A theef mighte him ful lightly robbe and binde.
See how he nappeth! see, for cokkes bones,
As he wol falle from his hors at ones.
Is that a cook of Londoun, with meschaunce?
Do him com forth, he knoweth his penaunce,
For he shal telle a tale, by my fey!
Al-though it be nat worth a botel hey.
Awake, thou cook,” quod he, “god yeve thee sorwe,
What eyleth thee to slepe by the morwe?
Hastow had fleen al night, or artow dronke,
Or hastow with som quene al night y-swonke,
So that thou mayst nat holden up thyn heed?”
This cook, that was ful pale and no-thing reed,
Seyde to our host, “so god my soule blesse,
As ther is falle on me swich hevinesse,
Noot I nat why, that ne were lever slepe
Than the beste galoun wyn in Chepe.”
“Wel,” quod the maunciple, “if it may doon ese
To thee, sir cook, and to no wight displese
Which that heer rydeth in this companye,
And that our host wol, of his curteisye,
I wol as now excuse thee of thy tale;
For, in good feith, thy visage is ful pale,
Thyn yen daswen eek, as that me thinketh,
And wel I woot, thy breeth ful soure stinketh,
That sheweth wel thou art not wel disposed;
Of me, certein, thou shalt nat been y-glosed.
Se how he ganeth, lo, this dronken wight,
The Manciple’s Tale
The Prologue
KNOW YOU NOT WHERE there stands a little town
Which is called Bob-up-and-down,1
Under the Blean Wood, on Canterbury Way?
There began our Host for to joke and play,
And said, “Sires, what! We’re stuck in the mire!2
Is there no man, for prayer or hire,
Who will awaken our fellow all behind?
A thief might him full easily rob and bind.
See how he naps! See how, for cock’s bones,
He will fall from his horse at once!
Is that a cook of London, worse luck for us?
Do him come forth, he knows his penance;
For he shall tell a tale, by my faith,
Although it be not worth a bale of hay.
Awaken, you Cook,” said he, “God give you sorrow!
What ails you to sleep in the morning?
Have you had fleas all night, or are you soused?
Or have you with some queen all night caroused,
So that you may not hold up your head?”
This Cook, who was full pale and nothing red,
Said to our Host, “So God my soul bless,
There is fallen on me such drowsiness,
Know I not why, that I would rather have sleep
Than the best gallon of wine in Cheap.”3
“Well,” said the Manciple, “if it may do ease
To you, sir Cook, and no person displease,
Who rides here in this company,
And our Host agrees, of his courtesy,
I will now excuse you of your tale.
For, in good faith, your visage is full pale,
Your eyes are bleary, so that I think,
And well I know, your breath full sour stinks:
That shows well that you are not well disposed.
By me, certainly, you shall not be flattered.
See how you yawn, look, this drunken fellow,
As though he wolde us swolwe anon-right.
Hold cloos thy mouth, man, by thy fader kin!
The devel of helle sette his foot ther-in!
Thy cursed breeth infecte wol us alle;
Fy, stinking swyn, fy! foule moot thee falle!
A! taketh heed, sirs, of this lusty man.
Now, swete sir, wol ye justen atte fan?
Ther-to me thinketh ye been wel y-shape!
I trowe that ye dronken han wyn ape,
And that is whan men pleyen with a straw.”
And with this speche the cook wex wrooth and wraw,
And on the maunciple he gan nodde faste
For lakke of speche, and doun the hors him caste,
Wher as he lay, til that men up him took;
This was a fayr chivachee of a cook!
Alias! he nadde holde him by his ladel!
And, er that he agayn were in his sadel,
Ther was greet showving bothe to and fro,
To lifte him up, and muchel care and wo,
So unweldy was this sory palled gost.
And to the maunciple thanne spak our host,
“By-cause drink hath dominacioun
Upon this man, by my savacioun
I trowe he lewedly wolde telle his tale.
For, were it wyn, or old or moysty ale,
That he hath dronke, he speketh in his nose,
And fneseth faste, and eek he hath the pose.
He hath also to do more than y-nough
To kepe him and his capel eut of slough;
And, if he falle from his capel eft-sone,
Than shul we alle have y-nough to done,
In lifting up his hevy dronken cors.
Telle on thy tale, of him make I no fors.
But yet, maunciple, in feith thou art to nyce,
Thus openly repreve him of his vyce.
Another day he wol, peraventure,
Reclayme thee, and bringe thee to lure;
I mene, he speke wol of smale thinges,
As for to pinchen at thy rekeninges,
As though he would us swallow.
Hold closed your mouth, man, by my father’s kin!
The devil of hell set his foot therein!
Your cursed breath will infect us all.
Fie, stinking swine! Foul must you fall!
Ah, take heed, sires, of this lively fellow.
Now, sweet sir, would you a bull’s eye hit?
