Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50)

by Homer

  And after will I speak in privity

  Of certain thing that toucheth thee and me:

  I will tell it no other man certain.”

  This carpenter went down, and came again,

  And brought of mighty ale a large quart;

  And when that each of them had drunk his part,

  This Nicholas his chamber door fast shet1, 1shut

  And down the carpenter by him he set,

  And saide; “John, mine host full lief1 and dear, 1loved

  Thou shalt upon thy truthe swear me here,

  That to no wight thou shalt my counsel wray1: 1betray

  For it is Christes counsel that I say,

  And if thou tell it man, thou art forlore:1 1lost

  For this vengeance thou shalt have therefor,

  That if thou wraye1 me, thou shalt be wood2.” 1betray 2mad

  “Nay, Christ forbid it for his holy blood!”

  Quoth then this silly man; “I am no blab,1 1talker

  Nor, though I say it, am I 1lief to gab1. 1fond of speech1

  Say what thou wilt, I shall it never tell

  To child or wife, by him that harried Hell.”

  “Now, John,” quoth Nicholas, “I will not lie,

  I have y-found in my astrology,

  As I have looked in the moone bright,

  That now on Monday next, at quarter night,

  Shall fall a rain, and that so wild and wood1, 1mad

  That never half so great was Noe’s flood.

  This world,” he said, “in less than half an hour

  Shall all be dreint1, so hideous is the shower: 1drowned

  Thus shall mankinde drench1, and lose their life.” 1drown

  This carpenter answer’d; “Alas, my wife!

  And shall she drench? alas, mine Alisoun!”

  For sorrow of this he fell almost adown,

  And said; “Is there no remedy in this case?”

  “Why, yes, for God,” quoth Hendy Nicholas;

  “If thou wilt worken after 1lore and rede1; 1learning and advice1

  Thou may’st not worken after thine own head.

  For thus saith Solomon, that was full true:

  Work all by counsel, and thou shalt not rue1. 1repent

  And if thou worke wilt by good counseil,

  I undertake, withoute mast or sail,

  Yet shall I save her, and thee, and me.

  Hast thou not heard how saved was Noe,

  When that our Lord had warned him beforn,

  That all the world with water 1should be lorn1?” 1should perish1

  “Yes,” quoth this carpenter,” 1full yore ago1.” 1long since1

  “Hast thou not heard,” quoth Nicholas, “also

  The sorrow of Noe, with his fellowship,

  That he had ere he got his wife to ship?

  1Him had been lever, I dare well undertake,

  At thilke time, than all his wethers black,

  That she had had a ship herself alone.1 1see note

  And therefore know’st thou what is best to be done?

  This asketh haste, and of an hasty thing

  Men may not preach or make tarrying.

  Anon go get us fast into this inn1 1house

  A kneading trough, or else a kemelin1, 1brewing-tub

  For each of us; but look that they be large,

  In whiche we may swim1 as in a barge: 1float

  And have therein vitaille suffisant

  But for one day; fie on the remenant;

  The water shall aslake1 and go away 1slacken, abate

  Aboute prime1 upon the nexte day. 1early morning

  But Robin may not know of this, thy knave1, 1servant

  Nor eke thy maiden Gill I may not save:

  Ask me not why: for though thou aske me

  I will not telle Godde’s privity.

  Sufficeth thee, 1but if thy wit be mad1, 1unless thou be

  To have as great a grace as Noe had; out of thy wits1

  Thy wife shall I well saven out of doubt.

  Go now thy way, and speed thee hereabout.

  But when thou hast for her, and thee, and me,

  Y-gotten us these kneading tubbes three,

  Then shalt thou hang them in the roof full high,

  So that no man our purveyance1 espy: 1foresight, providence

  And when thou hast done thus as I have said,

  And hast our vitaille fair in them y-laid,

  And eke an axe to smite the cord in two

  When that the water comes, that we may go,

  And break an hole on high upon the gable

  Into the garden-ward, over the stable,

  That we may freely passe forth our way,

  When that the greate shower is gone away.

