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

by Homer

  But, by the cross which that Saint Helen fand,1 1found

  I would I had thy coilons1 in mine hand, 1testicles

  Instead of relics, or of sanctuary.

  Let cut them off, I will thee help them carry;

  They shall be shrined in a hogge’s turd.”

  The Pardoner answered not one word;

  So wroth he was, no worde would he say.

  “Now,” quoth our Host, “I will no longer play

  With thee, nor with none other angry man.”

  But right anon the worthy Knight began

  (When that he saw that all the people lough1), 1laughed

  “No more of this, for it is right enough.

  Sir Pardoner, be merry and glad of cheer;

  And ye, Sir Host, that be to me so dear,

  I pray you that ye kiss the Pardoner;

  And, Pardoner, I pray thee draw thee ner,1 1nearer

  And as we didde, let us laugh and play.”

  Anon they kiss’d, and rode forth their way.

  List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

  List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

  The Nun’s Priest’s Tale

  Geoffrey Chaucer (1340–1400)

  A poor widow, 1somedeal y-stept1 in age, 1somewhat advanced1

  Was whilom dwelling in a poor cottage,

  Beside a grove, standing in a dale.

  This widow, of which I telle you my tale,

  Since thilke day that she was last a wife,

  In patience led a full simple life,

  For little was 1her chattel and her rent.1 1her goods and her income1

  By husbandry1 of such as God her sent, 1thrifty management

  She found1 herself, and eke her daughters two. 1maintained

  Three large sowes had she, and no mo’;

  Three kine, and eke a sheep that highte Mall.

  Full sooty was her bow’r,1 and eke her hall, 1chamber

  In which she ate full many a slender meal.

  Of poignant sauce knew she never a deal.1 1whit

  No dainty morsel passed through her throat;

  Her diet was 1accordant to her cote.1 1in keeping with her cottage1

  Repletion her made never sick;

  Attemper1 diet was all her physic, 1moderate

  And exercise, and 1hearte’s suffisance.1 1contentment of heart1

  The goute 1let her nothing for to dance,1 1did not prevent her

  Nor apoplexy shente1 not her head. from dancing1 1hurt

  No wine drank she, neither white nor red:

  Her board was served most with white and black,

  Milk and brown bread, in which she found no lack,

  Seind1 bacon, and sometimes an egg or tway; 1singed

  For she was as it were 1a manner dey.1 1kind of day labourer1

  A yard she had, enclosed all about

  With stickes, and a drye ditch without,

  In which she had a cock, hight Chanticleer;

  In all the land of crowing 1n’as his peer.1 1was not his equal1

  His voice was merrier than the merry orgon,1 1organ

  On masse days that in the churches gon.

  Well sickerer1 was his crowing in his lodge, 1more punctual1

  Than is a clock, or an abbay horloge.1 1clock

  By nature he knew each ascension

  Of th’ equinoctial in thilke town;

  For when degrees fiftene were ascended,

  Then crew he, that it might not be amended.

  His comb was redder than the fine coral,

  Embattell’d as it were a castle wall.

  His bill was black, and as the jet it shone;

  Like azure were his legges and his tone;1 1toes

  His nailes whiter than the lily flow’r,

  And like the burnish’d gold was his colour,

  This gentle cock had in his governance

  Sev’n hennes, for to do all his pleasance,

  Which were his sisters and his paramours,

  And wondrous like to him as of colours.

  Of which the fairest-hued in the throat

  Was called Damoselle Partelote,

  Courteous she was, discreet, and debonair,

  And companiable,1 and bare herself so fair, 1sociable

  Since the day that she sev’n night was old,

  That truely she had the heart in hold

  Of Chanticleer, locked in every lith;1 1limb

  He lov’d her so, that well was him therewith,

  But such a joy it was to hear them sing,

  When that the brighte sunne gan to spring,

  In sweet accord, 1”My lefe is fare in land.”1 1my love is

  For, at that time, as I have understand, gone abroad1

  Beastes and birdes coulde speak and sing.

