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

by Homer

  And, since she durst not tell it unto man

  Down to a marish fast thereby she ran,

  Till she came there, her heart was all afire:

  And, as a bittern bumbles1 in the mire, 1makes a humming noise

  She laid her mouth unto the water down

  “Bewray me not, thou water, with thy soun’”

  Quoth she, “to thee I tell it, and no mo’,

  Mine husband hath long ass’s eares two!

  Now is mine heart all whole; now is it out;

  I might no longer keep it, out of doubt.”

  Here may ye see, though we a time abide,

  Yet out it must, we can no counsel hide.

  The remnant of the tale, if ye will hear,

  Read in Ovid, and there ye may it lear.1 1learn

  This knight, of whom my tale is specially,

  When that he saw he might not come thereby,

  That is to say, what women love the most,

  Within his breast full sorrowful was his ghost.1 1spirit

  But home he went, for he might not sojourn,

  The day was come, that homeward he must turn.

  And in his way it happen’d him to ride,

  In all his care,1 under a forest side, 1trouble, anxiety

  Where as he saw upon a dance go

  Of ladies four-and-twenty, and yet mo’,

  Toward this ilke1 dance he drew full yern,2 1same 2eagerly

  The hope that he some wisdom there should learn;

  But certainly, ere he came fully there,

  Y-vanish’d was this dance, he knew not where;

  No creature saw he that bare life,

  Save on the green he sitting saw a wife,

  A fouler wight there may no man devise.1 1imagine, tell

  Against1 this knight this old wife gan to rise, 1to meet

  And said, “Sir Knight, hereforth1 lieth no way. 1from here

  Tell me what ye are seeking, by your fay.

  Paraventure it may the better be:

  These olde folk know muche thing.” quoth she.

  My leve1 mother,” quoth this knight, “certain, 1dear

  I am but dead, but if1 that I can sayn 1unless

  What thing it is that women most desire:

  Could ye me wiss,1 I would well 1quite your hire.”1 1instruct

  “Plight me thy troth here in mine hand,” quoth she, 1reward you1

  “The nexte thing that I require of thee

  Thou shalt it do, if it be in thy might,

  And I will tell it thee ere it be night.”

  “Have here my trothe,” quoth the knight; “I grant.”

  “Thenne,” quoth she, “I dare me well avaunt,1 1boast, affirm

  Thy life is safe, for I will stand thereby,

  Upon my life the queen will say as I:

  Let see, which is the proudest of them all,

  That wears either a kerchief or a caul,

  That dare say nay to that I shall you teach.

  Let us go forth withoute longer speech

  Then 1rowned she a pistel1 in his ear, 1she whispered a secret1

  And bade him to be glad, and have no fear.

  When they were come unto the court, this knight

  Said, he had held his day, as he had hight,1 1promised

  And ready was his answer, as he said.

  Full many a noble wife, and many a maid,

  And many a widow, for that they be wise, —

  The queen herself sitting as a justice, —

  Assembled be, his answer for to hear,

  And afterward this knight was bid appear.

  To every wight commanded was silence,

  And that the knight should tell in audience,

  What thing that worldly women love the best.

  This knight he stood not still, as doth a beast,

  But to this question anon answer’d

  With manly voice, that all the court it heard,

  “My liege lady, generally,” quoth he,

  “Women desire to have the sovereignty

  As well over their husband as their love

  And for to be in mast’ry him above.

  This is your most desire, though ye me kill,

  Do as you list, I am here at your will.”

  In all the court there was no wife nor maid

  Nor widow, that contraried what he said,

  But said, he worthy was to have his life.

  And with that word up start that olde wife

  Which that the knight saw sitting on the green.

  “Mercy,” quoth she, “my sovereign lady queen,

  Ere that your court departe, do me right.

  I taughte this answer unto this knight,

  For which he plighted me his trothe there,

  The firste thing I would of him requere,

  He would it do, if it lay in his might.

  Before this court then pray I thee, Sir Knight,”

  Quoth she, “that thou me take unto thy wife,

  For well thou know’st that I have kept1 thy life. 1preserved

  If I say false, say nay, upon thy fay.”1 1faith

  This knight answer’d, “Alas, and well-away!

  I know right well that such was my behest.1 1promise

  For Godde’s love choose a new request

  Take all my good, and let my body go.”

  “Nay, then,” quoth she, “I shrew1 us bothe two, 1curse

  For though that I be old, and foul, and poor,

  I n’ould1 for all the metal nor the ore, 1would not

  That under earth is grave,1 or lies above 1buried

  But if thy wife I were and eke thy love.”

  “My love?” quoth he, “nay, my damnation,

  Alas! that any of my nation

  Should ever so foul disparaged be.

  But all for nought; the end is this, that he

  Constrained was, that needs he muste wed,

  And take this olde wife, and go to bed.

