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1. The Nun’s Priest’s Prologue
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The Prologue of the Nun’s Priest’s Tale
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‘Ho!’ quoth the Knight, ‘good sire, no more of this!
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What you said is right enough, true it is
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And more, since a little grief and sadness
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Is due most folk, that’s right enough I guess.
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As for myself, it’s great distress to me
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When men have been in great wealth and ease,
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To hear then of their sudden fall, alas!
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And the contrary is joy and great solace,
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When a man that has been of poor estate,
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Climbs up above and proves so fortunate
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That he abides there in prosperity.
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Such a thing is cheerful, it seems to me,
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And of such things it is good news to tell.’
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‘Yea,’ quoth our Host, ‘by Saint Paul’s bell,
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You speak the truth! This Monk, he cries aloud
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Of how Dame Fortune covered with a cloud
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I know not what, and speaks of tragedy –
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As you have heard; yet, faith, no remedy
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Is it to bewail these things or complain
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When they are done, and also it brings pain,
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As you have said, to hear of heaviness.
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Sir Monk, no more of it, may God you bless!
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You tale annoys all this good company.
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That sort of talk is scarcely worth a flea,
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There’s no amusement in it, and no game.
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Wherefore, Sir Monk, Sir Piers by your name,
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I pray you heartily, tell of something else;
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Were it not for the clinking of the bells,
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That from your bridle hang on every side,
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By Heaven’s King, that for us all died,
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I should ere this have tumbled down in sleep,
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Though the slough below were ever so deep.
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Then would your tale have been told in vain!
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For certainly, as the clerks make plain,
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Whenever a man lacks an audience,
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No use his uttering a single sentence.
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And well I know, the capacity is in me,
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As to whether anything well told shall be.
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Sire, say something of hunting, I you pray.’
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‘Nay,’ quoth the Monk, ‘I have no wish to play.
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Now, let another speak, my tale is told.’
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Then spoke our Host with rude speech and bold,
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And said unto the Nun’s Priest anon:
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‘Come near, good priest; come hither, now Sir John!
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Tell us such things as make the heart glad.
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Be blithe now, though you ride upon a nag!
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What though your horse be miserable and lean?
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If he will serve, why should you care a bean!
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See that your heart is ever merry, though.’
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‘Yea, sire,’ quoth he,’ yea, Host, and I will so,
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Not to be merry now would bring me blame.’
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And right anon now he took up the game.
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And thus he spoke unto us everyone,
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This sweet Priest, this goodly man, Sir John.
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2. The Nun’s Priest’s Tale
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Here begins the Nun’s Priest’s Tale of the cock and hen, Chanticleer and Pertelote
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A poor widow, somewhat bent with age,
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Lived, long ago, in a little cottage,
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Beside a grove, standing in a dale.
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The widow of whom I tell this tale,
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Since the day when she was last a wife,
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Led, patiently, a very simple life,
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For little was her property or rent.
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By husbandry, such as God her sent,
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She kept herself, and two daughters poor.
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Three large sows had she, of swine no more,
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Three cows, and a sheep, as well, called Molly.
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Full sooty was her bower, all melancholy,
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In which she ate full many a scanty meal.
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No pungent sauce was needed for her veal;
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No dainty morsel ever passed her throat.
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Her diet, her cottage struck a single note.
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Repletion thus had never made her sick;
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And a moderate diet was all her physic,
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And exercise, and the heart’s abundance.
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The gout no reason gave her not to dance,
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No apoplexy smote her in the head.
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No wine drank she, neither white nor red.
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Her board was mostly of the white and black –
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Milk and brown bread, of which she had no lack,
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Grilled bacon, and an egg or two, I say,
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For she was, as it were, a dairy maid.
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A yard she had, enclosed all about
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With palings, and a dry ditch without,
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In which there roamed a cock called Chanticleer.
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In all the land, at crowing he’d no peer;
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His voice was merrier than the merry organ
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On Mass days in the chapel there, piping on.
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Truer was his crowing in the lodge
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Than is a clock or abbey horologe.
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By nature he knew the right ascension
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Of the celestial equator, I’ll mention:
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For each fifteen degrees of its ascending,
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He would crow, as needed no amending.
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His comb redder than the finest coral,
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Was crenellated like the castle wall.
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His bill was black, and as the jet it shone;
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Like azure were his legs and toes, as one;
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His claws were whiter than the lily flower,
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And like the burnished gold all his colour.
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This noble cock had in his governance
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Seven hens, his pleasure to advance,
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Who were his sisters and his paramours,
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And wonderfully like him, as to colours;
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Of which the fairest, tinted round her throat,
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Was called the lovely lady Pertelote.
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Courteous she was, discreet and debonair,
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Companionable, and bore herself so fair
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From the day that she was seven nights old,
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That truly the heart she held in her hold
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Of Chanticleer, locked in her every limb.
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He loved her so that all was well with him.
