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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‘Gladly,’ quoth he, ‘but of my own sore
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Because my heart is sad, I’ll tell no more.’
1
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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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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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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But doubt not, plainly I shall speak to all,
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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
109
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
131
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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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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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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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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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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I am not in my dotage; I know why
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Men should be wed, and furthermore I
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Know that many a man speaks of marriage
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That knows no more than does my page,
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Of why every man should take a wife –
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If he cannot live chaste throughout his life –
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Take him a wife with proper devotion
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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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And so that he might lechery eschew,
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And pay his debt when it falls due;
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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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But, sires, that is not I, by your leave;
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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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Enough to do all that a man may do.
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I know best myself what I can do, too.
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Though I am hoary, I am like a tree
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That blossoms white before the fruit, we see,
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A blossoming tree is neither dry nor dead.
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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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As laurel all the year is sweetly seen.
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And since you have heard all my intent,
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I pray that you will, to my wish, assent.’
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Various men variously him told
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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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Of whom the one was called Placebo,
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While Justinus, in truth, was the other.
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Placebo said: ‘O January, my brother,
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You have little need, my lord so dear,
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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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You’d dislike, of your noble prudence,
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To stray far from the words of Solomon.
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This is what he said to us, every one,
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“Work everything by counsel” – so said he –
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‘And then you’ll not repent latterly.”
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But though Solomon spoke this word,
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My own dear brother and my lord,
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God in Heaven bring my soul to rest,
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I hold your own counsel still the best.
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For, brother mine, since opinion’s rife,
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Well, I have been a courtier all my life,
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And God knows, though I unworthy be,
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I have served with those of high degree,
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Amongst lords of the highest estate,
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Yet with them I never would debate.
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I never contradicted them, truly;
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I well know my lord knows more than me.
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Whatever he says, I hold it to be right;
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On the same, or something similar, I light.
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A mighty fool is any councillor
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Who serves a lord with high honour,
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Yet dares presume, or consider he is fit
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To offer advice that betters his lord’s wit.
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No, lords are not fools, no, by my faith!
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You have shown yourself, here today
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Of such noble thought, so holy and fine,
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That I agree, endorse it all with mine,
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All your words and all your true opinion.
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By God, there is no man in all this town,
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Nor in Italy, who could have spoken better!
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Christ would be satisfied with every letter.
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And truly it is a noble wish I say
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For any man who is advanced in age
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To take a young wife; by my father’s kin,
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Your heart’s hanging from a trusty pin!
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Do now in this matter as you wish,
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For, in conclusion, I do think that best.’
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Justinus, who sat still and all this heard,
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In this manner Placebo he answered:
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‘Now, my brother, be patient I pray,
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Since you have spoken, hear now what I say.
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‘Seneca, among other words, all wise,
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Says indeed that a man is well advised
282
To ponder where he leaves his land and chattels.
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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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I should consider still more carefully
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To whom I give my body for many a day,
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I warn you truly now, it’s no child’s play
288
To marry without due consideration.
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Men must enquire – this is my opinion –
290
If she be wise, sober or drunken too,
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Or proud, or else otherwise a shrew,
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A chider, or a waster of your goods,
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Rich or poor, a virago from the woods –
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Although it’s true as ever no man shall
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Find any in this world sound in all,
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No man, no beast that man could devise.
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But nonetheless, it ought to suffice
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For any wife, that one know if she had
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More good qualities than she had bad.
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And all this needs leisure to enquire.
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For, God knows, I have wept tears entire
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Days, privately, since I have had a wife.
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Praise who will a married man’s life,
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Be sure, I find in it but cost and care,
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And duty, of all bliss and joy bare.
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And yet, God knows, my neighbours all about,
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And especially the women, I avow,
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Say that I have a most constant wife,
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And the meekest one that God gave life.
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But I know best where pinches thus the shoe.
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You can do, for my part, what pleases you.
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Take thought – you are mature now in age –
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Before you enter into any marriage,
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Especially with a wife both young and fair.
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By Him that made water, earth, and air,
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The youngest man there is among the crowd
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Is hard put to ensure, if he’s allowed,
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His wife for himself alone. Trust in me,
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You shall not please her fully years three –
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That is to say, or give her satisfaction.
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A wife demands plenty of attention.
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With what I said, be not displeased I pray.’
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‘Well, quoth January, ‘have you had your say?
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That for your Seneca and your proverbs!
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I care not a basketful of herbs
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For scholar’s terms! Wiser men than thou,
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As you know well, have assented now,
328
To my scheme. Placebo what say ye?’
329
‘I say it is a cursed man,’ quoth he,
330
‘Indeed, who hinders true matrimony.’
331
And with that word they rose, suddenly,
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And they assented fully that he should
333
Be wedded when he wished, and where he would.
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Powerful imaginings, fresh anxiousness,
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From day to day, full on the spirit pressed
336
Of January, concerning all this marriage.
337
Many a fair shape, many a fair visage,
338
There passed through his heart, night by night,
339
As one who took a mirror, polished bright,
340
And set it there in the public market-place,
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Would see many a reflected figure pace
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Across his mirror; and in similar wise
343
Could January in his own mind devise
344
Images of maids who dwelt on every side.
