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1. The Merchant’s Prologue
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The Prologue to the Merchant’s Tale
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‘Weeping and wailing, care and other sorrow,
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I’ve known enough of, even-tide and morrow,’
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Quoth the Merchant, ‘as do others though,
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Who have been wed, I know that it is so,
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Too well I see that’s how it fares with me.
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I have a wife, the worst sort there may be;
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For even though the fiend were to wed her,
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She would outmatch him, I’d truly swear.
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What should I especially for you recall
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Of her deep malice? She’s a shrew in all!
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There is a vast and a broad difference
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Betwixt Griselda’s wondrous patience,
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And my wife’s exceeding cruelty.
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Were I free once more, I say to thee,
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I would ever again avoid the snare.
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We wedded men live in sorrow and care.
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Try it who will, and he indeed shall find
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That I say true, by Saint Thomas of Inde! –
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Speaking for most of us; I don’t say all.
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God forbid that ever that should befall!
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Ah, good sir Host, I have wedded been
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These two months, no more than that, you see;
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And yet I know, he that all his life
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Wifeless has been, could in no like manner
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Tell so much sorrow as I now, here,
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Could tell of my wife’s cussedness!’
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‘Now,’ quoth our Host, ‘Merchant, so God you bless,
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Since you know so much of all that art,
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Full heartily I pray you, tell us part.’
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30
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‘Gladly,’ quoth he, ‘but of my own sore
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Because my heart is sad, I’ll tell no more.’
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2. The Merchant’s Tale
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Here begins the Merchant’s Tale
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Once there was, dwelling in Lombardy
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A worthy knight, born in Pavia he,
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In which he lived in great prosperity.
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And sixty years a wifeless man, was free
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To pursue all his bodily delight
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With women, where lay his appetite,
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As do these fools who are but secular.
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And when he had passed his sixtieth year,
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Whether from holiness, or in his dotage
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I cannot say, but he was in such a rage,
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This knight, to see himself a wedded man
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That day and knight he ponders all he can
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Seeking for how he might wedded be,
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Praying Our Lord to grant him that he
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Might once know all of the blissful life
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That is between a husband and his wife,
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And to live in that holy bond, tight bound,
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In which God first man and woman wound.
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‘No other life,’ said he, ‘is worth a bean;
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For wedlock is so comfortable, I mean,
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That in this world it seems a paradise.’
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– So said this old knight who was so wise.
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And certainly, as true as God is King,
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To take a wife it is a glorious thing,
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Especially when a man is old and hoar;
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Then is a wife the fruit of all his hoard.
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Then should he take a wife young and fair,
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On whom he might engender an heir,
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And all his life in joy and solace pass,
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While all the bachelors may sing ‘alas!’
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Where they are lost in the adversity
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Of love which is but childish vanity.
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And truly, it is fitting it should be so,
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And bachelors have all the pain and woe.
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On fragile base they build, fragility
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They find when they would have security.
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They live but as a bird or as a beast,
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In liberty and free of any leash,
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Yet a wedded man in his new state
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Lives a life blissful and moderate,
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Under this yoke of true marriage bound.
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Well may his heart in joy and bliss abound;
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For who shall be obedient as a wife?
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Who is so true, and caring of his life
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In sickness and in health, as is his mate?
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For weal or woe she will not him forsake,
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She never wearies, but will love and serve,
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Though he lie bedridden while on this earth.
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And yet some scholars say it is not so,
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And Theophrastus he is one of those.
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51
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What matter if Theophrastus choose to lie?
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‘For thriftiness,’ quoth he, ‘take not a wife,
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In order to spare your household from expense.
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A faithful servant will show more diligence
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In nurturing your estate than your own wife,
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For she will claim a half of it all her life.
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And if you are sick, so God me save,
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Your true friends, or an honest knave,
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Will help you more than she that waits, I say
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To own your goods, and has for many a day.
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And if you take a wife to have and hold,
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You may easily end up as a cuckold.’
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63
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This opinion, and a hundred worse,
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Writes the man, may God his ashes curse!
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But ignore all such, it’s vanity;
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Defy Theophrastus, hearken unto me.
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A wife is God’s gift, say I, verily.
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All other kinds of gift, assuredly –
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Such as lands, rents, pasture, rights in common,
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Or movables – they are all gifts of Fortune,
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Which vanish like the shadows on a wall.
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72
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But doubt not, plainly I shall speak to all,
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73
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A wife will last, and in your house endure,
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Longer then you may wish, peradventure!
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Marriage is a mighty sacrament;
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He that has no wife is good as spent;
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He lives helplessly and desolate –
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I speak of folk in the secular state.
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And listen why – I do not speak for naught –
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Because woman was for man’s help wrought.
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Great God, when he first Adam created,
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And saw him all alone, and belly-naked,
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God of his goodness said, as He had planned:
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‘Let us create a helpmate for this man,
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One like himself’ – and then created Eve.
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Here may you see, and so may you believe,
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A wife is a man’s help and consolation,
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His terrestrial paradise and salvation.
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So obedient and virtuous is she,
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They cannot help but live in unity.
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One flesh are they, and one flesh, I guess,
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Has but one heart, in joy and in distress.
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A wife – ah, Saint Mary, benedicitee!
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How should a man then know adversity
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Who has a wife? For sure, I cannot say.
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The bliss between them both, night and day,
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No tongue can tell about nor heart can think.
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If he is poor, she labours, every wink;
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She nurtures his goods, wastes not a shell.
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All that her husband likes, she likes as well.
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She never once says ‘nay’, when he says ‘yes’.
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‘Do this,’ says he, ‘all ready, sire,’ she says.
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O blissful order of true wedlock precious,
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You are so happy and so virtuous,
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Commended and approved, week by week,
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That every man that’s worth more than a leek,
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Upon his bare knees ought throughout his life
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To thank the God who sent to him a wife,
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Or else should pray to God that He might send
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A wife to him, to endure till his life end,
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For then he can live life in security
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And not be troubled, as far as I can see,
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As long as by his wife’s advice he’s led;
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Then may he boldly hold aloft his head.
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They are so true, and withal are so wise.
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Thus, if you’d live as learned men advise,
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Do always as the womenfolk shall cite.