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And such a joy was it to hear them sing
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When that the bright sun began to spring,
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In sweet accord, ‘My love’s in foreign land’.
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– For at that time, I’m given to understand,
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Beasts and birds as well could speak and sing.
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And it so befell, that in the early dawning,
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As Chanticleer among his wives all
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Sat on his perch, lodged within the hall,
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And next to him sat the fair Pertelote,
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Chanticleer began moaning in his throat,
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Like a man who in a dream is troubled sore.
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And when Pertelote thus heard him roar,
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She was aghast, and said, ‘My heart, dear,
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What ails you, to moan as you do here?
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Fie, what a sleeper! What a noise, for shame!’
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And he answered her, saying thus: ‘Dear dame,
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I pray you not to take my noise amiss.
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By God, I thought I was in such mischief
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Just now, my heart is pounding yet with fright!
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Now God’, quoth he, ‘read my dream aright,
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And keep my body from foul prison now!
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I dreamed that I wandered up and down
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Within our yard, and saw a kind of beast
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Shaped like a hound, that would have seized
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My body, and I seemed as good as dead.
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His colour was betwixt yellow and red,
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And tipped was his tail, and both his ears,
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With black, unlike the rest of all his hairs.
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His snout was small, and he was fiery eyed.
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– Of his mere looks alone I almost died!
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And this caused all my moaning, doubtless.’
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‘For shame!’ quoth she, ‘fie on timorousness!
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Alas!’ quoth she, ‘for, by the Lord above,
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Now have you lost my heart and all my love!
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I cannot love a coward, by my faith!
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For certainly, whatever women say,
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They all desire, if it might truly be,
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A husband who is brave, and wise and free,
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Discreet as well, no miser, and no fool,
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Nor one aghast at every warlike tool,
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Nor yet a boaster, by our Lord above!
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How dare you say for shame, to your love,
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That anything at all makes you a-feared?
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Where is your man’s heart to match your beard?
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Alas, and are you aghast at dreaming?
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God knows, dreams are vanity or nothing.
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Dreams are engendered by indigestion,
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And bodily exhalations and their action,
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And excessive humours dreams excite.
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For sure, this dream that you met with tonight
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Comes from the greater superfluity
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Of your red choler, as it seems to me,
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Which causes folks to be in dread, in dreams.
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Of arrows, and the fire’s reddening gleams,
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Of red beasts also, lest they seek to bite,
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Of warfare, and whelps both fierce and slight
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– Just as the humour of melancholy
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Causes full many a man to cry in sleep
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For fear of black bears, or bulls black,
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Or else black devils clinging to his back.
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Of other humours I could tell also,
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That work a man in sleep many a woe,
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But I’ll pass on as lightly as I can.
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Lo, Cato was ever so wise a man,
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Did he not say: “Take no account of dreams”?
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Now sire,’ quoth she, ‘when we flee our beam,
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For God’s love, go take a laxative!
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On peril of my soul, long days to live,
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That’s the best counsel, and no deceit,
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To purge both choler and melancholy;
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And lest you find an excuse to tarry,
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Because the town has no apothecary,
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I myself the right herbs will show you
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That bring both health to us and profit too.
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And in our own yard these herbs I’ll find,
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Which in their properties are of the kind
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To purge below, and do the same above.
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Don’t neglect them now, for God’s own love!
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You are quite choleric in complexion;
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Beware lest the sun in his ascension
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Find you all replete with humours hot!
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And if he does, I’ll bet a groat it’s not
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Long before you’ve a fever, a tertian,
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Or an ague that may prove your bane.
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A day or two you’ll need digestives
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Of worms, before you take your laxatives,
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Of laurel, centaury, and fumitory,
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Or else hellebore that grows so freely,
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Of caper-spurge or the blackthorn berry,
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Or plantain, growing in our yard, so merry.
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Peck them as they grow, and take them in!
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Be merry, husband, by your father’s kin!
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Fear you no dream – What I can say more?’
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‘Madame’ quoth he, ‘graunt merci for your lore!
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But nonetheless, regarding Cato now,
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Who for his wisdom won such great renown,
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Though he bade us hold no dream in dread,
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By God! Men have in old books often read
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In many a text of more authority
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Than ever Cato’s had, God prosper me,
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The very reverse of all Cato’s sense
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And have found in their experience
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That dreams to us are significations
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Both of the joys and the tribulations
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That folk suffer in this life at present.
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There is no need for any argument;
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The proof itself is shown by the deed.
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One of the greatest authors that men read,
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Cicero, says thus: two friends once went
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On pilgrimage, with serious intent;
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And it so chanced, they came to a town
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Where they such a congregation found
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Of people, and so many folk in passage,
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That there was not so much as a cottage
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In which they might both lodge for a fee.
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So that they had, out of necessity
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For that one night, to part company;
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And each of them went to a hostelry,
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And found a lodging as it might befall,
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So one of them was lodged in a stall,
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Far off, in a yard, with oxen used to plough;
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The other man was lodged well, I vow,
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As chance favoured him, or else Fortune,
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She that governs all of us in common.