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He was unsure where preference should abide;
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For if the one had beauty in her face,
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Another stood so in the people’s grace
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For her sobriety and benignity,
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That in folk’s report most worth had she;
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And others were rich, but had a bad name.
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Nonetheless, between earnest and game,
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He, in the end, had fixed his mind on one,
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And every other from his heart was gone,
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And he chose her, on his own authority;
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For love is blind always, and cannot see.
356
And when at night he his bed had sought,
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He portrayed her in his heart and thought,
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Her fresh beauty, and her age so tender,
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Her little waist, her arms long and slender,
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Her wise discipline, and her gentleness,
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Her womanly bearing and her soberness.
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And when to look on her he condescended,
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He thought his choice could never be amended.
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For when all this he concluded had,
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He thought every other man’s wits so bad,
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It would be for them an impossibility
367
To contest his choice; that was his fantasy.
368
His friends he sent to on the instant,
369
And begged them to honour his intent
370
Asking them swiftly to him now to come;
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He would abridge their labour, all and some.
372
There was no further need for them to ride;
373
He’d decided where his choice would abide.
374
Placebo came, his friends were all there soon,
375
And first of all he begged of them a boon,
376
That none should any ill contention make
377
Against the decision that he chose to take;
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Which decision was pleasant to God, said he,
379
And the very grounds of his prosperity.
380
He said there was a maiden in the town,
381
Who for her beauty had won great renown,
382
Although it chanced she was of low degree,
383
It sufficed for him she had youth and beauty;
384
Which maid, he said, he would take to wife,
385
And lead in ease and holiness his life,
386
And thanked God that he would have her all,
387
And no man should share his bliss at all,
388
And begged them to pander to his need,
389
And make sure that his courtship succeed,
390
For then, he said, his mind would be at ease.
391
‘There is,’ quoth he, ‘nothing to displease,
392
Except one thing pricking in my conscience,
393
The which I will rehearse in your presence.
394
I have,’ quoth he, ‘heard said, a year ago,
395
No man can have perfect bliss, in both –
396
That is to say, in earth and then in heaven.
397
For though he keep him from the sins seven,
398
And from every branch, too, of that tree,
399
Yet is there such perfect felicity
400
And such great ease and joy in marriage,
401
That ever I am aghast now, at my age,
402
That I may lead now so merry a life,
403
Luxurious, and free of woe and strife,
404
That I shall have my heaven on earth here.
405
And yet since heaven indeed is bought so dear,
406
With tribulation and with mighty penance,
407
How should I then, living a life so pleasant,
408
As all married men do with their wives,
409
Come to bliss where Christ eternal thrives?
410
This is my dread; and you my brethren, say,
411
You two, how to resolve this question, pray.’
412
Justinus, who hated all such folly,
413
Answered at once, in silent mockery;
414
And as he would a longer tale abridge,
415
He would no clear authority allege,
416
But said: ‘Sire, if there’s no obstacle
417
Other than this, God, by a miracle
418
And of his mercy, may for you so work.
419
That ere you have the rites of holy church
420
You may repent of the married man’s life,
421
In which you say there is no woe or strife.
422
And God forbid He do ought but send
423
The married man the grace to repent
424
Much more often than the single man!
425
And therefore, sire, the best advice I can
426
Give you, despair not, but keep in memory
427
That she perhaps may prove your purgatory.
428
She may be God’s means, and God’s whip;
429
Then shall your soul up to Heaven skip
430
Swifter than does the arrow from the bow.
431
I hope to God hereafter you may know
432
That there is none so great a felicity
433
In marriage, nor nevermore shall be,
434
That could deprive you of your salvation,
435
Provided you use, with skill and reason,
436
The pleasures of your wife, temperately,
437
And that you please her not too amorously,
438
And that you keep from every other sin.
439
My advice is done, for my wits are thin.
440
Be not aghast at it all, my brother dear,
441
And let us turn from this matter here.
442
The Wife of Bath, if you can understand
443
Her view of the business we’ve on hand,
444
Has declared it clearly in little space.
445
Farwell now; God have you in His grace.’
446
And with that Justinus and his brother
447
Took their leave, and each one of the other.
448
For when they saw that it needs must be,
449
They so wrought, by wise and cunning treaty,
450
That this maiden, named fair May, she might
451
As swiftly as ever should appear right,
452
Be wedded to this old man January.
453
I think too long you’d need to tarry,
454
If I told you of every deed and bond
455
By which she was endowed with his land,
456
Or to detail all her rich array.
457
But finally we reach the wedding day
458
And to the church both of them now went
459
There to receive the holy sacrament.
460
Forth the priest, with stole about his neck, there,
461
And bade her be like Sarah and Rebecca,
462
In wisdom and in the truth of marriage,
463
And said the orisons, in common usage,
464
Signed them with the cross, and bade God bless,
465
And made all sure enough with holiness.
466
Thus were they wedded with solemnity,
467
And down to the feast sit he and she,
468
With other worthy folk on the dais.
469
All full of joy and bliss is the place,
470
And full of instruments, and plenty,
471
The most delicious food in all Italy.
472
Before them stood instruments whose sound
473
Was such that Orpheus, nor Amphion
474
Ever made such a perfect melody.
