1. The Nun’s Priest’s Prologue
1
The Prologue of the Nun’s Priest’s Tale
2
‘Ho!’ quoth the Knight, ‘good sire, no more of this!
3
What you said is right enough, true it is
4
And more, since a little grief and sadness
5
Is due most folk, that’s right enough I guess.
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As for myself, it’s great distress to me
7
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
12
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
17
Of how Dame Fortune covered with a cloud
18
I know not what, and speaks of tragedy –
19
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!
24
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.
27
Wherefore, Sir Monk, Sir Piers by your name,
28
I pray you heartily, tell of something else;
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Were it not for the clinking of the bells,
30
That from your bridle hang on every side,
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By Heaven’s King, that for us all died,
32
I should ere this have tumbled down in sleep,
33
Though the slough below were ever so deep.
34
Then would your tale have been told in vain!
35
For certainly, as the clerks make plain,
36
Whenever a man lacks an audience,
37
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.
42
Now, let another speak, my tale is told.’
43
Then spoke our Host with rude speech and bold,
44
And said unto the Nun’s Priest anon:
45
‘Come near, good priest; come hither, now Sir John!
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Tell us such things as make the heart glad.
47
Be blithe now, though you ride upon a nag!
48
What though your horse be miserable and lean?
49
If he will serve, why should you care a bean!
50
See that your heart is ever merry, though.’
51
‘Yea, sire,’ quoth he,’ yea, Host, and I will so,
52
Not to be merry now would bring me blame.’
53
And right anon now he took up the game.
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And thus he spoke unto us everyone,
55
This sweet Priest, this goodly man, Sir John.
2. The Nun’s Priest’s Tale
1
Here begins the Nun’s Priest’s Tale of the cock and hen, Chanticleer and Pertelote
2
A poor widow, somewhat bent with age,
3
Lived, long ago, in a little cottage,
4
Beside a grove, standing in a dale.
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The widow of whom I tell this tale,
6
Since the day when she was last a wife,
7
Led, patiently, a very simple life,
8
For little was her property or rent.
9
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
33
On Mass days in the chapel there, piping on.
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Truer was his crowing in the lodge
35
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
47
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
54
From the day that she was seven nights old,
55
That truly the heart she held in her hold
56
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,
60
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.
63
And it so befell, that in the early dawning,
64
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,
71
What ails you, to moan as you do here?
72
Fie, what a sleeper! What a noise, for shame!’
73
And he answered her, saying thus: ‘Dear dame,
74
I pray you not to take my noise amiss.
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By God, I thought I was in such mischief
76
Just now, my heart is pounding yet with fright!
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Now God’, quoth he, ‘read my dream aright,
78
And keep my body from foul prison now!
79
I dreamed that I wandered up and down
80
Within our yard, and saw a kind of beast
81
Shaped like a hound, that would have seized
82
My body, and I seemed as good as dead.
83
His colour was betwixt yellow and red,
84
And tipped was his tail, and both his ears,
85
With black, unlike the rest of all his hairs.
86
His snout was small, and he was fiery eyed.
87
– Of his mere looks alone I almost died!
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And this caused all my moaning, doubtless.’
89
‘For shame!’ quoth she, ‘fie on timorousness!
90
Alas!’ quoth she, ‘for, by the Lord above,
91
Now have you lost my heart and all my love!
92
I cannot love a coward, by my faith!
93
For certainly, whatever women say,
94
They all desire, if it might truly be,
95
A husband who is brave, and wise and free,
96
Discreet as well, no miser, and no fool,
97
Nor one aghast at every warlike tool,
98
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?
101
Where is your man’s heart to match your beard?
102
Alas, and are you aghast at dreaming?
103
God knows, dreams are vanity or nothing.
104
Dreams are engendered by indigestion,
105
And bodily exhalations and their action,
106
And excessive humours dreams excite.
107
For sure, this dream that you met with tonight
108
Comes from the greater superfluity
109
Of your red choler, as it seems to me,
110
Which causes folks to be in dread, in dreams.