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And it befell that, long ere it was day,
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The latter dreamed, in bed there as he lay,
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That his friend began for him to call,
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Crying: “Alas! Here in an ox’s stall,
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This night, I shall be murdered where I lie!
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Now help me, dearest brother, or I die!
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Come to me, and in all haste,” he cried.
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The man from his sleep in fear did rise;
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But once he’d woken, and banished sleep,
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He took a turn, and thought the thing would keep,
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And that his dream was merely fantasy.
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So twice in his sleep thus dreamed he,
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And yet a third time came his friend again
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As he thought, and said, “Now I am slain.
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Behold my blood-stained wounds deep and wide!
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Rise early and in the morning-tide
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At the west gate of the town”, quoth he,
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“A cart full of dung there you shall see,
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In which my corpse was hidden secretly.
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Have the carter then arrested boldly.
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My gold caused my murder: truth I say.”
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– And every detail of his death he gave,
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With a full piteous face, pale of hue.
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And trust me, next day the dream proved true;
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For on the morrow, soon as it was day,
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The man to his friend’s inn made his way.
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And when he came to the ox’s stall,
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For his friend he began to call.
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The innkeeper answered him anon,
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Saying: “Sire, your friend is long gone.
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As soon as daylight came, he went from town.”
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This the man’s suspicion did arouse,
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213
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Remembering the dreams he encountered;
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And forth he went – he would wait no longer –
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To the west gate of the town, where he found
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A dung cart, off to fertilise the ground,
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That was in all particulars that arise
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The same he heard the murdered man advise.
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And he began to cry, courageously,
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On vengeance, justice for the felony:
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“My friend indeed was murdered this same night,
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222
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And in this cart he lies gaping upright!
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223
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I call upon the officers”, quoth he,
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224
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“Charged to protect and keep this city!
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225
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Murder! Alas, here lies my friend, I’ll state!”
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226
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What more of this tale should I relate?
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227
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Folk ran to tip the load out on the ground,
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228
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And in the middle of the dung they found
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229
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The dead man, his murder shown anew.
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230
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O blissful God, who are so just and true,
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231
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Lo, how always murder you betray!
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232
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Murder will out, we say day after day.
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233
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Murder is so foul and abominable
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234
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To God, who is so just and reasonable,
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That he will not allow it long concealed,
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236
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Though hidden for a year, or two, or three.
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Murder will out: that is my conclusion.
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And right anon, the officers of that town
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Seized the carter, and they racked him so,
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240
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And then the innkeeper they racked also,
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241
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That they confessed their wickedness anon,
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And were hanged high by the neck bone.
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243
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Thus dreams may prove serious indeed.
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244
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And certainly in the same book I read,
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245
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Right in the next chapter after this
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– I tell no lie, and so may I find bliss –
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Of two men who wished to pass the sea,
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For certain reasons, into a far country,
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If the wind had not proved contrary,
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And made them tarry there in the city,
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That stood full merry on the haven side.
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252
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But at last, towards the evening-tide,
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253
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The wind began to blow from the west.
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Jolly and glad they went to their rest,
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255
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And vowed that in the dawn they’d set sail.
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256
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But hearken to my marvellous tale.
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257
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One of them, as deep in sleep he lay,
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258
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Had a wondrous dream, towards day
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He thought a man stood by his bed-side,
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And commanded that he should abide,
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261
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Saying; “If you should sail, as you intend,
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You will be drowned; my tale is at an end.”
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263
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He woke, and told his friend straight away,
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264
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And begged him the voyage to delay;
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265
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And for that day, he begged him to abide.
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266
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His friend, indeed, who lay by his bed-side,
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267
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Began to laugh, and jeer at him full fast.
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268
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“No dream,” quoth he, “may make my heart aghast.
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269
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I’ll not delay my plans for anything!
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270
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I give never a straw for all your dreaming,
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271
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For dreams are but vain things, and mere japes.
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272
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Men dream every day of owls or apes
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273
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And of many a fantasy withal.
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274
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Men dream of things that never are at all.
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275
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But since I see you’re settled to abide,
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276
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And thus wilfully forsake the tide,
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277
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God knows, I’m sorry; yet, enjoy your day!”
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278
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– And thus he took his leave, and went his way.
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279
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But ere that he had half the voyage sailed,
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280
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I know not why, or what mischance assailed,
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281
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By some chance the ship’s planks were rent,
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282
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And ship and man beneath the water went,
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283
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In sight of other ships close alongside,
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284
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That had sailed with them on that same tide.
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285
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And therefore, fair Pertelote, my dear,
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286
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From these old examples, it does appear
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287
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That no man should show himself careless
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288
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Regarding dreams, for I say, doubtless,
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289
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Many a dream proves serious indeed.