475
With every course there came loud minstrelsy
476
That never trumpet blared with Joab near,
477
Nor Thiodomas, never was half so clear,
478
At Thebes when the city was in doubt.
479
Bacchus himself poured wine all about,
480
And Venus smiled sweetly at the sight,
481
For January had become her knight,
482
And now would test out all his courage
483
As he had done in liberty, in marriage,
484
And with her firebrand in her hand about,
485
Danced before the bride and all the rout.
486
And for sure, I dare in truth say this:
487
Hymen that the god of marriage is,
488
Never saw so merry a married man.
489
Hold your peace, now, poet Marcian,
490
Who describes that same wedding merry
491
Of Philology the bride, to Mercury,
492
And then writes the songs the Muses sung!
493
Too shallow your pen, too weak your tongue,
494
To tell the story of this marriage.
495
When tender youth is wed to stooping age,
496
There is such mirth it can’t be written.
497
Try it yourself, and you’ll be bitten,
498
Tell me if I lie, in this matter here.
499
May sat: her looks were so benign and clear,
500
To see her was to see the world of faery.
501
Queen Esther never looked so meekly
502
On Ahasuerus, never such eye had she.
503
I may not tell you of all her beauty;
504
But this much of her beauty tell I may,
505
That she was like the bright morn of May,
506
Filled with every beauty was her glance.
507
Old January was ravished, in a trance
508
Every time he looked upon her face.
509
But in his mind he menaced her apace
510
With how that night in his arms he’d strain
511
Her tighter than Paris Helen did constrain.
512
But nonetheless, he felt it a great pity
513
That he must offend her that night, and he
514
Thought to himself: ‘Alas, O tender creature,
515
Now would to God that you may endure
516
All my passion, so sharp and keen, again
517
I am aghast lest you shall it not sustain.
518
God forbid that I do all that I might!
519
Would God though that it were truly night,
520
And the night last for evermore, and so
521
I wish these people were about to go!’
522
And finally he set himself to labour
523
As best he could, while careful of his honour,
524
To hasten them from the meal in subtle wise.
525
The moment came when it was time to rise,
526
And after that they danced and drank, at last
527
Spices all about the house they cast,
528
And full of joy and bliss was every man –
529
All but a squire whose name was Damian,
530
Who carved for the knight full many a day.
531
He was so taken with this lady May
532
He was nigh mad with the pains of love.
533
He almost swooned and fainted where he stood,
534
So sore had Venus hurt him with her brand
535
That she bore, while she was dancing, in her hand.
536
And took himself off to bed hastily;
537
Of him no more at this time will I speak,
538
But leave him there to weep and to complain,
539
Till fresh May shall take pity on his pain.
540
O perilous fire, that in the bed-straw gathers!
541
O household foe, who his ill service proffers!
542
O treacherous servant, with false homely hue,
543
An adder in the bosom, sly, untrue!
544
God shield us all from your base acquaintance.
545
O January, drunken in the dance
546
Of marriage, see how your Damian
547
Your own squire, from birth that was your man,
548
Intends to do you now some villainy.
549
God grant that this household foe you see!
550
For in this world there’s no worse pestilence
551
Than a household foe daylong in your presence.
552
Perfected had the sun his arc diurnal;
553
No longer might the body of him sojourn,
554
All on the horizon in that latitude.
555
Night with her mantle that is dark of hue
556
Had overspread the hemisphere about,
557
At which departed all the merry rout
558
Of guests, and with thanks on every side.
559
Home to their houses merrily they ride,
560
Where they do whatever they think best,
561
And when it seems due time, take their rest.
562
Soon after that, our restless January
563
Desires his bed; he will no longer tarry.
564
He takes hippocras, and sweet wine laced
565
With spices hot, to make the spirits race,
566
And many a potion drinks he, as fine
567
As those the cursed monk Constantine,
568
Has written of in his book De Coitu;
569
He quaffed them all and nothing did eschew.
570
And to his private friends thus said he:
571
‘For God’s love, as soon as it may be,
572
Have the house cleared in courteous wise.’
573
And they did exactly as he did advise;
574
Men drank a toast, the curtains then were drawn,
575
The bride was brought abed, as still as stone;
576
And when the bed had by the priest been blessed,
577
Out of the chamber everybody pressed.
578
And January fast in his arms did take
579
His fresh May, his paradise, his mate.
580
He calms her, he kisses her full oft;
581
And with the bristles of his beard un-soft,
582
Like to dog-fish scales, and sharp as briars –
583
For he has freshly shaved as it transpires –
584
He rubs her all about her tender face,
585
And says thus: ‘Alas, my spouse, for a space
586
I must injure you, and greatly you offend,
587
Before the morning when we shall descend.
588
But nonetheless, consider this,’ quoth he,
589
‘There is no workman, whosoever he be,
590
That can work well, and also hurriedly.
591
This must be done at leisure, carefully.
592
It matters not now how long now we play;
593
Coupled in wedlock were we two today
594
And blessed be the yoke that we are in,
595
For in our actions we can do no sin.
596
A man can commit no sin with his wife,
597
No more than hurt himself with his own knife,
598
For we have leave to play, so says the law.’