111
Of arrows, and the fire’s reddening gleams,
112
Of red beasts also, lest they seek to bite,
113
Of warfare, and whelps both fierce and slight
114
– Just as the humour of melancholy
115
Causes full many a man to cry in sleep
116
For fear of black bears, or bulls black,
117
Or else black devils clinging to his back.
118
Of other humours I could tell also,
119
That work a man in sleep many a woe,
120
But I’ll pass on as lightly as I can.
121
Lo, Cato was ever so wise a man,
122
Did he not say: “Take no account of dreams”?
123
Now sire,’ quoth she, ‘when we flee our beam,
124
For God’s love, go take a laxative!
125
On peril of my soul, long days to live,
126
That’s the best counsel, and no deceit,
127
To purge both choler and melancholy;
128
And lest you find an excuse to tarry,
129
Because the town has no apothecary,
130
I myself the right herbs will show you
131
That bring both health to us and profit too.
132
And in our own yard these herbs I’ll find,
133
Which in their properties are of the kind
134
To purge below, and do the same above.
135
Don’t neglect them now, for God’s own love!
136
You are quite choleric in complexion;
137
Beware lest the sun in his ascension
138
Find you all replete with humours hot!
139
And if he does, I’ll bet a groat it’s not
140
Long before you’ve a fever, a tertian,
141
Or an ague that may prove your bane.
142
A day or two you’ll need digestives
143
Of worms, before you take your laxatives,
144
Of laurel, centaury, and fumitory,
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Or else hellebore that grows so freely,
146
Of caper-spurge or the blackthorn berry,
147
Or plantain, growing in our yard, so merry.
148
Peck them as they grow, and take them in!
149
Be merry, husband, by your father’s kin!
150
Fear you no dream – What I can say more?’
151
‘Madame’ quoth he, ‘graunt merci for your lore!
152
But nonetheless, regarding Cato now,
153
Who for his wisdom won such great renown,
154
Though he bade us hold no dream in dread,
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By God! Men have in old books often read
156
In many a text of more authority
157
Than ever Cato’s had, God prosper me,
158
The very reverse of all Cato’s sense
159
And have found in their experience
160
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
195
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.”
213
This the man’s suspicion did arouse,
214
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
219
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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And in this cart he lies gaping upright!
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I call upon the officers”, quoth he,
225
“Charged to protect and keep this city!
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Murder! Alas, here lies my friend, I’ll state!”
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What more of this tale should I relate?
228
Folk ran to tip the load out on the ground,
229
And in the middle of the dung they found
230
The dead man, his murder shown anew.
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O blissful God, who are so just and true,
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Lo, how always murder you betray!
233
Murder will out, we say day after day.
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Murder is so foul and abominable
235
To God, who is so just and reasonable,
236
That he will not allow it long concealed,
237
Though hidden for a year, or two, or three.
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Murder will out: that is my conclusion.
239
And right anon, the officers of that town
240
Seized the carter, and they racked him so,
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And then the innkeeper they racked also,
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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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Thus dreams may prove serious indeed.
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And certainly in the same book I read,
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Right in the next chapter after this
247
– I tell no lie, and so may I find bliss –
248
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,
251
And made them tarry there in the city,
252
That stood full merry on the haven side.
253
But at last, towards the evening-tide,
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The wind began to blow from the west.
255
Jolly and glad they went to their rest,
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And vowed that in the dawn they’d set sail.
257
But hearken to my marvellous tale.
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One of them, as deep in sleep he lay,
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Had a wondrous dream, towards day
260
He thought a man stood by his bed-side,
261
And commanded that he should abide,
262
Saying; “If you should sail, as you intend,
263
You will be drowned; my tale is at an end.”
264
He woke, and told his friend straight away,
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And begged him the voyage to delay;
266
And for that day, he begged him to abide.
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His friend, indeed, who lay by his bed-side,
268
Began to laugh, and jeer at him full fast.
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“No dream,” quoth he, “may make my heart aghast.
270
I’ll not delay my plans for anything!
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I give never a straw for all your dreaming,
272
For dreams are but vain things, and mere japes.
273
Men dream every day of owls or apes
274
And of many a fantasy withal.
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Men dream of things that never are at all.
