1. The Squire-Franklin Link
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Here follow the words of the Franklin to the Squire and the words of the Host to the Franklin
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‘In faith, Squire, well you did yourself acquit
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And right nobly too; I applaud your wit,’
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Quoth the Franklin, ‘considering your youth,
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Feelingly you spoke, sire, all praise to you!
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In my opinion, not a one that’s here
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Can match your eloquence, or be your peer,
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While you’re alive; God give you now good chance,
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And of your powers send you continuance,
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In your speech I took great pleasure, truly.
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I have a son, and by the Trinity,
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Rather than have twenty pounds in land,
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Though right now it came into my hand,
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I’d have him be a man of such discretion
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As you are. Fie, then, on mere possession,
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If a man be but virtuous withal!
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I my son have chided, and shall do more,
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For he to virtue’s word will ne’er attend,
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All he can do is play at dice, and spend,
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Lose all that he has, through such ill usage.
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And he’d rather talk with some lowly page
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Than commune with a true gentle knight,
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From whom he might learn gentleness aright.’
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‘That, for your gentleness!’ quoth our Host.
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‘What, Franklin! Pardee, sire, well you know
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That every one of you must tell the rest
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A tale or two, or deny my sworn request.’
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‘That know I well, sire,’ quoth the Franklin,
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‘I pray you, hold me not in your disdain,
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Though to the Squire I spoke a word or two.’
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‘Tell on your tale, let’s have no more ado!’
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‘Gladly, sir Host,’ quoth he, ‘I will obey
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Your every wish; now hark to what I say.
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I will be contrary to you in no wise,
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As far as my humble wit may suffice.
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I pray to God that it may please you, too;
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Then will I know that it is good, and true.
2. The Franklin’s Prologue
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The Prologue to the Franklin’s Tale
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The noble Breton lords, in olden days,
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From various adventures, fashioned lays,
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Rhymed them in the earliest Breton tongue,
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Which lays to their instruments were sung,
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Or else were read to them for their pleasure;
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And one I do recall, in some measure,
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Which I’ll relate as well as ever I can.
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But sirs, since I’m an unlearned man,
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At the beginning first I do beseech
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That you excuse my unpolished speech.
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I never learned rhetoric, that’s for certain;
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And whatever I speak is bare and plain.
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I never slept awhile on Mount Parnassus,
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Nor studied Cicero, that’s Marcus Tullius.
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Adornments I have none, ah, true indeed,
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Only such colours as adorn the mead,
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Or else such as are used to dye and paint.
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Rhetoric’s hues to me are dull and quaint
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My spirit knows little of them, I fear.
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But if you listen, you my tale shall hear.
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Here begins the Franklin’s Tale
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In Armorica, now called Brittany,
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There was a knight that loved, and truly he
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Strove to serve his lady in best wise.
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And many a labour, many an enterprise
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He for his lady wrought ere she was won;
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For she was among the fairest under the sun,
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And also she came of such a high kindred
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That the knight scarcely dared, for dread
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To tell her of his woe, pain, and distress.
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But at the last, seeing his worthiness,
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And especially his humble obeisance,
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She took such pity on his true penance
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That privately they entered in accord,
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She to make him her husband and her lord,
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With such lordship as men have over wives.
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And to live in greater bliss all their lives,
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Of his free will he swore to her as knight
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That never in all his life, day or night,
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Would he take upon himself the mastery
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Against her will, nor show her jealousy,
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But obey her, and follow her will in all,
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As any lover in his lady’s thrall;
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Save that the name alone of sovereignty
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Should he have, lest it shame his dignity.
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She thanked him, and with full great humbleness
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She said: ‘Sire, since, of your gentleness,
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You’ll allow me to have so great a rein,
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May God grant that never between us twain,
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Through guilt of mine, be any war or strife.
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Sire, I will be your humble loyal wife;
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Or may my heart break first, such is my pledge.
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Thus were they both in quiet and at rest.
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For one thing, goods sirs, I may safely say,
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That lovers must one another fast obey,
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If they’d keep company for many a day.
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Love will not be constrained by mastery;
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When mastery comes, the God of Love anon
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Beats his wings, and farewell, he is gone!
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Love is a thing as any spirit free.
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Women, by nature, wish for liberty,
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And not to be constrained, as in thrall,
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And so do men, and truth is this for all.
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Look who is most patient in their love,
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Has the advantage and so towers above.
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Patience is a high virtue, that’s certain,
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For it achieves, as clerics do maintain,
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Things that force is unable to attain.
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At every word we must not chide, complain;
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Learn to accept, or else, for here below,
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You shall learn, whether you will or no.
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And in this world, indeed, no one exists
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Who does not sometimes speak a word amiss.
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Ire, sickness, or the stars’ configuration,
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Wine, woe, or our humours’ alteration
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Often gives cause to do amiss or speak.
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Revenge for every wrong may no man wreak;
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According to the time, act with temperance
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All you that understand good governance.