599
Thus he laboured till daylight, as before,
600
And then he took some bread in spiced wine,
601
And upright in his bed sat so to dine,
602
And after that he sang out loud and clear,
603
And kissed his wife, and wanton did appear.
604
He was all coltish, folly in his eye,
605
And full of chatter as a pert magpie.
606
The slack of skin below his neck did shake
607
While he chanted, bawled, and song did make.
608
God knows what poor May thought in her heart,
609
When she saw him in his shirt upstart,
610
And in his night-cap, with his neck all lean;
611
She thought his dalliance not worth a bean.
612
Then said he thus: ‘My rest shall I take
613
Now day is come; I cannot keep awake.
614
And down he laid his head and slept till prime.
615
And afterward, when he thought it time,
616
Up rose January; but fresh May
617
Kept to her chamber till the fourth day,
618
As wives do, they think it for the best.
619
For every labourer must sometimes rest,
620
Or else the labour may not long endure –
621
That is to say, of any living creature,
622
Be it of fish or bird or beast or man.
623
Now will I speak of woeful Damian,
624
Who languishes for love, as you shall hear.
625
Therefore I’d speak to him in this manner:
626
I’d say: ‘O foolish Damian, alas!
627
Answer my question, in this pretty pass:
628
How shall you to your lady, fresh May,
629
Tell your woe? She will ever say you nay.
630
And if you speak she will your woe betray.
631
God be your help! That’s all that I can say.’
632
This sick-hearted Damian in Venus’ fire
633
So burned that he was dying of desire,
634
And so he chose to put his life at venture.
635
No longer could he in this wise endure;
636
But secretly a pen-case he did borrow,
637
And in a letter wrote out all his sorrow,
638
In the form of a plaint or of a lay
639
Unto his fair and fresh lady May.
640
And in a purse of silk hung it with art
641
Inside his shirt, laid against his heart.
642
The moon in two degrees, at noon, the day
643
That January wedded his fresh May,
644
Of Taurus, into Cancer now had ridden
645
So long had May in her chamber hidden,
646
As is the custom with these nobles all.
647
A bride should never eat in the hall
648
Until four days, or three at the least
649
Have passed; then she may go and feast.
650
The fourth day complete from noon to noon,
651
When the high Mass was over and done,
652
In the hall sat January and May,
653
As fresh as is the bright summer’s day.
654
And so it befell that this good man
655
Recalled his faithful squire Damian,
656
And said: ‘Saint Mary, how may this be,
657
That Damian attends not here on me?
658
Is he sick, or what else may betide?’
659
His squires, who stood there by his side,
660
Excused him on the grounds of sickness,
661
Which excluded him from any business;
662
No other cause would make him tarry.
663
‘Sorry I am for that,’ quoth January,
664
‘He is a noble squire, a gentle youth.
665
If he should die, ‘twere pity then, in truth.
666
He is as wise, as secret and discrete
667
As any of his rank whom you may meet,
668
And courteous too, willing to serve at table,
669
And to be a worthy man he is right able.
670
But after meat, as soon as ever I may,
671
I will visit him myself, and so shall May,
672
To give him all the comfort that I can.’
673
And, at his words, blessed him every man,
674
That of his nobility and his kindness
675
He would go comfort in his sickness
676
His squire, for it was a gentle deed.
677
‘Dame,’ quoth this January, ‘take good heed,
678
That after meat you, with your women all,
679
When you reach your chamber from this hall,
680
Go along and see our Damian.
681
And entertain him; he’s a gentleman.
682
And tell him I shall pay him a visit,
683
When I have rested for a little bit.
684
And speed you fast, for I will abide
685
Until you sleep soundly by my side.’
686
And with those words he began to call
687
For the squire who was marshal of his hall,
688
And told him certain things that he wished.
689
Fresh May straight made her way after this,
690
With all her women, to see Damian.
691
Down by his bed she sat, and began
692
To comfort him as well as she may.
693
Damian, saw his chance, as there he lay,
694
And secretly his purse and his petition,
695
In which he had told of his condition,
696
He put into her hand with nothing more
697
Than a sigh both wondrous deep and sore,
698
And softly, to her, right thus said he:
699
‘Mercy, and do thou not expose me,
700
For I am dead if this thing be espied!’
701
The purse she does in her bosom hide,
702
And goes her way – of that no more from me!
703
But unto January comes she finally,
704
Who on his bedside sits full soft
705
And clasps her then and kisses her full oft,
706
Then lays him down to sleep, and that anon.
707
She pretended she must needs be gone
708
Where everyone we know must go at need.
709
And when she of the note had taken heed,
710
She rent it all to pieces at the last,
711
And into the privy softly did it cast.
712
Who deliberates but fair fresh May?
713
Adown by old January she lay,
714
Who slept till his cough woke him abed.
715
Then he begged her strip herself naked;
716
He would, he said, take pleasure at a chance;
717
And said he found her clothes an encumbrance.
718
And she obeyed, whether she would or not.
719
But lest prudish folk be me with wrath,
720
How that he wrought, that I dare not tell,
721
Nor whether she thought it paradise or hell,
722
But here I leave them working in their wise,
723
Till evensong when they were due to rise.
