For it was trussed up in his walet. Hym thoughte he rood al of the newe jet, Dischevele, save his cappe, he rood al bare. Swiche glarynge eyen hadde he as an hare. A vernycle hadde he sowed upon his cappe. His walet lay biforn hym in his lappe Bret-ful of pardoun come from Rome al hoot. A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot, No berd hadde he, ne nevere sholde have, As smothe it was as it were late shave, I trowe he were a geldyng or a mare. But of his craft, fro Berwyk into Ware, Ne was ther swich another Pardoner; For in his male he hadde a pilwe-beer, Which that he seyde was Oure Lady veyl; He seyde, he hadde a gobet of the seyl That Seinte Peter hadde, whan that he wente Upon the see, til Jesu Crist hym hente. He hadde a croys of latoun, ful of stones, And in a glas he hadde pigges bones; But with thise relikes whan that he fond A povre persoun dwellyng up-on-lond, Upon a day he gat hym moore moneye Than that the person gat in monthes tweye, And thus with feyned flaterye and japes He made the persoun and the peple his apes. But trewely to tellen atte laste, He was in chirche a noble ecclesiaste; Wel koude he rede a lessoun or a storie, But alderbest he song an offertorie, For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe He moste preche, and wel affile his tonge; To wynne silver, as he ful wel koude, Therfore he song the murierly and loude. Now have I toold you shortly in a clause Thestaat, tharray, the nombre, and eek the cause Why that assembled was this compaignye In Southwerk, at this gentil hostelrye, That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle. But now is tyme to yow for to telle How that we baren us that ilke nyght Whan we were in that hostelrie alyght, And after wol I telle of our viage, And all the remenaunt of oure pilgrimage. But first I pray yow, of youre curteisye, That ye narette it nat my vileynye, Thogh that I pleynly speke in this mateere To telle yow hir wordes and hir cheere, Ne thogh I speke hir wordes proprely. For this ye knowen also wel as I, Who-so shal telle a tale after a man, He moot reherce as ny as evere he kan Everich a word, if it be in his charge, Al speke he never so rudeliche or large; Or ellis he moot telle his tale untrewe, Or feyne thyng, or fynde wordes newe. He may nat spare, al thogh he were his brother, He moot as wel seye o word as another. Crist spak hym-self ful brode in Hooly Writ, And, wel ye woot, no vileynye is it. Eek Plato seith, who so kan hym rede, The wordes moote be cosyn to the dede. Also I prey yow to foryeve it me, Al have I nat set folk in hir degree Heere in this tale, as that they sholde stonde- My wit is short, ye may wel understonde. Greet chiere made oure hoost us everichon, And to the soper sette he us’anon. He served us with vitaille at the beste; Strong was the wyn, and wel to drynke us lestel A semely man oure Hooste was withalle For to been a marchal in an halle. A large man he was, with eyen stepe, A fairer burgeys was ther noon in Chepe; Boold of his speche, and wys, and well ytaught, And of manhod hym lakkede right naught. Eek therto he was right a myrie man; And after soper pleyen he bigan, And spak of myrthe amonges othere thynges, Whan that we hadde maad our rekenynges, And seyde thus: “Now lordynges, trewely, Ye been to me right welcome hertely, For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye, I saugh nat this yeer so myrie a compaignye Atones in this herberwe, as is now. Fayn wolde I doon yow myrthe, wiste I how- And of a myrthe I am right now bythoght To doon yow ese, and it shal coste noght. Ye goon to Caunterbury, God yow speede- The blisful martir quite yow youre meede- And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye, Ye shapen yow to talen and to pleye, For trewely, confort ne myrthe is noon To ride by the weye doumb as stoon, And therfore wol I maken yow disport, As I seyde erst, and doon yow som confort; And if yow liketh alle by oon assent For to stonden at my juggement, And for to werken as I shal yow seye, To-morwe, whan ye riden by the weye, Now, by my fader soule that is deed, But ye be myrie I wol yeve yow myn heed! Hoold up youre hond, withouten moore speche.” Oure conseil was nat longe for to seche- Us thoughte it was noght worth to make it wys- And graunted hym, withouten moore avys, And bad him seye his voirdit, as hym leste. “Lordynges,” quod he, “now herkneth for the beste, But taak it nought, I prey yow, in desdeyn. This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn, That ech of yow, to shorte with oure weye, In this viage shal telle tales tweye, To