  Then shalt thou swim as merry, I undertake,

  As doth the white duck after her drake:

  Then will I clepe,1 ‘How, Alison? How, John? 1call

  Be merry: for the flood will pass anon.’

  And thou wilt say, ‘Hail, Master Nicholay,

  Good-morrow, I see thee well, for it is day.’

  And then shall we be lordes all our life

  Of all the world, as Noe and his wife.

  But of one thing I warne thee full right,

  Be well advised, on that ilke1 night, 1same

  When we be enter’d into shippe’s board,

  That none of us not speak a single word,

  Nor clepe nor cry, but be in his prayere,

  For that is Godde’s owen heste1 dear. 1command

  Thy wife and thou must hangen far atween1, 1asunder

  For that betwixte you shall be no sin,

  No more in looking than there shall in deed.

  This ordinance is said: go, God thee speed

  To-morrow night, when men be all asleep,

  Into our kneading tubbes will we creep,

  And sitte there, abiding Godde’s grace.

  Go now thy way, I have no longer space

  To make of this no longer sermoning:

  Men say thus: Send the wise, and say nothing:

  Thou art so wise, it needeth thee nought teach.

  Go, save our lives, and that I thee beseech.”

  This silly carpenter went forth his way,

  Full oft he said, “Alas! and Well-a-day!,’

  And to his wife he told his privity,

  And she was ware, and better knew than he

  What all this 1quainte cast was for to say1. 1strange contrivance

  But natheless she fear’d as she would dey, meant1

  And said: “Alas! go forth thy way anon.

  Help us to scape, or we be dead each one.

  I am thy true and very wedded wife;

  Go, deare spouse, and help to save our life.”

  Lo, what a great thing is affection!

  Men may die of imagination,

  So deeply may impression be take.

  This silly carpenter begins to quake:

  He thinketh verily that he may see

  This newe flood come weltering as the sea

  To drenchen1 Alison, his honey dear. 1drown

  He weepeth, waileth, maketh 1sorry cheer1; 1dismal countenance1

  He sigheth, with full many a sorry sough.1 1groan

  He go’th, and getteth him a kneading trough,

  And after that a tub, and a kemelin,

  And privily he sent them to his inn:

  And hung them in the roof full privily.

  With his own hand then made he ladders three,

  To climbe by 1the ranges and the stalks1 1the rungs and the uprights1

  Unto the tubbes hanging in the balks1; 1beams

  And victualed them, kemelin, trough, and tub,

  With bread and cheese, and good ale in a jub1, 1jug

  Sufficing right enough as for a day.

  But ere that he had made all this array,

  He sent his knave1, and eke his wench2 also, 1servant 2maid

  Upon his need1 to London for
to go. 1business

  And on the Monday, when it drew to night,

  He shut his door withoute candle light,

  And dressed1 every thing as it should be. 1prepared

  And shortly up they climbed all the three.

  They satte stille well 1a furlong way1. 1the time it would take

  “Now, Pater noster, clum,” said Nicholay, to walk a furlong1

  And “clum,” quoth John; and “clum,” said Alison:

  This carpenter said his devotion,

  And still he sat and bidded his prayere,

  Awaking on the rain, if he it hear.

  The deade sleep, for weary business,

  Fell on this carpenter, right as I guess,

  About the curfew-time, or little more,

  For 1travail of his ghost1 he groaned sore, 1anguish of spirit1

  1And eft he routed, for his head mislay.1 1and then he snored,

  Adown the ladder stalked Nicholay; for his head lay awry1

  And Alison full soft adown she sped.

  Withoute wordes more they went to bed,

  1There as1 the carpenter was wont to lie: 1where1

  There was the revel, and the melody.

  And thus lay Alison and Nicholas,

  In business of mirth and in solace,

  Until the bell of laudes1 gan to ring, 1morning service, at 3.a.m.

  And friars in the chancel went to sing.