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And therefore had this wise and noble knight,
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Sworn patience, so as to live at ease, aright,
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And she to him as earnestly did swear
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That he should never find a fault in her.
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Here may men see a humble, wise accord!
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Thus she makes him her servant and her lord –
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Servant in love, and yet her lord in marriage;
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Thus was he both in lordship and in bondage.
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Bondage? – Nay, in lordship high above,
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Since he had both his lady and his love;
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His lady, certain, and his wife also,
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Which the law of love accords with, though.
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And now he had met with such prosperity,
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Home with his wife he went to his country,
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Not far from Penmarch Point, his dwelling was,
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Where he lived in bliss and in solace.
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Who can know, unless he wedded be,
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The joy, the ease, and the prosperity
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That is between a husband and a wife?
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A year and more lasted this blissful life,
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Till the knight whose story I discuss,
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Of Caer-rhud, and called Arveragus,
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Determined to go and live a year or twain,
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In England, that was also called Britain,
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To seek in arms both worship and honour,
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For all his pleasure won he from such labour,
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And dwelt there two years; the book says thus.
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Now I’ll cease to speak of Arveragus,
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And I will speak of Dorigen his wife,
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That loved her husband as her heart’s life.
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At his absence she wept sore and sighed,
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As does when she will the noblest bride.
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She mourned, waked, wailed, fasted, cried;
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While longing for his presence thus denied,
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So that all this wide world she set at naught.
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Her friends, who knew the burden of her thought,
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Comforted her, when they could, in every way.
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They preached at her, telling her night and day,
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That she was killing herself, in vain, alas!
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And every comfort possible that was
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Useful they gave, made it all their business,
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To try and put and end to her heaviness.
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By a slow process, known to everyone,
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Men may carve away so long in stone
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That some figure may thus imprinted be.
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So long had they comforted her that she
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Received, through hope and through reason,
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The imprint of their endless consolation,
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And they began her sorrow to assuage;
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She must not always let her feelings rage.
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And Arveragus, amongst all this care,
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Had sent letters, speaking of his welfare,
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And how he would return swiftly again;
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Else this sorrow would her heart have slain.
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Her friends saw her sorrow start to abate,
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And begged her on their knees, for God’s sake,
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To come and roam about in company,
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To drive away her gloomy fantasy.
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And finally she granted their request,
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Because she saw that it was for the best.
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Now, her castle stood close by the sea,
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And often with her friends wandered she,
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To take her pleasure, on a bank full high,
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Where she saw many a ship and barge go by,
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Sailing their course, wherever they chanced to go.
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But that too was a portion of her woe,
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For to herself, full oft, ‘Alas!’ said she,
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‘Is there no ship, of all these that I see,
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Will bring me my lord again? Then my heart
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Would be cured of bitter sorrow’s smart.’
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At other times she would sit and think,
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And cast her eyes downward from the brink.
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Yet when she saw the ghastly rocks all black,
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For fear indeed her heart would almost crack,
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On her feet she could scarce herself maintain.
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Then would she sit upon the grass again,
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And piteously the flowing tide behold,
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And speak as thus, with sorrowful sighs cold:
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‘Eternal God that through your providence
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Lead the world in certain governance,
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You made nothing in vain and yet, alack,
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Lord, these fiendish, grisly rocks all black,
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That seem to me rather a foul confusion
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In their work, than any fair creation
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Of such a wise and perfect God, thus able,
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Why have you wrought this work unreasonable?
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For by this work, south, north, west or east
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There is nurtured neither man nor beast.
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It does no good, to my mind, but annoys.
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See you not, Lord, how mankind it destroys?
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A hundred thousand souls, among mankind
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These rocks have slain, no more brought to mind;
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Yet mankind’s so fair a portion of your work
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You made it in your image, says the clerk.
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Thus it seems you had both love and charity
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Towards mankind; so how then may it be
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That you created such means to destroy?
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– Which do no good, but evermore annoy.
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I know, indeed, that clerics will attest,
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To arguments, that show all’s for the best,
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Though what the reasons are I do not know.
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But may the God that made the winds to blow
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Keep safe my lord! – That is my conclusion.
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To clerks I leave all the disputation.
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But would to God that all these rocks so black
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Were sunken into Hell, and came not back,
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For his sake, they slay my heart with fear!’
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– Thus she did say, with many a piteous tear.
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Her friends could see she derived no sport
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Roaming by the sea, but pure discomfort,
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And chose to take their pleasure somewhere else.
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They led her among rivers, and by wells,
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And through other places all delightful;
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Danced, played chess, backgammon, to be helpful.
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So one day, right in the morning-tide,
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Unto a garden that was there beside,
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Into which had been taken as they planned
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Victuals and other things at their command,
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They went to sport and play the livelong day.
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And this was on the sixth morn in May,
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When May had painted with his softest showers
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The garden, filled with leaves and with flowers;
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And man’s handicraft so skilfully
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Arrayed had all this garden, truthfully,
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That never was there a garden so prized,
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Unless it were the ancient Paradise.