For that I think you be well prepared!
I believe that you are very drunk4
And that is when men do all things wrong.”
And with this speech the Cook waxed wroth and raw,
And to the Manciple he began to shake his head
For lack of speech, and down the horse him cast,
Where he lay, until men picked him up.
This was the horsemanship of a cook!
Alas, he could not prop himself up with his ladle!5
And before he was again in the saddle,
There was great shoving both to and fro
To lift him up, and much care and woe,
So unwieldy was this sorry pallid ghost.
And to the Manciple then spoke our Host:
”Because drink has domination
Upon this man, by my salvation,
I believe he poorly would tell his tale.
For, were it wine or old or new ale
That he has drunk, he speaks in his nose,
And sneezes fast, and has a cold.
He has also to do more than enough
To keep himself and his horse out of the mud;
And if he falls from his horse again,
Then shall we all have enough to do
In lifting up his heavy drunken corpse.
Tell on your tale; to him I pay no heed.
“But yet, Manciple, in faith you are not so nice,
Thus openly to reprove him of his vice.
Another day he will, peradventure,
Return the favor;
I mean, he will speak of small things,
For example your reckonings,
That wer not honeste, if it cam to preef.”
“No,” quod the maunciple, “that were a greet mescheef!
So mighte he lightly bringe me in the snare.
Yet hadde I lever payen for the mare
Which he rit on, than he sholde with me stryve;
I wol nat wratthe him, al-
so mote I thryve!
That that I spak, I seyde it in my bourde;
And wite ye what? I have heer, in a gourde,
A draught of wyn, ye, of a rype grape,
And right anon ye shul seen a good jape.
This cook shal drinke ther-of, if I may;
Up peyne of deeth, he wol nat seye me nay!”
And certeinly, to tellen as it was,
Of this vessel the cook drank faste, alias!
What neded him? he drank y-nough biforn.
And whan he hadde pouped in this horn,
To the maunciple he took the gourde agayn;
And of that drinke the cook was wonder fayn,
And thanked him in swich wyse as he coude.
Than gan our host to laughen wonder loude,
And seyde, “I see wel, it is necessarie,
Wher that we goon, good drink we with us carie;
For that wol turne rancour and disese
T‘acord and love, and many a wrong apese.
O thou Bachus, y-blessed be thy name,
That so canst turnen ernest in-to game!
Worship and thank be to thy deitee!
Of that matere ye gete na-more of me.
Tel on thy tale, maunciple, I thee preye.”
“Wel, sir,” quod he, “now herkneth what I seye.”
The Tale
Whan Phebus dwelled her in this erthe adoun,
As olde bokes maken mencioun
He was the moste lusty bachiler
In al this world, and eek the beste archer;
He slow Phitoun, the serpent, as he lay
Slepinge agayn the sonne upon a day;
And many another noble worthy dede
That were not honest, if it came to proof.”
“No,” said the Manciple, “that were a great mischief!
So might he easily bring me into the snare.
Yet I would rather pay for the mare
That he rides upon, than he should with me have strife.
I will not provoke him, also may I thrive!
That which I speak, I say it in jest.
And do you know what? I have here in a flask
A draft of wine, of a ripe grape,
And right anon you shall see a good jape.
This Cook shall drink thereof, if I may.
Upon pain of death, he will not say me nay.”
And certainly, to tell as it was,
Of this vessel the Cook drank fast, alas!
Why needed he? He drank enough before.
And when he had tooted in this horn,
To the Manciple he gave the flask again;
And of that drink the Cook was wondrous grateful,
And thanked him in such way as he could.
Then began our Host to laugh wondrous loud,
And said, “I see well it is necessary,
Where we go, that good drink we with us carry;
For that will turn rancor and discord
To accord and love, and many a wrong appease.
“Oh Bacchus, blessed be your name,
Who can turn earnest into game!
Worship and thanks be to your deity!
Of that matter you get no more of me.
Tell on your tale, Manciple, I you pray.”
“Well, sire,” said he, “now harken to what I say.”
The Tale
When Phoebus6 dwelt here in this earth adown,
As old books make mention,
He was the most lusty bachelor
In all this world, and also the best archer.
He slew Python, the serpent,7 as he lay
Sleeping in the sun upon a day;
And many another noble deed
He with his bowe wroghte, as men may rede.
Pleyen he coude on every minstralcye,
And singen, that it was a melodye,
To heren of his clere vois the soun.
Certes the king of Thebes, Amphioun,
That with his singing walled that citee,
Coude never singen half so wel as he.
Therto he was the semelieste man
That is or was, sith that the world bigan.
What nedeth it his fetures to discryve?
For in this world was noon so fair on lyve.
He was ther-with fulfild of gentillesse,
Of honour, and of parfit worthinesse.