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| |
|
290
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Lo, in the life of Saint Kenelm I read,
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291
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Son of Kenulphus, once the noble king
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292
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Of Mercia, how Kenelm dreamed a thing,
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293
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Shortly ere he was murdered, on a day,
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294
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His murder in a vision saw, I say.
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295
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His nurse, she expounded, so they tell,
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296
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His dream, and bade him guard him well
|
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297
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From treason; yet he, but seven years old,
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298
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Took little notice of the dream he told,
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299
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So innocent and holy was his heart.
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300
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By God, I’d give my shirt, for a start,
|
|
301
|
|
|
If you’d read of his legend, like to me!
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| |
|
302
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Dame Pertelote, I tell you truly,
|
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303
|
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|
Macrobius, who writes of a vision
|
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304
|
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Of Scipio’s in Africa, his opinion,
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305
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As he affirms, is that dreams may be
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306
|
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|
Warnings of things that later men may see.
|
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307
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|
And furthermore, I pray you, look you well
|
|
308
|
|
|
In the Old Testament, at Daniel,
|
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309
|
|
|
And whether he thought dreams mere fantasy.
|
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310
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|
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Read of Joseph too, and there you shall see
|
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311
|
|
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That dreams are sometimes – though not all –
|
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312
|
|
|
Warnings of things that later do befall.
|
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313
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|
Look, too, at Egypt’s King, at Pharaoh,
|
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314
|
|
|
At his baker and his butler also,
|
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315
|
|
|
As to the consequences of their dreams!
|
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316
|
|
|
Whoever meditates on ancient themes
|
|
317
|
|
|
May find of dreams many a wondrous thing.
|
| |
|
318
|
|
|
Lo, Croesus, who was of Lydia king,
|
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319
|
|
|
Did he not dream he sat upon a tree,
|
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320
|
|
|
Which signified that hanged he should be?
|
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321
|
|
|
Lo, there is Andromache, Hector’s wife,
|
|
322
|
|
|
The day that Hector would lose his life,
|
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323
|
|
|
She dreamed the very same night before
|
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324
|
|
|
How Hector should die and be no more
|
|
325
|
|
|
If he went that day into the battle.
|
|
326
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|
|
She warned him, but it was of no avail;
|
|
327
|
|
|
He went off to fight nevertheless,
|
|
328
|
|
|
And was slain by Achilles, no less.
|
|
329
|
|
|
But the tale is all too long to tell,
|
|
330
|
|
|
And now it is nigh day; I may not dwell
|
|
331
|
|
|
On all of this, so say in conclusion,
|
|
332
|
|
|
That I shall have from this prevision
|
|
333
|
|
|
Adversity; and I say furthermore
|
|
334
|
|
|
By your laxatives I set no store,
|
|
335
|
|
|
For they are poison, I know full well.
|
|
336
|
|
|
I defy them; I love not their spell!
|
| |
|
337
|
|
|
Now let us speak of mirth, forget all this.
|
|
338
|
|
|
Madame Pertelote, thus have I bliss,
|
|
339
|
|
|
In one thing God has sent me large grace,
|
|
340
|
|
|
For when I see the beauty of your face,
|
|
341
|
|
|
You are so scarlet-red about your eye,
|
|
342
|
|
|
It quenches my fears and makes them die.
|
|
343
|
|
|
For certain it is: In principio,
|
|
344
|
|
|
Mulier est hominis confusio.
|
|
345
|
|
|
– Madame, the meaning of the Latin is:
|
|
346
|
|
|
“Woman is man’s joy and all his bliss.” –
|
|
347
|
|
|
For when I feel a-nights your soft side,
|
|
348
|
|
|
– Even though I may not take a ride,
|
|
349
|
|
|
Because our perch so narrow is, alas! –
|
|
350
|
|
|
I am so full of joy and of solace,
|
|
351
|
|
|
That I defy both vision now and dream.’
|
| |
|
352
|
|
|
And with that word, he flew down from the beam,
|
|
353
|
|
|
Since it was day, and also his hens all,
|
|
354
|
|
|
And with a ‘chuck’ began his hens to call,
|
|
355
|
|
|
For he had found seed lying in the yard.
|
|
356
|
|
|
Regal he was, no longer filled with dread;
|
|
357
|
|
|
He covered Pertelote some twenty times,
|
|
358
|
|
|
Trod her as often, ere that it was prime.
|
|
359
|
|
|
Like a grim lion he gazes all around,
|
|
360
|
|
|
And on his toes he saunters up and down;
|
|
361
|
|
|
He deigns not to set foot upon the ground.
|
|
362
|
|
|
He ‘chucks’ again each time a seed is found,
|
|
363
|
|
|
And to him then run his dear wives all.
|
|
364
|
|
|
Thus regal, as a prince is in his hall,
|
|
365
|
|
|
I’ll leave this Chanticleer in his pasture,
|
|
366
|
|
|
And next will I tell of his adventure.