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But since I see you’re settled to abide,
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And thus wilfully forsake the tide,
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God knows, I’m sorry; yet, enjoy your day!”
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– And thus he took his leave, and went his way.
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But ere that he had half the voyage sailed,
281
I know not why, or what mischance assailed,
282
By some chance the ship’s planks were rent,
283
And ship and man beneath the water went,
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In sight of other ships close alongside,
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That had sailed with them on that same tide.
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And therefore, fair Pertelote, my dear,
287
From these old examples, it does appear
288
That no man should show himself careless
289
Regarding dreams, for I say, doubtless,
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Many a dream proves serious indeed.
291
Lo, in the life of Saint Kenelm I read,
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Son of Kenulphus, once the noble king
293
Of Mercia, how Kenelm dreamed a thing,
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Shortly ere he was murdered, on a day,
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His murder in a vision saw, I say.
296
His nurse, she expounded, so they tell,
297
His dream, and bade him guard him well
298
From treason; yet he, but seven years old,
299
Took little notice of the dream he told,
300
So innocent and holy was his heart.
301
By God, I’d give my shirt, for a start,
302
If you’d read of his legend, like to me!
303
Dame Pertelote, I tell you truly,
304
Macrobius, who writes of a vision
305
Of Scipio’s in Africa, his opinion,
306
As he affirms, is that dreams may be
307
Warnings of things that later men may see.
308
And furthermore, I pray you, look you well
309
In the Old Testament, at Daniel,
310
And whether he thought dreams mere fantasy.
311
Read of Joseph too, and there you shall see
312
That dreams are sometimes – though not all –
313
Warnings of things that later do befall.
314
Look, too, at Egypt’s King, at Pharaoh,
315
At his baker and his butler also,
316
As to the consequences of their dreams!
317
Whoever meditates on ancient themes
318
May find of dreams many a wondrous thing.
319
Lo, Croesus, who was of Lydia king,
320
Did he not dream he sat upon a tree,
321
Which signified that hanged he should be?
322
Lo, there is Andromache, Hector’s wife,
323
The day that Hector would lose his life,
324
She dreamed the very same night before
325
How Hector should die and be no more
326
If he went that day into the battle.
327
She warned him, but it was of no avail;
328
He went off to fight nevertheless,
329
And was slain by Achilles, no less.
330
But the tale is all too long to tell,
331
And now it is nigh day; I may not dwell
332
On all of this, so say in conclusion,
333
That I shall have from this prevision
334
Adversity; and I say furthermore
335
By your laxatives I set no store,
336
For they are poison, I know full well.
337
I defy them; I love not their spell!
338
Now let us speak of mirth, forget all this.
339
Madame Pertelote, thus have I bliss,
340
In one thing God has sent me large grace,
341
For when I see the beauty of your face,
342
You are so scarlet-red about your eye,
343
It quenches my fears and makes them die.
344
For certain it is: In principio,
345
Mulier est hominis confusio.
346
– Madame, the meaning of the Latin is:
347
“Woman is man’s joy and all his bliss.” –
348
For when I feel a-nights your soft side,
349
– Even though I may not take a ride,
350
Because our perch so narrow is, alas! –
351
I am so full of joy and of solace,
352
That I defy both vision now and dream.’
353
And with that word, he flew down from the beam,
354
Since it was day, and also his hens all,
355
And with a ‘chuck’ began his hens to call,
356
For he had found seed lying in the yard.
357
Regal he was, no longer filled with dread;
358
He covered Pertelote some twenty times,
359
Trod her as often, ere that it was prime.
360
Like a grim lion he gazes all around,
361
And on his toes he saunters up and down;
362
He deigns not to set foot upon the ground.
363
He ‘chucks’ again each time a seed is found,
364
And to him then run his dear wives all.
365
Thus regal, as a prince is in his hall,
366
I’ll leave this Chanticleer in his pasture,
367
And next will I tell of his adventure.
368
When the month with which the world began,
369
Namely March, in which God first made man,
370
Was complete, and past again also
371
When March was done, thirty days and two,
372
Befell it, Chanticleer in all his pride,
373
His seven wives walking by his side,
374
Cast up his eyes towards the bright sun,
375
That into the sign of Taurus now had run
376
Twenty degrees and one, and somewhat more,
377
And knew by nature, and no other lore,
378
That it was prime, and crowed with blissful voice.