Caunterburyward I mene it so, And homward he shal tellen othere two, Of aventures that whilom han bifalle. And which of yow that bereth hym best of alle- That is to seyn, that telleth in this caas Tales of best sentence and moost solaas- Shal have a soper at oure aller cost, Heere in this place, sittynge by this post, Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbury. And for to make yow the moore mury I wol my-selven goodly with yow ryde Right at myn owene cost, and be youre gyde. And who so wole my juggement withseye Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye. And if ye vouchesauf that it be so, Tel me anon, withouten wordes mo, And I wol erly shape me therfore.” This thyng was graunted, and oure othes swore With ful gald herte, and preyden hym also That he wolde vouchesauf for to do so, And that he wolde been oure governour, And of our tales juge and reportour, And sette a soper at a certeyn pris, And we wol reuled been at his devys In heigh and lough; and thus by oon assent We been acorded to his juggement; And therupon the wyn was fet anon, We dronken, and to reste wente echon Withouten any lenger taryynge. Amorwe, whan that day bigan to sprynge, Up roos oure Hoost, and was oure aller cok, And gadrede us to gidre, alle in a flok, And forth we riden, a litel moore than paas, Unto the wateryng of Seint Thomas. And there oure Hoost bigan his hors areste, And seyde, “Lordynges, herkneth if yow leste, Ye woot youre foreward, and I it yow recorde; If even-song and morwe-song accorde, Lat se now who shal telle the firste tale. As evere mote I drynke wyn or ale, Whoso be rebel to my juggement Shal paye for al that by the wey is spent. Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer twynne, He which that hath the shorteste shal bigynne. Sire knyght,” quod he, “my mayster and my lord, Now draweth cut, for that is myn accord, Cometh neer,” quod he, “my lady Prioresse, And ye, Sir Clerk, lat be your shamefastnesse, Ne studieth noght; ley hond to, every man.” Anon to drawen every wight bigan, And shortly for to tellen as it was, Were it by aventure, or sort, or cas, The sothe is this, the cut fil to the knyght, Of which ful blithe and glad was every wyght. And telle he moste his tale, as was resoun, By foreward and by composicioun,- As ye han herd, what nedeth wordes mo? And whan this goode man saugh that it was so, As he that wys was and obedient To kepe his foreward by his free assent, He seyde, “Syn I shal bigynne the game, What, welcome be the cut, a Goddes name! Now lat us ryde, and herkneth what I seye.” And with that word we ryden forth oure weye, And he bigan with right a myrie cheere His tale anon, and seyde in this manere. Part 2 THE KNYGHTES TALE. Iamque domos patrias Scithice post aspera gentis prelia laurigero &c. Thebaid, xii, 519. Heere bigynneth the knyghtes tale. Whilom, as olde stories tellen us, Ther was a duc that highte Theseus; Of Atthenes he was lord and governour, That gretter was ther noon under the sonne. Ful many a riche contree hadde he wonne, What with his wysdom and his chivalrie; He conquered al the regne of Femenye, That whilom was ycleped Scithia, And weddede the queene Ypolita, And broghte hir hoom with hym in his contree, With muchel glorie and greet solempnytee, And eek hir yonge suster Emelye. And thus with victorie and with melodye Lete I this noble duk to Atthenes ryde, And al his hoost, in armes hym bisyde. And certes, if it nere to long to heere, I wolde have toold yow fully the manere How wonnen was the regne of Femenye By Theseus, and by his chivalrye, And of the grete bataille for the nones Bitwixen Atthenes and Amazones, And how asseged was Ypolita The faire hardy queene of Scithia, And of the feste that was at hir weddynge, And of the tempest at hir hoom-comynge; But al the thyng I moot as now forbere, I have, God woot, a large feeld to ere, And wayke been the oxen in my plough, The remenant of the tale is long ynough. I wol nat letten eek noon of this route, Lat every felawe telle his tale aboute, And lat se now who shal the soper wynne;- And ther I lefte, I wol ayeyn bigynne. This duc of whom I make mencioun, Whan he was come almoost unto the toun, In al his wele and in his mooste pride, He was war, as he caste his eye aside, Where that ther kneled in the hye weye A compaignye of ladyes, tweye and tweye, Ech after oother, clad in clothes blake; But swich a cry and swich a wo they make, That in this world nys creature lyvynge That herde swich another waymentynge! And of this cry they nolde nevere stenten, Til they the reynes of his brydel