|
| |
|
367
|
|
|
When the month with which the world began,
|
|
368
|
|
|
Namely March, in which God first made man,
|
|
369
|
|
|
Was complete, and past again also
|
|
370
|
|
|
When March was done, thirty days and two,
|
|
371
|
|
|
Befell it, Chanticleer in all his pride,
|
|
372
|
|
|
His seven wives walking by his side,
|
|
373
|
|
|
Cast up his eyes towards the bright sun,
|
|
374
|
|
|
That into the sign of Taurus now had run
|
|
375
|
|
|
Twenty degrees and one, and somewhat more,
|
|
376
|
|
|
And knew by nature, and no other lore,
|
|
377
|
|
|
That it was prime, and crowed with blissful voice.
|
|
378
|
|
|
‘The sun,’ he said, ‘is climbed in heavenly course,
|
|
379
|
|
|
Forty degrees and one, and more, it is.
|
|
380
|
|
|
Madame Pertelote, my world’s bliss,
|
|
381
|
|
|
Hearken, these blissful brides, how they sing,
|
|
382
|
|
|
And see the fresh flowers how they spring!
|
|
383
|
|
|
Full is my heart with revel and with solace!’
|
| |
|
384
|
|
|
But suddenly he fell in sorrowful case;
|
|
385
|
|
|
For ever the latter end of joy is woe.
|
|
386
|
|
|
God knows that worldly joy is swift to go;
|
|
387
|
|
|
And any rhetorician who fair can write
|
|
388
|
|
|
He in a chronicle can safely that indite,
|
|
389
|
|
|
As a sovereign thing to note, indeed.
|
|
390
|
|
|
Now ever wise man, let him list to me;
|
|
391
|
|
|
This story is as true, I’ll undertake,
|
|
392
|
|
|
As the book of Launcelot of the Lake,
|
|
393
|
|
|
That women hold in such great reverence.
|
|
394
|
|
|
Now will I turn again to my utterance.
|
| |
|
395
|
|
|
A black-tipped fox of sly iniquity,
|
|
396
|
|
|
Who in the grove had lived years three,
|
|
397
|
|
|
With premeditated scheming, at a stroke,
|
|
398
|
|
|
That same night through hedge and fences broke,
|
|
399
|
|
|
Into the yard, where Chanticleer the fair
|
|
400
|
|
|
Was wont and his wives too, to repair;
|
|
401
|
|
|
And in a bed of green-stuff still he lay
|
|
402
|
|
|
Till it was near the middle of the day,
|
|
403
|
|
|
Waiting the time for Chanticleer to fall,
|
|
404
|
|
|
As are wont to do these homicides all
|
|
405
|
|
|
That lie in wait to slay innocent men.
|
| |
|
406
|
|
|
O false murderer, lurking in your den!
|
|
407
|
|
|
O new Escariot, new Ganelon!
|
|
408
|
|
|
False dissimulator, O Greek Sinon,
|
|
409
|
|
|
Who brought Troy all utterly to sorrow!
|
|
410
|
|
|
O Chanticleer, accursed be the morrow
|
|
411
|
|
|
When you flew to the yard from the beam!
|
|
412
|
|
|
You were warned indeed by your dream
|
|
413
|
|
|
That this day would be perilous to thee.
|
|
414
|
|
|
– But what God foreknows must surely be,
|
|
415
|
|
|
In the opinion of certain clerics.
|
|
416
|
|
|
Ask witness of one who a true cleric is,
|
|
417
|
|
|
That in the schools has been great altercation
|
|
418
|
|
|
About this matter, and great disputation,
|
|
419
|
|
|
Wrought by a hundred thousand, every man.
|
|
420
|
|
|
But I cannot sift the flour from the bran,
|
|
421
|
|
|
As can the holy doctor Saint Augustine,
|
|
422
|
|
|
Boethius, or Bishop Bradwardine,
|
|
423
|
|
|
As to whether God’s noble foreknowing
|
|
424
|
|
|
Means that I must then do a certain thing
|
|
425
|
|
|
– By ‘must’ I denote simple necessity –
|
|
426
|
|
|
Or whether free choice may be granted me
|
|
427
|
|
|
To do that same thing, or to do it not,
|
|
428
|
|
|
Though God foreknew it ere that I was wrought,
|
|
429
|
|
|
Or if his knowing constrains me not at all,
|
|
430
|
|
|
Except by necessity conditional.
|
|
431
|
|
|
Well, I’ll have naught to do with the matter;
|
|
432
|
|
|
My tale’s of a cockerel, as you may hear,
|
|
433
|
|
|
Who took his wife’s counsel, but in sorrow,
|
|
434
|
|
|
To walk in the yard upon the morrow
|
|
435
|
|
|
After he’d had the dream of which I told.
|
|
436
|
|
|
Woman’s counsel oft leaves us dead and cold;
|
|
437
|
|
|
Woman’s counsel brought us first to woe,
|
|
438
|
|
|
And made Adam out of Paradise to go,
|
|
439
|
|
|
Where he had been merry and full of ease.