  And so befell, that in a dawening,

  As Chanticleer among his wives all

  Sat on his perche, that was in the hall,

  And next him sat this faire Partelote,

  This Chanticleer gan groanen in his throat,

  As man that in his dream is dretched1 sore, 1oppressed

  And when that Partelote thus heard him roar,

  She was aghast,1 and saide, “Hearte dear, 1afraid

  What aileth you to groan in this mannere?

  Ye be a very sleeper, fy for shame!”

  And he answer’d and saide thus; “Madame,

  I pray you that ye take it not agrief;1 1amiss, in umbrage

  By God, 1me mette1 I was in such mischief,2 1I dreamed1 2trouble

  Right now, that yet mine heart is sore affright’.

  Now God,” quoth he, “my sweven1 read aright 1dream, vision.

  And keep my body out of foul prisoun.

  1Me mette,1 how that I roamed up and down 1I dreamed1

  Within our yard, where as I saw a beast

  Was like an hound, and would have 1made arrest1 1siezed1

  Upon my body, and would have had me dead.

  His colour was betwixt yellow and red;

  And tipped was his tail, and both his ears,

  With black, unlike the remnant of his hairs.

  His snout was small, with glowing eyen tway;

  Yet of his look almost for fear I dey;1 1died

  This caused me my groaning, doubteless.”

  “Away,” quoth she, “fy on you, hearteless!1 1coward

  Alas!” quoth she, “for, by that God above!

  Now have ye lost my heart and all my love;

  I cannot love a coward, by my faith.

  For certes, what so any woman saith,

  We all desiren, if it mighte be,

  To have husbandes hardy, wise, and free,

  And secret,1 and no niggard nor no fool, 1discreet

  Nor him that is aghast1 of every tool,2 1afraid 2rag, trifle

  Nor no avantour,1 by that God above! 1braggart

  How durste ye for shame say to your love

  That anything might make you afear’d?

  Have ye no manne’s heart, and have a beard?

  Alas! and can ye be aghast of swevenes?1 1dreams

  Nothing but vanity, God wot, in sweven is,

  Swevens 1engender of repletions,1 1are caused by over-eating1

  And oft of fume,1 and of complexions, 1drunkenness

  When humours be too abundant in a wight.

  Certes this dream, which ye have mette tonight,

  Cometh of the great supefluity

  Of youre rede cholera,1 pardie, 1bile

  Which causeth folk to dreaden in their dreams

  Of arrows, and of fire with redde beams,

  Of redde beastes, that they will them bite,

  Of conteke,1 and of whelpes great and lite;2 1contention 2little

  Right as the humour of melancholy

  Causeth full many a man in sleep to cry,

  For fear of bulles, or of beares blake,

  Or elles that black devils will them take,

  Of other humours could I tell also,

 
That worke many a man in sleep much woe;

  That I will pass as lightly as I can.

  Lo, Cato, which that was so wise a man,

  Said he not thus, 1’Ne do no force of1 dreams,’ 1attach no weight to1

  Now, Sir,” quoth she, “when we fly from these beams,

  For Godde’s love, as take some laxatife;

  On peril of my soul, and of my life,

  I counsel you the best, I will not lie,

  That both of choler, and melancholy,

  Ye purge you; and, for ye shall not tarry,

  Though in this town is no apothecary,

  I shall myself two herbes teache you,

  That shall be for your health, and for your prow;1 1profit

  And in our yard the herbes shall I find,

  The which have of their property by kind1 1nature

  To purge you beneath, and eke above.