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Lo then, how Jacob, as the clerics write,
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By good counsel of his mother, Rebecca,
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Binds the kid’s skin round his neck, a
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Ploy by which his father’s blessing’s won.
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Lo, how Judith, for thus the stories run,
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By wise counsel, God’s own people kept,
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And slew King Holofernes while he slept.
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Lo, how by Abigail’s good counsel she
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Saved her own husband Nabal, when he
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Looked to be slain; and Esther, she also
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By good counsel delivered out of woe
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The people of God, and had Mordecai
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Enhanced by Ahasuerus in God’s eye.
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There is no rank superior, in life,
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Says Seneca, to that of humble wife.
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Endure your wife’s tongue, as Cato has it;
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She shall command, and you must endure it –
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And yet she will obey out of courtesy.
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A wife is the keeper of your property;
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Well may the sick man wail and weep
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When there is no wife the house to keep.
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I warn you, if wisely you would work,
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Love your wife well, as Christ loved his Church.
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If you love yourself, then love your wife.
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No man hates his flesh, but all his life
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He nurtures it; and therefore bid I thee,
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Cherish your wife, or never prosperous be.
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Husband and wife, whatever men jesting say,
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Among the worldly, keep to the safest way.
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They are so knit, no harm may thus abide,
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And especially upon the woman’s side.
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So January considered, of whom I told,
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For he, when the time came that he was old,
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Thought of the pleasant life, the virtuous quiet,
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That is marriage’s sweet and honeyed diet,
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153
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And for his friends thus one day he sent
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To tell them the gist of all his fond intent.
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With grave face this tale to them he told:
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‘Friends,’ he said, ‘see, I am hoar and old,
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And almost, God knows, on the grave’s brink;
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Now, of my soul somewhat I must think.
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I have my strength wantonly expended –
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Blessed be God that this may be amended!
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For I will, indeed, become a married man,
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And that anon, with all the haste I can.
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I’ll wed some maid, of fair and tender age,
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I pray you, prepare you for my marriage
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Swiftly now, for I cannot long abide.
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And I will try to discover, on my side,
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To whom I might be wedded rapidly.
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But since there are more of you than me,
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169
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You are more likely such a one to spy
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Than me, one with whom I might best ally.
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But of one thing I warn you, my friends dear,
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I will have no old wife, no, never fear.
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She shall not be more than twenty, say,
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Old fish but young flesh I’d have any day;
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Better a pike,’ quoth he, ‘than a pickerel,
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Yet fresh veal better than old beef is well.
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I’d wish for no woman thirty years of age;
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Such is but bedstraw and coarse for forage.
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And old widows, God knows that they float
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As trickily as did Wade’s fabled boat,
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Making so much mischief when they wish,
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That I’d never have a moment’s peace.
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For as diverse schools make subtle clerics;
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Woman, of many schools, part-scholar is.
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But surely, a young thing men may guide,
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As warm wax in the hands, readily plied.
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Wherefore, I say plainly, in a single clause,
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I will have no old wife, and here’s the cause.
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For if it happened by some cruel mischance
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I would find no pleasure in her glance,
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191
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And I’d end in adultery, by and by,
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And go straight to the devil when I die.
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193
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No children on her should I then beget;
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And I’d prefer my hounds to eat me yet
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Rather than that my property should fall
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Into strange hands, and this I tell you all.
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197
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I am not in my dotage; I know why
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Men should be wed, and furthermore I
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199
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Know that many a man speaks of marriage
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200
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That knows no more than does my page,
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201
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Of why every man should take a wife –
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202
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If he cannot live chaste throughout his life –
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203
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Take him a wife with proper devotion
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204
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And for the sake of lawful procreation
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Of children, to the honour of God above,
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And not for passion only or for love;
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207
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And so that he might lechery eschew,
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And pay his debt when it falls due;
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209
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Or so that each should help the other
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In misery, as a sister does her brother,
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And live in chastity full holily.
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212
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But, sires, that is not I, by your leave;
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213
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For, God be thanked, I dare to boast,
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I feel my limbs stronger are than most,
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215
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Enough to do all that a man may do.
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216
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I know best myself what I can do, too.
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217
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Though I am hoary, I am like a tree
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218
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That blossoms white before the fruit, we see,
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219
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A blossoming tree is neither dry nor dead.
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220
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And I am only hoary on my head.
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My heart and all my limbs are as green
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222
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As laurel all the year is sweetly seen.
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223
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And since you have heard all my intent,
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224
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I pray that you will, to my wish, assent.’
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225
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Various men variously him told
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226
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Of marriage, gave many examples old.
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Some blamed it, and some praised it again;
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But at the last, and briefly to explain,
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As everyday occur fierce altercations
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Between friends in their disputations,
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A quarrel fell out between his friends so;
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232
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Of whom the one was called Placebo,
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233
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While Justinus, in truth, was the other.
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234
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Placebo said: ‘O January, my brother,
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235
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You have little need, my lord so dear,
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236
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To take counsel of anyone that’s here,
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Unless being so full of sapience,
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238
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You’d dislike, of your noble prudence,
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239
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To stray far from the words of Solomon.
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240
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This is what he said to us, every one,
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241
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“Work everything by counsel” – so said he –
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242
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‘And then you’ll not repent latterly.”
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243
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But though Solomon spoke this word,
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244
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My own dear brother and my lord,
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245
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God in Heaven bring my soul to rest,
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246
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I hold your own counsel still the best.
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247
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For, brother mine, since opinion’s rife,
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248
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Well, I have been a courtier all my life,
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249
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And God knows, though I unworthy be,
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250
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I have served with those of high degree,
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251
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Amongst lords of the highest estate,
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252
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Yet with them I never would debate.
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253
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I never contradicted them, truly;
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254
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I well know my lord knows more than me.
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255
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Whatever he says, I hold it to be right;
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256
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On the same, or something similar, I light.
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257
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A mighty fool is any councillor
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258
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Who serves a lord with high honour,
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259
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Yet dares presume, or consider he is fit
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260
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To offer advice that betters his lord’s wit.
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261
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No, lords are not fools, no, by my faith!
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262
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You have shown yourself, here today
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263
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Of such noble thought, so holy and fine,
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264
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That I agree, endorse it all with mine,
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265
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All your words and all your true opinion.
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266
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By God, there is no man in all this town,
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267
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Nor in Italy, who could have spoken better!