henten. “What folk been ye, that at myn hom-comynge Perturben so my feste with criynge?” Quod Theseus, “hav ye so greet envye Of myn honour, that thus compleyne and crye? Or who hath yow mysboden or offended? And telleth me if it may been amended, And why that ye been clothed thus in blak?” The eldeste lady of hem alle spak- Whan she hadde swowned with a deedly cheere, That it was routhe for to seen and heere- And seyde, “Lord, to whom Fortune hath yeven Victorie, and as a conqueror to lyven, Nat greveth us youre glorie and youre honour, But we biseken mercy and socour. Have mercy on oure wo and oure distresse, Som drope of pitee thurgh thy gentillesse Upon us wrecched wommen lat thou falle; For certes, lord, ther is noon of us alle That she ne hath been a duchesse or a queene. Now be we caytyves, as it is wel seene- Thanked be Fortune, and hir false wheel, That noon estat assureth to be weel. And certes, lord, to abyden youre presence, Heere in the temple of the goddesse Clemence We han ben waitynge al this fourtenyght; Now help us, lord, sith it is in thy myght! I wrecche, which that wepe and waille thus, Was whilom wyf to kyng Cappaneus, That starf at Thebes, cursed be that day! And alle we that been in this array And maken al this lamentacioun, We losten alle oure housbondes at that toun, Whil that the seege theraboute lay. And yet now the olde Creon, weylaway! That lord is now of Thebes the Citee, Fulfild of ire and of iniquitee, He, for despit and for his tirannye, To do the dede bodyes vileynye, Of alle oure lordes, whiche that been slawe, He hath alle the bodyes on an heep ydrawe, And wol nat suffren hem, by noon assent, Neither to been yburyed nor ybrent, But maketh houndes ete hem in despit.” And with that word, withouten moore respit, They fillen gruf, and criden pitously, “Have on us wrecched wommen som mercy And lat oure sorwe synken in thyn herte.” This gentil duk doun from his courser sterte With herte pitous, whan he herde hem speke; Hym thoughte that his herte wolde breke, Whan he saugh hem so pitous and so maat, That whilom weren of so greet estaat. And in his armes he hem alle up hente, And hem conforteth in ful good entente, And swoor his ooth, as he was trewe knyght, He solde doon so ferforthyl his myght Upon the tiraunt Creon hem to wreke, That all the peple of Grece sholde speke How Creon was of Theseus yserved, As he that hadde his deeth ful wel deserved. And right anoon, withouten moore abood, His baner he desplayeth, and forth rood To Thebesward, and al his hoost biside, No neer Atthenes wolde he go ne ride, Ne take his ese fully half a day, But onward on his wey that nyght he lay- And sente anon Ypolita the queene, And Emelye, hir yonge suster sheene, Unto the toun of Atthenes to dwelle- And forth he rit; ther is namoore to telle. The rede statue of Mars, with spere and targe, So shyneth, in his white baner large, That alle the feeldes gliteren up and doun, And by his baner gorn is his penoun Of gold ful riche, in which ther was ybete The Mynotaur which that he slough in Crete. Thus rit this duc, thus rit this conquerour, And in his hoost of chivalrie the flour, Til that he cam to Thebes, and alighte Faire in a feeld, ther as he thoughte fighte. But shortly for to speken of this thyng, With Creon, which that was of Thebes kyng, He faught, and slough hym manly as a knyght In pleyn bataille, and putte the folk to flyght, And by assaut he wan the citee after, And rente adoun bothe wall, and sparre, and rafter. And to the ladyes he sestored agayn The bones of hir housbondes that weren slayn, To doon obsequies as was tho the gyse. But it were al to longe for to devyse The grete clamour and the waymentynge That the ladyes made at the brennynge Of the bodies, and the grete honour That Theseus, the noble conquerour, Dooth to the ladyes, whan they from hym wente; But shortly for to telle is myn entente. Whan that his worthy duc, this Theseus, Hath Creon slayn, and wonne Thebes thus, Stille in that feeld he took al nyght his reste And dide with al the contree as hym leste. To ransake in the taas of bodyes dede, Hem for to strepe of harneys and of wede, The pilours diden bisynesse and cure, After the bataille and disconfiture; And so bifel, that in the taas they founde Thurgh-girt with many a grevous blody wounde, Two yonge knyghtes liggynge by and by, Bothe in oon armes wroght ful richely, Of whiche two Arcita highte that oon, And that oother knyght highte Palamon. Nat fully quyke, ne fully dede they were, But by here cote-armures, and by hir gere, The heraudes knewe hem best, in special, As they that