Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  But soth is this, that, at his modres heste,

  Biforn Alla, during the metres space,

  The child stood, loking in the kinges face.

  This Alia king hath of this child greet wonder,

  And to the senatour he seyde anon,

  “Whos is that faire child that stondeth yonder?”

  “I noot,” quod he, “by god, and by seint John!

  A moder he hath, but fader hath he non

  King Alia, who had his mother slain,

  Upon a day fell into such repentance

  That, if I shall tell it short and plain,

  To Rome he went to receive his penance;

  And put himself in the Pope’s command

  In all things, and Jesus Christ besought

  To forgive the wicked works that he had wrought.

  The news anon through Rome town was borne,

  How Alla the king should come in pilgrimage,

  By servants who travelled him before;

  And so the senator, as was his custom,

  Rode toward Alla, with many of his retinue,

  As much to show his own noble estate,

  As to do any king a reverence.

  Great greeting did this noble senator

  To king Alia, and he to him also;

  Each of them did to the other great honor.

  And so it befell that in a day or two

  This senator was to Alla gone

  To feast, and shortly, if I shall not lie,

  Constance’s son went in his company.

  Some men would say at request of Constance

  This senator had brought this child to the feast;

  I may not tell every circumstance—

  Be it as it may, there was he at the least.

  But the truth is this, that at his mother’s behest

  Before Alla, during the dinner time,

  The child stood, looking in the king’s face.

  This Alia king had of this child great wonder,

  And to the senator he said anon,

  “Who is that fair child who stands yonder?”

  “I know not,” said he, “By God, and Saint John!

  A mother he has, but father has he none

  That I of woot”—but shortly, in a stounde,

  He tolde Alla how that this child was founde.

  “But god wot,” quod this senatour also,

  “So vertuous a livere in my lyf,

  Ne saugh I never as she, ne herde of mo

  Of worldly wommen, mayden, nor of wyf;

  I dar wel seyn hir hadde lever a knyf

  Thurgh-out her breste, than been a womman wikke;

  Ther is no man coude bringe hir to that prikke.”

  Now was this child as lyk un-to Custance

  As possible is a creature to be.

  This Alla hath the face in remembrance

  Of dame Custance, and ther-on mused he

  If that the childes moder were aught she

  That was his wyf, and prively he sighte,

  And spedde him fro the table that he mighte.

  “Parfay,” thoghte he, “fantome is in myn heed!

  I oghte deme, of skilful jugement,

  That in the salte see my wyf is deed.”

  And afterward he made his argument—

  “What woot I, if that Crist have hider y-sent

  My wyf by see, as wel as he hir sente

  To my contree fro thennes that she wente?”

  And, after noon, hoom with the senatour

  Goth Alla, for to seen this wonder chaunce.

  This senatour dooth Alla greet honour,

  And hastifly he sente after Custaunce.

  But trusteth weel, hir liste nat to daunce

  Whan that she wiste wherefor was that sonde.

  Unnethe up-on hir feet she mighte stonde.

  When Alla saugh his wyf, faire he hir grette,

  And weep, that it was routhe for to see.

  For at the firste look he on hir sette

  He knew wel verraily that it was she.

  That I know of“—and shortly, in a little while,

  He told Alla how this child was found.

  “But God knows,” said this senator also,

  “So virtuous a being in my life

  Never saw I ever as she, nor heard of more,

  Of worldly women, maid, nor wife.

  I dare well say she would rather a knife

  Through her breast, than be a woman wicked;

  There is no man who could bring her to that point.”

  Now was this child as like unto Constance

  As possible is a creature to be.

  This Alla had the face in remembrance

  Of dame Constance, and thereon mused he

  If this child’s mother were she

  Who was his wife, and inwardly he sighed,

  And left the table as soon as he might.

  “By my faith,” thought he, “I am seeing phantoms!

  I ought deem, by all good judgement,

  That in the salt sea my wife is dead.”

  And afterward he made his argument:

  “What know I if Christ has hither sent

  My wife by sea, as he her sent

  To my country from thence she went?”

  And in the afternoon, home with the senator

  Went Alla, for to see this wondrous chance.

  This senator did Alla great honor,

  And hastily he sent after Constance.

  But trust well, she did not with joy dance

  When she learned why she was sent for;

  Upon her feet she could scarcely stand.

  When Alla saw his wife, fair he her greeted,

  And wept so that it was a pity for to see;

  For at the first look he upon her set

  He knew well verily that it was she.

  And she for sorwe as domb stant as a tree;

  So was hir herte shet in hir distresse

  Whan she remembred his unkindnesse.