|
|
440
|
|
|
But as I know not whom it might displease
|
|
441
|
|
|
If I the counsel of women dare to blame,
|
|
442
|
|
|
Let us pass on, I speak as if in game.
|
|
443
|
|
|
Read the authors, treating of such matter,
|
|
444
|
|
|
And of women you may hear their chatter.
|
|
445
|
|
|
These are the cockerel’s words and not mine;
|
|
446
|
|
|
I wish no harm to any woman divine.
|
| |
|
447
|
|
|
Fair in the dust, to bathe her doth lie,
|
|
448
|
|
|
Pertelote, with all her sisters by,
|
|
449
|
|
|
Out in the sun, and Chanticleer so free
|
|
450
|
|
|
Sings merrier than a mermaid in the sea
|
|
451
|
|
|
(For Physiologus says for a certainty
|
|
452
|
|
|
That they sing right well and merrily).
|
|
453
|
|
|
And it so befell, that as he cast his eye,
|
|
454
|
|
|
Among the green-stuff, at a butterfly,
|
|
455
|
|
|
He suddenly saw the fox lying low,
|
|
456
|
|
|
No longer had a reason then to crow,
|
|
457
|
|
|
But he cried anon, ‘Cock, cock!’ and up did start,
|
|
458
|
|
|
As a man does who is a-feared at heart;
|
|
459
|
|
|
For by nature a beast desires to flee
|
|
460
|
|
|
From its enemy, if one it chance to see,
|
|
461
|
|
|
Though it has never seen such with its eye.
|
| |
|
462
|
|
|
Now Chanticleer, when he chanced to spy
|
|
463
|
|
|
The fox, he would have fled, but fox anon
|
|
464
|
|
|
Said: ‘Noble sir, alas, will you be gone?
|
|
465
|
|
|
Are you afraid of me who am your friend?
|
|
466
|
|
|
Now, surely, I’d be worse than any fiend
|
|
467
|
|
|
If I should do you harm or villainy!
|
|
468
|
|
|
I have not come to steal your privacy;
|
|
469
|
|
|
But truly, the reason for my coming
|
|
470
|
|
|
Is only to hear how well you sing.
|
|
471
|
|
|
For truly, you have as merry a voice,
|
|
472
|
|
|
As the angels who in Heaven do rejoice.
|
|
473
|
|
|
And then you have in music more feeling
|
|
474
|
|
|
Than Boethius, or any who can sing.
|
|
475
|
|
|
My lord your father – God his soul now bless! –
|
|
476
|
|
|
And also your mother, of her great kindness,
|
|
477
|
|
|
Once visited my house, to my great ease.
|
|
478
|
|
|
And you sir, certainly, I seek to please.
|
| |
|
479
|
|
|
For if men speak of singing, I must say
|
|
480
|
|
|
– As own the use of my two eyes I may –
|
|
481
|
|
|
Save for you, I never heard man sing
|
|
482
|
|
|
As your father did of a sweet morning.
|
|
483
|
|
|
Sure it was heart-felt, everything he sang!
|
|
484
|
|
|
And to be sure his voice full loudly rang,
|
|
485
|
|
|
He would take great pains that both his eyes
|
|
486
|
|
|
Were tight shut, so louder were his cries,
|
|
487
|
|
|
While standing on tiptoes therewithal,
|
|
488
|
|
|
And stretching out his neck long and small;
|
|
489
|
|
|
And also he was of such discretion
|
|
490
|
|
|
That there was no one in any region
|
|
491
|
|
|
Who in song or wisdom might him surpass.
|
|
492
|
|
|
I have read, in Burnellus the Ass,
|
|
493
|
|
|
Among its verses, how there was a cock,
|
|
494
|
|
|
Who, when a priest’s son gave him a knock
|
|
495
|
|
|
On his leg when young, served him amiss,
|
|
496
|
|
|
And made him lose his sovereign benefice.
|
|
497
|
|
|
But certainly, there’s no comparison
|
|
498
|
|
|
Between the wisdom and discretion
|
|
499
|
|
|
Of your good father, and such subtlety!
|
|
500
|
|
|
Now sing on, sire, for holy charity;
|
|
501
|
|
|
Let’s hear: can you your father emulate?’
|
| |
|
502
|
|
|
Then Chanticleer his wings began to beat,
|
|
503
|
|
|
As one who could not foul treason see,
|
|
504
|
|
|
He was ravished so by such flattery.
|
| |
|
505
|
|
|
Alas, you lords, many a false flatterer
|
|
506
|
|
|
Lives at your court, and many a cozener,
|
|
507
|
|
|
Who pleases you better, by my faith,
|
|
508
|
|
|
Than he who truthfulness does display!
|
|
509
|
|
|
Read Ecclesiastes on flattery;
|
|
510
|
|
|
Beware, you lords, of all their treachery.