weren of the blood roial Of Thebes, and of sustren two yborn. Out of the taas the pilours han hem torn, And had hem caried softe unto the tente Of Theseus, and he ful soone hem sente To Atthenes to dwellen in prisoun Perpetuelly, he nolde no raunsoun. And whan this worthy due hath thus ydon, He took his hoost, and hoom he rood anon, With laurer crowned, as a conquerour, And ther he lyveth in joye and in honour Terme of his lyve, what nedeth wordes mo? And in a tour, in angwissh and in wo, Dwellen this Palamon and eek Arcite For evermoore, ther may no gold hem quite. This passeth yeer by yeer, and day by day, Till it fil ones, in a morwe of May, That Emelye, that fairer was to sene Than is the lylie upon his stalke grene, And fressher than the May with floures newe- For with the rose colour stroof hir hewe, I noot which was the fairer of hem two- Er it were day, as was hir wone to do, She was arisen, and al redy dight- For May wole have no slogardrie a-nyght; The sesoun priketh every gentil herte, And maketh hym out of his slepe to sterte, And seith, `arys and do thyn observaunce,’ This maked Emelye have remembraunce To doon honour to May, and for to ryse. Yclothed was she fressh, for to devyse, Hir yelow heer was broyded in a tresse, Bihynde hir bak, a yerde long, I gesse, And in the gardyn, at the sonne upriste, She walketh up and doun, and as hir liste She gadereth floures, party white and rede, To make a subtil gerland for hir hede, And as an aungel hevenysshly she soong. The grete tour, that was so thikke and stroong, Which of the castel was the chief dongeoun, Ther as the knyghtes weren in prisoun, Of whiche I tolde yow, and tellen shal, Was evene joynant to the gardyn wal Ther as this Emelye hadde hir pleyynge. Bright was the sonne, and cleer that morwenynge, And Palamoun, this woful prisoner, As was his wone, by leve of his gayler, Was risen, and romed in a chambre on heigh, In which he al the noble citee seigh, And eek the gardyn, ful of braunches grene, Ther as this fresshe Emelye the shene Was in hire walk, and romed up and doun. This sorweful prisoner, this Palamoun, Goth in the chambre romynge to and fro, And to hym-self compleynynge of his wo. That he was born, ful ofte he seyde, `allas!’ And so bifel, by aventure or cas, That thurgh a wyndow, thikke of many a barre Of iren greet, and square as any sparre, He cast his eye upon Emelya, And therwithal he bleynte, and cryede “A!” As though he stongen were unto the herte. And with that cry Arcite anon upsterte And seyde, “Cosyn myn, what eyleth thee, That art so pale and deedly on to see? Why cridestow? who hath thee doon offence? For Goddess love, taak al in pacience Oure prisoun, for it may noon oother be; Fortune hath yeven us this adversitee. Som wikke aspect or disposicioun Of Saturne by sum constellacioun Hath yeven us this, al though we hadde it sworn. So stood the hevene, whan that we were born. We moste endure it, this the short and playn.” This Palamon answerde and seyde agayn, “Cosyn, for sothe, of this opinioun Thow hast a veyn ymaginacioun. This prison caused me nat for to crye, But I was hurt right now thurgh-out myn eye Into myn herte, that wol my bane be. The fairnesse of that lady, that I see Yond in the gardyn romen to and fro, Is cause of al my criyng and my wo. I noot wher she be womman or goddesse, But Venus is it, soothly as I gesse.” And therwithal, on knees doun he fil, And seyde, “Venus, if it be thy wil, Yow in this gardyn thus to transfigure Bifore me, sorweful wrecche creature, Out of this prisoun helpe that we may scapen! And if so be my destynee be shapen By eterne word to dyen in prisoun, Of oure lynage have som compassioun, That is so lowe ybroght by tirannye.” And with that word Arcite gan espye Wher-as this lady romed to and fro, And with that sighte hir beautee hurte hym so, That if that Palamon was wounded sore, Arcite is hurt as moche as he, or moore. And with a sigh he seyde pitously, “The fresshe beautee sleeth me sodeynly Of hir, that rometh in the yonder place! And but I have hir mercy and hir grace That I may seen hir atte leeste weye, I nam but deed, ther is namoore to seye.” This Palamon, whan he tho wordes herde, Dispitously he looked and answerde, “Wheither seistow this in ernest or in pley?” “Nay,” quod Arcite, “in ernest by my fey, God helpe me so, me list ful yvele pleye.” This Palamon gan knytte his browes tweye; “It nere,” quod he, “to thee no greet honour For to be fals, ne for to be traitour To me, that am thy cosyn and thy brother, Ysworn ful depe, and ech of us til oother, That nevere for to dyen in the