  Now woulde some men say paraventure

  That for my negligence I do no cure1 1take no pains

  To tell you all the joy and all th’ array

  That at the feast was made that ilke1 day. 1same

  To which thing shortly answeren I shall:

  I say there was no joy nor feast at all,

  There was but heaviness and muche sorrow:

  For privily he wed her on the morrow;

  And all day after hid him as an owl,

  So woe was him, his wife look’d so foul

  Great was the woe the knight had in his thought

  When he was with his wife to bed y-brought;

  He wallow’d, and he turned to and fro.

  This olde wife lay smiling evermo’,

  And said, “Dear husband, benedicite,

  Fares every knight thus with his wife as ye?

  Is this the law of king Arthoures house?

  Is every knight of his thus dangerous?1 1fastidious, niggardly

  I am your owen love, and eke your wife

  I am she, which that saved hath your life

  And certes yet did I you ne’er unright.

  Why fare ye thus with me this firste night?

  Ye fare like a man had lost his wit.

  What is my guilt? for God’s love tell me it,

  And it shall be amended, if I may.”

  “Amended!” quoth this knight; “alas, nay, nay,

  It will not be amended, never mo’;

  Thou art so loathly, and so old also,

  And thereto1 comest of so low a kind, 1in addition

  That little wonder though I wallow and wind;1 1writhe, turn about

  So woulde God, mine hearte woulde brest!”1 1burst

  “Is this,” quoth she, “the cause of your unrest?”

  “Yea, certainly,” quoth he; “no wonder is.”

  “Now, Sir,” quoth she, “I could amend all this,

  If that me list, ere it were dayes three,

  1So well
ye mighte bear you unto me.1 1if you could conduct

  But, for ye speaken of such gentleness yourself well

  As is descended out of old richess, towards me1

  That therefore shalle ye be gentlemen;

  Such arrogancy is 1not worth a hen.1 1worth nothing

  Look who that is most virtuous alway,

  1Prive and apert,1 and most intendeth aye 1in private and public1

  To do the gentle deedes that he can;

  And take him for the greatest gentleman.

  Christ will,1 we claim of him our gentleness, 1wills, requires

  Not of our elders1 for their old richess. 1ancestors

  For though they gave us all their heritage,

  For which we claim to be of high parage,1 1birth, descent

  Yet may they not bequeathe, for no thing,

  To none of us, their virtuous living

  That made them gentlemen called to be,

  And bade us follow them in such degree.

  Well can the wise poet of Florence,

  That highte Dante, speak of this sentence:1 1sentiment

  Lo, in such manner1 rhyme is Dante’s tale. 1kind of

  ‘Full seld’1 upriseth by his branches smale 1seldom

  Prowess of man, for God of his goodness

  Wills that we claim of him our gentleness;’

  For of our elders may we nothing claim

  But temp’ral things that man may hurt and maim.

  Eke every wight knows this as well as I,

  If gentleness were planted naturally

  Unto a certain lineage down the line,

  Prive and apert, then would they never fine1 1cease

  To do of gentleness the fair office

  Then might they do no villainy nor vice.

  Take fire, and bear it to the darkest house

  Betwixt this and the mount of Caucasus,

  And let men shut the doores, and go thenne,1 1thence

  Yet will the fire as fair and lighte brenne1 1burn

  As twenty thousand men might it behold;

  1Its office natural aye will it hold,1 1it will perform its

  On peril of my life, till that it die. natural duty1

  Here may ye see well how that gentery1 1gentility, nobility

  Is not annexed to possession,

  Since folk do not their operation

  Alway, as doth the fire, lo, 1in its kind1 1from its very nature1

  For, God it wot, men may full often find

  A lorde’s son do shame and villainy.

  And he that will have price1 of his gent’ry, 1esteem, honour

  For1 he was boren of a gentle house, 1because

  And had his elders noble and virtuous,

  And will himselfe do no gentle deedes,

  Nor follow his gentle ancestry, that dead is,

  He is not gentle, be he duke or earl;

  For villain sinful deedes make a churl.

  For gentleness is but the renomee1 1renown

  Of thine ancestors, for their high bounte,1 1goodness, worth

  Which is a strange thing to thy person:

  Thy gentleness cometh from God alone.

  Then comes our very1 gentleness of grace; 1true

  It was no thing bequeath’d us with our place.

  Think how noble, as saith Valerius,

  Was thilke1 Tullius Hostilius, 1that

  That out of povert’ rose to high

  Read in Senec, and read eke in Boece,

  There shall ye see express, that it no drede1 is, 1doubt

  That he is gentle that doth gentle deedes.

  And therefore, leve1 husband, I conclude, 1dear

  Albeit that mine ancestors were rude,

  Yet may the highe God, — and so hope I, —

  Grant me His grace to live virtuously:

  Then am I gentle when that I begin

  To live virtuously, and waive1 sin. 1forsake

  “And whereas ye of povert’ me repreve,1 1reproach

  The highe God, on whom that we believe,

  In wilful povert’ chose to lead his life:

  And certes, every man, maiden, or wife

  May understand that Jesus, heaven’s king,

  Ne would not choose a virtuous living.

  1Glad povert’1 is an honest thing, certain; 1poverty cheerfully

  This will Senec and other clerkes sayn endured1

  Whoso that 1holds him paid of1 his povert’, 1is satisfied with1

  I hold him rich though he hath not a shirt.