  This parish clerk, this amorous Absolon,

  That is for love alway so woebegone,

  Upon the Monday was at Oseney

  With company, him to disport and play;

  And asked upon cas1 a cloisterer2 1occasion 2monk

  Full privily after John the carpenter;

  And he drew him apart out of the church,

  And said, “I n’ot;1 I saw him not here wirch2 1know not 2work

  Since Saturday; I trow that he be went

  For timber, where our abbot hath him sent.

  And dwellen at the Grange a day or two:

  For he is wont for timber for to go,

  Or else he is at his own house certain.

  Where that he be, I cannot 1soothly sayn.1” 1say certainly1

  This Absolon full jolly was and light,

  And thought, “Now is the time to wake all night,

  For sickerly1 I saw him not stirring 1certainly

  About his door, since day began to spring.

  So may I thrive, but I shall at cock crow

  Full privily go knock at his window,

  That stands full low upon his bower1 wall: 1chamber

  To Alison then will I tellen all

  My love-longing; for I shall not miss

  That at the leaste way I shall her kiss.

  Some manner comfort shall I have, parfay1, 1by my faith

  My mouth hath itched all this livelong day:

  That is a sign of kissing at the least.

  All night I mette1 eke I was at a feast. 1dreamt

  Therefore I will go sleep an hour or tway,

  And all the night then will I wake and play.”

  When that the first cock crowed had, anon

  Up rose this jolly lover Absolon,

  And him arrayed gay, 1at point devise.1 1with exact care1

  But first he chewed grains and liquorice,

  To smelle sweet, ere he had combed his hair.

  Under his tongue a true love he bare,

  For thereby thought he to be gracious.

  Then came he to the carpentere’s house,

  And still he stood under the shot window;

  Unto his breast it raught1, it was so low; 1reached

  And soft he coughed with a semisoun’.1 1low tone

  “What do ye, honeycomb, sweet Alisoun?

  My faire bird, my sweet cinamome1, 1cinnamon, sweet spice

  Awaken, leman1 mine, and speak to me. 1mistress

  Full little thinke ye upon my woe,

  That for your love I sweat 1there as1 I go. 1wherever

  No wonder is that I do swelt1 and sweat. 1faint

  I mourn as doth a lamb after the teat

  Y-wis1, leman, I have such love-longing, 1certainly

  That like a turtle1 true is my mourning. 1turtle-dove

  I may not eat, no more than a maid.”

  “Go from the window, thou jack fool,” she said:

  “As help me God, it will not be, ‘come ba1 me.’ 1kiss

  I love another, else I were to blame”,

  Well better than thee, by Jesus, Absolon.

  Go forth thy way, or I will cast a stone;

  And let me sleep; 1a twenty devil way1. 1twenty devils take ye!1

  “Alas!” quoth Absolon, “and well away!

  That true love ever was so ill beset:

  Then kiss me, since that it may be no bet1, 1better

  For Jesus’ love, and for the love of me.”

  “Wilt thou then go thy way therewith?” , quoth she.

  “Yea, certes, leman,” quoth this Absolon.

  “Then make thee ready,” quoth she, “I come anon.”

  [And unto Nicholas she said 1full still1: 1in a low voice1

  “Now peace, and thou shalt laugh anon thy fill.”]

  This Absolon down set him on his knees,

  And said; “I am a lord at all degrees:

  For after this I hope there cometh more;

  Leman, thy grace, and, sweete bird, thine ore.1” 1favour

  The window she undid, and that in haste.

  “Have done,” quoth she, “come off, and speed thee fast,

  Lest that our neighebours should thee espy.”

  Then Absolon gan wipe his mouth full dry.

  Dark was the night as pitch or as the coal,

  And at the window she put out her hole,

  And Absolon him fell ne bet ne werse,

  But with his mouth he kiss’d her naked erse

  Full savourly. When he was ware of this,

  Aback he start, and thought it was amiss;

  For well he wist a woman hath no beard.

  He felt a thing all rough, and long y-hair’d,

  And saide; “Fy, alas! what have I do?”