|
| |
|
511
|
|
|
Chanticleer stood up high on his toes,
|
|
512
|
|
|
Stretched out his neck, and kept his eyes closed,
|
|
513
|
|
|
And began to crow out loud for nones.
|
|
514
|
|
|
Sir Russell the fox started up at once,
|
|
515
|
|
|
And by the throat seized Chanticleer,
|
|
516
|
|
|
And on his back toward the wood, I fear,
|
|
517
|
|
|
Carried him off, and nobody pursued.
|
| |
|
518
|
|
|
O Destiny that may not be eschewed!
|
|
519
|
|
|
Alas, that Chanticleer flew from the beam!
|
|
520
|
|
|
Alas, that his wife ignored his dream!
|
|
521
|
|
|
– And on a Friday fell all this mischance.
|
| |
|
522
|
|
|
O Venus, sweet goddess of love’s chance,
|
|
523
|
|
|
Since it was your servant, Chanticleer,
|
|
524
|
|
|
And in your service he spent his life dear,
|
|
525
|
|
|
More for delight than race to multiply,
|
|
526
|
|
|
Why suffer him on your own day to die?
|
| |
|
527
|
|
|
O Geoffrey of Vinsauf, my master sovereign,
|
|
528
|
|
|
Who, when your great King Richard was slain
|
|
529
|
|
|
By a bolt, lamented his death so sore,
|
|
530
|
|
|
Why have I not your wisdom and your lore,
|
|
531
|
|
|
To chide the day, a Friday, as did you?
|
|
532
|
|
|
– For he was slain upon a Friday too.
|
|
533
|
|
|
Then my lament I would show you plain,
|
|
534
|
|
|
For Chanticleer’s fear, and for his pain.
|
| |
|
535
|
|
|
For sure, such cries and such lamentation
|
|
536
|
|
|
Were never made by ladies when Ilium
|
|
537
|
|
|
Was won, and Pyrrhus with his drawn sword,
|
|
538
|
|
|
Having grasped King Priam by the beard,
|
|
539
|
|
|
Slew him, as Virgil’s Aeneid tells us,
|
|
540
|
|
|
As all those hens made in the close
|
|
541
|
|
|
When of Chanticleer they caught sight.
|
|
542
|
|
|
But above all Dame Pertelote outright
|
|
543
|
|
|
Cried louder than did Hasdrubal’s wife,
|
|
544
|
|
|
When her dear husband lost his life,
|
|
545
|
|
|
And the Romans set fire to Carthage;
|
|
546
|
|
|
She was so filled with torment and rage
|
|
547
|
|
|
That willingly into the flames she leapt,
|
|
548
|
|
|
Steadfast of heart, her tryst with death she kept.
|
| |
|
549
|
|
|
O woeful hens, you cried as loudly
|
|
550
|
|
|
As, when Nero set fire to the city
|
|
551
|
|
|
Of Rome, cried all the senator’s wives,
|
|
552
|
|
|
Because their husbands had lost their lives;
|
|
553
|
|
|
In their innocence Nero had them slain.
|
|
554
|
|
|
Now will I turn to my tale again.
|
| |
|
555
|
|
|
The poor widow, her daughters also,
|
|
556
|
|
|
Heard the hens cry and all their woe,
|
|
557
|
|
|
And out of the house they ran anon,
|
|
558
|
|
|
And saw the fox towards the grove had gone,
|
|
559
|
|
|
And on his back carried the cock away,
|
|
560
|
|
|
And shouted out: ‘Thief!’ and ‘Well-away!
|
|
561
|
|
|
It is the fox!’ – And after him they ran,
|
|
562
|
|
|
And with staves many another man.
|
|
563
|
|
|
Ran Coll our dog, and Talbot and Gerland,
|
|
564
|
|
|
And Malkin with a distaff in her hand;
|
|
565
|
|
|
Ran cow and calf, and the very hogs,
|
|
566
|
|
|
Frightened by the barking of the dogs,
|
|
567
|
|
|
And the shouting of men and women, worst,
|
|
568
|
|
|
They ran so I thought their hearts would burst.
|
|
569
|
|
|
They yelled as the fiends do down in Hell;
|
|
570
|
|
|
The ducks quacked as though death loomed as well;
|
|
571
|
|
|
The geese for fear flew high above the trees;
|
|
572
|
|
|
Out of the hive came a swarm of bees.
|
|
573
|
|
|
So hideous was the noise – ah, benedictitee! –
|
|
574
|
|
|
I’m sure Jack Straw and all his company
|
|
575
|
|
|
Never uttered shouts one half so shrill,
|
|
576
|
|
|
When they wished the Flemings all to kill,
|
|
577
|
|
|
As this day rose up behind the fox.
|
|
578
|
|
|
Trumpets of brass they brought, flutes of box,
|
|
579
|
|
|
Of horn, of bone, to blow out loud and hoot,
|
|
580
|
|
|
And therewithal they shrieked and whooped;
|
|
581
|
|
|
It seemed as if the heavens themselves would fall!
