to the firste knight right thus spak he,
‘I dampned thee, thou most algate be deed.
And thou also most nedes lese thyn heed,
For thou art cause why thy felawe deyth.’
And to the thridde knight right thus he seyth,
‘Thou hast nat doon that I comanded thee.’
And thus he dide don sleen hem alle three.
Irous Cambyses was eek dronkelewe,
And ay delyted him to been a shrewe.
And so bifel, a lord of his meynee,
That lovede vertuous moralitee,
Seyde on a day bitwix hem two right thus:
‘A lord is lost, if he be vicious;
Ire is, in truth, the arm of pride.
I could of ire say so much sorrow,
My tale would last until tomorrow.
And therefore I pray God both day and night
An angry man, God send him little might!
It is great harm and certainly a great pity
To set an angry man in a high place.
“Once there was an angry ruler
As said Seneca,21 who, during his reign,
Upon a day rode out knights two,
And as Fortune would that it were so,
That one of them came home, the other not.
Anon the knight before the judge was brought,
And said thus, ‘You have your fellow slain,
For which I sentence you to death, certainly.’
And to another knight commanded he,
”Go lead him to the death, I charge thee.”
And it so happened, as they went by the way
Toward the place where he should die,
The knight came who men thought dead.
Then they thought it would be best
To lead them both to the judge again.
They said, ‘Lord, your knight has not slain
His fellow; here he stands alive.’
‘You shall be dead; said he, ‘so might I thrive!
That is to say, both one, and two, and three!’
And to the first knight right thus spoke he,
‘I condemned; you must therefore die.’
And to the second: ‘You must needs also lose your head,
For you are the cause of your fellow’s death.’
And to the third knight right thus he said,
‘You have not done what I commanded you. ’
And thus he did slay them all three.
“Angry Cambises was also a drunkard,
And ever delighted him to be a shrew.22
And so it befell, a lord of his household
Who loved virtuous morality
Said on a day between the two of them right thus:
”A lord is lost, if he be vicious;
And dronkenesse is eek a foul record
Of any man, and namely in a lord.
Ther is ful many an eye and many an ere
Awaiting on a lord, and he noot where.
For goddes love, drink more attemprely;
Wyn maketh man to lesen wrecchedly
His minde, and eek his limes everichon.’
‘The revers shaltou see,’ quod he, ‘anon;
And preve it, by thyn owene experience,
That wyn ne dooth to folk no swich offence.
Ther is no wyn bireveth me my might
Of hand ne foot, ne of myn eyen sight’—
And, for despyt, he drank ful muchel more
An hondred part than he had doon bifore;
And right anon, this irous cursed wrecche
Leet this knightes sone bifore him fecche,
Comandinge him he sholde bifore him stonde.
And sodeynly he took his bowe in honde,
And up the streng he pulled to his ere,
And with an arwe he slow the child right there:
‘Now whether have I a siker hand or noon?’
Quod he, ‘is al my might and minde agoon?
Hath wyn bireved me myn eyen sight?’
What sholde I telle th‘answere of the knight?
His sone was slayn, ther is na-more to seye.
Beth war therfor with lordes how ye pleye.
Singeth Placebo, and I shal, if I can,
But-if it be un-to a povre man.
To a povre man men sholde hise vyces telle,
But nat to a lord, thogh he sholde go to helle.
Lo irous Cirus, thilke Percien,
How he destroyed the river of Gysen,
For that an hors of his was dreynt ther-inne,
Whan that he wente Babiloigne to winne.
He made that the river was so smal,
That wommen mighte wade it over-al.
Lo, what seyde he, that so wel teche can?
‘Ne be no felawe to an irous man.
Ne with no wood man walke by the weye,
And drunkenness is also a foul reputation
For any man, and especially for a lord.
There are full many eyes and ears
Observing a lord, and he knows not where.
For God’s love, drink more temperately!
Wine makes a man to lose governance of
His mind and also his limbs every one.’
“The reverse shall you see,’ said he, ‘anon,
And prove it by your own experience,
That wine does to folk no such offence.
There is no wine that bereaves me of my might
Of hand or foot, nor of my eyesight.’
And for spite he drank full much more,
A hundred parts, than he had done before;
And right anon this angry, cursed wretch
Had his knight’s son before him fetched,
Commanding that he should before him stand.
And suddenly he took his bow in hand,
And up the string he pulled to his ear,
And with an arrow he slew the child right there.
‘Now have I a weakened hand or no? ’
Said he; ‘Is all my might and all my mind gone?
Has wine bereaved me of my eyesight?’
What should I tell the answer of the knight?
His son was slain; there is no more to say.
Beware, therefore, with lords how you play.
Sing Placebo and ‘I shall, if I can,’
Unless it be unto a poor man.
To a poor man should men his vices tell,
But not to a lord, though he should go to hell.
“Look how Cyrus the Great, the Persian,23
How he destroyed the river of Gyndes,
Because a horse of his was drowned therein,
When he went to win Babylon.
He made the river become so small
That women might wade over it all.
Look, what said Solomon who so well taught:
‘Be not a companion to an angry man,24
Nor with a madman walk by the way,
Lest thee repente;’ ther is na-more to seye.
Now Thomas, leve brother, lef thyn ire;
Thou shalt me finde as just as is a squire.
Hold nat the develes knyf ay at thyn herte;
Thyn angre dooth thee al to sore smerte;
But shewe to me al thy confessioun.”
“Nay,” quod the syke man, “by Seint Simoun!
I have be shriven this day at my curat;
I have him told al hooly myn estat;
Nedeth na-more to speke of it,” seith he,
“But if me list of myn humilitee.”
“Yif me thanne of thy gold, to make our cloistre,”
Quod he, “for many a muscle and many an oistre,
Whan other men han ben ful wel at eyse,
Hath been our fode, our cloistre for to reyse.
And yet, god woot, unnethe the fundement
Parfourned is, ne of our pavement
Nis nat a tyle yet with-inne our wones;
By god, we owen fourty pound for stones!
Now help, Thomas, for him that harwed helle!
For elles moste we our bokes selle.
And if ye lakke our predicacioun,
Than gooth the world al to destruccioun.
For who-so wolde us fro this world bireve,
So god me save, Thomas, by your leve,
He wolde bireve out of this world the sonne.
For who can teche and werchen as we conne?
And that is nat of litel tyme,” quod he;
“But sith that Elie was, or Elisee,
Han freres been, that finde I of record,
In charitee, y-thanked be our lord.
Now Thomas, help, for seinte Charitee!”
And doun anon he sette him on his knee.
This syke man wex wel ny wood for ire;
He wolde that the frere had been on-fire
With his false dissimulacioun.
“Swich thing as is in my possessioun,”
Quod he, “that may I yeven, and non other.
Ye sey me thus, how that I am your brother?”
Lest you repent;’ I will no further say.
“Now Thomas, dear brother, leave your anger;
You should me find as true as a carpenter’s square.
Hold not the devil’s knife at your own heart—
Your anger does you all too sore smart—
But show to me all your confession.”
“Nay,” said the sick man, “by Saint Simon!
I have been confessed this day by my curate.
I have told him everything of my condition;
There needs no more speak of it,” said he,
“Unless I wish, from humility.”
“Give me of your gold, to make our cloister,”
Said he, “for many a mussel and many an oyster,
After other men have been full well filled,
Have been our food, our cloister for to build.
And yet, God knows, nothing but the foundation
Completed is, nor of pavement