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The odour of flowers and the fresh sight
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Would have rendered any heart light
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That ever was born, unless some great sickness
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Or great sorrow consumed it with distress,
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So full it was of beauty and elegance.
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And after dinner they began to dance
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And sing as well, save Dorigen alone,
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Who ever made plaint, and ever made moan,
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For in the dance she saw not him below,
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Who was her husband and her love also.
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But nonetheless she must a while abide,
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Be of good hope, and let her sorrow slide.
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Now in this dance, among the other men,
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There pranced a squire before Dorigen,
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Who fresher was and jollier in array,
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As I do live, than is the month of May.
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He sang and danced better than any man,
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That is, or was, since ever the world began.
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And then he was, if I should him describe,
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One of the handsomest of men alive;
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Young, strong, right virtuous, and rich and wise,
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And well beloved, considered a great prize.
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And briefly, truth to tell, as I recall,
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Unbeknown to Dorigen at all,
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This gallant squire, a servant true of Venus,
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Who by name was called Aurelius,
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Had loved her the best of any creature,
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As was his fate, for two years and more,
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But never dared proclaim his suffering;
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He drank his sorrow straight from the spring.
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He had despaired; nothing he dared say,
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Save in his songs something he’d convey
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Of all his woe, while generally lamenting.
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He said he loved, but was beloved by nothing.
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Of such matter he made many lays,
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Songs, plaints, rondeaux and virelais,
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How that he dare not of his sorrow tell,
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But languished as a Fury does in Hell;
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And die he must, he said, as did Echo,
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For Narcissus, who dared not tell her woe.
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In no other manner than this, as I say,
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Dare he to her his woe at all betray;
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Save that, perhaps, sometimes at a dance,
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Where the young folk will keep observance,
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It may well be he looked upon her face
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In such a manner as man asks for grace,
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Though she knew nothing of his intent.
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Nonetheless, it chanced, ere they went thence,
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Because he happened to be her neighbour,
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And was a man of good repute and honour,
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And she had known him some time before,
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They fell to talking, and more and more
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Towards his purpose drew Aurelius.
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And when he saw his chance, he spoke up thus:
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‘Madame,’ quoth he, ‘by God who this world made,
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If I had known your heart felt no dismay,
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I wish that day when your Arveragus
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Crossed the sea, that I, Aurelius,
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Had gone too, never to return again.
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For I see now my service is but vain;
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My reward is but the breaking of my heart.
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Madame, have pity on my bitter smart,
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For with a word you may me slay or save.
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Here at your feet, would God, they dug my grave!
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I have no time to say what I would say;
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Have mercy, sweet, or death is mine today.’
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She began to stare at Aurelius.
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‘Is that your thought,’ quoth she, ‘and say you thus?
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Never have I suspected what you meant.
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But now, Aurelius, knowing your intent,
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By that God who gave me soul and life,
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Know, I shall never play the faithless wife
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In word or deed, as far as I have wit;
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I will be his to whom I have been knit.
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Take that for a final answer now from me.’
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But after it teasingly thus said she:
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‘Aurelius, by the high God above,
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As I wish I might have been your love,
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Since I hear you so piteously complain.
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Lo, that day when from Brittany’s main,
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You remove every reef, stone by stone,
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So no ship is hampered through that zone –
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I say, when the coast is rendered so clean
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Of rocks, that never a stone can be seen –
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Then I will love you more than any man.
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Hear my truth said, as plainly as I can.’
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‘Is there no better grace in you?’ quoth he.
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‘No, by the Lord,’ quoth she, ‘who fashioned me,
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For I know full well it shall never betide.
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Let such folly out of your heart slide!
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What pleasure is added thus to a man’s life
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In making love to another man’s wife,
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Who can have her body when he will?
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Aurelius was ever in deeps sighs still;
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Woe was Aurelieus, when this he heard,
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And with sorrowful heart he answered her:
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‘Madame, to lose you is impossible!
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So let death come, sudden and horrible.’
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– And with that he turned away anon.
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Her other friends appeared, many a one,
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And in the alleyways roamed up and down,
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Knowing nothing of this sad conclusion.
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And suddenly the revels began anew,
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Till the bright sun had lost his yellow hue,
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Since the horizon robbed them of his light –
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Which is as much as to say, that it was night.
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And home they went, in joy and in solace,
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Save only poor Aurelius, alas!
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He to his house has gone, with sorrowful heart.
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That he and death shall not be long apart,
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He feels, and senses his heart grow cold.
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Up to the heavens he his hands does hold,
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On his bare knees then he sets him down,
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And in a rage of feeling says his orison.
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For woe his wits were addled in his head;
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He knew not what he spoke, but thus he said.
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With piteous heart his plaint was thus begun
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Unto the gods, and first unto the sun.
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‘Apollo,’ said he, ‘God and governor
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Of every plant, and herb, tree and flower,
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Who gives, according to your declination,
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To each of them its time and season,
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As your position changes, low or high,
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Lord Phoebus, cast now your merciful eye
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On sad Aurelius, wretched and forlorn!