  Sire, forget not this for Godde’s love;

  Ye be full choleric of complexion;

  Ware that the sun, in his ascension,

  You finde not replete of humours hot;

  And if it do, I dare well lay a groat,

  That ye shall have a fever tertiane,

  Or else an ague, that may be your bane,

  A day or two ye shall have digestives

  Of wormes, ere ye take your laxatives,

  Of laurel, centaury, and fumeterere,

  Or else of elder-berry, that groweth there,

  Of catapuce, or of the gaitre-berries,

  Or herb ivy growing in our yard, that merry is:

  Pick them right as they grow, and eat them in,

  Be merry, husband, for your father’s kin;

  Dreade no dream; I can say you no more.”

  “Madame,” quoth he, “grand mercy of your lore,

  But natheless, as touching 1Dan Catoun,1 1Cato

  That hath of wisdom such a great renown,

  Though that he bade no dreames for to dread,

  By God, men may in olde bookes read

  Of many a man more of authority

  Than ever Cato was, so may I the,1 1thrive

  That all the reverse say of his sentence,1 1opinion

  And have well founden by experience

  That dreames be significations

  As well of joy, as tribulations

  That folk enduren in this life present.

  There needeth make of this no argument;

  The very preve1 sheweth it indeed. 1trial, experience

  One of the greatest authors that men read

  Saith thus, that whilom two fellowes went

  On pilgrimage in a full good intent;

  And happen’d so, they came into a town

  Where there was such a congregatioun

  Of people, and eke so 1strait of herbergage,1 1without lodging1

  That they found not as much as one cottage

  In which they bothe might y-lodged be:

  Wherefore they musten of necessity,

  As for that night, departe company;

  And each of them went to his hostelry,1 1inn

  And took his lodging as it woulde fall.

  The one of them was lodged in a stall,

  Far in a yard, with oxen of the plough;

  That other man was lodged well enow,

  As was his aventure, or his fortune,

  That us governeth all, as in commune.

  And so befell, that, long ere it were day,

  This man mette1 in his bed, there: as he lay, 1dreamed

  How that his fellow gan upon him call,

  And said, ‘Alas! for in an ox’s stall

  This night shall I be murder’d, where I lie

  Now help me, deare brother, or I die;

  In alle haste come to me,’ he said.

  This man out of his sleep for fear abraid;1 1started

  But when that he was wak’d out of his sleep,

  He turned him, and 1took of this no keep;1 1paid this no attention1

  He thought his dream was but a vanity.

  Thus twies1 in his sleeping dreamed he, 1twice

  And at the thirde time yet his fellaw again

  Came, as he thought, and said, ‘I am now slaw;1 1slain

  Behold my bloody woundes, deep and wide.

  Arise up early, in the morning, tide,

  And at the west gate of the town,’ quoth he,

  ‘A carte full of dung there shalt: thou see,

  In which my body is hid privily.

  Do thilke cart arroste1 boldely. 1stop

  My gold caused my murder, sooth to sayn.’

  And told him every point how he was slain,

  With a full piteous face, and pale of hue.

  “And, truste well, his dream he found full true;

  For on the morrow, as soon as it was day,

  To his fellowes inn he took his way;

  And when that he came to this ox’s stall,

  After his fellow he began to call.

  The hostelere answered him anon,

  And saide, ‘Sir, your fellow is y-gone,

  As soon as day he went out of the town.’

  This man gan fallen in suspicioun,

  Rememb’ring on his dreames that he mette,1 1dreamed

  And forth he went, no longer would he let,1 1delay

  Unto the west gate of the town, and fand1 1found

  A dung cart, as it went for to dung land,

  That was arrayed in the same wise

  As ye have heard the deade man devise;1 1describe

  And with an hardy heart he gan to cry,

  ‘Vengeance and justice of this felony:

  My fellow murder’d in this same night

  And in this cart he lies, gaping upright.

  I cry out on the ministers,’ quoth he.

  ‘That shoulde keep and rule this city;

  Harow! alas! here lies my fellow slain.’

  What should I more unto this tale sayn?

  The people out start, and cast the cart to ground

  And in the middle of the dung they found

  The deade man, that murder’d was all new.