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268
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Christ would be satisfied with every letter.
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269
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And truly it is a noble wish I say
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270
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For any man who is advanced in age
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271
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To take a young wife; by my father’s kin,
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272
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Your heart’s hanging from a trusty pin!
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273
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Do now in this matter as you wish,
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274
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For, in conclusion, I do think that best.’
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275
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Justinus, who sat still and all this heard,
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276
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In this manner Placebo he answered:
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277
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‘Now, my brother, be patient I pray,
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278
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Since you have spoken, hear now what I say.
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279
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‘Seneca, among other words, all wise,
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280
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Says indeed that a man is well advised
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281
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To ponder where he leaves his land and chattels.
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282
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And since therefore I ought to think right well
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To whom I give my goods away, truly
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284
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I should consider still more carefully
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285
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To whom I give my body for many a day,
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286
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I warn you truly now, it’s no child’s play
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287
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To marry without due consideration.
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288
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Men must enquire – this is my opinion –
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289
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If she be wise, sober or drunken too,
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290
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Or proud, or else otherwise a shrew,
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291
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A chider, or a waster of your goods,
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292
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Rich or poor, a virago from the woods –
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293
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Although it’s true as ever no man shall
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294
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Find any in this world sound in all,
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295
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No man, no beast that man could devise.
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296
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But nonetheless, it ought to suffice
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297
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For any wife, that one know if she had
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298
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More good qualities than she had bad.
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299
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And all this needs leisure to enquire.
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300
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For, God knows, I have wept tears entire
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301
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Days, privately, since I have had a wife.
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302
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Praise who will a married man’s life,
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303
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Be sure, I find in it but cost and care,
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304
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And duty, of all bliss and joy bare.
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305
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And yet, God knows, my neighbours all about,
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306
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And especially the women, I avow,
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307
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Say that I have a most constant wife,
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308
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And the meekest one that God gave life.
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309
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But I know best where pinches thus the shoe.
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310
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You can do, for my part, what pleases you.
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311
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Take thought – you are mature now in age –
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312
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Before you enter into any marriage,
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313
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Especially with a wife both young and fair.
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314
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By Him that made water, earth, and air,
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315
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The youngest man there is among the crowd
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316
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Is hard put to ensure, if he’s allowed,
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317
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His wife for himself alone. Trust in me,
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318
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You shall not please her fully years three –
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319
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That is to say, or give her satisfaction.
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320
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A wife demands plenty of attention.
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321
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With what I said, be not displeased I pray.’
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322
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‘Well, quoth January, ‘have you had your say?
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323
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That for your Seneca and your proverbs!
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324
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I care not a basketful of herbs
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325
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For scholar’s terms! Wiser men than thou,
|
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326
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As you know well, have assented now,
|
|
327
|
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To my scheme. Placebo what say ye?’
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328
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‘I say it is a cursed man,’ quoth he,
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329
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‘Indeed, who hinders true matrimony.’
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330
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And with that word they rose, suddenly,
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331
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And they assented fully that he should
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332
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Be wedded when he wished, and where he would.
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| |
|
333
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Powerful imaginings, fresh anxiousness,
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334
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From day to day, full on the spirit pressed
|
|
335
|
|
|
Of January, concerning all this marriage.
|
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336
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Many a fair shape, many a fair visage,
|
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337
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There passed through his heart, night by night,
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338
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As one who took a mirror, polished bright,
|
|
339
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|
And set it there in the public market-place,
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340
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|
Would see many a reflected figure pace
|
|
341
|
|
|
Across his mirror; and in similar wise
|
|
342
|
|
|
Could January in his own mind devise
|
|
343
|
|
|
Images of maids who dwelt on every side.
|
|
344
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|
|
He was unsure where preference should abide;
|
|
345
|
|
|
For if the one had beauty in her face,
|
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346
|
|
|
Another stood so in the people’s grace
|
|
347
|
|
|
For her sobriety and benignity,
|
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348
|
|
|
That in folk’s report most worth had she;
|
|
349
|
|
|
And others were rich, but had a bad name.
|
|
350
|
|
|
Nonetheless, between earnest and game,
|
|
351
|
|
|
He, in the end, had fixed his mind on one,
|
|
352
|
|
|
And every other from his heart was gone,
|
|
353
|
|
|
And he chose her, on his own authority;
|
|
354
|
|
|
For love is blind always, and cannot see.
|
|
355
|
|
|
And when at night he his bed had sought,
|
|
356
|
|
|
He portrayed her in his heart and thought,
|
|
357
|
|
|
Her fresh beauty, and her age so tender,
|
|
358
|
|
|
Her little waist, her arms long and slender,
|
|
359
|
|
|
Her wise discipline, and her gentleness,
|
|
360
|
|
|
Her womanly bearing and her soberness.
|
|
361
|
|
|
And when to look on her he condescended,
|
|
362
|
|
|
He thought his choice could never be amended.
|
|
363
|
|
|
For when all this he concluded had,
|
|
364
|
|
|
He thought every other man’s wits so bad,
|
|
365
|
|
|
It would be for them an impossibility
|
|
366
|
|
|
To contest his choice; that was his fantasy.
|
|
367
|
|
|
His friends he sent to on the instant,
|
|
368
|
|
|
And begged them to honour his intent
|
|
369
|
|
|
Asking them swiftly to him now to come;
|
|
370
|
|
|
He would abridge their labour, all and some.
|
|
371
|
|
|
There was no further need for them to ride;
|
|
372
|
|
|
He’d decided where his choice would abide.
|
| |
|
373
|
|
|
Placebo came, his friends were all there soon,
|
|
374
|
|
|
And first of all he begged of them a boon,
|
|
375
|
|
|
That none should any ill contention make
|
|
376
|
|
|
Against the decision that he chose to take;
|
|
377
|
|
|
Which decision was pleasant to God, said he,
|
|
378
|
|
|
And the very grounds of his prosperity.