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Lo, Lord, my lady now my death has sworn
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Though I am guiltless, your benignity
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Upon my doomed heart may yet take pity.
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For I know, Lord Phoebus, if you wished,
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You, save for my lady, could help me best.
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Now vouchsafe me that I might advise
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You how I may be helped, and in what wise.
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Luna, your sister blest, who bright does sheen,
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And of the sea is chief goddess and queen,
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(Though Neptune has the mastery of the sea,
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Yet empress high above him still is she),
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You know, Lord, that just as her desire
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Is to be quickened, lighted from your fire,
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And thus she follows you diligently,
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So does the sea desire, naturally,
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To follow her, since she is the goddess
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Of both the sea and rivers, great and less.
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Wherefore, Lord Phoebus, this is my request –
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Perform this miracle, or my heart may burst –
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That even now at your next opposition,
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When you are in the sign of the Lion,
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Beg that she so great a flood will bring
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That five fathom at the least it may spring
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Higher than the highest rock in Brittany,
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And for two years let this great flood be.
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Then, surely, to my lady I may say,
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“Hold to your pledge; the rocks are all away.”
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‘Lord Phoebus, do this miracle for me:
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Ask her to run her course no more swiftly
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Than you, I say, request that your sister go
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No faster than you, these two years though.
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Then she will be at full the entire way,
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And the spring flood last both night and day.
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And if she’ll not vouchsafe in that manner,
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To grant to me my sovereign lady dear,
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Beg her to sink each rock deeper down
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Into her own dark region underground
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The shadowy kingdom Pluto dwells in,
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Or nevermore shall I my lady win.
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Your temple at Delphi I’ll barefoot seek,
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Lord Phoebus, see the tears run down my cheek,
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And on my pain have some compassion!’
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And with that he swooned after a fashion,
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And lay on the ground a long time in a trance.
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His brother, who knew of this mischance,
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Caught him up, and to bed had him brought.
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Despairing, filled with his tormented thought,
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I’ll leave this sorrowing creature there to lie;
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Let him choose whether he’ll live or die!
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Arvegarus, in health, with great honour,
361
Like one who was of chivalry the flower,
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Is home again, with other noblemen.
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O joyous are you now, sweet Dorigen,
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Who have your gallant husband in your arms,
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The fresh knight, the worthy man at arms,
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Who loves you as he loves his own heart’s life!
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Nothing made him suspect that to his wife
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Any man had spoken, while he voyaged about,
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Of love indeed, nor was he plagued with doubt.
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He gave not a thought to any such matter,
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But danced, jousted, and made much of her.
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And so in joy and bliss I’ll let him dwell,
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And of the ill Aurelius I will tell.
374
Languishing, and in torment furious,
375
Two years and more lay sad Aurelius,
376
Before the ground he dare set foot upon.
377
Of comfort all this time he had none,
378
Save from his brother, who was a clerk.
379
He knew of all this woe and all this work;
380
For to no other creature, it is certain,
381
Dare he a single word of this explain,
382
In his breast bore it discretely rather,
383
More so than Pamphilus for Galatea.
384
His breast was whole, as outwardly was seen,
385
But in his heart was ever the arrow keen;
386
And a wound unhealed, with surface scar,
387
In surgery is perilous of cure
388
Unless they touch the arrow, or come thereby.
389
His brother wept, away from public eye,
390
Till finally he fell into remembrance
391
That while he was at Orleans in France –
392
As students who are young and zealous
393
To read in arts abstruse and curious
394
Seek every nook and cranny, in turn,
395
The recondite sciences for to learn –
396
He recalled that once, upon a day,
397
In the college, at Orleans, as I say,
398
A book of natural magic, he saw
399
Because his friend a bachelor of law,
400
Though he was there for other study,
401
Left it lying, on his desk, discretely.
402
Which book spoke fully of the operations
403
Touching the eight and twenty mansions
404
Belonging to the moon, and suchlike folly,
405
Considered, in our day, not worth a flea;
406
For Holy Church’s faith, to our belief
407
Allows no like illusion to bring grief.
408
And when this book entered his remembrance,
409
Swiftly his heart for joy began to dance,
410
And to himself he said thus, privately:
411
‘My brother will be cured right swiftly;
412
For I am certain there are true sciences
413
By which men conjure up appearances,
414
Such as the subtlest conjurors display.
415
For often at feasts, have I heard men say,
416
Conjurors within a hall, full large,
417
Have filled a space with water and a barge,
418
And in the hall have rowed up and down.
419
Sometimes a grim lion have they shown,
420
And sometimes flowers sprang up instead,
421
Sometimes a vine with grapes white and red,
422
Sometimes a castle, all of lime and stone,
423
And when they chose, they banished it, anon;
424
Or so it seemed, to everyone in sight.
425
‘Now then, I deduce, that if I might
426
At Orleans some old learned fellow find
427
Who has the lunar mansions in his mind
428
Or other natural magic, as above,
429
He could ensure my brother had his love.