  O blissful God! that art so good and true,

  Lo, how that thou bewray’st murder alway.

  Murder will out, that see we day by day.

  Murder is so wlatsom1 and abominable 1loathsome

  To God, that is so just and reasonable,

  That he will not suffer it heled1 be; 1concealed

  Though it abide a year, or two, or three,

  Murder will out, this is my conclusioun,

  And right anon, the ministers of the town

  Have hent1 the carter, and so sore him pined,2 1seized 2tortured

  And eke the hostelere so sore engined,1 1racked

  That they beknew1 their wickedness anon, 1confessed

  And were hanged by the necke bone.

  “Here may ye see that dreames be to dread.

  And certes in the same book I read,

  Right in the nexte chapter after this

  (I gabbe1 not, so have I joy and bliss), 1talk idly

  Two men that would, have passed over sea,

  For certain cause, into a far country,

  If that the wind not hadde been contrary,

  That made them in a city for to tarry,

  That stood full merry upon an haven side;

  But on a day, against the even-tide,

  The wind gan change, and blew right 1as them lest.1 1as they wished1

  Jolly and glad they wente to their rest,

  And caste1 them full early for to sail. 1resolved

  But to the one man fell a great marvail

  That one of them, in sleeping as he lay,

  He mette1 a wondrous dream, against the day: 1dreamed

  He thought a man stood by his bedde’s side,

  And him commanded that he should abide;

  And said him thus; ‘If thou to-morrow wend,

  Thou shalt be drown’d; my tale is at an end.’

&nb
sp; He woke, and told his follow what he mette,

  And prayed him his voyage for to let;1 1delay

  As for that day, he pray’d him to abide.

  His fellow, that lay by his bedde’s side,

  Gan for to laugh, and scorned him full fast.

  ‘No dream,’ quoth he,’may so my heart aghast,1 1frighten

  That I will lette1 for to do my things.1 1delay

  I sette not a straw by thy dreamings,

  For swevens1 be but vanities and japes.2 1dreams 2jokes,deceits

  Men dream all day of owles and of apes,

  And eke of many a maze1 therewithal; 1wild imagining

  Men dream of thing that never was, nor shall.

  But since I see, that thou wilt here abide,

  And thus forslothe1 wilfully thy tide,2 1idle away 2time

  God wot, 1it rueth me;1 and have good day.’ 1I am sorry for it1

  And thus he took his leave, and went his way.

  But, ere that he had half his course sail’d,

  I know not why, nor what mischance it ail’d,

  But casually1 the ship’s bottom rent, 1by accident

  And ship and man under the water went,

  In sight of other shippes there beside

  That with him sailed at the same tide.

  “And therefore, faire Partelote so dear,

  By such examples olde may’st thou lear,1 1learn

  That no man shoulde be too reckeless

  Of dreames, for I say thee doubteless,

  That many a dream full sore is for to dread.

  Lo, in the life of Saint Kenelm I read,

  That was Kenulphus’ son, the noble king

  Of Mercenrike, how Kenelm mette a thing.

  A little ere he was murder’d on a day,

  His murder in his vision he say.1 1saw

  His norice1 him expounded every deal2 1nurse 2part

  His sweven, and bade him to keep1 him well 1guard

  For treason; but he was but seven years old,

  And therefore 1little tale hath he told1 1he attached little

  Of any dream, so holy was his heart. significance to1

  By God, I hadde lever than my shirt

  That ye had read his legend, as have I.

  Dame Partelote, I say you truely,

  Macrobius, that wrote the vision

  In Afric’ of the worthy Scipion,

  Affirmeth dreames, and saith that they be

  ‘Warnings of thinges that men after see.

  And furthermore, I pray you looke well

  In the Old Testament, of Daniel,

  If he held dreames any vanity.

  Read eke of Joseph, and there shall ye see

  Whether dreams be sometimes (I say not all)

  Warnings of thinges that shall after fall.