724
Whether by destiny, or at a venture,
725
By starry influence, or merely nature,
726
Or by some configuration of aspects straight,
727
The heavens then appeared more fortunate
728
To present petitions full of Venus’ works –
729
For each thing has its time, so say the clerks –
730
To any woman to obtain her love,
731
I cannot say; but the great God above,
732
Who knows that no event is causeless,
733
Let Him judge all, for my pen will rest.
734
But true it is, that on our fresh May
735
Such was the impression made that day
736
By him, and by her pity for Damian,
737
That from her heart there is no way she can
738
Drive out the need to do him ease.
739
‘And then,’ she thought, ‘whoever it displease,
740
I care not; for I shall him assure
741
That I will love him best of any creature
742
Though but his shirt has he, at the start.’
743
Lo, pity swiftly flows in gentle heart!
744
Here may you see the generosity
745
Of woman, when she ponders carefully.
746
Some there may be, many such are known,
747
Tyrants with a heart as hard as stone,
748
That would have seen him perish in that place,
749
Rather than granting him a moment’s grace,
750
And rejoiced then in their cruel pride,
751
Careless of being thought a homicide.
752
But gentle May, filled full of pity,
753
In her own hand a letter wrote she,
754
In which she granted him her true grace.
755
There only lacked the time and place,
756
That might, to satisfy his wish, suffice;
757
For it must be just as he would devise.
758
And when she saw her chance one day,
759
To visit our Damian went May,
760
And surreptitiously the letter thrust
761
Under his pillow – read it then he must.
762
She took him by the hand and gave a squeeze,
763
So secretly that no one else could see,
764
And bade him be well; and off she went
765
To January when for her he sent.
766
Up rose Damian the next morrow;
767
All past was his sickness and his sorrow.
768
He combed his hair; groomed himself and dressed;
769
He did all that his lady might like best.
770
And then to January as meek does go
771
As ever a dog following the bow.
772
He is so pleasant to every man –
773
Being sly does all, for those who can –
774
That everyone spoke well of him, who should,
775
And fully in his lady’s grace he stood.
776
Thus I leave Damian, busy with his need,
777
And in my tale forth I will proceed.
778
Some scholars hold that felicity
779
Consists in pleasure, and certainly,
780
This noble January, with all his might,
781
In honest ways, as became a knight,
782
Set out to live most luxuriously.
783
His household, his dress, was as finely
784
Tailored to his degree as is a king’s.
785
And amongst the rest of his fine things,
786
He had a garden, walled all with stone;
787
So fair a one, I’d say, was never known.
788
For sure, I would not easily suppose
789
That he who wrote the Romance of the Rose
790
Could capture its beauty to the life;
791
Nor would Priapus himself suffice,
792
Though he is god of gardens, to tell
793
The beauty of that garden, and the well
794
That stood beneath a laurel, always green.
795
Many a time had Pluto and his Queen
796
Proserpina, and all her band of faery,
797
Sported there and made their melody
798
About the well, and danced, or so men hold.
799
This noble knight, January the old,
800
Took such delight in walking there, that he
801
Would suffer no one else to have the key
802
Save he himself; for of the small wicket
803
He bore the silver key that would unlock it,
804
Which, when he wished, he often did do.
805
And when he would pleasure his wife too,
806
In summer season, thither would he go,
807
With May his wife, so none would know.
808
And anything they had not done in bed,
809
Was done in the garden there instead.
810
And in this wise many a merry day
811
Lived this January and fresh May.
812
But worldly joy may not always endure,
813
For January, or for any other creature.
814
O sudden chance, O Fortune the unstable,
815
Like the scorpion endlessly deceitful,
816
Feigning with your head when you would sting,
817
Your tail is death, through your envenoming!
818
O fragile joy, O sweet venom’s taint!
819
O Monster that so subtly can paint
820
Your gifts with the hue of steadfastness,
821
So that you deceive both great and less!
822
Why have you January thus deceived?
823
You had him as your true friend received,
824
And now have bereft him of his sight –
825
For sorrow of which he would die tonight.
826
Alas, noble January, the worthy,
827
Amidst his pleasure and prosperity
828
Is stone blind, and that quite suddenly.
829
He weeps and he wails piteously;
830
And with it comes the fire of jealousy,
831
Lest his wife should fall into some folly,
832
That so burns his heart he would again
833
Prefer some man both her and him had slain.
834
For neither after his death nor in his life
835
Would he have her a lover or a wife,
836
But as a widow live, clothes black as fate,
837
Solitary as the dove that’s lost its mate.
838
But after a month or two had passed away,
839
His sorrow began to ease, truth to say.
840
For when he saw that nothing else could be,
841
In patience he accepted adversity;
842
Save that, indeed, he had not foregone
843
His jealousy: in that all days seemed one.
844
Which jealousy of his was so outrageous
845
That not to the hall, or any other house,
846
Nor to any other place here below,
847
Would he suffer her to ride or go
848
Unless he had his hand on her always.
849
At which treatment often wept fresh May,
850
Who loved Damian so graciously,
851
That she must either die suddenly,
852
Or else must have him: at the worst,
853
She thought her very heart would burst!