|
| |
|
379
|
|
|
He said there was a maiden in the town,
|
|
380
|
|
|
Who for her beauty had won great renown,
|
|
381
|
|
|
Although it chanced she was of low degree,
|
|
382
|
|
|
It sufficed for him she had youth and beauty;
|
|
383
|
|
|
Which maid, he said, he would take to wife,
|
|
384
|
|
|
And lead in ease and holiness his life,
|
|
385
|
|
|
And thanked God that he would have her all,
|
|
386
|
|
|
And no man should share his bliss at all,
|
|
387
|
|
|
And begged them to pander to his need,
|
|
388
|
|
|
And make sure that his courtship succeed,
|
|
389
|
|
|
For then, he said, his mind would be at ease.
|
|
390
|
|
|
‘There is,’ quoth he, ‘nothing to displease,
|
|
391
|
|
|
Except one thing pricking in my conscience,
|
|
392
|
|
|
The which I will rehearse in your presence.
|
| |
|
393
|
|
|
I have,’ quoth he, ‘heard said, a year ago,
|
|
394
|
|
|
No man can have perfect bliss, in both –
|
|
395
|
|
|
That is to say, in earth and then in heaven.
|
|
396
|
|
|
For though he keep him from the sins seven,
|
|
397
|
|
|
And from every branch, too, of that tree,
|
|
398
|
|
|
Yet is there such perfect felicity
|
|
399
|
|
|
And such great ease and joy in marriage,
|
|
400
|
|
|
That ever I am aghast now, at my age,
|
|
401
|
|
|
That I may lead now so merry a life,
|
|
402
|
|
|
Luxurious, and free of woe and strife,
|
|
403
|
|
|
That I shall have my heaven on earth here.
|
|
404
|
|
|
And yet since heaven indeed is bought so dear,
|
|
405
|
|
|
With tribulation and with mighty penance,
|
|
406
|
|
|
How should I then, living a life so pleasant,
|
|
407
|
|
|
As all married men do with their wives,
|
|
408
|
|
|
Come to bliss where Christ eternal thrives?
|
|
409
|
|
|
This is my dread; and you my brethren, say,
|
|
410
|
|
|
You two, how to resolve this question, pray.’
|
| |
|
411
|
|
|
Justinus, who hated all such folly,
|
|
412
|
|
|
Answered at once, in silent mockery;
|
|
413
|
|
|
And as he would a longer tale abridge,
|
|
414
|
|
|
He would no clear authority allege,
|
|
415
|
|
|
But said: ‘Sire, if there’s no obstacle
|
|
416
|
|
|
Other than this, God, by a miracle
|
|
417
|
|
|
And of his mercy, may for you so work.
|
|
418
|
|
|
That ere you have the rites of holy church
|
|
419
|
|
|
You may repent of the married man’s life,
|
|
420
|
|
|
In which you say there is no woe or strife.
|
|
421
|
|
|
And God forbid He do ought but send
|
|
422
|
|
|
The married man the grace to repent
|
|
423
|
|
|
Much more often than the single man!
|
|
424
|
|
|
And therefore, sire, the best advice I can
|
|
425
|
|
|
Give you, despair not, but keep in memory
|
|
426
|
|
|
That she perhaps may prove your purgatory.
|
|
427
|
|
|
She may be God’s means, and God’s whip;
|
|
428
|
|
|
Then shall your soul up to Heaven skip
|
|
429
|
|
|
Swifter than does the arrow from the bow.
|
|
430
|
|
|
I hope to God hereafter you may know
|
|
431
|
|
|
That there is none so great a felicity
|
|
432
|
|
|
In marriage, nor nevermore shall be,
|
|
433
|
|
|
That could deprive you of your salvation,
|
|
434
|
|
|
Provided you use, with skill and reason,
|
|
435
|
|
|
The pleasures of your wife, temperately,
|
|
436
|
|
|
And that you please her not too amorously,
|
|
437
|
|
|
And that you keep from every other sin.
|
|
438
|
|
|
My advice is done, for my wits are thin.
|
|
439
|
|
|
Be not aghast at it all, my brother dear,
|
|
440
|
|
|
And let us turn from this matter here.
|
|
441
|
|
|
The Wife of Bath, if you can understand
|
|
442
|
|
|
Her view of the business we’ve on hand,
|
|
443
|
|
|
Has declared it clearly in little space.
|
|
444
|
|
|
Farwell now; God have you in His grace.’
|
| |
|
445
|
|
|
And with that Justinus and his brother
|
|
446
|
|
|
Took their leave, and each one of the other.
|
|
447
|
|
|
For when they saw that it needs must be,
|
|
448
|
|
|
They so wrought, by wise and cunning treaty,
|
|
449
|
|
|
That this maiden, named fair May, she might
|
|
450
|
|
|
As swiftly as ever should appear right,
|
|
451
|
|
|
Be wedded to this old man January.
|
|
452
|
|
|
I think too long you’d need to tarry,
|
|
453
|
|
|
If I told you of every deed and bond
|
|
454
|
|
|
By which she was endowed with his land,
|
|
455
|
|
|
Or to detail all her rich array.
|
|
456
|
|
|
But finally we reach the wedding day
|
|
457
|
|
|
And to the church both of them now went
|
|
458
|
|
|
There to receive the holy sacrament.
|
|
459
|
|
|
Forth the priest, with stole about his neck, there,
|
|
460
|
|
|
And bade her be like Sarah and Rebecca,
|
|
461
|
|
|
In wisdom and in the truth of marriage,
|
|
462
|
|
|
And said the orisons, in common usage,
|
|
463
|
|
|
Signed them with the cross, and bade God bless,
|
|
464
|
|
|
And made all sure enough with holiness.
|
| |
|
465
|
|
|
Thus were they wedded with solemnity,
|
|
466
|
|
|
And down to the feast sit he and she,
|
|
467
|
|
|
With other worthy folk on the dais.
|
|
468
|
|
|
All full of joy and bliss is the place,
|
|
469
|
|
|
And full of instruments, and plenty,
|
|
470
|
|
|
The most delicious food in all Italy.
|
|
471
|
|
|
Before them stood instruments whose sound
|
|
472
|
|
|
Was such that Orpheus, nor Amphion
|
|
473
|
|
|
Ever made such a perfect melody.
|
|
474
|
|
|
With every course there came loud minstrelsy
|
|
475
|
|
|
That never trumpet blared with Joab near,
|
|
476
|
|
|
Nor Thiodomas, never was half so clear,
|
|
477
|
|
|
At Thebes when the city was in doubt.