430
For by illusions a learned man, in fact,
431
Could make men think that all the rocks black
432
Of Brittany had vanished every one,
433
And ships along the shore might go and come,
434
And then maintain the sight a week or so,
435
So may my brother be cured of his woe;
436
Then she must keep to all her promises,
437
Or bring shame on herself, I’d suggest.’
438
Why must I make a longer tale of this?
439
To his brother’s bed he came, and all his
440
Comfort brought, urging him to be gone
441
To Orleans, that he started up anon,
442
And forward on the road did he fare,
443
Hoping to be eased of all his care.
444
When they had almost come to that city,
445
Only two furlongs short, or maybe three,
446
A young clerk, roaming by himself, they met,
447
Who greeted them in Latin, at the outset,
448
With great politeness, and this wondrous thing:
449
‘I know,’ quoth he,’ the reason for your coming
450
And before a foot more they onward went,
451
He told them all about their true intent.
452
Our Breton scholar asks him then to say
453
What has become of scholars of past days,
454
Whom he once knew: dead as it appears,
455
At which he weeps a plethora of tears.
456
Down from his horse Aurelius got, anon,
457
And with the magician forth was gone
458
Home to his house: he set them at their ease.
459
They lacked no refreshment that could please;
460
So well provisioned a house as was this one
461
Aurelius in all his life had seen none.
462
Conjured for him, ere they went to supper,
463
Were forests, parks, filled with wild deer;
464
Where he saw stags with antlers high,
465
The largest ever seen by human eye.
466
He saw a hundred of them slain by hounds,
467
Some, shot by arrows, bled from bitter wounds.
468
And when they had all vanished, these wild deer,
469
Came falconers beside a river fair,
470
Who with their hawks had many heron slain.
471
Then he saw knights jousting on a plain;
472
And after this in conjured elegance,
473
He saw his lady there as she did dance,
474
And he himself was dancing, as he thought.
475
And when the master who this magic wrought
476
Saw it was time, he clapped his hands, and lo,
477
Farewell all our revel, it vanished so!
478
And yet they had not moved from the house,
479
While viewing all this sight so marvellous,
480
But in his study, with his books, the three
481
Of them sat still, and no one else to see.
482
His squire then was summoned by the master,
483
Who said to him: ‘Is all prepared for supper?
484
Almost an hour it is, and no mistake,
485
Since I bade you our supper swiftly make,
486
While these worthy men I took with me
487
Into the study, to view my library.’
488
‘Sire’ quoth the squire, ‘I’ll make a vow
489
That it is ready, you may eat right now.’
490
‘Let us go sup, then, ‘quoth he, ‘that is best.
491
Amorous people too must sometimes rest!’
492
After the supper they bargained freely
493
As to what sum the master’s prize should be
494
For removing all the rocks from Brittany,
495
From Gironde too, to the Seine’s estuary.
496
He showed reluctance, swore, for God’s sake,
497
Less than a thousand pounds he would not take,
498
Certainly, for that sum he would have none.
499
Aurelius with blissful heart anon
500
Answered thus: ‘Fie on your thousand pound!
501
This wide world of ours, men say is round,
502
I would give that, if I were lord of it!
503
The bargain’s made, take what you think fit;
504
You shall be paid, truly, on my oath.
505
But look you now, no negligence or sloth
506
Must keep us here longer than tomorrow.’
507
‘Nay,’ quoth the scholar, ‘on my faith, I vow.’
508
Aurelius went to bed, as he thought best,
509
And well nigh all that night he took his rest.
510
Tired with his labour, yet with hopes of bliss,
511
Ease to his woeful heart came not amiss.
512
On the morrow, as soon as it was day,
513
To Brittany they rode the nearest way,
514
Aurelius, with the scholar at his side,
515
And descended, where they would abide.
516
It was, then, say the books, as I remember,
517
The cold and frosty season, in December.
518
Phoebus waxed old, and in this station
519
Dull brass was he, who in high declination
520
Shines like burnished gold with rays so bright;
521
But now in Capricorn he shed his light,
522
Where full pale he shone, I dare maintain.
523
The bitter frosts, with winter’s sleet and rain,
524
All the garden greenery had interred.
525
Janus sat by the fire with double beard,
526
And from his bugle-horn he supped his wine,
527
Before him brawn of the sharp-tusked swine,
528
And ‘Sing, Noel!’ cried every lusty man.
529
Aurelius, doing all that ever a man can
530
Gave the master good cheer and reverence,
531
And prayed him to employ his diligence
532
To release him from his pain’s fierce smart,
533
Or plunge a sword into his very heart.
534
The subtle clerk took pity on the man
535
And night and day as swiftly as one can
536
Sought out a time to achieve conclusion,
537
That is to say create the right illusion
538
By deft appearance, conjuror’s mystery –
539
I lack the terms for such astrology –
540
That she and everyone would think and say
541
That from Brittany the rocks were all away,
542
Or else had been sunken underground.
543
So, at last, the proper date was found
544
To try his tricks and work the wretchedness
545
Of all such superstitious cursedness.