854
And on his side, Damian was then
855
One of the most sorrowful of men,
856
That ever was, for neither night nor day,
857
Might he speak one word to his fresh May,
858
And as to his purpose no such matter,
859
For January would overhear their chatter,
860
Who had his hand upon her, as you know.
861
Yet nonetheless, by writing to and fro,
862
And secret signs, he knew what she meant,
863
And she knew too the gist of his intent.
864
O January, what would it you avail
865
Though you could see as far as a ship’s sail?
866
As well be blind, and then deceived be
867
As be deceived when the eye can see.
868
Lo, Argus, who had a hundred eyes,
869
For all that ever he could peer or pry,
870
Yet was he blind; and many more, God knows,
871
Who thought for certain that it was not so.
872
I’ll pass on, in relief, and say no more.
873
Fresh May, whom I’ve spoken of before,
874
In warm wax impressed the key, her mate
875
Old January carried, of the little gate
876
By which into his garden he oft went.
877
And Damian, who knew all her intent,
878
Forged a counterfeit, all secretly.
879
There is no more to say, but presently
880
A wonder will occur thanks to this gate,
881
That you shall hear about, if you will wait.
882
O noble Ovid, you spoke true, God knows!
883
What stratagem is there, despite its woes
884
Love will not in its own way discover?
885
In Pyramas and Thisbe see the manner:
886
Though they were strictly watched overall,
887
They made a plan, by whispering through a wall,
888
No one could have guessed their cunning ways.
889
But to our purpose now: before eight days
890
Had passed, ere the month of June, it befell,
891
January so desired – his wife did well
892
For she had egged him on – to go and play,
893
In the garden, and no one there but they,
894
That one morning unto his May said he:
895
‘Rise up, my wife, my love, my lady free!
896
Hear the turtle-dove, my sweet, my pet,
897
Winter is gone with all its cold and wet.
898
Come forth, now, with those dove’s eyes of thine!
899
How much more lovely are your breasts than wine!
900
The garden is enclosed all about;
901
Come forth my white spouse! Out of doubt,
902
You have wounded me in my heart, O wife;
903
There is no stain on you, on my life.
904
Come forth, and let us enjoy our sport;
905
I chose you for my wife, and my comfort.’
906
– Lewd words, from an ancient text, used he.
907
To Damian a signal then made she
908
That he should go before them and wait.
909
So Damian went and opened up the gate,
910
And in he slid, and that in such a manner
911
That no one saw him, or heard him, there;
912
And he sat still, under a bush, alone.
913
Old January, as blind as is a stone,
914
Holding May’s hand, and walking so,
915
Into the fresh garden he did go,
916
And clapped the wicket to, and firmly.
917
‘Now wife,’ quoth he, ‘here’s only you and me,
918
You are the creature that I best love.
919
For, by the Lord that sits in Heaven above,
920
I would rather perish by the knife,
921
Than offend you, my true dear wife!
922
For God’s sake, consider how I chose
923
You, not from covetousness, suppose,
924
But only for the love I bore to thee.
925
And though I am old and cannot see,
926
Be true to me, and I will tell you why.
927
Three things, surely, shall you win thereby:
928
First, love of Christ, and to yourself honour,
929
And all my property, of town and tower,
930
I give you – draw the deeds up, as is best,
931
We’ll sign tomorrow, ere sun goes to rest,
932
As God Himself may bring my soul to bliss!
933
I pray that first, to seal it, you me kiss.
934
And though I may be jealous, blame me not;
935
You are so deep imprinted in my thought
936
That when I consider of your beauty,
937
And then the ill-matched age of me,
938
I may not, for certain, though it kill me,
939
Bear to be out of your company
940
For love, indeed; I say without a doubt.
941
Now kiss me wife, and let us roam about.’
942
Fresh May, when she these words heard,
943
Graciously January she then answered;
944
But first and foremost she began to weep.
945
‘I have,’ quoth she, ‘a soul from sin to keep
946
As well as you, and also my own honour,
947
And of my wifehood too the tender flower.
948
Which that I entrusted to your hand,
949
When the priest to you my body bound.
950
Wherefore I will answer in this manner,
951
By your leave, I pray, my lord so dear:
952
I pray to God that never dawns the day
953
Or may I die as foul as woman may,
954
That ever I bring my kin that shame,
955
Or else so impair my own good name
956
As to be false; and if I do, alack,
957
Strip me then and put me in a sack,
958
And in the next river do me drench.
959
I am a gentlewoman and no wench!
960
Why speak you so? – But men are ever untrue,
961
And women are forever blamed by you.
962
You’ve no other way of speech, I believe,
963
But talk distrust, reproach to us, to grieve.’
964
And as she spoke, she saw where Damian,
965
Sat in the bushes, and coughing she began,
966
With her fingers, to make signs, that she
967
Wished Damian to climb into a tree
968
Which was charged with fruit, and up he went;
969
For truly he knew all of her intent,
970
And every sign she made, as I relate,
971
Better than January who was her mate,
972
For in a letter she had told him all,
973
Of this matter, and how it might befall.
974
And thus I leave him sitting in the pear-tree,
975
And January and May roaming merrily.