  He that coveteth is a poore wight

  For he would have what is not in his might

  But he that nought hath, nor coveteth to have,

  Is rich, although ye hold him but a knave.1 1slave, abject wretch

  1Very povert’ is sinne,1 properly. 1the only true poverty is sin1

  Juvenal saith of povert’ merrily:

  The poore man, when he goes by the way

  Before the thieves he may sing and play

  Povert’ is hateful good, and, as I guess,

  A full great 1bringer out of business;1 1deliver from trouble1

  A great amender eke of sapience

  To him that taketh it in patience.

  Povert’ is this, although it seem elenge1 1strange

  Possession that no wight will challenge

  Povert’ full often, when a man is low,

  Makes him his God and eke himself to know

  Povert’ a spectacle1 is, as thinketh me 1a pair of spectacles

  Through which he may his very1 friendes see. 1true

  And, therefore, Sir, since that I you not grieve,

  Of my povert’ no more me repreve.1 1reproach

  “Now, Sir, of elde1 ye repreve me: 1age

  And certes, Sir, though none authority1 1text, dictum

  Were in no book, ye gentles of honour

  Say, that men should an olde wight honour,

  And call him father, for your gentleness;

  And authors shall I finden, as I guess.

  Now there ye say that I am foul and old,

  Then dread ye not to be a cokewold.1 1cuckold

  For filth, and elde, all so may I the,1 1thrive

  Be greate wardens upon chastity.

  But natheless, since I know your delight,

  I shall fulfil your wordly appetite.

  Choose now,” quoth she, “one of these thinges tway,

  To have me foul and old till that I dey,1 1die

  And be to you a true humble wife,

  And never you displease in all my life:

  Or elles will ye have me young and fair,

  And take your aventure of the repair1 1resort

  That shall be to your house because of me, —

  Or in some other place, it may well be?

  Now choose yourselfe whether that you liketh.

  This knight adviseth1 him and sore he siketh,2 1considered 2sighed

  But at the last he said in this mannere;

  “My lady and my love, and wife so dear,

  I put me in your wise governance,

  Choose for yourself which may be most pleasance

  And most honour to you and me also;

  I 1do no force1 the whether of the two: 1care not

  For as you liketh, it sufficeth me.”

  “Then have I got the mastery,” quoth she,

  “Since I may choose and govern as me lest.”1 1pleases

  “Yea, certes wife,” quoth he, “I hold it best.”

  “Kiss me,” quoth she, “we are no longer wroth,1 1at variance

  For by my troth I will be to you both;

  This is to say, yea, bothe fair and good.

  I pray to God that I may 1sterve wood,1 1die mad1

  But1 I to you be all so good and true, 1unless

  As ever was wife since the world was new;

  And but1 I be to-morrow as fair to seen, 1unless

  As any lady, emperess or queen,

  That is betwixt the East and eke
the West

  Do with my life and death right as you lest.1 1please

  Cast up the curtain, and look how it is.”

  And when the knight saw verily all this,

  That she so fair was, and so young thereto,

  For joy he hent1 her in his armes two: 1took

  His hearte bathed in a bath of bliss,

  A thousand times 1on row1 he gan her kiss: 1in succession1

  And she obeyed him in every thing

  That mighte do him pleasance or liking.

  And thus they live unto their lives’ end

  In perfect joy; and Jesus Christ us send

  Husbandes meek and young, and fresh in bed,

  And grace to overlive them that we wed.

  And eke I pray Jesus to short their lives,

  That will not be governed by their wives.

  And old and angry niggards of dispence,1 1expense

  God send them soon a very pestilence!

  List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

  List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

  The Friar’s Tale

  Geoffrey Chaucer (1340–1400)

  THE PROLOGUE.

  This worthy limitour, this noble Frere,

  He made always a manner louring cheer1 1countenance

  Upon the Sompnour; but for honesty1 1courtesy

  No villain word as yet to him spake he:

  But at the last he said unto the Wife:

  “Dame,” quoth he, “God give you right good life,

  Ye have here touched, all so may I the,1 1thrive

  In school matter a greate difficulty.

  Ye have said muche thing right well, I say;

  But, Dame, here as we ride by the way,

  Us needeth not but for to speak of game,

  And leave authorities, in Godde’s name,

  To preaching, and to school eke of clergy.

  But if it like unto this company,

  I will you of a Sompnour tell a game;

  Pardie, ye may well knowe by the name,

  That of a Sompnour may no good be said;

  I pray that none of you be 1evil paid;1 1dissatisfied1

  A Sompnour is a runner up and down

  With mandements1 for fornicatioun, 1mandates, summonses1

  And is y-beat at every towne’s end.”

  Then spake our Host; “Ah, sir, ye should be hend1 1civil, gentle

  And courteous, as a man of your estate;

  In company we will have no debate:

  Tell us your tale, and let the Sompnour be.”

  “Nay,” quoth the Sompnour, “let him say by me

  What so him list; when it comes to my lot,

  By God, I shall him quiten1 every groat! 1pay him off