  “Te he!” quoth she, and clapt the window to;

  And Absolon went forth at sorry pace.

  “A beard, a beard,” said Hendy Nicholas;

  “By God’s corpus, this game went fair and well.”

  This silly Absolon heard every deal1, 1word

  And on his lip he gan for anger bite;

  And to himself he said, “I shall thee quite1. 1requite, be even with

  Who rubbeth now, who frotteth1 now his lips 1rubs

  With dust, with sand, with straw, with cloth, with chips,

  But Absolon? that saith full oft, “Alas!

  My soul betake I unto Sathanas,

  But me were lever1 than all this town,” quoth he 1rather

  I this despite awroken1 for to be. 1revenged

  Alas! alas! that I have been y-blent1.” 1deceived

  His hote love is cold, and all y-quent.1 1quenched

  For from that time that he had kiss’d her erse,

  Of paramours he 1sette not a kers,1 1cared not a rush1

  For he was healed of his malady;

  Full often paramours he gan defy,

  And weep as doth a child that hath been beat.

  A softe pace he went over the street

  Unto a smith, men callen Dan1 Gerveis, 1master

  That in his forge smithed plough-harness;

  He sharped share and culter busily.

  This Absolon knocked all easily,

  And said; “Undo, Gerveis, and that anon.”

  “What, who art thou?” “It is I, Absolon.”

  “What? Absolon, what? Christe’s sweete tree1, 1cross

  Why rise so rath1? hey! Benedicite, 1early

  What aileth you? some gay girl, God it wote,

  Hath brought you thus upon the viretote:

  By Saint Neot, ye wot well w
hat I mean.”

  This Absolon he raughte1 not a bean 1recked, cared

  Of all his play; no word again he gaf1, 1spoke

  For he had more tow on his distaff

  Than Gerveis knew, and saide; “Friend so dear,

  That hote culter in the chimney here

  Lend it to me, I have therewith to don1: 1do

  I will it bring again to thee full soon.”

  Gerveis answered; “Certes, were it gold,

  Or in a poke1 nobles all untold, 1purse

  Thou shouldst it have, as I am a true smith.

  Hey! Christe’s foot, what will ye do therewith?”

  “Thereof,” quoth Absolon, “be as be may;

  I shall well tell it thee another day:”

  And caught the culter by the colde stele1. 1handle

  Full soft out at the door he gan to steal,

  And went unto the carpentere’s wall

  He coughed first, and knocked therewithal

  Upon the window, light as he did ere1. 1before

  This Alison answered; “Who is there

  That knocketh so? I warrant him a thief.”

  “Nay, nay,” quoth he, “God wot, my sweete lefe1, 1love

  I am thine Absolon, my own darling.

  Of gold,” quoth he, “I have thee brought a ring,

  My mother gave it me, so God me save!

  Full fine it is, and thereto well y-grave1: 1engraved

  This will I give to thee, if thou me kiss.”

  Now Nicholas was risen up to piss,

  And thought he would 1amenden all the jape1; 1improve the joke1

  He shoulde kiss his erse ere that he scape:

  And up the window did he hastily,

  And out his erse he put full privily

  Over the buttock, to the haunche bone.

  And therewith spake this clerk, this Absolon,

  “Speak, sweete bird, I know not where thou art.”

  This Nicholas anon let fly a fart,

  As great as it had been a thunder dent1; 1peal, clap

  That with the stroke he was well nigh y-blent1; 1blinded

  But he was ready with his iron hot,

  And Nicholas amid the erse he smote.

  Off went the skin an handbreadth all about.

  The hote culter burned so his tout1, 1breech

  That for the smart he weened1 he would die; 1thought

  As he were wood1, for woe he gan to cry, 1mad

  “Help! water, water, help for Godde’s heart!”

  This carpenter out of his slumber start,

  And heard one cry “Water,” as he were wood1, 1mad

  And thought, “Alas! now cometh Noe’s flood.”

  He sat him up withoute wordes mo’

  And with his axe he smote the cord in two;

  And down went all; he found neither to sell