peyne, Til that the deeth departe shal us tweyne, Neither of us in love to hyndre other, Ne in noon oother cas, my leeve brother, But that thou sholdest trewely forthren me In every cas, as I shal forthren thee. This was thyn ooth, and myn also certeyn, I woot right wel thou darst it nat withseyn. Thus artow of my conseil, out of doute; And now thou woldest falsly been aboute To love my lady, whom I love and serve And evere shal, til that myn herte sterve. Nay, certes, false Arcite, thow shalt nat so! I loved hir first, and tolde thee my wo As to my conseil, and to my brother sworn, To forthre me as I have toold biforn, For which thou art ybounden as a knyght To helpen me, if it lay in thy myght, Or elles artow fals, I dar wel seyn.” This Arcite ful proudly spak ageyn, “Thow shalt,” quod he, “be rather fals than I. But thou art fals, I telle thee outrely, For paramour I loved hir first er thow. What, wiltow seyn thou wistest nat yet now Wheither she be a womman or goddesse? Thyn is affeccioun of hoolynesse, And myn is love as to a creature; For which I tolde thee myn aventure As to my cosyn and my brother sworn. I pose, that thow lovedest hir biforn; Wostow nat wel the olde clerkes sawe That `who shal yeve a lovere any lawe?’ Love is a gretter lawe, by my pan, Than may be yeve of any erthely man. And therfore positif lawe and swich decree Is broken al day for love in ech degree. A man moot nedes love, maugree his heed, He may nat fleen it, thogh he sholde be deed, Al be she mayde, or wydwe, or elles wyf. And eek it is nat likly, al thy lyf, To stonden in hir grace, namoore shal I, For wel thou woost thyselven, verraily, That thou and I be dampned to prisoun Perpetuelly, us gayneth no faunsoun. We stryven as dide the houndes for the boon, They foughte al day, and yet hir part was noon. Ther cam a kyte, whil they weren so wrothe, And baar awey the boon bitwixe hem bothe. And therfore at the kynges court, my brother, Ech man for hymself, ther is noon oother. Love if thee list, for I love, and ay shal; And soothly, leeve brother, this is al. Heere in this prisoun moote we endure, And everich of us take his aventure.” Greet was the strif and long bitwix hem tweye, If that I hadde leyser for to seye- But to theffect; it happed on a day, To telle it yow as shortly as I may, A worthy duc, that highte Perotheus, That felawe was unto duc Theseus Syn thilke day that they were children lite, Was come to Atthenes his felawe to visite, And for to pleye as he was wont to do- For in this world he loved no man so, And he loved hym als tendrely agayn. So wel they lovede, as olde bookes sayn, That whan that oon was deed, soothly to telle, His felawe wente and soughte hym doun in helle. But of that storie list me nat to write; Duc Perotheus loved wel Arcite, And hadde hym knowe at Thebes yeer by yere, And finally, at requeste and preyere Of Perotheus, withouten any raunsoun Duc Theseus hym leet out of prisoun Frely to goon, wher that hym liste overal, In swich a gyse as I you tellen shal. This was the forward, pleynly for tendite, Bitwixen Theseus and hym Arcite, That if so were that Arcite were yfounde Evere in his lif, by day or nyght or stounde, In any contree of this Theseus, And he were caught, it was acorded thus, That with a swerd he sholde lese his heed; Ther nas noon oother remedie ne reed, But taketh his leve and homward he him spedde; Lat hym be war, his nekke lith to wedde! How greet a sorwe suffreth now Arcite! The deeth he feeleth thurgh his herte smyte, He wepeth, wayleth, crieth pitously, To sleen hymself he waiteth prively. He seyde, “Allas, that day that he was born! Now is my prisoun worse than biforn; Now is me shape eternally to dwelle Nat in purgatorie but in helle. Allas, that evere knew I Perotheus! For elles hadde I dwelled with Theseus, Yfetered in his prisoun evermo; Thanne hadde I been in blisse, and nat in wo. Oonly the sighte of hire whom that I serve, Though that I nevere hir grace may deserve, Wolde han suffised right ynough for me. O deere cosyn Palamon,” quod he, “Thyn is the victorie of this aventure. Ful blisfully in prison maistow dure.- In prisoun? certes, nay, but in Paradys! Wel hath Fortune yturned thee the dys, That hast the sighte of hir, and I thabsence; For possible is, syn thou hast hir presence, And art a knyght, a worthy and an able, That by som cas, syn Fortune is chaungeable, Thow maist to thy desir som tyme atteyne. But I, that am exiled and bareyne Of alle grace, and in so greet dispeir Tha
Posted on: Wed, 25 Sep 2013 23:46:15 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015