  Twyës she swoned in his owne sighte;

  He weep, and him excuseth pitously:—

  “Now god,” quod he, “and alle his halves brighte

  So wisly on my soule as have mercy,

  That of your harm as giltelees am I

  As is Maurice my sone so lyk your face;

  Elles the feend me fecche out of this place!”

  Long was the sobbing and the bitter peyne

  Er that hir woful hertes mighte cesse;

  Greet was the pitee for to here hem pleyne,

  Thurgh whiche pleintes gan hir wo encresse.

  I prey yow al my labour to relesse;

  I may nat telle hir wo un-til tomorwe,

  I am so wery for to speke of sorwe.

  But fynally, when that the sooth is wist

  That Alla giltelees was of hir wo,

  I trowe an hundred tymes been they kist,

  And swich a blisse is ther bitwix hem two

  That, save the joye that lasteth evermo,

  Ther is non lyk, that any creature

  Hath seyn or shal, whyl that the world may dure.

  Tho preyde she hir housbond mekely,

  In relief of hir longe pitous pyne,

  That he wold preye hir fader specially

  That, of his magestee, he wolde enclyne

  To vouche-sauf som day with him to dyne;

  She preyde him eek, he sholde by no weye

  Un-to hir fader no word of hir seye.

  Som men wold seyn, how that the child Maurice

  Doth this message un-to this emperour;

  But, as I gesse, Alla was nat so nyce

  And she, for sorrow, as silent stood as a tree,

  So was her heart shut in her distress,

  When she remembered his unkindness.

  Twice she swooned in his own sight;

  He wept, and excused himself piteously.

  “Now God,” said he, “and his saints bright

  Surely on my
soul have mercy,

  That of your harm guiltless am I

  As is Maurice my son, so like your face;

  Else the fiend me fetch out of this place!”

  Long was the sobbing and the bitter pain,

  Before their woeful hearts might cease;

  Great was the pity for to hear them lament,

  Though that lamentation made their woe increase.

  I pray you all my labor to release;

  I would need to tell all their woe until tomorrow,

  And I am so weary for to speak of sorrow.

  But finally, when the truth was known

  That Alla guiltless was of her woe,

  I believe a hundred times have they kissed,

  And such a bliss was between the two

  That, save the joy that lasts evermore,

  There is nothing like that any creature

  Has seen or shall, while the world may endure.

  Then requested she of her husband meekly,

  In repayment for her long, piteous suffering,

  That he would invite her father specially

  If in his majesty he would incline

  To vouchsafe some day with him to dine.

  She prayed him also that he should in no way

  Unto her father any word of her say.

  Some men would say that the child Maurice

  Brought this message unto the Emperor;

  But, as I guess, Alla was not so foolish

  To him, that was of so sovereyn honour

  As he that is of Cristen folk the flour,

  Sente any child, but it is bet to deme

  He wente him-self, and so it may wel seme.

  This emperour hath graunted gentilly

  To come to diner, as he him bisoghte;

  And wel rede I, he loked bisily

  Up-on this child, and on his doghter thoghte.

  Alla goth to his in, and, as him oghte,

  Arrayed for this feste in every wyse

  As ferforth as his conning may suffyse.

  The morwe cam, and Alla gan him dresse,

  And eek his wyf, this emperour to mete;

  And forth they ryde in joye and in gladnesse.

  And when she saugh hir fader in the strete,

  She lighte doun, and falleth him to fete.

  “Fader,” quod she, “your yonge child Custance

  Is now ful clene out of your remembrance.

  I am your doghter Custance,” quod she,

  “That whylom ye han sent un-to Surrye.

  It am I, fader, that in the salte see

  Was put allone and dampned for to dye.

  Now, gode fader, mercy I yow crye,

  Send me namore un-to non hethenesse,

  But thonketh my lord heer of his kindenesse.”

  Who can the pitous joye tellen al

  Bitwix hem three, sin they ben thus y-mette?

  But of my tale make an ende I shal;

  The day goth faste, I wol no lenger lette.

  This glade folk to diner they hem sette;

  In joye and blisse at mete I lete hem dwelle

  A thousand fold wel more than I can telle.

  This child Maurice was sithen emperour

  Maad by the pope, and lived Cristenly.

  Toward him who was of such sovereign honor

  And who was of Christian folk the flower,

  To have sent any child, but it is better deemed

  He went himself, Maurice in his retinue.

  This emperor has granted genteely

  To come to dinner, as he him besought;

  And well read I in my book that he looked intently

  Upon this child, and on his daughter thought.

  Alla went to his inn, and as he ought,

  Prepared for this feast in every way

  As far as his skill might suffice.