546
His Toledan tables forth he brought,
547
Rightly corrected, so he lacked for naught,
548
Neither for blocks nor individual years,
549
Nor to fix the root, lacked nothing here
550
For his equations of centre, argument,
551
And the proportionals convenient
552
For the calculation of everything:
553
So, from the stars’ eighth sphere, in his working,
554
How far the moon’s first mansion had moved
555
From the first point of Aries above,
556
That in the ninth sphere considered is;
557
Full subtly he calculated this.
558
When he had located the first mansion,
559
He knew all the rest by due proportion,
560
And in which sign the moon rose he knew well
561
And in which face and term, and so could tell
562
Which was now the moon’s precise mansion,
563
As a result of all this operation:
564
And he knew the right observances,
565
To create such illusions and mischances
566
As heathen folk employed in olden days.
567
After which there were no more delays,
568
And through his magic, for two weeks I’d say,
569
It seemed that all the rocks were cleared away.
570
Aurelius, still in despair through all of this,
571
As to whether he’d have his love or fare amiss,
572
Waited night and day to see this miracle.
573
And when he knew there was no obstacle –
574
And that the rocks had vanished every one –
575
Down at the master’s feet he fell anon,
576
And said: ‘I, woeful wretch, Aurelius,
577
Thank you, lord, and my lady Venus,
578
Who have freed me from my cares cold!’
579
And to the temple then away did go,
580
To where he knew he should his lady see.
581
And when he saw his opportunity,
582
With fearful heart, full humbly did appear,
583
And greeted then his sovereign lady dear.
584
‘My true lady,’ quoth this woeful man,
585
‘Whom I most dread and love, deep as I can,
586
Whom I would in this world least displease,
587
Had I not suffered for you such miseries
588
That I must die here at your feet anon,
589
I’d not have shown that I was woebegone.
590
But surely I must die, or still complain;
591
You slay me, guiltless, merely from the pain.
592
But though to sorrow for my death you’re loath,
593
Think a while before you break your oath.
594
Repent you so, and think of God above,
595
Before you punish me who seek your love.
596
For, Madame, now recall the pledge I cite –
597
Though I may claim nothing of you by right
598
My sovereign lady, but only ask your grace –
599
Yet in the garden, yonder, in that place,
600
You well know what you have sworn to me,
601
And there your troth you plighted loyally
602
To love me best – God’s witness, you said so,
603
Albeit that I am unworthy though.
604
Madame, your honour I speak for, I vow,
605
More than to save my heart’s life right now:
606
I have done all that you commanded me,
607
And if you deign to, you may go and see.
608
Do as you will; yet have your oath in mind,
609
For quick or dead, there you shall me find.
610
With you it lies, to save my life or slay;
611
But true it is the rocks are now away.’
612
He took his leave, and she astonished stood.
613
In her whole face was not a drop of blood.
614
She had thought never to fall into this trap.
615
‘Alas!’ quoth she, ‘to suffer this mishap!
616
I thought it an impossibility
617
That such a monstrous miracle could be!
618
It defies the processes of nature.’
619
And home she went, a sorrowful creature;
620
For fear, indeed, she could scarcely move.
621
She wept, she wailed there, for a day or two,
622
And swooned so, that it was sad to see.
623
But why she did so, not a soul told she,
624
For far from town was her Arveragus.
625
Yet to herself she spoke, lamenting thus,
626
With pallid face, and sorrowful did appear
627
In her lament, as you may truly hear.
628
‘Alas, Fortune, of you I will complain,
629
Who suddenly have snared me in your chain,
630
To escape from which I find no succour,
631
Save only death, or else yet dishonour;
632
One of these two I must clearly choose.
633
Yet, nonetheless, I had much rather lose
634
My life, than see my body suffer shame,
635
Or know myself as false, and lose my name.
636
And by my death I may be quit of this.
637
Has not many a noble wife, and foolish
638
Maiden, slain herself before now, alas,
639
Rather than bring her body to that pass?
640
Yes, for certain; lo, these tales bear witness.
641
When thirty tyrants full of wickedness
642
Had Phidon slain, in Athens at a feast,
643
They ordered his daughters to be seized
644
And brought before them, humbled in their sight,
645
All naked, to assuage their foul delight,
646
And in their father’s blood they made them dance
647
Upon the pavement – God send them mischance!
648
For which these woeful maidens, full of dread,
649
Rather than they should lose their maidenheads,
650
Broke away, and leapt into a well,
651
And drowned themselves, as the old books tell.
652
The Messenians requested that men seek
653
In Lacadaemon, fifty maidens meek,
654
On whom they might work their lechery.
655
But there was none of all that company
656
That did not slay herself, with good intent,
657
Choosing to die rather than to assent
658
And be robbed there of their maidenhead.
659
Why then of death should I remain in dread?
660
Lo, then, the tyrant, Aristoclides,
661
Who loved a maiden called Stimphalides,
662
Who when her father slain was in the night,
663
Unto Diana’s temple fled outright,
664
And grasped hold of her statue too,
665
From which statue she could not be loosed.