|
|
478
|
|
|
Bacchus himself poured wine all about,
|
|
479
|
|
|
And Venus smiled sweetly at the sight,
|
|
480
|
|
|
For January had become her knight,
|
|
481
|
|
|
And now would test out all his courage
|
|
482
|
|
|
As he had done in liberty, in marriage,
|
|
483
|
|
|
And with her firebrand in her hand about,
|
|
484
|
|
|
Danced before the bride and all the rout.
|
|
485
|
|
|
And for sure, I dare in truth say this:
|
|
486
|
|
|
Hymen that the god of marriage is,
|
|
487
|
|
|
Never saw so merry a married man.
|
|
488
|
|
|
Hold your peace, now, poet Marcian,
|
|
489
|
|
|
Who describes that same wedding merry
|
|
490
|
|
|
Of Philology the bride, to Mercury,
|
|
491
|
|
|
And then writes the songs the Muses sung!
|
|
492
|
|
|
Too shallow your pen, too weak your tongue,
|
|
493
|
|
|
To tell the story of this marriage.
|
|
494
|
|
|
When tender youth is wed to stooping age,
|
|
495
|
|
|
There is such mirth it can’t be written.
|
|
496
|
|
|
Try it yourself, and you’ll be bitten,
|
|
497
|
|
|
Tell me if I lie, in this matter here.
|
| |
|
498
|
|
|
May sat: her looks were so benign and clear,
|
|
499
|
|
|
To see her was to see the world of faery.
|
|
500
|
|
|
Queen Esther never looked so meekly
|
|
501
|
|
|
On Ahasuerus, never such eye had she.
|
|
502
|
|
|
I may not tell you of all her beauty;
|
|
503
|
|
|
But this much of her beauty tell I may,
|
|
504
|
|
|
That she was like the bright morn of May,
|
|
505
|
|
|
Filled with every beauty was her glance.
|
| |
|
506
|
|
|
Old January was ravished, in a trance
|
|
507
|
|
|
Every time he looked upon her face.
|
|
508
|
|
|
But in his mind he menaced her apace
|
|
509
|
|
|
With how that night in his arms he’d strain
|
|
510
|
|
|
Her tighter than Paris Helen did constrain.
|
|
511
|
|
|
But nonetheless, he felt it a great pity
|
|
512
|
|
|
That he must offend her that night, and he
|
|
513
|
|
|
Thought to himself: ‘Alas, O tender creature,
|
|
514
|
|
|
Now would to God that you may endure
|
|
515
|
|
|
All my passion, so sharp and keen, again
|
|
516
|
|
|
I am aghast lest you shall it not sustain.
|
|
517
|
|
|
God forbid that I do all that I might!
|
|
518
|
|
|
Would God though that it were truly night,
|
|
519
|
|
|
And the night last for evermore, and so
|
|
520
|
|
|
I wish these people were about to go!’
|
|
521
|
|
|
And finally he set himself to labour
|
|
522
|
|
|
As best he could, while careful of his honour,
|
|
523
|
|
|
To hasten them from the meal in subtle wise.
|
| |
|
524
|
|
|
The moment came when it was time to rise,
|
|
525
|
|
|
And after that they danced and drank, at last
|
|
526
|
|
|
Spices all about the house they cast,
|
|
527
|
|
|
And full of joy and bliss was every man –
|
|
528
|
|
|
All but a squire whose name was Damian,
|
|
529
|
|
|
Who carved for the knight full many a day.
|
|
530
|
|
|
He was so taken with this lady May
|
|
531
|
|
|
He was nigh mad with the pains of love.
|
|
532
|
|
|
He almost swooned and fainted where he stood,
|
|
533
|
|
|
So sore had Venus hurt him with her brand
|
|
534
|
|
|
That she bore, while she was dancing, in her hand.
|
|
535
|
|
|
And took himself off to bed hastily;
|
|
536
|
|
|
Of him no more at this time will I speak,
|
|
537
|
|
|
But leave him there to weep and to complain,
|
|
538
|
|
|
Till fresh May shall take pity on his pain.
|
| |
|
539
|
|
|
O perilous fire, that in the bed-straw gathers!
|
|
540
|
|
|
O household foe, who his ill service proffers!
|
|
541
|
|
|
O treacherous servant, with false homely hue,
|
|
542
|
|
|
An adder in the bosom, sly, untrue!
|
|
543
|
|
|
God shield us all from your base acquaintance.
|
|
544
|
|
|
O January, drunken in the dance
|
|
545
|
|
|
Of marriage, see how your Damian
|
|
546
|
|
|
Your own squire, from birth that was your man,
|
|
547
|
|
|
Intends to do you now some villainy.
|
|
548
|
|
|
God grant that this household foe you see!
|
|
549
|
|
|
For in this world there’s no worse pestilence
|
|
550
|
|
|
Than a household foe daylong in your presence.
|
| |
|
551
|
|
|
Perfected had the sun his arc diurnal;
|
|
552
|
|
|
No longer might the body of him sojourn,
|
|
553
|
|
|
All on the horizon in that latitude.
|
|
554
|
|
|
Night with her mantle that is dark of hue
|
|
555
|
|
|
Had overspread the hemisphere about,
|
|
556
|
|
|
At which departed all the merry rout
|
|
557
|
|
|
Of guests, and with thanks on every side.
|
|
558
|
|
|
Home to their houses merrily they ride,
|
|
559
|
|
|
Where they do whatever they think best,
|
|
560
|
|
|
And when it seems due time, take their rest.
|
| |
|
561
|
|
|
Soon after that, our restless January
|
|
562
|
|
|
Desires his bed; he will no longer tarry.
|
|
563
|
|
|
He takes hippocras, and sweet wine laced
|
|
564
|
|
|
With spices hot, to make the spirits race,
|
|
565
|
|
|
And many a potion drinks he, as fine
|
|
566
|
|
|
As those the cursed monk Constantine,
|
|
567
|
|
|
Has written of in his book De Coitu;
|
|
568
|
|
|
He quaffed them all and nothing did eschew.
|
|
569
|
|
|
And to his private friends thus said he:
|
|
570
|
|
|
‘For God’s love, as soon as it may be,
|
|
571
|
|
|
Have the house cleared in courteous wise.’