  The morrow came, and Alla began to dress,

  And also his wife, this Emperor to meet;

  And forth they rode in joy and gladness.

  And when she saw her father in the street,

  She alighted, and fell to his feet.

  “Father,” said she, “your young child Constance

  Is now full clean out of your remembrance.

  “I am your daughter Constance,” said she,

  “Who once you sent unto Syria.

  It is I, father, who in the salt sea

  Was put alone and damned for to die.

  Now, good father, mercy I you cry!

  Send me no more unto heathens,

  But thank my lord of his kindness.”

  Who can the piteous joy tell all

  Between the three, since they were thus met?

  But of my tale I shall make an end;

  The day goes fast, I will no longer delay.

  These glad folk to dinner they them set;

  In joy and bliss at dinner I let them dwell

  A thousandfold more well than I can tell.

  This child Maurice was in time Emperor

  Made by the Pope, and lived Christianly;

  To Cristes chirche he dide greet honour;

  But I lete al his storie passen by,

  Of Custance is my tale specially.

  In olde Romayn gestes may men finde

  Maurices lyf; I bere it noght in minde.

  This king Alla, whan he his tyme sey,

  With his Custance, his holy wyf so swete,

  To Engelond been they come the righte wey,

  Wher-as they live in joye and in quiete.

  But litel whyl it lasteth, I yow hete,

  Joye of this world, for tyme wol nat abyde;

  Fro day to night it changeth as the tyde.

  Who lived ever in swich delyt o day

  That him ne moeved outher conscience,

  Or ire, or talent, or som kin affray,

  Envye, or pryde, or passion, or offence?

  I ne seye but for this ende this sentence,

  That litel whyl in joye or in plesance

  Lasteth the blisse of Alla with Custance.

  For deeth, that taketh of heigh and low his rente,

  When passed was a yeer, even as I gesse,

  Out of this world this king Alla he hente,

  For whom Custance hath ful gret hevinesse.

  Now lat us preyen god his soule blesse!

  And dame Custance, fynally to seye,

  Towards the toun of Rome gooth hir weye.

  To Rome is come this holy creature,

  And fyndeth ther hir frendes hole and sounde:

  Now is she scaped al hir aventure;

  And whan that she hir fader hath y-founde,

  Doun on hir knees falleth she to grounde;

  Weping for tendrenesse in herte blythe,

  She herieth god an hundred thousand sythe.

  To Christ’s church he did great honor.

  But I let all his story pass by;

  Of Constance is my tale especially.

  In the old Roman histories may men find

  Maurice’s life; I bear it not in mind.

  This king Alla, when he his time saw,

  With his Constance, his holy wife so sweet,

  To England were they come the shortest way,

  Where they lived in joy and quiet.

  But a little while it lasted, I may tell you,

  Joy of this world, for not long will abide;

  From day to day it changes as the tide.

  Who lived ever in such delight one day

  That he never felt another sensation,

  Either anger, or desire, or some kind of fear,

  Envy, pride, or passion, or offence?

  I say but this sentence:

  That little while in joy or in leisure

  Lasted the bliss of Alia with Constance.

  For Death, who takes of high and low his rent,

  When passed had many a year, even as I guess,

  Out of this world this king Alla he seized,

  For whom Constance had
full great sorrow.

  Now let us pray to God his soul to bless!

  And dame Constance, finally to say,

  Toward the town of Rome went her way.

  To Rome is come this holy creature,

  And found her friends whole and sound;

  Now has she escaped all her adventure.

  And when she her father found,

  Down on her knees she fell to the ground;

  Weeping for tenderness in heart blithe,

  She praised God a hundred thousand times.

  In vertu and in holy almes-dede

  They liven alle, and never a-sonder wende;

  Til deeth departed hem, this lyf they lede.

  And fareth now weel, my tale is at an ende.

  Now Jesu Crist, that of his might may sende

  Joye after wo, governe us in his grace,

  And kepe us alle that ben in this place! Amen.

  In virtue and in holy alms-deeds,

  They lived all, and never parted were;

  Till death separated them, this life they lead.

  And fare now well! My tale is at an end.

  Now Jesus Christ, who of his might may send

  Joy after woe, govern us in his grace,

  And keep us all who have been in this place! Amen.

  The Maunciples Tale

  The Prologue

  WITE YE NAT WHER ther stant a litel toun

  Which that y-cleped is Bob-up-and-doun,

  Under the Blee, in Caunterbury weye?

  Ther gan our hoste for to jape and pleye,

  And seyde, “sirs, what! Dun is in the myre!

  Is ther no man, for preyere ne for hyre,

  That wol awake our felawe heer bihinde?