666
No one there could tear her hands away,
667
Till in that selfsame place, they did her slay.
668
Since these maidens died before they might
669
Be defiled by man’s foul appetite,
670
A wife should rather kill herself than be
671
Defiled by any man, it seems to me.
672
What shall I say of Hasdrubal’s fair wife
673
Who at Carthage deprived herself of life?
674
For when she knew the Romans had the town,
675
She took her children all, and so leapt down
676
Into the fire, and chose to perish there
677
Rather than any Roman ravage her.
678
Did not Lucrece slay herself, alas,
679
At Rome when she oppressed was
680
By Tarquin, because she thought it shame
681
To be alive when she had lost her name?
682
Of Miletus, the seven maids also
683
Slew themselves indeed, for dread and woe,
684
Rather than let the Gauls them oppress.
685
More than a thousand stories, I should guess,
686
Might I now tell about the matter here.
687
When Abradatas fell, his wife so dear
688
Slew herself, and let her life-blood glide
689
Into Abradatas’ wounds both deep and wide,
690
And said: “My body, at the least, I say,
691
No man shall defile, for I go my way.”
692
What need of more examples, to explain
693
How so many women themselves have slain
694
Rather than be defiled, in misery?
695
I conclude that better it is for me
696
To slay myself than be defiled thus.
697
I will be true to my Arveragus,
698
Or I will slay myself in some way here,
699
As did Demotion’s daughter dear,
700
Because she would not defiled be.
701
O Scedasus, the heart fills with pity
702
Reading how your daughter died, alas,
703
Who slew herself in a similar pass.
704
As great a pity was felt, or even more,
705
For the Theban maid who foiled Nicanor
706
And slew herself, a case of equal woe.
707
Another Theban maiden died also,
708
Because a Macedonian her oppressed;
709
Her death repaid her loss of maidenhead.
710
What shall I say of Niceratus’ wife,
711
Who in like case bereft herself of life?
712
How true also to Alcibiades,
713
His lover was, who chose to die, as these,
714
Rather than let his body unburied be?
715
Lo what a wife Alcestis was!’ quoth she.
716
‘What says Homer of good Penelope?
717
All Greece knew her wifely chastity.
718
Of Laodamia is it written thus,
719
That when at Troy died Protesilaus,
720
She would no longer live beyond his day.
721
The same of noble Portia, I may say:
722
Without Brutus, she too could not live,
723
For his was all the heart she had to give.
724
The perfect wife was Artemisia,
725
Honoured in Barbary by every peer.
726
O, Teuta, queen, your wifely chastity
727
To every wife may as a mirror be!
728
The same thing I may say of Bilia,
729
Of Rhodogue, and of Valeria.’
730
So Dorigen, a day or two, did sigh,
731
Ever purposing that she would die.
732
But nonetheless, on the third night,
733
Home came Avergarus, the noble knight,
734
And asked her why she wept so sore;
735
At which she began to weep even more.
736
‘Alas,’ quoth she, ‘that ever I was born!
737
Thus have I said,’ quoth she, ‘thus have I sworn’ –
738
And told him all that you have heard before;
739
No need to repeat it here for you once more.
740
Her husband, with kind face, in friendly wise,
741
Answered, and said as I shall now advise:
742
‘Is there aught else, Dorigen, but this?’
743
‘Nay, nay,’ quoth she, ‘God help me, as it is,
744
It is too much, were it God’s own will!’
745
‘Yet, wife,’ quoth he, ‘let sleep on what is still.
746
All may be well, perchance, even today.
747
You must keep your promise, by my faith!
748
For, and may God have mercy upon me,
749
I would rather be slain, mercilessly,
750
For the very love I have for you, I say,
751
Than that your word you not keep always.
752
His word is the noblest thing a man may keep.’
753
– Yet with these words he began to weep,
754
And said, ‘I forbid you, on pain of death,
755
Ever, while left to you are life and breath,
756
To tell a single soul of this adventure.
757
As I best may, this woe I will endure;
758
And show you no countenance of heaviness,
759
Lest folk may think harm of you, or guess.’
760
He summoned forth a squire and a maid;
761
‘Go forth anon, with Dorigen’ he said,
762
‘And bring her to the place she tells, anon.’
763
They took their leave and on their way were gone,
764
But they knew not why she thither went;
765
He told no one at all of his intent.
766
Perchance a heap of you, a crowd that is,
767
Consider him a foolish man in this,
768
Seeking to place his wife in jeopardy.
769
Hear the tale, then you may judge her truly;
770
She may have better fortune than it seems;
771
Judge when you know whether the tale redeems.
772
That squire, you will remember, Aurelius,
773
He, who to Dorigen had proved so amorous,
774
Happened by chance our Dorigen to meet,
775
In the town, and right in the busiest street,
776
As she was about to take the road, outright,
777
To the garden where her troth she did plight.
778
And he was walking garden-ward also,
779
For he spied on her wherever she may go
780
From her house to any manner of place.