976
Bright was the day, and blue the firmament;
977
Phoebus his streams of gold downward sent
978
To gladden every flower with his warmness.
979
He was at that time in Gemini, I guess,
980
But little way from greatest declination
981
In Cancer which is Jupiter’s exaltation.
982
And so it befell, that bright morning-tide,
983
That in that garden on the farther side
984
Pluto, who is the King of Faery,
985
And many a lady of his company,
986
Following his wife, Queen Proserpina,
987
Whom he once ravished out of Etna,
988
While she gathered flowers in the mead –
989
In Claudian the story you may read,
990
How in his dreadful chariot he her snatched –
991
This King of Faery then adown him sat
992
Upon a bench of turf, fresh and green.
993
And right anon thus said he to his Queen:
994
‘My wife,’ quoth he, ‘no one can gainsay,
995
For experience proves it so, every day,
996
The treachery that woman shows to man.
997
Ten hundred thousand tales tell I can,
998
Recorded, of your untruth and lightness.
999
O Solomon, wise and richest in riches,
1000
Full of sapience and worldly glory,
1001
Your words are fit to be held in memory,
1002
By every man of wit, who reason can!
1003
Thus you praised the goodness of man:
1004
“Among a thousand men I yet found one,
1005
But among women all I found none.”
1006
– So says the king who knew your wickedness.
1007
And Jesus, Son of Sirach, I suggest,
1008
Seldom says aught of you in reverence.
1009
A wild fire and corrupting pestilence
1010
Fall upon your bodies then tonight!
1011
See you not how this honourable knight,
1012
Because, alas, he is now blind and old,
1013
His own servant shall render him cuckold?
1014
Look, where he sits, the lecher in the tree!
1015
Now will I grant, of my great majesty,
1016
Unto this old, blind, worthy knight,
1017
That he shall have again his true eyesight,
1018
And when his wife would do him villainy.
1019
Thus shall he know all of her harlotry,
1020
Both a reproach to her, and others woe.’
1021
‘You will?’ quoth Proserpine, ‘And will you so?
1022
Now by my mother’s sire’s soul I swear,
1023
That I shall give her sufficient answer here,
1024
And every woman after, for her sake –
1025
And though they be caught in their mistake,
1026
With bold face their guilt they shall excuse,
1027
And bear him down who would them accuse.
1028
For lack of answer none of them shall die.
1029
Though a man see it with his naked eye,
1030
Yet shall we women outface him boldly,
1031
And weep, and swear, and scold subtly,
1032
So that men look as foolish as do geese.
1033
What care I for your authorities?
1034
I know well that this Jew, this Solomon,
1035
Found fools among us women, many a one.
1036
But though he discovered no good woman,
1037
Yet were there found by many another man
1038
Women true, and good, and virtuous.
1039
Witness all those that dwell in Christ’s house:
1040
With martyrdom they proved their constancy.
1041
The Roman tales preserve the memory
1042
Of many a true and constant wife also.
1043
But sire, be not wrath though it be so,
1044
Though he said he found no good woman;
1045
I pray you, know the meaning of the man:
1046
He meant thus, that supreme constancy
1047
Belongs to God alone, not he or she.
1048
Ay, for God indeed why take such a one,
1049
And make so much of your Solomon?
1050
What though he made a Temple, God’s House?
1051
What though he were rich and glorious?
1052
Thus made he a temple for the false gods!
1053
What could he do that more outrageous was?
1054
Oh, though you may whiten him with plaster,
1055
He was a lecher still, and an idolater,
1056
And in his old age he the Lord forsook.
1057
And if God had not, so says the Book,
1058
Spared him for his father’s sake, he would
1059
Have lost his kingdom sooner than he should.
1060
I set at naught all the villainy you cry
1061
Of women, it’s not worth a butterfly!
1062
I am a woman; and must have my say,
1063
Or else I’ll swell till my heart shall break.
1064
For since he has said we’re villainesses,
1065
As ever I shall live to shake my tresses,
1066
I shall not refrain, out of false courtesy
1067
To speak him harm that does us villainy.’
1068
‘Dame,’ quoth Pluto, ‘be no longer wrath;
1069
I yield! But since I swore a sacred oath
1070
That I would grant him his sight again,
1071
My word shall stand: this I tell you plain.
1072
I am a king; it is not meet I lie.’
1073
‘And’ quoth she, ‘the Queen of Faery, I!
1074
An answer shall she have, I’ll undertake.
1075
Let us have no more words, for my sake;
1076
For now I will no longer be contrary.’
1077
So let us turn again to January,
1078
Who in the garden still with his fair May
1079
Sings more merrily than a popinjay,
1080
‘You love I best, and shall, and other none.’
1081
So long about the alleys is he gone
1082
Till he is come again to that pear-tree
1083
Where Damian is sitting merrily,
1084
On high among the fresh leaves so green.
1085
And then fresh May, the bright and serene,
1086
Began to sigh, and said: ‘Alas, my side!
1087
Now, sire,’ quoth she, ‘whatever may betide,
1088
I must have one of the pears I see,
1089
Or I must die; I long so utterly
1090
To eat one of those small pears, so green.
1091
Help, for Her love that is of Heaven Queen!