This Phebus, that was flour of bachelrye,
As wel in fredom as in chivalrye,
For his desport, in signe eek of victorie
Of Phitoun, so as telleth us the storie,
Was wont to beren in his hand a bowe.
Now had this Phebus in his hous a crowe,
Which in a cage he fostred many a day,
And taughte it speken, as men teche a jay.
Whyt was this crowe, as is a snow-whyt swan,
And countrefete the speche of every man
He coude, whan he sholde telle a tale.
Ther-with in al this world no nightingale
Ne coude, by an hondred thousand deel,
Singen so wonder merily and weel.
Now had this Phebus in his hous a wyf,
Which that he lovede more than his lyf,
And night and day dide ever his diligence
Hir for to plese, and doon hir reverence,
Save only, if the sothe that I shal sayn,
Jalous he was, and wolde have kept hir fayn;
For him were looth by-japed for to be.
And so is every wight in swich degree;
But al in ydel, for it availleth noght,
A good wyf, that is clene of werk and thoght,
Sholde nat been kept in noon await, certayn;
And trewely, the labour is in vayn
He with his bow wrought, as men may read.
Play he could on every instrument,
And sing so that it was melodious
To hear the sound of his clear voice.
Certainly the king of Thebes, Amphioun,
Who with his singing walled that city,
Could never sing half so well as he.
And in addition he was the handsomest man
Who is or was since the world began.
Why need we his features to describe?
For in this world there was none so fair alive.
He was fulfilled of gentleness,
Of honor and of perfect worthiness.
This Phoebus, who was the flower of knighthood,
As well in character as in chivalry,
For his pleasure, and as a sign also of his victory
Over Python, as tells us the story,
Was wont to bear in his hand a bow.
Now had this Phoebus in his house a crow
That in a cage he fostered many a day,
And taught it to speak, as men teach a jay.
White was this crow as is a snow white swan,
And counterfeit the speech of every man
He could, when he should tell a tale.
And also in all this world no nightingale
Could, by a hundred thousandth part,
Sing so wondrous merrily and well.
Now had this Phoebus in his house a wife
Whom he loved more than his life,
And night and day did ever his diligence
Her for to please and do her reverence,
Save only, if the truth I shall say,
Jealous he was, and would have kept her under lock and key.
For he was loath betrayed to be,
And so is every person in such estate,
But all in vain, for it avails not.
A good woman, who is clean of work and thought,
Should not be kept under watch, certainly;
And truly the labor is in vain
To kepe a shrewe, for it wol nat be.
This holde I for a verray nycetee,
To spille labour, for to kepe wyves;
Thus writen olde clerkes in hir lyves.
But now to purpos, as I first bigan:
This worthy Phebus dooth all that he can
To plesen hir, weninge by swich plesaunce,
And for his manhede and his governaunce,
That no man sholde han put him from hir grace.
But god it woot, ther may no man embrace
As to destreyne a thing, which that nature
Hath naturelly set in a creature.
Tak any brid, and put it in a cage,
And do al thyn entente and thy corage
To fostre it tendrely with mete and drinke,
Of alle deyntees that thou canst bithinke,
And keep it al-so clenly as thou may;
Al-though his cage of gold be never so gay,
Yet hath this brid, by twenty thousand fold,
Lever in a forest, that is rude and cold,
Gon ete wormes and swich wrecchednesse.
For ever this brid wol doon his bisinesse
To escape out of his cage, if he may;
His libertee this brid desireth ay.
Lat take a cat, and fostre him wel with milk,
And tendre flesh, and make his couche of silk,
And lat him seen a mous go by the wal;
Anon he weyveth milk, and flesh, and al,
And every deyntee that is in that hous,
Swich appetyt hath he to ete a mous.
Lo, here hath lust his dominacioun,
And appetyt flemeth discrecioun.
A she-wolf hath also a vileins kinde;
The lewedeste wolf that she may finde,
Or leest of reputacion wol she take,
In tyme whan hir lust to han a make.
Alle thise ensamples speke I by thise men
That been untrewe, and no-thing by wommen.
For men han ever a likerous appetyt
To keep a shrew, for it will not be.
This hold I to be pure folly,
To waste labor for to keep wives:
Thus wrote old scholars in their lives.
But now to the point, as I first began:
This worthy Phoebus did all he could
To please her, supposing that for such pleasure,
And for his character and his behavior,
That no man should put him from her grace.
But, God knows, there may no man embrace
To restrain a thing that nature
Has naturally set in a creature.
Take any bird, and put it in a cage,8
And do all your intent and all your strength
To foster it tenderly with meat and drink
Of all the dainties that you can bethink,
And keep it all so carefully as you may,
Although his cage of gold be never so gay,
Yet would this bird, by twenty thousand fold,
Rather in a forest that is rude and cold
Go eat worms and such wretchedness.
Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 83