|
| |
|
582
|
|
|
Now, good men, I pray you, hearken all:
|
|
583
|
|
|
Lo, how Fortune alters suddenly
|
|
584
|
|
|
The hope and pride of their enemy!
|
|
585
|
|
|
The cock that lay upon the fox’s back,
|
|
586
|
|
|
Despite his fear, spoke to the fox: ‘Alack,
|
|
587
|
|
|
Sire, if I were you, as it seems to me,
|
|
588
|
|
|
I’d turn my head, and shout, God help me,
|
|
589
|
|
|
“Turn back again, you proud peasants all!
|
|
590
|
|
|
And a foul pestilence upon you fall!
|
|
591
|
|
|
Now I have reached the woodland-side,
|
|
592
|
|
|
Despite your chase, the cock shall here abide.
|
|
593
|
|
|
I’ll eat him, by my faith, and that anon!”’
|
|
594
|
|
|
The fox said, ‘By my faith, it shall be done!’
|
|
595
|
|
|
– And as he spoke the words, all suddenly,
|
|
596
|
|
|
The cock broke from his mouth full swiftly,
|
|
597
|
|
|
And high into a tree he flew anon.
|
|
598
|
|
|
And when the fox saw that the cock was gone,
|
|
599
|
|
|
‘Alas!’ quoth he, ‘O Chanticleer, alas!
|
|
600
|
|
|
I have done you,’ quoth he, ‘a foul trespass,
|
|
601
|
|
|
Inasmuch as I rendered you a-feared,
|
|
602
|
|
|
When I seized you and then brought you here.
|
|
603
|
|
|
But sire, I did it with no harsh intent;
|
|
604
|
|
|
Come down, and I’ll explain what I meant.
|
|
605
|
|
|
God help me, I’ll tell you all the truth!’
|
| |
|
606
|
|
|
‘Nay, then’ quoth he, ‘and curses on us two!
|
|
607
|
|
|
And first I’ll curse myself, both blood and bones,
|
|
608
|
|
|
If you deceive me oftener than once!
|
|
609
|
|
|
You shall no more, with your foul flattery,
|
|
610
|
|
|
Make me sing, close my eyes so foolishly;
|
|
611
|
|
|
For he that shuts his eyes when he should see,
|
|
612
|
|
|
Willingly, let him not thrive, for me!’
|
| |
|
613
|
|
|
‘Nay,’ quoth the fox, ‘may God give him mischance
|
|
614
|
|
|
Who is so careless of his governance,
|
|
615
|
|
|
And chatters when he should hold his peace!’
|
|
616
|
|
|
Lo, such it is to be reckless indeed,
|
|
617
|
|
|
And negligent, and trust in flattery!
|
| |
|
618
|
|
|
But you that think this tale but a folly,
|
|
619
|
|
|
And all about a fox, and cock, and hen,
|
|
620
|
|
|
Take note of the moral, my good men.
|
|
621
|
|
|
For Saint Paul says all that written is,
|
|
622
|
|
|
For our understanding’s written, as is this,
|
|
623
|
|
|
Take the grain, and leave the chaff there still.
|
|
624
|
|
|
Now, gracious God, if it should be thy will
|
|
625
|
|
|
(As said my Lord), so make us all good men,
|
|
626
|
|
|
And bring us to the heights of bliss! Amen.
|
| |
|
627
|
|
|
Here is ended the Nun’s Priest’s Tale
|
| |
| |
|
3. The Epilogue to the Nun’s Priest’s Tale
|
|
0
|
|
|
‘Sir Nun’s Priest,’ our Host said right anon,
|
|
1
|
|
|
‘Blessed be your breeches, and each stone!
|
|
2
|
|
|
That was a merry tale of Chanticleer.
|
|
3
|
|
|
But, by my troth, if you were a secular,
|
|
4
|
|
|
You would have been a treader of fowl alright;
|
|
5
|
|
|
For if you have spirit, as you have might,
|
|
6
|
|
|
Hens would be needed, is what I mean,
|
|
7
|
|
|
Yea, more than seven times seventeen!
|
|
8
|
|
|
See, what shoulders he has this gentle priest,
|
|
9
|
|
|
A solid neck and chest has there, at least!
|
|
10
|
|
|
He gazes like a sparrow hawk from those eyes;
|
|
11
|
|
|
For his complexion too he needs no dyes
|
|
12
|
|
|
Of Brazil-wood, or scarlet from Portugal.
|
|
13
|
|
|
Now sire, blessings on you for your tale!’
|
|
14
|
|
|
And after that, he, with full merry cheer,
|
|
15
|
|
|
Turned to another of us, as you’ll hear.
|
| |
|
16
|
|
|
(Translator’s Note: The epilogue may be by Chaucer, or a later scribe, and appears to have been reworked for the Monk’s Prologue)
|
| |