1092
I tell you, sire, a woman in my plight
1093
May have for fruit so great an appetite,
1094
That without it she’ll go to her grave.’
1095
‘Alas!’ quoth he, ‘that I have not a knave
1096
To climb up, here! Alas! Alas! quoth he,
1097
‘That I am blind.’ ‘No matter, sire,’ quoth she;
1098
‘Yet if you’d vouchsafe, for God’s sake,
1099
The pear-tree now in your arms to take –
1100
For I know well how you mistrust me –
1101
Then I could climb it well enough,’ quoth she,
1102
‘If I could set my foot upon your back.’
1103
‘Certainly,’ quoth he, ‘you shall not lack,
1104
Had I to aid you with my own heart’s-blood.’
1105
He stooped down, and on his back she stood,
1106
And caught hold of a branch, and up she goes –
1107
Ladies, I pray you, be not wrath, suppose
1108
Me uncultured, I speak as best I can –
1109
And suddenly anon, this Damian
1110
Pulls up her smock, and in he’s gone.
1111
And when Pluto saw this shameful wrong,
1112
To January he gave again his sight,
1113
And let him see as plain as ever he might.
1114
And when he had his vision back again,
1115
Never was man more happy, that is plain.
1116
But on his wife his thought was fixed too;
1117
And up to the tree he cast his eyes two,
1118
And saw that Damian his wife addressed
1119
In such a manner it may not be expressed,
1120
Unless I were to speak discourteously.
1121
He gave a roar and shouted out as loudly,
1122
As a mother does if a child should die.
1123
‘Out, help! Rape! Alas!’ he began to cry,
1124
‘O brazen lady bold, what do you do?’
1125
And she answered: ‘Sire, what troubles you?
1126
Be patient and be rational of mind.
1127
I’ve helped to doctor both your eyes blind;
1128
On peril of my soul, without a lie,
1129
I was told that for healing of the eye
1130
Nothing was better: it would make you see,
1131
If I struggled with a man up in a tree.
1132
God knows, I did it all with good intent.’
1133
‘Struggle!’ quoth he, ‘yes, and in it went!
1134
God send you both a shameful death to die!
1135
He had you: I saw it clearly with my eye,
1136
Let me be hanged by the neck or else!’
1137
‘Then,’ quoth she, ‘is my remedy false;
1138
For certainly if you could truly see,
1139
You would not utter these same words to me.
1140
You have some vision, yet not perfect sight.’
1141
‘I see,’ quoth he, ‘as well as ever I might,
1142
Thanks be to God, with both my eyes so!
1143
And by my troth, I think he did you though.’
1144
‘You’re dazed, dazed, good sire,’ quoth she,
1145
‘These are the thanks for curing you, I see!
1146
Alas,’ quoth she, ‘that ever I proved so kind!’
1147
‘Well dame,’ quoth he, ‘erase it from your mind.
1148
Come down, my love, and if I may have said
1149
Aught wrong, God help me, forgive instead.
1150
But by my father’s soul I thought I saw
1151
That Damian enjoy you, and what’s more
1152
Your smock was gathered round your breast.’
1153
‘You, sire,’ quoth she, ‘may think as suits you best.
1154
But sire, a man that wakes out of his sleep,
1155
Cannot grasp all at once the things he sees,
1156
And cannot see what he looks on perfectly,
1157
Until he has awakened more completely.
1158
And so a man that has been blind, well he
1159
May not all at once, nor clearly, see
1160
When his new sight has first come again,
1161
As he that has a day or two seen plain.
1162
Till your sight has settled for a while,
1163
Full many a sight may you still beguile.
1164
Be careful, I pray, by Heaven’s King,
1165
Many a man believes he sees a thing,
1166
And finds it different to what it seems.
1167
He who misperceives, chases dreams.’
1168
– And with that she leaped down from the tree.
1169
And January, who so glad as he?
1170
He kissed her, embracing her full oft,
1171
And her belly stroked he then full soft,
1172
And to the house he lead her then, I’ll add.
1173
Now good men, I pray you all be glad;
1174
Thus ends here my tale of January;
1175
God bless us, and his mother too, Saint Mary!
1176
Here ends the Merchant’s Tale of January
3. The Merchant’s Epilogue
1
‘Ey, God’s mercy,’ said our Host, ‘Lo,
2
God keep me from such a wife, though!
3
See what cunning tricks and subtleties
4
These women use; ever busy as bees
5
They are, us foolish men to deceive.
6
And from the truth ever away will weave;
7
This Merchant’s tale does the proof reveal.
8
For without doubt, as true as any steel
9
I have a wife, though poor she may be.
10
But of her tongue a blabbing shrew is she;
11
And she has a heap more of vices, know.
12
But no more of that – let such things go!
13
Yet know you what? – In secret be it said –
14
I sorely rue the day that we were wed.
15
Though, if I were to reckon every vice
16
She has, it were a foolish exercise.
17
And why? Because it would reported be,
18
And told to her, by some in this company –
19
By whom, there is no need now to declare,
20
Since women know how to show such wares.
21
Also my wits suffice them not to tell you
22
All the tale; wherefore my tale is through.’
23
The end of the Merchant’s Epilogue
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