379
‘The sun,’ he said, ‘is climbed in heavenly course,
380
Forty degrees and one, and more, it is.
381
Madame Pertelote, my world’s bliss,
382
Hearken, these blissful brides, how they sing,
383
And see the fresh flowers how they spring!
384
Full is my heart with revel and with solace!’
385
But suddenly he fell in sorrowful case;
386
For ever the latter end of joy is woe.
387
God knows that worldly joy is swift to go;
388
And any rhetorician who fair can write
389
He in a chronicle can safely that indite,
390
As a sovereign thing to note, indeed.
391
Now ever wise man, let him list to me;
392
This story is as true, I’ll undertake,
393
As the book of Launcelot of the Lake,
394
That women hold in such great reverence.
395
Now will I turn again to my utterance.
396
A black-tipped fox of sly iniquity,
397
Who in the grove had lived years three,
398
With premeditated scheming, at a stroke,
399
That same night through hedge and fences broke,
400
Into the yard, where Chanticleer the fair
401
Was wont and his wives too, to repair;
402
And in a bed of green-stuff still he lay
403
Till it was near the middle of the day,
404
Waiting the time for Chanticleer to fall,
405
As are wont to do these homicides all
406
That lie in wait to slay innocent men.
407
O false murderer, lurking in your den!
408
O new Escariot, new Ganelon!
409
False dissimulator, O Greek Sinon,
410
Who brought Troy all utterly to sorrow!
411
O Chanticleer, accursed be the morrow
412
When you flew to the yard from the beam!
413
You were warned indeed by your dream
414
That this day would be perilous to thee.
415
– But what God foreknows must surely be,
416
In the opinion of certain clerics.
417
Ask witness of one who a true cleric is,
418
That in the schools has been great altercation
419
About this matter, and great disputation,
420
Wrought by a hundred thousand, every man.
421
But I cannot sift the flour from the bran,
422
As can the holy doctor Saint Augustine,
423
Boethius, or Bishop Bradwardine,
424
As to whether God’s noble foreknowing
425
Means that I must then do a certain thing
426
– By ‘must’ I denote simple necessity –
427
Or whether free choice may be granted me
428
To do that same thing, or to do it not,
429
Though God foreknew it ere that I was wrought,
430
Or if his knowing constrains me not at all,
431
Except by necessity conditional.
432
Well, I’ll have naught to do with the matter;
433
My tale’s of a cockerel, as you may hear,
434
Who took his wife’s counsel, but in sorrow,
435
To walk in the yard upon the morrow
436
After he’d had the dream of which I told.
437
Woman’s counsel oft leaves us dead and cold;
438
Woman’s counsel brought us first to woe,
439
And made Adam out of Paradise to go,
440
Where he had been merry and full of ease.
441
But as I know not whom it might displease
442
If I the counsel of women dare to blame,
443
Let us pass on, I speak as if in game.
444
Read the authors, treating of such matter,
445
And of women you may hear their chatter.
446
These are the cockerel’s words and not mine;
447
I wish no harm to any woman divine.
448
Fair in the dust, to bathe her doth lie,
449
Pertelote, with all her sisters by,
450
Out in the sun, and Chanticleer so free
451
Sings merrier than a mermaid in the sea
452
(For Physiologus says for a certainty
453
That they sing right well and merrily).
454
And it so befell, that as he cast his eye,
455
Among the green-stuff, at a butterfly,
456
He suddenly saw the fox lying low,
457
No longer had a reason then to crow,
458
But he cried anon, ‘Cock, cock!’ and up did start,
459
As a man does who is a-feared at heart;
460
For by nature a beast desires to flee
461
From its enemy, if one it chance to see,
462
Though it has never seen such with its eye.
463
Now Chanticleer, when he chanced to spy
464
The fox, he would have fled, but fox anon
465
Said: ‘Noble sir, alas, will you be gone?
466
Are you afraid of me who am your friend?