|
|
572
|
|
|
And they did exactly as he did advise;
|
|
573
|
|
|
Men drank a toast, the curtains then were drawn,
|
|
574
|
|
|
The bride was brought abed, as still as stone;
|
|
575
|
|
|
And when the bed had by the priest been blessed,
|
|
576
|
|
|
Out of the chamber everybody pressed.
|
| |
|
577
|
|
|
And January fast in his arms did take
|
|
578
|
|
|
His fresh May, his paradise, his mate.
|
|
579
|
|
|
He calms her, he kisses her full oft;
|
|
580
|
|
|
And with the bristles of his beard un-soft,
|
|
581
|
|
|
Like to dog-fish scales, and sharp as briars –
|
|
582
|
|
|
For he has freshly shaved as it transpires –
|
|
583
|
|
|
He rubs her all about her tender face,
|
|
584
|
|
|
And says thus: ‘Alas, my spouse, for a space
|
|
585
|
|
|
I must injure you, and greatly you offend,
|
|
586
|
|
|
Before the morning when we shall descend.
|
| |
|
587
|
|
|
But nonetheless, consider this,’ quoth he,
|
|
588
|
|
|
‘There is no workman, whosoever he be,
|
|
589
|
|
|
That can work well, and also hurriedly.
|
|
590
|
|
|
This must be done at leisure, carefully.
|
|
591
|
|
|
It matters not now how long now we play;
|
|
592
|
|
|
Coupled in wedlock were we two today
|
|
593
|
|
|
And blessed be the yoke that we are in,
|
|
594
|
|
|
For in our actions we can do no sin.
|
|
595
|
|
|
A man can commit no sin with his wife,
|
|
596
|
|
|
No more than hurt himself with his own knife,
|
|
597
|
|
|
For we have leave to play, so says the law.’
|
|
598
|
|
|
Thus he laboured till daylight, as before,
|
|
599
|
|
|
And then he took some bread in spiced wine,
|
|
600
|
|
|
And upright in his bed sat so to dine,
|
|
601
|
|
|
And after that he sang out loud and clear,
|
|
602
|
|
|
And kissed his wife, and wanton did appear.
|
|
603
|
|
|
He was all coltish, folly in his eye,
|
|
604
|
|
|
And full of chatter as a pert magpie.
|
|
605
|
|
|
The slack of skin below his neck did shake
|
|
606
|
|
|
While he chanted, bawled, and song did make.
|
|
607
|
|
|
God knows what poor May thought in her heart,
|
|
608
|
|
|
When she saw him in his shirt upstart,
|
|
609
|
|
|
And in his night-cap, with his neck all lean;
|
|
610
|
|
|
She thought his dalliance not worth a bean.
|
| |
|
611
|
|
|
Then said he thus: ‘My rest shall I take
|
|
612
|
|
|
Now day is come; I cannot keep awake.
|
|
613
|
|
|
And down he laid his head and slept till prime.
|
|
614
|
|
|
And afterward, when he thought it time,
|
|
615
|
|
|
Up rose January; but fresh May
|
|
616
|
|
|
Kept to her chamber till the fourth day,
|
|
617
|
|
|
As wives do, they think it for the best.
|
|
618
|
|
|
For every labourer must sometimes rest,
|
|
619
|
|
|
Or else the labour may not long endure –
|
|
620
|
|
|
That is to say, of any living creature,
|
|
621
|
|
|
Be it of fish or bird or beast or man.
|
| |
|
622
|
|
|
Now will I speak of woeful Damian,
|
|
623
|
|
|
Who languishes for love, as you shall hear.
|
|
624
|
|
|
Therefore I’d speak to him in this manner:
|
|
625
|
|
|
I’d say: ‘O foolish Damian, alas!
|
|
626
|
|
|
Answer my question, in this pretty pass:
|
|
627
|
|
|
How shall you to your lady, fresh May,
|
|
628
|
|
|
Tell your woe? She will ever say you nay.
|
|
629
|
|
|
And if you speak she will your woe betray.
|
|
630
|
|
|
God be your help! That’s all that I can say.’
|
| |
|
631
|
|
|
This sick-hearted Damian in Venus’ fire
|
|
632
|
|
|
So burned that he was dying of desire,
|
|
633
|
|
|
And so he chose to put his life at venture.
|
|
634
|
|
|
No longer could he in this wise endure;
|
|
635
|
|
|
But secretly a pen-case he did borrow,
|
|
636
|
|
|
And in a letter wrote out all his sorrow,
|
|
637
|
|
|
In the form of a plaint or of a lay
|
|
638
|
|
|
Unto his fair and fresh lady May.
|
|
639
|
|
|
And in a purse of silk hung it with art
|
|
640
|
|
|
Inside his shirt, laid against his heart.
|
| |
|
641
|
|
|
The moon in two degrees, at noon, the day
|
|
642
|
|
|
That January wedded his fresh May,
|
|
643
|
|
|
Of Taurus, into Cancer now had ridden
|
|
644
|
|
|
So long had May in her chamber hidden,
|
|
645
|
|
|
As is the custom with these nobles all.
|
|
646
|
|
|
A bride should never eat in the hall
|
|
647
|
|
|
Until four days, or three at the least
|
|
648
|
|
|
Have passed; then she may go and feast.
|
|
649
|
|
|
The fourth day complete from noon to noon,
|
|
650
|
|
|
When the high Mass was over and done,
|
|
651
|
|
|
In the hall sat January and May,
|
|
652
|
|
|
As fresh as is the bright summer’s day.
|
|
653
|
|
|
And so it befell that this good man
|
|
654
|
|
|
Recalled his faithful squire Damian,
|
|
655
|
|
|
And said: ‘Saint Mary, how may this be,
|
|
656
|
|
|
That Damian attends not here on me?
|
|
657
|
|
|
Is he sick, or what else may betide?’
|
|
658
|
|
|
His squires, who stood there by his side,
|
|
659
|
|
|
Excused him on the grounds of sickness,
|
|
660
|
|
|
Which excluded him from any business;
|
|
661
|
|
|
No other cause would make him tarry.
|
| |
|
662
|
|
|
‘Sorry I am for that,’ quoth January,
|
|
663
|
|
|
‘He is a noble squire, a gentle youth.
|
|
664
|
|
|
If he should die, ‘twere pity then, in truth.