781
So thus they met, by chance or yet by grace,
782
And he saluted her with glad intent,
783
And asked her then whitherward she went.
784
And she answered, as though she were half-mad,
785
‘Unto the garden as my husband bade,
786
To keep my word to you, alas, alas!’
787
Aurelius, stunned at what had come to pass,
788
Felt, in his heart, a true compassion
789
For her, and the cause of her lamentation,
790
And for Arveragus, the worthy knight,
791
Who bade her keep her word, come what might,
792
So loath was he to let her stray from the truth.
793
And in his heart such pity filled the youth,
794
He thought, considering it from every side,
795
That he should rather let intention slide,
796
Than commit such churlish wretchedness
797
Against generosity and gentleness.
798
So, briefly, in a few words, he said thus:
799
‘Madame, say to your lord Arveragus,
800
That since I perceived his great nobleness,
801
His treatment of you, in your great distress,
802
That he would rather be ashamed – sad truth –
803
Than let you break your word to me, forsooth,
804
Then I would rather suffer lasting woe
805
Than ever harm the love between you so.
806
I release, you, Madame, from your bond,
807
Quit of every promise, out of hand,
808
That you have made to me heretofore,
809
As free as on the day when you were born.
810
My troth I plight, that I shall never grieve
811
You for promise given; and take my leave
812
Of you, the best and the truest wife
813
That ever I have known in all my life.
814
Now wives beware of oaths and, for the rest,
815
Remember Dorigen, let me suggest!
816
Thus may a squire do a gentle deed
817
As well as any knight, as you can see.’
818
She thanked him then, on her knees all bare,
819
And home to her husband she did fare,
820
And told him everything you’ve heard said.
821
You may be sure, he more joy displayed
822
Than it were possible for me to write.
823
What more of this story should I cite?
824
Arveragus and Dorigen his wife
825
In sovereign bliss lived out their life.
826
With never any anger there between;
827
He cherished her as if she were a queen,
828
And she was true to him for evermore.
829
Of these two folk, now, you’ll hear no more.
830
Aurelius, who all the cost had borne,
831
Cursed the day that ever he was born.
832
‘Alas,’ quoth he, ‘the promise that I made
833
Of purest gold a thousand pound in weight
834
To this philosopher! What shall I do?
835
I see I must be ruined by loving, too!
836
My inheritance I needs must sell,
837
And be a beggar – here I may not dwell,
838
To shame all my kindred in this place –
839
And yet he may reveal a better grace.
840
For nonetheless, perhaps, I might assay
841
On certain days, year by year, to pay,
842
And thank him then for his great courtesy.
843
My word I will keep; no lies for me.’
844
With sore heart he went to his coffer,
845
And took his gold to the philosopher,
846
In value, some five hundred pounds I guess,
847
And beseeched him, of his gentleness,
848
To grant him time to pay the remainder;
849
And said: ‘Master, this boast I make here,
850
I’ve never failed of my word as yet.
851
Be sure, I will be quit of all the debt
852
Towards you, however I may fare,
853
Though it mean I must beg, and go bare.
854
If you would vouchsafe, on security,
855
To give me respite for two years or three,
856
All would be well, for else I must sell
857
My heritage; there is no more to tell.’
858
The philosopher soberly him answered,
859
And said thus, when he the words had heard:
860
‘Did I not keep covenant with thee?’
861
‘Yes, and well and truly, too,’ quoth he.
862
‘Did you not win your lady, tell no lie?’
863
‘No, no,’ quoth he, and sorrowfully did sigh.
864
‘What was the reason? Tell me if you can.’
865
Aurelius his tale anon began,
866
And told him all that you have heard before;
867
No need for me to tell it you once more.
868
He said: ‘Arveragus, in his nobleness,
869
Would rather die in sorrow and distress,
870
Than let his wife to her word be false.’
871
Dorigen’s sorrow also he told him of,
872
How loath she was to prove a wicked wife,
873
Would rather that day have lost her life,
874
And that she gave her word in all innocence;
875
She’d never heard of magical disappearance.
876
‘It made me feel for her such deep pity,
877
That as freely as he sent her to me,
878
As freely I sent her to him again.
879
That’s the long and short; the sense is plain.’
880
The philosopher replied: ‘My dear brother,
881
Each of you dealt nobly with the other.
882
You are a squire, and he is a knight;
883
But God forbid, in His blissful might,
884
That a clerk may not do a noble deed
885
As well as either of you may, indeed!
886
Sire, I release you from your thousand pounds,
887
As if you had but now crept out of the ground,
888
And never, before now, had known of me.
889
For sire, I will not take a penny from thee
890
For all my skill, no, naught for my travail.
891
You have paid well for my bread and ale;
892
That is enough, and so farewell, good day!’
893
And then to horse, and forth he took his way.
894
Lordings, this question will I ask you now:
895
Who was the most generous, sayest thou?
896
Now tell me that, ere you farther wend!
897
I can no more; my tale is at an end.
898
Here is ended the Franklin’s Tale
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