467
Now, surely, I’d be worse than any fiend
468
If I should do you harm or villainy!
469
I have not come to steal your privacy;
470
But truly, the reason for my coming
471
Is only to hear how well you sing.
472
For truly, you have as merry a voice,
473
As the angels who in Heaven do rejoice.
474
And then you have in music more feeling
475
Than Boethius, or any who can sing.
476
My lord your father – God his soul now bless! –
477
And also your mother, of her great kindness,
478
Once visited my house, to my great ease.
479
And you sir, certainly, I seek to please.
480
For if men speak of singing, I must say
481
– As own the use of my two eyes I may –
482
Save for you, I never heard man sing
483
As your father did of a sweet morning.
484
Sure it was heart-felt, everything he sang!
485
And to be sure his voice full loudly rang,
486
He would take great pains that both his eyes
487
Were tight shut, so louder were his cries,
488
While standing on tiptoes therewithal,
489
And stretching out his neck long and small;
490
And also he was of such discretion
491
That there was no one in any region
492
Who in song or wisdom might him surpass.
493
I have read, in Burnellus the Ass,
494
Among its verses, how there was a cock,
495
Who, when a priest’s son gave him a knock
496
On his leg when young, served him amiss,
497
And made him lose his sovereign benefice.
498
But certainly, there’s no comparison
499
Between the wisdom and discretion
500
Of your good father, and such subtlety!
501
Now sing on, sire, for holy charity;
502
Let’s hear: can you your father emulate?’
503
Then Chanticleer his wings began to beat,
504
As one who could not foul treason see,
505
He was ravished so by such flattery.
506
Alas, you lords, many a false flatterer
507
Lives at your court, and many a cozener,
508
Who pleases you better, by my faith,
509
Than he who truthfulness does display!
510
Read Ecclesiastes on flattery;
511
Beware, you lords, of all their treachery.
512
Chanticleer stood up high on his toes,
513
Stretched out his neck, and kept his eyes closed,
514
And began to crow out loud for nones.
515
Sir Russell the fox started up at once,
516
And by the throat seized Chanticleer,
517
And on his back toward the wood, I fear,
518
Carried him off, and nobody pursued.
519
O Destiny that may not be eschewed!
520
Alas, that Chanticleer flew from the beam!
521
Alas, that his wife ignored his dream!
522
– And on a Friday fell all this mischance.
523
O Venus, sweet goddess of love’s chance,
524
Since it was your servant, Chanticleer,
525
And in your service he spent his life dear,
526
More for delight than race to multiply,
527
Why suffer him on your own day to die?
528
O Geoffrey of Vinsauf, my master sovereign,
529
Who, when your great King Richard was slain
530
By a bolt, lamented his death so sore,
531
Why have I not your wisdom and your lore,
532
To chide the day, a Friday, as did you?
533
– For he was slain upon a Friday too.
534
Then my lament I would show you plain,
535
For Chanticleer’s fear, and for his pain.
536
For sure, such cries and such lamentation
537
Were never made by ladies when Ilium
538
Was won, and Pyrrhus with his drawn sword,
539
Having grasped King Priam by the beard,
540
Slew him, as Virgil’s Aeneid tells us,
541
As all those hens made in the close
542
When of Chanticleer they caught sight.
543
But above all Dame Pertelote outright
544
Cried louder than did Hasdrubal’s wife,
545
When her dear husband lost his life,
546
And the Romans set fire to Carthage;
547
She was so filled with torment and rage
548
That willingly into the flames she leapt,
549
Steadfast of heart, her tryst with death she kept.
550
O woeful hens, you cried as loudly
551
As, when Nero set fire to the city
552
Of Rome, cried all the senator’s wives,
553
Because their husbands had lost their lives;
554
In their innocence Nero had them slain.
555
Now will I turn to my tale again.
556
The poor widow, her daughters also,
557
Heard the hens cry and all their woe,
558
And out of the house they ran anon,
559
And saw the fox towards the grove had gone,
560
And on his back carried the cock away,
561
And shouted out: ‘Thief!’ and ‘Well-away!
562
It is the fox!’ – And after him they ran,
563
And with staves many another man.