|
|
665
|
|
|
He is as wise, as secret and discrete
|
|
666
|
|
|
As any of his rank whom you may meet,
|
|
667
|
|
|
And courteous too, willing to serve at table,
|
|
668
|
|
|
And to be a worthy man he is right able.
|
|
669
|
|
|
But after meat, as soon as ever I may,
|
|
670
|
|
|
I will visit him myself, and so shall May,
|
|
671
|
|
|
To give him all the comfort that I can.’
|
|
672
|
|
|
And, at his words, blessed him every man,
|
|
673
|
|
|
That of his nobility and his kindness
|
|
674
|
|
|
He would go comfort in his sickness
|
|
675
|
|
|
His squire, for it was a gentle deed.
|
| |
|
676
|
|
|
‘Dame,’ quoth this January, ‘take good heed,
|
|
677
|
|
|
That after meat you, with your women all,
|
|
678
|
|
|
When you reach your chamber from this hall,
|
|
679
|
|
|
Go along and see our Damian.
|
|
680
|
|
|
And entertain him; he’s a gentleman.
|
|
681
|
|
|
And tell him I shall pay him a visit,
|
|
682
|
|
|
When I have rested for a little bit.
|
|
683
|
|
|
And speed you fast, for I will abide
|
|
684
|
|
|
Until you sleep soundly by my side.’
|
|
685
|
|
|
And with those words he began to call
|
|
686
|
|
|
For the squire who was marshal of his hall,
|
|
687
|
|
|
And told him certain things that he wished.
|
| |
|
688
|
|
|
Fresh May straight made her way after this,
|
|
689
|
|
|
With all her women, to see Damian.
|
|
690
|
|
|
Down by his bed she sat, and began
|
|
691
|
|
|
To comfort him as well as she may.
|
|
692
|
|
|
Damian, saw his chance, as there he lay,
|
|
693
|
|
|
And secretly his purse and his petition,
|
|
694
|
|
|
In which he had told of his condition,
|
|
695
|
|
|
He put into her hand with nothing more
|
|
696
|
|
|
Than a sigh both wondrous deep and sore,
|
|
697
|
|
|
And softly, to her, right thus said he:
|
|
698
|
|
|
‘Mercy, and do thou not expose me,
|
|
699
|
|
|
For I am dead if this thing be espied!’
|
|
700
|
|
|
The purse she does in her bosom hide,
|
|
701
|
|
|
And goes her way – of that no more from me!
|
|
702
|
|
|
But unto January comes she finally,
|
|
703
|
|
|
Who on his bedside sits full soft
|
|
704
|
|
|
And clasps her then and kisses her full oft,
|
|
705
|
|
|
Then lays him down to sleep, and that anon.
|
|
706
|
|
|
She pretended she must needs be gone
|
|
707
|
|
|
Where everyone we know must go at need.
|
|
708
|
|
|
And when she of the note had taken heed,
|
|
709
|
|
|
She rent it all to pieces at the last,
|
|
710
|
|
|
And into the privy softly did it cast.
|
| |
|
711
|
|
|
Who deliberates but fair fresh May?
|
|
712
|
|
|
Adown by old January she lay,
|
|
713
|
|
|
Who slept till his cough woke him abed.
|
|
714
|
|
|
Then he begged her strip herself naked;
|
|
715
|
|
|
He would, he said, take pleasure at a chance;
|
|
716
|
|
|
And said he found her clothes an encumbrance.
|
|
717
|
|
|
And she obeyed, whether she would or not.
|
|
718
|
|
|
But lest prudish folk be me with wrath,
|
|
719
|
|
|
How that he wrought, that I dare not tell,
|
|
720
|
|
|
Nor whether she thought it paradise or hell,
|
|
721
|
|
|
But here I leave them working in their wise,
|
|
722
|
|
|
Till evensong when they were due to rise.
|
| |
|
723
|
|
|
Whether by destiny, or at a venture,
|
|
724
|
|
|
By starry influence, or merely nature,
|
|
725
|
|
|
Or by some configuration of aspects straight,
|
|
726
|
|
|
The heavens then appeared more fortunate
|
|
727
|
|
|
To present petitions full of Venus’ works –
|
|
728
|
|
|
For each thing has its time, so say the clerks –
|
|
729
|
|
|
To any woman to obtain her love,
|
|
730
|
|
|
I cannot say; but the great God above,
|
|
731
|
|
|
Who knows that no event is causeless,
|
|
732
|
|
|
Let Him judge all, for my pen will rest.
|
|
733
|
|
|
But true it is, that on our fresh May
|
|
734
|
|
|
Such was the impression made that day
|
|
735
|
|
|
By him, and by her pity for Damian,
|
|
736
|
|
|
That from her heart there is no way she can
|
|
737
|
|
|
Drive out the need to do him ease.
|
|
738
|
|
|
‘And then,’ she thought, ‘whoever it displease,
|
|
739
|
|
|
I care not; for I shall him assure
|
|
740
|
|
|
That I will love him best of any creature
|
|
741
|
|
|
Though but his shirt has he, at the start.’
|
|
742
|
|
|
Lo, pity swiftly flows in gentle heart!
|
| |
|
743
|
|
|
Here may you see the generosity
|
|
744
|
|
|
Of woman, when she ponders carefully.
|
|
745
|
|
|
Some there may be, many such are known,
|
|
746
|
|
|
Tyrants with a heart as hard as stone,
|
|
747
|
|
|
That would have seen him perish in that place,
|
|
748
|
|
|
Rather than granting him a moment’s grace,
|
|
749
|
|
|
And rejoiced then in their cruel pride,
|
|
750
|
|
|
Careless of being thought a homicide.
|
| |
|
751
|
|
|
But gentle May, filled full of pity,
|
|
752
|
|
|
In her own hand a letter wrote she,
|
|
753
|
|
|
In which she granted him her true grace.
|
|
754
|
|
|
There only lacked the time and place,
|
|
755
|
|
|
That might, to satisfy his wish, suffice;
|
|
756
|
|
|
For it must be just as he would devise.
|
|
757
|
|
|
And when she saw her chance one day,
|
|
758
|
|
|
To visit our Damian went May,
|
|
759
|
|
|
And surreptitiously the letter thrust
|
|
760
|
|
|
Under his pillow – read it then he must.