564
Ran Coll our dog, and Talbot and Gerland,
565
And Malkin with a distaff in her hand;
566
Ran cow and calf, and the very hogs,
567
Frightened by the barking of the dogs,
568
And the shouting of men and women, worst,
569
They ran so I thought their hearts would burst.
570
They yelled as the fiends do down in Hell;
571
The ducks quacked as though death loomed as well;
572
The geese for fear flew high above the trees;
573
Out of the hive came a swarm of bees.
574
So hideous was the noise – ah, benedictitee! –
575
I’m sure Jack Straw and all his company
576
Never uttered shouts one half so shrill,
577
When they wished the Flemings all to kill,
578
As this day rose up behind the fox.
579
Trumpets of brass they brought, flutes of box,
580
Of horn, of bone, to blow out loud and hoot,
581
And therewithal they shrieked and whooped;
582
It seemed as if the heavens themselves would fall!
583
Now, good men, I pray you, hearken all:
584
Lo, how Fortune alters suddenly
585
The hope and pride of their enemy!
586
The cock that lay upon the fox’s back,
587
Despite his fear, spoke to the fox: ‘Alack,
588
Sire, if I were you, as it seems to me,
589
I’d turn my head, and shout, God help me,
590
“Turn back again, you proud peasants all!
591
And a foul pestilence upon you fall!
592
Now I have reached the woodland-side,
593
Despite your chase, the cock shall here abide.
594
I’ll eat him, by my faith, and that anon!”’
595
The fox said, ‘By my faith, it shall be done!’
596
– And as he spoke the words, all suddenly,
597
The cock broke from his mouth full swiftly,
598
And high into a tree he flew anon.
599
And when the fox saw that the cock was gone,
600
‘Alas!’ quoth he, ‘O Chanticleer, alas!
601
I have done you,’ quoth he, ‘a foul trespass,
602
Inasmuch as I rendered you a-feared,
603
When I seized you and then brought you here.
604
But sire, I did it with no harsh intent;
605
Come down, and I’ll explain what I meant.
606
God help me, I’ll tell you all the truth!’
607
‘Nay, then’ quoth he, ‘and curses on us two!
608
And first I’ll curse myself, both blood and bones,
609
If you deceive me oftener than once!
610
You shall no more, with your foul flattery,
611
Make me sing, close my eyes so foolishly;
612
For he that shuts his eyes when he should see,
613
Willingly, let him not thrive, for me!’
614
‘Nay,’ quoth the fox, ‘may God give him mischance
615
Who is so careless of his governance,
616
And chatters when he should hold his peace!’
617
Lo, such it is to be reckless indeed,
618
And negligent, and trust in flattery!
619
But you that think this tale but a folly,
620
And all about a fox, and cock, and hen,
621
Take note of the moral, my good men.
622
For Saint Paul says all that written is,
623
For our understanding’s written, as is this,
624
Take the grain, and leave the chaff there still.
625
Now, gracious God, if it should be thy will
626
(As said my Lord), so make us all good men,
627
And bring us to the heights of bliss! Amen.
628
Here is ended the Nun’s Priest’s Tale
3. The Epilogue to the Nun’s Priest’s Tale
1
‘Sir Nun’s Priest,’ our Host said right anon,
2
‘Blessed be your breeches, and each stone!
3
That was a merry tale of Chanticleer.
4
But, by my troth, if you were a secular,
5
You would have been a treader of fowl alright;
6
For if you have spirit, as you have might,
7
Hens would be needed, is what I mean,
8
Yea, more than seven times seventeen!
9
See, what shoulders he has this gentle priest,
10
A solid neck and chest has there, at least!
11
He gazes like a sparrow hawk from those eyes;
12
For his complexion too he needs no dyes
13
Of Brazil-wood, or scarlet from Portugal.
14
Now sire, blessings on you for your tale!’
15
And after that, he, with full merry cheer,
16
Turned to another of us, as you’ll hear.
17
(Translator’s Note: The epilogue may be by Chaucer, or a later scribe, and appears to have been reworked for the Monk’s Prologue)
18
The end of the Epilogue to the Nun’s Priest’s tale
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