|
|
761
|
|
|
She took him by the hand and gave a squeeze,
|
|
762
|
|
|
So secretly that no one else could see,
|
|
763
|
|
|
And bade him be well; and off she went
|
|
764
|
|
|
To January when for her he sent.
|
| |
|
765
|
|
|
Up rose Damian the next morrow;
|
|
766
|
|
|
All past was his sickness and his sorrow.
|
|
767
|
|
|
He combed his hair; groomed himself and dressed;
|
|
768
|
|
|
He did all that his lady might like best.
|
|
769
|
|
|
And then to January as meek does go
|
|
770
|
|
|
As ever a dog following the bow.
|
|
771
|
|
|
He is so pleasant to every man –
|
|
772
|
|
|
Being sly does all, for those who can –
|
|
773
|
|
|
That everyone spoke well of him, who should,
|
|
774
|
|
|
And fully in his lady’s grace he stood.
|
|
775
|
|
|
Thus I leave Damian, busy with his need,
|
|
776
|
|
|
And in my tale forth I will proceed.
|
| |
|
777
|
|
|
Some scholars hold that felicity
|
|
778
|
|
|
Consists in pleasure, and certainly,
|
|
779
|
|
|
This noble January, with all his might,
|
|
780
|
|
|
In honest ways, as became a knight,
|
|
781
|
|
|
Set out to live most luxuriously.
|
|
782
|
|
|
His household, his dress, was as finely
|
|
783
|
|
|
Tailored to his degree as is a king’s.
|
|
784
|
|
|
And amongst the rest of his fine things,
|
|
785
|
|
|
He had a garden, walled all with stone;
|
|
786
|
|
|
So fair a one, I’d say, was never known.
|
|
787
|
|
|
For sure, I would not easily suppose
|
|
788
|
|
|
That he who wrote the Romance of the Rose
|
|
789
|
|
|
Could capture its beauty to the life;
|
|
790
|
|
|
Nor would Priapus himself suffice,
|
|
791
|
|
|
Though he is god of gardens, to tell
|
|
792
|
|
|
The beauty of that garden, and the well
|
|
793
|
|
|
That stood beneath a laurel, always green.
|
|
794
|
|
|
Many a time had Pluto and his Queen
|
|
795
|
|
|
Proserpina, and all her band of faery,
|
|
796
|
|
|
Sported there and made their melody
|
|
797
|
|
|
About the well, and danced, or so men hold.
|
| |
|
798
|
|
|
This noble knight, January the old,
|
|
799
|
|
|
Took such delight in walking there, that he
|
|
800
|
|
|
Would suffer no one else to have the key
|
|
801
|
|
|
Save he himself; for of the small wicket
|
|
802
|
|
|
He bore the silver key that would unlock it,
|
|
803
|
|
|
Which, when he wished, he often did do.
|
|
804
|
|
|
And when he would pleasure his wife too,
|
|
805
|
|
|
In summer season, thither would he go,
|
|
806
|
|
|
With May his wife, so none would know.
|
|
807
|
|
|
And anything they had not done in bed,
|
|
808
|
|
|
Was done in the garden there instead.
|
|
809
|
|
|
And in this wise many a merry day
|
|
810
|
|
|
Lived this January and fresh May.
|
|
811
|
|
|
But worldly joy may not always endure,
|
|
812
|
|
|
For January, or for any other creature.
|
| |
|
813
|
|
|
O sudden chance, O Fortune the unstable,
|
|
814
|
|
|
Like the scorpion endlessly deceitful,
|
|
815
|
|
|
Feigning with your head when you would sting,
|
|
816
|
|
|
Your tail is death, through your envenoming!
|
|
817
|
|
|
O fragile joy, O sweet venom’s taint!
|
|
818
|
|
|
O Monster that so subtly can paint
|
|
819
|
|
|
Your gifts with the hue of steadfastness,
|
|
820
|
|
|
So that you deceive both great and less!
|
|
821
|
|
|
Why have you January thus deceived?
|
|
822
|
|
|
You had him as your true friend received,
|
|
823
|
|
|
And now have bereft him of his sight –
|
|
824
|
|
|
For sorrow of which he would die tonight.
|
| |
|
825
|
|
|
Alas, noble January, the worthy,
|
|
826
|
|
|
Amidst his pleasure and prosperity
|
|
827
|
|
|
Is stone blind, and that quite suddenly.
|
|
828
|
|
|
He weeps and he wails piteously;
|
|
829
|
|
|
And with it comes the fire of jealousy,
|
|
830
|
|
|
Lest his wife should fall into some folly,
|
|
831
|
|
|
That so burns his heart he would again
|
|
832
|
|
|
Prefer some man both her and him had slain.
|
|
833
|
|
|
For neither after his death nor in his life
|
|
834
|
|
|
Would he have her a lover or a wife,
|
|
835
|
|
|
But as a widow live, clothes black as fate,
|
|
836
|
|
|
Solitary as the dove that’s lost its mate.
|
|
837
|
|
|
But after a month or two had passed away,
|
|
838
|
|
|
His sorrow began to ease, truth to say.
|
|
839
|
|
|
For when he saw that nothing else could be,
|
|
840
|
|
|
In patience he accepted adversity;
|
|
841
|
|
|
Save that, indeed, he had not foregone
|
|
842
|
|
|
His jealousy: in that all days seemed one.
|
|
843
|
|
|
Which jealousy of his was so outrageous
|
|
844
|
|
|
That not to the hall, or any other house,
|
|
845
|
|
|
Nor to any other place here below,
|
|
846
|
|
|
Would he suffer her to ride or go
|
|
847
|
|
|
Unless he had his hand on her always.
|
|
848
|
|
|
At which treatment often wept fresh May,
|
|
849
|
|
|
Who loved Damian so graciously,
|
|
850
|
|
|
That she must either die suddenly,
|
|
851
|
|
|
Or else must have him: at the worst,
|
|
852
|
|
|
She thought her very heart would burst!
|
| |
|
853
|
|
|
And on his side, Damian was then
|
|
854
|
|
|
One of the most sorrowful of men,
|
|
855
|
|
|
That ever was, for neither night nor day,
|
|
856
|
|
|
Might he speak one word to his fresh May,
|
|
857
|
|
|
And as to his |
